Chapter Forty-Eight: The Soft Murmurs of Wu
Early in the morning, Wang Zengqi had already left with his briefcase, saying he was heading to a meeting at the Writers' Federation.
With the elder up and about, Xu Chengjun couldn’t justify staying in bed any longer. He rose and began to tidy his things. Soon, he would head to the Department of Chinese at Fudan University to scout out the place. Old Zhu had given him plenty of time, but hadn’t specified when exactly, so there was no guarantee he’d encounter anyone; this trip was likely just to get a feel for the place.
Just in case, Xu Chengjun carefully checked over everything he needed for the interview. He pulled his canvas bag onto his lap and first tucked in the acceptance notice from "Anhui Literature."
“Old Zhou banged the table to secure that headline—it deserves pride of place,” he muttered.
A provincial literary magazine’s headline was never easy to come by, no matter the era. Next, he produced the acceptance slip from "Harvest." “A piece accepted by 'Harvest'—this is hard currency.”
"Harvest" held a mountain-like stature in Chinese literature.
Then came his poem "Time," chosen for "Thirty Newcomers of Anhui Literature"; "Towards the Light," published in "Anqing News"; and three poems yet unpublished, including "Foxtail Grass"; and finally, his short story "Stars Shine on the Spring Breeze," which appeared in the "Hefei Evening News."
These months since arriving in this era had hardly been idle. Creation was arduous, life sighed!
As he straightened up, morning sunlight poured into the room. Facing the mirror, Xu Chengjun adjusted his shirt collar and suddenly grinned. “If someone were to hold a contest for the strongest literary newcomer of ’79, surely I’d deserve a spot!” he mused.
Jiang Zilong, Lu Xinhua, Zhang Jie—none were younger than him.
Next time, he thought, he ought to bring a “Strongest Newcomer” badge with him; maybe that’d help him snag an extra piece of meat in the cafeteria! If nothing else, even a piece with the skin would do.
He tossed a piece of Shanghai milk candy into the bag, then saluted himself in the mirror with a playful smile: “Off I go, time to challenge the boss at Fudan!”
....
Bus No. 93 weaved through the alleys and avenues of Shanghai.
The film "The Wasted Times" narrated the city like this: "In that era, Shanghai was the romantic ideal in everyone’s heart."
A single sentence summoned endless imaginings of old Shanghai—ten miles of foreign glamour, the soft dialect of Wu, splendor and charm.
But the Shanghai outside the window, after years of change, was a city transformed in scenery and spirit.
The famed ten-mile stretch had shed its Republican-era brilliance. The Bund’s international architecture still stood, but lacked the old glimmer of neon and revelry. The docks of the Huangpu River remained bustling, but the workers shouldering sacks now embodied honest collective labor rather than a rogue’s bravado. The French plane trees still shaded the streets, but shop windows no longer displayed cheongsams and Western suits. In the stone-gated alleyways, neighborly greetings carried the warmth of everyday life, and the tense air of gang rivalries had faded.
The scent in the air was no longer perfume and spirits, but the smoke of coal stoves, the ring of bicycle bells, and the whistle of factory sirens.
Xu Chengjun’s body swayed with the bumps of the bus.
His mind wandered through Shanghai’s past, present—and future. Countless threads of inspiration danced before him—sometimes within reach, sometimes slipping away.
He couldn’t just write "The Bund," he thought. The elusive ideas made him grit his teeth in frustration.
Suddenly, he recalled leaving the guesthouse that morning, when he’d spotted a taxi and tentatively asked the fare. The driver looked up from the wheel, frowned, and snapped, “You’re not from around here, are you? Asking the price? Starting fare two-fifty, fifty cents per kilometer! Are you getting in or not? If not, I’m off!”
Xu Chengjun’s temper flared; he spat and turned away. It wasn’t the price he minded—it was the driver’s attitude! He headed for the No. 93 bus instead—green travel, starting from 1979!
That early morning irritation aside.
In 1979, Fudan University’s main campus was still on Handan Road in the YP District, and it would remain so for years to come. About ten kilometers from the Writers' Federation guesthouse.
A taxi ride would cost around eight yuan—a lucrative profession in this era. The bus would take about forty-five minutes to reach Fudan; after alighting, there’d still be a walk.
Suddenly, No. 93 clattered to a halt at Handan Road.
He looked east; not far away, the archway of the campus gate stood in the shade of trees. The golden characters—“Fudan University”—glimmered in the sunlight.
The inscription was famous, penned by Marshal Chen; vigorous yet free-spirited.
The Huashan Road gate was an old-style brick-and-wood archway, the paint peeling at the corners to reveal pale timber beneath. Iron fences on either side were draped in vines; students in blue uniforms pushed bicycles through, bundled books rubbing against their trouser legs.
On the gate’s pillars, a red slogan with black characters read: “Advance toward science, strive for the Four Modernizations,” and the ink still looked fresh.
Two security guards in navy uniforms sat on bamboo chairs in the gatehouse, fanning themselves and eyeing everyone coming and going.
Seeing Xu Chengjun standing with his canvas bag, one older man with a red armband stood and slapped his fan against his palm. “Comrade, what’s your business?”
“Good morning, sir, I’m Xu Chengjun from Anhui, here for an interview at the Department of Chinese.” Xu hurriedly produced his introduction letter from the provincial education office and Fudan’s interview notice.
A pity it was Fudan—if it were Peking University, he might have run into Zhou Ming, the famous BJ writer and campus security guard. A regret, indeed!
“From Anhui?” The elder handed back the letter, pointed inside. “Go straight in, across the lawn, the red brick building is the Chinese Department office—there’s a sign at the door. Don’t wander off; even during holidays, some students stay on campus.”
Xu Chengjun thanked him softly. As he stepped through the gate, the asphalt suddenly felt cool beneath his feet.
The shade filtered the sunlight into shards of gold, shimmering on the ground.
Even the breeze on campus carried a scholarly air.
The plane trees along the avenue formed a canopy, their shadows weaving a net across the ground.
A few students staying for the break hurried past, books in hand, the sleeves of their blue shirts rolled to the elbow, murmuring about “Lu Xun’s essay style” and “the narrative structure of Dream of the Red Chamber.”
On the lawn, small groups sat together—some jotting notes, others holding radios to their ears, listening to English broadcasts. The static mingled with the distant chime from the library, each note striking the heart.
The campus was a web of buildings—New Courtyard, Central Courtyard, New Upper Courtyard—forming the core of humanities and foundational studies.
Xu Chengjun’s destination, the Department of Chinese at Fudan, was nestled within this area in the Xianzhou Hall.
A name with a hint of the ethereal, though in later years it would become the campus history museum.
He asked directions as he went, finally finding his way.
The Xianzhou Hall of 1979 exuded classical Chinese elegance.
Its vermilion facade was arranged along a central axis, dignified and orderly. The iron lattice windows boasted intricate patterns; inside, beams were carved and painted with flowers and figures. Corridors twisted and turned, eaves soared high, and their corners curled up like the wings of birds.
No one stopped him at the door.
Xu Chengjun climbed the stairs, heading for room 410 as directed in the interview notice.
Just as he reached the landing on the third floor, he heard a faint singing.
Closer now, he could make out a soft Wu dialect melody—quiet, but arresting.
The gentle southern speech, with its tender tremor, was not an affected sweetness but a natural humidity, like the mist-laden air of the Yangtze delta, seeping into the heart.
“I have a tale,
Let me sing it for you all,
Quiet your minds, my friends,
Let me sing a Wuxi tune,
Carefully, from beginning to end, for you all.
Little Wuxi town,
From ancient times till now,
East, west, north, south—four gates in all,
And in the third year of Xuantong,
A new gate was built,
The Guangfu Gate.”