Chapter Twenty-Three: Fragrance All Along the Mountain Cliffs
Qian Ming jabbed his finger repeatedly at the newspaper supplement, his eyes wide behind his glasses.
“This… this author’s name is exactly the same as yours! Xu Chengjun, a sent-down youth from Fengyang—who else could it be?”
Xu Chengjun nearly choked on his own saliva at the words. He waved his hand and snatched the paper.
There, in the upper right corner of the front page’s supplement section, beneath the title “The Scales Under the Spring Breeze,” his own name was printed. Beside it, an editor’s note read: “This piece holds up the jujube-wood scales as a mirror, reflecting the hearts of common folk amid the reform’s spring wind—each word brimming with the scent of earth and new vitality.”
...
In the state-owned Liu Hongsheng Snack Shop on Huaihe Road, Qian Ming was sweating as he sipped spicy soup. The two had asked many locals before finally finding this old establishment.
Founded in 1928, Liu Hongsheng was among Hefei’s few state-run eateries in the 1970s, famed for its “peppery soup and pan-fried dumplings.” The soup was based on bone broth, seasoned with pepper, gluten, and black fungus—spicy, invigorating.
Qian Ming chattered non-stop. “Can you blame me for being excited? Our sent-down youth spot produced someone who made the paper—imagine how impressive that sounds!”
“A story like ‘The Granary’ wasn’t enough? And now you’re secretly up to great things in Hefei on your own!”
“If I get into Beijing Foreign Studies University, saying I’m close with the writer Xu Chengjun will earn me a lot of face!”
Xu Chengjun finished the last mouthful of spicy soup, smacking his lips at the heat. “I wouldn’t call myself a writer—just wrote a short piece, riding the wave of the times.”
“Listen to you!” Qian Ming stuffed his mouth with bread. “But seriously, Chengjun, your temperament really has steadied since you recovered from that fever.”
Xu Chengjun paused. “Well, everyone has to grow up.”
He was fortunate, after all, to have traveled to this era.
The times are changing,
and people must change with them.
No matter how quickly he adapted,
compared with the era, compared with the countless others, he hardly stood out.
Yet for people of this era,
the taste of transformation was far more tangible than the steady progress of the twenty-first century.
Sweat was salty, sometimes mingled with tears.
Before Qian Ming could respond, Xu Chengjun pulled two pink-and-white ticket stubs from his pocket.
“Tickets for ‘Little Flower’—a friend from the newspaper gave them to me. They say it’s the hottest film this year.”
“Want to go?”
Qian Ming’s eyes instantly lit up. “The one starring Liu Xiaoqing? I heard she plays a Red Army soldier, even climbs the stone steps on her knees—makes people cry just watching!”
“Of course I want to see it! We’re only getting in because of our famous writer friend!”
“Then less talking and more eating—show starts at seven!”
...
A crowd gathered before the poster for “Little Flower” on the blue-brick wall of Hefei Cinema. Liu Xiaoqing, in gray army uniform and leggings, stretcher ropes biting deep into her shoulders, stared out from beneath bold letters: “Breaking Tradition—A Stirring Release.”
An old man selling popcorn tended a black iron stove, his callused hands turning the handle. With a muffled “pop,” a rush of snowy popcorn spilled into a burlap sack, its aroma wafting down the street.
“Make way! Make way!” The ticket-taker in a blue shirt waved his punch, pressing crescent marks into the stubs.
Just as Xu Chengjun entered, he heard a commotion from the back rows.
Two girls with red armbands were fighting over a copy of the Hefei Evening News.
“You’ve read it three times—let me hear the bit about the ‘Business Bureau tearing down signs!’”
The girl with braids tugged the corner of the paper, her red hair ribbon tangled around the other’s wrist.
“What’s the rush?” The other, gripping the paper, laughed. “Xu the sent-down youth writes so well—Old Zhou doesn’t curse when his sign’s torn down, just glues together a new one with pumpkin pulp overnight. That stubborn streak feels so familiar!”
“Your short story’s become a hit, Chengjun!” Qian Ming squeezed Xu toward their seats, waggling his brows as they settled in.
The wooden seats gleamed with wear; a half-eaten malt ball was wedged between the legs.
He’d hardly sat when he was distracted by the conversation ahead.
A cadre in a Mao jacket was explaining to his child, “This movie isn’t like the old ones—no endless fighting. It’s about the heart. See that Cui Gu? Her knees are raw from saving the wounded—that’s the backbone of the Chinese people.”
Suddenly, the lights went out. The theater held its breath.
On the screen, the golden characters “Little Flower” shimmered. The melody of “Velvet Flower” flowed like water.
Cui Gu, clad in a patched cotton coat, knelt on the stone steps, inching forward. The wounded on her stretcher groaned, begging her to stop, but she gritted her teeth and climbed the mountain, leaving faint trails of blood behind.
From the back came the muffled sound of weeping. Xu Chengjun glanced over—it was the braided girl from before, pressing a handkerchief to her face.
“So bitter...” Qian Ming’s voice trembled. “She’s just a girl, but stronger than any man.”
Xu Chengjun said nothing.
“Little Flower” was a work of its time.
Even through the lens of someone who had lived through forty years of reform, this film—hailed as “the first herald of spring in Chinese cinema”—remained strikingly avant-garde and deeply humane.
Against the backdrop of heroic model opera aesthetics, “Little Flower” turned its camera for the first time on ordinary people in war, exploring the tangled fates of siblings Zhao Yongsheng, Zhao Xiaohua, and He Cuigu, and the complex tension between revolutionary ideals and individual emotions.
Zhao Xiaohua, played by Chen Chong, was no longer a token “successor to the revolution,” but a real woman seeking family in the chaos of war, finding her faith amid confusion.
He Cuigu’s character was even more groundbreaking.
This woman, sold as a child and raised amid violence, had become a district chief at eighteen, only to be torn between revolution and kinship.
The film reached the reunion scene. Liu Xiaoqing’s tears fell like broken beads.
Cuigu’s transformation from “pawn for sale” to “agent of the revolution” echoed the contemporary female quest for independence.
Suddenly, a voice called out from the audience, “That’s what real feeling looks like! So much better than those fake smiles in the old model operas!”
A smattering of applause broke out in the theater.
Qian Ming was utterly absorbed, his fingers tapping the rhythm of “Velvet Flower” on his knee, humming the tune off-key.
When the lights came up, many people sat stunned.
The cadre in the Mao jacket, polishing his glasses, said, “I used to think movies were all about perfect heroes. Now I see—even heroes have tears, and women can shoulder the world.”
His child looked up and asked, “Dad, did Cuigu ever find her brother?”
...
Xu Chengjun and Qian Ming moved with the crowd toward the exit.
Qian Ming was soaking in every detail, eyes roaming curiously around the theater.
But Xu Chengjun’s mind had drifted far away.
“Little Flower” had given him new inspiration for his writing in 1979.
Perhaps,
less of “the era’s great shouts,” and more of “the individual’s quiet breath;” less of “piling on grand ideas,” and more of “details with the heat of life.”
Just like the truest texture of words.
A new theme was already taking shape for his next piece.
-----------------
“Little Flower” was like a multifaceted prism—reflecting the longing for liberation of the human spirit in early Reform-era China, and mirroring modern people’s search for spiritual belonging.
There were no grand battle scenes, but the tears of sibling reunion, the trembling of mother and daughter recognizing one another, the silence when comrades fell—these built a summit of spirit far more stirring than cannon fire.
It reminded us: true cinematic art always grows from the soil of humanity.
As the song “Velvet Flower” goes: “The fragrance fills the mountains along the way.”
This little flower, harbinger of spring in Chinese cinema, will blossom forever in the river of time.