Chapter Four: Beijing and Shanghai

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Zhao Gang rushed into the Youth Center, waving a letter in his hand, splatters of mud from his trouser cuffs landing on the threshold.

"Xu Chengjun! A letter for your family! Sent from the county secondary school!"

What a booming voice!

Xu Chengjun was crouched on the stone steps revising his manuscript.

He had just finished writing the details of Xu Chunsheng helping their father, Xu Lao Shuan, polish the brass lock.

He took the envelope, its upper right corner stamped in red. Opening it, he saw the slim, firm handwriting—his father Xu Zhiguo’s script.

“A letter from home?” Qian Ming poked his head out from inside, his old glasses sliding down his nose as he fiddled with the tape on the temple in front of a small mirror.

“Didn’t your parents just get their hats taken off? Maybe it’s good news.”

Xu Chengjun opened the envelope. The letterhead was from the school, faded with “Serve the People” printed at the top, and a blot of blue-black ink staining the lower right corner.

His father’s words were packed tightly in the grid:

“Chengjun, my son, seeing these words is like seeing you. Your mother’s bronchitis has improved; the school approved two pounds of brown sugar per month for her, which helps when dissolved in water. Your sister Xiaomei has entered the county textile factory as an apprentice, earning eighteen yuan a month. Yesterday, she got paid and insisted on sending you five yuan—I didn’t let her. There are grain coupons at the youth center; she needs to save for a pair of work shoes. Your brother Jianjun has gone to the corps, sent a photo last month, tanned and strong, says he may be able to visit at the end of the year…”

Seeing the names “Xiaomei” and “Jianjun,” memories flooded in.

His sister was three years younger, wore twin braids, now apprenticing at the textile factory;

His brother was five years older, left for the corps in '69, and gave him a copy of "How Steel Was Tempered" when he left.

Both took good care of him.

…

“What else did Uncle say?” Qian Ming sidled over with a mischievous look. “Did he ask you to return to the county?”

“He asked if I wanted to go back and become a community teacher.”

“You should! It’s a great opportunity!”

Xu Chengjun smiled and shook his head, pointing to the last line of the letter. “My father said, ‘You must choose your own path; once chosen, walk it straight.’ He told me to decide for myself.”

“You, focus on preparing for your college entrance exam!”

From the original memory, Xu Zhiguo taught mathematics: rigorous, dedicated, reliable…

He possessed every quality one could imagine belonging to a father and husband.

If he lived in later times, surely he’d be labeled a “five-star man,” a “model husband!”

“Community teacher is good!” Zhao Gang passed by munching cornbread. “Respectable!”

Xu Chengjun didn’t reply, folding the letter and slipping it into his shirt pocket.

Returning as a teacher was a safe option, the strongest backing Xu’s father could give.

…

By noon, Xu Chengjun and Qian Ming squatted on the ridge for a break.

Steam rose from the enamel mug of sweet potato porridge, as Qian Ming pulled out a battered copy of “900 English Sentences” from his cloth bag.

“Still memorizing vocabulary?” Xu Chengjun’s face was full of suffering.

Damn entrance exam English!

Qian Ming pushed up his glasses, the lenses gleaming. “Heard on the radio yesterday—Beijing Foreign Language Institute is expanding, not just recruiting graduates but also accepting young people from society.”

He scratched a line of letters on the ground with a twig, “Look at this, ‘ambition,’ the first word my dad taught me.”

Did you transmigrate too?

…

Qian Ming’s father was the county secondary school’s English teacher.

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Qian Ming had studied for years—besides Xu, he was the only one at the Youth Center who could recognize ABCDs.

Though his level wasn’t great, in this era’s county, he was a top English whiz.

“You want to take the exam for BJ Foreign Language?”

“I want to try.” His voice was low, not too confident.

Qian Ming reached into the bottom of his cloth bag and pulled out a yellowed “Dongfeng County Secondary School Student Certificate,” its corners stamped by the commune.

This household registration was a major reason Xu Chengjun wasn’t thinking about the college entrance exam, or at least not this year.

To take the exam, youth needed stamps from production team, commune, and county education bureau—household and student registration were troublesome.

The original owner had neglected these, so everything was a mess,

Basically, nothing was prepared.

In this era, with no digital administration, processing household and student registration would take at least two months.

“My dad said, language is a key, it can open the door to the outside. And it’s 1979 now—maybe we’ll deal with foreigners in the future.”

Qian Ming paused, lowering his voice, “But my math is weak, I never get function problems right.”

He had chosen the right direction.

In a few years, foreign trade and diplomacy would boom, and those skilled in languages would become invaluable.

1979 was not yet the era when learning minor languages was dominated by AI, or when white-collar jobs were less desirable than dogs.

But for now, Xu was more concerned about another matter: “Do you remember the exact conditions for worker-peasant-soldier recommendations to Fudan?”

“You need two published works and two referees with associate professor rank or higher.”

Qian Ming pulled out a wrinkled copy of “Youth Digest,” pointing to a folded page.

“I’ve marked it. For literature, you need a provincial writers’ association recommendation, which is tough!”

Xu Chengjun leaned in—the magazine paper was yellowed.

Qian Ming had drawn a wavy red line under “Fudan University,” and beside it, wrote “Xu Chengjun?” The question mark was crooked.

“You’re worried about this for me?”

“Watching you write novels, it seems promising!”

This guy!

He was good at encouragement~

…

Zhao Gang drifted over, chewing a stalk of wheat, grinning as he said, “Xu Chengjun writes novels, Qian Ming studies foreign languages, both will be eating at the state’s table one day.”

“You stay in Xu Family Village, guard the main camp.”

“We all have bright futures!” Xu Chengjun added from behind.

The amusing thing was that, in this era, nobody found such words strange~

Qian Ming’s face flushed, and he stuffed the English book into his bag, accidentally dropping a photograph.

It showed a bespectacled middle-aged man holding a child in front of a school building, the faint words “Dongfeng County Secondary School” visible in the background.

“That’s my dad.”

Qian Ming quickly pocketed the photo.

“Took it in ’66, before he was sent down.”

…

At dusk, after work, Xu Chengjun passed Qian Ming’s bed and saw him hunched over a small kerosene lamp, chewing over math problems.

Draft paper was covered with function graphs, and nearby lay a copy of “High School Algebra,” its cover marked “1965 Edition.”

“I know how to solve this one.”

Xu Chengjun crouched, picked up a pencil, and drew auxiliary lines on the paper.

“Look, break this triangle into two right triangles, use the Pythagorean theorem…”

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Qian Ming’s eyes widened. “Yes! How did I not think of that?”

He pushed up his glasses, suspicious, “Your math is really that good?”

“My father teaches math.”

Xu Chengjun smiled.

“I was forced to do a lot of problems as a kid.”

In truth, the original owner’s math was only marginally better than Qian Ming’s.

But with his modern perspective, these math problems were not difficult—the college entrance exam in this era was roughly equivalent to junior high or early high school level in later times.

Same with English.

…

The two calculated side-by-side, heads almost touching. Suddenly, Qian Ming asked, “How’s your manuscript revision going? Want Liu from the cultural center to help submit it?”

“Probably needs a few more days.”

Xu Chengjun recalled his father’s words in the letter: “Old Liu at the county cultural center is a good man,” an old colleague of his father!

A familiar face—things would be easier!

“We’ll see how it goes; I might need your help.”

“No problem at all.”

Qian Ming replied, pulling a small cloth bag from beneath his pillow. Inside were ten sheets of grid manuscript paper: “These are for you, sent by my brother from the army, military issue, sturdy.”

“Great for copying drafts.”

Xu Chengjun’s heart warmed.

In these times, manuscript paper was precious—ten sheets could cover half a novel.

Though this brigade was small, everywhere were people who cared for him.

…

He was about to thank him when he saw Qian Ming’s gaze fall on his shirt pocket, bulging with his father’s letter.

“You’re not going back to the county as a teacher?” Qian Ming asked suddenly.

“Not yet.”

Xu Chengjun gazed out the window at the wheat fields, the sunset gilding the waves of grain in red and gold.

“I’ll try submitting my work—aim for Shanghai.”

Qian Ming nodded and lowered his head to his problems, his pencil whispering across the paper.

“That’s good. I’m heading to BJ—maybe we’ll run into each other at the train station.”

Xu Chengjun said nothing, picked up the manuscript paper Qian Ming had given him, and began writing by the kerosene lamp.

…

In the distance, the sound of Xinghua’s coughing and Zhao Gang’s laughter as they played cards drifted in.

Night had come to the Youth Center.

Xu Chengjun slipped his father’s letter into the manuscript papers.

Within it, a single sentence revealed Xu’s father’s vision, offering Xu Chengjun another path.

“The world outside is vast; you need eyes that can see it.”

Shanghai and BJ—two distant names.

In the winds of 1979, they were quietly becoming the paths beneath the feet of two young men.