Chapter 132: Pig Slaughtering for the New Year: The Twin Dragons

On the way to school, passing by Qi Kexiu’s house, I happened to see Qi Delong, that kid, stepping out wearing a tattered cotton-padded jacket.

Wei Ming immediately called out: “Little Long, get in the car.”

“Big brother!” He hurried inside and sat on the fuel tank, then asked, “Big brother, where are we going?”

Wei Ming: “To your school.”

“I’m not going!” Qi Delong nearly fell off the car in fright.

Wei Ming steadied him quickly: “You have to go—let’s go!”

Wei Hong laughed loudly from the back: “It’s vacation—what are you afraid of?”

Qi Delong finally realized: Right, it’s vacation—why should I be afraid?

“But if it’s vacation, why are you going there?”

“Can’t we just reminisce about childhood?” Wei Ming chuckled, then asked, “By the way, where’s your dad?”

“My dad’s at home writing a novel.”

“What!” Wei Ming and Wei Hong were both stunned.

Qi Delong sneered: “Don’t worry—he’s got no talent for it. If he could write anything, I’d take his surname!”

Wei Ming: Felt like something was off.

At that moment, Qi Kexiu was staring blankly at a notebook; after half a month, he’d finally squeezed out a title for his novel: “Heroes Always Emerge in Middle Age.”

Most novice novelists start by imitating, and he thought “Heroes Always Emerge in Youth” was great, so he planned to imitate it.

Since Wei Kuangren’s story featured a little boy marrying a wife ten years older, he decided his protagonist would be a middle-aged man marrying a wife twenty years younger—no, twenty-something years younger!

He felt the greater the contrast, the more thrilling!

Once he’d settled on this setup, Qi Kexiu finally began writing the main text.

“Long, long ago…”

Long ago, Wei Ming spent his childhood in this dilapidated elementary school.

That was around 1970, when education wasn’t valued; Wei Ming, inspired by Uncle Anping, stood out academically among his peers.

Qi Delong cowered nervously beside Wei Ming, avoiding eye contact with the principal.

The principal was actually kind, but just like mice fear cats, students naturally fear teachers.

After circling the school, nearly every classroom window was broken, desks and chairs were ancient, many even the same ones Wei Ming had used.

Wei Ming checked the teaching aids: only one set of right-angle rulers remained, so one teacher could use it only when another wasn’t.

Compasses and globes? Completely absent—Qi Delong had no concept of “the world.”

Sports equipment was virtually nonexistent: no ping-pong tables, no soccer or basketballs—just one thick rope, used for jumping, tug-of-war, or tying up carts during busy farming seasons.

As they watched, Wei Jiefang suddenly ran over; the old party secretary grew anxious, fearing Wei Jiefang’s awareness was lower than Wei Ming’s and he’d obstruct the effort.

But Wei Jiefang said: “Donating to the village school? That’s a good deed—a great merit!”

The old party secretary and the principal both sighed in relief.

Wei Jiefang added: “But since our little Ming donated money, shouldn’t he get the title of principal?”

“This…” The old party secretary and the principal exchanged glances; the principal said, “Not just a title—even letting him take over my position is fine!”

Wei Ming waved his hand: “I don’t even want a title. How about this—let my dad be honorary principal, and have him supervise how the donations are used. What do you all think?”

Wei Jiefang pointed at himself in shock: “Me?”

Qi Delong was even happier—his uncle was now principal, so he no longer had to fear his teacher dad!

The old party secretary and the principal had no objections, so it was settled: once the donation amount was confirmed, Old Wei would manage the funds—he’d surely relish the new title “Wei Principal.”

Back home, the Wei family closed the door; Old Wei asked anxiously: “Son, how much money do you actually have? Why are you donating?!”

He feared his son was just showing off and might ruin their livelihood.

Yesterday, Wei Ming hadn’t been clear—he revealed: “The screenplay for ‘The Herdsman’ earned me 1,500 yuan from Shanghai Film Studio.”

“What!” His father, mother, and sister all gasped—the sum exceeded their wildest imagination.

Uncle Anping’s monthly salary of over 150 yuan was already astronomical for rural folks, equivalent to many families’ annual income, yet his son earned ten months’ worth in one screenplay!

And he said he had two more screenplays lined up—one with Meiyingchang, one with Beiyingchang!

But Wei Ming’s current wealth was awkwardly in-between: he couldn’t afford a house, yet couldn’t spend it all on anything else.

Originally, Wei Jiefang had thought donating one or two hundred yuan would suffice—just enough to improve the school’s conditions.

But now, knowing his son’s finances, that seemed stingy.

Crucially, this was only half a year’s earnings—not his lifetime savings.

Old Wei thought: “Let’s wait until Uncle Anping arrives—he’ll estimate how much to donate. He’s in education—he’ll know best.”

“Fine,” Wei Ming nodded. “They’ll probably be back soon. Let’s eat. I’ll pick up the tofu this afternoon—what’s tomorrow’s plan?”

“On the twenty-sixth, we cut the New Year’s meat,” Old Wei glanced at the young pig they’d bought four months ago—they didn’t need to buy; they’d just slaughter one!

On the same day, Wei Anping, Lu Xiaoyan, and Xi Le’s family of four finally arrived in Shanghai after more than a day’s journey; Wei Anping and his wife had been before, but Xi Le was seeing it for the first time—everything fascinated him.

Since they were eager to return home for the New Year, they didn’t delay—headed straight for Shanghai Film Studio.

Coincidentally, Zhu Shimao was there for a screen test; to check chemistry between the couple, Xie Dao also summoned Gong Ying—perfectly matched, so Zhu Shimao was cast too; Shanghai Film Studio would coordinate with his workplace.

Zhu Shimao had once been lucky enough to collaborate with director Shui Hua on “Daughters of Xisha,” but the film collapsed; he’d thought his film career was over, yet now fate had turned again.

With his thick eyebrows and bright eyes, he gripped Xie Dao’s hand, repeatedly thanking him.

Xie Dao didn’t take credit: “Thank Wei Ming instead—you and Xiao Gong were both his picks.” “Ah, does Writer Wei know me?”

“I’ve seen your photo—I remembered you clearly,” Xie Dao smiled.

Old Zhu felt he’d found a true soulmate—he’d thank Wei Ming properly when he met him.

Just then, the Wei family arrived to visit; Xie Dao laughed: “Perfect—don’t leave yet, the young actor’s here—let’s test together.”

After entering, Wei Xi saw the three people in the room and rushed straight to Gong Ying, hugging her legs and shouting: “Mommy!”

This stunned Gong Ying, a virgin girl, into blushing furiously; even Wei Anping and Lu Xiaoyan were taken aback.

We never taught him to do that!

After the initial awkwardness, Gong Ying picked up Xi Le—he was heavy for a five-year-old.

But Gong Ying knew the screen test had begun; to help Xi Le pass, she showed affection—Xie Dao nodded approvingly, sensing genuine mother-child connection.

But little Wei Xi still wasn’t close to Comrade Zhu Shimao.

Xie Dao had Gong Ying put him down, knelt, and asked: “Kid, can you read yet?”

Xi Le shook his head: “I’m illiterate.”

!

“Pfft!”

Everyone laughed; Lu Xiaoyan covered her face, wishing she didn’t know him.

Xie Dao had Gong Ying pick a line for Xi Le to perform.

She explained the plot, then said one line, and he repeated it—his delivery was natural; he’d watched plenty of films, TV, and plays.

Xie Dao was satisfied, then asked him to cry.

Xi Le strained for a long time but couldn’t cry; Gong Ying whispered: “Think about how your mom will never care for you again.”

Then Xi Le grinned—was this a good thing?

Xie Dao chuckled again—the kid was amusing; though he hadn’t cried on cue, the crew could easily make him cry later—he’d developed strong skills communicating with child actors in his last film.

So Xie Dao immediately decided: Wei Xi was cast; filming details would follow—plus, he’d kept Wei Anping’s office phone number.

Wei Xi asked: “How much will I get paid?”

Xie Dao laughed: “I’ll tell your dad later—won’t tell you.”

Wei Xi pouted.

After leaving the office, Gong Ying volunteered to treat the family to dinner—hospitality.

Wei Anping smiled: “We should be treating you—we owe you thanks for recommending Xi Le.”

Gong Ying: “No, no—I should thank Comrade Wei Ming.”

Lu Xiaoyan wanted to say “Sister, you’re too polite,” but wondered: was “sister” appropriate?

But Xi Le was clever—he stepped outside and started calling her “Sister,” no longer “Mommy,” leaving Gong Ying both flustered and delighted.

Gouzitun.

Early morning, Wei Ming was reading when he heard the radio playing “My Hometown.”

This song hadn’t yet been condemned as decadent, but even if it had, sales in stores weren’t affected.

After Li’s song, the radio host announced: “Next is a children’s song, performed by Wei Le—listen to ‘Where Is Spring?’”

Wei Jiefang exclaimed: “How come this guy shares the same name as Lele?”

Wei Ming stepped out: “Could it be Lele?”

“Huh?!”

This was Beijing People’s Radio’s music program; Wei Ming had written five songs, and today only “Where Is Spring?” was broadcast. Wei Hong thought it was beautiful, remarking: “The songwriter is so talented! I bet all elementary students across the country will learn it soon.”

Wei Ming: Yes—and they’ll have to memorize it word for word!

Today was pig-slaughtering day; Liu Rulong had heard from Wei Ming, so he rode his bicycle over to watch.

Wei Jiefang generously said: “Long, when you leave, take a ham home.”

Liu Rulong swallowed hard—perfect!

Maybe because their pig was too young, the butcher couldn’t hold it down—it bolted; everyone chased it out into the fields and finally caught it after great effort.

With the white knife in, the red knife out, a fine young pig was gone—inevitably ending up on the table.

Wei Ming didn’t bother watching the rest—he grabbed Liu Rulong and called Qi Delong: “Let’s go buy firecrackers in the next village!”

The neighboring village was famous for making firecrackers, and since it was still allowed to set them off during the New Year, Wei Ming wanted to hear the noise—he had spent several New Years in silence in his past life.

Wei Ming bought some not only for himself but also for Shuanglong.

Qi Delong received a few small red firecrackers with weak power.

Wei Ming told him to save them for when Brother Xizi returned, so they could play together.

As for Liu Rulong, he took five packs of white firecrackers wrapped in newspaper—very powerful, perfect for waking up the ancestors underground during New Year tomb-sweeping.

This year there was no New Year’s Eve; the twenty-ninth was the eve.

Wei Anping’s family returned on the twenty-eighth.

Old Wei and Wei Ming—one driving a donkey cart, the other riding a motorcycle—went to the county bus station to pick them up…

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(End of chapter)