Supply Exchange Convention: One Move, Legend Secured
The county auditorium square was the venue for the Supply Exchange Convention.
Su Qing had started stocking up three days in advance.
From her space, she carefully selected her first batch of goods for sale:
Fifty jin of white sugar, portioned into one-jin bags.
Three bolts of dacron cloth, pre-cut by the meter for easy retail.
Twenty bars of Shanghai-brand soap, wrapped in oiled paper in sets of five.
Ten cartons of Daqianmen cigarettes.
Twenty cans of luncheon meat.
Five tins of malted milk extract.
And one secret weapon: ten bottles of erythromycin tablets.
In areas below the county seat in this era, antibiotics were harder currency than gold.
For Su Qing, the cost of this batch was zero—all drawn from her stockpile in the space.
The projected total selling price: a conservative estimate of 1,200 yuan.
In 1976, 1,200 yuan was equivalent to three years’ salary for a county-level cadre.
Su Qing intended to earn it all in a single day.
On the day of the convention, the square was packed shoulder to shoulder.
Stalls lined up in long rows, representing over a hundred work units—coarse grain, farm tools, homemade pickles, woven straw baskets. Most goods looked dull and rustic.
Then Su Qing’s stall appeared.
Registered under the name of the Xiangyang Production Brigade Educated Youth Station, it was tucked away in the far back corner—hardly a prime spot.
But as she laid out her wares one by one, the whole square’s attention shifted.
The first to draw notice was the sugar: sparkling white, evenly granulated, wrapped in clean kraft paper, stacked neatly in one-jin packs. Passersby caught the sweet scent and stopped short.
“Is… that white sugar?”
“Mmhmm. One yuan eighty fen a jin,” Su Qing replied with a smile.
“Pardon? How much?!”
“One yuan eighty fen.”
The official price at supply and marketing cooperatives was one yuan fifty fen—but only with ration coupons. In rural areas where tickets were scarce, the black market rate had long climbed above three yuan. One eighty was practically half price.
The first person bought two jin. The second, three. Then word spread like wildfire across the square:
“The stall in the far corner has white sugar! One eighty a jin! Dacron cloth too! And canned luncheon meat!”
Within five minutes, a queue stretched from the corner all the way to the central aisle.
White sugar: sold out in 15 minutes.
Dacron cloth: gone in 20.
Soap and cigarettes: cleared in half an hour.
Luncheon meat: one buyer asked for ten at once; Su Qing capped purchases at three per person, and the last can was gone in 40 minutes.
Malted milk extract: the most sought-after—someone bid twenty yuan a tin, but Su Qing priced hers at fifteen; they were snatched up in two minutes.
Only one item remained: the erythromycin tablets.
Su Qing kept them off display. She was waiting—for someone.
That someone arrived: a middle-aged woman in a cadre tunic, hair pulled back sharply, expression stern, yet her eyes betrayed urgent worry. She pushed through the crowd and stopped before Su Qing.
“Are you Educated Youth Su?”
“I am.”
“I’m Dr. Zhang from the county hospital,” she whispered. “Word is you have antibiotics—erythromycin—”
“I do.”
Dr. Zhang’s eyes lit up. “How many bottles?”
“Ten.”
“I’ll take all of them.”
“Not for sale.”
Dr. Zhang froze.
Su Qing smiled. “Not for money. For trade.”
“What do you want?”
Su Qing handed over a slip of paper. Dr. Zhang unfolded it and read three items: a complete set of surgical suture instruments, a crate of medical gauze and cotton pads, and—an access pass to the county hospital dispensary.
The first two were medical supplies. The third was authority. With that pass, Su Qing could legally enter and leave the dispensary—not only to source medicinal herbs, but to tap into the scarce Western medicine channels of the time.
Dr. Zhang stared at the note for ten seconds. Ten bottles of erythromycin would fetch at least a hundred yuan on the black market. More importantly, the county hospital’s stock had run dry two months prior; two inpatients were counting on it to survive. She gritted her teeth.
“Deal.”
As Su Qing handed over the bottles, she slipped a small paper packet from her bag. “Here—five packets of fever reducers. A gift.”
Dr. Zhang blinked. “No charge?”
“None,” Su Qing beamed. “Just a way to make friends with the county hospital.”
Clutching the medicine, Dr. Zhang’s lips trembled. “Educated Youth Su… if you ever need anything—come find me. Zhang Yulan, Surgical Department, county hospital. Remember that name.”
Another connection secured.
When the convention ended, Su Qing sat behind her empty stall, a bulging canvas bag before her. She tallied her gains:
Cash earned: 1,083 yuan.
Traded goods: one set of surgical suture instruments, one crate of medical gauze and cotton, one dispensary access pass.
New contacts: Dr. Zhang Yulan, the county food processing plant’s procurement chief (who bought all ten cartons of cigarettes), and the Women’s Federation director of the neighboring commune (who took three tins of malted milk).
One day. 1,083 yuan. Combined with her savings, Su Qing’s total assets crossed the 2,000-yuan mark. In rural China of 1976, that made her an undisputed “hidden tycoon.”
She slung the bag over her shoulder and stepped out of the square. The setting sun gilded every street in crimson. It was beautiful, but she had no time to admire it—parked just outside the exit was a jeep.
Leaning against it was a man in military uniform, cropped hair, shoulders broad as a fortress. Lu Zhanye kept his hands in his pockets, glancing over as she approached.
“All done?”
“Mmhmm,” she said, walking up.
“Make much?”
Su Qing blinked. “A little.”
“How little?”
“Can’t say.”
Lu Zhanye studied her for three seconds, then reached for the bag and hefted it—heavy, crammed full of cash and supplies. His brow lifted. “A little” looked like years of income for an ordinary family.
“You—” he slung the bag over his own shoulder, a faint note of resignation in his tone, “You’re better at business than you are at fighting.”
“Flattered.”
“Get in. I’ll drive you back.”
Su Qing slid into the passenger seat. Lu Zhanye took the wheel himself—no driver Xiao Zhao today. The engine roared to life, and the jeep rolled out of town, brick houses giving way to endless farmland.
One hand on the steering wheel, his other rested on the seat between them—close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his fingertips. He didn’t reach for her hand, just waited.
Su Qing stared out the window. A minute of silence passed. Then her pinky finger twitched, hooking lightly around his—soft as a butterfly alighting on a petal.
Lu Zhanye’s whole hand stiffened. The jeep swerved slightly.
“…Eyes on the road,” Su Qing said evenly, as if nothing had happened.
Lu Zhanye turned his gaze back to the dirt track. Right. Eyes on the road. But his pinky stayed locked around hers—tighter than his grip on a rifle. For the entire ride back to the educated youth station, he never let go.