Chapter Twenty: The Announcement in the Papers the Day After Tomorrow!
Early in the morning, the guesthouse was already coming alive.
“Heading to the Evening News?”
The uncle across the aisle, who handled supply and marketing stories, was biting open his toothpaste as he spoke: “That place is above the old post office on Huaihe Road. The stairs are so steep you could twist an ankle. I heard from Reporter Ma yesterday that his cousin, Editor Chen, is off duty today.”
Xu Chengjun had also heard this from Ma Shengli the day before. Ma had even offered to take Xu to meet his cousin tomorrow.
But Xu was not one to trouble others; whether his manuscript would be accepted ultimately depended on its quality.
He slipped the remaining half of a cornbread cake into his pocket and smiled, “I’ll leave the piece for now; I’m sure I’ll run into someone eventually.”
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Dawn in Hefei was just beginning to spill across the arcades on Changjiang Road, and a chorus of bicycle bells already filled the air.
Xu Chengjun pushed the borrowed “Forever” bicycle along; the canvas bag in the basket swayed gently with every bump.
Inside were not only his manuscripts, but also a letter he’d written home the previous night.
He’d traced the address “Dongfeng County No. 1 Middle School” on the envelope three times, worried the postman might get it wrong.
Lately, Lin Xiaomei’s bicycle had been a tremendous help. When he left Hefei, he’d have to remember to treat the siblings to a meal.
Passing Mingjiao Temple, the caramel aroma from the roasted seeds stall drifted over.
The wiry vendor was scooping freshly roasted sunflower seeds into a paper packet.
The editorial office for the Hefei Evening News was on the third floor of the post office. The wooden staircase, polished to a shine by countless footsteps, bore indentations of varying depths on each step.
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In 1979, the Hefei Evening News was still in its transitional phase of resuming publication. Its predecessor, the Hefei Daily, had been renamed in 1961.
At that time, the Hefei News was still a small quarto paper, under the city’s Propaganda Department with fewer than a hundred staff, but it had begun to break through the shackles of that era’s propaganda, attempting to publish more livelihood-oriented reports.
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Xu Chengjun passed the gatekeeper and had just reached the second floor when he heard the clatter of a typewriter from above, mingled with someone reciting a manuscript.
He stopped outside a door with a wooden sign reading “Supplement Editorial Office.”
Just as he raised his knuckles to knock, the door swung open.
A young man wearing an “Anhui University” badge nearly bumped into him, scattering a pile of manuscript pages.
“Sorry, sorry!”
The young man hastily stooped to gather his papers, then spotted Xu Chengjun’s canvas bag and his eyes lit up. “Fengyang… Are you Comrade Xu Chengjun from Fengyang?”
Xu nodded, and the man quickly stacked his pages on the table and seized Xu’s hand. “I’m Li Hongwei, Editor Chen’s colleague! Ma Shengli came up specifically yesterday to talk about you. Your piece ‘Time’ has made the rounds in the editorial office!”
His voice was so loud it was as if he had a megaphone; even people in the neighboring office poked their heads out.
An elderly lady with reading glasses peered at him, “So you’re the young Xu who wrote ‘Time is a tree, and the rings are letters’? My old man was just quoting your line about ‘shards of porcelain mending a window’ this morning!”
The girl typing by the window turned around, the bow at the end of her braid swaying. “Comrade Xu, Editor Lin recited your poem at the Writers’ Association. ‘Time’ hasn’t been published yet, but your name already resounds throughout the Evening News!”
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Xu Chengjun’s ears flushed at this reception. Just as he was about to pull out his manuscript, Li Hongwei dragged him into the room.
“Come, take a seat! Editor Chen is off today, but I can submit your piece!”
He pointed to the submissions notice on the wall. “But, new submissions need approval from three editors, so you might have to wait a few days.”
The office bustled to life.
The elderly lady brought over a mug of tea; the leaves unfurled a tender green in the water.
The typing girl fished out some fruit candy from a drawer, the glassy wrappers twinkling in the morning sun.
Even a photographer from the next room came in, camera slung over his shoulder, saying he wanted to take a photo of the “educated youth who wrote ‘Time’.”
“No need to fuss.”
Xu Chengjun hurried to pull out his manuscript.
“I’m here to submit a short piece called ‘The Scale Star Heralds the Spring Breeze.’ It’s about—”
“No need to explain!”
“Let me read it! I’m with the Anhui University Broadcasting Club!”
The young man’s enthusiasm left Xu at a loss.
Before he could react, Li Hongwei was already reading aloud, his voice rising and falling with emotion: “‘The scale beam was made of jujube wood, used for twenty years, red as if soaked in blood…’”
When he got to “Buy two taels, get half a tael free,” he slapped his thigh. “Isn’t this just like Nian Guangjiu! The city just held a model individual merchant commendation yesterday, and we’re short on just this kind of piece!”
The elderly lady leaned in too. “These details are spot on! My old man used to weigh salt at the supply cooperative, just like you wrote.”
Just then, the door opened and a middle-aged man in a Zhongshan suit walked in, a fountain pen gleaming on his chest.
Li Hongwei jumped up, “Deputy Editor Zhang, you’re just in time! This is Comrade Xu Chengjun, the author of ‘Time’!”
Xu Chengjun stood up as well.
Deputy Editor Zhang adjusted his glasses, his gaze sweeping over Xu and finally settling on the manuscript in Xu’s hands.
He didn’t speak, but his fingers slowly traced over the page, reading from “In 1965, Teacher Xu taught the use of the scale” to “the commerce bureau tore down the sign,” then flipping back to the part about “pumpkin pulp mixed in the paste.” His mouth gradually curled into a smile.
“Little Xu, is it?”
He placed the manuscript on the table, his voice rough with excitement. “This piece is great! We’ll use it!”
Xu Chengjun hesitated, “Shouldn’t… it be revised?”
His story “The Granary” had been revised five times before finalizing.
Deputy Editor Zhang chuckled, pointing to the “buy two taels, get half a tael free” section. “Revise what? That ‘half a tael’ is brilliant! It shows the flexibility of individual merchants without crossing the line into ‘speculation.’ Look here—”
He indicated “Old Zhou pasting a new sign overnight.” “Using pumpkin pulp for glue—it’s both rustic and vivid. Much better than just chanting ‘Reform is good’!”
He pulled out an internal bulletin from the cabinet, tapping the headline. “See this? The provincial committee just issued a directive to ‘encourage individual businesses, protect legal income.’ Your piece fits the policy perfectly!”
Li Hongwei chimed in, “Deputy Editor Zhang, how about putting it in the supplement the day after tomorrow? We still have a blank page from yesterday.”
“Tomorrow’s too soon; typesetting won’t make it. The day after tomorrow! Add an editor’s note titled ‘From the Scale Star to the Spring Breeze.’ Little Xu, your piece is vivid and measured. Readers need to see that reform isn’t just slogans—it’s the tangible sweetness hanging on that scale.”
Xu Chengjun was still in a daze as Deputy Editor Zhang took out the registration book. “Leave your contact address. In three days you’ll get a sample copy and your payment.”
He paused, adding, “Don’t leave Hefei just yet. Partly so we can send you things, but also in case we want to invite you for a talk at the editorial office about how to capture ‘live fish’ for stories.”
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Li Hongwei quickly handed over pen and paper.
As Xu Chengjun wrote “Room 302, Worker-Peasant-Soldier Guesthouse,” he overheard Deputy Editor Zhang telling the elderly lady, “Send this for review this afternoon and say it’s at my recommendation. Special case, special handling!”
By the time he left the editorial office, the sunlight was already blazing.
Li Hongwei ran after him, pressing two movie tickets into his hand. “Recently the cinema’s showing ‘Little Flower.’ These are for the evening after tomorrow. Brother Chen just called and asked me to give them to you, as an apology for not greeting you in person.”
Xu Chengjun tried to refuse, but the young man’s sincerity won out.
In 1979, “Little Flower,” starring Liu Xiaoqing and Tang Guoqiang, was the first film after the previous era to break away from traditional revolutionary narratives and focus on emotion. Movie tickets for it were far more valuable than their face value, becoming a cultural symbol of the time.
They were nearly impossible to get!
That year, movie ticket prices in China generally ranged from 0.15 to 0.3 yuan.
Although “Little Flower” was a blockbuster, its ticket price was the same as other films, but in reality, its “circulation value” far exceeded the printed price.
A single ticket was worth a day or two’s basic living expenses for an ordinary person—a kind of “affordable luxury” for those days!
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The roasted seeds vendor was still hawking his wares downstairs.
As he rode his bike back, the bell jingled even more cheerfully.
After leaving the newspaper office, the sun was well past noon and his stomach rumbled with hunger.
Xu Chengjun patted his pocket. Inside were three fifty-cent bills and four taels of ration coupons.
Enough for a decent lunch.
A line snaked outside the “State-run Jianghuai Snack Shop” at the corner of Anqing Road. The blue banner with “People’s Canteen” fluttered in the wind.
Everyone in line clutched ration coupons, and someone was saying, “My husband set up a shoe repair stall yesterday. The neighborhood committee says it’s allowed now—no need to sneak around anymore.”
When it was Xu Chengjun’s turn, the woman at the window smiled, “Comrade, what would you like? Today we have red bean porridge, sesame cakes, and freshly fried sugar cakes.”
Though his wallet was thin,
He was about to receive his payment for “The Scale Star,” so today, the writer could afford a little extravagance.
He gazed at the food behind the glass and swallowed. “One bowl of red bean porridge, two sesame cakes.”
“Coming right up,” the woman scooped and served deftly. “Red bean porridge is eight cents, sesame cakes three cents each, that’s fourteen cents and one tael of ration coupons.”
He handed over the money and coupons, and as he took the coarse porcelain bowl, the heat made him draw back his hand.
The red bean porridge was thick, with a layer of rice oil ringed around the edge, sweet and comforting.
The sesame seeds atop the cakes were toasted, and inside, rock sugar melted in the mouth, blending with the salty tang of pepper for the authentic taste of old Hefei.
He found a bench along the wall. Next to him, a young man in a shirt was munching on a sugar cake. “I heard Nian Guangjiu’s sunflower seeds stall sells two hundred jin a day—more than the state-run food store.”
“That’s because he dares to do things,” a middle-aged man across replied. “Last year, they called that ‘speculation,’ and this year he’s a model of individual enterprise. Policies change faster than you can flip a page.”
Ah, spring breeze.
It comes quietly, sweeping right in.