Chapter Forty-Seven: Ambition

Wang Zengqi hadn’t expected that a stay at the guesthouse would lead him to meet a young man who suited his temperament so well.

The two of them sat at the bedside table, chatting endlessly.

Before long, a voice called out from outside the guesthouse, “Meal time! The canteen is open!”

Wang Zengqi patted the creases from his clothes and beamed at Xu Chengjun. “Come on, Xiao Xu, let’s get something to eat. The Shanghai Writers’ Association Guesthouse serves a pretty decent meal!”

They made their way downstairs to the first-floor canteen. The aroma of braised pork mingled with the steam from stir-fried greens and the sweet, earthy scent of corn porridge. The clatter of enamel bowls echoed under the incandescent lights, all of it swirling together in a cloud of warmth.

Xu Chengjun queued up with two rough porcelain bowls in hand, keen-eyed enough to spot that only a few pieces of braised pork with skin clung to the bottom of the metal tray at the serving window.

So there really is braised pork! On the green trains, that’s 1.2 yuan a portion!

“Xiao Xu, squeeze up a bit,” Wang Zengqi said, giving his shoulder a gentle pat from behind. “If we’re late, not even the scraps will be left.”

He really did have the bearing of an elder! Xu Chengjun smiled and edged half a step forward, just in time to catch the chef ladling out the last spoonful of meat. “Comrade, I’ll take two pieces with skin!” he called.

The chef shot him a glare—how dare he be picky? The iron ladle flipped, and two glistening pieces of braised pork landed in his bowl with a slap, specks of oil splattering his hand.

Well, what do you know—both pieces are lean, no skin at all!

Xu Chengjun hadn’t even had a chance to thank him when someone behind laughed, “Mr. Wang, you’re here for the braised pork too?”

He turned to see a middle-aged woman in a gray jacket, bowl in hand, her short hair tucked behind one ear with a pen, face alight with laughter.

Wang Zengqi showed no sign of annoyance and greeted her warmly, “Comrade Chen Rong, have you just finished revising your manuscript too?”

“That’s right. Editor-in-chief Li had me working on it all afternoon,” she replied, walking over with her bowl, her gaze curious as it fell on Xu Chengjun.

Wang Zengqi quickly made introductions. “This is Xu Chengjun, a young intellectual from Fengyang. He just published a piece in ‘Harvest’—quite an interesting writer.”

He then turned to Xu Chengjun, “Xiao Xu, this is Comrade Chen Rong, author of ‘Always Spring’ and ‘True and False’. Her works find strength in the ordinary.”

“Always Spring?” Xu Chengjun paused for a moment, then remembered—she was the author of “When One Reaches Middle Age”!

In 1979, Chen Rong was forty-four, but she’d only begun writing in the early seventies, so truth be told, she was still in a period of creative ascent.

Her novella “Always Spring,” published in “Harvest” earlier that year, would soon be singled out for praise by Mao Dun in his speech at the Fourth Writers’ Congress.

As for Mao Dun, his reputation spoke for itself—clear proof of Chen Rong’s stature in the literary world.

But what truly propelled her to national fame was “When One Reaches Middle Age,” published early the following year. It would win first prize in the inaugural National Excellent Novella Awards and be recognized as one of the “Forty Most Influential Novels of Forty Years of Reform and Opening Up.”

Even those movie lovers unfamiliar with literature knew Chen Rong, thanks to the highly lauded film adaptation of the same name.

In these times, only a handful of female writers, like Zhang Jie, could be considered her peers.

Xu Chengjun quickly stood and shook her hand. “Hello, Teacher Chen! ‘Always Spring’ is a household name in Anhui—I’ve been meaning to read it myself!”

Chen Rong was amused by his earnestness and waved him back down. “Sit, sit, no need to call me teacher—just Chen Rong is fine. The editorial office said a young writer had arrived, bold in his writing—so it’s you, is it?”

She studied Xu Chengjun. “You look younger than my own son, and you’ve already published in ‘Harvest’. The literary world really is all about new waves overtaking the old!”

In fact, Chen Rong’s family was remarkable in its own right.

Her eldest son, Liang Zuo, was then a junior at Peking University’s Chinese department—a bona fide college entrance exam success! He later collaborated closely with Jiang Kun and Wang Shuo, and it was he who adapted the novel “Escape from the Tiger’s Mouth” into the wildly popular “Tiger’s Mouth Fantasies.”

Her second son, Liang Tian, was less disciplined in his youth but went on to appear in films like “The Duo Open a Shop,” “The Troubleshooters,” and “The Seahorse Ballroom,” becoming a well-known actor in the eighties and nineties.

Wang Zengqi laughed. “Exactly—what we need are more newcomers. That’s what keeps Chinese literature interesting! A good thing indeed.”

The three of them found a table by the window.

Xu Chengjun took a bite of his rice—the savory oil from the braised pork mingling with the sweetness of the grain. In those days, a meal with braised pork was an absolute treat!

He noticed that Chen Rong’s bowl held only greens and corn porridge. He picked up a piece of meat from his own bowl and offered it to her. “Teacher Chen, have some meat too.”

Chen Rong smiled and gently pushed it back. “You’re young, still growing—you should eat it yourself. I’m used to light food when I write; rich food muddles my thoughts.”

She picked up some greens. “I glanced at your story ‘The Fitting Room Mirror’ this afternoon in the editorial office. This kind of writing is rare in China right now—bold, and really well done!”

Xu Chengjun waved off the praise, smiling. “You flatter me, Teacher Chen. I was just writing whatever came to mind. I read Gao Xiaosheng’s review of ‘Always Spring’ in ‘Literary Gazette’—he called it ‘an epic of ordinary people.’ That’s what I want to learn!”

Wang Zengqi paused, chopsticks still, casting a suspicious glance at Xu Chengjun—thinking, so I just write whatever comes to mind, and you do too?

Chen Rong caught the turnabout, a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. “You certainly have a way with words. But that bit in ‘The Fitting Room Mirror’ where the shadow rebels—that’s fresh, nothing like us older writers who always cling to collective narratives.”

She picked up more greens. “The literary world needs more young writers like you, unafraid to break a few rules.”

Wang Zengqi sipped his corn porridge and chimed in, “He’s right. I just read Xiao Xu’s piece. He writes only about the flowered blouse in the mirror, but it says more than shouting ‘liberate your mind’ ten times. Literature doesn’t have to cry out in pain.”

There was meaning behind his words.

Xu Chengjun refilled their cups with hot water. “You put it perfectly, Teacher Wang. When I write, I always think—don’t treat the reader like a fool. Like Teacher Chen writing about the countryside—no need to spell out the hardship. You can taste it in the details of daily life.”

Chen Rong laughed. “For someone so young, you talk like an old hand. Which room are you staying in? I’ll bring you a copy of ‘True and False’ when it’s hot off the press.”

“I’m in Room 201, sharing with Teacher Wang.”

Xu Chengjun took out a pen and tore a sheet from his notebook. “Teacher Chen, could you give me your address? I’ll send you my new work for your advice when I get back to Anhui.”

Chen Rong took the paper and wrote, “BJ Dongdan Santiao, Writers’ Association Dormitory,” adding, “Just mark ‘manuscript exchange’ on the envelope.”

Xu Chengjun wrote down his own address in Fengyang’s Xujiatun Commune, noting, “Please forward to the Educated Youth Station.”

After dinner, as they walked back, the clock in the corridor struck eight.

Chen Rong waved with a smile. “I won’t keep you—my manuscript still needs work. Xiao Xu, be sure to visit me if you’re ever in BJ.”

Back in Room 201, Wang Zengqi sat down on the bed, the wooden boards creaking beneath him.

Xu Chengjun lit the desk lamp and looked out the window. The night outside was pitch black, with only the distant streetlight casting a dim yellow glow.

It was barely past nine, but the guesthouse was already quiet as a tomb. Even a cough sounded clear as day.

“There’s nothing much to do in these times—early to bed, early to rise,” Wang Zengqi said, taking off his jacket. “Not like you young people, who can still catch eels and fish in the countryside.”

Xu Chengjun carefully made the bed. “It does get lively at the Educated Youth Station at night. The snoring alone can keep you up.”

Beds in those days were unforgivingly hard; if you didn’t make them up just right, it was impossible to get comfortable.

He took out his copy of “Selected Essays of Lu Xun.” “Reading a few pages before bed helps pass the time.”

Wang Zengqi leaned against the headboard, smoking as the wisps curled in the lamplight. “Are you feeling prepared for your interview at Fudan?”

“Hard to say,” Xu Chengjun replied, shaking his head with a smile, though he didn’t look the least uncertain.

Was he unprepared?

Not really. He’d studied the works and theories of Zhu Dongrun, Zhang Peiheng, and other Fudan professors in depth during his graduate studies. In fact, when it came to some of Zhang Peiheng’s ideas, Xu Chengjun might have understood them even better than the man himself.

All he could hope for now was that his small ambition, to realize something through the workers-peasants-soldiers recommendation system, would come to fruition.

The thought made Xu Chengjun shake his head and smile.

Beneath the lamplight, his “Selected Essays of Lu Xun” happened to fall open to “Jottings Under the Lamplight.”