The Wages

Laoshun had worked at Jinxiu Garden for nearly two years.

When he first came in early spring of the first year, the plot was nothing but yellow mud. He and his mates — Sanwa, Laohei, and the rest — unloaded brick after brick, laid course upon course, and built upward. By the winter of the second year, a dozen-odd buildings stood in a row, their outer walls painted a presentable pale yellow, their windows bright enough to throw back a man's face. Standing atop the scaffolding and looking down, Laoshun felt, against all reason, a small flicker of pride: these were the tallest, the most decent buildings he had ever helped raise.

But pride was one thing, and the wages were another, and the wages had hung in the air the whole time.

For the first half-year they had been paid twice, by the month. After that, nothing. Boss Ma said the money up top hadn't been released — up top being Yuancheng Properties, the developer. Laoshun didn't understand about releasing or not releasing. He knew one plain thing: I put in the labor, you pay me. He had asked Boss Ma about it more than once at the site. Boss Ma would knock his hard hat on the desk and say, What's your rush? The buildings aren't sold yet, the money's locked up inside the flats, I'll settle with you for sure by the New Year.

The New Year came, and nothing was settled. Another year passed, and still nothing.

This twelfth month, Laoshun was truly anxious.

There was need at home. Last autumn he had arranged a match for his son, Xiaojun; the bride's family wanted a new house and a bride price. Laoshun gritted his teeth and borrowed thirty thousand from the credit union, sold the two pigs he kept, and rebuilt the rear earthen room into brick. The wedding was set for the first month. The credit union man had said: on the twentieth of the twelfth month, the interest is due, and after the New Year, principal and interest together.

Laoshun called Guifang. He said the money was nearly there, nearly. Guifang said nothing at first, and at the end only: Come home soon.

He hung up, tucked the phone into his chest, and walked toward Boss Ma's prefab office.

No one was there. The gatekeeper said Boss Ma had gone back to his home village the week before, said he'd return after the New Year. Laoshun went to the sales office of Jinxiu Garden. Inside the glass doors it was warm; a girl in a red dress smiled up at him and asked if sir was looking at flats. Laoshun said he wasn't looking, he'd come for the wages from their boss. The girl's smile withdrew. She said the boss wasn't in, try the property office. The property office said this was the general contractor's affair, you'll have to find Boss Ma. Laoshun said Boss Ma had gone home. The man spread his hands: then you can only wait.

Laoshun walked the county town for a day, his legs sore, not a cent in hand.

The next day he went to the labor inspection office. The young man at the desk asked for a contract. Laoshun said there wasn't one, it had all been spoken. The young man asked for pay slips. Laoshun said Boss Ma used to transfer by phone, then stopped, and there wasn't even a record left. The young man noted it down and said, There are quite a few like you; we'll need evidence first, go back and gather whatever proves you worked there, then we'll mediate. Laoshun asked, Mediate and we get paid? The young man said, Mediate and we see if the other side admits it.

Laoshun went to the petition office. The man behind the window took his papers, gave him a receipt, and said, Don't worry, we'll look into it, we'll notify you if there's news. Laoshun asked how long. The man said, Before the New Year if we're quick; if slow — you'd best go back and wait.

Laoshun slept three nights under the town bridge. The bridge was not cold, but the wind came off the river with a hum, like someone weeping far off. A few others bedding down there were also after wages — from other sites, from factories. They compared notes and found it much the same: the bosses found new ways to delay, the offices found new ways to pass it on, and in the end no one got his money.

On the eighteenth of the twelfth month, twenty or thirty workers gathered at the gate of Jinxiu Garden, all from Laoshun's crew. Someone shouted, Let's block the gate, see if they pay then. Laoshun went too. They blocked the sales office door for half an hour; buyers couldn't get in; the red-dress girl called the police. The police came, didn't lay hands, only urged: this won't solve it, take the proper channels. The crowd scattered. Laoshun walked at the back and heard an officer mutter to his partner, Same lot, asking for money again, nothing but this before the New Year.

On the twentieth, Boss Ma sent word through a man: Yuancheng Properties had agreed to put up a sum, settled at seventy percent, but they must sign an agreement and press a red thumbprint, and the remaining thirty percent would be waived, no further claims after. The messenger said, Seventy's not bad; if you keep holding out, you won't even get that.

The crew gathered outside the prefab to talk it over. Laohei reckoned he was owed twenty-four thousand, seventy percent sixteen thousand eight hundred, short by over seven thousand. Sanwa was owed eighteen thousand, seventy percent twelve thousand six. Chunhai was owed a bit over thirty thousand. By the count, each would lose thirty percent.

But some had worked only a short spell and were owed little; pressed hard at home, they'd take the seventy and be done. Laohei pressed his print first. The red paste on white paper, like a drop of blood. Then Sanwa, then Chunhai, one after another.

It came to Laoshun. He pushed the paper back.

He said, I borrowed thirty thousand, I built this place near two years; lose thirty percent and that's over eight thousand, half a year of my life. I won't press.

Laohei urged him, Brother Shun, what are you stubborn about, seventy's still money, you hold out and Boss Ma may not even come next year, what'll you pay the credit union with?

Laoshun said nothing. He thought of Guifang's words on the phone, Come home soon; of the bespectacled loan officer; of the bride's family who would come to see the new house in the first month.

But he thought, press the print and the thirty percent is gone, and who afterward will admit he worked those two years. The buildings his two hands raised could not have been raised for nothing.

He pushed the paper a little farther away.

Those who signed took their money and, around the twenty-third, shouldered their rolled bedding and left, one by one. As they went, some turned to urge Laoshun: Brother Shun, when you see sense, press one; money doesn't wait. Laoshun sat on the prefab step and watched them board the long-distance buses, each red print tucked in a pocket worn next to the skin.

When all had gone, only Laoshun and the old gatekeeper remained on the site.

On the twenty-fifth, Laoshun called Guifang and said the money was nearly there, he'd be home in a couple of days. Guifang asked, Really nearly? Laoshun said really nearly. He hung up and sat the night through on the sales office step. A little snow fell; in the snowlight the pale-yellow buildings were a ghastly white, like coffins no one had moved into.

After the New Year, Laoshun still had no money. He would not press; Boss Ma's phone went unanswered; Yuancheng said take it up with Boss Ma. Labor inspection wrote back: no contract, hard to gather evidence, we suggest arbitration. Arbitration cost money and time, and Laoshun reckoned he could not afford either.

When spring came, Laoshun returned from the county town to his village. The credit union man had already come twice. Xiaojun's match, the bride's family having caught wind, was called off in the twelfth month. The new brick room stood empty; no red couplet was pasted on its door.

Laoshun took off his hard hat and hung it behind the front-room door. Inside the brim still clung the dust of Jinxiu Garden, pale yellow. He wiped at it with his hand; it would not come off.

The villagers, seeing him, dared not ask about the wages, only said, Brother Shun's back. Laoshun gave a murmur and squatted by the wall to catch the sun.

Later, around the Grain Rain, Laoshun shouldered his bedding and left again. This time not to collect, but because he'd heard a new site in the next county was hiring, two hundred twenty a day, two meals provided. He figured: work to autumn, pay the credit union's thirty thousand first.

The morning he left, Guifang walked him to the village edge. Laoshun looked back once at his new brick room; still nothing on its door. He remembered the first spring at Jinxiu Garden, also shouldering bedding, also such a sky.

He had raised any number of buildings in his life. The people who moved into them, he knew not one. He only knew the buildings stood bright, and that he went out every year, was owed every year, came back every year, and there was never anything on his door.

The wind rose. He gathered his bedding and walked toward the road. At the road's end lay another stretch of yellow mud, waiting to be raised.