Chapter Twenty-Five: The Interview with Anhui Youth Daily

In front of the "State-run Jianghuai Noodle House" on Huaihe Road, the queue was so long that the blue cloth sign was pushed askew.

Ma Shengli, familiar with the place, slipped around to the back door and tapped the shoulder of Chef Zhang, who wore a white apron. "Three bowls of beef noodles, extra spicy!"

"You journalists, always mooching food and drink," Chef Zhang said, ladling soup into thick ceramic bowls, the iron ladle clinking against the rim.

"Read your feature yesterday, 'A New Life for Private Business Owners.' Not bad!" Xu Chengjun was about to pay when Ma Shengli stopped him. "Next time, you pay! This time, I need a favor."

He fished a crumpled ration ticket booklet from his satchel, tore off three one-ounce tickets. "Last month, I published a short article, made five yuan, enough for us to eat noodles a few times."

When the beef noodles arrived, the aroma of chili oil wafted with the steam, enveloping their faces.

Qian Ming buried his head in the noodles, his chopsticks scraping every last bit of beef from the bottom, breathing in the spiciness without pause.

Seeing how happily he ate, Ma Shengli gave him the egg from his own bowl.

Qian Ming's hand trembled, the egg rolled onto the table, and he hurriedly picked it up, blew on it, and stuffed it into his mouth.

"What's the rush?" Ma Shengli sipped his soup.

"Xu told me about your college entrance exam. Even if you didn't get in, with your English, you could work as a translator anywhere."

"I want to apply to BJ," Qian Ming mumbled into his bowl.

The reason was the breath he held inside.

Xu Chengjun glanced at Qian Ming, then lowered his head without showing any emotion.

Everyone's days were like this bowl of beef noodles: spicy oil floating on the surface, but hidden beneath was an unspeakable saltiness.

...

"By the way," Ma Shengli put down his chopsticks and pulled out a red work permit from his satchel. In the photo, he looked darker and thinner than now, a badge of "Anhui Youth Daily" pinned to his chest.

"I'm a reporter for the Youth Daily, Xu, this time I really need your help."

Qian Ming nearly spat out his noodles. "Aren't you from the provincial paper?"

"The provincial paper seconded me for three months, now I'm back at the Youth Daily," Ma Shengli scratched his head.

"Xu, our editor read your article 'Balance Star,' said it has 'the spirit of youth,' wants to invite you to the paper for an interview—talk about private business, talk about literature, and give young people in Anhui some encouragement."

Xu Chengjun looked up, a bit surprised.

"What do you want to ask?" He added vinegar to his bowl—he liked sour food when thinking, because "sourness wakes the mind."

"Just talk about how you came to write about the sunflower seed vendor, and your thoughts on young people setting up stalls nowadays."

Ma Shengli tapped the newspaper with his chopsticks. "The editor says many young people want to do something, but are afraid others will say they’re 'going capitalist.' Your article gives them courage."

Qian Ming suddenly looked up. "Go, Chengjun."

---

He still had chili oil at the corner of his mouth.

"Last time, the commune secretary said on the radio, 'Private business owners are speculators.' Your article actually reasons with them."

He smacked his lips.

"Besides, famous writers always get interviewed by newspapers..."

Qian Ming—after the college entrance exam, he'd become so lively.

But Xu Chengjun remembered the lean sunflower seed vendor, who got up before dawn every day to buy goods, the red string on his balance worn gray, but he always said, "If the string is straight, the scale is true."

Maybe some truths had to be spoken by someone.

Just as he did when he first arrived, what he said, what he thought.

Arriving in this era, he had to leave something behind.

"Let's go."

Besides, an interview—his first in this life and the last.

An interview, after all, should be experienced, shouldn't it?

Otherwise, how would he prove he'd been here?

He drank the last mouthful of soup, the spiciness burning his eyes.

"Just right for Qian Ming to see what a newspaper looks like. If he applies to BJ, maybe he’ll get into 'People’s Daily.' Then I’ll rely on you to help publish my articles!"

Qian Ming waved his hand quickly. "I still want to go into foreign trade..."

---

In May of this year, the "Anhui Youth Daily," which had been suspended for seventeen years, officially resumed publication, running the headline "Youth Must Be the Vanguard of Reform" on the front page, becoming a beacon of thought for young people in Anhui at the dawn of reform and opening.

...

The newspaper office was in an old building on Anqing Road. Most of the paint on the stair railings had peeled off, revealing the wood grain beneath.

Ma Shengli led them upstairs, each step creaking.

"The second floor is the editorial department," Ma Shengli pointed to a slogan on the wall: "'Unite the youth, serve the Four Modernizations,' just repainted this year."

Bundles of newspapers were piled up in the editorial room, the scent of ink mingling with the aroma of tea.

A dozen wooden tables were pushed together, editors all bent over their manuscripts.

---

On the desk by the window, an old-fashioned typewriter clattered. The letters it produced were crooked, yet carried a sense of earnestness.

"This is Editor-in-Chief Li," Ma Shengli brought them to the innermost desk.

A middle-aged man in a Zhongshan suit looked up, his eyes behind round glasses crinkling into a smile. He held a red pencil, circling lines on a clipping of "Balance Star Illuminates the Spring Breeze."

"Comrade Xu, I've heard much about you."

Editor Li slid a cup of tea across the table, the enamel mug printed with "Youth Vanguard."

"Your article, our editorial board discussed it at an extended meeting. They said 'Balance Star contains great truths.' Young people nowadays are lively-minded, want to run private businesses but fear gossip. Your article gave them peace of mind."

Xu Chengjun took the tea.

On the wall, the calendar was turned to July 10, 1979. Beside it, a sample of the "Anhui Youth Daily" was posted, the front-page headline reading, "Youth of Xiaogang Village Strive to Be Leaders in Contracting."

"Let's do the interview here," Editor Li brought over two chairs. "Little Ma will ask, you answer, casually, just like chatting."

Ma Shengli pulled a tape recorder from his canvas bag, black, with a "Panda" logo and a sticker of Chairman Mao.

He pointed the microphone at Xu Chengjun, pressed the button, the machine crackling with electricity.

"Comrade Xu Chengjun," Ma Shengli cleared his throat, pulled out the outline he'd prepared. "When you wrote 'Balance Star Illuminates the Spring Breeze,' why did you choose sunflower seeds as your subject? Did you think private business would have a future?"

Xu Chengjun rubbed his teacup and smiled. "I wasn't so farsighted, just thought the vendor everyone talked about was interesting. He moved from carrying his goods to setting up a stall, switched scales three times, each time the balance stars grew denser. People buy his seeds not just for the taste, but because they trust his scale."

"What do you think of private commerce now?" Ma Shengli pressed, "Some say it's 'taking the capitalist road,' what do you think?"

Suddenly, the wind outside picked up, rattling the window paper.

Xu Chengjun remembered Su Zhong at the "Anhui Literature" editorial meeting saying, "Policy is the bottom line, life is the top line."

He had much to say, but too much would frighten this era.

He carefully began, "In the countryside, I've seen farmers trade excess sweet potatoes for cloth tickets at the market, and city aunties swap eggs for matches. These things aren't new—they're the wisdom of ordinary people getting by."

He paused, looking at the newspaper clipping. "That sunflower seed vendor, up before dawn to buy goods, packing up after dark, his hands cracked. What he earned came from bending to pick up seeds, playing hide-and-seek with the market inspectors, polishing the balance stars bright. That's not capitalism, that's labor."

Here, Xu Chengjun hesitated, pausing for half a minute.

Ma Shengli watched him expectantly, sensing he was about to say something different.

Yes... he trusted his intuition.

But Xu Chengjun wanted more than just to say something different.

He suppressed his emotions for a long time before continuing.

"Last month in Fengyang, I saw farmers from Xiaogang Village bring surplus grain to the market. Some said they were 'doing things alone,' but their rice piles were half a foot taller than during the collective days."

"The policy says 'allowing individual economy to develop appropriately,' which really means letting people live a little more freely. Like this morning's state-run noodle house, selling beef noodles supports Chef Zhang's family; the sunflower seed stall earns money to pay the vendor’s child’s school fees. In essence, they're all earning their living with their labor!"

"Where is the difference between ideologies in this?"