Gu Shunhua left the Housing Management Office in unusually high spirits.
When she first came back, she’d noticed some short sheds along the roadside and was puzzled at first—until she realized they were makeshift earthquake shelters.
Years ago, the Tangshan earthquake had affected even the capital. At the time, she had sent a telegram home, asking how they were doing. The reply said that a wall in their courtyard had cracked, but thankfully, nothing serious had happened.
Still, the scare had been enough to prompt every street and alley to put up temporary shelters—and their shared courtyard compound was no exception. Each household had claimed a small spot to build theirs. In the past two years, most people had stopped worrying about earthquakes and torn their shelters down. But her family’s was still standing, right on the patch of ground between their home and Su Jianping’s. Nowadays, it was mostly used to store odds and ends—some theirs, some belonging to the Su family.
She’d observed that the patch of land was small—irregularly shaped, but still enough to squeeze out a tiny room of about six square meters (aprox. 64.5 sq ft), if one planned it right.
She already had a good sense of the neighbors’ personalities. Most were kind-hearted folk. And since times were hard, if she explained her difficulties, they likely wouldn’t object.
After all, it had been her family that originally put up the shelter there—others couldn’t really use the space anyway. If she were to build a proper structure, it wouldn’t inconvenience the rest of the courtyard—only the Su family.
In truth, the Su family had their eyes on that spot too. Based on clues mentioned in the original version, within a few months they would bring it up—wanting to build there. When they did, no one opposed it. Her parents, though a bit upset, didn’t say anything. And so, the Su family tore down their temporary shelter and put up a permanent structure. From that point on, the land was considered theirs.
Gu Shunhua had decided—strike first to gain the upper hand.
The Su family would definitely object. But she no longer expected things to be resolved gently. She would start by exposing Su Jianping’s military boots incident. They cared about appearances, so maybe they’d agree. And if not—well, then it would have to be a battle.
She had thought through all of this carefully. The biggest hurdle was the Housing Management Office. If they gave no objection, she would talk to the neighbors, collect materials over the winter, and gradually occupy the space. By spring, she could start building.
She took the bus again, heading to the Educated Youth Office to ask about work. The moment Director Sun saw her, his face sank—clearly afraid of dealing with her.
When she brought up the issue, Director Sun had her fill out a form to register. Once registered, she would enter the queue. When her turn came, she’d receive a job notice.
Gu Shunhua quickly completed the form, chatted briefly with Director Sun, gathered some information, then left.
From there, she went straight to the telephone bureau.
Now that the Housing Office had relented, she was determined to build that house at all costs. If any of the courtyard neighbors objected, she could offer modest compensation. If the Su family objected?
That would be easier to handle.
Back in Inner Mongolia, Beijing-born youth had gone to the countryside together. They called one another chayou1—sent-down youths comrades. These were bonds forged while eating from the same pot and sleeping in the same crude huts. Outsiders couldn’t understand the depth of those friendships. If she called on her chayou, they would certainly do all they could to help.
If the Su family really tried to fight her for the land, she’d go all in—call in her chayou, outnumber them, and push forward.
She’d figured out everything by now. The only thing left to worry about was how to actually build the house.
In fact, she owed that to her eight years living beyond the Great Wall.
When they first left the city, it was to send these urban youths to the countryside for “re-education.” And after eight years, she had certainly been “re-educated.”
Back when she first arrived in Inner Mongolia, there weren’t even proper houses. They had to huddle in straw huts. Later, when it came time to build homes, she’d done every job imaginable—she’d even helped dig up graves to repurpose coffin boards!
It was shameful, yes—but under those conditions, if you didn’t dig up old wood, you’d freeze to death. And besides, everyone believed in materialism then—so it didn’t seem like a big deal.
So now, with just a turn of thought, she already knew what was needed: loess, lime, bricks, and timber for the roof beams.
As for bricks, she knew Lei Yongquan had connections to a brick kiln—he could probably help. For loess, she could borrow a flat cart and haul it in from Daxing on the outskirts. Back in pre-Liberation times, many dirt-haulers used to dig into crumbling city walls to collect yellow earth to sell. That, of course, was considered damage to cultural relics. But after Liberation, it was forbidden. Still, the soil in the suburbs was unregulated and could be dug freely.
For lime, she could ask Wang Xinrui’s father. She remembered that when their relatives built a house, he helped source some lime. As for roof tiles—if there weren’t any, she could start with oilcloth or straw, just to get the frame up. It didn’t need to be perfect—it could be repaired later.
The only tricky part was the wood. Timber was in short supply.
In recent years, a wave of educated youth had returned to the city, many of them reaching marriageable age. Even if conditions were poor, you still needed furniture to get married.
But buying furniture required ration tickets. The Materials Bureau issued those, distributing them to individual work units once a year.
Furniture tickets were issued separately for different items—chairs, round tables, five-drawer cabinets—even beds had separate tickets for single and double beds. Wardrobes were also classified by size.
With such a shortage of tickets, many resorted to building their own furniture.
But to build furniture, you needed timber. And where to get wood? Everyone had come up with every trick imaginable. The capital and surrounding areas had long since been scoured for usable timber—some had even unearthed old coffins for wood.
At a time like this, anyone who could get their hands on lumber was king.
Naturally, Gu Shunhua didn’t expect to find timber in the capital. Instead, she set her sights on the Greater Khingan Mountains.
She had good reason.
The Inner Mongolia Corps had six divisions. Three were in the southwest—including Bayannur League, where she had served—and three more in central Inner Mongolia. But part of the Sixth Division was stationed at Wulagai Farm in the northeast, near the Greater Khingan Range and close to Arxan. That area was rich in white birch forests.
Back then, the Corps had sourced all their lumber for construction from Wulagai and distributed it across divisions. After the Corps was dissolved, the farms were taken over by the Agricultural and Pastoral Bureau of the Inner Mongolia Autonomous Region—but the timber distribution model remained intact.
Ren Jingnian knew how to drive and often transported sugar beets and local goods to the Liu Zhao train station. Those freight trains that delivered timber would later carry the beets to Wulagai. Once, he saved the life of the railway dispatcher in charge of the freight—who was deeply grateful.
After that near-death incident, the dispatcher was reassigned to oversee freight car scheduling in Wulagai.
With vast forests in Greater Khingan and a connection in railway logistics, getting lumber wasn’t going to be a problem.
Gu Shunhua walked into the post office, filled out a telephone request slip, and waited for thirty minutes before her name was called. She got through to the Wuyuan mining site.
This time, luck wasn’t on her side. Ren Jingnian didn’t answer. After she explained who she was looking for, the operator told her to call back later—he was out, but someone had been sent to fetch him.
So she hung up.
Long-distance calls were expensive. Frugal as always, Gu Shunhua didn’t dare make another attempt too soon in case he still wasn’t back—it would waste another fee.
She waited nearly twenty minutes before filling out another slip with the city and number. But this time, even after twenty more minutes, the call still hadn’t gone through.
She went up to ask, and the operator snapped, “The city line is busy. You’re in the queue. Just wait!”
Gu Shunhua held back her frustration and waited patiently. This time, it took a full thirty minutes before the call finally connected—over an hour had passed since she first arrived.
Fortunately, when the call finally went through, it was Ren Jingnian on the line. Clearly, he had been waiting by the phone the whole time.
“Did something happen?” His voice was taut with tension.
You couldn’t blame him for thinking the worst—she’d just called two days ago, and now she was calling again. Long-distance calls were expensive. If it weren’t something serious, she wouldn’t be calling.
Hearing his voice, Gu Shunhua smiled. “It’s done.”
“What’s done?” Ren Jingnian asked.
“The household registration,” she replied, her tone tinged with a hint of pride.
“The child’s registration too?”
“Yes, everything went smoothly. I already have the hukou booklet. Both the child and I are officially registered.”
Ren Jingnian fell silent for a moment before saying, “Good. That means we can finally breathe easy.”
No matter what happened, the fact that the child’s registration was now in the capital meant one thing: the child was now a Beijing resident. No need to suffer in the mines anymore.
In these times, household registration and grain rations were of utmost importance. They could quite literally determine your fate.
“I also got something else done today,” Gu Shunhua added.
“What is it?”
“I went to the Housing Office to ask about building a house,” she said with a smile.
She then told him everything about her visit and how the conversation went.
“You should try to buy a few things to give to the neighbors in the courtyard as gifts,” Ren Jingnian advised. “Otherwise, if they object, it could be a problem.”
“I know,” she replied. “We’ve all known each other since we were little—I’ve got a good read on everyone. The real issue is the timber. It’s too scarce in the capital. I can’t get my hands on any.”
“That’s not hard,” Ren Jingnian said. “I’ll give Old Xu a call and ask if he can help. Shouldn’t be too difficult. I spoke to him before—he’s currently in charge of national freight dispatch for the timber factory.”
“That would be perfect. Tell him to help however he can. I don’t need much—just a few beams for the roof.”
They continued to discuss the lumber situation, and before long, the topic shifted to their current circumstances.
At some point, both of them fell silent.
The divorce had been for the sake of allowing Gu Shunhua to return to the city. Now that her registration was settled—and the child’s too—technically, they could remarry.
In the end, it was Ren Jingnian who spoke first. “It’s up to you.”
Gu Shunhua could hear the hesitation in his voice.
Was he afraid she wouldn’t want to marry him again?
She held the phone tightly and stayed quiet for a long time.
What kind of man was Ren Jingnian? In her heart, there was only one word: good.
Far-off and desolate Bayannur, the vast and boundless Yin Mountains—that was where the two of them had met and fallen in love. They had held hands through the best years of their lives, trusting and relying on one another, forming a family, raising their children.
For a mere forty cents a day in mine subsidies, they had moved to the mine together. Life was hard, but they had hope. They believed that as long as they stayed together and worked hard, life would get better.
A small, humble family giving everything they had to survive—yet their modest happiness amounted to nothing more than a fleeting detail in the black-and-white lines of a book.
Not even worth a single extra sentence.
When she first realized the truth of the novel’s plot, she panicked. All she could think about was carving out a future for her children. She didn’t have time to consider him, or her own feelings.
Now that the registration was done and the house was within reach, she finally had space to think about him.
He was the male lead in this book, destined to be with Chen Lu. And she—she was lazy, and scared. She didn’t want to get caught up in that mess.
Better to take the children and steer clear, let them fall in and out of love as they pleased. That was the sensible choice.
But in the end, her conscience wouldn’t allow it. Neither would her heart.
After all, at least for now, Ren Jingnian hadn’t done anything to betray her. She was still attached to him. To abandon him so cruelly—what if he really did end up with Chen Lu? Wouldn’t it be because she pushed him away?
Besides, a man this decent, this capable—why should she just hand him over to Chen Lu?
So at last, Gu Shunhua spoke. “Ren Jingnian, what exactly did you mean by that?”
“Hm?”
She pushed further, deliberately, “When we divorced, were you planning to use that chance to dump me and find someone better?”
She could almost hear him frown through the line. His voice dropped. “What nonsense are you saying? Didn’t I explain this before?”
She gave a soft snort. “Why are you snapping at me? Can’t you just talk to me properly?”
There was a long silence. Then finally, a sigh—barely audible. After a pause, he said, “Shunhua, I’m not trying to snap at you. I just don’t understand why you’d say that. From the beginning, didn’t we agree on this together?”
“If we agreed from the beginning,” she retorted, “then why did you even ask me just now?”
“I—”
He stopped, unsure of what to say.
Gu Shunhua felt a flicker of triumph. She knew she was twisting his words, climbing onto a moral high ground just to scold him.
But so what? She wanted to bully him a little. Who else could she bully?
Should she just hand him over and let Chen Lu bully him?
When Ren Jingnian spoke again, his voice was calm and low. “Shunhua, I just thought maybe you had other plans. After all, now that your hukou is settled, in the capital—”
“What about the capital?” she cut in.
But he switched gears entirely. “Then let’s remarry soon, okay?”
“Not so fast,” she said. “First tell me—what did you really mean just now?”
“I didn’t mean anything,” he said. “I just wanted to be considerate, to hear what you wanted.”
“And if I did have other plans, you’d just give up like that? You’d abandon your wife and child and walk away?”
“Shunhua!” he snapped. “What kind of talk is that?”
Gu Shunhua, remembering the plot of the book, said on purpose, “Shouldn’t you be clinging to me, writing me letters, refusing to give up and fighting for us to stay together? You once said you’d love me for a lifetime. And now, just because I might have other plans, you’re ready to quit?”
Only after those words left her mouth did she realize she’d gotten too worked up—her voice had risen without her noticing.
Each phone booth had a single user, and the soundproofing wasn’t great. The people in the booths beside hers were all staring curiously at her now.
Her face turned bright red with embarrassment.
She’d really made a scene.
From the other end of the line, Ren Jingnian’s voice came again, clearly sensing something had happened. “What’s wrong?”
Gu Shunhua rapidamente disse: “Nothing, it’s nothing.”
Ren Jingnian replied, “As long as everything’s alright.”
His words were dry and flat. For a moment, neither of them knew what else to say, and silence fell between them.
Through the faint static of the magnetic current, she could hear the soft sound of his breathing on the other end of the line.
In a small voice, she said, “There’s nothing more for now. Let’s hang up—long-distance is expensive…”
But Ren Jingnian said, “Shunhua, don’t hang up yet.”
She played dumb. “Is there something else?”
“Shunhua, I haven’t forgotten. I’ve never once forgotten.”
“Huh?”
She was momentarily stunned before realizing he was answering what she had asked earlier.
A faint blush crept onto her face. She held the receiver and glanced cautiously around the phone booths. Fortunately, everyone seemed busy with their own calls—no one had noticed her.
“Shunhua,” Ren Jingnian called again, his voice low and steady.
Her heart skipped a beat. She forced herself to keep up the act. “Mm?”
“Let’s remarry as soon as possible.”
She paused for a moment before replying, “Mm.” But she quickly added, “How are we supposed to remarry? I can’t go back anytime soon, and you probably don’t have time to come here either.”
“Then we’ll wait for the chance,” he said. “I’ll find a way to come to the capital. Actually, there might be a transfer opportunity coming up for me.”
“A transfer?” she asked.
“Yes.”
He began to explain. Ever since the Corps had been converted into agricultural farms a few years back, the soldiers had either returned to their units or transitioned into civilian roles. Many of his comrades had already left. He, however, had stayed on at the mine for various reasons.
After she left a few days ago, he went back to his old regiment headquarters and discussed things with his superiors. In the end, he decided it was time to consider a civilian transfer.
Gu Shunhua didn’t respond right away.
She knew that part of the reason he hadn’t transferred earlier was for her and the child. One was a soldier, the other an educated youth—they were on separate paths. If he had transferred earlier and she had gone with him as a military spouse, she would’ve completely lost her status as an educated youth.
Now that she had left, it made sense for him to consider his own future.
She asked quietly, “Do you know where you might be transferred to?”
“I mentioned a few options,” he said. “There’s a chance I might go to a place called Langfang. It’s just a small town, but it’s close to the capital. I think it’s a good choice.”
Langfang?
Gu Shunhua was puzzled for a moment. But as she thought more deeply, something clicked.
In the book, Ren Jingnian’s path had been vague. After being abandoned by his first wife, he took his child and studied for the university entrance exam. He eventually got into college—but there was a strange passage that mentioned him and the child “living in Langfang,” which forced the female lead, Chen Lu, to travel back and forth to visit.
That part had always seemed odd. Why would he go to Langfang?
Now, hearing this, it all made sense.
So, in reality, Ren Jingnian didn’t go straight from Inner Mongolia to college in the capital. He first transferred to Langfang, then took the entrance exam and moved to the capital?
That book really was written in a frustratingly vague way, with some parts clearly hidden on purpose.
Thinking this, she asked casually, “Where in Langfang?”
“A place called the CNPC Pipeline Bureau,” he said. “It was established six or seven years ago. Back then Langfang was still quite barren, but apparently it’s been developing quickly. The best part is, it’s close to the capital. Even if I don’t get into college, I can still visit you and the kids regularly.”
She was naturally pleased to hear this.
The China National Petroleum Corporation—that was a good unit. The Pipeline Bureau was a centrally managed agency under the State Council, with excellent benefits. And while Langfang was still just a small town, it was bound to grow and become a county-level city—eventually even a satellite city of the capital.
From Dashilan to Langfang, it was just over sixty kilometers.
Sixty kilometers might not be exactly nearby by today’s standards, but compared to distant Bayannur, it was incredibly close.
At the very least, they could see each other on weekends.
What mattered most was that, in Ren Jingnian’s mind, he still wanted to stay close to her and the children. When choosing a transfer location, with his current rank and a Second-Class Merit on his record, he could have aimed for a better post—but he chose this one. That said enough about his loyalty to her and their family.
Gu Shunhua felt a kind of peace settle in her heart. At least now, she could clearly see that the man she had chosen—without the interference of any plotlines—was sincere, dependable, and truly cared for her and the children.
As for that so-called male and female lead… well, they could deal with that later. If it came down to it, they’d just have to fight it out.
With a bright laugh, she said, “That sounds like a great opportunity. You should go for it. Don’t underestimate that little town—I heard Langfang’s going to develop a lot in the future. The Pipeline Bureau’s a solid place to work. If you settle there, the whole town will likely grow along with it. It might not stay small for long.”
Ren Jingnian seemed relieved. “Alright. Then I’ll try to get this transfer.”
“Mm,” she nodded. “Once you’re closer, the kids will get to see you. That’s a huge comfort. Now that we’ve registered here in the capital, once you transfer over—give it two or three months—we can get our marriage license again. That way, no one can say anything.”
Yes, they had gotten a proper divorce. But if the child’s father was now stationed in Langfang, just outside the capital, and the two adults decided to get back together for the sake of the children—it would be completely understandable. Even if someone was jealous enough to report them, it wouldn’t hold water.
“I don’t think there’ll be any issue with transferring to Langfang,” said Ren Jingnian. “After that, I’ll focus on the college entrance exam. If anything comes up, I can also try arranging a job swap to get into the capital. I’ve heard that Pipeline Bureau jobs are decent—some folks in the capital would be willing to switch posts for one there.”
Gu Shunhua was a little surprised. She hadn’t expected that he’d thought so far ahead.
Job transfers were difficult at the time. It wasn’t something you could just casually do—it involved hukou status and organizational assignments, with layers of paperwork and bureaucracy. Still, when couples were separated, people found ways. The wisdom of ordinary folks was endless—so the concept of swapping jobs emerged. As long as the two units were of similar nature, they could each submit a formal request to switch.
She had just seen a handwritten ad for a job exchange posted on a telephone pole outside the post office.
She thought for a moment, then teased, “Didn’t you say you were aiming for college? Why are you already thinking of using job transfers to fix everything?”
Ren Jingnian said, “I’ve heard the college entrance exams are even more competitive in Hebei. If something goes wrong, I need to have a backup plan.”
Gu Shunhua replied, “Then maybe don’t rush your transfer just yet. Take the exam there in Inner Mongolia.”
“That would mean waiting longer,” he explained. “Transfer opportunities don’t come often.”
Hearing this, Gu Shunhua understood—he was still trying, in every possible way, to stay close to her.
She was moved. Biting her lip, she finally said, “Don’t rush. I really believe we’ll end up together.”
Ren Jingnian was quiet for a moment. “If that’s what you believe, then I have nothing else to worry about. Let’s work together—do everything we can to reunite the family soon.”
“Mm, alright,” she agreed.
“Oh, by the way—it’s probably getting cold in the capital now, right?” he said. “And I imagine coal is tight. I went to the regiment’s repair team today and talked to Gao Jun. There’s a shipment of coal headed to the capital soon—by truck. I asked him to bring some for you.”
“Huh? Their truck is coming here?”
Gao Jun was part of their unit. Back in the day, they all lived close together, helped one another out, often sharing the same pot at mealtimes.
“Yes,” Ren Jingnian confirmed. “I’m sending you a ton—just tossing it on the truck, it’s no trouble at all.”
Gu Shunhua was overjoyed. “That’s wonderful! The place I’m living in now is too shabby. At night, the wind whistles in through the cracks—it’s freezing. The kids and I are sleeping under three quilts!”
Ren Jingnian frowned. “No stove?”
“We have one, but it’s in another room. Besides, we can’t afford to use it too much. Coal is rationed here—you have to use a booklet to claim it, and they won’t give you even a single extra briquette!”
He understood immediately.
Just because she hadn’t mentioned it in previous calls didn’t mean she wasn’t suffering. After all, she had older and younger brothers—an entire extended family. Coming back with two kids to live with her mother, how could she claim the stove for herself?
He took a deep breath. The dry, cold air filled his chest, bringing a faint but piercing pain.
Looking out the window at the pale, icy blue sky—it was bright, but bitterly cold. Even with the coal stove burning, he still felt chilled.
He pressed his dry lips together and said in a hoarse voice, “It’s alright. Just hold on for a few more days. I’ll have Gao Jun deliver the coal. I’ll also get in touch with Old Xu and figure out a way to send the timber.”
Author’s Note:
The CNPC Pipeline Bureau is still located in Langfang today. It’s a centrally managed unit approved by the authorities, but our male lead only works there temporarily.
And no, letting him get hold of coal and timber isn’t some magical cheat code. The bit about sourcing wood was inspired by Hutong Fan’er by Liu Yida, which includes stories of educated youth bringing timber down from the Greater Khingan Mountains.
- The term “插友” (chā yǒu) is a colloquial expression that emerged during the Cultural Revolution in China. It refers to the close friendships formed among urban youths who were sent to rural areas as part of the “Down to the Countryside Movement” (上山下乡运动). These individuals, known as “sent-down youths” (知青), often developed deep bonds with their peers during their time in the countryside.
The term “插友” combines “插队” (chā duì), meaning “to be sent down,” and “朋友” (péng yǒu), meaning “friend,” thus literally translating to “sent-down friend.” It encapsulates the unique camaraderie and shared experiences among these youths during a tumultuous period in Chinese history.
In our translation, we have chosen to retain the term “插友” as “chā yǒu” to preserve its cultural and historical specificity. If you have thoughts or interpretations you’d like to share, we’d love to hear from you. ↩︎