Chapter One Brian Clark

May, 1983.

The cold had just faded in the North, the summer heat was just beginning, and the dust in the sunlight, mixed with the mottled scent of a bygone era, drifted gently onto a tender green willow tree.

The willow stood by the roadside, its dense branches shading the entrance of a two-story building behind it. Two signs hung at the entrance: Ancheng Quyi Troupe, Ancheng Quyi Workers' Association.

Upstairs was the office area, downstairs the main hall. The sounds of strings, drums, clappers, and dramatic exclamations faintly drifted out from within.

"The horse stumbled at the cliff's edge, the gentleman on horseback looked up and saw stone men, stone horses, and a stone prime minister, stone pigs and stone sheep, a stone suspension bridge, the pillar holding up the sky, and the heavenly hound divided left and right..."

The hall was spacious, people scattered about. In the southeast corner, an elderly female teacher held a clapper in her left hand and a drumstick in her right, striking a flat drum. The clapper and drum worked in harmony, producing a crisp rhythm.

This was a famous excerpt from the Xihe Drum "The Generals of the Yang Family," called "Pan and Yang's Lawsuit." Beside her, an old man with a white beard played the sanxian as accompaniment, with four or five apprentices sitting in front of him, listening intently.

Not far away on the stage, four people in colorful costumes were rehearsing a local opera. Downstage, two men performed kuaiban (fast clapper talk), while several other artists nearby discussed old storytelling scripts...

Storytelling and singing, each in their own category, but all kept their noise in check, trying not to disturb others.

Brian Clark sat by the window, perched on a small stool, engrossed in a copy of "Popular TV."

It was the third issue of the year. The cover featured actress Xiao Xiong, the back cover a still from the recently aired eight-episode TV drama "Hua Luogeng." The text, design, and printing all bore the unique aesthetic of that era.

Blue skies, white clouds, big flowers, girls with curled hair and rouged cheeks—rustic yet fresh.

""Quiet White Goose Bay,"" ""Black Cross,"" ""New Sister,"" ""King Arthur""—haven't seen any of these... huh?"

"Zhu Yanping's ""Wu Song""—turns out it aired this year."

He flipped through half the magazine, when suddenly his eyes lit up, landing on a still from a drama that seemed vaguely familiar.

That big face and the headband that looked like something from Aries Saint Seiya brought a long-lost sense of comfort from deep within, only to vanish again.

Brian Clark let out a soft sigh, looking up at the lively scene, always feeling a bit detached. Unconsciously, he had already adapted for over a month, but everything still felt so unfamiliar.

That's right, he had been reborn.

In his previous life, he was a mid-level manager at a media company, owned a house and a car, and had a decent income. But after getting drunk with colleagues one night, he closed his eyes and opened them to find himself here.

1983!

If it were around the year 2000, he could have made a fortune in the internet or real estate; if it were the 1990s, he could have become a township entrepreneur; even if he had been reborn just a few years later, the social environment and level of openness would have been completely different.

But what could he do now? The policies from above were still unstable, and it had only been five years since the end of the great humanitarian flood.

"What a frustrating era."

Brian Clark closed the magazine, feeling inexplicably hot. His undershirt stuck to his shirt, slowly soaking with a layer of fine sweat. He unbuttoned his shirt and rolled up his sleeves, revealing his firm, slender forearms.

There was no helping it—Dacron was just lousy: it didn't absorb sweat, wasn't breathable, but it was smooth, easy to wash, and affordable, so it became the fashion trend of the early '80s.

Take his outfit, for example: the standard look for young people—side-parted hair, a white Dacron shirt tucked into his pants, worn with a pair of battered sandals that covered the feet, and, of course, socks.

As for aviator sunglasses, bell-bottoms, and batwing shirts, those wouldn't become mainstream until the mid-1980s. For now, only the capital saw them occasionally, and some experts would harshly criticize them as indecent and corrupting.

Tsk tsk, if these people knew that in thirty years there would be folks walking the streets half-naked, they'd probably be scared to death...

"Xiao Xu, help move the props."

"Coming!"

He was lost in thought when the local opera rehearsal finished. A big sister waved at him, and he dashed onto the stage, moving tables and benches with practiced ease.

As it neared quitting time, just as he finished here, things wrapped up over there too. He helped each group tidy up, stowing everything in the small storeroom beside the stage.

Brian Clark was the youngest, but everyone was quite polite to him. At the very least, they'd say thank you. Of course, the thanks weren't really for him, but for his father and that old man behind him.

But he didn't mind. As soon as the clock's hand hit the hour, he slipped out of the hall, wheeled out a brand-new big Phoenix bicycle from the shed, took a few quick steps, swung onto it at an angle, and looked every bit the picture of cool.

Well, in these days, riding a Phoenix bike around town really was cool.

...

The impression of an era you get from TV is completely different from seeing it with your own eyes.

The sky was gray and hazy, industrial dust drifting everywhere. The streets were especially wide, and bicycles rode proudly down the middle, since there were hardly any cars—only the straight tracks of the trolleybuses.

Most of the buildings on both sides were low and old, densely covered with utility poles and wires. The tall buildings had to be on the main roads, and every main road had a security booth, with policemen in white uniforms standing guard.