Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Old Fire Soup

When he returned to the Writers’ Association Guesthouse, Xu Chengjun had just slung his canvas bag over his shoulder and reached the corner of the second floor when he heard a faint cough coming from Room 201.

He pushed open the door to find Wang Zengqi sitting calmly on a wooden chair by the window, a small purple clay teapot cradled in his hand. His demeanor was poised and unruffled, perfectly embodying the adage “a man as he writes.” In his previous life, during a literature appreciation class, a professor who greatly admired Wang Zengqi had once described his work in these words: “His prose is simmered, simmered, simmered!” This moment seemed to echo that sentiment.

It was only fitting, after all. In his youth, Wang Zengqi’s sharp, dazzling works from the days of the Southwest Associated University resembled a stew over a gentle flame. By his later years, stories like “Ordination” and “Dried Tea” had matured into a rich and mellow broth. What seemed like an offhand line—“Minghai has been a monk for four years now”—was, in truth, the sinew of classical prose transformed into the flesh and blood of the vernacular.

In his previous life, there was a saying among online readers about two realms of writing. One was typified by Wang Zengqi: prose so plain it contained no grandiloquent phrases or glittering lines, yet so immersive that readers would lose themselves in it. In those restless times, any writing that could quiet the mind was surely composed with a heart full of compassion. Wang Zengqi was like Dr. Wang Danren in his stories, prescribing a cooling, detoxifying remedy for the fevered souls of the world.

The other realm stood at the opposite extreme, represented by Lu Xun—his writing was rife with aphorisms, profound and incisive, capable of piercing the smallest of gaps; any random sentence could be plucked and framed as a quotation, leaving a powerful impression.

A faint stain of tea clung to the teapot’s body.

“Back already?” Wang Zengqi looked up with a smile, his gaze behind the lenses flickering with amusement as he glanced at the grass-stained cuffs of Xu Chengjun’s trousers. “Is the lodging at Fudan more comfortable than here?”

There it was. How could you call this place comfortable?

Xu Chengjun tossed his bag onto the bed, the canvas strap thumping lightly against the wooden frame. “Comfortable? These iron-framed beds are so hard they nearly leave imprints on your bones. I almost broke the slats rolling over last night.”

He took a seat on the wooden stool beside the wicker chair, his mind shifting automatically to flattery. “It’s still better here with you—at least the seat doesn’t bruise your backside.”

Wang Zengqi topped off his teacup with hot water, his laughter growing more hearty. “If you don’t like the hard beds, just come back to stay—after all, ‘Harvest’ covers your lodging.”

But that wasn’t the end of it. While picking his teeth with a tea stem, the old gentleman mused, “I bet you ate well at Fudan and didn’t want to leave, eh?”

“Your eyes are as sharp as radar,” Xu Chengjun replied, scratching his head sheepishly as he fished a waxed-paper packet from his bag. “I didn’t starve, that’s for sure. Some friends at Fudan gave me these sugared cakes—awfully sweet. Would you like to try one?”

As soon as he opened the packet, the scent of osmanthus sugar filled the room.

Wang Zengqi picked one up and brought it to his nose, raising his brows in surprise. “Suzhou-style sugared cake? Doesn’t seem like the work of a cafeteria chef.” He eyed Xu Chengjun with a hint of gossip. “A girl gave these to you?”

Xu Chengjun pursed his lips; he’d known this topic would come up. “No such thing. I’m focused on my studies, working hard to get into Fudan—just as I should learn from you. No chance for Southwest Associated University these days, but if there’s a shot at Fudan, I have to take it.”

In those times, the top tier of Chinese literature departments counted only three: Peking University, Fudan University, and Nanjing University. If you couldn’t be the gatekeeper at Peking University, or get into its economics department, or run its library, then Fudan’s literature department was a decent alternative. No need to let down the reputation of these fine folks.

Wang Zengqi didn’t stand on ceremony with Xu Chengjun; the two had hit it off just a couple of nights before. Their temperaments were somewhat alike, and Xu Chengjun’s remarks always seemed to strike a chord with the old maestro’s literary sensibilities. Bit by bit, an unlikely friendship had formed.

He took a small bite, sugar crumbs clinging to the corner of his mouth. “Ah, this is a fine cake! But let me remind you, your trip to Shanghai isn’t just for charming girls out of their cakes.”

“I don’t meddle in young people’s affairs, but don’t miss your interview.”

“No chance of that.” Xu Chengjun pulled his canvas bag onto his knees and started fishing out his belongings. “The interview’s at nine the morning after tomorrow. I’ve been in the literature department’s archives these past days, researching and working on my essay. Tomorrow I figured I’d stay at Fudan—save myself some running around.”

He spoke lightly, but there was a trace of guilt. Then again, why feel guilty? He really had been working on his essay!

Wang Zengqi sipped his tea without replying, his gaze drifting over the items Xu Chengjun had unpacked: an enamel mug with a chipped rim, a pen polished smooth by use, a few half-eaten milk candies. When Xu Chengjun finally produced the lodging slip from the Fudan registrar, Wang Zengqi suddenly chuckled. “So you’re here to say goodbye? Just staying one night before you run off—what, am I so unwelcome?”

“Not at all!” Xu Chengjun slapped the slip onto the table. “I’ll be back to pester you after the interview. Just need to stay at Fudan tomorrow night for convenience.”

Wang Zengqi kept his good-natured smile; a glance from Xu Chengjun told him the old rascal was up to something.

“So when you come back, you’ll be a Fudan student, eh? Maybe I’ll even bask in your glory, young comrade!”

“You must be joking. I’m just a former sent-down youth—who knows if they’ll even want me.”

“What’s wrong with being a sent-down youth?” Wang Zengqi picked up half a sheet of paper and began to write. “Back in Kunming, I survived air-raid warnings by gnawing on potatoes.” His handwriting was gentle and flowing. “This is my address in Beijing. If you get in, send me a New Year’s card; if you don’t…”

He deliberately drew out the words, “Send one anyway. Give me a good laugh.”

“So you’re hoping I fail?” Xu Chengjun folded the address neatly and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

“Don’t worry, I only share good news!” He grinned. “When ‘The Fitting Room Mirror’ is published in ‘Harvest,’ I’ll send you a copy right away. But don’t be too harsh with your corrections—my skills are so-so, don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m no match for you, that’s for sure.” He was laying the groundwork; aside from his playful jibes, the old man loved nothing more than recalling the scoldings he’d endured under Shen Congwen.

As expected.

“Pointing out mistakes is helping you,” Wang Zengqi said, wide-eyed in mock anger. “Back when Mr. Shen Congwen edited my drafts, his red pen circled more than the words themselves. Young people need to learn to take criticism—how else can you improve?”

He laughed at his own memory. “You rascal, always waiting for me to say these things.”

Suddenly he seemed to remember something, and pressed a small cloth bundle into Xu Chengjun’s hand. Inside were two packets of tea, each labeled “Huangshan Maofeng.”

Xu Chengjun was about to refuse when Wang Zengqi said, “If you get the chance during your interview, brew a cup of tea for the professor. Scholars are all the same—good tea sweetens the temper.” His eyes gleamed mischievously. “If you don’t get in, just keep it for yourself as a treat.”

“You’re really giving me your best stash.” Xu Chengjun fingered the tea packets, feeling as if all the writings he’d read about the old man in his previous life had suddenly come alive.

“Oh, this is nothing…”

Wang Zengqi gave him another mock glare.

Xu Chengjun capitulated at once. “Then I won’t stand on ceremony. Once I’m settled in Shanghai, I’ll take you to the Old Restaurant for dinner—their local cuisine is unmatched.”

The Old Restaurant, formerly known as Rongshun Hall and once renamed Old Rongshun Hall, was established in the first year of Emperor Guangxu’s reign and is a paragon of Shanghai’s native cuisine.

“Rongshun Hall?” Wang Zengqi raised an eyebrow. “Do you know how expensive it is? Last time, Master Ba treated us there—one basket of soup dumplings cost me three days’ worth of meals.”

He waved his hand, still smiling. “No need for such extravagance. When you’ve truly made your mark, write a few more good essays—that’s worth more than any treat.”

“But if you want to take me for a pan-fried bun at Youlian, across from the Xihai Cinema, I’m all for it!” Youlian’s pan-fried buns are famous far and wide, top quality at reasonable prices, with lines at all hours and even a ticket system to manage the crowds.