Chapter Seven: The Whisper of the Wind

The June wind, laden with heat, rustled the fence of the youth settlement noisily.

Xu Chengjun held the note from Officer Liu.

There were only three lines written: “Recommendation from 1978 can be extended to 1979 enrollment. Only three schools nationwide offer this policy. Fudan is the best. Decide quickly.”

The ink was still slightly damp, as if it had just been written and delivered.

Behind this note lay Officer Liu’s calculations through the night.

Last night, under the kerosene lamp in the cultural center, he leafed through Xu Chengjun’s manuscript and thought of Xu Zhiguo.

That resilience had stayed with him for five years.

Yet what truly moved him was Xu Chengjun’s writing.

“He’s got real talent,” Officer Liu murmured to the manuscript.

“He must be allowed to walk out into the world,” he wrote firmly on the note, “Fudan is the optimal choice. The atmosphere in Shanghai is vibrant, Fudan offers a broad platform—worthy of these writings.”

“Fudan?” Qian Ming, gnawing on a hard corn cake, edged closer, his glasses slipping to the tip of his nose. “Are you really going to Shanghai?”

“Mm.” Xu Chengjun folded the note into a square and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

Qian Ming scratched his head. “Isn’t Anhui University pretty good too? It’s close to home, and I’ve heard there are plenty of veteran professors in the Chinese department.”

“You said you wanted to give it a try yourself!”

Xu Chengjun replied with a smile.

In his previous life, working in the district government archives, he had seen countless documents about the reform and opening up.

Shanghai’s foreign trade accounted for a third of the country’s total; Nanjing Road already had individual vendors, even the Customs House on the Bund was starting to hang banners welcoming foreign investment.

None of this could be seen in the wheat fields of Fengyang, nor smelled in the county towns of Anhui, not even heard in the provincial capital Hefei.

At this moment, Shanghai was also the hub of information.

Editorials in The Liberation Daily dared to speak out; policy trends were hidden in the Foreign Trade Bureau’s documents; even the old ladies in the alleyways could talk about “special economic zones.”

For someone carrying memories of the future, Shanghai was like an open database—every piece of news might conceal an opportunity.

Especially since his writings could be considered more “avant-garde” than the times.

To be “avant-garde” was both an opportunity and a risk.

He needed a sanctuary.

“Look at this.”

Xu Chengjun pulled out a copy of Reference News from beneath his pillow, scavenged by Qian Ming from the county’s recycling station. There was a short article: “Shanghai to Pilot Export Processing Zones.”

He pointed to the words “export processing zone.” “In the future, people here will deal with foreigners. They’ll need to understand economics, foreign languages, and how to connect with the world.”

Qian Ming’s eyes lit up. “It involves foreign languages? Then I’ll apply to Beijing Foreign Studies University. Maybe I’ll end up working at Shanghai’s Foreign Trade Bureau!”

“Maybe.”

Xu Chengjun smiled.

In a few years, Shanghai’s foreign trade system would absorb talent like a sponge. Qian Ming’s English skills might truly be put to use there.

He chose Shanghai because of Fudan.

But it wasn’t just for the diploma—it was for the chance to step in time with the beat of reform.

...

In the evening, when he went to the brigade office for the stamp, Old Xu was squatting on a stone mill counting accounts.

“Going to Shanghai for university?”

The old captain knocked his pipe against his shoe, his calloused hand patting the recommendation form. “That place is very cosmopolitan. Will you be able to adapt?”

“To learn skills.” Xu Chengjun handed over the ink pad. “To learn how to sell wheat from the fields at a good price, how to get our village’s produce out of Anhui.”

He truly hoped to help those honest, passionate people live better lives.

To eat white bread at every meal!

His words clearly struck a chord with Old Xu.

The old man sighed, pressed a red fingerprint onto the recommendation form, and said, “I don’t know much about grand principles, just that you have good judgment.”

He paused, then placed a handful of roasted soybeans in Xu Chengjun’s hand. “The commune clerk says the 1978 recommendation quota is expired and invalid, but Fudan is willing to make an exception. Still, the approval has to go up layer by layer, from the commune to the county education bureau, then to the provincial education department. Will it come through in two months?”

This was also Xu Chengjun’s worry!

Fudan opened on September 1. The recommendation had to be settled even earlier.

If any link was blocked, he could miss this one and only opportunity.

“We’ll try.” He gripped the recommendation form tightly, not showing his anxiety. “Officer Liu says he knows someone in the provincial education department who can help expedite it.”

Old Xu nodded, gazing at the distant wheat fields in a daze. “Shanghai is good—a big port. When I was young, I went there once by boat. The buildings are taller than the chimneys in our county. When you go, don’t forget what the wheat from Xu Family Village tastes like.”

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

On his way back, he ran into Xinghua washing sweet potatoes by the river.

The sweet potatoes in the wooden basin were round and plump, freshly dug from the cellar.

Seeing him approach, she hurriedly loaded them into the basket, water splashing her pant legs unnoticed.

“Brother Chengjun, got the stamp?” she asked, head down, her voice as thin as a mosquito’s hum.

“Mm.” Xu Chengjun squatted beside her, helping pick up the fallen sweet potatoes. “Tomorrow I’ll go to the county to handle the paperwork.”

He looked at her focused profile, then softly asked, “I often hear you mention the county, Shanghai—have you ever thought of going out to see the world?”

Xinghua’s movements froze, the sweet potato in her hand thumping into the basin.

She looked up, her dark cheeks flushing crimson, as though caught off guard, or perhaps finding the question strange.

“What for?” She shook her head quickly, the red ribbon on her braid swinging wildly. “I have parents at home, wheat in the field, my brother in the army. If I leave, who will take care of them?”

She lowered her head, continuing to wash sweet potatoes, the sound of water gushing as if to hide something. “Besides, no matter how good it is outside, it doesn’t smell as sweet as our village’s wheat. You’re going to Shanghai because you have great ability. I’m just suited to guarding this land.”

Xu Chengjun said nothing more.

He watched her scrub each sweet potato clean, her movements nimble and grounded.

Xinghua was like wheat growing from this yellow earth, roots deep and secure.

“My mother steamed some sweet cakes, packed two pieces for you.” Xinghua pulled a cloth bundle from the bottom of the basket and stuffed it into his hand. “Eat if you’re hungry.”

The bundle was made from her brother’s old military uniform, the stitches dense and tight.

Xu Chengjun held the warm sweet cakes, an indescribable feeling welling in his heart.

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

The lights in the youth settlement burned late into the night.

Qian Ming was chewing over math problems, his draft papers covered in auxiliary lines. Xu Chengjun, meanwhile, was making a list:

June 30: Go to the county education bureau to find Chief Wang, bring the recommendation form, production team certificate, Officer Liu’s note.

Before July 5: Obtain county education bureau approval, proceed to the provincial education department.

Before August 1: Urge provincial approval, while contacting Fudan’s Chinese department.

Each item had a question mark beside it.

“Every step is a hurdle.”

Comrades, the great task is not yet complete; further effort is needed!

Qian Ming, rubbing his sore eyes, leaned over. “It’s this tight? What if any step gets delayed?”

“If it’s delayed, we’ll miss it.”

Xu Chengjun folded up the list. Moonlight from outside fell across his face, half in light, half in shadow.

“This year is the last year for the worker-peasant-soldier student policy. Fudan’s special quota—once it’s gone, there’s no second chance.”

By October 1979, the Ministry of Education would issue a document abolishing the worker-peasant-soldier recommendation system.

In other words, this was his final chance to enter higher education without passing the college entrance exam.

Qian Ming suddenly said, “Tomorrow I’ll go to Xin County’s Huashu Bookstore to buy a math reference book, and I’ll ask Officer Liu for you again.”

Xu Chengjun felt a warmth inside.

In the past six months, Qian Ming had replaced the tape on his glasses three times, filled two vocabulary books, and now was at the critical moment of the college entrance exam.

Yet at this moment, he was willing to spare energy to help him.

A hero always needs help from others!

“Thanks.”

“What for?”

Qian Ming grinned, showing two small tiger teeth. “When you get to Shanghai and I get to BJ, let’s write letters in English. I know you’re good at it—help me practice.”

Xu Chengjun smiled too.

“No problem!”

“But I’m planning to go to the exam site early, so I probably can’t leave with you.”

Qian Ming dug out the “Fengyang Youth Introduction Letter for Bengbu College Entrance Exam,” with the test site clearly listed as “Bengbu No. 2 Middle School.”

...

The flame of the oil lamp flickered gently, casting their shadows long and short on the mud wall.

In the distance came the barking of dogs from the threshing ground, the rustling of wind through the stacks of wheat straw.

Shanghai—there were no wheat fields, no mud-brick houses, but it had what he had pursued through two lifetimes.

A place where words and ideals could take root.

Sixty-three days until September 1.

He had to run faster.