Chapter 14: He

Because withdrawing payment required not just a remittance slip but also proof of identity, Wei Ming had to personally present his documents to collect the money, then mail it back home for Old Wei to withdraw again.

It was troublesome, but at this moment there was no other option.

The staff examined it for a long while, confirmed the remittance slip from the Children’s Literature editorial office was genuine, and verified that Wei Ming’s household registration page was authentic too—only then did they begin processing the transaction, their attitude noticeably changing.

While waiting, Wei Ming idly glanced left and right, then spotted Liu Zhenyun smiling at him with half-closed eyes.

“Oh, Brother Zhenyun, again! What a coincidence!”

“Little Wei, hello hello,” Liu Zhenyun shook Wei Ming’s hand with formal courtesy—this was the hand of a writer who earned royalty payments!

“You’re here to mail a letter?” Wei Ming asked.

“To withdraw money,” Liu Zhenyun added deliberately, “but not royalty—just living expenses sent by my family.”

Although he received 22.5 yuan monthly as a Class-A scholarship and lived frugally, with enough left over for food and drink, Beijing was expensive to live in—he needed money for books and socializing—so his parents scrimped from every penny to give him and his younger brother fifty yuan each semester.

His younger brother, like him, had entered university in 1978 and studied at Southwest Political Science and Law University, destined to become a future grand judge.

Since fifty yuan was no small sum, his parents feared he’d be robbed en route, so they chose remittance.

After chatting briefly, Wei Ming had collected his money and pulled out an envelope already filled with photos, a letter, and a copy of the remittance slip: “Another remittance, and a letter.”

Seeing Liu Zhenyun’s puzzled look, Wei Ming explained: “I’ve got enough cash on hand—I earned royalty and wanted to send it home to improve things for my family.”

Liu Zhenyun was utterly ashamed—he was three years older than Wei Ming and still depended on his family’s support, while this man was already sending money back to his parents. What a staggering gap!

Now, regarding Wei Ming’s casual choice of major, Liu Zhenyun had no more doubts—he deserved it.

Liu Zhenyun gave Wei Ming a thumbs-up: “Little Wei, you’re truly humbling—I just wonder which department you’ve joined.”

Hearing this, Wei Ming laughed: “What department? I’m not even a Peking University student.”

“Huh? You’re not? But Uncle Wei said, said…”

Seeing him stammer, Wei Ming laughed harder: “He said he asked the leadership to arrange something, right?”

“Yes.”

“Yes—but not to arrange you into a department, but into a department *at* Peking University,” Wei Ming introduced formally, “I’m currently a temporary security guard at Peking University, stationed at the South Gate.”

“Ah!”

Liu Zhenyun’s mind instantly froze—he couldn’t believe this answer.

“Don’t joke~” After a pause, he waved his hand and laughed—it had to be a joke.

Wei Ming: “Why would I lie? If you walk past the South Gate often enough, you’ll see me—just don’t pretend you don’t know me then.”

Liu Zhenyun: Could it be true? Could he really just be a security guard? A security guard who submitted stories to Harvest and earned royalty payments!?

Liu Zhenyun truly wanted to follow Wei Ming back to his dorm to confirm—but he hadn’t withdrawn his money yet, and Wei Ming was already leaving.

The four of them had planned to meet for lunch today at the Long March Canteen.

Though called a canteen, this wasn’t the university cafeteria—it was a state-run restaurant; private eateries didn’t exist yet—the first wouldn’t open until next year’s Yuebin Restaurant.

But because it was near Peking University, Peking University people affectionately called it the “Fifth Canteen.”

Returning the same way, Qiao Feng had already arrived; though today was to celebrate Wei Ming, it was Big Brother Qiao who was treating.

“You’ve already mailed the royalty?”

“Yes,” Wei Ming sat down and said, “I also mailed off my second manuscript—should hear back within half a month.”

“That long?”

“Yes, after all, it’s Shanghai—too far away. Should’ve known better than to get stirred up by Mei Wenhua—I should’ve submitted to Contemporary or October, then I could’ve just gone to their editorial offices to ask directly—if rejected, I could’ve submitted elsewhere right away.”

Qiao Feng comforted him: “Don’t rush—it’s not that urgent. If it does get accepted, as Mei Wenhua said, everyone in the country will know your name!”

Wei Ming actually had no confidence—he thought his chances were under fifty percent.

Although the original novel was published in Harvest, that was over twenty years later, and aesthetic tastes were completely different.

Besides, I adapted this novel from the film version of the novel, so the language style is extremely unusual and novel for this era—similar to Wang Shuo’s mature period.

I just don’t know if Harvest today will accept this slightly rough-edged style.

Soon after, Zhao Debiao and Mei Wenhua arrived together; they pooled their grain coupons first—though Brother Qiao was treating, everyone had to chip in grain coupons.

The four ordered four dishes: stir-fried liver, braised intestines, wood ear pork, and the most expensive dish—braised pork tenderloin—costing 0.82 yuan.

The most expensive dish at the Peking University cafeteria was only 0.2 yuan!

At this stage, the cafeteria dishes weren’t particularly tasty—just edible. Here, however, the chef’s skill was exceptional: rich seasonings, ample oil, generous portions. Though the four dishes and rice were already expensive, Zhao Debiao still stared fixedly at the beer behind the counter.

Qiao Feng knew exactly what Biaozi wanted—he thought of the scene in The Legend of the Condor Heroes where Qiao Feng and his two brothers drank together at Shaolin Temple, feeling a surge of heroism and wanting to emulate it.

So Brother Qiao said: “You can drink, but those on duty this afternoon must not.”

Coincidentally, Wei Ming was on duty—he smiled: “Then you three drink—I’m not much of a drinker anyway.”

So the three opened three bottles of Five-Star beer and drank straight from the bottles—one word: “Awesome!”

The price was also awesome—three bottles cost 1.2 yuan, instantly elevating the meal’s value to the five-yuan tier.

A veritable feast!

After the meal, everyone’s bond deepened—Zhao Debiao and Mei Wenhua now called Qiao Feng “Big Brother.”

Zhao Debiao beamed: “Big Brother, when are you bringing Sister over to visit? We haven’t met her yet.”

Mei Wenhua slapped his chest: “Exactly! Just say the word—we’ll vanish for a full day, won’t even return to the dorm.”

Wei Ming feigned innocence: “Why wouldn’t we return to the dorm? Where else would we go?”

!

Zhao Debiao and Mei Wenhua exchanged glances, then burst into loud laughter.

They had already labeled Wei Ming as a naive “pure-hearted boy.”

In truth, this body was genuinely innocent—his only sexual experience was dream intercourse.

Eighteen years old—so restless.

After eating and drinking their fill, Wei Ming returned to the dorm, washed his face, changed into his uniform, and reported for duty.

Standing at the gate, he began thinking about what to write next.

I’ve already written about donkeys—what if I write about oxen next?

I thought of this because oxen and donkeys were the animals I encountered most in the countryside—I knew their habits far better than most writers.

Also, recently I asked my roommates to tell me sent-down youth stories; Brother Qiao, in high spirits, recounted a tale from his hometown in Mount Yimeng—a farmer and his ox—said to be widely known.

Later, this story was adapted into a film, which Wei Ming quite liked.

But to write it, I’d have to learn Shandong dialect from Brother Qiao.

Rural themes need dialect elements to feel alive.

As he thought, night fell.

Half an hour left until shift end—then several students walked out of campus.

The 1978 Chinese Literature students were complaining about Liu Zhenyun: why walk the long way through the South Gate when the East Gate was so close?

They’d heard Tsinghua had a dance tonight, so they’d dressed up beautifully to meet potential partners.

To get to Tsinghua, you just exit the East Gate—walking the South Gate was a detour.

But Liu Zhenyun had a smooth tongue: “I’m just practicing my dance steps on the way—I don’t want to embarrass Peking University.”

As he reached the South Gate, Liu Zhenyun spotted a tall, slender back. Closer still, he could see the man’s profile.

Only when he stepped outside did Wei Ming, facing outward, notice him and greet with a smile: “Going out?”

Liu Zhenyun quickly returned the greeting: “Yeah, going to visit next door. You’re busy.”

At that moment, Liu Zhenyun’s heart churned—he really was a security guard!

Why did he feel a pang of regret—“Such a fine fellow, reduced to guarding a gate”?

As Liu Zhenyun mourned the wasted potential of this handsome Wei Ming, his female classmates gathered around him.

“Liu Zhenyun, you know him!”

“What’s his name?”

“How do you know him?”

Liu Zhenyun was startled: “Why are you asking so many questions?”

The girls replied: “He’s so handsome!”

Liu Zhenyun’s regret and pity vanished instantly—he, not worth pitying!

(End of Chapter)