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As soon as Zhang Sushang and Alexei sent the manuscript off, they went home to eat, drink, and sleep. Zhang Sushang, still unused to the low temperatures here, seriously considered improving his living conditions now that he had a little money on hand.
So he wanted to buy a thicker quilt on the way home, only to be stopped by Alexei.
“Buying a quilt isn’t cost-effective, just get fabric and some cotton, and I’ll make you one. Don’t worry, I can do it very quickly.”
As soon as Zhang Sushang heard about the price difference between buying and making a quilt, he accepted Alexei’s kindness, thinking that it didn’t matter if Alexei was slow to make it, at worst he would just endure it for a few more days. Young people had good enough thermoregulation to survive it.
With this in mind, Zhang Sushang added a few more pieces of wood to the fire. When the melted snow-water bubbled, he poured half into a basin and mixed it with cold water, then stuck his feet inside.
“Whew…” he hummed happily as he narrowed his eyes in enjoyment.
He had been used to showering daily while in the 21st century. Especially in his third year of high school, when he was studying hard at his desk every day which put a lot of pressure on his neck and shoulders, he would rub the area with hot water before bed. Once his muscles relaxed, he would lie on the bed and apply soothing balm to his temples, allowing him to sleep soundly.
It was no longer possible to enjoy such a thing, so Zhang Sushang’s greatest pleasure now was to soak his feet. Fortunately, his flatmate was a good person who didn’t mind him wasting firewood.
Of course Alexei didn’t mind — the happiness of seeing a basin of warm water waiting for him every morning already made him very satisfied. He no longer needed to worry about his teeth going sore from the cold when he was washing up, and he had hot meals to eat both morning and night; his heart was full of gratitude towards his flatmate, so what if they used a little more firewood or charcoal?
When Zhang Sushang was halfway through his soak, he saw Alexei approaching with his only coat in hand.
“Chyushka, nights are cold, you can cover yourself with this until the quilt is ready.” Seeing Zhang Sushang turn to him in surprise, Alexei tilted his head in confusion. “What’s wrong?”
Zhang Sushang stammered out, “N-No, it’s nothing, I’m just grateful. Do you want to, uh, soak your feet with me? The water’s still hot.”
“Okay.”
Alexei, following his example, placed his coat on the table, moved a stool next to Zhang Sushang, then placed his much larger feet next to Zhang Sushang’s, immediately taking up two-thirds of the basin.
Zhang Sushang sniffed and sighed internally.
Asians, especially East Asians, had the least body odour. This was caused not only by differences in diet, but also because when their ancestors migrated from the tropics to more temperate regions, their genes mutated to cope with the colder temperatures. Ever since then, their bodies evolved to be better at preserving heat and their sweat glands diminished, thus reducing body odour.
For Caucasians, even if they washed every day they would still have smells wafting off them — this was probably the reason for the popularity of perfumes in the West. Alexei was relatively more hygienic. Although his frequency of showering and washing clothes wasn’t any higher than average, he would towel himself off with cold water every morning, and he was the least smelly person Zhang Sushang had ever met in Russia.
Otherwise he wouldn’t be willing to soak their feet together.
Anyone who did it knew that soaking feet was a pleasure, else foot massage parlours wouldn’t be able to open everywhere in later generations. And although the main focus of these businesses was foot massage, some also did shoulder massage, back massage, head massage, ear picking, and more. When Zhang Sushang added more hot water to the basin, a happy flush appeared on Alexei’s cheeks.
Looking down, he pointed at Zhang Sushang’s feet in surprise. “Chyushka, look, your second and third toes are longer than your big toe.”
“Yeah,” Zhang Sushang said as he glanced down as well.
He had Roman feet both before and after his time travel. According to his dad, this meant that he was naturally suited for ballet.
He looked at Alexei’s feet. “Yours has only the second toes longer than your big toe.” Typical Greek feet.
“Yes, my parents’ feet don’t look like this,” he said, nodding seriously. As he spoke, he smiled again. “You’re the first person I’ve met who’s willing to talk about this with me. My parents can’t be bothered, they find it boring.”
“What’s so boring about this? It’s normal to think about your own body,” Zhang Sushang said as he poured a cup of warm water and handed it over. The two simultaneously raised their steaming cups and took a sip, warming themselves in the midst of winter.
No, it was currently March. Even if the trees lining the streets were still bare and without a sliver of green, it could be said to be spring already.
Zhang Sushang, once he wiped his feet dry, put on the cotton socks and shoes that had been warmed by the stove, moved to a taller stool, and lifted his heels, beginning to do seated calf raises. The main reason was that he felt that this body wasn’t only fat, it had strong gastrocnemius muscles yet weak soleus muscles, which made his calves look particularly thick.
It was unacceptable.
While he exercised his legs, he flipped open his textbook and silently memorised it. As a medical student, memorisation and examinations were something that would accompany him for the rest of his life.
Alexei, upon coming back from pouring out the foot-washing water, blinked at Zhang Sushang’s behaviour. “You’re trying to lose weight again?”
“Yeah, for my calves,” Zhang Sushang replied.
After seeing Zhang Sushang do a scorpion walk in his room, that is, being on the ground on all fours and lifting his right leg upwards like a scorpion’s tail before moving forward using his two arms and left leg, Alexei had become very calm.
My flatmate always has countless weird weight loss tricks, he thought.
In the end he still got used to the life of having strange things happen in his home.
Near Nevsky Prospect,1The main street of St. Petersburg, named for the monastery which stands at its eastern end the editorial office of the St. Petersburg Morning Post was about to close for the day when Igor brought in a bag from the mailroom. It contained many envelopes, all of which were manuscripts received by the Morning Post.
As everyone knew, editors read manuscripts like prospectors searching for gold in the mountains — sometimes they may not be able to find even a piece of coal after digging for months on end, and other times they were only in the mountains for a few days before waking up to a gold vein next to them. It all depended on luck.
Igor was one of the ones who hadn’t found even a bit of coal since the beginning of the year, which made him very envious as he watched the other editors bring back manuscripts from their authors. The busiest person there was the chief editor, who had three authors, each responsible for a Weekly Story on Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Just chasing them for updates every week made him lose a bunch of hair.
Weekly Story was the flagship column of St Petersburg Morning Post; from Monday to Sunday, one interesting story from different authors would be published each day, usually in the form of long serials.
O Lord, your humble disciple Igor begs you, please shine Your light upon me, let me encounter a good story as well.
Just then, Chief Editor Iosif entered the room with a dark face. He took off his hat and tossed it on the table, making everyone in the office jump.
“What happened?” Deputy Chief Editor Grigory asked.
Iosif thumped the table. “That damn Pyotr, he promised to give me the first instalment of a new series today, but yesterday he got into a drunken brawl and he got both his hands broken, with not a word written! We’ve got nothing for Thursday!”
Silence fell in the office as several editors had the sudden urge to go beat up Pyotr.
After a while, a young junior editor asked, “What should we do now?”
Although they ran a daily newspaper, the content had to be prepared several days in advance. Anything to be published in the following Thursday’s newspaper, for example, had to be ready and submitted to the print office by Monday.
“We can only use a short story to temporarily fill in the gap,” Grigory answered seriously.
However, the manuscripts from their existing authors already had set destinations, with every page’s layout already decided. If they selected one of those, wouldn’t it be just tearing down the east wall to prop up the west wall, and make another hole to fix?
Igor abruptly knocked on the table, and amid everyone’s astonishment, he shot to his feet and waved the white paper in his hand.
“Chief Editor, I have a good one here! Please come take a look at this A Donkey on the Railway, I’m sure that it’s better than anything we’ve received since January!”
Igor was usually one of the quieter ones in the office who buried himself in work. This was the first time he spoke so loudly, which attracted everyone’s attention and they all crowded around him to see what this strangely-named story was about.
The manuscript wasn’t very thick, only a few pages. If when people were reading the first page they jostled and bickered for space, then by the time they reached the second page, the third page, the office was completely silent except for protests when someone flipped a page too early.
As soon as they finished reading, everyone burst into discussions.
“I didn’t expect the murderer to be the victim’s father, their emotional entanglement is so complicated.”
“Although it wasn’t a long novel, I feel like I just watched a drama spanning three generations.”
The process of solving the crime in this detective novel wasn’t overly complicated, yet it was filled with dog blood and gave the audience a feeling of satisfaction and catharsis. The protagonists also had appealing personalities, causing everyone to laugh, and after they laughed enough they could scold the victim together with the two protagonists.
But after the scolding, they had a thought-provoking exchange.
“By now, we know that the victim wasn’t a good man and the perpetrator also had his difficulties; when the law has no way to adequately punish criminals and seek justice for the innocent, such that the innocent must take up arms, I feel extremely sad because they will pay for it for the rest of their lives.”
Yet his partner Vasily replied, “But a crime is a crime, it will always be wrong.”
Chief Editor Iosif picked up these few sheets of paper and was quiet for a while. Deputy Chief Editor Grigory looked at him hopefully. “The quality of this detective novel is very high. If we use this as Thursday’s Weekly Story, I think it won’t do any worse than our usual.”
“You’re right,” Iosif nodded slowly.
Igor’s eyes lit up. “Then I’ll go mail the author his royalties now?” he asked cheerfully. “He lives on Vasilyevsky Island, maybe he’s a professor or student at Leningrad University. If we send it now he’ll receive it very soon.”
Iosif pondered for a moment then shook his head. “No, since he’s also in the city, we may as well meet him directly.” This chief editor was very decisive. “The ending of A Donkey on the Railway clearly indicates a continuation — I think this is only the introduction to a longer series. If possible, I’d like to read any subsequent manuscripts as well.”
If this author ‘Chyushka’ had stable writing skills and his future stories were of the same quality as A Donkey on the Railway, they could definitely arrange a long-term partnership!
Iosif was fed up with Pyotr’s alcoholism. He was eager to find someone who was at the same level as that guy yet wouldn’t delay or procrastinate work to take over Pyotr’s column, and Chyushka gave him hope.
He reached out and Igor obligingly handed over the envelope, which had the author’s address on it: Apartment 4, Floor 1, 338 Universitetskaya Embankment, St. Petersburg.
At this time, the Universitetskaya Embankment did not have the prosperity and beauty of later generations but was only a place where many students rented residences, and many small shops were also located there due to its close proximity to Leningrad State University.
Leningrad State University was one of the top education institutes in the Soviet Union, anyone who could study or teach there were all learned people. “I remember that Leningrad University’s term starts tomorrow?” Chief Editor Iosif frowned.
That’s right, the next day was the first day of study for Leningrad State University. In order to get Zhang Sushang there on time, Alexei did not attack the front door after waking up for once, and instead ran to knock on Zhang Sushang’s door.
“Chyushka, Chyushka! Get up!”
The window opened with a creak and Zhang Sushang climbed in, wearing a coat. “Stop shouting, I’m up!”
With a coat borrowed from Alexei, Zhang Sushang, feeling like he had a warmth buff, went outside to do his exercises today.
It was just that the door was stuck tight and he couldn’t open it by himself, so he could only leave by the window.
Translator:
What do you think of our MC’s first novel? Ilya is more inclined to a nuanced view, I feel, while Vasily is more of a ‘cool motive, still murder’ kind of person.
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- 1The main street of St. Petersburg, named for the monastery which stands at its eastern end