Chapter Three: Intentions
Early in the morning, Xu Chengjun was already crouched on the ridge between fields, having filled two pages with his writing. The coarse paper was damp at the corners, soaked by dew.
He was writing about his novel’s protagonist, Xu Chunsheng, who would slip over to the granary wall to count the notches while his father, Old Xu, was away exchanging grain. Those marks—three horizontal and two vertical strokes forming tally marks—were the secret ledgers of the old storekeeper, each one representing “three jin of wheat siphoned off.” Four years’ worth of notches added up to the astonishing truth: “the yield from private plots was actually twenty percent higher than that of the collective granary.”
Literary creation needed a foundation in reality, and all these details came from Xu Chengjun’s recent observations. The land in 1979, bursting with change, continually inspired countless young intellectuals like him.
Literature of reflection, of trauma, of reform—
Regardless of what others thought of him,
He was stirring up ripples on this earth.
...
“Chengjun, breakfast for you.”
“My mother said you were ill and worried the food at the commune might be too rough, so she sent me to bring you this.”
Apricot Blossom’s voice sounded behind him, tinged with shyness. Xu Chengjun turned to see her carrying a bamboo basket, inside which were two coarse grain steamed buns and a small jar of pickled vegetables.
In a farm household accustomed to sweet potato porridge for every meal, this was a rare treat indeed!
It made the young educated youth overjoyed.
“Your mother saved something good for me again?” Xu Chengjun laughed as he accepted the basket, noticing that Apricot Blossom had replaced her usual hair ribbon with a new red one, which made her tanned face look particularly bright.
“My mother said writing takes a lot of brainwork.”
Her gaze fell on the manuscript paper, skimming a few lines before she lowered her head, nervously twisting the hem of her shirt.
“The stories you write now... are they about our village?”
“In a way,” Xu Chengjun replied, taking a bite of the bun. “It’s about a young intellectual discovering a secret in the granary.”
Apricot Blossom squatted beside him, drawing circles in the dirt with a twig. “You used to love writing too, but it was always about village life—who was marrying, who was building a house... Now, I can’t quite understand the characters you use.”
Xu Chengjun glanced at her. The former resident of his body had written mostly simple, rustic tales of the countryside.
But now, his writing was undeniably different.
“The more you write, the more you want to try new ways.”
He couldn’t explain further, so he simply mumbled and kept his head down, looking at his manuscript.
“Look here—Xu Chunsheng notices that his father’s jujube-wood scale always seems to tip in favor of the collective, yet the sprouting wheat at the granary floor...”
Apricot Blossom didn’t respond, only stared off into the distant wheat fields. The sunlight lit her face, revealing the fine down on her skin, but her eyes, usually clear and bright, were now veiled with a faint mist.
She was two years younger than him—not so young by the standards of these times—and already at an age to understand things. Whatever else could be said about the original Xu Chengjun, he had indeed left behind a good appearance.
What a tangled web!
Damn!
...
In fact, what Apricot Blossom had been thinking about was this—
That morning, while spreading fertilizer, Old Wang accidentally spilled half a bag of ammonium bicarbonate on the muddy path and was stomping his feet in distress. Fertilizer was precious; if it got wet, it would be ruined.
Without a word, Xu Chengjun took off his cloth shoes, waded barefoot into the mud, and scooped the fertilizer back into the bag.
“What are you doing, Comrade Xu? It’s filthy!” Old Wang waved his hands anxiously.
“Every bit we can save counts,” Xu Chengjun replied, never pausing in his work.
Zhao Gang and the others, seeing this, also took off their shoes and joined in. Apricot Blossom hurried home to fetch a carrying pole and baskets, and helped divide the salvaged fertilizer to bring back to the warehouse.
Afterwards, during their break, Apricot Blossom knelt by the ridge to wipe the mud from Xu Chengjun’s shoes, her movements gentle.
“Chengjun, you’re different from the other young men in the village,” she said suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper. “They only think about earning more work points. You’re different... you carry something in your heart.”
Xu Chengjun looked at her downcast face, the long lashes casting little fans of shadow beneath her eyes.
He knew what she meant by “different.”
It was the sense of distance his identity as an educated youth brought, the unique temperament of someone with learning, and a deep-seated ambition that did not belong to this yellow earth.
These were precisely what attracted Apricot Blossom,
Yet at this moment, they were also the source of her unease.
“After staying in the village for a long time, you naturally start thinking about the world outside,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “Isn’t your brother in the army always studying maps?”
Apricot Blossom paused, then handed him his cleaned shoes. “My brother went to serve the country as a soldier. But you... you want to leave, don’t you?”
Xu Chengjun fell silent.
It wasn’t just him who wanted to leave—the original Xu Chengjun had wanted to leave too.
He was at a loss for words, unsure how to speak to this clever-hearted girl who always seemed to be thinking of him—or the former him.
He was afraid to hurt her.
“People always strive for better,” he said, avoiding her gaze. “I heard Fudan University is recruiting students from workers, peasants, and soldiers. With a recommendation, I could go. I want to try.”
The cloth he was holding slipped from Apricot Blossom’s hand and fell to the ground. She didn’t pick it up, only rose, dusted off her pants, and said, “Time to get back to work.”
As she turned away, Xu Chengjun saw her shoulders tremble slightly, the new red ribbon in her hair fluttering lonely in the wind.
It felt as if something called first love was quietly breaking.
...
At dusk, after work, Apricot Blossom did not wait for him as she usually did.
Xu Chengjun saw her laughing with a group of village girls, heading home. As they passed the commune dormitory, she only glanced in his direction briefly before hurrying away.
Qian Ming, another educated youth, came over with a wrinkled copy of Youth Digest.
“Chengjun, look at this article—Fudan University’s Chinese Department is launching a ‘Young Writers Support Program.’ You can apply to audit classes with your own writing!”
Xu Chengjun’s eyes lit up as he took the magazine and read carefully.
“This is the real way forward!” His mind suddenly felt clear.
...
Breaking into Fudan with his novel was far more reliable than simply waiting for a recommendation.
“Thanks, Ming! This is really useful!” he said, pacing the floor and telling Qian Ming about his story.
This made Qian Ming his very first reader in this era, didn’t it?
It should count.
“In my novel, I’m planning for Xu Chunsheng to discover his father’s cloth-bound ledger.”
“It records the amount of wheat siphoned off from 1976 to 1978—each year, the total is twenty percent higher than the ‘increased production’ figure in the collective’s ledger. That way, there’s both real weight and the spark of reform hidden in the story.”
Qian Ming listened with great interest, nodding repeatedly. “That’s great! Much better than just writing about the wheat fields!”
Who doesn’t love a good story?
Would they rather listen to Zhao Gang snore?
Just then, Apricot Blossom passed by the gate, carrying a bowl. Her steps faltered for a moment, then she hurried on.
Xu Chengjun caught a glimpse inside—the bowl held two white steamed buns sprinkled with sesame seeds, a delicacy reserved in the village for honored guests.
“Who’s she taking those buns to?” Qian Ming asked curiously.
Xu Chengjun said nothing, only watched Apricot Blossom’s figure disappear around the corner.
She was withdrawing from him.
The affection once hidden in gifts of steamed buns and hand-sewn pencil cases was being eroded, bit by bit, by the idea of “departure.”
The Xu Chengjun she liked was someone who might take root in the village, not the man now determined to leave for distant horizons.
Between them, there was truly a world of difference.
...
That night, writing under the lamp, Xu Chengjun’s pen moved sluggishly.
He wrote about Xu Chunsheng prying open the granary lock late at night, finding the old storekeeper’s cloth ledger hidden in the straw, and discovering not just the records of lost wheat, but also a pencil-sketched “grain distribution map.” The red-circled plots were precisely where the spilled wheat sprouted most vigorously.
Halfway through, he put down his pen and walked to the window.
Under the moonlight, the wheat fields were silent. The windows of Apricot Blossom’s house were already dark. Only the sound of wind rustling through the wheat waves could be heard.
Xu Chengjun thought of Apricot Blossom’s evasive gaze that day, the new red ribbon, her focused look as she cleaned his shoes.
He shook his head and smiled.
He still had to leave, carrying the memories and dreams of two souls.
...
He picked up his pen again, wrote a new chapter heading on the manuscript, and paused.
He added a new character to “The Granary.”
A girl much like Apricot Blossom, who was always bringing needlework to the granary. She was the first to notice the sprouting wheat, and in the end, she helped Xu Chunsheng hide the cloth ledger in the sole of his shoe.
It was a silent farewell—a gentle tribute to a feeling that would never come to fruition.
...
The kerosene lamp flickered softly, illuminating his focused profile.
Outside, the cicadas’ song was growing sparse, and from far away, an occasional dog barked.
The night in the countryside was deep and still.