Chapter Five: The Final Draft

When the wheat begins to yellow and bristle.

Xu Chengjun folded the last page of manuscript into the growing stack. Over the past two months, he’d gone through three reams of rough paper, accumulated half a tin of pencil stubs, and even the slate Apricot Blossom had given him was scrubbed nearly white from use. The manuscript papers were stacked neatly on the wooden chest, their corners curling slightly in the night breeze. His heart brimmed with the satisfaction of finishing a story.

To write of the seasons and the world—
Some things cannot be put into words.

…

“Finished writing?”

Qian Ming was holding a copy of “High School Mathematics,” the tape on his glasses’ temple freshly replaced.

“You finally sorted out the account book of Xu Chunsheng’s father?”

Leaning back against the earthen wall, Xu Chengjun’s six-foot frame seemed even taller in the low-ceilinged youth bunkhouse. Farm work had tanned him to the color of ripe wheat, muscles on his arms visible beneath his faded shirt.

“More or less, left a bit unfinished.”

He pulled out the top page and handed it over.

“Read this part—it’s more solid than any fancy trick.”

Qian Ming flipped to the first page. “It’s all centered around the grain barn?”

“Took five drafts to get it right.”

Xu Chengjun gazed out the window at the sea of dark green wheat, the moonlight dusting the ears with silver.

“People in the countryside look to the barn. When Xu Chunsheng helped his father, Old Xu, to dry grain, he noticed the notches on the barn wall, the way the keys hung, the tilt of the jujube-wood scale—all of it tells a story. The old key ring on the east wall always swung toward the third plank, and the scale never quite balanced during the collective weighing—there’s a world of meaning there.”

“That’s more real than anything!” Qian Ming was a fine foil, slapping his thigh as the wooden bed protested with a creak.

“There’s a slogan on the back: ‘Barn Full,’ but in fact, you can see the barn floor?”

“Exactly.” Xu Chengjun tapped his knee with his fingertips.

“His father hid a cloth ledger in the lining of a cigarette case, marked in brush: ‘1977, thirty-seven jin of wheat lost, planted on the family plot harvested one hundred and twenty-two.’ He wrote ‘Barn Full’ to avoid suspicion.”

Qian Ming ran his fingers over the “Trial Planting Record” page. Suddenly remembering something, he peeked out the door. “Cadre Liu is coming to the commune today. I’m going to handle my household registration, so I can deliver your manuscript to him?”

Xu Chengjun sat upright and nodded. “Thank you! Don’t say too much—let him read it first.”

“And don’t mention I’m Xu Zhiguo’s son.”

“Don’t worry.” Qian Ming rolled up the manuscript and tucked it into his military satchel. “I’ll just say, ‘Rural story by educated youth Xu Chengjun.’ If he’s not interested, I’ll brag about your other talents.”

The two of them laughed.

In the dim kerosene lamp light, Zhao Gang’s snoring mingled with the distant thrum of threshing. It was hard to say which sound was louder.

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Early the next morning, Qian Ming set out for the commune with the manuscript. Xu Chengjun pulled out the “Synopsis” he’d written last night and slipped it into the satchel. “Show this to Cadre Liu, so he won’t have to flip through everything.”

The synopsis, penned through the night, read:

“‘The Barn’ takes 1978’s Xujiatun in Fengyang, Anhui as its model. Xu Laoshuan, the barn keeper, clutches a bronze key engraved with ‘1958,’ guarding the collective granary for twenty years, all the while etching tally marks for lost wheat on the barn wall, and hiding a cloth ledger that records the secret: ‘Collective land yields three hundred, family plot five hundred.’

“The returning educated youth, his son Xu Chunsheng, brings news of Xiaogang Village’s land division, secretly using wheat fallen through the barn floor to trial-plant on wasteland. Old Xu fears being criticized for private division but quietly helps his son; father and son struggle between ‘clinging to the old’ and ‘seeking change.’ When the trial plot’s yield far exceeds the collective, Old Xu smashes open the bronze lock, melts the key into a plowshare, and carves ‘divide the land’ into the barn wall.”

Qian Ming mounted his squeaky bicycle, satchel bouncing behind him. Passing Apricot Blossom’s house, he saw her squatting at the doorway shelling beans. She looked up and asked, “Is Brother Chengjun’s manuscript finished?”

“On its way to Cadre Liu now.” Qian Ming braked and grinned. “There’s a character inside just like you—spirited as can be.”

Apricot Blossom blushed, her hands moving faster as the bean strings fell in crooked lines on the ground. “I don’t know anything about that…”

Qian Ming, oblivious, pedaled off toward the commune.

The wheat along the roadside was mostly gold, the grains rustling as they brushed together.

Under the acacia at the commune, Cadre Liu was squatting on the stone mill, gnawing a steamed bun. He wore a faded Dacron shirt, mud on his trouser legs, and a copy of “Anhui Literature” tucked under his arm—the words “Emancipate the Mind” sweat-stained and damp.

“Uncle Liu!” Qian Ming leaned his bike against the tree, ran up with the satchel.

Cadre Liu looked over his glasses, which had slipped down his nose. “Little Qian, how’s your father? The last speech he wrote was praised by the secretary for having the ‘smell of earth.’”

“He’s well, always talks about you.”

Qian Ming set the satchel on the stone mill. “Brought you a manuscript, written by educated youth Xu Chengjun, all about rural life. Please have a look?”

Cadre Liu wiped his hands, hesitated at the name. “Xu Chengjun? Son of Xu Zhiguo from Dongfeng Middle School?”

“That’s him, but please don’t mention it.”

Qian Ming waved his hands quickly. “He just wants your opinion on the writing.”

Cadre Liu opened the synopsis, at first absentmindedly chewing his bun, jaw creaking, not really paying attention. He’d known both Xu Zhiguo’s sons since they were boys—the elder was reliable, the younger… a bit timid, to his mind.

But this piece… there seemed to be something here.

When he read “the notches on the barn wall tallying lost wheat,” the bun paused at his lips. By the time he reached “Old Xu scattering wheat seeds at the corner of the barn at night,” he sat up straight, the folds on his shirt stretching taut.

Turning to the page where the trial plot yielded 528 jin per mu, he suddenly stuffed the bun into his pocket, grabbed the manuscript, and dashed to the office, his cloth shoes slapping the mud.

“Let’s go inside—the light’s better!”

Qian Ming followed, watching as Cadre Liu heavily underlined the line about “the cloth ledger hidden in the barn beam.”

“This is real rural life!” Cadre Liu slapped the table, making the tea spill from his enamel mug. “Old Xu, afraid of being criticized for dividing the grain, yet secretly letting the wheat sprout—you’ve captured the contradiction!”

The typist next door poked his head in, but Cadre Liu waved him off. “Nothing, nothing—just reading a great manuscript!”

He looked up at Qian Ming. “So, Xu Chengjun—he’s at Xujiatun for his placement?”

“This really is his own writing?”

“It is! He reaps wheat by day and writes by night, spent two months on it. I saw him write every word myself!” Qian Ming recalled Xu Chengjun’s bloodshot eyes. “He said you’re an expert—if anything’s off, he’ll change it right away.”

“Wait here, I’m going to read it closely.” Cadre Liu bent over the pages again.

Time slipped by. Sometimes Cadre Liu would murmur in thought, sometimes frown. Qian Ming fidgeted, restless as a field spirit.

Suddenly, Cadre Liu looked up, slapped his thigh, and exclaimed, “Brilliant! The ‘crack’ in the barn lets the first light of reform in!”

Qian Ming finally breathed out, grinning at the sound of that slap.

Now, if they were to discuss further, perhaps they’d have to call it a joint creation—or even a second author?

Cadre Liu rolled up the manuscript and shoved it into his briefcase, clapping Qian Ming on the shoulder. “Tell Chengjun, there’s no need to change a word! I’ll mail this to Chief Editor Zhou at ‘Anhui Literature’ today. If he doesn’t publish it, I’ll go to Hefei and block his door myself!”

His eyes shone with approval. “That boy has real talent. This manuscript will let him step out of Xujiatun!”

He added, “Tell Chengjun—I underestimated him. Don’t hold it against me, and don’t look down on ‘Anhui Culture’ for being a small magazine. For him, it’s a fine beginning.”

-----------------

Riding back to the village, Qian Ming watched the setting sun turn the waves of wheat a shining red-gold. He hummed a tuneless song, the satchel at his side still fragrant with the scent of ink.

As he neared the youth camp, he saw Xu Chengjun turning wheat on the drying ground. His tall figure moved steadily by the pile, the wooden shovel tossing up a golden mist of chaff in the sunlight.

“Chengjun! Cadre Liu said your manuscript is brilliant—he’s sending it to ‘Anhui Literature!’”

Qian Ming shouted across the field.

Xu Chengjun straightened, chaff dusting his tanned face.

He smiled.

This was the first step on a new path.