Psychological Construction

When I returned to the courtyard, the sun was already setting. The courtyard was quiet; those who were at work had not yet returned, and those who were not at work were mostly taking a nap or busy with their own household chores. Only a few preschool children were chasing and playing in the middle courtyard, their sharp laughter echoing through the air.

Sha Zhu pushed open his creaking door, and a familiar smell, a mixture of old furniture, leftover food, and a faint musty odor, wafted out. He closed the door behind him, leaned against it, and let out a long, deep breath, as if he had finally escaped from a world full of scrutiny and whispers and retreated into a safe shell. Although this "shell" itself was hardly comfortable or warm.

After a moment of blankness, he began to act. First, he walked to the water vat in the corner, which was about half a person's height, lifted the wooden lid, scooped out a few scoops of cold water with a gourd ladle, and poured them into an old washbasin with peeling enamel and several chips on the edge.

The tap water in April, freshly drawn from underground, was icy cold. He buried his face in the water, the icy touch making him shiver, and his muddled mind seemed to clear a little.

He scooped up water and splashed it on his face several times. Then, he used an old towel, its original color no longer discernible, to wet it and carefully wash his face, neck, and behind his ears. He even stuck his arms into the basin and stirred them around a few times.

The icy water stimulated my skin, bringing an almost masochistic sense of clarity, as if it could wash away the smell of cooking oil and sweat, as well as those invisible, disgusting rumors.

After washing his face, he looked at himself in the small, cracked mirror on the wall, where even the reflection was distorted.

The face reflected in the mirror was typical, weathered by the fire and the years, with rough skin, prominent cheekbones, and chapped lips. The eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and inner anxiety.

He picked up the old wooden comb on the table, which had several missing teeth and had been used for who knows how many years. He dipped it in the remaining water in the basin and, looking in the mirror, tried his best to tame his perpetually unruly, stiff short hair, which was as stiff as a wire brush.

The water had temporarily stuck his hair together, but a few unruly strands still stubbornly stuck out, revealing a certain indomitable (or perhaps clumsy) spirit within him. He tried to press it down, but to little avail, so he gave up.

After hesitating for a moment, he took off his dark blue work shirt, which was worn shiny at the collar and cuffs and soaked with the smell of cooking oil, revealing a faded cotton undershirt underneath.

It was a cool evening in April. He shivered, picked up the old towel, soaked it in cold water again, wrung it out until it was half dry, and then lifted the hem of his undershirt to wipe his upper body.

The cold, damp towel swept across his chest and back, raising goosebumps and causing his muscles to tense involuntarily. He gritted his teeth, remaining silent, his movements even somewhat rough, as if this wasn't cleaning but a punishment, or a ritual attempting to peel something away. After wiping himself down, he quickly pulled on his undershirt, but the coolness lingered on his skin.

Then, he walked to the only decent piece of furniture in the room—a jujube wood chest with peeling, dark red lacquer revealing the natural wood inside—squatted down, and solemnly unlocked the brass lock.

The lid was lifted, releasing an even stronger scent of mothballs mixed with the aroma of wood and worn fabric. Inside, neatly (compared to the mess in the rest of his room), were his most prized and "respectable" belongings:

A brand-new, dark blue, thick and crisp khaki Zhongshan suit, and a pair of matching khaki trousers with straight creases (made by folding and pressing).

At the end of last year, he gritted his teeth, used up almost all the cloth coupons he had saved, and even added half a month's salary to go to the department store to buy cloth and find a tailor to make it, so that he could dress decently for the New Year and leave a good impression on his blind date. Unexpectedly, Xu Damao ruined it, and he didn't get to use it.

He usually avoids wearing it, only taking it out carefully during the Lunar New Year or on a very few occasions he considers very important.

He took out his clothes and trousers, as if holding a fragile piece of porcelain, gently shook them open, and laid them flat on the old but fairly clean kang mat.

The clothes had been folded for a long time, leaving clear creases on the shoulders, elbows, and trouser legs. The fabric itself also carried the stiffness of being sealed for so long, along with that lingering camphor smell. Sha Zhu picked up the clothes, brought them to his nose, and sniffed them hard, his brows furrowing tightly. This smell... was really not pleasant, even somewhat pungent.

He was somewhat annoyed; he should have taken it out to air it a few days earlier. But it was too late for regrets now. He could only shake it vigorously, as if that would shake away the creases and smell. Then, he took a deep breath and began to change.

The pants were cut to fit fairly well, but his thick thighs and muscular waist, honed from years of wok-tossing, made the pant legs and waist feel a bit tight, and you could feel the fabric restricting his movements.

Next was the Zhongshan suit. I carefully slipped it on, fastening each of the large, plastic, bone-like buttons.

The clothes had a slightly narrow shoulder line, making his broad shoulders appear somewhat cramped. The sleeve length was just right, but the armpits and back looked stiff and rigid due to the crisp fabric and lack of break-in. He tried raising his arms and could hear a slight "creaking" sound from the fabric rubbing together.

After getting fully dressed, he stood in front of the broken mirror again. The person in the mirror seemed like a stranger to him for a moment. He was wrapped in a dark blue, brand-new khaki fabric, which concealed some of the ruggedness and casualness of his usual work clothes.

The crispness of his clothes forced him to straighten his back involuntarily. Although a few strands of his hair were still unruly, it had been combed with water.

His face was flushed an unnatural dark red from the cold water and his current tension. He tried to force a smile, hoping it would make him seem more "friendly," but the face in the mirror contorted into a stiff, even somewhat fierce expression. He quickly composed himself, pursing his lips and trying to make his eyes appear more "calm."

He looked himself over repeatedly, his heart pounding like a rabbit's. Did he look good? He couldn't say. Did he look energetic? Perhaps… a little bit? At least, he didn't look as sloppy and careless as usual.

He encouraged himself: "He Yuzhu, you're the head chef of the third canteen at the steel rolling mill, a proper level nine cook, earning thirty-three yuan and fifty cents a month—not bad at all! Tonight, stay calm! Talk less and listen more! Don't act recklessly! Don't embarrass this old man! Don't disappoint the old lady!"

He tried to encourage himself for a long time, but his heart was still pounding. He took one last look in the mirror, took a deep breath as if he were going to battle, then resolutely turned around, opened the door, and walked out.

The light in the courtyard had softened, and the afterglow of the setting sun painted a faint golden edge on the gray walls and tiles. There were already some voices and sounds; neighbors who had gone home early from get off work were returning one after another.

At the communal sink, three middle-aged women were bending over, washing a bunch of spinach. Hearing footsteps, they looked up and saw Sha Zhu coming out of the house. Their eyes widened instantly, and they stopped washing the vegetables.

She scrutinized Sha Zhu from head to toe several times, a smile slowly spreading across her face—the kind of smile common in alleyways, a smile that was seven parts curiosity and three parts inquiry. Her voice rose slightly, carrying obvious surprise and teasing: "Oh my! Who do we have here! Zhu Zi? You...you've really gotten the sun rise in the west! You're all dressed up so neatly! This outfit...is it the one you got for the New Year? You look so smart! So smart!"

Her gaze swept over Sha Zhu's taut shoulders, straight (what he thought) trouser legs, and those suede work shoes that were obviously hastily wiped but still looked heavy, like a brush.

Sha Zhu felt extremely uncomfortable under that gaze, as if ants were crawling under his clothes. He mumbled an "uh-huh," forced a smile that looked more like a grimace, and quickened his pace, trying to slip past the old woman and escape her scrutinizing gaze.

"Zhu Zi, are you going to the factory? To attend that...social gathering?" The third aunt wouldn't let him off the hook, pressing him for an answer, her curiosity practically overflowing.

Sha Zhu had no choice but to stop, and with a forced smile, he nodded, managing to utter a single word: "Mm."

"Great! Good thing! You should go! Do your best when you go!" The third aunt laughed, but her eyes were still fixed on him.

Just then, Yi Zhonghai was sweeping the steps in front of his house with a broom. Hearing the noise, he looked up and his gaze fell on Sha Zhu.

Seeing Sha Zhu's overly formal, even somewhat restrained and inappropriate attire, a complex emotion flashed in Yi Zhonghai's eyes—surprise, worry, and a deeper, indescribable entanglement. But he quickly composed himself, put down the broom, and slowly walked over.

He walked up to Sha Zhu without saying a word, but looked him up and down again. His gaze was calmer and more penetrating than that of the Third Aunt, as if he wanted to see through the new clothes to the tension and unease inside him.

After a long pause, Yi Zhonghai finally spoke, his voice not loud, but carrying a usual calm and seriousness that commanded respect: "Your clothes are quite neat. Zhu Zi, remember what I've repeatedly told you."

He paused, then emphasized, word by word, "When you get there, stay calm. This isn't our compound, it's not the canteen, it's a formal occasion. There will be many colleagues from other units, and factory leaders might also be there. Observe and listen carefully, and before you speak, make sure you think it through three times in your mind!"

Especially when dealing with women, you must be proper, polite, and respectful. Don't bring your usual arrogant and unruly attitude from the hospital or the cafeteria there. Understand?

Sha Zhu felt a chill run down his spine under Yi Zhonghai's serious gaze, and his earlier self-encouragement almost crumbled. He quickly straightened his back and nodded emphatically like a soldier receiving orders: "Understood! Don't worry, Uncle! I've memorized every word you said! I promise I won't embarrass you or bring shame to our institute!" His tone was urgent, full of assurance, but his palms were already sweating.

Seeing his nervous yet earnest expression, Yi Zhonghai's worry deepened, but he simply nodded slightly: "Yes, just remember. Go ahead."

Sha Zhu breathed a sigh of relief and was about to turn around when Qin Huairu came out of the Jia family's house carrying a broken enamel basin filled with vegetable scraps and garbage, seemingly going to take out the trash. She glanced up and saw Sha Zhu standing in the courtyard, and was clearly taken aback.