Chapter Thirteen: A Sense of Happiness

“Enough of that. Those were matters of twenty years ago, ancient history now. Today is a happy day—let us raise our glasses together!”

Amid a flurry of toasts and passing cups, Qin Jun took small sips, savoring the twenty-year-old vintage.

Grain wine, when aged long enough and well preserved, exuded a rich aroma that was truly delightful.

Drinking fine wine and eating chicken stewed with mushrooms, occasionally dipping into a mouthful of vinegared cabbage, Qin Jun felt his long-neglected taste buds fully awaken.

Reflecting on his current life, he thought, these days aren't so bad.

Just a little application of technology, and he could enjoy wine and meat—what more could one ask?

Back in his past life, he had been constantly on the move. Though the food was better, true happiness had eluded him.

At that time, he knew little. Working away from home taught him some skills, but all outdated. To profit from them was impossible.

Now, things were different. Whatever he did, it was cutting-edge.

Because of this, he was treated with respect.

Having eaten to near fullness, Qin Jun set down his chopsticks.

Yet, despite his craving for meat, he would not overindulge.

Grain was scarce everywhere; eating at someone else’s table without bringing ration coupons was already improper—how could he expect to eat his fill?

“Eat up! This meal’s on the team’s account. I’m not footing the bill!” Qin Zheng said, clearly pleased with Qin Jun’s demeanor and now speaking freely.

Qin Jun smiled wryly—did he really qualify for public-funded meals now?

“Don’t worry about it. If you leave some broth behind, those boys drooling outside will at least get a taste,” Qin Shi chuckled.

Reluctantly, Qin Jun continued to eat a little more.

He couldn’t let himself indulge too freely; four dishes and one soup were barely enough for him alone.

His appetite was truly remarkable these days.

The wine was finished, so he must not overeat.

Hospitality in Shandong was legendary in any era.

Hosts were generous, but guests must always leave room for the host’s dignity.

No matter how delicious the food, clearing the plate was out of the question.

This was another form of the old saying: saving face at the cost of suffering.

“All right, let’s eat!” Qin Zhixin announced.

The steamed buns were genuine two-grain bread—wheat flour mixed with cornmeal.

Not sweet potato flour; if it were, the buns would be dark.

With cornmeal, the buns had a yellow hue.

Ground corn mixed into white flour yielded a soft texture without gritty particles, so it didn’t irritate the throat.

After more than half a month of scraping by on coarse grain and greens, enjoying these soft, fragrant buns again brought Qin Jun satisfaction and happiness.

He felt that perhaps his threshold for happiness had lowered—maybe a hallmark of the times?

Wanting little and easily contented—that was happiness.

Perhaps this was the unique joy of the Tangping generation decades from now.

Chuckling to himself, Qin Jun ate two buns and stopped.

If he pushed himself, he could eat two more, but no more.

He refused to believe this meal was truly public-funded—the times simply wouldn’t allow it.

After the meal, the dishes were cleared, and Qin Shi poured tea. Only Qin Zheng, Qin Shi, and Qin Jun remained.

With a smile, Qin Shi said, “I did the math. If that kiln of lime really fired successfully, the cost isn’t that high.”

Qin Zheng raised an eyebrow. He had expected Qin Shi would be interested, but this project was off limits.

Qin Shi did not heed him; as the village accountant, he obsessed over every penny each year.

He was determined not to live like that another day.

“Making lime only costs two things: coal and limestone.”

“We can mine limestone ourselves. Even if we had to buy it, it’s only about three yuan per ton. Four tons of limestone is just twelve yuan.”

“Coal from the mine costs twenty-five yuan per ton. That kiln probably used only half a ton, right?”

“Half a ton is twelve and a half yuan. If we buy coal at the mine, half a ton’s about twelve yuan.”

“Doing the math, firing four tons of lime costs roughly twenty-four yuan.”

“Of course, labor isn’t included. When the village fires lime, labor can be counted as public work.”

“That means the cost per ton of lime is only six yuan.”

Qin Zheng sipped his tea. “If you count it that way, and we mine the limestone ourselves, doesn’t that remove the cost? So the cost per ton would be just the coal—three yuan.”

Qin Shi laughed. “Exactly. Even selling lime at nine yuan a ton, we still earn six yuan profit.”

Qin Zheng shook his head. “You really know how to calculate. So if we fire one kiln a day, that’s a pure profit of twenty-four yuan?”

Qin Shi nodded seriously. “That’s right. Over a year, our village could make some real money!”

“That’s a good thing, but what about the commune? Enterprises run by the team have to hand over profits!” Qin Zheng said, frustrated.

“So what? Even if we hand over some profit, we still make money. They can’t stop us. If individuals can’t do this, why not our team? We’re a collective too. Why can’t we be self-reliant? This is also hard work and dedication.”

Qin Shi spoke firmly because he was right. In these times, everything had to be collective.

As long as personal profit wasn’t the goal, no one could object—in fact, it was encouraged.

If Qin Jun remembered correctly, communes had already begun using discarded machines to assemble reaper production lines.

If communes could build factories, why not the team? They were a collective too.

This was the beginning of township and village enterprises. After the reforms, such small businesses blossomed everywhere.

It was an inevitable trend since both returning educated youth and new generations needed jobs.

Even cities had many community enterprises.

Only remote areas like theirs lagged behind, clinging to conservatism.

“I have no objection,” Qin Jun said. “If you can persuade the commune to help us buy coal, no matter how we fire the kiln, it’ll be profitable.”

Qin Shi slapped his thigh. “That’s the word I’ve been waiting for. If this really works, our team will never be short of money again.”

Qin Zheng laughed too. After a moment, he said, “We can make a lot.”

“Exactly. One kiln a day is the monthly wage of a skilled worker. Are you tempted? Shall we do it?” Qin Shi asked excitedly.

“Do it! Only a fool wouldn’t!” Qin Zheng’s face flushed with excitement.

At that moment, all concerns about capitalism, speculation, and profiteering vanished.

Were they making personal profit? Were they engaging in shady deals? Exploiting anyone?

No.

Even if they traded among themselves, it was collective action. What did it matter to individuals?

Having convinced himself—or found an excuse—Qin Zheng felt justified.

“How much would we make if we fired one kiln a day? And in a year?”

“At year’s end, how much would each person’s public work share be? Surely it’s more than a penny?”

“Can’t you do the math? Thirty-six yuan a day, three hundred sixty in ten days, one thousand eighty a month, twelve thousand nine hundred sixty a year.”

“Our team has just over three hundred people, young and old. That averages over forty-three yuan per person annually!”

Qin Shi calculated swiftly, as if off the cuff.

He had probably worked this out many times in his mind.

An extra forty-three yuan per person annually might seem modest.

But last year, Qin Jun’s family of seven adults earned just one hundred thirty yuan in public work shares.

That’s an increase of about one-third—thirty percent—a significant improvement.

Watching Qin Shi and Qin Zheng’s excitement, Qin Jun felt a mix of emotions.

Back in ’79, they had labored to exhaustion for just one penny per public work share.

As a young man, the most Qin Jun could earn was seven or eight shares a day; usually six.

That meant a maximum daily wage of eight cents.

Fully calculated, two yuan forty cents a month, twenty-eight yuan eighty cents a year.

That was a full year’s labor without rest.

And it was impossible to work the whole year.

Qin Jun remembered in ’79, he worked only about one hundred eighty days.

For example, once winter came, even young men like him would hibernate.

The team simply had no work, so public work shares were limited.

Now there was a visible income source. Could the money-hungry villagers resist?

Having done the math, Qin Zheng’s eyes reddened.

“Tomorrow, we’ll do it this way!”

He began quietly discussing plans with Qin Shi.

Just overhearing a bit, Qin Jun’s eyes widened. Could things really be handled like that?

Thinking of the smarmy accountant Feng at the commune lime kiln, Qin Jun felt a surge of satisfaction.