Chapter Sixteen: Street Voices and "Fool's Sunflower Seeds"

The morning light at the Workers, Peasants, and Soldiers Guesthouse had just crept onto the corner of the table when Xu Chengjun finished revising the last page of his manuscript.

He pulled his canvas bag onto his lap.

He counted the money in his pocket: three yuan, fifty-six cents, two feet of cloth coupons, and three jin of national grain coupons.

He needed to calculate carefully—what should he bring back for the folks in his hometown?

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"All done?"

The uncle from the supply and marketing cooperative, crosswise on the bed, was packing pickles into his aluminum lunchbox.

"There’s a new 'Workers, Peasants, and Soldiers Department Store' on Yangtze Road, with terylene from Shanghai. The girls all love to wear it."

Xu Chengjun folded his manuscript paper into a square and tucked it into his breast pocket, smiling, "I’ll go take a look. Can't let this trip to Hefei be for nothing."

The sun on Yangtze Road was just heating up, and the bicycle traffic flowed like a river.

A woman in a blue cotton jacket hurried toward the vegetable market, carrying a bamboo basket with a tin can swaying inside—it held warm corn porridge for her husband, who ran a stall.

The old man at the shoe repair stand squatted on a small stool, the "thump" of his awl piercing shoe soles mingling with his bargaining: "Two mao for a patch, can't go any lower."

Behind the glass windows of the supply and marketing cooperative, terylene fabrics hung in a rainbow, and a sign with red characters on a black background read, "One foot for one yuan eighty, supplied by coupon."

On the windowsill, a Butterfly-brand sewing machine gleamed, the price tag stating "50 industrial coupons," unusually conspicuous.

Prime currency for weddings!

...

Xu Chengjun followed the crowd.

He paused in front of the watch repair stand, where the master was holding a hairspring with tweezers.

Inside the glass cabinet, a Shanghai-brand watch was priced at one hundred twenty yuan, and beside it, written in chalk, "Requires Overseas Remittance Coupons."

He clicked his tongue.

Damn, that's expensive!

When he reached Mingjiao Temple's farmers' market, the hawkers' cries nearly lifted the sun off his head.

An old man in a straw hat squatted beside a sack, a mountain of red sweet potatoes piled before him, a slip of paper pressed to the basket’s edge: "Negotiable, three cents per jin."

A woman in a floral blouse clutched two mao, arguing with the egg seller until her face flushed: "One mao two for ten eggs, one less and I’ll take you to the commune for arbitration!"

The busiest stall belonged to a roasted seeds vendor. Sunflower seeds leaped in a black iron pan, the owner fanning the smoke with a big palm-leaf fan, his voice louder than a loudspeaker: "Wuhu sunflower seeds, two and a half cents per liang, no coupons needed!"

As Xu Chengjun drew near, he overheard two aunties talking:

"Did you hear? That Nian Guangjiu from Wuhu roasts seeds sweeter than sugar, sells hundreds of jin a day!"

"Of course! My nephew works at the Wuhu Steel Factory. That fool hired more than ten temps, roasting all night. The brigade says he's 'chasing capitalism,' but he dares to do it!"

The word "fool" made Xu Chengjun pause.

A passage from "Thirty Years of Turbulence" flashed through his mind: Nian Guangjiu and his Fool’s Sunflower Seeds, later a living specimen of self-employed business.

He hadn’t expected to hear that name on the streets of Hefei in 1979.

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He stroked his chin, watching the vendor weigh seeds, the scale beam rising high.

"Two liang, please." Xu Chengjun took out five cents and handed it over.

The vendor, a wiry man, wiped his hands on his apron. "Your accent sounds like you’re from Fengyang?"

"You’re spot on!" Xu Chengjun gave a thumbs-up and took the paper packet, the caramel scent of the seeds mingling with the smoke.

He joked, "How do your seeds compare to Wuhu’s?"

The man grinned, unbothered.

"The difference is in guts! Nian Guangjiu dares to split his seeds into 'cream' and 'five-spice.' We only roast the original. But to be fair, his scale is honest—a liang is a liang, unlike some who keep the beam low."

Xu Chengjun popped a seed in his mouth, the crunch echoing.

When he left the market, his canvas bag was noticeably heavier.

He bought a foot of pale blue terylene for Xinghua, costing one yuan eighty and two feet of cloth coupons. The shopkeeper marked a butterfly in chalk on the cloth’s corner, saying, "This is the latest Shanghai style."

For Zhao Gang, he bought two liang of baked sweet potatoes, one mao five per liang, no coupons needed. The wine jug was rough pottery, heavy in the hand.

The candy for Li Erwa took the most effort. The fruit candies at the supply cooperative required grain coupons, so he circled to the corner tobacconist and bought a pack of "White Rabbit," two mao two.

The owner slipped it to him quietly: "Brought by overseas Chinese, keep it hush."

With his last mao, he bought a bag of dried hawthorn.

Biting into it made his eyes squint from the sourness, drawing a nearby child’s gaze.

Xu Chengjun laughed and handed the last two pieces to the child, watching him clutch the fruit and run off.

Suddenly, he felt the trip was worthwhile—he’d touched the pulse of the era.

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When he returned to the guesthouse, the sunset splashed gold across the window paper.

Xu Chengjun had just put away his things when a knock sounded, "thunk-thunk," impatient and rough.

Opening the door, he found a young man from the provincial newspaper, arms full of newspapers, sweat shining on his forehead.

"Comrade Xu, finally found you!"

He set the newspapers on the table, revealing a stack of manuscript paper inside. "My name’s Ma Shengli, provincial newspaper reporting team. My cousin asked me to bring this to you."

Xu Chengjun remembered then—the young man he’d met in the bathhouse, known only as Little Ma, hadn’t even asked his name.

The wontons he’d brought last time ended up in his own stomach, since he hadn’t met the recipient.

He handed over an enamel mug. "Drink some water, you look like you’ve been running."

Ma Shengli gulped down most of the mug, wiped his mouth.

"My cousin is Chen Jianguo, from the Hefei Evening Post supplement, mentioned you before. Last time, your poem 'Time,' he wanted to publish it, but Editor Lin Xiuyai snatched it first."

"Editor Lin is my cousin’s old classmate, works at Anhui Literature. Said the poem deserved to be in the monthly for weight."

Xu Chengjun understood.

"My cousin sent a message."

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Ma Shengli pulled out a note from his pocket.

"He really likes your poetry. If you write essays or short stories, submit them to the Evening Post—the fee is four yuan per thousand characters, two mao higher than the newcomer standard. Earliest, it could appear in the August issue."

"Oh, and poems too!"

Xu Chengjun glanced at the handwriting, bold and firm.

It listed the Hefei Evening Post’s address and a courteous invitation.

He scratched his head, smiling, "Thank your cousin for me, but I’ll be busy with the editing conference lately, probably won’t have time."

"Editing conference? The Anhui Literature one tomorrow?"

Ma Shengli’s eyes lit up, "Xu-ge, you have a piece in there!"

"You’re a sharp reporter."

"Hey! Reporters, same circle! From your poetry, it’s obvious you’re a famous writer!"

Xu Chengjun waved his hands, flustered. "My debut hasn’t even been published. ‘Newcomer’ is more like ‘family member.’"

Ma Shengli grinned, rubbing his hands, and as he was about to leave, remembered something.

"By the way, my cousin wrote an editor’s note for 'Time'—said it’s 'philosophy sprouted from the soil.'"

Xu Chengjun mentally gave his cousin a thumbs-up—insightful!

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He closed the door, noticing the sugar-coated hawthorn skewer still on the windowsill, its shadow stretching long in the sunset.

As night deepened, Xu Chengjun sat at his desk, spreading out his manuscript paper.

The daytime talk of "Fool’s Sunflower Seeds" and the "honest scale" circled in his mind.

He wanted to write a story about reform, to capture it in the taste of those seeds!

Let it begin with Nian Guangjiu.

He paused, then wrote the title: "The Scale Star Shines on the Spring Breeze."

"The spring breeze is the wind of 1979. It sweeps across the flagstones of Huaihe Road, lifts the faded curtains of state-run shops, and softens the folds of Old Zhou’s blue apron. In this wind, there is something unfamiliar: the bits and pieces on the scale pan, the red seal on self-employed business licenses, and the light slowly brightening in people’s eyes as they clutch their loose change.

"When Old Zhou unfolded his newly replaced blue cloth, the words 'Serve the People' stretched in the sunlight, and the scale star met the spring breeze head-on. It wasn't an earth-shattering collision, but the soft crackle of sunflower seed shells rolling on flagstones, the faint shimmer flickering on the scale pan, and the small people standing at the turning point of the times, weighing out a spring’s worth of hope with their ordinary days."

Xu Chengjun did not use Nian Guangjiu’s real name or story, instead veiling it.

"His sunflower seed stall had three secrets. First, he used rock sugar for roasting, while others used soft white sugar—he claimed rock sugar gave a 'clear sweetness.' Second, his scale star was three times denser than others, always sliding the weight half a notch outward when weighing. Most conspicuous was a hard cardboard sign, shakily inscribed: 'Buy two liang, get half a liang free.' The administration tore it down three times, but each time Old Zhou would paste a new one overnight, mixing pumpkin pulp into the glue so it stuck extra firm to the bamboo basket."

Perhaps the spring breeze stirred his thoughts—two or three thousand words, a short story finished and revised in two hours.

Xu Chengjun folded the manuscript paper.

"The night breeze swept over the scale pan, the scale star glittered in the moonlight, like a handful of newly sprouted seeds scattered."

This story belonged in the Hefei Evening Post.

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