Chapter Nineteen: Miscellaneous Affairs

In 1978, Anhui took the lead in restoring the work of the provincial Writers’ Association, and the “Workers, Peasants, and Soldiers Creative Study Class,” which had been suspended in 1966, was also restarted in a new form, aiming to discover fresh talents who could write in tune with the pulse of the times.

This is what is now known as the Anhui Youth Writers’ Conference.

That year’s conference brought together a group of young writers who would later become the elite of Anhui’s literary scene; many of them would become founding members of the Anhui Writers’ Association when it was established in 1980.

It could be said that the opportunity Su Zhong gave to Xu Chengjun to speak was extremely precious.

With such high expectations from his seniors, Xu Chengjun had no reason to refuse. He smiled and thanked his mentor, exchanged addresses with Su Zhong, and then lingered for a long while at the entrance to the editorial office.

Then, rather theatrically, he declared, “1979, here I come!”

Zhou Ming poked his head out: “Keep it down, be steady! Don’t embarrass yourself!”

Embarrassed, indeed.

——

Xu Chengjun’s footsteps had just faded at the end of the alley when laughter burst from the editorial office, making the windowpanes hum.

In this era, even a provincial literary magazine like “Anhui Literature” wasn’t large in scale. A single Xu Chengjun was enough to give everyone something to talk about all summer.

Zhou Ming stubbed out his cigarette in an enamel mug and rapped his knuckles on the table. “Tell me, do you think what that kid said this afternoon about ‘literature coming home’ sounded like the words of some young intellectual squatting on a field embankment?”

He had been editor-in-chief for many years. He’d worked with hundreds, if not thousands, of young intellectual writers. Most of them wrote about wanting to return to the city or about the hardships of farming. Xu Chengjun was the only one who kept surprising him from start to finish.

Lin Xiuying was tying a red ribbon around a stack of poems and shook her head at the comment. “Editor Zhou, Leader Liu, you see my eye for talent? I spotted ‘Time’ right away. Tomorrow at the canteen you owe me an extra chicken leg!”

Liu Zuci was just finishing stacking the solicitation letters for “Thirty Newcomers” when he heard Lin Xiuying and laughed along. “Chicken leg? Take it up with the chief editor, why mention me?”

“But what he said, ‘In ten years, someone will write stories in reverse,’ that’s interesting! While we’re still tangled up with ‘how to write about reform,’ he’s already thinking about ‘how to write in new ways.’ Han Han just called, and when I mentioned this, he shouted, ‘That kid is a rough gem!’”

Old Zhang took off his reading glasses and polished them with his sleeve, smiling. “What’s most impressive is how steady he was when debating with Su Zhong. Old Su said, ‘Individual narratives will breach the dam,’ but Xu calmly replied, ‘A wide river needs streams to feed it,’ and even gave the example of a factory’s hiring notice. Even Gong Liu was nodding in approval. That kind of vision is rare not just among young intellectuals, but even among the critics at the provincial Writers’ Association.”

“Tomorrow, everyone gets a chicken leg to celebrate receiving ‘The Granary’!”

Zhou Ming echoed with a laugh, following up on Old Zhang’s words.

He pulled out Xu Chengjun’s speech from the drawer. “Look at the strength in this writing. He doesn’t say, ‘We must break through,’ but, ‘There must be both thunder and raindrops’; he doesn’t say, ‘We must innovate,’ but, ‘A rooster’s crow signaling the end of work can be written in reverse.’”

“I really like it!”

——

Lin Xiuying suddenly remembered something and picked up the manuscript for “Time.” “His poetry carries the same clarity! ‘Broken porcelain pieced into a window’—isn’t that just what he said this afternoon about ‘the individual and the collective complementing each other’? No wonder Gong Liu said ‘there’s philosophy in this poem.’ I think he really carries the spirit of the whole era inside him.”

Old Zhang sipped his tea, his Adam’s apple moving. “I’ve spent thirty years at the grassroots, met enough young intellectual writers to line the road from Hefei to Fengyang, but none like him. Letting him headline the Youth Conference—absolutely right!”

Zhou Ming stood up, swung his canvas bag over his shoulder. “Let’s go buy two pounds of sunflower seeds! Tonight, I’ll write a letter to old friends in Beijing. Let them see—here in Anhui, a young man has emerged who can see ten years into the future of literature!”

——

By the time Xu Chengjun returned to the guesthouse, the sun had set.

It was time to write a letter home.

He had inherited not only this young body, but also its memories and sense of belonging.

Under the warm yellow glow of the kerosene lamp, Xu Chengjun smoothed the “Fengyang People’s Commune” stationery on the chipped wooden table.

He hesitated for a moment before setting the pen to the upper right corner: “July 6, 1979, Hefei.”

“Dear Father and Mother,

I hope this letter finds you well.

All is going smoothly here in Hefei. The seniors at the ‘Anhui Literature’ editorial office have been very kind to me. My novella ‘The Granary’ is set to be published in September, and the revision meeting was productive. During today’s discussion, Mr. Su Zhong from the Provincial Writers’ Association praised my ‘clear insight,’ and Teacher Liu Zuci said she would include my poem in the new collection. There’s much more to tell, which I’ll share in detail when I return home.

Mother, your cough should be better with autumn coming, right? The loquat leaves Aunt Xinghua gave us are drying on the windowsill at Xujia Village; once they’re crisp, I’ll bring them back for you to brew tea. In your last letter, you mentioned Xiaomei’s apprenticeship was ending. Did the factory get any college entrance quotas? The bookstore here just got new high school textbooks. I picked up a math book for her. Since she graduated from technical school, she should try for college while she’s young.

Has it been decided when Eldest Brother can return home on leave from the army? Maybe I’ll catch him when I go back.

The revision meeting is over, and early next month I’ll be attending the provincial Youth Writers’ Conference—probably staying in Hefei for another ten days or so. Once things wrap up here, I’ll head home. Uncle Xu said the new wheat has been stored, and the thatch on the granary roof needs replacing. I’ll help out when I return. Teacher Qian’s son, Qian Ming, should be taking his exams at Bengbu No. 2 High now; he’s hoping to get into Beijing Foreign Studies University.

By the way, Hefei’s sugar cakes are delicious. I’ll bring two pounds back for little sister to enjoy, and a bottle of the latest local liquor for you, Dad—it’s said not to cause a hangover.

It’s late, so I won’t write more. Wishing everyone at home good health.

With respect,
Chengjun”

He hesitated as he wrote, ultimately deciding not to mention the recommendation to Fudan University.

His father’s favorite saying was, “Don’t speak of things before they’re certain.”

He’d wait until it was settled. They would surely be surprised—especially his elder brother.

He folded the letter into a neat square and slipped it into an envelope stamped “Serve the People.”

Outside, the cicadas were growing quiet, and in the distance came the whistle of a train arriving at the station.

Xu Chengjun breathed on the envelope, as if that would help the ink dry faster.

In these days, travel was slow and the mail was even slower.

He’d send the letter first thing in the morning.

By regular post, it should take about ten days to arrive.

He imagined his father reading the letter with reading glasses perched on his nose, and his mother surely saving two of the three dates for Xiaomei...

——

In the exam room at Bengbu No. 2 High, Qian Ming stared blankly at the word “production” on the English test paper.

The invigilator’s footsteps echoed in the corridor as he suddenly remembered Xu Chengjun’s trick for memorizing words: “pro—like ‘prowl’; duc—like ‘duck’; tion—like ‘station’—prowl, duck, station—well, that’s ‘production’!”

His lips curled into a smile, which he quickly hid by rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

The English essay topic was “My Production Team,” fifty words required.

He picked up his pen and wrote: “We grow wheat and corn. Every one works hard. The new way makes more food. We are happy.”

He felt a quiet satisfaction.

Whatever the result, at least he’d managed to convey “the new method yields more grain.”

As he handed in his paper, he glimpsed a girl in the front row with a sparse English essay, muttering how difficult it was.

He felt reassured; the test had its twists and turns, but overall went smoothly.

During the math exam, he paused at a multiple-choice question.

The problem, written in dense lines, read: “The production team needs to spray pesticide on the wheat field. There are 30 jin of 20% concentration pesticide solution, which needs to be diluted to 5%. If each acre requires 8 jin of diluted pesticide, how many acres can be sprayed?”

In the lower left corner of his scrap paper, he sketched a crooked sprayer and wrote out the calculation: “Let the water added be x jin. 20% × 30 = 5% × (30 + x), so x = 90. Total solution is 120 jin, 120 ÷ 8 = 15 acres.”

After writing “15 acres,” he added a small question mark: “Our sprayer always leaks—if we manage 12 acres, that would already be good.”

Of course, don’t think it’s too easy—this was only the third year since the college entrance exam was reinstated.

That was what the math test was like.

It was enough to make any 21st-century student struggling with math envious.

But don’t envy them; if you’d been born then, you might not have needed to study!

But don’t start laughing!

You’d have had to farm the fields~

...

Stepping out of the exam hall, the sunlight was so bright he had to squint.

He wondered how Chengjun’s manuscript was faring.

In the distance, a vendor was hawking popsicles. He dug out five cents and bought a mung bean ice pop.

He thought: If I really do make it to Beijing, the first thing I’ll do is go to Tiananmen Square and see those flagstones that “shine like a mirror.”

The popsicle wrapper fluttered up in the wind, flying toward the train station.

In the autumn of 1979, it seemed that everything was taking flight.

Paper butterflies, the words on exam papers, and the hopes carried in the hearts of young people.