Chapter Forty-Six: The Last Pure Literary Writer of China

After getting off at Huashan Road Station on Yan'an West Road, Xu Chengjun walked 500 meters and arrived at No. 238 Yan'an West Road—the Federation of Literary and Art Circles Guesthouse.

In 1979, the guesthouse still carried the unadorned air of a place just emerging from an extraordinary era. The old brick-and-wood building was covered with creeping ivy; the wooden floors in the corridor creaked softly underfoot. The walls still bore faint traces of lime, and here and there faded paintings and calligraphy adorned the space.

After a brief questioning and verification from a local Shanghai girl, Xu Chengjun found his way to Room 201.

It was a bit of a shame he hadn’t been assigned to the guesthouse at East China Normal University this time. But it didn’t matter—there would be other chances.

Room 201 was a double, and the moment he pushed open the door he felt the simple, compact atmosphere. This was, in fact, a special privilege from "Harvest" within reasonable bounds. The guesthouse mainly served visiting literary workers, editors, and conference attendees; most rooms were standard doubles or quads. As for single rooms, they only began to appear in some guesthouses in the mid-1980s, when supplies became more abundant; in 1979, a single room was a rare configuration.

As a new writer, Xu Chengjun could not expect one.

Fortunately, the room was empty for now, and Xu Chengjun could enjoy it alone for a while.

Inside, two identical wooden frame beds stood against the walls with barely enough space between them for a person to squeeze through sideways. The mattress straps bore tightly woven patterns, covered by blue-gray coarse bed sheets washed so many times they looked pale, and the quilt covers sported the common peony print, their corners frayed from use.

At each bedhead stood a low wooden cabinet, its surface uneven, holding an enamel basin and a cup printed with the guesthouse’s name.

The walls were simply whitewashed, with patches of flaking revealing the green bricks beneath. Old newspapers were pasted over damaged spots, and the floor was poured cement, with a shallow crack near the window and a tin dustpan in the corner.

A bare incandescent bulb hung from the ceiling, its switch a pull cord that clicked when tugged.

It was already evening. When Xu Chengjun turned on the light, its dim yellow glow made his eyes dizzy.

Still, it was much better than a kerosene lamp.

There was no need to mention the city’s status; at least, in these times, the electricity could be counted on!

Just as Xu Chengjun dropped his canvas bag onto the empty bed, he heard the faint sound of footsteps in the corridor.

He turned around and saw a middle-aged man in a light-colored shirt walking in, carrying a mesh bag.

He looked to be about fifty. Inside the mesh bag were an enamel mug and two dog-eared books. His back was slightly bent as he walked, yet he exuded a scholarly air.

“Comrade, is this Room 201?” The man pushed up his round-rimmed glasses, his voice gentle with a Jiangsu accent.

Xu Chengjun thought to himself that this was no ordinary person.

He nodded, “Yes. Are you staying here too?”

“That’s right. The Federation said there was a vacant room.”

He placed his mesh bag on the bedside cabinet, the enamel mug clinking softly against the wood. “My name is Wang Zengqi, from the capital.”

Wang Zengqi?

Xu Chengjun was taken aback, “Are you Teacher Wang Zengqi, the author of ‘The Ordination’?”

Wang Zengqi was amused by his reaction. “Young comrade, you know me? I thought my name had long been forgotten.”

“How could that be!” Xu Chengjun set his basin in the corner, his tone excited. “‘Chance Encounters Collection,’ ‘Sha Jia Bang’—they’re classics! As the saying goes, who in the world doesn’t know you?”

Wang Zengqi sat on the edge of the bed, smiling. “Just scribbles, nothing for young people to admire. And you? You look quite young—are you a writer too?”

“My name is Xu Chengjun, an educated youth from Fengyang.” Xu Chengjun scratched his head, feeling a bit embarrassed before such a renowned figure. “I just had a piece accepted by ‘Harvest,’ and the editor told me to stay here for a while.”

In truth, in his previous life, Xu Chengjun’s favorite contemporary writer was undoubtedly among the top five—Wang Zengqi.

For the Chinese public, his name was hardly unfamiliar; works like “Dragon Boat Festival Duck Eggs” and “Rain in Kunming” had been included in school textbooks, letting the poetic warmth of “Wang Zengqi-style” seep into the nation’s literary memory.

His belief in kindness, sensitivity to beauty, and love of life transcended the limits of his era, comforting generations of readers.

If one must say, Wang Zengqi bridged the gap between “modern” and “contemporary” literature: both the inheritor of Shen Congwen’s rural tradition and the pioneer of a new, pluralistic literary landscape.

What Xu Chengjun admired most was Wang’s advocacy to “return to national tradition, return to realism,” emphasizing that literature should “write life, write people, write feeling.”

In the 1980s, when Western literary trends surged in, he firmly defended the path of national creative expression for Chinese literature.

He could be called “the last pure literary man in China!”

During the difficult years, Wang Zengqi opposed the instrumentalization and politicization of literature, choosing silent perseverance and temporarily leaving the literary world.

This year, Wang Zengqi returned to the literary scene with “The Ordination.” In an era dominated by scar literature and reflective writing, his work broke the rigid mold with a distinctly different style.

This was a true literary man!

Principled, broad-minded, steadfast.

Wang Zengqi laughed amiably, “So young and already published in ‘Harvest’—the youth these days are remarkable.”

“In your presence, what young person would dare claim to be remarkable? You are the role model!”

...

After a few words, Wang Zengqi reached for the kettle to fetch water, and Xu Chengjun hurried to grab it.

Wang Zengqi was fifty-nine this year. The kettle was typically shared between two, and Xu Chengjun could hardly let him fetch water.

“Teacher Wang, let me go! You sit and rest.”

Wang Zengqi looked at his young junior with a smile and didn’t protest, simply thanked him.

The public tap in the corridor was dripping steadily. As Xu Chengjun filled the kettle, he was still dazed.

He’d just been lamenting he’d never had the chance to share a room with a famous writer, and now—fate had dealt him an extraordinary hand.

Imagine that!

The writer he had analyzed over and over in Chinese literature classes in his previous life, his favorite, was now his roommate!

Once the room was tidied, Wang Zengqi poured hot water into his enamel mug and began chatting with Xu Chengjun.

“I heard you had a piece accepted by ‘Harvest,’ young Xu. What’s it about?”

Xu Chengjun was wiping the enamel cup on the table, and smiled at the question, “Teacher Wang, mine just got approved, not yet published. It’s a story about a shopgirl and a mirror.”

“A mirror?” Wang Zengqi pushed up his glasses. “That’s an interesting item. Is it what people now call scar literature?”

Xu Chengjun replied, “It’s not scar literature. See, the girl has a knot in her heart, but I didn’t write her sobbing or recalling bitterness—just her trying on new fabric in front of a mirror. That little wish to wear something floral is hidden in her shadow.”

He paused, “I thought—the hurdles in life don’t always need to be shouted out in agony. Sometimes, the crack in the mirror lets in the light, and the room is brighter for it.”

Wang Zengqi sipped his hot water, his gaze softening. “Using shadows to speak? That’s a fresh approach. A lot of pieces these days poke at the pain, but you lead toward the light. That takes courage.”

Xu Chengjun smiled, but his tone was full of respect for his elder. “How could I speak of courage in your presence? When you wrote ‘The Ordination,’ the goodness between Minghai and Xiaoyingzi was hidden in the wind among the reeds, in the temple bell’s echo.”

“I believe that literature doesn’t always need to shout or accuse. It can be the morning dew, the smoke from the stove, the vendors’ cries in the alley—it’s the purest poetry in ordinary life!”

At this, Wang Zengqi laughed heartily, “Your words strike right at my heart!”

Indeed!

I’d written an entire thesis just for that heart of yours!