Chapter Thirteen: The Provincial Department of Education and Deputy Director Wang

The red brick walls of the Education Bureau were scorching under the sun.

“What’s your business?” The doorman spun the iron ball on his key ring, not even bothering to look up. “Sign in.”

Heh, every generation seems to have doormen with this exact air!

Suddenly, a joke from his previous life flashed through his mind, and he couldn’t help but chuckle.

“I’m a neighborhood security guard—my favorite snack is bear-shaped biscuits~”

Xu Chengjun’s pen paused on the register, his face twisting like a caricature. “Sir, I’m from Fengyang, here to see Chief Wang. Clerk Liu Qingwen has already informed you.”

He made a point of writing “Liu Qingwen” with a heavier hand.

No matter the time, dropping an intermediary’s name always worked better than vague claims of “official business.”

The iron ball in the old man’s hand slowed. He squinted up at Xu Chengjun. “Third floor, turn left, third door. Chief Wang just got back.”

As Xu Chengjun walked away, the old man rubbed his teeth. What was that kid smiling about?

Did the chives from breakfast get stuck in his teeth?

Tsk.

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The hallway carried a mélange of scents.

The fragrance of ink, the dampness of old wood, and the aroma of cabbage and tofu wafting from the canteen.

The terrazzo floors on the third level of the Education Bureau gleamed from countless footsteps. Xu Chengjun stopped under the sign for the Office of Higher Education.

He knocked gently.

“Come in.”

Deputy Chief Wang’s voice came through the door, a little curt.

Xu Chengjun recognized that tone—he’d been the same in another life.

As he entered, Wang looked up, the reading glasses perched on his nose. His gaze swept from Xu Chengjun’s worn cloth shoes to his sweat-dampened shirt collar.

“Sit,” Wang said, pointing to a wooden chair opposite his desk. He didn’t stand, just rapped his fingers on the rim of his enamel mug.

The letters on the mug were almost gone, the strong tea inside a deep brown.

Xu Chengjun had barely sat when he felt the weight in that gaze.

He straightened his back.

Modest, but dignified.

Ah, bureaucrats…

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“From Fengyang?”

Wang sipped his tea, brow furrowing. “I got Liu Qingwen’s telegram. Said your manuscript was ‘rather interesting.’”

He spoke with deliberate ambiguity, as if putting quotation marks around “interesting.”

“That’s very kind of Clerk Liu.”

Xu Chengjun smiled, pulling out a stack of manuscript paper from his canvas bag. “Editor-in-chief Zhou Ming just sent a telegram a few days ago. After some revisions, it’ll be published in September.”

He emphasized “Zhou Ming,” drawing strength from the name.

Wang took the pages and began flipping through, the only sound the crisp rustle of paper.

His gaze lingered on the passage, “Old Xuan blushing as he explained how the wind blew away half a sack of grain.” Suddenly, he looked up. “Your shirt… Short on ration tickets?”

Xu Chengjun’s heart skipped a beat, but he realized this was a test.

He touched his collar, a wry smile. “At the youth post, fabric tickets are issued per head—three feet a year, barely enough for a shirt. This one—my younger sister Xiaomei, she’s apprenticing at the textile mill—she saved half a year’s tickets for me.”

He tossed out “younger sister” and “textile mill” like a net, catching a hint of humble reality.

Wang’s brows seemed to ease. He circled his finger on the page. “Is Old Xuan based on a real person?”

“Old Xuan is the embodiment of a generation—a ‘collective character.’”

Xu Chengjun paused. “If you want an original, you’ll find him in Xujiatun, or in any number of production teams across the country.”

Now wasn’t the time to mention Xu Honest; the situation was still uncertain.

No need to get the old man in trouble.

Wang grunted, but didn’t refute him. Instead, he pushed the manuscript aside. “So, what brings you here?”

The time was right.

Xu Chengjun opened his canvas bag and set a wax-paper bundle on the edge of the desk, its corner still dusted with yellow earth.

“Before I came, Old Xu Honest from the team asked me to bring you something. These are mung bean vermicelli from Fengyang—pure, no sweet potato flour mixed in.”

He spoke naturally, his movements practiced.

Wang raised an eyebrow—so deft?

“Last year’s rains were good, the mung beans came in thick. The team ground some fine noodles, wanted city officials to have a taste.”

When delivering gifts, it was best to attribute them to the “collective”—it didn’t seem like personal currying of favor.

Xu Chengjun made sure not to say “from my own family,” but rather “from the team.”

Some people liked that—or more precisely, expected it.

Wang’s gaze lingered on the package for two seconds. He neither touched it nor pushed it away, just asked, “Is Xu Zhiguo your father?”

“Yes,” Xu Chengjun replied readily. “In ’65, he led literacy classes at the commune, taught farmers to calculate harvests using wheat stalks—you might remember.”

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Wang’s fingers paused. When he looked up, there was a touch more warmth in his eyes. “I was promoting literacy in the same county back then, never met him, but I’ve heard of him.”

Suddenly, he smiled. “You’re a lot more wily than your father ever was.”

Xu Chengjun seized the moment, his tone earnest with filial respect. “My father always says, there are rules to doing things. I’m here to trouble you today, but I promise to follow the rules—never act rashly.”

He stressed the word “rules.”

A declaration, and a message for the official.

Success or failure—both must follow the rules, right?

At last, Wang picked up the bundle, weighing it in his hand. Even through the paper, he could feel its heft.

He didn’t open it, just slipped it into the drawer beneath his desk—as naturally as could be. “I’ll take the vermicelli as a token of your regard.”

“As for Fudan’s special admission quota—there are only two for the whole province this year.”

Wang drew a form from a file, his pen hovering over the “Reason for Recommendation” column. “But your manuscript… Zhou Ming called—it could serve as a ‘living case study’ for grassroots reform.”

His pen landed, the scratch of ink loud in the quiet. “This afternoon, go to Personnel and find Section Chief Li. Tell him I approved it.”

As Xu Chengjun stood, the strap of his canvas bag left a red mark across his palm.

At the door, Wang spoke again. “Tell your father to stop by if he’s ever in Hefei. Your old man… he’s got backbone!”

“Of course!” Xu Chengjun replied, the weight in his chest finally dropping away.

“Thank you, Chief Wang!”

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As he went downstairs, sunlight slanted through the corridor windows, scattering bright patches on the floor.

Xu Chengjun felt the recommendation form in his pocket, its paper warmed by his own body heat.

He recalled Old Xu Honest’s words as he handed over the bundle—“the gift is small, but the sentiment is deep.”

Human kindness was just like that pack of vermicelli—plain on the outside, but only thoughtful consideration made it feel just right.

From the street corner, the sweet scent of popsicles drifted by. Xu Chengjun fished out two cents and bought a mung bean ice.

The icy crystals numbed his gums with the first bite.

He gazed at the red brick walls of the Education Bureau.

No matter how thick those walls looked, as long as you found the right crack, the light would always get in.

He licked the syrup from the corner of his mouth, his steps turning brisk.

Tomorrow, it would be time to meet Editor-in-chief Zhou.