Chapter Eleven: To Be Published in September!
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At half past one in the afternoon, the long-distance bus began boarding.
It was an old Liberation-brand bus, much of its green paint chipped away.
Xu Chengjun found his seat. Beside him sat a middle-aged man in glasses, flipping through an issue of “Agricultural Science and Technology.”
“Comrade, are you also heading to Hefei?” The man adjusted his glasses, the lenses thick.
“Yes, I’m transferring to Hefei,” Xu replied, stowing his bag under the seat. His fingers brushed against a cold enamel mug—the morning’s leftover corn porridge inside. “And you are?”
In these days, there were no mobile phones when traveling, journeys were long, and people weren’t so distant from one another. Folks nearby always liked to chat!
“I’m with the Provincial Academy of Agricultural Sciences, going to the improved seeds promotion meeting.”
The man closed his book. The title “Hybrid Rice Cultivation” was nearly worn off the cover.
“You’ve been there before?”
“I spent three months stationed there in ’75.” The man smiled, digging a brown paper packet from his canvas bag, stamped with “Shanghai Food Factory.”
“Want a taste? My child gave it to me—no ration tickets needed.”
“No need, I brought my own food.”
“Take it,” the man insisted, passing him the bread. “It’s not easy traveling these days. This bread doesn’t require ration tickets—just a bit pricey, fifty cents each.”
Xu Chengjun squeezed the bread.
It was a rare treat for these times.
The bread was soft, with a milky aroma.
He thought of the food at the educated youth station—every meal was sweet potato porridge, occasionally improved with corn mush, and white steamed buns only appeared during festivals.
Bread was just so much tastier!
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The bus started moving, scenery outside slowly receding.
By the field ridges, some were plowing with oxen, others using new-style walking plows. Their shouts drifted into the bus with the wind.
The middle-aged man pointed to a patch of rice far off. “That’s the test field for hybrid rice. It yields two hundred catties more per mu than regular rice, but the seeds are expensive—one yuan twenty per catty.”
Chengjun nodded, thinking of the corn cakes he’d brought.
Corn was thirteen cents a catty, and you still needed ration tickets.
In this world, everything had its price.
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At dusk, the bus reached Bengbu.
The bus station was far grander than Fengyang County’s: blue bricks, red tiles, two pillars at the entrance, and a banner reading, “Warmly Welcome Travelers From All Regions.”
Passengers disembarked to fetch water at the platform tap, Xu Chengjun among them. As he turned the faucet, he saw a notice posted nearby:
“Save Water—Each Person Limited to One Mug.”
“Bengbu is a major station—lots of people, water’s scarce,” the middle-aged man said, coming closer. “See over there? They’re selling mineral water—ten cents a bottle, no tickets needed.”
Xu looked in the direction indicated. Sure enough, a small stall displayed glass bottles of mineral water, “Laoshan” printed on the label.
He patted his pocket—couldn’t bear to spend it!
A ten-cent “Laoshan” carried more cachet than Evian in later years!
He drank a few gulps of cold water straight from the tap.
On the platform, a kiosk sold biscuits, fruit candies, and canned goods.
Xu glanced at the price list: fruit candies twelve cents for fifty grams, biscuits fifty cents a pack, luncheon meat two yuan fifty a can (with an industrial coupon).
Suddenly, the station loudspeaker crackled to life, the “News Simulcast” overture drowning out the noise.
The announcer’s voice was full of excitement: “…The Party Central Committee has decided to establish special economic zones in Shenzhen, Zhuhai, Shantou, and Xiamen, encouraging the introduction of foreign investment…”
Everyone paused, ears pricked.
The old lady selling popsicles forgot to hawk her wares, hand hovering midair with the stick; young men in work clothes exchanged glances, whispering, “Special economic zone…what’s that?”
But Xu Chengjun felt a surge in his heart.
He had witnessed a moment in history.
Someday, he could tell his grandson: Back in our day…
Ha! What an honor!
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Decades from now, these places would become lands paved with gold.
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“Comrade Xu Chengjun, urgent telegram for you!” the dispatch room loudspeaker suddenly blared.
Xu’s heart skipped a beat, and he hurried to the dispatch room.
The uniformed dispatcher rifled through a drawer and pulled out a wrinkled telegram: “From Comrade Liu Qingwen of Fengyang County (Clerk Liu), just arrived.”
The telegram read:
“‘Anhui Literature’ reviewed by Zhou Ming, scheduled for September issue. Two changes needed: 1. ‘Group test planting’ to ‘grain remnants test planting at warehouse bottom’; 2. Attribute yield difference to ‘warehouse leakage and dampness’. Send to Zhou Ming after revision. Deputy Director Wang is informed.”
Below the last line, a thick arrow was drawn.
Clerk Liu was truly something!
Xu Chengjun gripped the telegram and pumped his fist at the sky.
He’d acted relaxed, but inside he’d been anxious these past days.
What satisfaction!
A provincial journal—secured!
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“Comrade, may I borrow a light?”
Xu looked up—a young man in a military cap, trousers stained with machine oil.
He grinned at the telegram in Xu’s hand. “Got published? You look delighted.”
“Sort of.” Xu fished out his matchbox and handed it over.
“That’s impressive—‘Anhui Literature’ is a big deal!”
“How about an autograph?” the young man said with a grin.
“Me? An autograph?” Xu smiled.
“There aren’t many who make it into ‘Anhui Literature’—all are great writers! Why not?”
Xu gave in, and with his fountain pen signed his name on the notebook the young man handed over.
“Thank you! When that issue comes out, I’ll be sure to read it!”
Well!
His first autograph—given!
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The young man gestured toward the plaza.
Xu looked over; in a corner of the station square, a man in a blue jacket was slipping items into people’s hands.
A shiny metal watch case flashed in the setting sun as the man spoke in a low voice: “Shanghai brand! One hundred fifty yuan, no industrial coupon needed!”
A small crowd gathered. Someone tried on the watch, chain in hand: “Keeps good time?”
Someone else muttered, “So expensive!”
“Goods from the supply and marketing cooperative, opened for inspection!” The man thumped his chest. “Only these two pieces, brought in from Hefei yesterday. If I wasn’t in a hurry, I wouldn’t sell!”
“This isn’t expensive. Even if you have the money, you can’t buy one!”
In this era, daring to scalp goods right by the station wasn’t just about courage.
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Finding lodging took some effort.
All the inns near the station were full; finally, he found a “Worker-Peasant Hostel” deep in an alley—one yuan twenty a night, a bit steep.
The landlady was a plump auntie, scribbling in the register: “Educated youth from Fengyang? Going to Hefei on business?”
“Yes.” Xu took the key—brass, heavy in his hand.
...
The room held four iron cots, an old wooden cabinet in the corner, and a cracked mirror.
He tossed his canvas bag onto an empty bed, then took out Clerk Liu’s telegram to read again and again.
Two changes—not too many.
He pulled out a pencil and scrap paper and, relying on memory, began to revise.
Afterward, he felt hungry, so he took out a corn cake and gnawed it, then remembered the fried peanuts Li Erwa had stuffed into his bag.
Shelling them, the peanuts tasted slightly earthy but fragrant.
Maybe it wasn’t the peanuts that were fragrant.
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It was “Anhui Literature,” after all!
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Bengbu’s evening streets were livelier than during the day.
Streetlights cast long shadows of trees in their golden glow.
Stalls selling roasted snacks lit up kerosene lamps, and the scent of sunflower seeds and peanuts drifted far.
The man in a Dacron shirt was still hawking electronic watches, now joined by a youth in flared trousers, bargaining hard: “Fourteen yuan, not a cent less!”
Xu Chengjun strolled along the street, passing a department store. The window displayed Dacron shirts, priced at seven yuan eighty, with a sign: “Available with cloth coupons.”
A young woman peered in, tracing the outline of a shirt on the glass, eyes shining.
A crowd had gathered at the corner bulletin board, where chalk letters read: “Warm congratulations on the signing of our city’s first foreign-invested enterprise.”
Some read aloud; others discussed below: “What’s foreign investment? Foreigners’ money?”
“The radio said so—means foreigners come here to build factories and earn us money.”
Xu lingered at the back, suddenly sensing that this summer of 1979 was truly different.
Even the breeze felt fresh and lively, brimming with energy.
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When he returned to the hostel, the corridor was crammed with people.
Some were supply clerks, gesturing about “parts prices.”
Some were officials on business trips, clutching black briefcases, muttering about which department to visit.
Two young men much like himself, with canvas bags, said they were heading to Hefei to take university entrance exams.
“Did you hear? Changjiang Road in Hefei is so wide now, and there’s everything in the department store.”
Xu lay on his bed, listening as these words fanned the flames in his heart higher.
He touched the manuscript in his chest pocket.
The snores from the next bed rumbled like thunder.
But Xu Chengjun was sleepless, staring at the cobwebs on the ceiling.
Tomorrow morning he’d head to Hefei, meet Deputy Director Wang, and finalize the approval.
Train whistles echoed outside the window.
Xu gazed at the city lights—yellow and white—shining in the dark.
He suddenly thought, once he got paid for his manuscript, he ought to buy himself a watch.
He wanted to see just how fast time ran in 1979.
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The next morning, the hostel’s loudspeaker woke Xu Chengjun.
“All travelers, please note: the morning bus to Hefei departs at seven. Please take all your belongings—”
He rubbed his eyes and took out a corn cake for breakfast.
Just as he took a bite, he heard a shout from outside the window: “Electronic watches for sale—thirteen yuan each!”
He rushed to the window and saw the man in the Dacron shirt cramming people onto a bus, waving a gleaming watch in his hand.
Xu Chengjun couldn’t help but laugh—now, that’s what you call flexible pricing!
...
The morning bus was crowded; people lined up for tickets.
Xu waited in the middle of the queue, hearing the people ahead talk: “Heard the news? They’re building skyscrapers in Shenzhen now—all with foreign investment.”
“Really? Can foreigners be trusted?”
“If the radio says so, how could it be fake?”
Xu shuffled along with the line.
The bus pulled away, and Bengbu’s streets slowly retreated behind them.
Looking out the window, the city in the morning light resembled a child just waking, lively and clever.
The breeze came in through the bus window, tinged with the smell of coal stoves and distant factory smoke.
Xu Chengjun took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of 1979.
Solid—and a little sweet.