Chapter Forty-Nine: "Everyday Moments"

“This melody does not follow the current,” he silently recited in his heart.

Suddenly, he began to understand why the ancients said that the greatest sound is almost inaudible. Because truly beautiful music does not always announce itself like thunder—it is more likely the first delicate crackle when a spring stream breaks through its icy cover.

Xu Chengjun paused at the stairwell for half a minute. In his mind, a vague image emerged: she must be wearing a white cheongsam, holding a folding fan in her hand...

He shook his head and smiled at himself. In this day and age? Impossible! That would be a crime! At most, she might be dressed in a pale blue poplin shirt, the sleeves rolled up to her forearms, revealing a slender silver bracelet on her wrist.

She must be someone who loved to smile; when she sang a playful line, the corners of her mouth would lift before the melody caught up. What shone in her eyes was not the charm of the opera, but the light on a lotus leaf after rain—bright and crisp.

Perhaps she also held a dog-eared copy of “Selected Song Lyrics,” her fingertip tapping out the rhythm on the page for “Jiangnan Is Good,” every line soaked with the lyricism of the southern rivers.

He shook his head again. Why was he thinking about all this?

His steps fell once more on the wooden stairs, which creaked softly beneath him.

He climbed steadily, every step sure and measured. On the bulletin board at the landing, the chalk letters spelling “Welcome New Students” were still fresh. It had probably been prepared ahead of time by students returning home for the holidays, ready for touch-ups come September.

Enough. He had more important things to do. He tried to shake these stray thoughts from his mind.

At the door of Room 410, the wooden plaque reading “Department of Chinese Administration Office” was polished to a sheen from years of touch.

He knocked gently. Inside, a response came with a strong Shanghai accent: “Come in.”

He pushed the door open. Behind the old-fashioned wooden desk sat a middle-aged man with black-rimmed glasses. A stack of manila folders lay open on the desk, and a porcelain mug of strong tea sent up curls of steam. On the wall hung a spotless slogan: “Education Must Serve the Proletarian Cause.”

“Hello, sir. My name is Xu Chengjun, from Fengyang, Anhui,” he said, placing his canvas bag on the wooden stool by the door. He pulled out the introduction letter from the provincial education department and the interview notice. “These are my documents. Professor Zhu asked me to come for an interview at the end of the month.”

The administrator took the papers, looking him over. “Xu Chengjun from Anhui? There’s been quite a stir in the department about you recently.”

He picked up his pen and made a few marks on the registry. “Editor-in-Chief Zhou Ming called our department head last month about your piece in ‘The Granary.’”

Xu Chengjun’s heart eased. Old Zhou was indeed reliable.

He followed up by pulling out his contributor’s notice from “Anhui Literature” and the acceptance slip from “Harvest,” along with recommendation letters from Teachers Su Zhong and Liu Zuci. “Here are my recent publications and acceptances, plus recommendation letters.”

The administrator carefully leafed through the documents and nodded slightly. “Professor Zhang Peiheng specifically requested to see your original drafts and revisions. It’s rare for a young man to devote himself to rural subjects.”

He sorted the materials in order, tying them with a cotton string. “There was quite a bit of debate in the committee, you know. Some questioned the educational background of the educated youth, while others insisted your writing qualifies you as a ‘special talent.’”

“I understand,” Xu Chengjun replied with a smile. “I’ve spent two years in the countryside—I know the professors are concerned about my theoretical foundation.”

The administrator gave him a surprised look. The words sounded humble, but the underlying confidence was unmistakable. Confident in his theoretical knowledge? That was rare among the educated youth.

So, the administrator added a few more words of advice.

“From your file, I’d say you’re certainly qualified. In previous years, you wouldn’t even have needed to come for an interview. But this year is special. There’s talk that the workers-peasants-soldiers recommendation system will be fully abolished in October. Right at this turning point, Fudan is keeping just a handful of places open—only a dozen or so nationwide.”

“So, I hope you understand the difficulties.”

Sometimes, a single sentence can shift another’s attitude. Of course, you must know what to say.

“Of course I understand the professors’ concerns. I appreciate all the effort you’ve put in,” Xu Chengjun replied.

The administrator looked up at him and smiled. Perhaps he found this young man quite interesting.

He pulled out an interview schedule from the drawer. “The day after tomorrow, at 9 a.m., the interview will be in the third-floor conference room. I’ll arrange for Professors Zhu and Zhang to be there, along with three other literature scholars. Prepare to discuss your creative process on ‘The Granary’; they may ask about your other works as well.”

He paused, then added, “If you find it difficult to discuss theory, talk more about your firsthand observations in the production brigade.”

Xu Chengjun accepted the schedule. Four segments were marked in red: work interpretation, policy understanding, literary theory, and on-the-spot writing.

“Thank you for the reminder. Do you know what kind of topic the on-the-spot writing might be?”

“Hard to say,” the administrator replied, tidying the files. “Last year, the topic was ‘Hometown’; the year before, ‘A Day’s Labor’—all drawn from life. Just write as you usually observe life.”

The topics fit well with current literary trends—not too difficult.

He gestured toward the window. “Your accommodation is in the Educated Youth Building behind the back gate. This slip will cover your stay until the interview ends—eighty cents a day, billed to the university.”

Xu Chengjun took the lodging slip but had no intention of staying there. The Writers’ Union guesthouse was far preferable! Inside, there was Wang Zengqi; step outside, and there was Chen Rong!

“How long after the interview will the results be out?” he asked.

“You’ll be notified on the spot. Professor Zhang is the key decision-maker. If you’re admitted, the official notice will be mailed out with the university entrance admits.”

The administrator locked the file in a steel cabinet, the click of the lock unusually clear.

“By the way, if you’re accepted, you’ll need to report in early September, bringing your household transfer certificate and grain and oil ration documents. Your household registration will be moved to the university, and your monthly grain ration will be thirty-two jin—more generous than in the countryside.”

“Thank you for all your help,” Xu Chengjun said politely, shaking the administrator’s hand.

The administrator smiled and pointed behind the door. “Don’t mention it. If you have time, visit the library or the department’s reading room. With this pass, just tell the librarian you’re looking for ‘reference materials for rural literature’—they’ll find you relevant journals.”

“My name is Sun Shuqi. Just call me Mr. Sun. If you’re admitted, you’ll be seeing a lot of me,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. Sun. I’ve already troubled you enough,” Xu Chengjun replied with a smile.

…

On his way downstairs, Xu Chengjun lightened his steps as he passed the third floor. Amid the faint creak of the stair boards, the voice of the woman singing “Scenes from Wuxi” did not return.

At the landing, the breeze from the corridor swept past his nose, carrying the freshness of grass and trees, and a hint of the southern riverlands’ gentle humidity. He shook his head and walked on, not without a touch of regret.

At the second floor turn, a dust-dulled mirror was embedded in the wall, its edges mottled where the silver backing had worn away.

Xu Chengjun stopped. The reflection showed a tall, slender figure; the collar of his shirt bore traces of travel dust, and in his scholarly features was the quiet resolve of a man who had lived two lives.

He raised his hand to wipe the dust from the glass. His fingertip had barely touched the cool surface when he suddenly froze.

His fingertip in the mirror was separated from reality by a transparent film; so close, yet forever out of reach.

Just like Chunlan in his story “The Fitting Room Mirror”—her reflection trying on the floral blouse, while her real hand could only tremble as it clutched the hem.

Life is always like this. Between what is real and what is longed for, there is always an invisible pane of glass—you can see through it, but never touch.

The wind slipped in from the end of the corridor, fluttering the strap of his canvas bag.

He stood for a moment in contemplation.

Songs left unfinished, mirrors left uncleansed, words left unsaid—these are the true shape of life.

Just as the mottled glass holds stories—imperfect, yet most authentic.

He reached into his shirt pocket for his fountain pen, drew a scrap of paper from his bag.

As the pen hovered over the page, the fragments of his thoughts suddenly threaded together.

In a flowing hand, a short poem emerged on the paper.

/
“Slice of Life”
By Xu Chengjun

When the mirror hasn’t been polished,
The days are a blurred path.
The moment the wind pauses in the branches,
Fallen leaves forget their distant journey.
You count the moonbeams in the windowpanes;
Outside, the moonlight shatters into stars.