Chapter Eighty-One: The Stage Is Set

Xu Chengjun was not unhinged, but the world itself had gone mad.

This year, Castro put it this way: “If a Latin American can become the Pope, if a Black man can become the President of the United States, then Cuba can establish diplomatic relations with America.”

What a bold statement from a great revolutionary, an “anti-America fanatic,” a “socialist punk.”

And indeed, the outcome was beautiful.

In November 2008, Obama was elected President of the United States, becoming the first African-American to hold the office.

In March 2013, Francis was elected Pope of the Vatican, becoming the first Latin American Pontiff.

And in 2014, Cuba and the United States restored diplomatic relations.

How… magical realist!

No wonder people of this era regarded “One Hundred Years of Solitude” as the very definition of magical realism.

Reality is far more surreal than anyone could imagine.

But even “Harvest” has gone mad with the times?

Well, perhaps compared to a Latin American Pope, it’s not so outrageous.

So “Harvest” is publishing issues ahead of schedule now?

Does the editorial department have a crystal ball hidden away, able to divine the perfect “auspicious day” for controversial blockbusters?

But thinking of the timing...

The winds of reform had just begun to blow, and the literary world was waiting for something explosive to shake things up. In that context, it all made sense.

After all, in these times, even bell-bottom pants could swagger from the streets of Shanghai to the countryside of Fengyang. So what was a little literary wave-making from “Harvest”?

“Have you bought your ticket home?” Li Xiaolin asked, seeing his stunned expression. She felt much better—he didn’t seem quite so much like a monster now, did he?

No, he still damn well did!

“Not yet. Planning to queue up first thing tomorrow morning.”

His experience buying tickets in Hefei had taught him well: buying a ticket was like waging war, you had to stake out the station before dawn. If you were late by even a moment, you’d have to wait for the next train. The journey home became a protracted campaign.

Damn it, I just want a sleeper berth!

“That’s not a problem, but I suggest you stay a few more days before going back.”

Li Xiaolin sat down on the steps of the guesthouse and patted the empty spot beside her.

Women with short hair in these days all had a certain straightforwardness about them.

And this one—she was as bold as they came in the editing world!

“Your story isn’t the harmless kind. ‘The Fitting Room Mirror’ is so sharp, there’s bound to be controversy once it’s published. You might as well help the editorial office handle reader letters while you’re here.”

Xu Chengjun raised an eyebrow: “So you want me to delay my trip home just to stick around for a ‘struggle session’?”

“Listen to yourself,”

Li Xiaolin laughed and chided him. “A struggle session? This is called a literary discussion! When Mr. Wang wrote ‘Ordination,’ didn’t people say, ‘a monk falling in love, what a scandal’? And what happened? It’s a classic now, isn’t it? Controversy seems spicy, but it tastes sweet.”

So I’m here to spar with people, is that it?

“Alright, here’s your advance copy. See you around.”

...

He checked in again—still room 201.

He asked the local Shanghai receptionist, who smiled, twirling her pen, “Mr. Wang specifically requested it—he said, ‘Comrade Xu might need to come back, so always keep 201 for him.’”

She added, “Mr. Wang said you’re a ‘seedling of the literary world’—needs careful tending. That phrase sounds so refined, just like your poetry.”

When “China’s last gentleman-scholar” speaks, things get done.

This has always been a society of connections—if you have ability and relationships, people give you respect.

And Mr. Wang Zengqi? He was the kind of person who could get a story about a monk in love published, and whose connections could turn the editorial office into his personal express lane—he had both talent and sway.

A walking “literary passport”!

“Oh, could you sign an autograph for me? ‘Towards the Light’—some lines I don’t quite understand, but it’s so beautiful!”

Another fan, huh?

All I lack compared to Bei Dao is a Cha Haisheng!

..

He opened the door.

Wang Zengqi was sitting there, sipping tea from an enamel mug and reading the newspaper. Hearing the door, he looked up, “Ha! You’re back! Fate has brought you and me together three times, hasn’t it?”

Three reunions? How rare.

Though I’m more familiar with “three ascents” than this.

“You’re joking, sir—this isn’t a third reunion,” Xu Chengjun tossed his bag onto the bed. The sticky rice cake inside rolled over with a muffled thud.

“This is the reverse version of ‘Three Visits to the Thatched Cottage.’ I’m not seeking you out—you’re waiting for me in this ‘cottage.’ Besides, the scent of your tea wafted so far, I just followed my nose back.”

Wang Zengqi laughed so hard he nearly spilled tea on his paper. “You’ve got a silver tongue! I’d say you came not for graduate school, but for comic dialogue lessons.”

“So, what new trouble have you stirred up at Fudan this time?”

Prompted by the old gentleman, Xu Chengjun recounted the entire story, including his “wits against the five mighty ones.” Throughout, Wang Zengqi alternately slapped his thigh, stroked his beard, and sipped tea, thoroughly entertained.

When Xu quoted, “What is national is universal,” the old man’s eyes sparkled, and he applauded again and again.

Am I just here to perform cross-talk for you?

Before going to bed, Xu Chengjun took out the advance copy of “Harvest,” 1979’s fourth issue, and leafed through it.

He was quite familiar with several pieces: Liu Xinwu’s “Awaiting Decision,” Guo Xiaochuan’s “Stern Love,” Chen Baichen’s “Song of the Great Wind,” and Ye Xin’s novel “Our Generation of Young People.”

Liu Xinwu’s “Awaiting Decision” was just one of his works—not particularly remarkable.

But to understand Liu Xinwu, “The Class Teacher” was the true pioneering work of scar literature, confronting the psychological trauma of youth during the special era—a historic breakthrough that can’t be denied.

Though the plot was formulaic, compared to Lu Xinhua, it was in a whole other league.

Ironically, his true masterpiece was the full-length novel “The Bell and Drum Tower,” written in 1985, which won the second Mao Dun Literature Prize.

He also became a Redology scholar, later serving as editor-in-chief of “People’s Literature,” and lectured on “Dream of the Red Chamber” for years on national television.

Though, he rather lost himself in the process.

Guo Xiaochuan was a representative poet of political lyricism and creator of the “rhapsodic poem.” “Stern Love” was his poetry collection.

Chen Baichen was a playwright; his historical drama “Song of the Great Wind” depicted political struggles in the early Western Han Dynasty—a timely and somewhat ironic subject.

As a work that insists literature must reflect reality, it was quite accomplished.

Ye Xin’s “Our Generation of Young People” chronicled the lives of educated youth.

Why mention them?

Because none of these four works had any “flash points”—nothing as “trendy” or “sharp” as Xu Chengjun’s “The Fitting Room Mirror.”

It was easy to foresee: as soon as the issue was published, a storm would break upon Xu Chengjun’s head.

No wonder Li Xiaolin had warned him in advance!

Even more noteworthy was that this was the most anticipated issue of “Harvest” since its inception.

Why?

Because the second issue had published Cong Weixi’s “The Red Magnolia Beneath the High Wall.”

This novella broke new ground, drawing from personal experience to depict prison life and bloody violence—the first literary work in New China to portray prison, opening a new field for contemporary literature and boosting the rise of the novella.

For its time, the content was shockingly bloody.

Old Mr. Ba Jin personally approved its publication, which received positive feedback and brought “Harvest” national attention.

It was, in the literary sense, a case of “giving roses, fragrance lingering on the hand.”

So—the stage was set.