Chapter 5

The Shikumen houses are a classic in Shanghai, and Yang Rui had seen them in the future. In the new Xintiandi area of Shanghai, many old Shikumen houses have been converted into bars and cafes, but he had never seen a Shikumen house used as a residence. This Shikumen house had only two floors and looked quite modern. The white lime in the brick joints was still very white, contrasting beautifully with the blue bricks, making it look very comfortable. Everything seemed new, as if the house had been built less than two years ago. Upon entering the main gate, there was a large courtyard, which faced the living room. In front of the living room stood six long wooden lattice doors. A woman in a moon-white robe came out, sized up Yang Rui, and asked, "Are you here to rent the house?"

Yang Rui nodded and said, "Yes, it's me. May I ask your name?" He was also sizing her up.

"My husband's surname is Huang. How many people are you? What's your surname?" Perhaps Yang Rui met her criteria for a tenant, so she spoke in the Beijing dialect.

"My surname is Yang, and I'll be living alone. I'm a student who just returned to China. How do you rent this house?" Yang Rui asked.

"The house is on the second floor, with two rooms. One is a bedroom, and the other is a attic room," the woman replied. "Let me show you around." She led him inside. After passing through the living room, they entered a small corridor where a woman was washing pots by the eaves, and a six- or seven-year-old girl stood nearby.

They climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor and first looked at the bedroom. It faced south and was over twenty square meters, with furniture and an old wooden bed. The windows were numerous and made of glass, making the room very bright. The attic room, however, was at the back of the house, small, and less than ten square meters. It was quite low, and Yang Rui felt he was almost touching the ceiling. Because it faced north, the windows were not on the north side but on the side, and they were wooden louvers. The walls were gray and somewhat dark, and the room was sparsely furnished with just a bed, a table, and a chair. After finishing the tour, Mrs. Huang asked, "Have you seen everything? These are the only two rooms available."

The house was fine; it was just a matter of the price. Yang Rui was calculating how much money he had left. He replied, "The rooms are good, but I don't know how much they cost per month?"

"The large bedroom is eight yuan per month, with a two-jiao house tax. The attic room is cheaper, at four yuan per month, with a one-jiao house tax. Which one do you want?" she asked.

Yang Rui, after hearing the price and calculating his remaining money, knew he could only afford the attic room. Actually, the small room was not bad; it was quieter. He thought for a moment and said, "I'll take the attic room. Can you make it a bit cheaper? I just arrived in Shanghai, and money is tight."

Mrs. Huang was silent for a moment, then said, "The attic room is the cheapest at three and a half yuan. Any less, and I can't rent it. I see you're a decent person, so I'll make it a bit cheaper. If you're serious about renting, you can decide today."

Yang Rui immediately decided, paid two yuan as a deposit, and said he would move in the next day. Before leaving, he asked for the address: No. 12 Ruyili, Houma Road. On his way back, he calculated his money. After paying one yuan and six jiao the next day, he would have two yuan and sixty-four jiao left. After today, he would have two yuan and fifty-three jiao left. At two jiao per meal, he could last for thirteen days. However, after moving in, he didn't know how much money he would have left after buying bedding. Thinking about money, he quickened his pace and found a post office at the intersection of Jishi Road and Dama Road. He mailed the article he had written, hoping the editor would accept his classical Chinese and simplified characters. He explained in the letter that he was an overseas Chinese and had been educated in Western languages and simplified characters, so his writing might have some shortcomings, and he asked for understanding.

Back at the inn, he passed by a few bookstores on Sif马路 and bought several magazines and newspapers for two jiao. Then he went back to focus on reading and writing. By dinner time, he had written two more articles. Rubbing his dry eyes, he looked at the three articles and thought resentfully, "Damn, why do others get rich immediately after time-traveling, while I can only get eight yuan for a precious gold chain? Some people meet famous people and live comfortably, while I have to write in this破旅馆. It's really unfair, damn it."

After dinner, the innkeeper had already lit the lamp in the room. In the dark room, the kerosene lamp burned stubbornly, but the darkness still enveloped most of the space, with only a small area on the table illuminated. Yang Rui sat down, reviewed his afternoon's work, and continued his great endeavor of writing.

The next morning, Yang Rui left the inn early with his luggage. After breakfast, he went to the same post office and mailed the three articles he had written the previous afternoon and evening. He didn't care if they were accepted; he just hoped for some results. If he didn't find a way, he might have to sell himself.

When he arrived at Ruyili, it was already nine o'clock. He was about to knock when he noticed the door was not locked, just slightly ajar, and Mrs. Huang was nowhere to be found. He called out a few times but got no response, so he went upstairs directly. The woman who had been washing pots the previous day was not there, only the little girl. She looked at Yang Rui timidly, and he smiled and made a funny face, which made her retreat into the room, but she didn't cry or shout, perhaps sensing no malice.

The door to the attic room was open, and the room seemed to have been swept. Some straw was laid on the bed, but there were no blankets or bedding. As he sat on the bed and looked around, Mrs. Huang came over, still in her moon-white robe, walking softly. "You're here, Mr. Yang. I was just airing the bedding upstairs and didn't hear you call."

Yang Rui smiled and said, "It's fine, Mrs. Huang. The room seems to have been swept. Thank you."

"Yes, I swept it after you said you'd come today. I should tell you, the attic room is very comfortable for one person," she said, clearly a talkative landlord.

"Thank you," Yang Rui said again, handing her one yuan and sixty jiao. "Mrs. Huang, where can I buy bedding?"

Mrs. Huang, in a good mood from renting out the room, was happy to help. "Go to the Yimin Bedding Shop outside and say you're a tenant of Mr. Huang. They should give you a discount."

By lunchtime, Yang Rui had settled into the room. He went out and bought a single blanket for one yuan, which was all he could afford given the mild weather. He also bought a lock, not sure if it would be effective. The lock seller said this type of lock was generally unbreakable, but Yang Rui, though skeptical, had no choice but to use it. After counting his money, he had only one yuan and two jiao left. If he saved, he could last about ten more days, but he had to hope his submissions would be accepted.

In the following days, Yang Rui mostly stayed in his room, writing articles and recording knowledge, historical events, and technical details from his future. These were not complete, just fragmented sentences or clues. He had read a lot of time-travel novels, but mostly about the late Ming dynasty in Hainan. He had read it several times and remembered many technical details, but they were not useful in the late Qing dynasty. He had also read some about the early Qing dynasty, but not in detail. When he tried to recall the name of the American company that produced the prototype of the Soviet T-34 tank, he couldn't remember it. He sighed deeply, "It seems that no matter what you do, you have to be serious. If I had paid more attention, I wouldn't have forgotten."

Five days passed, and Yang Rui had met the other residents. The house had six rooms. The living room on the first floor was the landlord's. Mr. Huang, who wore round glasses and had a mustache, was likely a teacher, but they hadn't talked much, just nodding in greeting. The small room by the stairs was occupied by a middle-aged man, Mr. Deng, who worked at the post office and lived with his family in the suburbs. Everyone called him Old Deng, and he was friendly but not talkative. The last room on the first floor, below Yang Rui's attic room, was occupied by a couple. The man, Mr. Xu, was from Jiangsu or Anhui, and the woman was from Songjiang. They had a daughter outside their room, and based on the crying, there were at least two infants inside. Mr. Xu wanted a son, but his wife kept having girls. He had originally not wanted to leave home, but a relative in Shanghai had a job at a trading company, and because they had no son, they felt ashamed and moved to Shanghai.

On the second floor, there were three rooms. The attic room and the room by the stairs were occupied, but the bedroom was empty. The room by the stairs was occupied by an old man who was quiet and came and went early. One day, after drinking, he started humming, which made the little girl downstairs laugh and sing along, showing she had musical talent. Later, Yang Rui learned the old man sold small items at a stall.

Every day at 4:30 PM, Yang Rui would go out and wander the alley, hoping to find a way back, but it never worked. He would return dejectedly, lying on his bed, counting his dwindling coins, and calculating how many days he had left before running out of food. At this time, the office workers would start returning, and the courtyard would become lively. Yang Rui would open his window, lean out, and watch the scene below. Mrs. Huang would cook on a kerosene stove, the little girl would play under the eaves, and her parents would bicker in their dialect. Old Deng would squat by the stairs, smoking and occasionally talking to the little girl. The noisy yet warm family life always gave him a sense of comfort, even though he was just an observer.

On the eleventh day since he arrived and the ninth day since moving into Ruyili, with only two jiao left, hope arrived. As he was watching the life below from his window, Old Deng knocked and entered, handing him two letters. "Mr. Yang, I brought you two letters."

Letters! He must have been accepted by the newspaper, and this should be the payment. He became nervous, rushed over, and thanked Old Deng while tearing open the letters. One read: "Mr. Yang, our newspaper has accepted your article and will publish it in the next issue. Please collect your six-yuan payment at No. 3 Beihai Road, Agricultural Journal." The other was a money order for three yuan from the Women's Journal. The sender was not important; what mattered was that he had money. His cash was now nine yuan and two jiao, and he was overjoyed. The past few days had taught him the value of money.

That evening, Yang Rui went out for a special meal, as he had been eating steamed buns and baozi, which had become monotonous. On a whim, he bought a pack of cigarettes, "Old Dao" brand, produced by the American Tobacco Company, which was famous in the future and had once monopolized the Chinese cigarette market. Later, with the rise of national consciousness, companies like Nanyang Tobacco began to compete with it, and the competition continued throughout the late Qing and Republican periods. When he asked the shop owner for Nanyang Tobacco, the owner said it didn't exist. It seemed the company would be established in a few years.

Yang Rui spent the night writing for the Agricultural Journal and the Women's Journal. For the Agricultural Journal, he wrote about several traditional pesticide formulas and their uses. For the Women's Journal, he continued his discussion on the decline of women's status from ancient matriarchal societies to the present. He couldn't finish it in one article, so he planned to write more. To protect his identity and gender, he used the pen name "Attic Room."

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**End of Chapter**