Colour immediately seemed to return to the Chief's face， and he said simply， "Exactly， exactly."
Relived， they both turned to light chat， and realised that they both enjoyed reading. Zhaonü listened with interest to the Chief's reminiscences of his schooldays， to the point of saying what he said back to him. It was not easy for kids in the mountains to go to school and study. He had gone to high-school in the days before the Cultural Revolution， his head filled with fantasies of becoming an author or engineer or something similar， studying hard as he possibly could. When the light in the bedroom was extinguished， he would simply go and use the light in the toilet for study.
But the Cultural Revolution saw an end to his school life， and with no money there was no choice but to take up a rucksack and go down to the countryside， as Chairman Mao had ordered students across the country to do.
As they became familiar with each other， the Chief stared at Zhaonü and said， "You have the air of an intellectual， which is quite rare to see here." Zhaonü wore a single braid， which hung loosely from the back of her head， leaving only a short haired fringe on her forehead. It made her look like a female student from the early twentieth century.
The Chief said， "You really have courage， don't you？"
Zhaonü said， "How so？"
"I'm not your equal，" the Chief answered.
The Chief in his younger days had lived in a house made of soil with three rooms， and could hardly afford a simple meal every day. After going down to the countryside he cried， and on the second day he exchanged his clothes for a jacket and straw sandals， determined to change the poor situation of his hometown. By the end of that year he had merely struggled to make 28 yuan， with nine more yuan for rations. Being young， Zhu Guocai could only earn more than slightly over half of a labourer's salary.
At that time， the production brigade's branch secretary invited someone to act as a matchmaker， and invited Zhu Guocai to join his family as the son-in-law， at the cost of losing Zhu's family name for any descendants.
The branch secretary's home had a grand， imposing aspect， and stood on stilts to keep it away from the insects and rain. The cooker sat atop a square table for eight， coals lending a rosy glow to the meat and fresh fish stewing inside， scattered with a layer of green garlic leaves.
But the secretary's daughter was a few years older than Zhu Guocai， already possessing the ripe， mature body of a married woman—in the fields you could probably have caught sight of her sagging breasts and buttocks.
What worried the Chief most was that the woman had only reached lower elementary school， and it was said she couldn't even write a whole letter. The Chief's family may have been poor， but nonetheless everyone saw him as being different from the crowd， his body slender， face white， like a city dweller， even if his high cheekbones were just like others in the mountains.
So he was unwilling to marry the secretary's daughter. But the secretary was not in a rush. He did not say anything bad about the Chief. But as time went by， all the youth who went down to the countryside got jobs as teachers and broadcasters toward the end of Chairman Mao's time， while the Chief， regarded as an intellectual， was left in his poor soil dwelling.
The face of his brother and father was like the sky about to rain， black and clouded. During food distribution he was disadvantaged， and given less status， because he had no real nous—not even taking the secretary's daughter！
So， one rainy day， he left his home with nothing and walked directly to the secretary's house， willing now to have children without his family name.
They gave birth to a son and daughter and he became an official teacher， then was transferred to town government as a copy clerk， then was promoted to deputy town chief， then Chief.
A real man hides his sorrow in his heart. So it was said， at the end of the Chief's novel.
The Chief wrote his novel in a large notebook， in the small characters he used for official documents. As Zhaonü read it now and again， she was able to compile a complete story.
"I never thought about it before. I mean， why you would want to help me. But now I know—you were trying to help yourself."
"You could say that."
"Actually， you can still add an afterword."
Avoiding Zhaonü's intense gaze， he sighed.
"To me， life seems like it's already a period， a full-stop. I'm just a performing puppet—the scene and script's already written out." Though saying this， the Chief seemed to smile more often each day. He changed his clothes frequently and rushed to the school village to find the principal for chess games. But when seeing Zhaonü at school， all he could do was to nod and say very few things.
Zhaonü didn't like this evasive attitude of the Chief's —if he thought himself just and honourable， then why the pretentiousness？ So she did not visit the town government for several days， and when he saw her he would ask， "Zhaonü， don't you do any reading now？" The light reflected from his glasses made her heart race. She could not help visiting him to borrow books， and if they began talking she could not stop that either. She had no choice but to admit it—in the world where she lived， the Chief was the only person she could talk to. Apart from in class， she tended not to talk； but before the Chief she could not stop. To talk with him was like drinking a good soup—the satisfaction of a craving.
So she forgave the Chief and the two of them developed a mutual understanding. Whether in public or in school， both were polite and courteous； and when he was not attending a conference she would come to his house to talk.