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.
Wang Erguang, known as Little Wang, wasn't actually little anymore. Pushing fifty, his hair had anxiously whitened halfway on its own. But in this yámen [government office], going by seniority, he still counted as "Little Wang." Who could blame them? He'd joined late. Pulling strings through countless relatives, burning who knows how much incense money, he'd finally managed to snag a shiye bian position in this bland, unremarkable archives department. The iron rice bowl! Thinking of those words, Wang Erguang could chuckle aloud in his sleep. A wife, a child, a warm kàng bed-stove, plus the salary arriving on time each month and those not-too-high, not-too-low benefits – this was Wang Erguang's dream for the latter half of his life, the capital that let him walk tall in the hutong.