Chapter Thirty-Four: Human Sentiments

Outside the entrance of the Education Bureau, Xu Chengjun leaned against the railing, lost in thought.

He had come to return Lin Xiaomei’s bicycle. He’d borrowed the young woman’s bike for over ten days, and it weighed on his conscience. On the way, he bought a packet of peach crisps—produced by the “Yangtze River Food Factory” in Hefei. Fragrant, crumbly, and long-lasting, they were suitable for all ages; at that time, such a treat was considered “respectable.” The price was decent, too—a two-jin pack cost 1.8 yuan and 1.8 jin in grain coupons, which was about two days’ wages for an ordinary person in Hefei back then.

Xu Chengjun had just borrowed a pump from the gatekeeper and was inflating the “Forever” brand bicycle when a clear, bright female voice sounded behind him.

“Comrade Xu?”

Lin Xiaomei clutched a brown paper folder, the red ribbon at the end of her braid swinging. Seeing him busy with the pump, she hurried over. “No need for that! I can do it myself.”

“I insist!” he replied.

“I just bought some peach crisps at the supply cooperative,” Xu Chengjun said, finishing with the pump and tucking a cloth-wrapped bundle into the bike’s basket. “I heard they’re tasty. You should try some.”

He had barely put the bundle in before Lin Xiaomei pulled it back out. “How can I accept this? My brother owes you so much…”

“How long ago was that?” Xu Chengjun chuckled. “Last time on the long-distance bus, if it weren’t for your brother’s twenty yuan, I’d never have caught that thief.”

He tapped the bicycle bell with his finger—a crisp “ding-ling” rang out.

Girls of this era weren’t used to such playful gestures. Lin Xiaomei’s face flushed red, and she thought to herself how amusing this Comrade Xu was—no wonder he could write so well!

Her cheeks glowing, she lowered her head and played with the end of her braid. “Your latest piece, ‘Counting Stars,’ is really popular! Everyone in our bureau is talking about it!”

“Oh, just something I scribbled,” Xu Chengjun said, setting the bike upright. “Can’t compare to you folks in the Education Bureau—every one of you is a master with the pen.”

“Don’t say that!” Lin Xiaomei protested, flustered. “Your writing is truly wonderful!”

Seeing her expression, Old Xu dared not tease too much. It was 1979—not the fast-paced world of the 21st century. In these days of slow trains and bicycles, a lifetime belonged to just one person.

Better to be careful!

He changed the subject. “I have to go to Shanghai tomorrow. Otherwise, I’d have invited you and your brother to dinner. But Chief Wang’s news is too urgent—I really can’t help it. We’ll have to wait until I return.”

“No need, no need! Safe travels!” the young woman replied, waving her hands.

Xu Chengjun had just turned to leave when her clear voice called after him once more.

“Wait!”

She hurriedly fished a few fruit candies from her pocket and pressed them into his hand. “For the road. May your journey to Shanghai go smoothly.”

Just as he was about to thank her, Lin Xiaomei was already wheeling her bicycle toward the shed, the hem of her blue shirt fluttering in the wind.

“I’ll lock the bike in the shed!” she called, braid swinging high. “When you come back from Fudan, you can borrow it again!”

Xu Chengjun glanced back at her and shook his head with a smile. Girls of this era truly had an innocent charm.

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The blue cloth banner of the state-run Jianghuai Noodle House snapped in the wind. As Xu Chengjun lifted the door curtain, the aroma of chili oil and pepper wafted over him.

“Xu, you finally made it!” Ma Shengli was tiptoeing to reach the menu on the wall, tossing his army-green satchel onto the table’s corner. “Brother Chen insisted we wait for you before ordering. Sister Zhai has glared at him three times already.”

Chen Jianguo nearly dropped his enamel mug, shooting a look at his cousin. “Don’t listen to this kid’s nonsense.”

Zhai Ying let out a snort of laughter, swinging a flared pant leg onto the chair. “Big Editor Chen is just being stubborn. He just said, ‘If Chengjun doesn’t show up, the spicy soup won’t have any flavor.’”

Qian Ming, seated at the innermost spot with an empty bowl before him, gave up his seat. “Chengjun, they say this is your farewell meal. You’re not allowed to pay!”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Xu Chengjun tossed his canvas bag onto the empty chair. “We agreed that I’d treat. If you all chip in, Editor Zhang will call me stingy again.”

These were all mentors who had helped him a great deal.

He could afford to buy them a meal!

Waiter Zhang carried over a tray, setting heavy ceramic bowls on the table with a clatter. “Here’s your spicy soup! The one with extra pepper must be for Comrade Xu, right?”

Xu Chengjun nodded just as Zhai Ying grabbed her bowl and took a big gulp, immediately sticking out her tongue at the heat. “Master Zhang, did you let the chili peppers become spirits in this soup?”

“Comrade Zhai is just as impatient as ever,” Master Zhang said, arranging the fried dough on the table before turning to Xu Chengjun. “Your ‘Counting Stars’ was excellent! We always said that whoever wrote such a good piece must be in their forties or fifties. Never imagined you’d be such a handsome young man!”

Xu Chengjun waved his hand. “You look young yourself!”

Chen Jianguo paused with his soup ladle. “Speaking of which, I got a reader’s letter this morning—from a cobbler. Said after reading the paper, he dared to raise his prices by two cents. He even sent a pair of newly sewn shoe soles as thanks.”

“We should frame those,” Zhai Ying said, twirling a piece of gluten with her chopsticks. “When Xu Chengjun becomes a famous writer, that’ll be a literary anecdote—‘The Shoe Soles That Sparked a Price Hike.’”

Qian Ming burst out laughing, crumbs of fried dough falling onto his jacket. “I’d better hold on to my copy of ‘900 English Sentences’ so I can say in the future, ‘I once studied vocabulary with the great writer.’”

Xu Chengjun had just lifted his bowl when Ma Shengli pressed down his wrist. “Hold on! Brother Chen brought something good.”

Chen Jianguo pulled a book with a brown leather cover from his briefcase. The title, “The Homeroom Teacher,” was embossed in gold. “Just picked this up from the post office—Liu Xinwu’s new single volume. I heard it’s already been reprinted three times; people are fighting for it at the supply cooperative.”

Ah, The Homeroom Teacher again!

Wound literature, in many people’s eyes, was merely “I was once a guest in paradise, now condemned to farm labor and hardship.”

So much weeping and wailing.

But in Xu Chengjun’s view, literature was a mirror of social reality. Tears were fine, as long as you could offer solutions—it was a good piece of work.

Zhai Ying snatched the book, tracing the spine with her finger. “This book’s controversial. The old editors nearly flipped the table arguing about it. Some said, ‘Depicts hooligans too blatantly.’ Others scolded, ‘It’s a disgrace to educators.’”

“I think it’s brave just to write it,” Xu Chengjun said, sipping his spicy soup. The pepper stung his throat until it tingled. “Better than all those empty slogans.”

Chen Jianguo’s eyes lit up. “You think so too? I argued with Zhai Ying half the night. She says the book’s like a dull knife cutting flesh. I say the sharper the pain, the clearer the mind.”

“Oh, so you two argued?” Zhai Ying smacked the book onto the table. “Chengjun, you be the judge. That homeroom teacher in the book, always with a stiff face—just like my old teacher. Makes me feel suffocated. How is that clarity?”

Ma Shengli suddenly interjected, “If you ask me, nothing beats ‘Scar.’ That girl’s journey to find her mother, gnawing on dry bread on the train—I wept onto my grain coupons reading it.”

“What do you know?” Qian Ming, for once, cut in. “Chengjun always said ‘Scar’ is too contrived, like tears cost nothing. His own ‘Granary’ is so much better!”

Xu Chengjun was both embarrassed and amused, pausing mid-bite. This kid really was his number one fan—always ready to sing his praises!

But he loved hearing it.

He remembered those early days, squatting by the field ridge revising his drafts after time-traveling here. Back then, he always feared his writing was too bold—every sentence had to be measured. Who would have dreamed that one day, he’d be discussed so openly at a gathering like this?

He narrowed his eyes, looking at everyone around the table.

As if to say: Not enough. Praise me more! More!