Chapter 211 – Inviting a Troupe

Zhou Yimin smiled and said, “Granny Xu, I had someone take a look—your family heirloom really is quite a treasure. Are you sure you still want to trade it?”

In the end, he asked again.

Old Man Xu, however, was quite clear-headed and replied without hesitation, “Yes, we’ll trade.”

Nowadays, it wasn’t rare to trade heirlooms for food.

Frankly, they were lucky Zhou Yimin was offering them so much grain for it. If they’d taken it to an antique store, it probably would’ve fetched no more than twenty or thirty yuan at most.

The antique shops in the capital had only just been established this year.

These state-owned antique stores were a product of the planned economy era.

At the time, all stores selling antiques were state-run. Experts would screen the items, select what could be sold, and then place those antiques in the shops, which were mainly used to generate foreign exchange. Most of the customers were foreigners.

Foreigners needed an exit wax seal certificate when taking antiques out of the country, so items with wax seals usually came from antique store transactions.

Of course, there were also counterfeit wax seals.

But that was illegal. Antique dealers who faked seals usually didn’t dare copy the Cultural Relics Bureau’s official seal exactly—they would alter the design somewhat.

If you had antiques at home and wanted to sell them, officially, the only legal route was through state-run antique shops.

Selling to any other organization or individual was considered illegal.

So, the transaction between Zhou Yimin and the Xu family wasn’t legal and couldn’t be made public. That was exactly why Zhou Yimin had chosen to come over at night.

Zhou Yimin believed he had already done enough. He had reminded them several times and even added extra “value.”

You could say he had done his utmost.

Whatever happened after this, they couldn’t blame him.

After dropping off the grain and other supplies, Zhou Yimin and his people left to a chorus of grateful thanks from the Xu family.

Widow Ma looked at the big sacks of grain. When she opened them, she found all high-quality corn kernels, dried well with no damp ones mixed in to cheat them.

She also thought Zhou Yimin had been truly generous.

With this much grain and that barrel of rapeseed oil, their family would be much better off for a while—at least the next year or so, they wouldn’t need to worry about food.

“Daniu, tomorrow you take half a sack of corn back home,” she said.

Old Lady Xu was confused. “Half a sack won’t be enough, will it?”

“Mom! If Daniu carries that much food home, it’s not a blessing—it’s a curse. The whole village is short on food. If only our family suddenly has grain, think what might happen?”

Widow Ma was undeniably a smart woman.

Old Man Xu nodded in agreement. “Afen is right. Don’t bring back too much at once.”

Don’t test human nature with food.

Especially in times like these, when people couldn’t get enough to eat. If your family was the only one eating well, you’d quickly become a target.

Daniu broke out in a cold sweat.

He knew the situation in the village best. If news of them having food got out, everyone would come begging for grain. Then what?

“Second Sister, how about I come every month to pick up a bit?” he suggested.

Widow Ma nodded. “That’s best. Tell our parents we have food now, but don’t eat too much. Just a bit more than others—enough to stay alive is enough.”

Though the journey took about three days each way, making a monthly trip for grain was a hassle she was willing to accept. She didn’t want her maiden family becoming everyone’s target.

“Got it!”

They had several hundred jin of grain, but it was impossible to give all of it to her parents’ side. Not just because others would criticize her—Widow Ma herself couldn’t bear to part with it all. Now that she was married, her priorities had to be with her husband’s family.

With all that grain, none of the adults in the house could sleep. They stayed up discussing how to hide it.

Soon, dawn broke.

Widow Ma made a good breakfast for her younger brother Daniu, made sure he ate his fill, and packed some pancakes for him to eat on the road.

“Be careful, don’t trust strangers…” she said, giving advice like a mother, despite Daniu being much bigger than she was.

Old Man Xu and Old Lady Xu were also quite satisfied with their daughter-in-law’s handling of things.

Taking care of your family wasn’t wrong—but not going overboard was important. Old Man Xu thought his daughter-in-law had struck the right balance.

As usual, Zhou Yimin spent four yuan to grab the day’s one-yuan discount deals.

Today’s haul: 100 jin of rice noodles, 100 jin of soy sauce, 100 liters of diesel, and 100 braised ducks.

He didn’t need the diesel just yet, but it would come in handy eventually.

He hadn’t had rice noodles in a long time, though he wasn’t particularly fond of them. Soy sauce in this era wasn’t expensive, but it was mostly sold in bulk.

Braised ducks could be found all over, and in his previous life, Zhou Yimin had eaten plenty. Especially duck parts like duck neck, duck heads, duck intestines—they were all super pricey.

These ducks had a glossy red hue, the marinade was thick and flavorful, and the meat was tender and fragrant. Duck fat had a low melting point, making it easy to digest.

Zhou Yimin tossed everything into the “supermarket storage locker” and ignored it for now.

He got up, brushed his teeth, washed his face, greeted the neighborhood aunties in the courtyard, answered a few nosy kids’ questions, and was about to head out to take care of something.

Just as he stepped outside, he ran into Zhao Zhenguo, who had come looking for him.

“You’re really hard to find. If I hadn’t found you this time, I was going to go straight to Zhoujiazhuang,” Zhao half-joked.

“Brother Zhao, what brings you here?”

If it was about the instant noodle factory, he wasn’t looking to get involved right now. Their current product was already leagues ahead of the Japanese ones—no need to rush into new lines.

Things like bowl noodles or cup noodles could wait.

“Your reward,” Zhao replied.

He took out ten US dollar bills from his bag.

That’s right—US dollars.

It was a reward from the higher-ups for the factory. As the developer, Zhou Yimin received 100 USD. Based on the current exchange rate, that was quite a lot.

Most importantly—it was foreign currency.

Foreign currency might not be all-powerful, but it was certainly more useful than RMB. You could buy a lot more with it.

Although Zhou Yimin looked down a little on that $100, he still pretended to be excited as he accepted it.

Zhao Zhenguo chatted with Zhou Yimin a little longer, mainly about the instant noodle factory. He said that the new plant had already been built, and Zhou Yimin could send someone over to report for duty at any time.

“Alright, thanks, Brother Zhao.”

The ten people who had drawn lots in the village earlier had long been looking forward to starting work at the factory.

After seeing Zhao Zhenguo off, Zhou Yimin quickly got back to work.

Thanks to a few days of hard work, Zhoujiazhuang had finally finished harvesting all their wheat. Next came drying the wheat, and once that was done, it would be time to transport it as grain tax.

But tonight brought good news: Zhou Yimin had invited the renowned Xin Fengxia and her Si Jiu City Experimental Pingju Opera Troupe to perform in the village.

The moment the news spread, it caused an uproar. The people of Zhoujiazhuang beamed with joy, overjoyed beyond words. Even nearby villages, upon hearing the news, were already planning to come over and catch a glimpse of Xin Fengxia’s style and grace.

Xin Fengxia, born Yang Shumin, was from Suzhou, Jiangsu.

As a child, she had been trafficked from Suzhou to Tian*jin. At six years old, when she saw her cousin performing Peking Opera and earning a living from it, she insisted on following the same path.

She endured all the hardships of winter’s biting cold and summer’s scorching heat—training harder and earlier than anyone else.

At thirteen, she heard that one could get on stage after only a year of learning Pingju, and without hesitation, she switched tracks. Though her master wasn’t serious about teaching and only assigned her maid or palace lady roles, she treated every part with utmost diligence and took every opportunity to learn from seniors and colleagues.

While there had been rumors before about artists coming from the city to perform in rural areas, Zhoujiazhuang had never hosted one. The old Party Secretary didn’t really know what to expect either, but now, with Zhou Yimin around, it truly felt like a blessing. Just by looking at the envious eyes of neighboring village leaders, one could tell.

Some people finished dinner early just to grab a good spot.

Zhou Xucai was one of them. He turned and asked, “Uncle, I heard that those performing artists insist on eating, living, and working alongside farmers during their visits—helping with harvesting, threshing, weeding, spreading manure, even carrying water and sweeping. Do you know if that’s true?”

“How would I know? If you’re curious, ask them yourself—or go ask Yimin,” the elder replied.

Zhou Xucai did want to ask, but remembering that he wasn’t particularly close with Zhou Yimin, he gave up the idea and decided to just enjoy the performance.

The sky wasn’t even dark yet, but the stage was already packed. It was livelier than market day on the first or fifteenth. Conversations buzzed everywhere.

Seeing this, Zhou Yimin realized he had underestimated the appeal of opera. It looked like all his efforts hadn’t gone to waste.

He had to admit, it was a lucky coincidence. He hadn’t expected even the Experimental Pingju Troupe to be part of the “Opera in the Countryside” initiative. If they hadn’t been, no matter how much he wanted to invite them, it wouldn’t have been possible.

There were three reasons behind the “Opera in the Countryside” movement:

First, it was a structured and purposeful cultural outreach. The government issued formal documents outlining the activity’s schedule, form, and scope—ensuring it remained legal while guiding it to stay aligned with its original purpose and meaning.

Second, it was a form of cultural production and dissemination jointly carried out by artists and farmers. Many performances were based on material drawn directly from rural life, improvised and tailored for the local audience, not just preset scripts.

This enhanced the performances’ interactivity, relatability, and vibrancy, while also pushing aside stale old plays and reclaiming the audience.

Third, there was professional skill-sharing. Most of the troupe’s members had received formal training. While in the countryside, they interacted with local art lovers and amateur troupes, sharing meals, living together, and teaching them movements, stage routines, singing styles, and staging techniques hand-in-hand.

Through such exchanges and by offering scripts representing modern cultural ideals, they not only helped reshape mindsets but also boosted local performers’ skills.

A few days earlier, Zhou Yimin had learned that his grandparents were huge fans of Xin Fengxia, which left him both amused and exasperated. When he heard about the Experimental Pingju Troupe’s countryside performances, he asked whether Zhoujiazhuang was on the tour list. If it wasn’t, could they be added?

At first, Xin Fengxia refused, since Zhoujiazhuang wasn’t on the original itinerary.

But Zhou Yimin didn’t give up. He got straight to the point: “Troupe Leader Xin, I’m a team leader in the Procurement Department of the Steel Factory. My grandparents are big fans of yours. When I heard your troupe was heading to the countryside, I wondered if you could also perform in our Zhoujiazhuang?”

“I really appreciate your grandparents’ support, but there are rules—we can’t do anything about that,” Xin Fengxia replied.

As much as she wanted the troupe to perform all across the country, it just wasn’t feasible. With the current nationwide food shortages, even keeping her troupe fed was difficult—meat was out of the question. The villages they were visiting had all agreed to provide some meat and grain to improve the troupe’s meals.

Zhou Yimin offered, “If I can supply some pork, would Troupe Leader Xin be willing to reconsider?”

When he arrived earlier, he had noticed that many troupe members looked weak and spiritless—yellow-faced, thin, and lacking focus.

Xin Fengxia declined at first. “Sorry, what did you just say?”

“I said, I can provide some pork. Would Troupe Leader Xin consider coming to Zhoujiazhuang?”

“How much pork?”

Clearly, Xin Fengxia was tempted.

Even if not for herself, she had to think of her troupe members.

“Fifty jin?” Zhou Yimin offered cautiously.

Fifty jin wasn’t a small amount. Many families didn’t eat that much pork in an entire year.

Zhou Yimin had always known that offering meat could smooth over just about anything.

For him, fifty jin of pork was nothing. Making his grandfather happy—that was what mattered.

Sure enough—

“Team Leader Zhou, are you serious? If you can really supply 50 jin of pork, I’ll agree to your request,” Xin Fengxia said immediately.

Maybe she had underestimated the man in front of her. Fifty jin of pork was no joke. A whole pig was only a bit over 200 jin—this was basically half a pig. While some troupe members were from well-off families, right now, everything required ration tickets. A monthly meat ticket only got you two liang—barely enough for a taste. So even the wealthy couldn’t get meat easily.

The villages they were visiting might offer a few jin or a dozen at most—and not necessarily pork. Sometimes it was rabbit or fish.

Zhou Yimin said, “Of course it’s real. I can bring it over right away.”

“How much per jin?” Xin Fengxia asked, cooling down after her initial excitement. If it was too expensive, she could always try the black market instead. No need to accept Zhou Yimin’s terms blindly.

“One yuan per jin, no ticket needed. I trust Troupe Leader Xin won’t say no to that price?”

In the black market, pork went for two yuan a jin and still got snatched up immediately. At the butcher shop, you had to line up at the crack of dawn and still might walk away empty-handed—not to mention you needed both luck and meat tickets.

“Alright. It’s a deal.”

The troupe wasn’t poor—they just lacked supplies.

For centuries, opera singers rarely went hungry—unless they were truly terrible or totally unknown. If someone important took a liking to them, they were bound to succeed.

(End of Chapter)