Chapter Fifty-Two: Xu Chengjun, You Have Disappointed Me Greatly

When the clock in the library struck half past eight, the elderly female librarian came to urge him for the third time. “Young man, the library’s closing.”

Xu Chengjun jerked his head up and rubbed his aching eyes. Under the desk lamp, the penmanship on the manuscript paper blurred into a haze; he’d just finished listing the references on the last page, ending with the 6th issue of Literature Review from 1978.

He paused in surprise; he’d thought libraries in this era also closed at ten.

In fact, Fudan University Library had closed after the “beep beep” period, and it was only this September that it reopened in the original St. John’s University Chapel. The current library hours were a unique “trial operation” for this time.

Xu Chengjun slapped his face to clear his head. “I’m leaving right away.” He hastily stuffed his thesis into his canvas bag, greeted the old lady, and walked quickly out of the library.

Today’s task was almost done; all that remained was to fill in the gaps tomorrow and copy it out neatly on paper. Like defeating a minor foe on the road to leveling up.

The corridor lights had just flickered on, casting a latticework of pale gold through frosted glass onto the wooden floor.

As Xu Chengjun descended the creaking stairs, the manuscripts in his bag swayed gently with each step.

The porter’s room at the school gate was lit. The old security guard was wiping down a bicycle with a rag.

He still remembered Xu Chengjun and looked up at the clock on the wall. “You’re only leaving now? The last run of bus 93 is at nine.”

Xu Chengjun only then recalled that, even if he caught a transfer and made his way back to the Writers’ Association guesthouse, it would be nearly eleven by the time he arrived.

The time itself was manageable. But considering Wang Zengqi was nearly sixty, he truly couldn’t bear to disturb him so late. It just wasn’t something a younger person ought to do.

Better to leave Teacher Wang some private space.

He thanked the old guard and asked for directions to the Youth Residence. Pulling out the accommodation chit from the academic office, he made for the Youth Residence.

The night breeze brought with it the fragrance of locust blossoms as Xu Chengjun followed the signs deeper into campus.

From the basketball court came the sound of dribbling; a few boys in army-green vests were playing a late game in the dark, their sneakers squeaking distinctly across the court.

On a stone bench at the edge, a couple sat under the main road’s streetlamp, reading Popular Cinema. Liu Xiaoqing’s beaming smile graced the magazine’s cover.

Amusingly, even with the streetlights, Xu Chengjun could barely see a thing in the gathering dark. Perhaps what they were really gazing at was the blossoming in each other’s hearts.

As he passed, the couple’s joined hands were surreptitiously released.

Passing Xianghui Hall, the broadcast speakers suddenly came alive, the opening music of National News blurring with static.

A cluster of students gathered before the bulletin board, reading the new notices by lamplight. On one red sheet, “Department of Chinese Special Talent Interview List” stood out in bold.

Xu Chengjun slowed his steps and heard someone mutter, “Xu Chengjun, the educated youth from Fengyang… where have I seen that name before?”

“Guangming Daily! He wrote ‘Walking Toward the Light’! There was an introduction—also from Fengyang—it must be the same person.”

Another voice joined in. “I heard he’s getting special admission. The whole department is in an uproar.”

He paused in mild surprise. Hadn’t “Walking Toward the Light” and “The Letter” just been published in Anqing Daily? How was it now Guangming Daily? And how had word traveled to Fudan so quickly?

He shook his head; perhaps it was a twist of fate that an editor chanced upon Anqing Daily. His poem and letter, after all, fit Guangming Daily’s founding vision.

…

The Youth Residence was tucked behind red brick walls, a peeling sign hanging on the wooden door.

The duty attendant, an old man, was dozing at the desk. Startled awake by Xu’s knock, he grumbled, “Register. Letter of introduction.”

Xu handed over the slip from the Chinese Department. The old man squinted and scribbled in the register, “Room 302. Take the key yourself. Canteen opens at seven—bring your own ration tickets.”

The room was more spartan than the Writers’ Association guesthouse: a coarse blanket on a metal bed frame, a washstand rusted in the corner. But the window faced the lawn, and the night breeze carried the scent of grass and trees through the room.

He’d just set down his bag and was about to wash up when he recalled a few more revisions for his thesis. Pulling out scrap paper, he bent over the nightstand, scribbling furiously. Faintly, he heard an argument outside the window.

“‘Walking Toward the Light’ is just too pretentious! ‘Maturity is a deep kind of despair’—isn’t that just melodrama?” a boy’s voice said irritably.

“What do you know!” a girl shot back. “Do you think being sent-down youth is as easy as your life? Only someone who’s lived it could write that—it’s called empathy!”

Xu Chengjun’s pen froze. Were they criticizing his poem? And right under his window, no less? These kids had nerve!

He crept to the window and peered out through the curtain.

Under the streetlamp stood three or four students: the boys in crisp shirts, the girls with ponytails, all clutching crumpled copies of Guangming Daily.

The shirted boy jabbed at the newspaper’s supplement. “So what if Guangming Daily reprinted it? The editor’s note is just over-the-top praise!”

“Oh? And what do you call praise? Is shouting ‘Long live reform’ all that counts?” The ponytailed girl slapped the paper in front of him. “‘The road is made by those who walk it’—does that hit a nerve for you?”

A bespectacled, petite youth piped up, “I think ‘The Letter’ is even better. ‘Hands cracked by frost can still write of spring’—that’s the real life of educated youth.”

“Oh, please,” the boy in the shirt scoffed. “Who still believes ‘old grain in the warehouse can sprout’? That’s just glorifying hardship!”

Xu Chengjun couldn’t help himself; he opened the door. “Excuse me, could I borrow your newspaper for a look?”

The argument cut off abruptly. Three students turned in unison, eyes wary as they saw Xu’s freshly laundered white shirt.

“Who are you?” The boy in the shirt tucked the newspaper behind his back.

“Just passing by,” Xu said genially, sidling closer. “I heard you discussing ‘Walking Toward the Light.’ I’ve read it too—nothing special.”

Shirt-boy’s eyes lit up. “Right? I said it was overwrought…”

“Especially that line, ‘Two shadows planted in the moonlight’—the metaphor’s tired. Might as well just say, ‘Play the fool by day, be yourself by night’—much more direct.”

The ponytailed girl bristled. “Shows what you know! That’s called imagery! Do you even realize Xu Chengjun, the author, is coming for an interview tomorrow? It’s posted on the bulletin board!”

“Oh? And what’s he interviewing for?” Xu feigned curiosity.

“For the Special Talent program!” she said, gripping the paper. “To write light out of hardship—that’s a hundred times better than your sarcasm!”

Goodness, such fervor! Had he met his first die-hard fan at Fudan?

The bespectacled youth suddenly pointed. “I’ve seen you! By the bulletin board earlier, staring at the interview list!”

The moment Xu nodded, the trio froze.

The boy in the shirt dropped his newspaper; the supplement headline, “Walking Toward the Light,” blazed under the streetlamp.

“You… you’re Xu Chengjun?” The ponytailed girl’s voice trembled.

“None other.” Xu picked up the paper, smiling at the boy in the shirt. “Just take those lines as something I wrote when my fingers were too cold to bend—pure venting.”

The boy’s face flushed scarlet. He scratched his head, shuffling back. “I… I didn’t mean anything, I just…”

“Just thought it wasn’t revolutionary enough?” Xu clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “Normal reaction. Even editors say my rural pieces are too bleak.”

The bespectacled youth picked up the paper. “Comrade Xu, could I get your autograph? I want to give it to my sister—she just returned to the city and keeps saying there’s no hope.”

Before he could finish, the ponytailed girl muttered, “Even if you are Xu Chengjun, I really like your poems!” She gestured emphatically, as if afraid her words lacked force. “Like them very, very much! But you’ve really let me down!”