Chapter 140: You Can

Wei Ming could find his uncle and aunt himself, after all, they’d already come in his past life.

But it was still the early 1980s, an era where lodging away from home was a problem; having a local help could indeed simplify complicated matters.

Originally, Wei Ming had planned to visit Old Master Ma Shitou; they’d met once at the Literary Congress, and he’d even sent him a group photo, certified by a buddy.

But he was chairman of the provincial Writers’ Association and a top local official—better not to disturb him if possible.

Liang Ping’s help should be enough, but how would he repay this favor later?

Night fell, and the Wei family spent their second night on the train.

While they were still asleep, the train had passed Yangping Pass and entered Sichuan from Shaanxi.

Xu Shufen woke early, got out of bed, wiped the condensation off the window, and gazed at the scenery outside—puzzled yet hopeful.

Almost home now—Dad, Mom, older brother, older sister, little sister—are you all still there?

Just like the mountains and rivers of home, the faces of her family had grown very hazy in her mind; she’d spent her first eighteen years in Sichuan, the next twenty in Hebei, and comparatively, the memories of the latter life were clearer and more vivid.

Her deepest memory of Sichuan and Chongqing was hunger—starvation so desperate—that her final memory was climbing onto a train to escape and find a way to survive.

At first, her three siblings had traveled with their parents, but in Rongcheng she got lost.

She knew there was no future returning home, so she had to go outward; she’d secretly ridden many trains—coal trains, stone trains, livestock trains—all far less comfortable than the berths her son had bought.

As she recalled, a pair of large hands rested on her shoulders.

She turned and smiled: “Go back to sleep.”

Old Wei chuckled: “I’m about to meet my mother-in-law—I’m too excited to sleep. Can my future father-in-law and brother-in-law drink?”

“I’ve never seen them drink,” Xu Shufen shook her head.

Old Wei relaxed: “Then they’re no match for me.”

Soon after, Wei Ming, Wei Hong, and Editor Liang woke up; the Wei family still had dried food and meat, so they invited Editor Liang to join them.

Editor Liang didn’t refuse; along the way he introduced them to local customs and scenery, and Wei Ming occasionally added remarks—even some things Liang Ping didn’t know, making him marvel at Wei Ming’s broad knowledge and wonder why he could write such rich, vivid stories.

Wei Ming claimed it was all from reading at Peking University’s library, but most of it came from his past-life experiences traveling with film crews.

By noon, the train finally stopped in the Land of Abundance—Rongcheng.

With Liang Ping in charge, they took a bus straight to the Writers’ Association guesthouse.

The attendant, speaking with a Sichuan-Chongqing accent, asked: “Liang Ping, these your relatives?”

“More important than relatives—this is Wei Ming from Peking University, the writer, here with his mother to find family!”

“The Wei Ming who wrote ‘Ideal’ and ‘The Herdsman’!” The guesthouse attendant grew serious; such big names hadn’t visited in ages.

“That’s right—take good care of them. Charge the food and lodging to my account,” Liang Ping declared generously—though he’d obviously get reimbursed by Poetry Magazine.

But hearing him say that, Wei Ming felt he had to leave something behind.

The guesthouse assigned them two rooms: Wei Ming and Old Wei in one, Mother and Little Sister in the other.

Liang Ping arranged lunch, then left to help round up people.

In the office of Ma Shitou, chairman of the Sichuan Writers’ Association, the old man was bent over his writing.

On his desk lay several small booklets titled: ‘The Fall of the City,’ ‘The Reimbursement Record,’ ‘The Thief Official,’ ‘The Concubine Record,’ ‘The Opium Ban Record,’ ‘The Sunken River Record,’ and others.

At sixty-five, Ma Shitou was the leading figure in today’s Sichuan literary scene, ranked among the “Five Elders of Shu” alongside Ba Jin, Zhang Xiushu, Sha Ting, and Ai Wu.

It was Old Master Ba who had introduced Wei Ming to him at the Literary Congress.

He was also an old revolutionary who’d risked his life conducting underground work in the Kuomintang-controlled areas.

Because he frequently changed professions, Old Ma often mingled with all kinds of people, listening to them tell stories and gossip.

Moved by these vivid tales, he felt a strong creative urge and finally, in 1942, chose ten of the most interesting “dragon tales” to begin writing ‘Ten Night Tales’—a project that lasted forty years.

Due to the War of Resistance and subsequent movements, his manuscripts were destroyed three times, and he rewrote them three times; now most of the content was complete, and some had been published in literary journals.

Later generations, including Wei Ming, knew him through the masterpiece ‘Let the Bullets Fly,’ adapted from his ‘The Thief Official.’

But Jiang Wen’s films—those who understand know—are cosmetic adaptations with little connection to the originals; ‘The Sun Also Rises’ and ‘The Evil Does Not Overcome the Right’ were the same.

After writing a while, tired, he sipped tea, strolled around, then read books and newspapers.

Several newspapers lay beside him—all newly printed; he skimmed the first two with little interest, until he reached ‘China Youth Daily.’

The front-page headline read in bold: ‘No Matter How Poor, Don’t Let Education Suffer; No Matter How Hard, Don’t Let Children Suffer.’

He nodded—this headline had depth; it could be used directly as a promotional slogan.

As he read on, he learned it was about the newly popular writer Wei Ming donating a thousand yuan to his hometown elementary school—the quote came straight from him.

Seeing this, Old Ma recalled ‘The Shepherd Class’s Spring,’ the short story he’d read just days ago—brilliant, also about education—and combined with Wei Ming’s donation, he clearly saw a comrade deeply committed to education. Further down, Wei Ming’s own words: ‘Because I never attended university but now work at one, I deeply understand how precious university life is. I hope more students from my hometown can go to university—their presence will surely transform our homeland!’

Old Ma nodded. At the Literary Congress, he’d never imagined how quickly this young man Ba Jin introduced would rise to such heights.

Among those writing novellas today, almost no one could match him; the three stories highlighted by ‘People’s Literature’ were most discussed—‘The Shepherd Class’ topped them all.

He put down the paper, ready to resume writing, when someone arrived—Bai Hang, editor-in-chief of ‘Stars’ Poetry Magazine and its founder.

“Old Ma, I’ve come to borrow a car from the Writers’ Association—need your approval,” Bai Hang said.

Old Ma, looking at Bai Hang, ten years his junior, asked: “You need a car?”

“Not for me—I’m helping someone,” he smiled. “Do you remember Wei Ming? You mentioned him when you returned from Yanjing.”

“Of course—I just read about him! What’s up?”

Bai Hang recounted how his editor had met Wei Ming’s family on the train, coming to Sichuan to find relatives.

“Since we’re all in the literary world, we should help.”

!

Besides being fellow literary figures, Bai Hang, though rooted in Sichuan-Chongqing, was himself from Hebei—like Wei Ming, a fellow townsman.

Old Ma laughed: “I never said I wouldn’t help. Arrange a Jeep, and find a local comrade—if he can drive, even better.”

Hearing Old Ma’s enthusiasm for young Wei, Bai Hang grinned: “With your support, that’s enough—I’ll arrange it right away.”

Old Ma added: “Also, arrange for Wei Ming to tour Rongcheng—might spark some inspiration.”

Bai Hang chuckled: “We’re thinking the same thing!”

At the guesthouse, Old Wei and Wei Ming lay on their beds; the berths were too narrow, nowhere near as comfortable as a real bed.

Just half an hour after eating, Editor Liang returned.

Luckily, Wei Ming hadn’t slept deeply; he stepped out to ask: “Editor Liang, how’d it go?”

Liang Ping smiled: “Our Chief Bai went to the Writers’ Association and got us a Jeep from Old Ma Shitou, plus a driver-guide. We leave early tomorrow—what do you think, Writer Wei?”

“Oh, that’s perfect!” Wei Ming grasped Liang Ping’s hand in sincere thanks.

Editor Liang added: “Writer Wei, you’ve still got some time this afternoon—want to tour Rongcheng’s famous sites?”

Wei Ming had always loved Rongcheng in his past life; he’d often shot short films there and nearly bought a house.

Wei Ming went back to fetch his camera: “Good. My parents are tired—I’ll take my sister along.”

Though they’d endured over thirty hours of jolting travel, the two young people recovered quickly; Wei Hong was eager and enthusiastic.

She asked: “Will we see giant pandas?”

Editor Liang laughed: “Giant pandas don’t wander the streets of Rongcheng, but your mother’s hometown, Ya’an’s Baoxing, is famous for them—maybe we’ll spot one.”

The most notable attraction in today’s Rongcheng was undoubtedly the Wuhou Temple—the most famous at present.

Kuanzhai and Zhuanzai Alleys had some local fame, but were still unfamiliar to outsiders; neither matched the renown of Wuhou Temple or Du Fu’s Thatched Cottage, both among the first batch of national key cultural relics designated in 1961.

On the bus, from the citizens he encountered, Wei Ming already sensed traces of Chengdu’s future slow-paced life—no rush, no frantic energy like Beijing; everyone moved with calm ease.

Knowing they’d visit Wuhou Temple, Wei Hong had prepared ‘The Memorial to the Emperor Before Departing for War,’ ready to recite it flawlessly after her brother tested her.

But he was too busy taking photos and never checked her.

“Editor Liang, could you take a group photo for us?”

Of course, Wei Ming didn’t neglect Editor Liang; later, he asked a passerby to take a three-person photo, which he’d develop and mail to ‘Stars’ Poetry Magazine.

Within the Wuhou Temple grounds lay Jinli Ancient Street; Wei Ming and Xiao Hong strolled through it too, but there wasn’t much to buy—couldn’t satisfy Wei Ming’s shopping urge; better to come back in a few years.

Sometimes we reject commercialization, but a scenic spot with zero commerce is dull.

Still, the blue flagstones here truly carried classical beauty—as if passed down since the Three Kingdoms era.

With time left, Wei Ming also experienced Kuanzhai and Zhuanzai Alleys as they were in the early 1980s.

The next morning, Editor Liang and the driver-guide arrived at the guesthouse to pick up the Wei family; he wouldn’t be going with them.

Seeing his expectant look, Wei Ming laughed and pulled out an envelope…

(Another chapter will come later—please vote for monthly tickets!)

(End of Chapter)