◎ The Yellow Bread Van ◎

Gu Qiao’s secondhand yellow bread van pulled up in front of a hotel. She jumped out wrapped in her coat. The motion was too brisk — the pair of bright yellow round earrings on her ears swayed with the movement, and a red headband held back her big wavy curls. Whenever Gu Qiao appeared, color came rushing at your eyes. Even those whose tastes leaned toward the understated and found her too loud couldn’t help but look at her first.

She had arranged to meet a manager from a foreign trade company at the hotel’s Chinese restaurant.

It was just past New Year’s Day, 1992, and the decorations still at the hotel entrance reminded Gu Qiao that a new year had arrived. Xiao Jia had told her that Luo Peiyin was coming back to the country for winter break. Gu Qiao wasn’t sure whether Luo Peiyin’s old pager number was still in use. Twice she had thought about calling it, to invite him out for a meal and thank him for his care and attention over the past years.

Many things had happened over the past year, the significance of each varying by person. For Xiao Jia, the most significant had probably been two: in 1991, the Linux operating system was released worldwide for the first time; and he was readmitted to university after taking a year’s medical leave to recover from severe myocarditis. Two years ago, a common cold had triggered viral myocarditis in Xiao Jia, which then progressed — with bad luck — to the severe form, and doctors had recommended he take a leave of absence.

Xiao Jia and his parents both respected the doctor’s recommendation and processed a one-year medical leave without hesitation. From the autumn of 1990 to the summer of 1991, Xiao Jia recuperated at home for a full year. He had originally been set to graduate alongside Zhao Yue in the summer of ’91, but that date had been pushed back by a year. During the time Xiao Jia was at home recovering, Gu Qiao’s financial situation had improved considerably, and the nourishing gifts she brought each visit grew increasingly costly. She had started by taking the public bus to visit him, and the battered secondhand bicycle she’d had had gone into permanent retirement — Gu Qiao had upgraded her primary mode of transport to a tricycle, which suited her line of work far better. By the time Xiao Jia was nearly ready to return to university, Gu Qiao had already traded the tricycle for the yellow bread van. She had taken her driving test, bought a vehicle, and chosen the yellow bread van over a small Fiat, because the van could carry far more.

In the summer of 1991, Gu Qiao drove the yellow bread van to visit Xiao Jia, and at the Xiao family’s home she ran into Zhao Yue, who had just received his graduation certificate and was preparing to follow his brother to the Shenzhen Stock Exchange to try his luck. The frenzy in the stock market had made him far less interested in Hainan than he used to be. Zhao Yue still addressed Gu Qiao the same way as before, calling her Cousin-Sister, and said that Cousin-Sister was looking lovelier and lovelier.

As the two of them walked downstairs, Gu Qiao wanted to ask whether Luo Peiyin was coming home for the summer. If he was, she’d treat him to a meal. But when the words were right there on the tip of her tongue, she couldn’t quite get them out.

When they reached the spot where the vehicles were parked, Zhao Yue noticed a yellow bread van squeezed right beside his Ford: “Which idiot parked here? I can’t even get my car out.”

“That’s my car.”

“Cousin-Sister — I had you all wrong, I’m so sorry…”

—

At the end of the year, the Soviet Union dissolved. Chinese newspapers took on the new term “Commonwealth of Independent States,” and the ruble against the US dollar plummeted sharply. Some who had been doing foreign trade in the region, failing to convert their rubles to dollars in time, found that what had seemed like a purely profitable venture had turned into losses. Of course, those who experienced this were seen as mere “unlucky few.” The shortage of light industrial goods in the region gave many in the foreign trade business a glimpse of opportunity. Among the best-selling products being traded into Eastern European countries were pig-leather jackets.

Gu Qiao’s jackets had absolutely no shortage of buyers — wholesale demand far outpaced retail. Jackets brought in first thing in the morning sold out before noon. When she had first started in leather jackets, there were almost no vendors selling them in the market; by the time her jackets were doing well, sellers had sprung up everywhere. The workshops producing her jackets had stopped limiting themselves to contract manufacturing and collecting a processing fee — they had started sourcing their own leather, making leather jackets in trending styles, and selling in bulk to stall vendors and counter owners. Gu Qiao wasn’t certain whether she had started this trend or whether everyone had simply arrived at the same idea at the same time. But it didn’t matter — vendors in the collective trade market had always followed whatever was hot, learning from one another, with no one particularly concerned about who had led the way.

As more and more workshops began producing leather jackets, Gu Qiao stepped back from the production side and focused exclusively on sales. She sourced the jackets she wanted from workshops she was acquainted with and some she wasn’t, and put them on display at her own stall. Because she was reliable and ordered in large volumes, the small workshop owners all trusted her greatly. Originally she had needed to put down over fifty percent as a deposit to receive goods — that figure had now dropped to twenty percent.

A jacket sold for ninety yuan at Gu Qiao’s stall in the market, earning her a profit of a little over ten yuan per piece. But sold into Eastern Europe, converted back into Chinese yuan, a single jacket could fetch around three hundred. Compared to that margin, what Gu Qiao was earning was really nothing. The profit was irresistibly attractive — even people who weren’t professional traders, when returning home from abroad or heading to Eastern European countries on business trips, would buy up armloads of leather jackets to sell along the way.

One trader Gu Qiao knew well, Xiao Peng, would purchase jackets from her, pack his allowable carry-on and checked luggage to the brim, drape seven or eight more jackets over himself, and board the K3 international train, selling the stock along the route. By the time the train reached Moscow, everything was sold. He’d exchange the rubles for dollars in Moscow, then fly back — and walk away with a profit considerably larger than Gu Qiao’s.

But this kind of trade was not without its difficulties — the profit and the risk went hand in hand. A little while ago, Gu Qiao had read in the papers about a Chinese girl carrying a large sum of rubles who had been stabbed in a Moscow hotel room. To say nothing of the petty theft rampant on international trains — that was practically a daily occurrence. And even if one’s safety wasn’t at risk, all manner of scams were waiting. Gu Qiao had heard of every variety of currency fraud imaginable — a wad of what appeared to be fifty-dollar bills, secretly switched out with one-dollar notes within the stack, was among the simplest.

Yet the profits from foreign trade still stirred something in Gu Qiao. Before learning of those enormous margins, she had been planning to invest her money into production — demand for leather jackets was currently running far ahead of supply, and if she could have a small factory dedicated to producing them, there would certainly be no shortage of buyers. But set against the difference in margins between production and foreign trade, the gap was simply too wide. Gu Qiao scoured the newspaper for the address of a not-insignificant foreign trade company, showed up unannounced, walked directly into the manager’s office, and secured herself the chance to have a meal with the man. Her hope was to use the company’s name to handle the Eastern European business on her behalf, while she organized the supply of goods on her end. Operating this way, the profit margin per jacket would be considerably higher.

Gu Qiao’s bright yellow earrings swayed now and then, sending ripples through Manager Yu’s heart. But Manager Yu, having eaten twenty more years of salt than Gu Qiao, gave nothing away. Gu Qiao placed the menu in front of Manager Yu and invited him to order.

Compared to the delightful sight before him, Manager Yu had little genuine interest in what was on the menu — but he ordered abalone and lobster out of habit.

Plenty of stall vendors who had made their fortunes still spent freely at restaurants and karaoke bars, but Gu Qiao preferred to use money to make money and was not extravagant when it came to food. Watching Manager Yu order with such uninhibited generosity, she did find herself a little more educated on the subject.

Gu Qiao thought to herself: no wonder Manager Yu has such a wide face — apparently it’s built on a diet of lobster and abalone. Times and circumstances shape one’s feelings — earlier, when she had seen Manager Yu’s face at the foreign trade company office, she had thought his broad face suggested a generous, steady temperament. She suppressed the impulse to stop him, thinking that although the money would be spent, she could at least eat half of it herself. She kept a smile on her face. But when Manager Yu went to order a Rémy Martin, the smile on Gu Qiao’s face faltered: “A Chinese restaurant with imported liquor?”

“First time here?”

Gu Qiao neither confirmed nor denied: “I think if you’re having Chinese food, domestic baijiu would suit you better.”

“Then let’s have Moutai. How’s your tolerance?”

“I have no head for alcohol at all — and besides, I drove here. If I drink and get dizzy, that would be a problem.”

“Miss Gu is too modest. I’d say Miss Gu is quite a woman of mettle — her tolerance must be excellent. Besides, if you drink too much, we’re in a hotel — opening a room to rest would be perfectly convenient.”

Convenient for what exactly, Gu Qiao thought. She found the comment deeply uncomfortable, though she couldn’t quite articulate why. She smiled: “I think drinking alone is no fun at all. I won’t order drinks for you then. Shall we just have some soft drinks? Do you prefer juice or cola?”

“Miss Gu needn’t worry about the bill — this meal is on me.”

“We agreed I was treating.”

“How could I let such a young lady pick up the check? If we reach a deal, it’s good for our company too.” Manager Yu had now tested enough to see that Gu Qiao was not someone easily won over, and adjusted his tone and expression to something considerably more professional, pulling his gaze away from her lips and teeth. Taking it slow had its own pleasures — sometimes being too eager made things less interesting. A girl in her twenties, no matter how open-minded, still had limited experience. His interest in her was not for that reason.

Hearing Manager Yu say this, Gu Qiao thought it still sounded as though a deal was quite possible. Even though she suspected the possibility of cooperation was just bait, that flickering hope made her unwilling to walk out just yet: “Since we’re discussing cooperation, we’re equals — age doesn’t come into it.”

“Since we’re here to cooperate, both sides ought to show a little sincerity. Am I not face enough for Miss Gu to honor me with a drink?”

“I truly can’t drink — but out of respect for Manager Yu, I’ll sacrifice myself and try to get through half a glass. First, though, let’s talk business — once we’ve finished that, it won’t matter if I’m a little muddled. I’ll drink with you then.”

Gu Qiao could handle baijiu well enough. The two rented rooms she lived in had no heating. She lived in a single-story courtyard house — and not just because of the price. It was genuinely more convenient than anywhere else, located in that particular hutong. On winter evenings after closing up for the day, she sometimes drank two ounces of erguotou to warm herself up — it just left her body feeling warmer and sleep came easier, nothing more than that.

To prevent Manager Yu from getting any inappropriate ideas, Gu Qiao kept her words polite, but made her movements deliberately a little coarse, hoping he would thereby overlook the fact of her being a woman. Like a man preparing for work, she rolled up the sleeves of her yellow sweater, as though about to grab a cleaver or a rolling pin.

But the motion was interrupted mid-way. As Gu Qiao’s gaze drifted from Manager Yu to the rest of the restaurant, she caught sight of Luo Peiyin. Across from Luo Peiyin sat a young woman — she couldn’t tell if she was a relative or someone else. The two were talking about something.

For a moment she forgot that Manager Yu was sitting directly across from her, and gazed over with a certain unguarded openness, telling herself that neither of those two people would notice her.

“Miss Gu — what are you looking at?”

Gu Qiao pulled her gaze back and smiled at Manager Yu: “My Cousin-Brother happens to be here as well. Before the food arrives, let’s go over our proposed terms of cooperation.”

—