Chapter Twenty-One: 1979 and 2024
When Xu Chengjun pushed open the wooden door of the Workers, Peasants, and Soldiers Guesthouse, the hinges groaned with a weary “creak.”
Most of the tasks he’d come to Hefei to accomplish were done. After days spent in relentless motion, he finally found a moment to breathe. In this span, his roommates at the guesthouse had changed almost completely. Ma Shengli from the provincial newspaper had rented a small room with two beds. The uncle who ran errands at the supply and marketing cooperative had gone to Nanjing. Before leaving, they’d all advised him not to stay up so late. He brushed off their concern. In times like these, if you don’t push yourself, how can you ever become a literary giant?
This month, Hefei’s heat had reached a new height for him. The thermometer hanging above the doorway pointed to 36°C, the mercury column quivering inside its glass tube. Cicadas sang noisily at the base of the wall, their calls shattering against the blue bricks into sparks amid the July blaze.
He endured the guesthouse’s half-teasing, half-admiring remarks—“The big writer’s off again,” “Well, Teacher Xu is submitting another manuscript, I see!” Was it envy, was it genuine praise? He navigated it all with the practiced ease of a seasoned “public scholar.” The neighborhood aunties and unmarried women joked about introducing him to their pretty relatives. On July 8th, 1979, Xu Chengjun stepped out of the guesthouse. He wanted to wander Hefei in 1979 with no particular aim.
Today, Xu Chengjun was going out to spend money! Or wait—his manuscript fee hadn’t arrived yet; he had no money! Just a stroll, then. Would you call it a city walk or not?
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The flagstones of Huaihe Road were hot enough to roast your feet medium rare if you walked barefoot. Xu Chengjun, in cloth shoes, watched sunlight dapple through the gaps in the plane tree leaves, painting the ground with shifting patterns. In the shade of the arcades, a few old men perched on low stools, puffing on long pipes. The glow of the embers flickered, smoke rings drifted through the hot air, mingling with the distant aroma of frying dough sticks.
In his previous life, Huaihe Road had been paved with asphalt that softened in the heat; car exhaust twisted in the rising haze. Back then, he’d tapped away at a keyboard in a hotel on this very road, preparing meeting materials for high-ranking officials. Occasionally, he’d glance out the window to see delivery riders weaving through traffic, their helmets glinting in the sun.
But now, a bare-chested man pushed a wheelbarrow past him, watermelons in the tray covered with a wet cotton quilt, the edges dripping with water. That touch of natural coolness was more refreshing than any air conditioner. A bicycle repair stall stood at the corner under a shade, the mechanic deftly tightening spokes with a wrench. Strings of keys hung from a wire in front of the stand, swaying in the sunlight like wind chimes. Xu Chengjun stopped to watch him oil a bicycle chain, his movements practiced and sure.
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“Ice pops—mung bean flavor!” An old woman selling ice pops walked by, carrying a wooden box. When she lifted the lid, a puff of white vapor escaped. The back of her blue cotton shirt was soaked and clung to her spine.
Xu Chengjun fished out two fen, took a popsicle wrapped in oil paper, and as he bit into it, the icy shards made his teeth ache. The old woman praised him again and again, “Such a handsome young man, tall and upright!” Xu Chengjun smiled and exchanged pleasantries with her. In the convenience stores of his past life, imported ice creams lined the freezers in dazzling array. You could always find the latest, the best. But never again had he tasted this kind of sweetness tinged with the flavor of well water.
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At the supply and marketing cooperative, the glass counters of the state-run department store gleamed coldly, keeping the heat at bay. Xu Chengjun stood in front of the “hardware and electricals” counter, watching the sales clerk lift a lightbulb with tweezers, turning it under the lamp. The label inside read, “25 watts, 1.2 yuan, with an industrial coupon,” and nearby were stacks of coupon booklets.
A man in a Zhongshan suit leaned over the counter, pointing at a radio, “I want a Red Lantern brand, the kind that can tune in to the Central Station.” The clerk nodded, fetched a wooden box from under the counter, and opened it to reveal a red label with white characters.
In the fabric section, rows of brightly colored Dacron cloth hung like waterfalls. A young woman discussed with the clerk, “Give me three feet of blue fabric for a jacket, make it roomy—I’m expecting.” The clerk, measuring the cloth with a bamboo ruler, added half an inch on purpose, “Due next month? Come back then for some red fabric for a baby jacket.” The woman blushed and smiled, tracing her fingers over the cloth.
At the back door, two porters carried burlap sacks marked “Shanghai Soap.” Their backs were bowed like drawn bows, sweat trickling from their necks into their collars. In future logistics warehouses, conveyor belts would send parcels across the country, the beep of scanners ringing out. The power of technology would change the era. But this spectacle—work carried on the backs of men—would be gone. The raw force in their labor chants was the most stirring vitality.
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In front of the post and telecommunications bureau’s dark green counter, everyone in line clutched envelopes. Xu Chengjun waited at the end, watching the young woman ahead stick an eight-fen stamp with Tiananmen printed on it, licking the glue with careful precision.
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In the public telephone booth, a man in work clothes shouted into the receiver, “Dad, I found work in Hefei—at the machine tool factory, Uncle Chen referred me. They provide food and lodging!” His voice cracked with emotion, his fist white-knuckled, the phone cord stretched taut. Xu Chengjun stood outside, listening as the man promised, “I’ll send money home when I get paid next month.” That choked-back joy hit deeper than any high-definition image.
A crowd gathered before the bulletin board. The front page of the People’s Daily declared in bold: “Shenzhen Special Economic Zone Begins Construction.” Someone pointed at a photo, “That building is so tall—taller than the Hefei Hotel!” Another scoffed, “What’s it to us? Give us two more jin of grain, that’s what matters.”
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At the posting window, the clerk brought down the stamp with a crisp “thud,” leaving a red mark on the envelope. She looked up, “Where’s this going?” “Fengyang, Xujiatun,” he replied. She nodded, tossed the letter into a mail sack behind her, “Leaves the day after tomorrow, five days to arrive.”
Yesterday, he’d mailed a letter home to his parents. This morning, he’d written a thousand words or so—to Honest Xu, to Zhao Gang, to Xinghua. To those his former self had avoided, but whom he held in respect—Xujiatun. He’d been away so long, neglecting his duties; he owed them an explanation. Enclosed was the official exchange letter from “Anhui Literature.” Xu Chengjun touched the letter paper in his pocket. The moment the stamp came down was, in truth, the most solemn beginning of longing.
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Leaving Cuizao Mountain Alley, he turned west into Drum Tower Alley. The “Demolish” character painted on the blue brick wall had been covered with lime, only to reappear. At the alley entrance, a sundry stall displayed iron nails, thimbles, and red hair ribbons on a wooden board. The stall owner had chalked “Thimbles three fen” on the board, the writing blurred blue by rain.
A man in a Zhongshan suit squatted at the stand, picking out an iron skewer, gesturing, “It needs to hold two jin of meat”—a self-employed vendor preparing for kebabs. Under the eaves mid-alley, several old men huddled around a stone table, playing chess on low stools barely above the ground. The bamboo chessboard was polished smooth, the pieces made from apricot pits—black ones inked, white ones left natural.
“Check!” an old man in a white jacket pushed his “General” forward. His opponent slapped his thigh and laughed, “You got lucky again!” Xu Chengjun watched from the side, noticing the “Chu River” and “Han Border” on the board were nearly worn away.
By the well, a group of women washed clothes, pounding them on stone slabs—“thump, thump”—startling the sparrows in the trees. Their loud voices mixed with laughter, carried far by the wind: “Your man’s gone to sell cold cream?” “What, just running errands at the factory!” Water splashed onto their flowered shoes.
Back on Huaihe Road, the state-run photo studio’s display window showed army-uniformed couples: the men’s Mao badges gleaming, the women’s braids draped over red silk jackets. Painted on the glass in red: “One-inch photo, twenty fen; three-inch, fifty.” The window was plastered with customer pick-up slips. The photographer in a white coat carried out a tripod, the lens under a black cloth facing the street—“Come, let’s take a picture of these arcades, they’ll be gone next month.”
At the department store entrance, a loudspeaker broadcast “The East Is Red,” the melody swirling in the hot air. Young women in Dacron shirts walked in arm-in-arm, butterfly bows at the ends of their braids bouncing with each step. A little girl stared at a plastic doll in the window, her eyes bright as spring water. Her mother tugged her hand, “We’ll buy it when your father gets his pay.”
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On the way back to the guesthouse, the streetlamps cast a dim yellow glow, painting the road like wrinkled yellow cloth. Xu Chengjun walked forward, stepping on his own shadow, watching as bicycle bells rang and someone carried a hoe home, a burlap sack swaying on the back, fresh cucumbers inside.
The lights of the Workers, Peasants, and Soldiers Guesthouse were already shining at the street corner. Xu Chengjun quickened his pace, seeing his shadow stretch and shrink against the wall. He knew that forty years from now, Hefei would be filled with skyscrapers and streams of traffic. But at this moment, this city scorched by July’s fire had already etched its most genuine warmth deep into his bones.
Suddenly, inspiration struck him—he felt the urge to write. How should a time traveler leave a mark on this era? What about a conversation between 2024 and 1979? Xu Chengjun propped his head thoughtfully.
He wanted to write—but not just yet. Though the spring breeze had reached Luzhou, it still seemed a bit too soon to talk about artificial intelligence.