Chapter Twenty-Two: He’s Also Called Xu Chengjun?
Around four or five in the afternoon.
The wooden door of the Workers, Peasants, and Soldiers Guesthouse was knocked loudly, just as Xu Chengjun stood in front of the mirror, plucking his beard.
“Chengjun! Chengjun!” Qian Ming’s voice crashed in with the wind, rough and raspy like a cracked gong.
He must have been calling for someone the whole way.
Xu Chengjun opened the door to find Qian Ming standing outside, a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, mist still clinging to his glasses.
He looked more spirited now than he had in the examination hall, as though a burden had been lifted.
“Finally found you! Hefei really is huge!”
Qian Ming tossed his bag to the ground and pulled a crumpled paper ball from his pocket, speaking boisterously, “You said on the phone last night there was good news. Don’t keep me guessing!”
Xu Chengjun smiled, pulling him inside. The threshold was so high Qian Ming nearly stumbled, his glasses sliding down his nose. “What’s the rush? Have some hot tea first.”
He turned and poured water from the thermos.
Qian Ming gulped down half a bowl, wiped his mouth, and began to grumble, “The English listening test was like reading a secret code! The woman on the radio rattled off words like a machine gun—I only caught ‘agriculture.’ The last math problem, I just couldn’t solve it. That issue with the leaking sprayer, I drew three nozzles on my scratch paper and still couldn’t figure it out…”
“Was there nothing that went your way?” Xu Chengjun handed him a piece of dry bread.
“There was!” Qian Ming chewed, crumbs spilling from his mouth. “The essay topic was ‘My Ideal!’ I wrote about wanting to be a translator, to work with foreigners at the Shanghai Foreign Trade Bureau, and sell Fengyang’s vermicelli all over the world! The proctor stared at me for ages—probably thought this country youth had big ambitions.”
He suddenly lowered his voice, “Oh, and the girl at the next desk—her pen leaked ink all over her paper, she cried her eyes out, so I secretly gave her an eraser.”
“Does that count as rescuing a damsel in distress?”
Her pen leaked ink all over her paper, and you gave her an eraser—what use is that?
Xu Chengjun laughed, “Hero, take a look at this first.”
He dragged out an army-green backpack from under the bed and produced the payment slip Zhou Ming had given him. It read:
“Paying Unit: Editorial Department of ‘Anhui Literature’
Recipient: Xu Chengjun
Manuscript Payment Details:
Novella ‘The Granary’: 40,000 words, 6 yuan per thousand, total 240.00 yuan;
Poem ‘Time’: 32 lines, 0.03 yuan per line, total 0.96 yuan;
Total Amount: 240.96 yuan
Note: Payment will be sent to Xujiatun Commune Post Office, Fengyang County, before September 10, 1979.”
Qian Ming nearly dropped his glasses, poking at the slip repeatedly, “They used your manuscript? Really used it! That Clerk Liu didn’t lie to us!”
...
After a while.
“Damn, 240 yuan—you’ve made it, Chengjun!”
“That’ll buy over two thousand pounds of rice!”
Relying on Qian Ming to satisfy Xu Chengjun’s vanity was a tall order.
“Can’t your brain think of anything besides rice?”
Suddenly, Qian Ming remembered something and dug out a tin box from his canvas bag. “Here, bought in Bengbu—orange-flavored candy balls. Consider it a congratulatory gift.”
The candy balls, wrapped in clear sugar paper, gleamed like glass beads in the morning light.
Xu Chengjun rummaged through his own bag and brought out a new shirt, purchased in Hefei, light blue Dacron, still creased. “Bought this for you. Wear it to school, look respectable.”
Qian Ming’s face flushed bright red, his hands nervously rubbing the shirt’s hem. “This…this is too valuable. My mother says fabric coupons are precious—you should keep it for yourself.”
“Take it.” Xu Chengjun stuffed the shirt into his arms. “When you get into Beijing Foreign Studies University, you might meet foreign guests. You can’t wear patched jackets.”
“After all, you said I’ve made it!”
He suddenly remembered, “Oh, Li Erwa asked me to pass on a message—he’s started learning to read, taught by Zhao Gang, and now he can write his own name.”
“That kid?” Qian Ming’s eyes went wide. “Didn’t he always say studying was useless?”
“People change.”
Qian Ming suddenly stood, slinging his canvas bag over his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll treat you to dinner! The spicy soup at the Bengbu exam hall was fantastic—Hefei must have it too! I’ve got half a pound of grain coupons, enough for us to have two bowls.”
He dragged Xu Chengjun out, not even bothering to fix his glasses as they slid down his nose.
Xu Chengjun suddenly recalled the phone call last night—Qian Ming shouting, tongue thick, “I’ll definitely pass!” The background was the Bengbu station’s broadcast, mixed with vendors hawking tea eggs.
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Hefei in the evening seemed gilded with gold paint; every plane tree leaf along Changjiang Road was rimmed in gold.
Old Wang, the newspaper vendor, turned the corner on his “Forever” bicycle, the wire basket on the rear seat filled with freshly printed “Hefei Evening News,” still scented with ink, rustling against the metal board.
“Evening news here! ‘The Scale Star Shines on the Spring Breeze!’”
He hollered, his bicycle bell more cheerful than usual.
The “Hefei Evening News” of 1979 was a microcosm of China’s city newspapers in the early days of reform and opening. As the Party committee’s organ newspaper, it still ran six issues a week, with a 4 p.m. deadline and release by 6 p.m., covering Hefei’s scholars, farmers, workers, and merchants. Its influence in the city was considerable.
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No sooner had he set up his stall at the Mingjiao Temple entrance than three men in work uniforms gathered round, enamel mugs steaming in their hands.
“Give me a copy!”
Master Li from the steel mill was first, rubbing his fingers on his waistband and slapping a five-cent coin onto the wooden board.
“I heard today’s supplement has an article about Nian Guangjiu?”
Old Wang deftly pulled out a newspaper and handed it over, wrinkles creasing at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. “That’s right! Written by a youth from Fengyang, titled ‘The Scale Star Shines on the Spring Breeze.’ Fresh from the printing house this morning—the editorial staff says this piece will catch fire!”
Before he finished speaking, the line had already stretched to the alley entrance.
A girl in a Dacron blouse stood on tiptoe, clutching her grain coupons, craning to see. The aunt with a vegetable basket hugged her eggs closer, and even the old lady selling popsicles joined the crowd.
“Save me a copy—my grandson studies at Anhui University, loves these new articles.”
Master Li unfolded the newspaper, the scent of ink mixing with the machine oil on his clothes.
Apprentice Wang craned his neck and read aloud, “‘That scale beam is made of jujube wood, used for twenty years, red as if soaked in blood…’ Hey, isn’t this about Old Zhou at the shoe repair stall by our factory gate?”
“What do you know!” Master Li tapped his head with a cigarette. “This is about the conscience of doing business!”
“That Old Zhou’s real surname is Nian!”
Meanwhile, at the Huaihe Road Cinema entrance, Ticket Inspector Old Zhang spread the newspaper across the ticket desk. As the audience poured out, someone pointed at the supplement page and exclaimed, “Look! This article mentions Nian Guangjiu’s melon seed stall!”
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The soft drink stall was even livelier.
Sister Zhao, the vendor, pinned the newspaper to a wooden board, circling the part about “Pumpkin Pulp for Labels” in red paint, reading it aloud to every customer, “Just look how honest this writing is! Now that policies have eased up, us small traders can stand tall and earn a living!”
“Bah, what do these wordsmiths know?”
“They know more than you!”
A bespectacled middle-aged man listened intently, took out his pen, and scribbled notes on a cigarette box. “The author’s name is Xu Chengjun? A youth from Fengyang? This…”
The news spread like wings, and within half an hour it had reached the Anhui University campus.
Evening classes in the Chinese department hadn’t begun, yet the back door was crowded with students peering at the “Hefei Evening News” pasted on the wall.
“‘The scale star is worn smooth and then engraved, engraved and then worn smooth’—what a description!”
A ponytailed girl drew wavy lines in her notebook with a red pen.
“It’s more down-to-earth than that ‘Class Teacher’ we analyzed in class!”
The class monitor climbed onto the podium, waving the newspaper. “Quiet! Just got word—the author, Xu Chengjun, is at the Workers, Peasants, and Soldiers Guesthouse. Tomorrow we’ll organize a group to visit him!”
The classroom erupted instantly, pen tips tapping out a lively rhythm on the desks.
Someone pulled out a map to find the guesthouse location.
Someone poured hot water into an enamel mug to prepare a “gift for meeting.”
Even the usually shy smallest fellow blushed and shouted, “I want to ask him if the ‘jujube wood scale’ is based on a real model!”
Meanwhile, lanterns had just been lit at the small goods market by the City God Temple.
Aunt Zhang, the button vendor, spread the newspaper across her crate, reading aloud to neighboring stall owners with vivid expression, “‘The Bureau of Industry and Commerce tore up the signs three times, and each time Old Zhou pasted new ones overnight, mixing pumpkin pulp with the glue…’ Tsk tsk, isn’t this exactly me? Last week the bureau came to inspect, and I stayed up late to redo my price list!”
The girl selling hair clips next door leaned over, “Auntie, the author is really at the guesthouse? My cousin works there as a server—maybe I can ask her to pass a note, see if he could write us a piece called ‘Springtime in Buttons’?”
Aunt Zhang chuckled, handing her a fruit candy. “You little rascal, you sure know how to climb up the pole!”
...
A story about “Foolish Melon Seeds” was sweeping the city.
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In front of the Changjiang Road Post Office.
Qian Ming, who was about to drag Xu Chengjun to eat spicy soup, suddenly noticed the bustling crowd around the newspaper vendor.
He insisted on squeezing into the crowd and buying a copy.
He followed the crowd’s gaze to the supplement, exclaiming excitedly, “They say this ‘Scale Star’ short story is really hot—take a look!”
When he saw the article’s title,
He was intrigued.
When he saw the author’s name,
“He’s also called Xu…Xu Chengjun?”