Chapter Thirty-Eight: Room 301, Guesthouse of East China Normal University
The train had just passed Nanjing Station when Xu Chengjun was startled awake by the wailing of a child in the seat behind him, his body half numb with pins and needles. The hard seat was truly a test of endurance—sit on it and not a word escapes you.
In that moment, Xu Chengjun swore never again to boast about his physical resilience. He vowed to write diligently and earn money, so next time, he could afford a hard sleeper instead of a hard seat.
Beside him, a middle-aged woman was fanning herself with a newspaper, sunflower seed shells scattered at her feet. Seeing him awake, she chuckled, “Young man, you sure slept soundly. Such a grown lad and you’re drooling in your sleep!”
Xu Chengjun rubbed his numb legs and replied with a grin, “Well, I’m still a ‘young’ man, aren’t I?”
He noticed she had a half basket of fresh green-skinned tangerines, their surface still beaded with dew. Smiling, he asked, “Those tangerines look fresh—just bought them?”
“Oh, no,” she said, handing him one. “They’re from my own tree, bringing them to Shanghai for my son.”
What a splendid tangerine! Perfect for shaking off fatigue. Not something he’d asked for, but a gift from the kindly lady.
Suddenly, the carriage was stirred by a commotion. The attendant selling lunchboxes pushed a metal cart through the aisle, the clattering of aluminum containers louder than the train’s own clamor.
“Braised pork lunchbox, one yuan fifty each!”
Xu Chengjun raised his head to look, but the woman quickly grabbed his arm. “Don’t buy! That’s enough for five pounds of tangerines!”
She pulled out an oil-paper package from her cloth bag. “My husband made these corn cakes—eat them with pickles, they’ll fill you up.”
Seeing her take out food, Xu Chengjun also unpacked his own pickles and dry rations from his canvas bag to share.
The cakes were so tough they could crack a tooth; chewing made his temples throb, yet the woman ate contentedly.
“Last year, I brought cakes on the train and the attendant said it wasn’t hygienic. This year, they don’t seem to care.” She pointed to a man squatting in the aisle, gnawing on cornbread. “Look at that fellow, carrying two cornbreads through three stations—does he seem more refined than us?”
Just then, a man in a Zhongshan suit across the aisle interjected, “What good is refinement? Can it fill your belly?” He tapped his copy of Reference News on the table. “Look here, the paper says foreigners are already opening factories in Shenzhen, and we’re still debating the cleanliness of cornbread.”
The woman shot him a look. “What do you know? Cleanliness is dignity! My son says people in Shanghai eat with communal chopsticks—not like us, squatting outside with a bowl.”
Xu Chengjun nearly choked on his cake. Here comes another round of selling the Shanghai lifestyle.
“Have you been to Shanghai?” he asked.
“I went once,” she replied, wiping her hands on her cloth shirt. “In ’76, I took my son there for apprenticeship. Standing on the Bund, my legs went weak. The girls in polyester shirts even walked straighter than us.”
As the train entered a tunnel, the carriage plunged into darkness, where not even a hand could be seen.
Xu Chengjun heard the woman in the dark, popping a tangerine into her mouth.
“Young man, what brings you to Shanghai?”
“Going to study, I suppose.”
Suddenly, the world outside brightened. The Huangpu River lay like a silver ribbon across the land, cranes swaying in the mist along the shore, factory chimneys in the distance spewing black smoke that stained the clouds a purplish-gray.
The woman pressed against the window, clicking her tongue in awe. “Goodness, these buildings are ten times taller than the Hefei Hotel!”
When the train pulled into the station, Xu Chengjun helped carry her basket of tangerines toward the door. As she rushed to greet her precious son, he heard her shout behind him, “Young man, if you need anything, find my son! Third workshop at the machine tool factory—just say you’re from Anhui, the Tangerine Aunt!”
Such a warm-hearted Tangerine Aunt!
The platform at Shanghai Station was larger than Hefei’s. Crowds in blue, gray, and liberation green uniforms surged forward, burdened with luggage.
Not so different from a besieged city!
“Comrade, need a rickshaw?” A straw-hatted man approached. “Jing’an Temple, fifty cents!”
Xu Chengjun shook his head, just as the man dashed off. Looking carefully, he saw a red armband rushing after him—speedy indeed!
But he truly dared not ride—outsiders at the train station? Easy to dupe!
Following the crowd out, Xu Chengjun was lured by a sweet scent. At the corner, the state-run food store had a chef in a white coat arranging butterfly pastries in a glass case, priced at fifty cents apiece, with a handwritten note: “Limit two per person.”
He fumbled for his national grain coupons.
Suddenly, he realized: if he spent freely, the fifty yuan advance from Zhou Ming would last less than three days!
The editorial office of Harvest was at 675 Julu Road.
He’d asked Zhou in advance about lodging.
Zhou: “Ah! You asked the right person! Stay at the Jing’an Temple Guesthouse!”
Looking at the Shanghai city transit map, he saw that Shanghai Station wasn’t far from Jing’an Temple.
Heading west along Tianmu Middle Road from the station, crossing the Suzhou River bridge, he’d reach the Jing’an Temple area.
Bus 11 would take just twenty minutes, and the ticket was free—no need to waste money!
Not poverty, mind you—this was green travel!
“Hey there, young man, looking for directions?” An elderly lady strolling nearby spoke up, her accent softer than the Hefei dialect.
Shanghai grandmothers dressed much more stylishly than those in Hefei: straight pants, cream-colored shirts, silver earrings, small leather shoes…
Anyone would call that “chic!”
“You look like you’re not from around here, are you?” she asked.
“Grandma, I’m looking for the Jing’an Temple Guesthouse.”
“How lucky, I’m heading the same way!” She popped a preserved plum into her mouth. “Just follow Tianmu Middle Road, cross three streets, turn right, and when you see the pagoda, you’re there!”
She pointed to the distant spire of the temple. “It used to be a temple, now it’s a guesthouse. People who stay there are students like us!”
Ah, how pleasant her words sounded.
Bicycle bells tinkled along the road as young men in bell-bottoms sped by on “Forever” brand bikes. On the back seat, a tape recorder played Li Guyi’s “Homesick.”
The old lady suddenly spat, “Such disgrace! Neither man nor woman!”
Xu Chengjun couldn’t help but laugh.
Bell-bottoms had become popular in China in ’79, especially influenced by “The Village” and “Manhunt.” Police chief Nakayama’s style was a hit in Beijing, Shanghai, and other big cities that year.
Whoever wore them became the talk of the town!
But to the older generation?
Too wild!
When they reached Jing’an Temple, night had fully fallen.
A sign hung on the guesthouse’s wooden door: “Bed one yuan twenty per night,” with a chalked note, “Foreign guests double.”
Well, more money spent!
Hopefully, Harvest would accept his submission—better yet, offer him a chance to revise.
In these times, magazines usually provided writers revising their manuscripts with lodging at the Writers’ Federation guesthouse. Tough conditions, but at least it was free!
That was the key!
Yu Hua, the 23-year-old dentist, first stayed at the Haiyan Guesthouse, bringing along “Stars,” rejected seven times by Beijing Literature, for a three-month stay!
Three months—that’s a short stay!
He could stay half a year and pocket over two hundred yuan!
If Harvest asked for revisions, he’d stay two months in Room 301 at East China Normal University Guesthouse!
The story of Room 301 would belong to Xu Chengjun.
Oh, by the way, Anhui Literature had reimbursed Xu Chengjun’s travel and lodging expenses in Hefei.
Not much to eat, but a daily allowance of one yuan.
These days, most who could write a little weren’t called failed writers—they were called authors.
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In 2017, Yu Hua revisited East China Normal University Guesthouse. Room 301 had been converted into a conference room. He laughed, “The wontons I crawled out to eat from here were even more unforgettable than the bitter vegetable soup in ‘To Live’.”