1961, Nanluoguxiang, a Siheyuan.
My name is Zhang Hao, and I’m a procurement officer at a steel mill. I was knifed on my way home from work, and the factory recognized it as a workplace injury: all my medical expenses are covered, my wages keep coming, and I get every bit of the recuperation leave I’m entitled to.
The news made its way back to the courtyard, and suddenly everyone perked up. Jia Zhangshi was the first to jump up, slapping her thigh and cursing me for earning wages while lying around. Yan Bugui crouched by the gate for ages, picking through vegetable scraps, then turned around and sent his daughter-in-law, Yu Li, over to “lend a hand.” He talked about neighbors helping one another, but his eyes were fixed on the meat on my table. Others watched coldly, nursing old grudges and waiting to see me bedridden on the kang, unable to get back on my feet.
No one knew that my father had died in a warehouse just last month. Someone had attacked him from behind, too.
My leg was injured, but I kept a tally in my heart. In public, I behaved myself and recuperated. Anyone who came to help got paid according to the rules, and I owed nobody anything. In private, I’d sort out what needed sorting and investigate what needed investigating.
Want to freeload? Earn it. Want to throw a tantrum and push me around? This is a workplace injury recognized by the state. That won’t work no matter where you take it. Want to stab me in the back again? Just wait until I’m back on my feet, and we’ll settle things one by one.
