Chapter Fifty-Five: Keep Going, Xu Chengjun

The girl turned to look at him, her gaze tinged with apology.

Her voice was gentle, its trailing note as light as a feather brushing the heart.

“Could you help me reach the book at the very top of the shelf?”

That voice—

It sounded familiar.

Suddenly, the melody of "Scenery of Wuxi," which he hadn’t heard clearly in the stairwell, echoed in his ear: “The second spring under heaven, at the foot of Mount Hui…”

That unfinished, lilting tune matched the voice before him perfectly.

He spoke instinctively, still half-absorbed in his thesis, “Were you… the girl singing ‘Scenery of Wuxi’ in the room next to the west staircase yesterday?”

He regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth.

Coming to this era, life had been simple and somewhat impoverished, but he enjoyed it. There was a sense of peace—“without the discord of strings and bamboo, without the exhaustion of dossiers”—and he had become less cautious, less polished.

Though "Scenery of Wuxi" was folk music, people might gossip if a girl sang it. If she encountered someone fond of reporting or idle chatter, the words “decadent music” would surely arise.

He knew, after all, that the song “Qinhuai Scenery” from "The Flowers of War" was simply this Wuxi folk tune set to new lyrics.

Of course, the nature of the two was different.

Her search for a book paused. She slowly turned around.

The afternoon sunlight brushed her hair, casting fragmented spots of light across her oval face.

Her apricot eyes flashed with surprise before she smiled lightly, dimples blossoming at her lips. She spoke openly, with an air of ease: “That was me. I thought no one was in the room, but you heard me.”

Open, without a trace of concealment.

There was a confidence and generosity rarely seen in these times.

She took two steps forward, the strap of her canvas bag swaying gently, revealing tiny blue orchids embroidered at her sleeve.

“My name is Su Manshu—Su as in Suzhou, Manshu from ‘rippling waves,’ Shu from ‘clouds sweeping across the sky.’”

“I’m in the economics department, starting my third year this term.”

As she finished speaking, she extended her hand, her fingers slender, nails pink and healthy. “And you? You seem unfamiliar—I don’t see you in the reference room often, do I?”

The moment their fingertips touched, the cool sensation was like snow settling in his palm.

The girl had brushed past the matter of singing, deftly shifting the topic.

Xu Chengjun stood up briskly to return the handshake: “Xu Chengjun, from Anhui. I’ll be here the day after tomorrow for a Chinese department interview.”

“Xu Chengjun?”

Su Manshu’s eyes suddenly brightened, her apricot eyes curving into crescents. “Are you the Xu Chengjun who wrote ‘Walking Toward the Light’?”

Xu Chengjun fetched the book she’d pointed to—a yellowed copy of "Canglang Poetry Talks."

He smiled at her, “That should be me. I wrote it for the youth column, hoping to inspire people my age. I never expected it to reach Fudan.”

“Even I was surprised.”

“It was more than inspiring.” Su Manshu closed her book, tilting her head to look at him. “When I read ‘All the flowers will bloom in turn,’ I always felt as if thousands of blossoms opened in the wind before my eyes. Not just anyone could write that.”

“You gave others motivation too early.” Xu Chengjun pointed to the manuscript papers on the table with a grin. “Now I need to encourage myself. I’ve prepared a thesis for the interview but am missing references.”

Su Manshu stepped closer, glancing down at the manuscript.

“The Modern Transformation of Chinese Traditional Literary Theory—from ‘Literature as a Vehicle for the Dao’ to the Native Path of Realism.”

The title topped the first page of a thick stack.

She read it softly, her eyes tinged with surprise.

Though she was from the economics department, her family’s scholarly background meant she knew something about the current focus in the Chinese department.

Perhaps more than just “something.”

This didn’t seem like a paper written by a sent-down youth, even one who had penned “Walking Toward the Light.”

Not that she had anything against sent-down youth; it was true that the academic standards of worker-peasant-soldier students were lower than those of college entrance examinees.

“Just from the title, the paper must be excellent.”

She spoke while unconsciously rubbing the spine of her book, her nails neatly rounded.

“Nowadays the academic world is fixated on Western theory, but you’ve rooted yourself in the native tradition. That’s certainly a unique approach.”

Xu Chengjun raised an eyebrow. “Students from the economics department pay attention to literary theory?”

“My family’s bookshelf is full of these books—I just picked it up by osmosis.”

She smiled, the corners of her eyes curving, “My father always says, ‘Knowledge isn’t divided between arts and sciences.’ From your title, are you trying to apply our ancestors’ wisdom to the present?”

“In a way.” Xu Chengjun flipped through a few pages of his draft. “Discussing reform doesn’t always require borrowing Western theory. Our ancestors’ ideas of ‘adaptation’ and ‘balance’ still hold up.”

“For instance, the ‘marvelous insight’ in Canglang Poetry Talks?”

Su Manshu suddenly drew a thread-bound book from her canvas bag—it was "Annotated Canglang Poetry Talks."

“Yan Yu said, ‘The essence of Zen lies in marvelous insight, and so does the essence of poetry.’ If you use this to interpret your ‘Moonlight Sows Shadows,’ wouldn’t it fit even better?”

Xu Chengjun accepted the book, looking up at her. “You’ve studied classical literary theory as well?”

“I wouldn’t call it studying—just something I leaf through at leisure.”

She rolled up her shirt hem, sunlight streaming through the high windows onto her hair.

“But if you’re missing references from ‘The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons,’ there’s a 1957 annotated edition in the iron cabinet at the west corner of the reference room. It has Huang Kan’s marginal notes—especially insightful on the ‘adaptation’ chapter.”

He really was missing that!

He’d been searching for books like that for two days, and now a young woman had pointed it out to him by chance.

His citations could be richer.

Beauty and kindness in one!

He looked up and met Su Manshu’s smiling gaze. “If you don’t manage to organize your notes before the interview, I can copy a few crucial annotations for you. I’ll be in the reference room these next two days anyway.”

“That’s too much trouble for you.” Xu Chengjun waved his hand.

“It’s nothing.”

Su Manshu turned toward the bookshelf. “You helped me get my book, I’ll help you copy the notes. We’re even.”

“Besides, I’m your poetry admirer! Not many chances to meet a rising poet up close!”

She glanced back, hair brushing her shoulder and releasing a fresh scent. “Oh, at the end of the third-floor corridor there’s an old typewriter. You’re copying your paper by hand, but it’s faster there.”

Xu Chengjun watched her weaving between the shelves, her pale shirt almost translucent in the sunlight.

For a moment, he couldn’t name the feeling in his heart.

The heart is like a double silk net, within it are thousands of knots.

“Thank you.”

He picked up his pen and noted the edition she’d mentioned in the margin of his thesis.

“When the interview’s over, let me treat you to snacks at Yuyuan Garden.”

Yuyuan’s Green Wave Hall had just opened earlier this year, founded by veteran chefs from Songyue Tower, Nanxiang Bun Shop, and other famous establishments. Its specialty was the "Fourteen Prince’s Snacks."

Drawing on the story of Prince Sihanouk’s visit to Shanghai, the servers would relate the origin of the “1973 Fourteen Snacks Banquet,” making for lively conversation.

Window seats offered views of the Nine-Turn Bridge and lake.

As for price, it was one to two yuan per person—much more affordable than foreign restaurants, offering a “people’s version” of the guest experience.

Su Manshu peeked out from behind the shelves, her apricot eyes curving into crescent moons: “It’s a deal. But you’d better do well, so my effort copying notes isn’t wasted!”

“Oh, and…”

“If you’re interviewing, the third-floor conference room is rarely used these days. You can go there early to get familiar with the place.”

She glanced at her Shanghai-brand watch. “And Professor Zhang and the others like to arrive early—you’d best get there ten minutes ahead of time.”

He was about to thank her again when he saw Su Manshu stand on tiptoe to reach another book higher up.

The breeze lifted the hem of her pale shirt, revealing her slender, upright back.

“Found it!”

She waved the "Appraisal of Poetry" in her hand, sunlight falling across her brow. “Good luck, Xu!”

Her dimples deepened as she smiled. “Fine writing never stays hidden.”