Chapter 50: The Crowded Courtyard

Zhou Yimin checked the time. It was almost time for Master Gu and the others to finish work. He took out 80 pounds of taro, keeping 20 pounds for his own family.

“Master Gu, come over for a moment.”

Master Gu and his team had a rough guess about what this was about. They were secretly excited and full of anticipation.

“This is taro—80 pounds in total. You all decide how to divide it among yourselves!”

Master Gu expressed his sincere gratitude to Zhou Yimin on behalf of his workers before proceeding with the distribution. Liang Kuan, whose family was in urgent need of food, received 30 pounds. Master Gu kept 20 pounds, and the other three workers each took 10 pounds.

“You all head back first. I need to have a word with the boss,” Master Gu told his team after the distribution was settled.

Once they had left, Master Gu quietly asked Zhou Yimin, “Boss, do you need furniture?”

“What kind of furniture?” Zhou Yimin’s interest was piqued.

“Old, but well-preserved—no damage at all. Made of huanghuali wood.”

Master Gu explained that he had noticed some of the furniture at Zhou Yimin’s place was in poor condition. Seeing that Zhou Yimin seemed capable of acquiring food, he decided to ask him.

Huanghuali wood furniture? And inherited from the past?

Wasn’t that essentially antique furniture?

Before time-traveling back, Zhou Yimin had often heard stories of Ming and Qing dynasty huanghuali furniture being auctioned for sky-high prices—sometimes a single stool could sell for millions.

“How much?”

“They don’t want money—just food and meat. If you’re interested, I can ask for you.”

Zhou Yimin nodded. “Alright, I’d appreciate it, Master Gu.”

With antique furniture like that, he definitely wouldn’t pass up the opportunity. Of course, he wouldn’t flaunt it either. He’d simply store it in the shop’s inventory and bring it out when the time was right.

From now on, anything related to antiques would be handled this way.

As for the furniture in his home, once the renovations were complete, he would openly buy a completely new set—just simple and ordinary ones.

There were some things that could be done, but not too ostentatiously.

—

At Second Aunt’s house, the family sat around the dinner table, staring at the dried fish placed in the center.

“Husband, look at this dried fish. It’s so nice. I wonder what kind of fish it is,” Second Aunt said.

Second Uncle nodded. “Hmm, it’s very good. Feels like sea fish.”

But what kind of sea fish? He had no idea. He had never even seen the ocean, let alone seafood.

Their youngest son couldn’t resist reaching out to tear off a piece to eat.

Second Uncle smacked his hand away. “What’s the rush? Your mother will cook a third of it for you tonight.”

“It’s all thanks to Yimin! Only procurement officers can get such good things. Husband, is it hard to become a procurement officer? If not, maybe Jianjun could try.”

Second Uncle saw his eldest son looking hopeful and immediately shut down his fantasy.

“Do you think procurement officer spots are that easy to get? We still don’t know how Old Zhou managed it. Stop daydreaming. If you want a job, I’ll talk to Old Gu and have him take you in for renovations. Otherwise, go learn cooking from your uncle-in-law.”

He had no way of getting his son a procurement job.

“Then I’ll learn cooking from Uncle-in-law!” At least as a chef, he wouldn’t go hungry—even during a famine.

—

Liang Kuan carried his 30 pounds of taro back to the crowded courtyard where he lived.

There was a difference between a siheyuan (courtyard house) and a crowded courtyard.

A siheyuan, from the name itself, meant “four” sides (east, west, south, and north) forming a closed structure. The defining cultural feature of a siheyuan was that it was “one household per courtyard,” often an independent compound.

Larger siheyuan were composed of multiple courtyards, especially those belonging to aristocrats and high-ranking officials. These estates had front courtyards, back courtyards, east and west courtyards, main courtyards, side courtyards, and auxiliary courtyards, forming a vast residential complex.

Some claimed that a siheyuan could house a hundred people—and that was no exaggeration.

In contrast, the standard of living in a crowded courtyard was much lower.

It was said that the first crowded courtyards appeared in the outer city, where the poor built small shacks out of broken bricks and discarded wood along the city walls. Over time, these makeshift houses expanded into entire slum-like areas.

Nowadays, many crowded courtyards were once siheyuan that had fallen into disrepair. Over the years, more and more makeshift rooms were built within them, distorting their original structure and turning them into something else entirely.

As a result, crowded courtyards inevitably became dirty, chaotic, and rundown.

To put it bluntly, a crowded courtyard was a bit like a slum.

Its residents came from all over the country, had different professions, varied temperaments, and diverse levels of education and morality. Given the cramped space and lack of privacy, conflicts were bound to arise. Those accustomed to living there often chose tolerance and patience.

Liang Kuan looked at the people in the courtyard. Their faces were pale, malnourished, and miserable-looking. But he didn’t dare to feel sorry for them. Instead, he clutched the bag of taro even tighter.

He greeted those who spoke to him, trying to act as naturally as possible.

Once home, he shut the door behind him.

The windows and doors of his house were patched together—one part was an old floral lattice window, another was a repurposed “Western-style” window.

Inside, his mother and younger siblings, all unemployed, lay in bed to conserve energy.

His younger siblings sat up excitedly when they saw him return. Their limbs were so thin they looked like spiders.

Liang Kuan took out the leftover fish from lunch and reminded them, “Save a piece for Mom.”

His mother spoke weakly, “Let them eat. They’re starving.”

Then, she sat up as well.

Liang Kuan said, “Mom, the boss steamed a huge dried fish for us at lunch, and he gave out dozens of pounds of taro. Master knew our family was out of food, so he gave me 30 pounds. We have food now—please, eat a piece.”

His little sister handed the biggest piece to their mother. “Mom, eat.”

Hearing that her son had brought home 30 pounds of taro, Mother Liang finally sighed in relief and smiled.

“Your boss is a good man. Work hard for him, and listen to your master. Learn well,” she instructed.

This wasn’t the first time she had given him such advice.

Liang Kuan had heard it so many times his ears were calloused.

“I know, Mom.”

His younger siblings ate their fish in tiny bites. It was meat, after all. Eating too fast felt like a waste.

“Mom, the fish is delicious.” His little brother even picked out the bits stuck in his teeth to eat again.

He wished he could work with his big brother—then he wouldn’t have to go hungry anymore.

Mother Liang split her own piece of fish in half and gave it to her daughter and youngest son.

“Eat. I don’t like fish—it’s too fishy.”

Liang Kuan hesitated, but in the end, he didn’t say anything. He went to cook three fist-sized taros—no more than that, in case they ran out too soon.

He just felt like the burden on his shoulders had gotten even heavier.

(End of Chapter)