RYEY – Chapter 133 The Little Rascal Has a Way

The test wasn’t long, just four essay questions and some tables.

The first question was about bookkeeping methods and requirements, asking them to write the details clearly.

Bookkeeping? That was easy—wasn’t it just recording how much money came in today, how much went out tomorrow, and how much was left? What other requirements could there be?

The second question asked them to prepare financial statements. But what were statements? None of them had ever seen one before. And what on earth was a balance sheet…?

The third question was even more ridiculous—managing funds. They all knew funds meant money, but what was a “check”? Was that also money?

The last question was about assisting with audits. What was an audit? And they were supposed to help with village audits, including providing accounts and statements so auditors could assess the village’s finances.

Wang Xiangyang was disappointed. Still, since they were here, they had to write something. Li Huan also looked over the test paper, his shock growing—what kind of questions were these? He couldn’t answer a single one.

He glanced at Chen Weidang. Thank goodness he’d been foresighted enough to bring the old village head. The man had been village head for so many years, he surely understood all this.

Sure enough, when Chen Weidang collected the answer sheets and began grading, he nearly blacked out. The answers were enough to make him faint with rage.

On Wang Xiangyang’s paper, his “bookkeeping requirements” were: “Better to record too much than too little.” As for financial statements, his answer was: “Go to the mountains, gather some hemp, have the women weave it into rope, then shape it into newspapers and watches.”

On Wang Xiangdang’s paper, his answer to “managing funds” was: “Keep money in your pocket and have your mother sew it shut with a needle.” As for “assisting with audits”: “Have more children, become a glorious mother.”

Even his own son Damao’s answers were only slightly better—still completely off topic. Furious, he tore the papers into shreds.

“Old Village Head, why don’t you just do this job? The monthly pay isn’t much, just twenty-four yuan plus some ration coupons.”

Li Huan wasn’t intentionally trying to stab the old chief in the heart by mentioning wages, but he had to bring it up, otherwise the conversation couldn’t continue.

“You little rascal, I don’t know how much you earn now, but when I first became village head, I only made one yuan a month. Later it slowly went up to seventy-two. But all that money was…”

“Old Village Head, I don’t care about that, and don’t say it out loud. Our shared goal now is to build up Xiangyang Village.”

Chen Weidang nodded. He’d never worked as an accountant, but he was familiar—every month he had to take a stack of reports to the commune.

“Li Huan, there’s still a problem. I was technically dismissed, so higher-ups might not agree to me being accountant.”

“They’ve agreed. I already cleared it. Not many people here can read, so apart from you, no one else is qualified.”

Li Huan grinned. When he had gone through the procedures to become village head, he had already reported this issue and recommended Chen Weidang as accountant. Otherwise, Xiangyang Village would have been in chaos.

Though the leaders weren’t keen—since he was related to a criminal—Li Huan showed them the document proving Chen Weidang had severed ties with Chen Weimin. Considering the circumstances, they reluctantly approved.

And so, the newly unemployed Chen Weidang was back at work—as Xiangyang Village’s accountant. When word spread, Chen Weimin was so enraged he coughed up a mouthful of blood on the spot.

Li Huan couldn’t care less whether Chen Weimin spat blood or water. He once again beat the village gong. At the sound of it, the villagers rushed out excitedly with bowls in their hands, thinking the new village head was going to hand out corn buns again.

Li Huan glanced at the bowls and momentarily forgot what he’d meant to say—until Auntie Wang laughed and asked why he had called them out.

“There’s still nearly a month before spring planting. We can’t waste our time on cards, idle chatter, or sleep. I want to set up a literacy class.”

“Tch, a literacy class? I’m not going.”

“Me neither. In this cold, it’s far more comfortable to cuddle with my wife.”

“I don’t want to go either, but I can send my kids.”

Li Huan coughed twice. The crowd instantly fell silent, worried that if he got upset, he’d whip out that musket of his—and if it misfired, it could be deadly.

“Anyone who learns one hundred characters within a month will get one jin of wheat flour. Fifty characters earns one jin of cornmeal. Twenty-five characters earns one jin of sorghum flour.”

“Rascal—no, no—Village Head Li—no, Huan’er, I’ll go, I’m signing up!”

“Me too, I’m signing up!”

“Good heavens, I like this village head. The little rascal’s got a way. I’m in too!”

Uncle Niu raised his hand. After looking around and seeing everyone else do the same, Fenqiu gritted his teeth and raised his hand too.

It was just a hundred characters for a jin of wheat flour. The grain station certainly didn’t sell it, and on the black market it was already eighty cents a jin. Only a fool wouldn’t go.

“Huan’er, who’ll be the teachers? And will they earn work points?”

Auntie Wang asked. If work points were given, her sons Xiangyang, Xiangdang, and Xianghua could already recognize a few characters and could teach others.

“Jiang Guangrong, you and a few educated youths will be the teachers. As long as someone can recognize one hundred characters, they’ll earn one jin of cornmeal. Fifty characters, half a jin. And so on.”

Jiang Guangrong’s eyes lit up. A literacy class? That was too easy. Start with one, two, three. Ten numbers already counted as ten characters. Add sun, moon, stars, and names—they’d have twenty-five characters in no time.

“And anyone who’s already been to elementary school doesn’t count. Literacy means teaching the illiterate. If you can already read, you’re not illiterate, got it? Don’t try to pull tricks on me.”

Li Huan looked toward Wang Xiangyang and the others who had been to school. These guys, dreaming of tricking him out of his grain—no way.

The once lifeless Xiangyang Village came alive. They needed blackboards to teach, but since they didn’t have any, they made makeshift ones from scrap planks, planning to find some black paint later.

Li Huan then took Cheng Qiao, Li Le, and his mother with their handmade perfume flowers to the commune again. The clerks there—especially the women—loved the lifelike, fragrant blossoms. One wanted one, then another, and within moments, more than ten flowers were gone.

“Well then, what do you want this time?”

The office head smiled as he slipped a pack of cigarettes from Li Huan into his own pocket.

“I need two barrels of black paint. I’m setting up a literacy class in the village, and we’ve made two blackboards, but I don’t have any paint.”

“No problem, I’ll write you a note. But about the cigarettes…”

“How much do you want? I can manage a pack or two, but you’ll need to give me a week.”

“Alright, but just so you know, I don’t have cigarette ration coupons. You’ll need to bring cash.”

Li Huan casually pocketed the five yuan the clerk handed him. At two mao eight per pack, that was about two cartons. Even if it looked like he’d lost out, he knew he’d definitely profited.