The next day at noon, before the smell of cooking oil and steam had even cleared from the back kitchen of the Rolling Mill, Shazhu—He Yuzhu—clutched a piece of stiff cardboard and meandered stealthily toward the factory's propaganda bulletin board.
In front of the bulletin board, Officer Little Li was heaving long, despairing sighs at the blackboard. He twirled a piece of chalk around in his fingers, utterly unable to come up with a drawing.
His Mediterranean scalp shone so brightly it reflected the light, and beads of sweat crawled down his hairline. "What the hell am I supposed to draw!" Little Li irritatedly hurled the chalk away, and it happened to land right on Shazhu's foot.
"Hey! Officer Li, what did the blackboard ever do to you?" Shazhu bent down to pick up the chalk and shoved it back into Little Li's hand. "Look at those eyebrows of yours, they're practically twisted into a braid!"
Startled, Little Li turned around, and seeing it was Shazhu, retorted unpleasantly, "Go on, go on, Head Chef He, don't you have ladles to sling instead of coming over here to add to the chaos? The Section Chief is breathing down my neck demanding a propaganda poster, and these hands of mine are like claws—I try to draw a chicken and it ends up looking like a duck."
"Hehe, don't sweat it!" Shazhu grinned triumphantly. He glanced left and right to make sure no one was watching, then with a *swish*, he pulled the rolled-up piece of stiff cardboard from inside his tunic. Like he was showing off some priceless treasure, he carefully unfurled it on the concrete ledge beside the bulletin board. "Take a look! Open your eyes and feast them on this… What do you think?"
A faint scent of ink drifted into the air.
Little Li's previously nonchalant gaze flicked toward the cardboard—*swish!* His pupils froze instantly.
It wasn't some intricate, meticulous fine-line painting; the strokes were even somewhat wild and unbridled. But the composition… it had an explosive impact.
The worker at the center of the picture was like an ox, his back arched as he swung a sledgehammer, his muscles bulging as if they would tear right through his clothes. The hammer crashed down upon an iron ingot, sending sparks flying like firecrackers, making even the rafters of the factory background appear to tremble.
"Good lord!" Little Li snatched the drawing, his fingers trembling as they traced over it. "Call this a drawing? It's a bomb! Look at the look in that worker's eyes, like he could stare right through an iron ingot. If anyone isn't wearing a hard hat, I reckon that hammer's going to smash their skull in the next second."
Shazhu puffed out his chest, his chin practically reaching the rafters. "Of course! My brother Su Changshun drew this. People call this a 'visual hammer'—it drives a nail straight into people's eyes, a hundred times better than those slogans of yours."
Officer Little Li no longer cared whether it was a visual hammer or an auditory nail; his face flushed red with excitement. "Let's go, let's go! To Section Chief Zhao!" Little Li grabbed Shazhu and bolted toward the office building, as if he feared the drawing might grow wings and fly away.
***
In the Propaganda Section office, smoke hung heavy in the air. Section Chief Zhao was sighing heavily over a stack of documents, completely unaware that cigarette ash was spilling all over the desk.
Suddenly, the door flew open with a *bang*. Little Li charged in like he was on fire, nearly sending Shazhu tumbling.
"Chief, take a look at this." Little Li slapped the drawing down onto the desk. Just as Section Chief Zhao was about to curse, his eyes were instantly captured by the worker in the picture.
He abruptly stood up, his chair scraping loudly as it slid far back. Shoving aside an obstructive pile of paperwork, he leaned forward, hovering close to the painting. His gaze swept back and forth across the rugged, powerful lines and the intensely dynamic composition with the intensity of a searchlight!
Dead silence hung in the office for a few seconds.
Suddenly—
"Good! What a hammer!" Section Chief Zhao slammed his hand on the desk, startling the enamel mug so hard its lid jumped with a *clank*.
"This is the true grit and spirit of our workers! Look at these beads of sweat, they look so real. And these sparks—they make my eyes sting just looking at them."
His face flushed crimson, his fingers trembling with excitement. "This flavor, this momentum, this sheer drive! Little Li, where did you get this stuff? Which workshop in our factory has been hiding such a master? I want this person; he must be brought to the Propaganda Section immediately."
Officer Little Li rubbed his hands together in excitement and pointed at Shazhu standing nearby. "Chief, it was Head Chef He, He Yuzhu who brought it. It was drawn by a neighbor from his courtyard, named… named Su Changshun!"
"Su Changshun?" Zhao Shiwu's eyes burned as he turned to Shazhu. "How old is he? What does he do? Where is he right now?"
"Reporting to Section Chief Zhao!" Shazhu stood straight as a ramrod, his voice booming as he tried to mimic the soldiers' reports he had seen in the movies. "Su Changshun, twenty-one, no job, currently unemployed at home, but the man definitely has real talent. Drawing something like this is an absolute breeze for him. We live in the same courtyard, I can vouch for it!"
"Good, Comrade He Yuzhu." Zhao Shiwu brought a heavy palm down onto Shazhu's shoulder, sending him staggering. "Well done, you've uncovered a fine sapling for the propaganda front. Here's what we'll do: after you get off work today, go straight back and tell this Comrade Su Changshun that first thing tomorrow morning, he needs to dress neatly and come to the factory with you. Bring him directly to my office, and I'll take him to see the factory director in person. I'll have a word with the guards before I leave today."
Though his shoulder ached from the slap, Shazhu's heart blossomed with joy. He bellowed in response, "Yes, Section Chief Zhao! Rest assured, I guarantee the mission will be accomplished. He will definitely arrive tomorrow morning—if he's missing even a single hair, hold me responsible!" He felt this accomplishment was even more glorious than being a head chef.
Stepping out of the Propaganda Section, Shazhu felt as though his feet were treading on cotton. He floated light-footedly back to the back kitchen, finding everyone he looked at agreeable. When stir-frying that afternoon, he swung his spatula like the hammer in the painting, sending oil droplets flying high, while the aroma made workers from the adjacent workshop press their noses against the windows and swallow hard.
***
The mildewed stench of the Supply and Marketing Cooperative's back warehouse, mixed with the alkaline reek of cheap washing powder, made one's head throb.
Su Changshun had just hoisted the last bundle of coarse cotton cloth and stacked it in the corner. Panting heavily, his sweat-dampened shirt clung tightly to his spine, sending shivers through him. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked at the mountain-like piles of fabric sacks, the lingering irritation in his heart bubbling up once more.
"That old skinflint Director Wang really treats me like a beast of burden. Always loves to pull these temporary levies, beautifying it as 'ideological progress and voluntary dedication.' If I breathe in any more of this mold, I'm afraid my lungs will turn green before the propaganda painting ever reaches the Rolling Mill. Propaganda painting or not, I'm quitting this job today." He brushed the dust off his clothes, devoid of any lingering attachment, and strode toward the doorway of Director Wang's private "office."
"Director Wang, I need a word." Su Changshun leaned against the doorframe, calling out in a tone neither too loud nor too soft.
Director Wang was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, holding an enamel mug and sipping his tea with slurping noises. He slowly raised his drooping eyelids, and upon seeing it was Su Changshun, his face instinctively assumed a condescending look of impatience.
"Hmm? Changshun? Something the matter? Perfect, that batch of farm tools for the South Street Cooperative arrived this afternoon. Take Little Li and the others over to lend a hand, get it finished early… so we don't…"
Before he could finish, Su Changshun cleanly and decisively interrupted him. "Director," Su Changshun straightened his posture, his expression blank, his tone as flat as a routine notice, "I'm quitting. I've come to hand in my resignation."
"Puff—"
The tea in Director Wang's mouth sprayed out entirely against the outer wall of his beloved enamel mug. He flailed clumsily to grab a greasy rag from the corner of his desk and wiped frantically, his voice suddenly shooting up an octave, turning exceptionally shrill out of shock and rage.
"What? Quitting? Su Changshun, did your brain get caught in a doorway or kicked by a mule? Explain yourself." His official airs instantly collapsed, leaving behind only the fury of being gravely offended.
"Neither caught nor kicked," Su Changshun shrugged, maintaining that unhurried, infuriating demeanor. "I'm just sick of doing it. I don't want to work here anymore, it's as simple as that." To himself, he thought: *Spending another second with an idiot like you is an insult to my IQ.*
"What nonsense are you spouting!" Director Wang abruptly stood up, his finger thrusting right toward Su Changshun's face, accompanied by flying bits of spit. "What do you mean you're sick of it? What do you mean you don't want to work? You're just a temporary worker hauling heavy cargo; if you don't properly execute the revolutionary work arranged for you by the organization and serve the people, what on earth do you want to do? Huh?"
"Do you think a job is just like a head of Chinese cabbage that you can pick up or toss away whenever you please? This is irresponsible toward state property, it's slackness toward socialist construction, it's an ideological regression, a severe lack of the working masses' awareness! How can you look the sub-district office in the eye? How can you look the opportunity to serve the people that I gave you in the eye?" One political label after another grew heavier, slammed down with resounding force and righteous indignation.
Su Changshun sneered inwardly: *Hah, he's slinging those labels around quite smoothly, isn't he? They just keep getting bigger, pinned on with such speed and ruthlessness. Anyone listening wouldn't know any better and would think I was trying to steal your gold chair as Director of the Supply and Marketing Cooperative.*
The other temporary workers in the warehouse and the salesclerks by the counter had long been drawn by the commotion, sticking their necks out to gather around.
"Director Wang, calm your anger," Old Zhang, the more seasoned temporary worker, hurried over to smooth things over, urging Su Changshun: "Changshun, have you lost your mind, boy? How hard is it to find a job that can keep you fed these days? This gig at the cooperative—countless people break their heads trying to get in and have no way in! Hurry up and apologize to the director, admit your mistake, and let this blow over!"
"Exactly, exactly," the other temporary workers chimed in all at once. "Don't do anything foolish, Changshun!"
"What are you going to eat and drink once you quit? Fresh air?"
Several salesclerks also sized Su Changshun up with the looks one might reserve for a fool.
Seeing others backing him up, Director Wang regained his confidence. He picked up his enamel mug again, assuming the posture of a heartbroken mentor earnestly imparting guidance on behalf of the organization.
"Su Changshun, unless you give me a valid reason today, your resignation isn't going through. I'll go straight to the Sub-district Office afterward and report that you are truant without cause, ideologically apathetic, and resistant to labor construction. Let's see which unit dares to hire you once that gets recorded in your dossier!"
Su Changshun looked at Director Wang's hypocritical, furious face, then at the surrounding gazes—some well-meaning, some just looking for a show. The corners of his mouth hooked into an extremely subtle curve laden with heavy irony.
He spoke leisurely, his voice not loud, yet it felt like dropping a bomb.
"Oh? A valid reason, you say?" He intentionally paused, stretching everyone's anticipation to the limit before slowly spitting out a few words: "The Rolling Mill's Propaganda Section has taken a fancy to me. I'm reporting for duty tomorrow." His tone was as calm as if he were saying, "I'm going to the vegetable market to buy a head of cabbage tomorrow."
The area connecting the warehouse and the counter instantly plunged into utter silence.
Time seemed to freeze. A few seconds later, an even noisier wave of discussions erupted.
"The Rolling Mill?"
"Pro… Propaganda Section?"
"Good heavens…"
Director Wang's hand holding the enamel mug froze mid-air. His mouth, which had just been spewing spittle passionately, gaped wide enough to swallow an egg. His eyes bulged as if they were about to pop out of their sockets, staring fixedly at Su Changshun as though trying to pierce right through him. That expression blended extreme shock, absurdity, and a trace of humiliation and anger at being played for a fool, finally transforming into a piercing, cracked shriek of disbelief.
"The Rolling—Mill? And the Propaganda—Section? Su! Chang! Shun! Did—did your brain get marinated in lard? What do you even draw? You couldn't draw a ghost."
He drew in a sharp breath in an attempt to regain his dignity as a leader, pointing straight at Su Changshun's nose: "Boasting without a shred of shame! Just you? A sack-hauler thinking you can sit in an office at the Rolling Mill's Propaganda Section? What a joke, if you're going to lie, at least make it believable. The Propaganda Section is a place for cadres; even if you went in just to sweep the floors, they'd think you were uncultured. You—"
Director Wang's tirade was cut short abruptly.
Because the half-closed street-facing door of the supply cooperative was violently shoved open with brute force, and a loud, booming voice with incomparable penetration instantly drowned out every other sound in the warehouse.
"Changshun, Su Changshun, oh my goodness, my great artist Su, what are you hiding away in this dark corner for? Quick, quick, come out! There's earth-shattering good news, your family's ancestral graves aren't just smoking green smoke—they're shooting off rockets!"
It was Shazhu. His gaze swept the room and precisely locked onto Su Changshun, who was surrounded by a crowd at the warehouse entrance, and consequently spotted Director Wang, whose face was livid and who hadn't even wiped away his spittle yet.