Chapter 82: "The Fitting Room Mirror" Is Published!

The next morning, on her way to work, Ru Zhijuan bought a copy of "Harvest." When she arrived at the Shanghai Literature magazine office, the veteran editor Yu Bingkun greeted her with a laugh, “Sister Ru, you never miss an issue of Harvest these days!”

Ru Zhijuan shot him a glance. “What nonsense are you talking about? I’m just studying the competition.”

“As the Chairman said, we look down on the enemy tactically, but value them strategically.”

Yu Bingkun chuckled. “Our editorial department sure has a high level of awareness!”

As he spoke, he gestured toward the room.

Ru Zhijuan glanced around—sure enough, every young editor who’d just come in was holding a copy of "Harvest." A quick look showed at least three or four more piled up on the table.

Both amused and exasperated, she began leafing through "Harvest," consoling herself that this was learning through criticism.

The young female editor Qu Lianhuan, sitting nearby, smiled at Ru Zhijuan and said, “Sister Ru, there’s a story in this issue called ‘The Fitting Room Mirror’ that I think is pretty good—the characterization is so vivid, it has a bit of a Kafkaesque touch.”

“The author is Xu Chengjun. I haven't heard the name before, probably a new writer.”

Yu Bingkun interjected with a smile, “Not that new. Comrade Xu Chengjun made quite a splash in the domestic literary world a few days ago with his ‘Walking Toward the Light’ in the Guangming Daily, along with an essay called ‘Letter.’ I spoke to Yu Haisheng at Guangming Daily recently, and he said the letters their office received about these pieces filled several baskets!”

Ru Zhijuan frowned. “Xu Chengjun, the one who wrote ‘Walking Toward the Light’?”

“Yes, that poem is really something. He’s already been hailed by university students in the capital as China’s youngest ‘natural lyric poet.’ The young generation these days is remarkable!”

Ru Zhijuan asked, “What do you think of ‘The Fitting Room Mirror,’ Old Yu?”

Yu Bingkun pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s bold and sharp, but shows a seasoned hand. In terms of technique, I don’t think I’ve seen anything quite like it in the country yet. Personally, I think it stands a real chance at this year’s National Excellent Short Story Award.”

Oh?

Does this young Xu really have such skill?

Ru Zhijuan’s mind flashed back to the breakfast she’d had with Xu Chengjun and a few other writers a week earlier.

Back then, she’d just thought he was young and exchanged a few polite words. Who would have thought he’d turn out such solid work?

Without further ado, Ru Zhijuan opened the magazine.

She skimmed through the earlier stories, skipping over “Awaiting Decision,” “Severe Love,” and “Ode to the Great Wind.”

With her experience as a senior editor and seasoned writer, she could tell at a glance that the big hit of this issue wasn’t among those pieces—they might be popular, but they wouldn’t be breakout successes.

Knowing Ba Lao’s tastes, she doubted the issue would be so straightforward.

It’s worth mentioning that during this period, Ba Lao was also the editor-in-chief of Shanghai Literature, though he didn’t handle day-to-day operations—the work was mostly managed by several deputy editors.

“The Fitting Room Mirror” was 8,000 words long, and she finished reading it quickly. The motif of the mirror ran throughout.

When Ru Zhijuan closed the magazine, she suddenly spoke, “Kafka?” Her voice was not loud, but it made the young editors, who had been chatting animatedly, fall silent.

Qu Lianhuan’s pen paused above her notebook, a faint blush on her cheeks. “Sister Ru, do you think not? I just felt the shadow in the mirror had some of that absurdity from ‘The Metamorphosis.’”

Ru Zhijuan didn’t reply directly; she just pushed the magazine across the table. “Gregor turned into a bug because fate forced him to the brink; Chunlan’s shadow rebels because her inner longing has nowhere to go. One is a passive trap, the other an active struggle—they’re not the same.”

She paused. “The ending is wild, yes, but it’s grounded—not absurd for absurdity’s sake.”

Yu Bingkun nodded in agreement. “That’s right, Sister Ru. Xu Chengjun’s writing about the counter, the fabrics, Director Wang’s footsteps—it’s all solid.”

He suddenly remembered something and pulled a copy of Guangming Daily from his drawer. “Look at his poem, ‘Walking Toward the Light.’ You can tell Xu’s roots as a sent-down youth run deep in the soil.”

Ru Zhijuan took the newspaper, her eyes slowly moving down the lines of poetry.

She recalled the breakfast meeting a week ago, Xu Chengjun sitting quietly in the corner, not saying much, just listening intently, his eyes so bright—as if he held an untold sea within them.

“He uses the mirror brilliantly.”

She suddenly laughed. “It doesn’t just reflect a person’s image, but their heart. Chunlan’s reluctance to wear the floral blouse, her hesitance to roll her eyes—all of it’s revealed in the mirror. These days, how many people don’t have a mirror like that inside?”

She turned to Qu Lianhuan. “You young people see Kafka because you share Chunlan’s feelings. The hope in your eyes is more real than the shadow in the story.”

“We do not!” The editorial office burst into a flurry of protests.

Qu Lianhuan nodded half-understandingly. “So is this considered reform literature? It’s about the conflict between the individual and the collective.”

“It is, and it isn’t,” Ru Zhijuan replied, standing and moving to the window.

The scent of fried dough sticks from the breakfast stall downstairs mingled with the acacia blossoms on the breeze, reminding her of the days she put out the newspaper in the liberated areas as a young woman.

“Most reform literature is about how policies change; this is about how people change along with them. Chunlan doesn’t shout slogans or discuss ideologies—she just wants to wear a floral blouse. That’s the most authentic kind of reform.”

She added, “It all starts with a change in one’s heart.”

Yu Bingkun slapped his thigh. “No wonder ‘Harvest’ published this story!”

He flipped to the copyright page of the magazine. “Xiaolin has a sharp eye—if we’d received this manuscript, we’d have argued about it for three days!”

Ru Zhijuan glanced at him but said nothing, opening “The Fitting Room Mirror” again.

Her gaze lingered on the line: “All the flowers bloom slowly in the night.”

In truth, when she wrote “Lilies,” she too liked to hide little fragments of thought between the lines.

Torn quilts, scattered wildflowers, unspoken words—they often…

“Editor Huang is here, right?”

“Yes, Sister Ru!”

“I’m going to have a word with him!”

Huang Yuan was then the deputy editor-in-chief of Shanghai Literature and the main person responsible for overall operations.

As soon as Ru Zhijuan left, the office erupted into lively chatter, with the young editors gossiping enthusiastically about “The Fitting Room Mirror”—the sort of gossip unique to editors.

Qu Lianhuan’s eyes sparkled. “Is Sister Ru trying to poach the author?”

…

Meanwhile, Xu Chengjun had spent the whole night queuing for a ticket at Shanghai Station.

After chatting with Wang Zengqi at 9:30 last night, he’d gone to bed, but with sheer determination, he got up at 12:30 and reached Shanghai Station by 1 a.m. The place was already packed, shoulder to shoulder.

Fortunately, luck was on his side—he finally managed to buy a ticket for a train to Hefei departing in three days.

A hard seat, at that!

Not bad! Many people were left with standing-room-only tickets.

At 8:30 in the morning, having just left the station, Xu Chengjun remembered that his story “The Fitting Room Mirror” was being published in “Harvest” today, so he hurried to a nearby newsstand.

“Uncle, do you have today’s ‘Harvest’?”

“The fourth issue?” the old man asked with a smile.

“That’s right!”

“All sold out.”

Did that mean they were out of stock? Sometimes he couldn’t quite follow the local Shanghai dialect.

“Is it because one of the articles is especially good?”

“How could it not be? ‘Harvest’ always sells like hotcakes!”

Xu Chengjun: speechless.