The sun climbed higher.
The accumulated snow in the market had melted into puddles of muddy water, squelching underfoot with every step.
After winding through several turns, Zhao Hongmei arrived at the western end of the market, where hardware and ironware were sold.
The air was filled with the clanging sounds of blacksmithing. Rows of shovels and hoes lay on the ground, alongside stacks of large, heavy pots commonly used in the countryside.
Those big iron woks were perfect for stewing geese or boiling pig feed.
But for stir-frying, which required precise heat control—especially for selling fast food at a stall in the future—they wouldn’t do. These woks were heavy, slow to heat up, and slow to cool down. At critical moments, they couldn’t be tossed easily, and once the heat passed, the dishes would turn tough.
Zhao Hongmei scanned the pile of ironware, her gaze settling on a corner. There, a few thin-walled, wrought-iron woks with long wooden handles hung.
“Boss, how much for this wok?” Zhao Hongmei walked over and reached out to weigh the one hanging on the side.
The weight was just right. The wok weighed about three or four pounds. Because of its thin walls, the bottom heated up quickly—the oil would start smoking as soon as the fire was lit.
This was the kind of wok used by professional chefs in restaurants. In the countryside, people called it “thin iron sheet.”
Farmers thought it wasn’t durable and prone to leaking, so they generally didn’t buy it.
The man selling ironware was sanding a kitchen knife with sandpaper and spoke without looking up: “That’s for restaurant use, not suitable for home. If you want to buy a wok, take a look at those big cast-iron ones over there. Those are for everyday living.”
“I want this one.” Zhao Hongmei gripped the wooden handle with one hand, using a deft wrist motion. The iron wok swayed gently in her hand, her movements smooth and practiced.
The man finally looked up, giving this slender woman a surprised glance: “Oh, you know your stuff. That wok sells for five yuan, plus one Industrial Coupon. Judging by your skill, have you practiced before?”
Zhao Hongmei smiled and took out money from her pocket: “I don’t have a coupon. Can I add fifty cents in cash instead?”
Private transactions were always flexible. The man hesitated for a moment, then took the money and rubbed it between his fingers: “Alright. Since you know what you’re doing, this wok is made of good steel. If you take care of it, it’ll last you eight or ten years.”
Zhao Hongmei paid, slung the new wok over her back, and felt its weight pressing against her.
With this tool, even if she set up a stall by the roadside in the future, Zhao Hongmei could stir-fry dishes with that signature “wok hei” aroma.
On her way back, Zhao Hongmei passed a stall selling workwear and protective gear.
The stall was piled with rubber boots and canvas aprons, with bundles of hemp rope placed nearby. A row of gloves hung in a prominent spot.
There were cheap white cotton gloves and ones coated with rubber. Beside them hung thick, fleece-lined canvas gloves with a piece of yellow cowhide sewn onto the palm.
Zhao Hongmei’s footsteps halted. She remembered what Qin Gang had done last night—bringing her foot-washing water.
In the dim light, Hongmei hadn’t looked closely. Qin Gang’s large hands had held her feet, his palms covered in hard, rough calluses that pricked her skin painfully.
Zhao Hongmei recalled one winter when Qin Gang returned from a trip and was unloading tires.
Outside, it was bitterly cold, and the metal tools were freezing. If skin touched them, it would peel off immediately.
Qin Gang’s hands were covered in frostbite cracks. Some were deep enough to reveal the red flesh beneath, oozing beads of blood with the slightest movement. Back then, the family was poor. Qin Gang couldn’t bear to buy good gloves, so he wrapped his fingers with black electrical tape, layer after layer.
The adhesive tape didn’t breathe. Wrapped inside, the wound turned pale and festered. Qin Gang would gasp in pain from the chill during his sleep at night, yet the next day he’d still go grip the icy steering wheel as usual.
Back then, Zhao Hongmei often lost her temper. Seeing that hand wrapped in tape, she only thought the man was sloppy and dirty. It never crossed Zhao Hongmei’s mind that every cut on Qin Gang’s hands was suffering endured for this family.
“Boss, how much for those leather-patched gloves?” Zhao Hongmei pointed at the pair of sturdy canvas gloves as she asked.
“Those are expensive. They’re for electricians climbing poles—two yuan fifty a pair,” the stall owner said, cracking sunflower seeds and glancing at Zhao Hongmei. “Younger sister, for doing farm work at home, just buy those white cotton ones. Twenty cents.”
Two yuan fifty could buy nearly two jin of fatty pork. Zhao Hongmei felt the remaining money in her pocket. After buying the seasonings and the iron wok, that stack of bills had thinned considerably. Zhao Hongmei paused briefly, then immediately spoke up.
“I’ll take these. Give me the large size.”
…
Under the big poplar tree at the market entrance.
Qin Gang squatted by his bicycle, puffing away gloomily on a cigarette. The man didn’t dare move from the spot, afraid Hongmei wouldn’t find him when she came out.
Several cigarette butts littered the ground. Qin Gang stood up from time to time, rising on his toes to peer into the market. The man was so cold he kept his hands tucked in his sleeves, constantly stomping his feet to warm up.
He saw Zhao Hongmei squeezing out of the crowd, a black wok strapped to her back, a woven bag and a heavy earthenware jar in her hands. Qin Gang tossed his cigarette butt and strode over in a few large steps.
“Why’d you buy so much stuff? Is it heavy?” Qin Gang moved deftly, taking the jar and woven bag from Zhao Hongmei’s hands in one swift motion. “When I left, I said just buy a little if you see something. How come you even bought a wok?”
Qin Gang looked at the thin stir-fry wok, his brow furrowed tightly. “This sheet iron doesn’t look like it’ll hold up to heat. It’s not even as thick as the pot we use to feed the pigs at home. Did someone cheat you?”
Zhao Hongmei was exhausted, fine sweat beading on the tip of her nose. Hongmei took the wok off her back and shoved it directly into Qin Gang’s arms, panting heavily. “What do you know? This wok is for work. From now on, this is my tool for earning money. Save your energy for pushing the cart. Don’t you go pointing fingers at my wok.”
Qin Gang chuckled, neatly arranging everything in the cart’s bed. The man carefully stuffed some straw around the jar, afraid the pottery might crack from jostling on the road.
“Alright. Get on, let’s go home. You must be frozen stiff in this cold.” Qin Gang patted the dirt off his hands and turned to swing his leg over the bicycle seat.
“Wait.” Zhao Hongmei called out to Qin Gang.
Qin Gang turned back, scratching the back of his head as he asked, “What’s wrong? Need to buy something else?”
Zhao Hongmei pulled a warm, oil-paper-wrapped package from her pocket and handed it over. “For you.”
“What is it?” Qin Gang slowly reached out to take it.
Qin Gang’s hands were large-knuckled, with ingrained motor oil stains in the nail crevices that couldn’t be washed clean.
The skin on the back of his hands was red and swollen from the cold. Two strips of black electrical tape were stuck across the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. The corners of the tape had curled up, revealing dark red cracks beneath.
Qin Gang clumsily unwrapped the oil paper. A pair of brand new, thick Labor Protection Gloves appeared. The palms were stitched with yellow cowhide, the outer canvas layer spotlessly clean, and the inner fleece looked warm just by sight.
Qin Gang’s hand froze mid-air. He stared at the gloves, then shifted his gaze to Zhao Hongmei’s face. The man’s lips moved for a long while before he managed to force out a sentence: “Why’d you buy this? This stuff is pretty expensive… My old gloves are still wearable.”
Qin Gang instinctively hid his hands behind his back. The man’s old gloves had long been worn through at the fingertips. Loose threads were fraying everywhere, and wearing them did little to block the wind.
“Those are for electricians climbing poles. What would a driver like me need such good gloves for…” Qin Gang muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed on the pair of gloves.
“Just wear them when I tell you to, no need for all that talk.” Zhao Hongmei stepped forward, grabbing Qin Gang’s hands from behind his back.
She took the gloves and slipped them directly onto his hands.
“Take off that worn-out tape. If your hands crack, just apply some clam oil. Don’t keep wrapping them in tape. If your hands rot, how will you grip the steering wheel later?” Zhao Hongmei kept her head down, helping Qin Gang put on the gloves while chattering away. “These gloves have fleece inside to block the wind. Your bicycle has iron handlebars, and they’re freezing to touch in winter. If your hands get frostbitten, who’s going to earn money for me later?”
The opening of the new gloves was a bit tight.
Zhao Hongmei had to use some effort to help Qin Gang slide his hands in.
Once on, the gloves fit snugly, the fine fleece wrapping around his fingers. A wave of warmth spread from his fingertips, driving away the chill in his palms.
Qin Gang stared blankly at the conspicuous gloves on his hands. He tried making a fist, and the cowhide in his palms emitted a faint rustling sound. The leather felt soft and non-slip.
In all his years, this was the first time Qin Gang had worn gloves made of such fine material.
The man had always believed his skin was thick and rough, that he could tough out the winter cold. But now, with the new gloves on his hands, Qin Gang sniffled, his eyes tinged with red.
He looked up at Zhao Hongmei, who was helping him adjust his cuffs. The cold wind had reddened Hongmei’s nose, and a few strands of hair clung to her cheeks. Qin Gang’s gaze lingered on her face, unable to look away for a long moment.
“Hongmei…” Qin Gang’s voice was low, tinged with a hint of nasal tone.
“Alright, stop standing there in a daze.” Zhao Hongmei patted Qin Gang’s large gloved hand. “Hurry home. There’s still work to do this afternoon.”
Qin Gang stood still, glanced at the gloves on his hands, then raised the back of his hand to wipe his reddened nose vigorously.
“Right, let’s go home.”
He glanced at Zhao Hongmei beside him, the corners of his mouth curling upward to reveal a row of white teeth.