The Price of Bread

Spring in Beiping, the wind was still stiff, slapping against the face like a stepmother's hand. But somehow, the streets exuded a certain bright energy. Take the newly opened "Butter & Bread" on the corner, for instance. Its glass was polished so bright, like newly fired porcelain teeth, gleaming almost blindingly white. Old Li stopped right there, at the shop's entrance.

Old Li taught Chinese literature at the middle school, had been for nearly thirty years, his temples long since whitened by chalk dust. He wasn't wealthy, but not exactly shabby either. It was just that life, like his half-worn blue cotton gown, looked decent enough, but worn close to the skin, you knew the lining had grown rather thin. Today was Saturday, a rare day off. His old lady had sent him out to buy some "foreign novelty" for their little granddaughter's birthday next week, a little treat.

"Butter & Bread" – the name itself sounded foreign and fancy. Old Li peered through the glass window. Hey, quite stylish indeed! Rows upon rows of bread, like soldiers on parade, chests puffed out, gleaming and glossy. The price tags were elegantly written too, in cursive, with little wheat stalks drawn beside them. He settled on a whole wheat loaf that looked quite substantial. A small sign stuck in it read: ¥15. Fifteen yuan, not cheap, but for his little granddaughter's eager, greedy face, worth it!

Pushing the door open, a wave of sweet, warm air enveloped him, slightly cloying. There weren't many people inside, just two or three fashionably dressed young ladies and matrons chatting in low voices. Old Li felt his attire was somewhat out of place in this setting, like sesame paste dropped into cream. He walked to the counter, pointed at the whole wheat loaf: "Excuse me, I'll take this one."

Behind the counter stood a young woman, her face powdered, lips red as if she'd just drunk blood. She deftly wrapped the bread in wax paper printed with the shop's name and placed it in a paper bag, also bearing the shop's name. "Nineteen yuan altogether," the girl said crisply, devoid of emotion.

"Hmm?" Old Li's hand, reaching for his money, paused. "Isn't it fifteen?" He pointed towards the price tag in the window outside.

The girl didn't even lift her eyelids. "Oh, that's the price of the bread. We also have a 'packaging and service fee,' four yuan."

"Packaging... service fee?" Old Li was a bit stunned. He'd lived over fifty years, always bought things with a simple exchange of money for goods, where had he ever heard of such a charge? "This bag... this paper... worth four yuan?" He weighed the paper bag in his hand; it felt light, flimsy, like an empty promise.

"Sir, it's our store's policy." The girl was getting impatient, the corners of her mouth turning down slightly. "It's the same for all products. See the sign behind you."

Old Li followed her pointing finger. Sure enough, a small notice was posted on the wall, the print as tiny as mosquito legs, easily missed if you weren't looking closely. It did indeed explain the extra fee, using convoluted phrasing about "enhancing customer experience," "eco-friendly material costs"... Old Li felt dizzy reading it. He felt less like he was buying bread and more like standing at the gates of a yamen, listening to a clerk read out an official notice – you recognized every character, but strung together, they just confused you, made you feel you were the one at fault.

A woman waiting in line behind him coughed softly, reminding Old Li not to hold things up. Old Li's face flushed. He wanted to argue, but his throat felt choked, as if blocked by something. Argue with this young girl? She was just following orders. Argue with the shop owner? They had the notice posted, albeit posted furtively, like thieves. He looked at the glossy bread, suddenly feeling it was like bait, luring you step by step into a carefully laid trap. These four yuan weren't much, but lodged in his heart, it felt like having swallowed a fly.

He remembered the text he taught, the image of Kong Yiji laying out his nine copper coins. Wasn't he being a bit like that now? Haggling here over four yuan, making a fool of himself. But this money, spent so obscurely, felt like stepping in mud – you couldn't shake it off, just annoyingly sticky.

"...Alright then," Old Li mumbled, his voice a little dry. He counted out nineteen yuan from his wallet and handed it over. The bills felt unusually heavy.

The girl took the money, clattered the change back, still expressionless. "Thank you for your patronage, please come again."

Clutching the paper bag, Old Li walked out of "Butter & Bread." The wind outside seemed even harsher, making him shiver. The sunlight was bright, blindingly so, but it couldn't penetrate his heart. He glanced back at the shop. The glass was still bright, the figures inside still fashionable. But in his eyes, the place looked like a huge, exquisite mousetrap.

He walked home carrying the bread, his steps a little heavy. He passed an old man selling roasted sweet potatoes. The fire in the stove burned brightly, the charred fragrance of the potatoes simple and warm. A freshly baked sweet potato, piping hot, cost only five yuan. Old Li suddenly felt that thing was much more substantial, more real, than the nineteen-yuan bread in his hand.

Back home, his little granddaughter saw the bread bag and ran over, cheering joyfully. Old Li forced a smile and handed her the bread. His wife asked, "How much was it?"

Old Li paused, then mumbled, "...Fifteen." He didn't want to explain about the extra four yuan; it was too much trouble to explain, and too... embarrassing. As if he'd been cheated and was now being petty about it.

That evening, the family ate dinner. The little granddaughter ate the bread, proclaiming it delicious. Old Li broke off a small piece and tasted it too. It did taste good, soft and fragrant. But somehow, he felt there was something off about the bread, as if something else had been mixed in. Swallowing it left a slight astringency in his throat, a hollowness in his heart. Those four yuan, like a tiny ghost, drifted back and forth in his mind. He thought, this world, it's truly becoming harder and harder to understand. Some things are clearly displayed, marked with a price, but when you actually go to get them, they change flavor, acquire some inexplicable, ambiguous additions. This extra something, what was it exactly? Was it the paper? The bit of service? Or... something else, heavier, more suffocating?

He silently sipped his porridge, watching the sky gradually darken outside the window. The Beiping night, like a vast, dusky cloth, slowly descended, covering everything beneath it, silently pressing down on the awkwardness and confusion in Old Li's heart. Tomorrow, the sun would rise as usual. He still had to teach, to live. Only, the next time he passed that "Butter & Bread," he would probably walk around it. Not because he feared the four yuan, but because he feared that feeling – the feeling of being made a fool of, with no way to seek recourse.