Chapter Seventy-Seven: First as a Senior, Then as a Junior

The next day.

When the bells of Jing’an Temple rang ten times, Xu Chengjun stood at the street corner. In his pocket were ration tickets, fabric coupons, and the industrial vouchers and cloth tickets that Elder Zhu had insisted on giving him.

The old man had said, “It’s not easy coming to Shanghai. Your parents at home worry about you, and you have siblings, too. You should bring something back. I can’t use up all my own rations, so just take them.”

Xu Chengjun was moved. Though the concern came with expectations, the sentiment behind it was genuine. He resolved to write a few more academic papers to repay the old man.

This elder, who had lived since the late Qing, was long-lived—he’d reached ninety in his previous life—and had witnessed many traces Xu Chengjun left in this era.

“Xu, you’re here!” Su Manshu greeted him, her moon-white Dacron shirt fluttering in the wind, the butterfly knot at the end of her braid caught on a sycamore leaf. Below, she wore flared trousers.

The warm breeze pressed her clothes to her figure, accentuating the gentle curve of her chest, narrowing at the waist, and flowing down long, straight legs. The S-shaped silhouette was outlined vividly by the wind, revealing a lively, balanced vigor.

She was fashionable, artistic, and sensual.

Ah—the feeling of a distant, unattainable beauty!

“Are we really going to Green Wave Pavilion?”

“The payment for ‘The Fitting Mirror’ arrived—it’s enough for a few meals.”

“You said we’d eat at Green Wave Pavilion to thank Master Su for your help?”

“What ‘Master Su’? That sounds awful!”

“All right, Master!”

“Who are you calling ‘Master’?”

In 1979, East Nanjing Road didn’t have so many neon lights; Green Wave Pavilion’s wooden sign glowed dark red in the sunset.

A server in a navy uniform lifted the curtain. The scent of osmanthus mingled with the steam from bamboo baskets, enveloping the two.

“Do you have a reservation?” The server’s white shirt was pressed crisp, his gaze flicked to Xu Chengjun’s cloth shoes, then to Su Manshu’s Shanghai-brand wristwatch, her new flared pants and shirt, and his attitude warmed.

“No reservation. We just want to try the signature pastries.”

By the window, an Eight Immortals table was covered with a blue checkered cloth, a plastic peony in the vase at the corner.

Su Manshu sat and immediately smoothed her trousers; the creases at her knees hadn’t been ironed out.

“What would you like?” Xu Chengjun pushed the menu toward her. The paper bore the heading “Prince’s Pastry Banquet,” with a note in small print: Specially made for Prince Sihanouk’s visit to Shanghai in 1973.

Selling nostalgia is never new, no matter the era.

That’s the service industry! Making money without shame.

Su Manshu pointed at “Osmanthus Rice Cake,” her lashes fluttering. “Just this, and two bowls of plain noodles.”

“That’s too little.” Xu Chengjun snatched the menu and called to the server, “And an order of crab roe soup dumplings!”

Su Manshu tugged his arm, waving at the server. “He’s joking! We can’t finish that much.”

Crab roe dumplings cost 0.3 yuan each, six per basket—1.8 yuan. Not cheap for the time, but Xu Chengjun, coming from the future, was never short of food and clothes; when he had money, he didn’t mind these prices.

“I have a big appetite!”

“No way!”

“This time, listen to me!”

When the steaming baskets arrived, the crab roe dumplings were pinched like little flowers.

Su Manshu’s cheeks puffed like a little pufferfish.

She was annoyed! No amount of sweet talk could appease her.

Her grievance boiled down to: “You’re too wasteful!”

Xu Chengjun shrugged.

He resorted to his trump card from past life, telling a rustic joke: “Let me tell you a story. Once, I was going upstairs and saw an old man carrying something. I thought I’d help him out, but what came out of my mouth was—”

Su Manshu blinked her big eyes, her anger fading, watching Xu Chengjun, impatient.

Come on, just say it!

Xu Chengjun: “Guess.”

Su Manshu still looked wary, but her annoyance had melted into helpless curiosity.

“What’s there to guess? Clearly, it’s a slip of the tongue. Did you mean to say ‘let me help you carry that,’ but said something else?”

Xu Chengjun shook his head, suppressing his laughter. “No, guess again.”

“I can’t guess, hurry up and say it!”

“I blurted out: ‘Old thing, Grandpa, let me carry it for you.’”

She burst out laughing.

Girls of this era weren’t used to such rustic humor; her anger evaporated.

She shot Xu Chengjun a glare. “Don’t do that again!”

“All right, Master—now eat!”

Su Manshu carefully picked up a dumpling, the ginger in the vinegar dish sliced as fine as hair.

“Eat slowly, don’t burn yourself.”

The server refilled their tea, casting amused glances at them.

Young people rarely dined out alone, especially a man and woman together.

Su Manshu instinctively leaned closer to Xu Chengjun, their knees brushing under the tablecloth.

The osmanthus cake was cloyingly sweet, but Xu Chengjun found it just right.

Back in Fengyang, only during New Year’s did he get a few fruit candies!

So delicious!

Everything’s relative, after all.

But it was rather expensive.

“Once Fudan starts, I’ll take you to the library,” Su Manshu said suddenly. “There are lots of foreign journals there, helpful for your papers.”

“Don’t you have busy classes in Economics?”

“I can skip them.” She stuck out her tongue, then quickly became serious. “My dad says scholarship needs mutual support. He used to consult Mr. Zhu Dongrun, so I’m following his path.”

Mutual support, indeed!

Does her father know how well she’s supporting others?

The meal soon wound down.

Xu Chengjun sprawled out without care, contemplating what to buy for his parents, sister, Qian Ming, Xinghua, Old Zhou, and the others.

Su Manshu rolled her eyes.

“This is for you.” Xu Chengjun glanced down—a three-yuan note, which Su Manshu had stealthily passed under the table.

“What’s this for?”

“For you! You just arrived in Shanghai, you’ll need money. If you pay, they’ll think you’re the one settling the bill.”

What a chosen fool of a girl.

Xu Chengjun pushed it back. “Trying to keep me, huh? Not a chance!”

Su Manshu blushed fiercely and spat at him.

The bill totaled 2.8 yuan, no ration tickets needed.

Xu Chengjun paid; the first meal couldn’t be on the girl.

In 1979, though the planned economy still held sway, the reforms had begun; high-end restaurants and foreign-oriented venues had loosened ration ticket restrictions.

Green Wave Pavilion catered to foreigners and affluent Chinese, closer to “market-based consumption”—customers paid in RMB, no ration tickets required.

Foreign exchange coupons wouldn’t appear until 1980.

As they were about to leave, Su Manshu took out a copy of “History of Western Aesthetics,” handing it to Xu Chengjun.

“Here, Master Xu. It should help your writing.”

It was indeed useful—now he had “references” for critiquing those parasites.

Aesthetics, well, Zhu Guangqian was most famous for this in China, though Xu wasn’t much taken with it.

But why “Master”? She learned the bad faster than the good.

“Next time, call me senior!”

“Senior? I’m a year older than you! You should call me senior sister!”

Eh?

That’s not a bad flavor—senior sister?

Forget it, don’t mention starting graduate school.

Be senior sister first, then junior sister!

A girl of many roles!

“All right, Master Xu, I’m heading back now.”

By the roadside, Su Manshu stood with her waterfall of black hair, smiling and waving at Xu Chengjun.

“Take care.”

Xu Chengjun flipped through the book, spotting her neat handwriting on the title page: “Thought and setting in harmony, writing to convey the way.”

Such thoughtful care.

He shook the book and found a ration ticket tucked inside—a five-jin national ticket.

This girl.

Xu Chengjun hurried a few steps, shouting, “Teacher Su, there’s a ration ticket in the book!”

An elderly Shanghai man passing by looked at Xu Chengjun, then at Su Manshu.

Young people—what teacher?

After a moment, he understood, grinning oddly and muttering, “Young folks these days sure know how to have fun!”

Su Manshu waved, her voice gentle but firm.

“Keep it for yourself.”

“Ration tickets are scarce, you just arrived, you won’t have enough.”

Relying on a rich woman?

Senior sister is the best!