Chapter 19: Even With Wealth, There’s Little Worth Buying

Duan Chengliang held several deposit slips in his hand—five for ten yuan, three for fifty, and one for one hundred. They varied in terms, some rolling over every three months, some annually, and even one that rolled over monthly. Regardless of the denomination or the term, they had long since matured and were under automatic renewal.

Because of this, he had no trouble withdrawing his money after taking time off work that morning. Banks in this era were nothing like those in the future, where one would have to wait in line until their nerves frayed. Very few people conducted business at the bank; compared to the grain stores or grocery markets, it felt like a different world entirely. Aside from the tedious paperwork and the prying questions that were truly vexing, he faced no obstacles and easily withdrew his savings. Even when the bank staff repeatedly tried to persuade him to keep the money on deposit or withdraw only a small portion, he remained resolute and insisted on closing out the accounts.

After withdrawing the cash, Duan Chengliang headed to the Beixinqiao Grocery Market. Although he missed the early morning rush, most goods were still available, and there were no lines. Pork, in particular, was not only in sufficient supply but he could even pick out the fatty cuts. This time, he followed the trend of the era and specifically requested the fat. His primary reason was a shortage of cooking oil and oil ration coupons at home, so he intended to render some lard for daily cooking.

Duan Chengliang first used his ration book to buy one yuan worth of pork, which he stashed away in his private storage space. During this period, shopping was strictly regulated by location; one could generally only purchase goods from the specific grain and grocery stores assigned to their residential area. Naturally, items like hairtail fish were exceptions.

With the pork secured, Duan Chengliang went straight to the seafood counter. The clerk from the previous day recognized him immediately and greeted him warmly, "Hey, brother! Did you eat that fish? How was it?"

Duan Chengliang gave him a thumbs-up and smiled. "Your recommendation was spot on—it was delicious. That’s why I’m back for more. This time, it’s not just for me, but for several people in my courtyard. How much hairtail do you have today?"

The clerk was overjoyed. "We only get a certain amount per delivery, and it hasn't sold well for days. The pile left from yesterday is still sitting there; if it won't sell, how could I dare to order more? That would just be asking for trouble."

Duan Chengliang looked at the pile of about twenty fish and said, "I took some home yesterday and recommended it to others. I’ll take all of these to distribute among them."

"Great, wonderful!" The clerk was beaming. Those twenty or thirty hairtail fish had been sitting there for days; being able to clear them out in one go meant he wouldn't have to fret over them anymore. The only advantage to buying hairtail these days was that, besides being cheap, it required neither coupons nor a ration book—you could buy as much as you wanted with just cash. It was ironic; in this age, encountering something you could buy with simple currency was enough to make one feel inexplicably excited. Every time Duan Chengliang thought about this, he couldn't help but sigh and shake his head.

He didn't ask the clerk to restock, as he had to be mindful of appearances; he figured he could just try another counter at a different market. If no one was buying them here, the situation was likely the same elsewhere. Besides, hairtail wasn't an urgent necessity. Having these twenty or thirty fish in his storage space was enough to last him quite a while.

He wandered around the market but couldn't find anything else to buy. The fundamental issue was that having money didn't mean much if you lacked the proper credentials. Take Chinese cabbage, for example: the early winter storage period had ended, and now it was subject to time-limited and quantity-limited supply. To Duan Chengliang, the vegetable counters in Beijing’s grocery markets this January felt desolate.

He recalled that 1955 had been a bumper year, with an abundance of seasonal vegetables. However, due to oversupply and poor distribution, massive amounts had rotted away. Misfortune never comes singly, and in August of the following year, a historic downpour had flooded Beijing, causing widespread crop failure. Since last year, unable to recover, the city had been forced to categorize vegetables as "Category II" state-controlled goods, shifting from state-purchased and marketed to a strictly unified state-managed distribution system. In other words, free trade of vegetables had been banned. Farmers in the outskirts were required to sell their produce exclusively to the government, which then distributed it to residents via ration cards. Private markets were outlawed.

Furthermore, state agencies, enterprises, and schools were no longer allowed to send purchasing agents to the countryside. Even a procurement officer from a steel mill couldn't go to the villages anymore; they had to wait for their allocated share. If you wanted vegetables these days, you were better off counting the heads of cabbage left in your cellar. If you hadn't stored enough in early winter, you were out of luck.

Duan Chengliang looked for a place selling seeds but found nothing. He returned to the seafood counter and asked the clerk, with whom he had developed a decent rapport, "Hey, buddy, do you know where I can buy seeds?"

The clerk asked, bewildered, "What do you want those for?"

"I want to clear some space around my house to grow some vegetables or something easy to cultivate, just to supplement the family's food supply."

The clerk waved his hand. "You won't be able to buy those. Without a permit or a ration card, who’s going to give you seeds? If you go to a seed store, you need an official introduction letter with a government seal. They don't sell to city residents. Think about it—resources have to be maximized. The farmers can’t even get enough; they aren't going to sell them to you to play around with in your yard."

Duan Chengliang was disappointed. He hadn't expected that even trying to be self-sufficient would be blocked. Did he really have to wait around for his meager rations? He was about to bid the clerk farewell, not yet ready to give up, when the clerk called him back.

"Hey, if you don't need many—just enough for a couple of rows—you can go to the villages on the outskirts and buy some directly from the farmers. They save their own seeds, whether it's vegetables or grain. They all have 'heirloom seeds.' If you visit a few farms, you might be able to piece enough together. I’m from the countryside, so I know how it is. You might not realize it, but in a village, every family's grain tastes different, so farmers prefer their own crops. It’s because of habit. Heirloom seeds are vital; the most important task every year is saving them, or else you’ll never taste that familiar flavor again."

Duan Chengliang was surprised; he hadn't known this. His predecessor had been a blacksmith, spending his life in a workshop, and as a child, he hadn't paid much attention to farming. Before he had transmigrated, he hadn't done any gardening, and in that era, everything tasted the same regardless of where it came from—the concept of different families in the same village producing differently flavored crops was a fascinating novelty. The information the clerk provided was invaluable.