Chapter Fifteen: The Editorial Office of Anhui Literature

In the bicycle shed of the Workers, Peasants, and Soldiers Guesthouse, Xu Chengjun was pumping air into a "Forever" brand bicycle. Blue ink from the Education Department's typing room still stained the frame, and the bell rang with a crisp "ding-ling" when pressed.

The bicycle belonged to Lin Xiaomei.

Who was Lin Xiaomei?

Last month, on the long-distance bus, it was her brother, Lin Jianguo, whose money got stolen, and Xu had stepped in to help. Yesterday, while handling matters at the Education Department, Lin Xiaomei happened to deliver documents to Deputy Director Wang, recognized Xu, and with flushed cheeks said, "My brother always talks about you. Please feel free to use the bicycle."

Well, that's it!

Good deeds are rewarded, 1979 edition!

---

Xu Chengjun pedaled the bicycle down Yangtze Road, his canvas bag swaying gently in the basket with every bump. Inside was his revised manuscript, "The Granary."

Tall and upright, steady-eyed, and sporting the era's signature side-parted hair.

Indeed, a fine young man of the new era!

In a word: handsome!

In two words: damn handsome!

---

Passing a newsstand, he saw a poster for the Hefei Evening News: "Supplement Calls for Submissions: New Era, New Outlook."

He supposed his little poem would be published there.

The editorial office of "Anhui Literature" was tucked away in a lane, housed in an old Western-style building with peeling walls, but the locust tree at the entrance was lush with green branches.

Just as Xu locked his bicycle, he heard coughing from the second floor, mixed with grumbling about this month's manuscript fees not being cleared.

"Who are you looking for?" The receptionist aunt poked her head out.

"I'm Xu Chengjun, a youth sent down from Fengyang. I have an appointment with Editor-in-Chief Zhou."

Xu smiled sweetly.

"Oh! I know you. The editorial office has been in an uproar because of you lately." Her voice suddenly rose as she called upstairs, "Old Zhou! The youth from Fengyang is here!"

Then she muttered quietly, "This young man from a small town is really quite good-looking!"

Ah, this damn charm!

---

At the stairwell, a figure shoved open a wooden door, the hem of a gray jacket brushing away cobwebs from the railing.

Zhou Ming, a cigarette dangling from his lips and tortoiseshell glasses slipping down his nose, pulled the cigarette out when he saw Xu.

"Well, Old Liu wasn’t lying. You’re a sturdy young fellow."

He patted Xu on the shoulder, the smell of tobacco and ink mingling in his palm. "Come, let them see what Comrade Chengjun, the author of 'The Granary,' really looks like!"

The editorial office was a large, open room. Four desks were pushed together in the shape of the Chinese character "field," with a metal ashtray in the center piled high with cigarette butts.

The calendar on the wall had August 5th circled in red, and next to it was a printed notice: "'Anhui Literature' Monthly, published on the 5th of each month. Submissions close two months in advance. No changes after final approval."

Three editors looked up, their pen tips pausing on their papers.

Zhang Qiming, wearing silver-rimmed glasses, his hair flecked with gray, was drawing wavy lines in red pen on a manuscript. He was the most senior editor in the office, known for his insistence that "an article must stand up to scrutiny," with a well-thumbed copy of "Literature and Art News" always on his desk.

Lin Xiuya, in a floral shirt with a red ribbon tied at the end of her braid, was the youngest editor, responsible for poetry and essays. Her husband was a playwright in the provincial theater, and she was famous for being pickier with manuscripts than with fabric.

Li Jianguo, clicking his abacus rhythmically, was just over thirty. He had a shirt draped over his elbow and handled finances and copyright.

Of course, these were just the people working directly with Editor-in-Chief Zhou; the editorial department was much larger.

...

"So this is little Xu?"

Zhang Qiming adjusted his glasses, his gaze traveling from the worn cuffs of Xu's trousers up to his straight back.

"He doesn’t look like a writer—more like a strong farmhand. But those eyes are bright and full of spirit."

Zhou Ming slapped Xu’s manuscript for "The Granary" on the desk, scattering sparks from the ashtray. "Never mind his looks—read the manuscript! Old Zhang, whatever issues you raised last time, Chengjun’s fixed them. Take another look."

---

"I..."

"Wait, Editor-in-Chief, Old Zhang, please hold on a moment," Lin Xiuya suddenly interjected, glancing at Xu and pulling out another manuscript. "This piece called 'Time' is also by Xu Chengjun. Is that you as well?"

Xu was surprised but answered, "Yes."

How strange! Did the poem grow legs and walk here by itself?

Before he could say more, Lin Xiuya waved the manuscript excitedly. "Editor-in-Chief Zhou, listen to this! It's just a short poem, but it's extraordinary!"

She cleared her throat and began to read a line from "Time":

"‘Time is a tree, taking root in waiting / The rings are secret letters left unsent’"

...

"This metaphor! It’s so much more substantial than last issue’s 'Ode to Reform.'"

The room fell silent for a moment, the editors still immersed in the poem's resonance.

She looked at Xu again, her eyes alight.

"Comrade Xu, I read your 'Time' three times. Each time, it felt like stumbling upon new shoots in the morning mist."

"Fresh! Yet carrying the honest weight of earth, with a comfort that’s hard to describe."

"It's indescribably good! I like it very much!"

...

Zhou Ming laughed along. "I didn't expect Comrade Chengjun to be such a poet—the poem really has flavor."

"If we publish it, I bet we'll get a sackful of reader letters."

"It’s not that it’s written in a flashy way, but that our Comrade Chengjun has made time a living, breathing thing—something in the patch on every sleeve and the frost at every temple. It's right there, quietly turning its pages, waiting for someone to speak to it."

Rough as Old Zhou might look, he still had a literary soul!

Well said!

Bravo!

Old Zhang nodded in agreement. "The line 'broken porcelain pieced into a window' is especially rare. Who doesn’t carry a few shards of porcelain in their heart these days? Yet Comrade Chengjun says they can be pieced into a brighter window, guiding the light to find its way back. That kind of spirit is invigorating!"

Li Jianguo stopped his abacus, looking up at Xu.

"You really wrote this poem? I was just calculating—if it's published, at three cents a line for thirty-two lines, that's ninety-six cents."

The editorial room was lively.

Literary folks certainly know how to talk; though, of course, when it came time to reply, the words became, "Sirs, you flatter me too much—I really don't deserve such high praise!"

Ah, this man~

"But, how did my manuscript end up with you?"

Lin Xiuya, lively as ever, quickly explained the whole story.

As it turned out—

She had intercepted it half an hour earlier from Xiao Ma’s cousin. The cousin had intended to keep the poem for himself, but when Lin Xiuya stopped by the Evening News to exchange periodicals, she caught sight of the line, "mud on the tip of a shoe."

Right there, she insisted, "This poem belongs in the monthly review. The newspaper's too short to support such lines."

Xiao Ma's cousin: wtf?

After explaining, Editor Lin grinned, "Editor Chen is a good comrade!"

Hearing the backstory, Xu Chengjun was filled with emotion.

The Anhui literary circle of 1979 was big, but also small—just a little circle.

Connections, all connections—

All human affairs~

...

The editorial office fell silent for a moment.

Zhang Qiming took off his glasses to wipe them, and when he put them back on, his gaze had softened. "The poem is good—earthy, not pretentious. But the novel..."

He pointed to the section where "Old Xu smashed open the brass lock and melted the key into a plowshare."

"You're using the cracks in the granary as a metaphor for how institutional gaps are ultimately forced open by individual needs, aren't you? It's too direct. At last month's Party Committee meeting, they warned us to 'beware of allusions to reality through historical subjects.' Publishing this could draw criticism."

---

"What do those nitpickers know about 'concealed edges'?" Zhou Ming crushed his cigarette in the ashtray with a decisive thud.

"Comrade Chengjun wrote about reform without shouting a single slogan, letting the weight of the wheat and the gleam of the plowshare speak for themselves. This technique of 'hearing thunder in silence' truly captures the essence of the Chinese literary tradition of subtlety."

"The value of 'The Granary' lies in its depiction of how 'practical reason' breaks through the inertia of 'institutional routine.'"

"Stuff woven between the lines like this is more powerful than a hundred cries for reform!"

Lin Xiuya nodded in agreement.

"I think this manuscript is much stronger than last issue’s 'Communal Chronicle.' That one read like a report; this one has backbone. Every groove carved into the key is a letter written to the land."

Li Jianguo flicked the beads on his abacus and looked up.

"Old Zhang, I checked last year’s publication records. 'Shanghai Literature' published something similar, and nothing happened."

"Besides, we're a monthly. The manuscript gets finalized a month early. By the time the September issue comes out, the policy might be even more relaxed."

Zhou Ming suddenly grinned. "Old Zhang, since we agreed to use the piece, there’s no need to put more pressure on Comrade Xu."

"He’ll get enough of that tomorrow!"

Then he pulled out a green sheet of standard manuscript compensation rates, tapping a line with his cigarette butt.

"Comrade Chengjun, we’re accepting your manuscript for 'Anhui Literature.' It should appear in the September issue."

"But rules are rules: new contributors get four yuan per thousand words. However, the editorial board agrees your work is headline quality, so you’ll get six yuan per thousand."

He paused, drumming his fingers on the table.

"Forty thousand words, that’s two hundred and forty yuan in total. It’ll be sent to your commune’s post office before the tenth of next month—just bring an introduction letter to pick it up. You won’t miss out."

Manuscript fees weren’t taxed yet in those days; income tax would only begin the next year, with a threshold of eight hundred yuan.

Most people wouldn’t reach it anyway~

"And this," Lin Xiuya folded the poem 'Time' into a neat square.

"I’ve already applied to Editor-in-Chief Zhou for its publication in the September poetry section, right next to your novel. Ninety-six cents for the poem, sent together with the novel’s payment, so you won’t have to make two trips."

Xu Chengjun was just about to thank them when Zhang Qiming pulled out a bound 1965 volume from the metal cabinet, pointing to a particular piece.

"This is 'Field Ridge,' written by a youth sent down to the countryside back then. It's similar in style to yours, but was later pulled for being 'too gloomy.'"

He paused: "I’m not trying to stop you—just want you to know that to write well, you must be deeply rooted, but also know when to bend."

"Old Zhang is right," Xu replied, accepting the volume, his fingertips touching the yellowed pages.

"I kept that in mind when revising—everything must be thorough, but not stick out."

Zhou Ming suddenly grabbed the brass bell on the desk and gave it a shake, startling the sparrows off the windowsill.

"Come to the manuscript revision meeting at nine the morning after tomorrow. A few veteran writers will be there. They know how to make a manuscript 'stand firm and go far.'"

"But these writers may not be as open-minded towards new voices as I am. Study your work well, present it clearly and convincingly."

He slid over an invitation card stamped "September Issue Revision Meeting."

"Remember to bring your revised manuscript. Once it’s finalized, it’ll go to the printing house."

Alright! This manuscript—

It’s finally settled!

---

The setting sun streamed through the old building’s windowpanes, casting long strips of light across the floor.

As Xu Chengjun walked back, pushing his bicycle, he heard the sound of Li Jianguo’s abacus and Lin Xiuya’s poetic recitation drifting out from the editorial office.

Passing the wonton stall on Yangtze Road, he stopped to buy two bowls.

He had to save one for Xiao Ma—his cousin hadn’t managed to keep the poem, but had still been a great help.

As the fragrant steam rose to his face, Xu Chengjun suddenly felt that the summer of 1979 was filled with the scent of ink and hope, even in the wind.

He patted the cigarette pack in his pocket, the "Crossing the River" brand that Zhou Ming had slipped him—so much smoother than Fengyang’s "Great Production."

The bicycle tires whispered over the asphalt.

Accompanying him back to the guesthouse.