Fusion System: Rebirth in a Courtyard - Bird Fighting Chronicles

Chapter 95: The Overturned Account Books Reveal a Chilling Heart; Retirement Dreams Shattered, Revea

Autumn came exceptionally early in 1965. The old locust tree in the courtyard had only shed half its leaves when a cold, frosty wind began to blow. The window paper of Yan Bugui's house in the front yard was illuminated by the dim light of a kerosene lamp all day long, only gradually going out in the middle of the night—this was the last half month before Yan Bugui retired, and he was buried in a mountain of account books, calculating an account that was even more demanding than the precision required for forgings in a steel rolling mill.

Yan Bugui, a math teacher at Hongxing Elementary School, had taught arithmetic for thirty years, and his abacus skills were even better than those of the neighborhood accountant. In his youth, he helped the neighborhood calculate the distribution of grain rations, able to calculate the rations for each household to two decimal places. His ledgers were clearer than those of the grain station, a skill that made him the envy of the neighborhood for many years. But now, the abacus beads on his fingers moved slower and slower, his reading glasses slipping down to his nose without him noticing, staring at the line "Retirement pension determined at 30 yuan/month" in his ledger, his Adam's apple bobbing repeatedly, as if a coarse cornbread was stuck in his throat.

With a creak, the door to the inner room opened, and Aunt Yan walked in carrying a bowl of corn porridge so thin you could see your reflection in it. Steam condensed into droplets on her wrinkled face. "Don't bother calculating, have some hot food first." She placed the bowl on the octagonal table, her gaze sweeping over the densely packed numbers in the account book, her voice cautiously probing, "Can't you talk to the school about it again? You're a district-level outstanding teacher, how come your retirement pension is less than Old Wang from the logistics department?"

Yan Bugui slammed his abacus down, the beads clanging loudly, startling dust from the roof beams and sending it sprawling down. "Say it? Of course I said something!" He grabbed the retirement assessment form from the table, jabbing his finger heavily at the "30 yuan" mark. "The principal said I was criticized for tutoring two years ago, and my excellent teacher benefits were revoked; I can only be paid the standard rate for a regular teacher! If it weren't for that meddlesome Lin Chen, would I have lost 5 yuan?"

He'd been muttering these words to himself for half a month. Ever since Lin Chen anonymously reported him two years ago for privately tutoring and profiting from it, his title of "District-Level Outstanding Teacher" was revoked, and he also missed out on a promotion. Although he wasn't severely punished later, this stain was like a thorn stuck in his retirement benefits, effectively robbing him of one-fifth of his income. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became, grabbing his account books and flipping through them noisily, trying to find some solace in the past income and expenses.

This led him to two kraft paper account books hidden under the kang mat. One was a record of the family's daily income and expenses, starting from their marriage in 1950, from small things like buying a needle or two kilograms of soy sauce to large things like their children's tuition fees and his salary, every single item was recorded clearly; the other had a dark red cover, the edges worn and frayed, and inside were all the accounts that his children "owed" him—"In 1958, Yan Jiecheng stole half a cornbread, worth 0.02 yuan"; "In 1962, Yan Jiedi bought an eraser, misappropriating 0.1 yuan of family funds"; "In 1964, Yan Jiekuang went to see a doctor, and he paid 3.2 yuan in medical expenses, promising to repay it after he came of age."

Yan Bugui stroked the dark red cover of the ledger; it was his lifeline. In his view, his children owed him a debt of raising him from birth, and every expense had to be clearly priced, to be repaid with interest in the future. He turned to the last page, where the words "Children's debts total 87.6 yuan," written in red pen, were particularly striking—equivalent to three months' wages for an ordinary worker at the time. "When I retire, I'll settle the accounts with them," he muttered to himself, a calculating glint in his eyes. "With this money as a safety net, plus my monthly salary of 30 yuan, my retirement will be secure."

Seeing his state, Aunt Yan sighed softly and turned to go back into the inner room. She knew better than anyone that these account books were not evidence in her children's eyes, but rather painful wounds. But she couldn't persuade Yan Bugui; this man had the abacus beads etched into his bones, calculating even the smallest detail of father-son affection.

Three days later, Yan Bugui officially completed his retirement procedures. He deliberately wore a faded blue Zhongshan suit, tucked his retirement certificate into his pocket as if it were some rare treasure, and strolled around the courtyard. When he reached the middle courtyard, he bumped into Lin Chen and Liu Guangtian discussing forging techniques with blueprints. He cleared his throat and deliberately raised his voice, saying, "Little Lin, you don't have to get up early to go to school anymore. The monthly salary of 30 yuan may not be much, but it's enough for my wife and me to live on."

Lin Chen looked up at him and noticed his deliberately straight posture and the smugness in his eyes. He recalled Yan Bugui's tragic end in his previous life, when he was abandoned by everyone. He just smiled faintly and said, "Teacher Yan should enjoy his retirement. However, grain prices have risen quite a bit recently, so he really needs to carefully plan how to spend those 30 yuan."

These words struck a nerve with Yan Bugui. His smile froze, and he muttered "good at calculating" before turning and leaving. Liu Guangtian watched his retreating figure, then leaned close to Lin Chen and whispered, "Master Lin, do you really think Teacher Yan can live off this meager salary? I heard he used to be extremely careful with his children's money; now I'm afraid no one is willing to take care of him." Lin Chen didn't speak, but simply shook his head—some accounts can't be calculated with an abacus.

Yan Bugui's "retirement plan" ran into trouble in less than half a month. That day, when he went to the grain station to buy grain and took out his savings book to withdraw money, he found that there was less than 50 yuan in it. He was so anxious that he was sweating profusely. When he got home, he searched through the wooden box under the kang mat, the hidden compartments in the wall cracks, and even turned his mother's dowry jewelry box upside down, but he still couldn't find his "retirement capital".

"Where's the money? Where's the two hundred-plus yuan I saved!" Yan Bugui grabbed Aunt Yan's arm, his fingers pinching her so hard they hurt. That money was his savings from ten years of frugal living, including his salary surplus, money he secretly earned from collecting eggs during tutoring sessions, and occasional "filial piety money" from his children. It was supposed to be his financial security after retirement.

Aunt Yan winced in pain, pulled her hand away from his, and cried, "Where else can we go? Jie Cheng borrowed 50 yuan last time because he said he needed to pay a deposit for his official position; when Jie Di got married, you asked for 50 yuan for child support, but she couldn't come up with it, so I secretly took 20 yuan from your account to make up the difference; Jie Kuang broke his leg last month, and you refused to pay for it, so I gave him another 100 yuan for medical treatment..."

"You dare to give them money without my permission?" Yan Bugui trembled with rage, grabbing the abacus on the table and smashing it on the ground, scattering the beads everywhere. "That money is my retirement savings! They haven't paid back the debts they owe me, so why should they take my money?" He slumped onto a stool, staring at the scattered beads, and suddenly remembered the number on the dark red ledger—87.6 yuan in debt, a stark contrast to the 170 yuan he had been "borrowed," a cruel irony.

That evening, Yan Bugui asked his wife to call their children home to "reconcile the accounts." The first to arrive was his eldest son, Yan Jiecheng, who had just finished get off work at the factory; his work clothes were still stained with machine oil. Hearing that they needed to reconcile the accounts, he sat down on a stool, pulled a crumpled cigarette case from his pocket, rolled a cigarette, and lit it: "Dad, there's no need for reconciliation, is there? The 50 yuan I got after my probation was borrowed; I'll pay it back later. But you said I owed you 87.6 yuan back then; I think we should forget about that. All the food and clothes I've eaten and worn since I was a child—isn't that much more than that?"

"What nonsense are you spouting!" Yan Bugui slammed his fist on the table and threw the dark red ledger in front of him. "This is all clearly recorded: in 1958 you stole half a cornbread, in 1960 you took the family's grain coupons to exchange for steamed buns... It's all here. Are you trying to renege on your debts?"

Yan Jiecheng glanced at the account book, then suddenly laughed, tears welling in his eyes. "Dad, I was only eight years old in 1958, starving and dizzy, and you still remember eating half a cornbread? 1960 was a famine year. You locked your food coupons in the cupboard, and my sister cried from hunger, but you wouldn't take them out. I gave her two coupons to exchange for steamed buns, and you, instead, recorded it as me owing you a debt!" He stood up, pointing to the handwriting in the account book, his voice full of grievance and anger. "You taught arithmetic your whole life, how come you never calculated how much your affection for your children is worth?"

At this moment, her second daughter, Yan Jiedi, and third son, Yan Jiekuang, also arrived. Hearing that her father wanted to settle the accounts, Yan Jiedi took out 20 yuan from her cloth bag and placed it on the table: "Father, I've gathered the child support you asked for back then. From now on, I owe you nothing." When she got married, Yan Bugui insisted on 50 yuan for child support, otherwise he wouldn't let her leave the house. It was only after Lin Chen intervened that the amount was reduced to 20 yuan. Over the years, she had saved diligently and finally accumulated enough for this "redemption money."

Yan Jiekuang, his leg still in a cast, was helped in by his wife. Looking at the account book on the table, his eyes reddened: "Dad, I don't blame you for not paying for my broken leg. But you even got angry with my mother for secretly taking your money for my medical treatment. This account book shows I owe you 3.2 yuan for medical expenses, but it doesn't record how I helped you carry water, chop wood, and tutor students when I was little. How much are those things worth?"

His children's words struck Yan Bugui's heart like hammer blows. Looking at the densely packed numbers in his ledger, he suddenly realized that these "precise records" he had been so proud of were actually knives that severed family ties. He wanted to argue, to say that he was only doing it for his retirement, but the words were cut off by the disappointed looks in his children's eyes.

The reconciliation ended badly. As Yan Jiecheng left, he said, "Dad, take good care of yourself in your old age. I'll pay back the money slowly, but you can't possibly settle the debt of family ties." Yan Jiedi left the money and walked away without looking back at him. As Yan Jiekuang was helped out the door by his wife, he sighed, "Dad, you value the account book more than we do. Who will take care of you in your old age?"

After his children left, Yan Bugui sat in the empty main room, looking at the abacus beads scattered on the floor and the account books on the table, and suddenly tears streamed down his face. He picked up the dark red account book, wanting to tear it up, but his fingers clenched so tightly they turned white, and in the end, he couldn't bring himself to do it. This account book, which had been kept for more than ten years, was proof of his lifelong calculations, but now it had become a desolate footnote to his later years.

The next morning, Yan Bugui went to the bank with his only 50 yuan, intending to deposit it. Passing by the Intermediate People's Court, he saw Lin Chen repairing Qin Huairu's sewing machine. Qin Huairu's sewing stall business was booming; recently, she had taken on a batch of work making work gloves for a factory, but her sewing machine had suddenly broken down. Lin Chen, using his homemade tools, quickly fixed the machine. Qin Huairu handed him two freshly steamed white buns, smiling, "Master Lin, thank you so much. Take these buns for breakfast."

Lin Chen took the steamed bun and saw Yan Bugui's forlorn figure. He smiled and greeted him, "Teacher Yan, going to the bank?"

Yan Bugui nodded reluctantly, his gaze falling on Qin Huairu. He recalled how he used to think Qin Huairu was scheming against Sha Zhu, but now, seeing her earning money with her skills, the smile on her face was more genuine than anyone else's. Thinking of himself, he realized that he had spent his whole life being shrewd and calculating, yet in the end, he had even lost the affection of his children. A mix of emotions welled up inside him.

On his way back from the bank, Yan Bugui passed by Sha Zhu's house. Sha Zhu had moved to the military guesthouse, and only He Yushui occasionally came back to pick up things. When He Yushui saw him, she hesitated for a moment, but still handed him a bottle of cod liver oil: "Teacher Yan, I heard you've retired. I asked someone to buy this for me in Shanghai; it's good for your health." She used to dislike how Yan Bugui schemed against his children, but seeing him now, she couldn't bear it.

Yan Bugui took the cod liver oil, his hands trembling slightly. He wanted to thank He Yushui, but found his throat tight, unable to utter a single word. He suddenly remembered years ago, when He Yushui had just been assigned to the textile factory, he had wanted her to "lend" him some of her wages, but He Yushui had coldly refused. At that time, he thought the girl was immature, but now he realized that it wasn't that she was immature, but that he had been too calculating.

Back home, Yan Bugui placed the cod liver oil on the table and picked up the dark red ledger. Sunlight streamed through the window paper, falling on the handwriting in the ledger, making the once clear numbers suddenly blurry. He remembered Lin Chen's words: "The human heart is not an ledger; no matter how clearly it is calculated, it cannot warm the heart." He used to think this was nonsense, but now he felt that every word was a gem.

Aunt Yan brought in lunch and saw him staring blankly at the account book. She said softly, "Jiecheng just sent someone to say that he will pay you back 10 yuan after he gets his salary next month, and also told you to wear more clothes because it's cold."

Yan Bugui suddenly looked up, a glint of light in his eyes. He put down the account book, picked up his chopsticks, and looked at the corn porridge and pickled vegetables in his bowl. Suddenly, it tasted even better than the white flour steamed buns he used to eat. He ate slowly, silently calculating in his mind: once Jie Cheng had repaid the money, he would burn this dark red account book. As for retirement, perhaps he didn't need to calculate it so precisely; a word of concern from his children was more reassuring than the numbers in the account book.

The cold wind was still blowing outside the window, but Yan Bugui's heart was gradually warming up. He had lived for more than fifty years and taught arithmetic for thirty years, but only on the day of his retirement did he truly understand a calculation—family affection is priceless, and treating others sincerely is the most reliable "retirement capital."