Major Heavy Industry: Starting with a Fake Marriage

Chapter 141 Hunchback

Jiang Cheng lit a cigarette. He didn't smoke often; he carried a pack in his pocket that could last two or three months. The cellophane on the pack was frayed, and the cigarettes inside were damp and limp. This time, he lit it, took a puff, but didn't exhale. It stuck in his lungs, making him cough twice.

Smoke leaked through his fingers, rose to the fluorescent light tube, and was dispersed by the heat, forming a hazy, gray cloud above his head, like a small patch of dark cloud.

"The investigation team is coming next Monday. You can go to Beijing to collect your award then; the tickets are for the day after tomorrow." Han Zhiguo stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to him. A layer of dust covered the windowpane, and through that dust, you could see the poplar tree in the yard, its branches bare, with a few withered leaves hanging from them, swirling in the wind, rising and falling as if reluctant to leave, or perhaps unsure of where to go. "You go as usual. I'll handle the investigation. Remember, there's nothing wrong with what you did. The problem is with the procedure. Procedures can be fixed; what's done is done. The sky won't fall."

Jiang Cheng watched Han Zhiguo's retreating figure. A single, short, white hair lay on the shoulder of his wool coat, standing out starkly against the dark fabric. He didn't know whether he should tell him. Perhaps he shouldn't; telling him would only cause more trouble. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Two days later, Jiang Cheng boarded the train to Beijing. This time he carried little luggage, just a canvas bag. The canvas was military green, the straps were worn and frayed, a section of which had broken and been re-sewn with thick thread. Inside the bag were two changes of clothes and the provincial government document. He brought it along, not to show it to anyone, but to review it himself. On the train, he read it again, very slowly, pronouncing each word aloud, but his lips barely moved. The passengers next to him thought he was muttering to himself, glanced at him, and then looked away. After finishing, he felt somewhat bewildered—it was written in Chinese characters and spoken in Chinese, but he realized he didn't really understand the meaning of the words combined.

He didn't understand, but he couldn't say he didn't understand. As the train started moving, he leaned against the window. The snowfield outside stretched out, an endless expanse of white, like a giant, silent... alpaca.

Across from me sat a young man wearing thick glasses, the lenses of which left two deep indentations on the bridge of his nose, as if the glasses had weighed him down his entire life. He held a "Mechanical Design Handbook" in his hands; the pages were worn and the edges were curled. He licked his fingers, turned a page slowly, as if savoring a reading.

He glanced at Jiang Cheng several times, quickly looking away each time their eyes met, as if he had done something wrong. He lowered his head to read, but didn't turn the pages for a long time. After repeating this several times, he finally couldn't hold back any longer. He closed the book, smoothed the corner with his fingers, and cleared his throat.

"You must be Master Jiang Cheng?" His voice was soft, with an uncertain rising tone at the end, as if he were confirming something he was hesitant to confirm.

Jiang Cheng nodded. The young man's face flushed instantly, as red as Guan Yu's, and even the base of his neck turned slightly red.

"Could you sign your name for me? I'm a mechanical engineering student, a junior this year. Our teacher mentioned your example in class, saying you were the first national-level skilled worker to emerge from among the factory workers. The teacher also said that the turbine blade coating you worked on is something only two companies abroad can do." He was very excited, pulling a notebook from his bag. The notebook was hardcover, with the words "Work Notes" printed on the cover. He opened the first page, his hand trembling as he handed it to me, the pen tip leaving several ink dots on the paper, like a few black ants.

Jiang Cheng took the pen and wrote the two characters "Jiang Cheng" on the blank page. His handwriting was very neat, just like his calm personality. He looked at it for two seconds and then added a line above the name: "Learning has no end, perseverance leads to success." When he wrote the character "success," he put a lot of effort into it, as if he wanted to turn the pen into a knife to cut off everything in the world, both in front of him and in the distance, visible and invisible, including all the filth, baseness and despicable things in the world.

The young man took the notebook, looked down at it for a long time, and when he looked up again, his eyes were bright, like two freshly polished glass beads.

"Master Jiang, you've been wronged, haven't you? I heard someone reported you. My classmates are all talking about it, saying you don't understand procedures and someone has caught you red-handed." He paused, his voice lowering, "But everyone says what you did was perfectly correct. A fitter did something even an expert couldn't, and some people are jealous."

Jiang Cheng glanced at him. The lights in the carriage cast their shadows onto the window, dark and overlapping. The news spread faster than he had imagined, like a pebble thrown into water, ripples spreading outwards, and had now reached the ears of a young man he didn't know at all.

"Who told you that?"

"There's a discussion at school. Some people are speaking up for you, while others are saying you're breaking the rules. It's a huge argument."

Jiang Cheng smiled wryly and didn't reply.

He turned his head and continued looking out the window. The snow-covered plain stretched before him, and wisps of smoke rose from the distant villages, grayish-white, drifting upwards, blown askew by the wind. Seeing those wisps of smoke, a sudden peace settled in his heart. Where does the smoke originate? In the hearth. The fire in the hearth comes from firewood, the firewood from trees, and the trees from the soil. Every wisp of smoke has its own source, and no one can sever it. Where does a person's origin lie? In their hands. As long as there are hands, there is life. As long as there is life, there is a place to stand.

He didn't know when he fell asleep. When they arrived at the station, the young man had already gotten off the train. It seemed like he hadn't slept so soundly and peacefully in a long time.

Upon arriving in Beijing, it wasn't Chen Siyuan who came to pick him up; a young man instead. He drove a white sedan, its body spotless, reflecting light so clearly that even the mud on the rims had been brushed off, revealing the raw aluminum alloy. The young man wore a navy blue cotton-padded jacket and a dark gray scarf, wrapped twice around his neck with the remainder hanging down his chest, swaying with his steps. He was somewhat more robust than Chen Siyuan.

"Brother Jiang, Brother Yuan has some urgent business to attend to. He asked me to congratulate you on his behalf. You're the first person in all these years of our research institute to be recognized as a National Technical Expert, starting from a worker background." He smiled, revealing a row of neat teeth, as if he had rehearsed this expression beforehand.

Jiang Cheng waved his hand without saying anything more. At this moment, it seemed that saying anything or not would be a mistake.

"Where is Old Zhou?"

"He's waiting for you at the research institute. He said he'd treat you to dinner tonight, not at a restaurant, but at the canteen. He said the head chef there makes braised pork just as good as any other place. The head chef's surname is Liu. He used to work at a guesthouse. He uses rock sugar, not white sugar, to make the braised pork. It has a different color, a brighter color."

The car drove into the research institute's courtyard. The locust trees were bare, their branches laden with a thin layer of snow. A gust of wind blew, and the snowflakes fell softly, shimmering in the sunlight like scattered salt. A layer of snow covered the ground, making no sound underfoot. Jiang Cheng went upstairs and opened the door. Old Zhou was sitting in a chair, a document spread out in front of him. Hearing the door open, he took off his glasses and stood up. His movements were slow; he held onto the edge of the table, slowly straightening his back, which was slightly hunched.