Chapter Thirty-five: Preface Written for Xu Sheng of Fengyang

“I haven’t sent mine yet, so there’s no need to mention it now.” He ladled a spoonful of vinegar into Chen Jianguo’s bowl. “I heard that ‘Harvest’ is currently serializing ‘The Legend of Tianyun Mountain’? Editor-in-chief Zhou said that manuscript nearly got axed.”

Spicy soup shimmered in his bowl, waves rippling out as the lively conversation continued around him. The atmosphere was warm and congenial—this was the first group of friends his own age he’d found since coming to Hefei.

To be sitting here in 1979, discussing the realities of literature with the cultural figures of the era, gave him a true sense of accomplishment.

After all, these were the very stories professors now recounted in contemporary literature courses; now they were the stuff of table talk, and he had the chance to be part of it!

If anything, it was a pleasure almost too unreal to believe.

He thought of his first days in Bengbu, clutching his ration tickets at a street corner, hesitating for ages, too frugal to even buy a bowl of oil tea; of the revision meetings where Su Zhong knocked his pipe against the table, declaring, “To write, you must first learn to bow.” He recalled Deputy Director Wang stuffing vermicelli into the drawer, saying, “Your father’s a man of principle.”

For a moment, he felt almost dazed.

“Come, let’s have a toast.” Xu Chengjun raised his enamel mug. “Thank you all for your help these past weeks. If I make trouble in Shanghai, I’ll have to come back and count on you lot again!”

His eyes gleamed with laughter as the mugs clinked together.

“Don’t count on me to do any good,” Zhai Ying’s mug was held highest of all. “If those old scholars at Fudan give you a hard time, I’ll write a critique so sharp they won’t dare show their faces.”

Everyone burst into laughter.

Xu Chengjun looked at the faces before him.

Chen Jianguo’s meticulousness, Zhai Ying’s boldness, Ma Shengli’s warmth, Qian Ming’s honest simplicity.

He felt genuinely moved.

When Master Zhang came by to clear the bowls and saw Xu Chengjun placing his ration tickets on the table, he quickly waved him off. “Comrade Xu, what are you doing? Editor Chen already paid!”

“Oh, please!” Xu Chengjun pressed the tickets into his hand. “Why should he pay? Take mine. Next time, just return his ticket when we come back!”

...

“I’m off, then.” He waved, the canvas bag swaying on his shoulder. “Once I get to Shanghai, I’ll send you all a postcard—just write, ‘The spicy soup misses you all.’”

Zhai Ying’s voice floated on the wind, half laughing, half scolding: “Don’t you dare make a spelling mistake and disgrace Anhui’s literary folk!”

And Chen the editor’s soft, embarrassed admonition: “Zhai Ying!”

The wind carried their laughter away.

Those two—was there perhaps something between them?

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Xu Chengjun had just finished packing for his departure the next day—especially the handwritten train schedule from Hefei to Shanghai and a simple city map. Traveling in this era wasn’t just expensive and tightly controlled; it meant stepping into truly unfamiliar territory.

Across from him, Qian Ming shifted on his bunk, the wooden frame groaning.

“Chengjun,” Qian Ming turned to him, “I’ll take you to the station tomorrow morning.”

“No need,” Xu Chengjun waved his hand, folding a shirt into his bag. “Didn’t you say you had to catch the early bus back to Xujia Village?”

“With friends like us, there’s no need for farewells.”

“It’s just a couple of hours. No one from Xujia Village has ever traveled out of the province, except for Honest Xu. This is a big journey.”

Qian Ming sat up. “Anyway, I should head home. Been away so long, there’s still work in the team. I’ll talk to them about your situation, too.”

He paused, sounding a bit sheepish. “Truth is, I wanted to wait for the exam results. Staying in Hefei makes me anxious.”

Xu Chengjun smiled and tossed him a piece of fruit candy. “With all your studying, who could do better? You’ll get in for sure.”

If anyone had drive, it was Qian Ming—the kind who’d thrive in any era. The exam was simpler these days; he really had a good chance at getting into Beijing Foreign Studies University.

Who knows? Maybe he’d need Qian Ming’s help in the future!

The candy wrapper crinkled in Qian Ming’s hand. “I hope so. When you get to Shanghai, don’t forget to write us.”

“I won’t forget.” Xu Chengjun gazed at the moonlight outside the window. “And don’t just wait for news—read more. The college entrance exam is only the beginning.”

Qian Ming suddenly laughed softly, his shoulders shaking. “Remember when I taught you the word ‘ambition’? You said it sounded like ‘I must win.’ Now I think about it, we both have to win!”

When they’d first met, Xu Chengjun had thought Qian Ming was a bit dull, but after half a year together, he’d found the young man to be genuinely down-to-earth.

But underneath that sincerity was a clever spark.

Earnest, but not slow-witted; quick, but never slick. Even if he didn’t get into Beijing Foreign Studies, he’d find his own path.

And with Xu Chengjun by his side, how could Qian Ming fall behind?

“If you get bullied at Fudan, write to me,” Qian Ming folded the candy wrapper into a neat square, grinning. “If worst comes to worst, I’ll come too. I might not know much, but I’ve got strength, and we’ll face it together!”

“Who’s getting bullied? Go to sleep!” Xu Chengjun chuckled. “And you—don’t stay up so late when you get home!”

“Travel safely.”

The night passed in silence.

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On the blue-brick walls of Hefei train station, the slogan “Promote Revolution and Production” stood out boldly.

Qian Ming, carrying Xu Chengjun’s canvas bag, walked with him to the ticket gate when a booming voice cut through the crowd: “Xiao Xu, wait a moment!”

Looking back, Xu Chengjun saw Zhou Ming running over, cigarette dangling from his lips, followed by Su Zhong and Liu Zuci, with even Chen Jianguo trailing behind carrying a cloth bag. Their trouser legs were damp with dew.

“What are you all doing here?” Xu Chengjun was taken aback. He hadn’t expected any of them to come see him off.

Was he really so important?

Zhou Ming clapped him on the shoulder, his tone as irreverent as ever: “Had drinks with Old Liu last night. He mentioned your early train.”

“Turns out we all had the same idea.”

Liu Zuci shook the wine flask in his hand. “A farewell drink for you, and a toast for the future. When you make your name at Fudan, don’t forget us old bones in Anhui.”

Su Zhong adjusted his glasses and drew a thread-bound book from his bag. “This is the 1957 edition of ‘Selected Essays of Lu Xun.’ Take it! Read it on the journey—and whenever you need comfort.”

Chen Jianguo looked a little nervous, standing among the older generation—a true “newbie shivering before the masters,” as they might say one day.

He pressed a cloth bag into Xu Chengjun’s hands. “These are letters from your readers, sorted last night. All praise for ‘Weighing Stars.’ Something to keep you entertained on the road.”

In truth, he’d spent half the night sorting through them, deliberately removing Professor Li’s more troublesome ones.

Old Chen’s temperament was much like Qian Ming’s—another genuinely good man.

But even a seasoned traveler like Xu Chengjun nearly lost his composure in the face of such a send-off; his eyes grew a little damp.

These elders truly set an example for generations to come.

“What a send-off—just like seeing a top scholar away to the capital,” Xu Chengjun joked, then bowed deeply to them all. “Three teachers, Old Chen, I won’t say more—just wait for me to return!”

Zhou Ming pointed at him and laughed. “Look at this boy—‘won’t say more’? Ingrate!”

“Back then, when we saw Old Su off to Beijing for the conference, it was just like this.”

“Well, today we’ll call this ‘Sending Off Xu the Scholar from Fengyang.’ Someday, when this lad makes his name, we’ll write it into the history of Anhui’s literature!”