Chapter 4: How Dare You Fight Back

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Zheng Fei followed their gaze and, through the thin curtain, vaguely saw a figure wiping their body. But through the gap, Zheng Fei realized that the woman wasn’t undressing to wipe herself; she was wiping over her clothes. What was so interesting about that? Yet, this small scene had already excited the two men immensely. Zheng Fei thought that if he showed them some Japanese adult films, they might just have a heart attack.

With an ice pop in his mouth, Zheng Fei glanced a few more times; after all, they all lived in the same neighborhood and were somewhat familiar with each other. The woman wiping herself was named Lin Yinghong, a widow whose husband had drowned in the Suzhou River a few years ago. She raised two children alone. Because she was quite attractive, most women in Tanzibay kept their guard up around her.

Zheng Fei had heard from neighbors that when his uncle still lived in Tanzibay, he apparently had a liaison with her. His aunt Zhang Guifen had even slapped Lin Yinghong a few times with her own hand. This kind of reputation immediately reminded Zheng Fei of the promiscuous woman in the courtyard.

Just as Xiao Tao and the others were watching with avid interest, a woman’s scolding came from the opposite building: “Look at that! What’s so interesting?” “You filthy tramp.” “Hurry and pull your curtains tight.” Lin Yinghong replied, “I can’t afford new curtains; how about you pay for them?”

Xiao Tao muttered quietly, “Why is it always that old hag? Why does she always come out to spoil our fun?” Wang Qiusheng looked a bit annoyed. “Can you not insult her? That’s my mother!” “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” “You never asked.” Zheng Fei glanced briefly but lost interest. His mind was full of thoughts about how to make money in this era.

Recently, he had considered writing novels and poetry to submit to publishers and magazines. After all, many protagonists in previous reincarnation novels earned their first fortune this way. But his strong suit was painting; he had no talent for writing. Even though he knew many famous stories, give him a pen and he simply couldn’t write! Making money from manuscript fees was definitely not a viable path for him.

Every publisher and newspaper had their own full-time illustrators; each position was already filled. There was no room for him. Zheng Fei felt quite helpless. This reincarnated life was truly hard to navigate! After much thought, the only route he saw to make money was to follow in his “master’s” footsteps. Zhao Dagang, a half-skilled painter, managed to earn money, so with his professional background, Zheng Fei believed he could at least make a living this way.

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After being interrupted, Zhu Xiaotao sighed, “This is pointless; let’s leave.” “I’m leaving too,” Wang Qiusheng said, then glanced at Zheng Fei. “Fei, are you still going out to paint with that master later?” “Depends.” “Alright, next time you come back, let us know earlier. I’ll treat you to an ice pop.” “Deal.”

After finishing the ice pop, the rooftop temperature soared. In this shantytown, taking a cold shower was an extravagant luxury. There were no faucets here, only one or two wells. In summer, residents lined up around the wells waiting for water.

Zheng Fei kept it simple: wearing shorts, he carried a bucket with a rope and fetched water directly from the Suzhou River to wash. But the Suzhou River in this era was truly filthy. As far as the eye could see, small cargo boats crowded the river. Oil slicks spread over the water, with trash floating everywhere. On both banks, garbage docks and cesspools lined the shores. Shanghai’s six districts used the Suzhou River to transport their household waste.

Despite the filth, many youths and children still swam in the water to cool off. Some parents shouted from the shore with bamboo sticks, “When I count to three, get out immediately.” Elders had recounted that since the other side of the river was the concession, ordinary people couldn’t enter, so refugees gathered there. However, whenever the Japanese invaders came, the river was filled with corpses floating downstream. The older generation held an unspoken fear of this river and that era.

After his wash, Zheng Fei returned home to find many people in the alley unable to sleep from the heat. The spring breeze of reform was blowing everywhere, but it hadn’t reached this place. Some without windows slept outside with straw mats.

Back home, Zheng Fei soon broke into a sweat. Damn, he really wanted an ice-cold watermelon. Unable to sleep, he gave up and stayed awake. Pushing aside his desk revealed a yellowed white wall. He pulled from his pocket a short piece of charcoal — the very one his master had smashed on him.

He began sketching triangles, circles, and rectangles on the wall to establish the composition. Once the basic shapes were set, he started drawing the Guan Yu statue from the temple onto the white wall. But when it came to actually painting it, he didn’t know how to proceed. He could imagine and paint art freely, but religious icons were different. They had fixed forms and couldn’t be drawn arbitrarily.

With a sigh, Zheng Fei had intended to fire Zhao Dagang outright, but judging by the current situation, they had to keep cooperating.

Two days later, Zheng Fei boarded a tractor and headed to the rural outskirts. Unlike before, this time he had a purpose: to study murals.

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While observing, Zheng Fei realized that his half-skilled master must have been exposed to comic books because his mural style leaned towards that genre. In the post-liberation era, many artistic themes were heavily restricted.

Artworks could no longer be speculative ventures.

Many veteran artists flocked to creating comic books, resulting in all sorts of styles because the manuscript fees were high! During the 1950s and 60s, Liu Xiyong, author of the comic “Hulao Pass,” reportedly earned over three thousand yuan in manuscript fees. It seems the high fees caused internal conflicts, with quite negative repercussions.

Thus, the “National Wage Standards for Literary and Art Workers” was introduced, categorizing all artists into 25 levels, each paid according to their rank.

Although Zheng Fei possessed painting skills, he had shortcomings — a severe lack of reference material. His mind was blank. Though in his previous life, when “Black Monkey” became popular, he had browsed many original sources, especially the chapter on Xiaoxitian. It shocked him deeply, prompting him to visit places like Qianfoan Temple in Shanxi’s Xixian County and the Hanging Temple near Datong.

He was truly impressed by ancient art but had never studied it systematically — only visited casually. He couldn’t remember much. Simply put, he had little exposure and practice and lacked a clear understanding of temple murals.

This time, Zheng Fei stopped slacking and studied the mural on the wall seriously. Though poorly painted, there were merits — at least in content and text. Just as he was engrossed and tried to record the content with a pencil, Zhao Dagang suddenly lost his temper.

Sitting on a wooden ladder, he shouted without warning, “What are you standing there for? Get to work! Did I hire you to daydream?”

Startled, Zheng Fei snapped out of his thoughts. He was no masochist. His temper flared instantly. He threw the mixed paints in his hand at the half-skilled master, nearly knocking him off the ladder.

“Are you crazy? Is insulting people fun? Can’t you speak properly?”

The half-skilled master was stunned by Zheng Fei’s sudden outburst. This kid usually took everything without protest. What was going on today? How dare he fight back?