Because we were going to see a movie, Grandma made an exception and prepared dinner early. After dinner, Dad took Uncle and the three of us siblings, and we leisurely headed toward Matangwan. Grandpa and Grandma were getting on in years and couldn’t understand the Mandarin spoken in the movie, but they didn’t want to join in the excitement either.

Matangwan was only a few miles from Liujia Mountain, and the family chatted and laughed along the way, arriving quickly. In the countryside, outdoor movies were usually shown on the playground of the brigade’s elementary school or a larger threshing ground. It was still early, the sun had not yet set, and Dad told Uncle to find the brigade secretary and ask him to send someone to hang up the screen and set up the venue. It wasn’t easy for a brigade to get a chance to show a movie, so both the secretary and the brigade leader gave their full support, sending whoever was needed without reservation. Uncle was just a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old young man, and he was naturally delighted to have such an opportunity to show off.

He certainly didn’t want to go see Zachary Smith.

Second Sister and Third Sister didn’t want to see Mr. Smith either, so they followed Uncle to the secretary’s house.

Strictly speaking, Mr. Smith was an outsider. Before Liberation, his mother had fled famine with him to Matangwan, married a local farmer surnamed Zhou, and he took the surname Zhou as well, settling down in Matangwan. He was clever and hardworking from a young age, loved reading, and in the early 1950s was admitted to Renmin University, successfully escaping his peasant background and becoming a city dweller. The elders said that back then, Mr. Smith was quite the figure. But as the saying goes, thirty years east of the river, thirty years west, fortunes change, and who would have thought the Cultural Revolution would bring Mr. Smith back to square one.

At that time, there were hardly any decent houses in the countryside. Mr. Smith’s home was especially dilapidated—three mud-brick rooms, leaking and drafty everywhere. After being assigned a job in the provincial capital, Mr. Smith brought his widowed mother to settle in the city, so he never repaired the old house back home.

“Is Mr. Smith home?” Even though the Zhou family’s wooden door was only half-closed, Dad still politely knocked.

“Who is it?” A tired female voice came from inside, presumably Mr. Smith’s wife.

“I’m Jincai Walker from Liujia Mountain, here to visit Mr. Smith.” Dad spoke very politely, even using the word “visit.” At that time, rural people rarely spoke so formally. But since he was visiting a learned intellectual, he couldn’t appear too unsophisticated.

With a creak, the wooden door opened, and a gray-haired woman appeared inside, beaming with hospitality.

“So it’s Mr. Walker, what a rare guest, please come in…” Dad couldn’t help but feel a little proud. The thing he valued most in life was face. Although Mr. Smith had lost his status, Mrs. Smith, having followed her husband, had seen the world, and her attitude made Dad feel very flattered.

“Please, have a seat… Oh my… Mr. Walker, you’re too polite. We’re all neighbors, why bring anything when you visit? Old man, old man, come out, Mr. Walker is here…”

“What’s all the fuss about?” With this gruff voice, Mr. Smith walked out slowly from the inner room, wearing black-rimmed glasses, hair gray, beard stubbly, but with an air of pride on his face. Of course, it wasn’t arrogance, but the aloofness of a scholar.

“Mr. Smith…” Dad hurriedly stood up and greeted him respectfully.

At heart, Dad also had the pride of a scholar, but he was very respectful toward those more learned than himself.

“Oh, it’s Jincai. Please, have a seat.” Mr. Smith was still lukewarm, but it was clear he didn’t dislike our uninvited visit. He was still a “reactionary academic authority” who hadn’t been rehabilitated, so who would usually come to visit?

“Mr. Smith, this is my child. Come, say hello to Uncle Smith.” I greeted him confidently and crisply called out “Uncle Smith” and even gave a bow.

“Oh, oh, what a well-behaved child! What’s your name? How old are you?” Before Mr. Smith could speak, Mrs. Smith was already showering me with praise.

For some reason, Mr. Smith and his wife had never had children. Mrs. Smith was especially fond of kids.

I bowed again and answered politely, “Auntie, my name is John Walker, and I’m seven years old this year.” At this, not only did Dad grin from ear to ear, but Mrs. Smith was quite surprised, and even Mr. Smith showed a rare smile.

“Oh, John Walker. Good, good. Come, tell Uncle, are you in school yet?”

“Yes. I’m in first grade at Liujia Mountain Elementary School.”

“Oh, first grade. How many characters do you know? Can you do arithmetic?” I smiled slightly and answered calmly, “I’ve learned new characters, and I’ve learned arithmetic too.”

“Oh, then let Uncle test you, okay?” Ugh!

Why were all the scholars back then like this? Think about the twenty-first century—when a friend’s child visits for the first time, wouldn’t you hurry to give them a red envelope? Who would be like Mr. Smith, with no candy, no red envelope, just tests? So frustrating!

“What’s one plus three?” Seriously! Ugh, it’s like not treating a village official as a real cadre, or not treating a bean bun as real food. Even if you’re testing a first grader, please don’t treat me like some clueless blockhead.

Although I was grumbling inside, my face remained respectful, and I answered honestly, “It’s four.” Then Mr. Smith asked a few more questions, and of course I answered them all fluently.

It was actually Dad who seemed a bit dissatisfied, smiling as he reminded, “Mr. Smith, little Jun can do addition and subtraction with whole numbers up to ten thousand. He can also recite Tang poetry.”