During the six months of art exam training at Chongqing Shuangbei Iron and Art School, taking a shower became quite a troublesome task.
That school was essentially a counterfeit. There wasn't a single real professional teacher; they cobbled together a makeshift team and dared to recruit students. We, the repeat examinees from various places in Sichuan (most of us), felt like we were on a pirate ship, caught in a dilemma, only able to muddle through each day.
The environment for professional study was extremely poor, and the living conditions were terrible. Six or seven people squeezed into a small, shabby dormitory, and sanitation became a major issue. In fact, the school didn't care about any of this; once they recruited students and collected the fees, they completely disregarded the well-being of the art exam students. Even if they did care, it was just a cursory glance.
I don't even remember where we washed up back then; all I know is that the toilet was in a far corner. Since the art exam preparation period was in winter, the weather in Chongqing was extremely cold, and that was the only year I got frostbite. This shows how harsh the conditions were. Moreover, I was someone with an exceptionally high body temperature. I vaguely remember carrying water buckets, shivering in the washroom. As for whether we smelled terrible, that remains unknown. There was also the possibility that my roommates and I were gritting our teeth and grimacing in the biting cold. However, we still trembled while humming "Beautiful Grassland, My Home" or "White Roses by the Heilongjiang River."
The makeshift washroom could hardly be called a bathhouse, but it preserved our bittersweet memories of finding joy in hardship during those six months.
But there was hope during that time, which was looking forward to the monthly remittance of living expenses. That was our important expectation once a month.
With money, we could buy goose wings, go to the video hall by the Jialing Factory to watch Hong Kong movies, or spend money at a small hotel a few kilometers away to take a real hot shower.
After taking a shower, we could wander around Shapingba. Even if we didn't spend the money in our pockets, we felt secure inside. When flipping through those expensive piano scores at Xinhua Bookstore, we naturally exuded a sense of confidence. In the clothing store, we tried on clothes and shoes repeatedly, but we never really bought anything.
Taking a shower felt like shedding skin; every pore in my body seemed to open up. Each day of joy was better than always wearing a long face. In life, the present is the most important; during such difficult days, we had to learn to see the glimmers of starlight.
During the days of the art exam, we could stay at Southwest University, where there were better hot water baths. Although it was a bit expensive, experiencing a moment of happiness was a warmth in the chilly spring.
When I entered Sichuan Conservatory of Music in '93, I realized that the Russian-style architecture I dreamed of could only exist in dreams. The most Soviet-style things were just a few creaky wooden buildings.
The dormitory conditions were considered quite good among all universities in Chengdu, with a front and back room design that allowed for good ventilation, making the environment particularly dry. However, Sichuan Conservatory also didn't have hot water baths.
In name, there was a bathhouse, but the seniors said that the seniors' seniors mentioned that the bathhouse hadn't been used for a long time. It was practically abandoned. The bathhouse was behind the cafeteria, connected to the hot water room. The cafeteria was very simple, so simple that it had no semblance of a university's style.
The most critical issue was that the cafeteria staff were ruthless.
Every time they served food, their hands shook like they had late-stage Parkinson's, trembling more than a shaking table. When they scooped, it seemed like they were getting a few lumps of meat, but in the end, there was hardly anything left. We spent money only to be cheated every time. The college's logistics benefited, allowing them to exploit students year after year, day after day. Of course, these guys, especially the one with the crooked neck leading the pack, rarely had a day without a black eye or bruises.
So, right next to this shabby cafeteria and hot water room, there naturally was the shabby bathhouse.
During my years at Sichuan Conservatory, I was quite lucky. I finally got a chance to go into the bathhouse. I even entered the women's bathhouse. Originally, it was also a waste, so it was hard to distinguish between male and female.
We still participated in the college's basketball competition that year and won first place. The student council made an exception and allowed us to take a hot shower, so they applied to open the college bathhouse. Due to the large number of athletes, the bathhouse was too small, so we were split into two groups, and by coincidence, I and a group of people were assigned to the women's bathhouse. In fact, there was no difference; it was even less distinct than male and female toilets, which could at least be separated by urinals.
What I want to say is that we, a bunch of big guys, had barely washed a third of our bodies, covered in soap, with shampoo all over our heads, when the hot water suddenly stopped. In the dead of winter, it almost made us freeze to death on the spot. Throughout my entire university life, at the highest-level art institution in Southwest China, the only time I enjoyed a hot shower was a severely cut-down version. For the rest of the time, we boys, and I don't know about the girls, almost grew up strong in cold showers. Even in the harsh winter, we never missed a day.
The best part was going to the nearby bus factory bathhouse. There, for two yuan, you could scrub yourself clean like a ginseng doll. The girls carried porcelain basins filled with bathing supplies and clean clothes, fragrant as they returned in a line from Zhimin East Road, their smiles like flowers, as if a gentle breeze was blowing.