It was an ordinary day in late winter, sometime in February or March of 1975. A fine, misty rain drifted down, mingling with the occasional snowflake. But it was close to the season of the Waking of Insects, so of course the snow did not linger—it vanished almost before it touched the ground. The harsh, lingering winter of the Loess Plateau was loosening its grip, yet the warmth of true spring still seemed far away.
On days like these, unless urgent matters called them out, people preferred to remain indoors. The county town's streets and alleys were far quieter than usual. In shaded lanes, the last icicles of winter cracked and melted under the steady rain, trickling across the stone-paved streets until they overflowed with dirty water. The wind remained sharp. Every so often, a farmer trudged along the empty street, his battered felt hat pulled low, a basket of potatoes or radishes hooked over one arm, calling weakly for customers. But on days like this, the town seemed drained of life, stripped of charm.
Only in the courtyard of the County High School, halfway up the mountain, was there a lively scene. As soon as the lunch bell rang, groups of boys and girls rushed out of the rows of stone cave-dormitories scattered across the hillside. Their bowls and chopsticks clattered noisily as they splashed through the mud, laughing and shouting as they swarmed toward the southern wall of the General Affairs Office. In an instant, the vast courtyard was reduced to a churned-up mire under their stampede. Meanwhile, day students from the town slipped out of the school's east gate in groups of three or four. Holding umbrellas, they chatted and laughed as they made their way down the long stone path paved with wide slabs, soon vanishing into the town's alleys.
Behind the southern wall, more than a dozen queues had already formed, one for each class. The class monitors were busy distributing food. Since everyone's meals had been ordered and paid for the previous day, the process was simple: the monitors handed out portions according to the lists. The dishes came in three grades—A, B, and C. Dish A consisted of potatoes, cabbage, and vermicelli, along with a few tantalizing slices of meat, and cost thirty cents. Dish B was the same without meat, at fifteen cents. Dish C was plain boiled radish in water, with just a drop or two of chili oil as a feeble attempt at flavor, priced at five cents.
Only small basins of Dish A and Dish C were set out, showing how few could afford meat and how few stooped to the poorest fare. Dish B, however, was heaped in large porcelain bowls, and the lines for it were longest. It was plain to see that most students lived on this middle option—neither extravagant nor humiliating. The staple foods were also divided into three grades: white flour buns, cornmeal buns, and sorghum buns. White, yellow, and black—they became jokingly known among the students as "Europe," "Asia," and "Africa."
The queues revealed the students' backgrounds. Most came from rural areas, their faces and hands bearing the marks of hard farm labor. Yet, though their fathers still called them "sir," they no longer wore ragged farm clothes. Parents in the poor mountain villages scrimped and saved to dress their children decently for study in town. Still, a few better-off farm children stood out, wearing clothes no different from the children of county officials, even sporting shiny watches. These few "outsiders" joined the short lines for the top-grade dishes, distinguished without trying.
Across the barren Loess Plateau, not even a county high school—the highest institution of learning around—could provide its students with a proper dining hall. Whenever the weather allowed, meals were taken outdoors. But these youths had grown up in mountain fields; they were used to eating under the open sky. Normally, on fine days, friends would squat together in circles, laughing and chatting over their food.
Not today. Those who collected their meals hurried away, shielding their bowls with hats or elbows as they stumbled across the muddy courtyard to their dormitories. Soon, the dining area was deserted. Only the monitor of Class 1, Grade 1, remained behind. She was a short, plump girl, left with a slight limp—perhaps from childhood polio. Three serving bowls before her lay scraped clean, and the basket of steamed buns held only four charred sorghum buns. They were clearly not hers; in her own hand she carried a white bun, a cornmeal bun, and a dish of second-grade vegetables. The lame girl likely came from a modest, middle-class family. Standing under the eaves with her meal, she wore a look of displeasure, evidently waiting for one last straggler—a poor student, no doubt, who would take the cheapest fare and could not even afford a side dish.
The snow in the rain thickened suddenly, blurring near and far alike. The town lay silent. From a distance came the faint crow of a rooster, lending the gray sky and earth an air of dreamlike gloom. Then, from the far end of the empty courtyard, a tall, thin boy appeared. Holding a bowl under his arm, he stumbled through the mud with his head bent low. His face was pale and gaunt, his cheeks hollow, which made his nose look unnaturally tall and straight, almost classical. He still wore the look of youth, but malnutrition had dulled the glow that should have belonged to his age.
His long, bony legs splashed in the mud as he walked. Perhaps these blackened sorghum buns were meant for him? His shabby clothes confirmed the thought. Though the cut tried to resemble a student's uniform, the fabric was coarse, home-woven, and dyed in uneven patches of black. His old yellow rubber shoes had no laces, tied instead with white cords; one was patched with blue cloth. His trousers, sewn two years ago, had shrunk so much they now hung halfway up his calves. Only his long socks spared him the embarrassment of bare skin—though no one could see that the socks had long since lost their heels, their shoes concealing the holes.
He walked straight to the food stand. It was clear now—he had come for the black buns. But before he reached the basket, the lame girl, impatient, limped off with her meal. He said nothing and passed quietly.
Alone before the basket, he paused, then bent to pick up two charred sorghum buns. He left the last two untouched.
His eyes drifted to the three empty vegetable basins. At the bottom of the Dish B bowl clung a little cloudy broth. Rainwater dripping from the eaves splashed into it. He glanced quickly around—the courtyard lay deserted in the misty snow. Then, as if committing a crime, he crouched and scraped the bottom with his spoon, transferring the watery dregs into his own bowl. The grating scrape of metal against the basin rang in his ears like an explosion. Blood rushed to his pale cheeks. Just then, a fat drop of water fell from the eaves into the bowl, splashing broth across his face. He shut his eyes, and two tears slid down his cheeks—ah, let us say the chili broth stung his eyes!
He wiped his face, moved to the hot water room at the southwest corner, and filled his bowl with steaming water from a pipe. Breaking a bun into pieces, he soaked it in the thin soup and squatted under the eaves, devouring it hungrily.
He stopped chewing suddenly. A girl had approached the basket and taken the last two black buns. Yes—she was here as well. He stared at her tattered figure retreating into the gray snow, watching for a long moment.
This had already become a quiet routine. Since the first days of school, every mealtime, they had been the last to arrive. Each would take two black sorghum buns, silently, without a word. There was no arrangement between them; they barely knew each other. They had all just come from different commune middle schools, newly admitted to this county high school. Classes had only just begun, and students were still strangers except to those from the same village.
But he understood. She was late for the same reason as he was—poverty, and the pride of youth. Neither could afford better food, and both would rather wait until the others had gone than bear the unspoken ridicule of their black buns.
He knew nothing more about her, except for her name, called at roll each day: Hao Hongmei.
And perhaps she knew only his: Sun Shaoping.