Chapter Fifty-Six: Two Places, Each Lost in Thought

The Fudan University cafeteria hid itself between several red-brick dormitory buildings, its gray-brick chimney gently puffing out wisps of white smoke. At the entrance, a blackboard announced today’s menu in chalk: corn porridge (0.05 yuan per bowl, 2 liang of grain coupons), steamed buns (0.03 yuan each, 1 liang of grain coupons), stir-fried greens (0.1 yuan per serving), and braised pork (0.3 yuan per serving, 1 liang of meat coupons). At the very bottom, in bold red chalk, it declared: “Porridge available today. Free refills with coupon.”

Free porridge was, in fact, a sign of the times. In 1979, though the food supply was more relaxed than during the harshest years, frugality was still necessary. The cafeteria’s policy of “free refills” for low-cost staples like porridge and soup was a way to ensure basic sustenance for all. The queue had already curled halfway around the courtyard, made up mostly of students and faculty who remained on campus. The boys in blue work shirts carried olive-green canvas satchels, the edges of enamel lunch boxes peeking out; the girls with ponytails clustered together, whispering and laughing, the ribbons at the ends of their braids swaying gently as they shuffled forward.

Xu Chengjun had just taken his place in line when he heard someone call out behind him, “Comrade Xu!” He turned to see Lin Wei waving at him from tiptoe, her ponytail flicking like a little whip. “Didn’t expect to run into you at the cafeteria!” Beside her, Chen Yang clutched two grain coupons and grinned sheepishly. “I was too harsh yesterday. Today, let me buy you braised pork to make amends.”

“Oh, I wouldn't dare. I’m the type to hold a grudge—you’ll have to treat me twice,” Xu Chengjun joked as he let them cut in ahead. “But let’s get something straight first. The cafeteria’s braised pork is mostly fat. You take the fatty bits, I’ll eat the lean.” Judging from what was said yesterday, Chen Yang seemed to come from a well-off family—it showed in his clothes, too. His Dacron shirt looked newer than everyone else’s; his accent hinted at Shanghai, though he tried to suppress it. Despite the gossip about him yesterday, he seemed a decent sort.

Lin Wei wasted no time, calling out to the counter, “Master, four steamed buns, three bowls of porridge, two orders of greens!” She turned back, “How many portions of braised pork? Chen Yang’s treating.”

“One is enough,” Xu Chengjun replied, fishing out his own grain coupons. “Meat coupons are even more valuable than cash—best to save them.” He figured one portion of braised pork wouldn’t be too much for Chen Yang to cover, so he accepted the treat with a smile, but paid for the rest of the dishes and staples for the three of them. The manuscript fees for “The Fitting Mirror” and “The Granary” were due soon—not exactly a windfall, but enough for small gestures among friends.

The man serving the food was a burly uncle with a full beard, scooping dishes from a huge iron pot, his ladle clanging against the rim. “Are you a sent-down youth?” he asked, examining Xu Chengjun as he took the grain coupons.

“Master, your eyes are sharp,” Xu Chengjun said with a grin. “If I end up studying at Fudan, I’ll be here every day for your meals.”

“Then I’ll have to give you an extra half ladle of meat,” the man replied, giving the braised pork a little shake so the greasy fat slid back into the pot. “My own boy is still in the countryside doing farm work, about to return to the city.”

When they looked for a seat, Lin Wei had already claimed a spot by the window at a wooden table.

The tabletop was battered and pitted. Xu Chengjun had just sat down when he saw the corn porridge steaming gently before him, a pale yellow film forming on top. Biting into a steamed bun, he tasted the blend of wheat and baking soda. “Fudan’s cafeteria food is pretty good,” he mumbled, mouth full.

Lin Wei grumbled, “It’s just a bit bland—not enough spice!”

“Count your blessings,” Chen Yang retorted, shoveling porridge into his mouth. “Last year during the grain shortage, even this corn porridge was mixed with sweet potato flour, and you want spice?”

Lin Wei scoffed and shot him a glare, then picked a piece of braised pork from the dish and dropped it into Xu Chengjun’s bowl. “Eat some meat, feed your brain. Want to try the mock interview at the department this afternoon? We can play the judges.”

Xu Chengjun was about to thank her when he saw Su Manshu, her cloth satchel slung over one shoulder, walking past the cafeteria entrance. Her moon-white blouse glinted in the sun. She seemed to be looking for a seat; her gaze swept over, and for a moment her eyes met Xu Chengjun’s as he reached for the meat. She paused, smiled, and waved, then turned to choose another table.

Chen Yang glanced between Xu Chengjun and Lin Wei, smirking. “Do you know her?”

After finishing his meal, Xu Chengjun bid the two farewell and wandered alone through the campus, giving his mind a moment to breathe.

When he returned to the reference room, Su Manshu was already seated by the window, head bent over manuscript paper, the sound of her red pen scratching across the page especially crisp.

“Classmate Su, you, an economics ace, copying ancient texts? That’s enough cross-disciplinary prowess for a Nobel Prize,” Xu Chengjun teased, tossing his canvas satchel onto the table.

Su Manshu looked up, her eyes smiling as she nudged open her annotated “Wenxin Diaolong.” “Don’t get smart, Xu. Huang Kan’s commentary is the real work of a genius.”

“I read a bit of your paper over lunch. This section from the ‘Tongbian’ chapter—‘Change ensures endurance, openness ensures abundance’—is perfect for explaining your theory of traditional transformation.”

Xu Chengjun leaned in and saw the annotations copied onto grid paper, her handwriting delicate yet strong.

“Your penmanship is better than print—had you practiced calligraphy, you might have become a master.”

“Who had the luxury of time?” she replied. “I just finished my own paper and now I have to help you catch up in my spare moments.”

“By the way, Professor Zhang mentioned ‘the contemporary vitality of traditional literary theory’ in last month’s lecture. You could use that angle in your interview.”

Such service—not only copying notes, but sharing the latest in academic thought.

“Five-star service! If I pass the interview, I’ll have to present you with a banner,” Xu Chengjun said with a laugh.

“Five-star service?” Su Manshu echoed. What a strange phrase, but she rather liked the sound of it. “Forget the banner,” she said, sliding the annotated pages toward him, her fingertip brushing his hand. “But if you do become part of Fudan, you owe me sweet-scented rice cakes at Green Wave Hall.”

“That’s a promise!” Xu Chengjun replied, eyes scanning the densely packed notes. He said nothing more, but buried himself in revising his literature review, weaving in Huang Kan’s insights.

This section, truth be told, was the weakest part of his paper. But with time and materials in short supply, he could only do his best.

Perhaps it was from sitting and writing so long. Or perhaps he just wanted to talk to someone.

He opened his draft, pointing to the chapter “The Beauty of Harmony and the Tension of Realism.” “Su, look here. I’m trying to apply the Tongcheng School’s ‘Righteousness, Textual Research, and Literary Style’ to the three elements of literary creation—does that seem too forced?”

He hadn’t actually expected an answer. But to his surprise, Su Manshu tilted her head, considering for a moment, and offered something wholly unexpected: “In economics, we talk about cost and benefit. Isn’t literary creation also about input and output? Textual research is the cost of gathering material, righteousness is the benefit of the idea, and literary style is the premium of presentation.”

She laughed suddenly. “Put that way, it doesn’t sound forced at all, does it?”

Her interdisciplinary perspective lit up Xu Chengjun’s mind. He smiled. “With that kind of theoretical transfer, it’s a pity you’re not going for a doctorate.”

Su Manshu gathered her papers and chided, “There you go again!”

“But you do need to mind the balance in your thesis: it can’t be just a parade of quotations, but it must have scholarly depth.”

The two of them bent over the table, sunlight casting crisscrossing shadows on the manuscript paper. Xu Chengjun shared his observations on writing; Su Manshu used economic models to help him clarify his logic. At first it all seemed like a joke, but the more they talked, the more sense it made. Occasionally, they would argue, but in the end, they always managed to reach an understanding on some point.

Now and then, both would remember something at the same time, both wanting to speak, then pausing, and meeting each other’s eyes in sudden surprise—then both would smile, as though everything need not be said.

“Who taught us to cherish the lotus nights each year—”

“—when our silent pondering is known only to ourselves.”

As old Mr. Zhang, the librarian, passed by, he shook his head with a smile. “Young people these days—more passionate about their studies than their romances.”

Su Manshu’s cheeks immediately flushed crimson.

There is a beauty, gentle and bright. Our chance encounter, just as I hoped. — “Wild Grass in the Fields,” Book of Songs