In the end, Wu Xue did not go back; she had gone through great hardships to get into university.
Her boyfriend, for some reason, didn't come to the school to look for her.
Monday, July 9, 1979, No. 2 East Chang'an Street.
As dawn broke, Zhan Chunlan stood in front of the Ministry of Foreign Trade building, carrying a canvas shoulder bag and clutching her registration certificate tightly in her hand, walking forward with some excitement.
"Temporary access pass, trainee clerk?" In the guardhouse, the security guard carefully checked her documents and looked her up and down several times. "Impressive, you're still in university and you're already interning at the Ministry of Foreign Trade. Come in!" His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable authority. In this era, even a guard was very proud of his job.
On her first day of internship, Zhan Chunlan's task was to familiarize herself with the previous work of the Foreign Trade Department.
The archives of the Ministry of Foreign Trade were dimly lit, and although the windows were open, the mixed smell of old paper and mimeograph ink still lingered.
Three rows of iron cabinets were piled high with trade contracts dating back to the 1950s. Among them, the "intergovernmental agreements" with the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe were bound with leather straps, their covers printed with mottled hammer and sickle patterns; while the contracts with newer Western companies were printed on snow-white coated paper, their clauses densely packed like ants. Zhan Chunlan carefully flipped through each document, her fingertips tracing the texture of the different papers, as if caressing the rings of time.
During my internship at the Ministry of Foreign Trade, every day felt like opening a thick history book, each page densely filled with the nation's and the world's trade, compromises, and progress. Zhan Chunlan sat quietly in the corner of the archives room, sunlight streaming in from the east window, illuminating the stacks of yellowed files beside her. Dust floated in the beams of light, like lingering echoes of a bygone era.
Here, what she learned first was not how to write contracts or how to negotiate, but how to "read" files.
While organizing trade agreements with the Soviet Union in the 1950s, she discovered an interesting detail: China traded agricultural products for industrial equipment, and the contracts even specified the specifications of every single screw. "This shows that we paid attention to detail from the very beginning," she wrote in her internship notes, "but it also exposed the weakness of our country's industrial base."
Moving on to contracts with Japan in the early 1970s, she noted that the focus of negotiations had shifted to the import of complete sets of equipment. "From individual parts to whole technologies, this was progress in industrialization."
What truly caught her eye was the recent contract with the German company—in addition to equipment procurement, it included technology transfer clauses. She studied this part repeatedly and drew a flowchart of the technology transfer process in her notebook.
"Looking at it so intently?" asked Sister Li, the archives administrator, curiously.
“Sister Li, look here,” Zhan Chunlan pointed to the contract terms, “The technology transfer section is written in great detail, even specifying the training hours for the Chinese engineers. This will be very valuable for our future negotiations.”
Sister Li nodded approvingly: "You are the first intern to study the contract details so thoroughly."
"I was able to get here thanks to a 'special pass' specially approved by the leadership." Zhan Chunlan lowered her voice as if afraid of disturbing the tranquility of the room. "But if I want to turn it into a 'long-term meal ticket,' I have to thoroughly understand every contract and memorize it."
Sister Li was taken aback at first, then burst into laughter, two kind lines appearing at the corners of her eyes: "Little girl, if Old Zheng heard you say that, he'd definitely say—'Imprinted in your brain? No, it has to be ingrained in your blood, become your instinct!'"
As she spoke, she pulled a brass key from the drawer and slammed it on the table with a "clink": "Since you're going to put in this much effort, do me a favor. The innermost row of iron cabinets contains the 'Class A' files from 1952 to 1955. The ministry is having an external review next week, and each page needs to be numbered. Here's the key. Lock the door before 10 p.m. tonight, so the mice don't gnaw on the paper."
Zhan Chunlan took the key with both hands; the cold metal felt heavy in her palms, like holding a weighty responsibility. She looked up and met the fleeting hint of trial in Sister Li's eyes—as if to say: Little girl, if you really want to understand everything here, you must first learn to find your way in the dark.
At six o'clock in the evening, the archives were empty, with only the ceiling fan creaking. The dim light shone on the rows of brown paper bags, like a thin layer of gold leaf covering the old era. She squatted down at the far end, dragged out the first wooden box, and lifted the lid. A strong smell of old camphor mixed with the odor of ink hit her, making her squint.
At the top is a 1953 "Contract for the Import of Equipment for the Southern Jiangsu Power Stations," with a bluish note tucked inside the title page; the penmanship has faded to a light brown:
"Spring Tide, if the Soviets insist that we compensate for the turbine blades with pig bristles, please tell them for me: Pig bristles can be used to make brushes for you, but they can't clean the dust off our generators. —Old Wei, November 7, 1953"
Zhan Chunlan chuckled, then quickly covered her mouth, as if afraid of disturbing the soul of Old Wei from thirty-six years ago. She put the note back exactly as it was, but her fingertips trembled slightly: it turned out that even on those seemingly unyielding negotiating tables, there were such vivid jokes and sighs.
Scrolling further down, a 1954 annex to the Czechoslovakian machine tool technology transfer document caught her attention. Clause 3.2.1, written in extremely fine typewriter font, stated:
"The Czech side promises to train 12 CNC operators for the Chinese side within 18 months after the contract takes effect, with each trainee having no less than 720 hours of practical training; if a Czech teacher misses 1 hour of class, 3 hours will be extended free of charge, and the Chinese side has the right to deduct 1.5 times the hourly rate from the final acceptance payment."
Zhan Chunlan took a deep breath—this was practically turning "learning" into a "gamble." She pulled out her notebook and copied the sentence word for word, then drew a bold asterisk in the margin. She recalled the teacher's casual mention of "technology for market" in class, and now she truly understood: the market is never given away, but rather "fought" back hour by hour from the terms and conditions.
As night deepened, the wind slipped in through the window cracks, rustling the pages like whispers in her ear. She rubbed her sore eyes and suddenly heard a "click"—the door was pushed open a crack, and the corridor light slanted in, illuminating a pair of worn leather shoes.
"Who?" She stood up abruptly, her knee accidentally hitting the metal cabinet, the pain almost bringing tears to her eyes.
The leather shoes approached, and it was Sister Li, carrying an aluminum lunchbox: "I was worried you'd be starving, so I brought you something to eat." She glanced at the files spread out on the ground, raising an eyebrow slightly, "So you really found the way?"
Zhan Chunlan gave an awkward smile, took the lunchbox, and felt a wave of heat hit her face—two sorghum buns, a handful of pickled mustard greens, and a boiled egg. She was starving, but she first held up the Czech contract: "Sister Li, look at this clause. The training hours are written with stricter precision than a machine. Did the ministry really deduct any money later?"
Sister Li squatted down, lightly tapping the pages with her fingertips, and lowered her voice: "It was deducted. During the 1956 inspection, the Czech teacher had 17 hours of sick leave, but the Chinese side insisted on deducting 1.5 times the amount for 25.5 hours—a total of $12,000. In those days, $12,000 was worth a fortune in Beijing! The Czech representative turned green with rage, but the contract was in black and white, and he had to accept it."
Zhan Chunlan listened intently, so engrossed that she forgot to bite into the cornbread she was holding.
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