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romanticism,” which scintillated like his new silver tooth. Soon there were several other poems in the newspapers. In one poem, he said that “we proletariat cannot be tofu-hearted toward the class enemy,” which became an instant catchphrase. Another poem written in angry denouncement of the bourgeois intellectuals made its way into textbooks.
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    They’re no stinking tofu—
Stinking not only in smell,
Rotten in taste too.
Oh, nothing but poop.
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    At a subsequent lecture given at a college, Bao met a young student fan of his poems, who then married him. All this happened so fast, so magically, as if with a drop of the chemical coagulant in the soybean liquid, tofu was made.
    The lane had hardly registered her first visit when she started cooking in the common kitchen as Mrs. Bao. But such speed was not too surprising that year, when Mao said that one day is equivalent to twenty years in China’s socialist revolution and construction. When in Bao’s company, she made a point of having a black notebook and a red pen with her. The moment he said something unusual, she would write it down. On several occasions, it was said, she succeeded in turning his random remarks into poems and having them published as the latest masterpieces.
    One summer evening, the newlyweds were sitting out in the lane, sharing a large piece of watermelon. Like other wives there, Mrs. Bao was trying to collect the watermelon seeds, which could later be fried as a tasty snack, but Bao stopped her.
    â€œLook at the watermelon,” he said, spitting the rind into his palm. “Not sweet at all, so dead pale in color, and look at the watermelon seeds too, so small, so deformed. Such a seed can only grow into such a tiny, pathetic watermelon.”
    â€œLook at your face,” she said sweetly, by way of a joke. “All your pimples stand out like the watermelon seeds.”
    It did not take long, however, for her to produce under his name a new poem, which was apparently modeled after the first poem he had composed while still working in the steel plant.
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    What kind of seeds grow what kind of melons.
What kind of vines produce what kind of flowers.
What kind of people do what kind of things.
What kind of classes speak what kind of languages.
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    The poem brought even larger credit to Bao. More significantly, in the poem he moved beyond the central image of tofu—an important shift, since his neighbors had doubted Bao’s ability to make poetry like tofu. The wife basked in the glory of the husband.
    People now supposed that Bao was going to move to a better area as a result of his elevated status. But he didn’t,and his wife joked about his fondness for the feng shui of their
tingzijian
room. After all, it was here that Bao had enjoyed his turn of luck. So Bao, as a nationally known worker poet, was assigned an additional room on the second floor in the same
shikumen
house, through a special arrangement, which his wife declared he deserved.
    The neighbors started to call him Worker Poet Bao. He answered to it with a prompt smile and with a new song that the radio played during our evening talk. It was entitled “The Working Class Are Strong-Backboned”:
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    We the working class are strong-backboned.
Following Chairman Mao, we march forward,
With the country and the world in our heart,
We do not stop on the road of the revolution.
Self-reliant and working hard,
We do not stop along the road of the construction.
Holding the red flags high, we move on courageously.
We’re the locomotive of the new era.
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    â€œAs in an old Chinese saying, when fortune comes your way, there’s no stopping it,” Old Root commented.
    â€œRoom, wife, and fame—what a metamorphosis through a stroke of fortune!” Four-Eyed Liu joined in. “All because of tofu.”
    â€œTofu or no tofu, there’s no pushing away your fortune,” Old Root followed with a more profound