Chapter 196: The Painting Worth Over a Hundred Million—Secured! (Guaranteed Dual-Chapter)

Wei Ming: "I think everything I wanted to say to confused youth is in this poem."

Deputy Editor Zhou read it carefully; the poem was short, but he read it over and over, finding more depth each time.

"Good, excellent poem!"

This poem was unadorned but profoundly uplifting, brimming with motivational spirit—evoking the same feeling as when one first read "Ideal," exactly the warm, steaming bowl of soul soup young people needed.

Deputy Editor Zhou said: "I'll have them typeset this immediately—we're publishing it in this issue."

One day later.

Guo Jianmei of Class 1, Law Department, Class of '79, accidentally discovered a short poem on the front page while organizing today's issued Peking University journal—the poem titled "Love Life," by Wei Ming!

She immediately stopped, reading it intently.

At that moment, the youngest in class, Cha Haisheng, passed by behind her.

"What are you reading, Mei-jie?"

"A poem," Guo Jianmei said excitedly, "Wei Ming's poem!"

Hearing she was reading poetry, Cha Haisheng remained unmoved—he'd lost much of his interest in poetry now, more concerned with his future; he'd heard job assignments after graduation depended on connections, and many couldn't stay in Beijing.

Would he, a country boy, be sent back home? His parents had high hopes; he bore the weight of his family's prosperity—would he let them down?

Thinking of this, the sixteen-year-old, slight boy grew melancholy, especially after reading the recent nationwide debate on "life's path" and the flood of negative emotions from youth in newspapers—he'd begun doubting life itself.

But hearing it was Wei Ming's poem, he perked up.

Seeing Cha Haisheng so eager, Guo Jianmei found a seat and read with him—he was the class's little brother.

After reading the title, Cha Haisheng softly recited:

"I do not ponder whether I will succeed,

Since I've chosen the distant horizon,

I press forward through wind and rain.

I do not wonder if I'll win love,

Since I'm devoted to the rose,

I bravely reveal my sincerity.

I do not fear whether cold winds and rain will strike from behind,

Since my goal is the horizon,

All I leave the world is my back.

I do not care whether the future is smooth or muddy,

As long as I love life,

Everything is within expectation."

Guo Jianmei loved the line: "Since I've chosen the distant horizon, I press forward through wind and rain."—so carefree, brimming with fearless determination, perfectly matching her impression of Wei Ming.

He truly gave strength to those around him; she was grateful she and Zhenyun had been recognized as his friends.

After reading the whole poem, Cha Haisheng's expression gradually came alive.

Yes—worrying about things that hadn't happened, letting it poison his present mood, ignoring that life's path was long; what truly mattered wasn't the moment of reaching the end, but the journey itself!

Even if in three years he couldn't stay in Beijing, so what? If he studied hard, filled himself with knowledge, armed himself from head to toe, and became the best of his generation, even if exiled to the frontier, couldn't he still build greatness?

As for hardship, Wei Ming was just like him—a country boy—but he hadn't even passed college entrance exams, starting out merely as a guard at Peking University's gate; his struggles were far greater.

Yet he had cultivated his literary inner strength since childhood; his position had never hindered his success!

No wonder it was Wei Ming—just over a hundred characters, yet this short poem had filled him with such abundant energy!

Guo Jianmei's first thought after reading it was: Wei Ming had written another masterpiece!

The last one was "Chengdu"—everyone had been busy mimicking it as a meme, but its literary and ideological depth was negligible; this one, however, stirred the same excitement as when she first read "Ideal."

Oh—Zhenyun must see this too!

Just as Guo Jianmei was about to take the journal, she looked at Cha Haisheng: "Dongzi, want to copy it down?"

Cha Haisheng shook his head: "No need, Mei-jie—it's all in my head."

As soon as Guo Jianmei left, he wrote it out word-for-word from memory—a fifteen-year-old who'd gotten into Peking University? That was nothing.

Meanwhile, when Guo Jianmei found Liu Zhenyun, the Class of '78 Chinese Department had already spread the poem.

Dai Jinhua: "Excellent poem! Wei Ming finally wrote a real poem again—what was that 'Chengdu' thing before?"

Liu Zhenyun grinned: "I actually liked 'Chengdu'—that was when I was most interested in poetry."

Xiong Guangjiong: "I feel Wei Ming's poem carries a hidden meaning."

Zhang Manling: "I think he wrote it in response to that recent article in 'China Youth.'"

Dai Jinhua: "Probably—after reading a poem like this, what's left to be confused about? Just press forward through wind and rain!"

Several other students grabbed the journal to copy it.

Liu Zhenyun was chatting with classmates when he spotted Mei-zi—he rushed out of the classroom, and they discussed the poem all the way to the cafeteria.

Liu Zhenyun still felt its resonance, so after leaving the cafeteria, he went to the south gate hoping to meet Wei Ming.

But the dorm only had Qiao Feng and Mei Wenhua—Feng-ge's mother-in-law had arrived in Beijing, and he'd officially moved back into the dorm.

"Has Ming-ge gone home?"

Mei Wenhua replied: "Said he went to Liulichang."

"What's he doing there?"

"It's normal for literati to go to Liulichang."

Liulichang and Panjiayuan were common spots in the antiques circle, but Wei Ming's finances didn't allow him to collect antiques—he'd rather invest in modern appliances first.

He came to Liulichang for Gong Yu, whose painting "Purple Grapes" hadn't been mounted yet, so yesterday he'd taken it to a shop for mounting—he was here today to pick it up.

This street was packed with famous shops: Rongbaozhai, Yidege, Huaiyin Shanfang—all renowned.

Wei Ming picked a small shop at random—the owner didn't mock Gong Yu's painting, worked diligently; even small businesses were businesses.

Wei Ming thought the mounting was well done, so he bought ink, Xuan paper, and brushes—he should pick up his calligraphy again, and when Xue-jie came, he wouldn't have to borrow old Wu's brushes anymore.

A small purchase became a medium one.

As Wei Ming left, he happened to pass Rongbaozhai—a century-old shop specializing in the Four Treasures of the Study, actually over three hundred years old, originally called "Songzhu Zhai."

Rongbaozhai also did mounting, but only for major clients; the famous "So Much Beauty in Our Land" displayed in the Great Hall had been mounted by Rongbaozhai, painted over three months by masters Fu Baoshi and Guan Shanyue, with the Great Leader's inscription on it.

After the 1990s, the version hung in the Great Hall was a replica—the original had yellowed and aged over decades, and suffered partial damage from leaks; the replica was also done by Rongbaozhai.

Beyond that, Rongbaozhai bore the crucial task of earning foreign exchange—besides Friendship Stores, you could buy paintings by Qi Baishi, Li Keran, Li Kuchan, Wang Xue Tao, and Wei Ming's neighbor Wu Zuoren using foreign currency or foreign exchange coupons.

Wei Ming had stopped his motorcycle because he spotted Master Wu Zuoren.

The old man noticed Wei Ming and waved at him; Wei Ming locked his bike and entered Rongbaozhai's gate—the sign above the entrance was written by Guo Moruo; inside, he saw plaques inscribed by Qi Gong, Qi Baishi, and others.

"Little Wei, what brings you to Liulichang?"

Wei Ming held up his scroll: "I'm here to pick up a painting."

Wu Zuoren: "The one you painted with the ink and brush you borrowed?"

"Yes."

Wu Zuoren became interested: "May I see it?"

"It's just a friend's casual painting—not a professional artist," Wei Ming warned first, then slowly unrolled it.

Master Wu glanced once and knew Wei Ming wasn't being modest—it truly wasn't professional; the signature showed it was by a woman.

He said: "My wife Xiao excels in flowers—if your friend wants to discuss, she can talk with her."

"Oh, wouldn't that be too much of an intrusion?" This was a huge opportunity.

Master Wu waved his hand: "We're retired now—idle all day anyway, no trouble."

Wei Ming quickly thanked him on his friend's behalf.

Then staff escorted Master Wu to the reception room for tea, and Wei Ming was free to explore this world of art.

Everywhere he looked were famous calligraphy and paintings—each one instantly recognizable, legendary.

For instance, the painting directly opposite Wei Ming as he drank tea was Qi Baishi's "Leaves Hide the Sound," a set of eighteen ink-and-color insect-and-flower panels, displayed in six frames on Rongbaozhai's reception room wall—each small, only 32×26 cm.

Such masterpieces were rare to see, especially up close—the detail work was astonishing.

Master Wu introduced: "These were painted in the 1940s—Qi Lao's mature period, extremely valuable; nearly every piece features insects, animals, flowers, brimming with wild charm."

He had a few Qi Lao paintings at home, but honestly, none matched the care in these eighteen small panels—this set was the pinnacle of Qi Baishi's similar works; though small, every detail was present—only then was the difficulty truly high.

These paintings were nearly forty years old, yet their small size made them easy to preserve—now they looked brand new.

Wei Ming first focused on the few shrimp that seemed alive, comparing them to the ones Mei Linda bought at Friendship Store.

He'd tried his best to pick the best for her, but they couldn't compare to these—his guess was Mei Linda's shrimp were painted by the old master in minutes, while these took at least ten or more.

At that moment, Wei Ming regretted not bringing a camera.

As he looked, he noticed another painting of grapes, with a grasshopper on the vines.

Wei Ming felt the grasshopper was the real focus—he suspected you needed a magnifying glass to see its terrifying detail; the grapes were just incidental.

But if Xue-jie saw those grapes, she'd probably tear up his "Purple Grapes."

As Wei Ming admired the painting, a clerk entered and handed Master Wu a bill—he glanced at it, approved, and signed. He'd come to buy paper, ink, and pigments—already selected top-quality materials, but didn't need to pay.

Because he still had paintings sold through Rongbaozhai—his expenses were directly deducted from his sales proceeds, settled later; after covering his costs, he still had a large surplus.

As they were about to leave, someone else entered—two clerks brought a Chinese man and a Western man.

Wei Ming noticed they spoke French; after sitting, the clerks showed them paintings, but the Frenchman was dissatisfied—even Wu Zuoren's paintings didn't please him.

Master Wu, who'd been leaving, sat back down—he wanted to see which artist the Frenchman would finally choose; if the translator didn't understand art, he could help translate.

He'd once studied at the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts in Paris, so he understood some French, especially art terminology.

This was a golden chance to earn foreign exchange—Rongbaozhai's managers and clerks pulled out only the finest pieces to satisfy him.

But he wasn't satisfied; just as Wu Zuoren was about to ask about his artistic preferences, the tall Frenchman fixed his gaze on the several Qi Baishi flower-and-insect paintings in the framed displays on the wall.

Wei Ming only then realized that these paintings hanging on the wall were for sale too!

Of course they were—how could they not be? He vaguely remembered that this set had later been collected by a Hong Kong merchant and sold for hundreds of millions decades later.

Now, the entire set was priced at $1, 00—$100 per painting—and they wouldn't sell them individually.

!

By unit area, the price was indeed steep, but these were masterpieces; Wei Ming felt Mei Linda's paintings paled in comparison. If he'd known Rongbaozhai had such treasures, why bother going to Friendship Store at all?

Wei Ming truly liked them—not for their future astronomical value, but because they were Qi Baishi's peak-period works, his most skilled genre, genuinely beautiful—and he had no money left.

But the foreigner immediately shook his head, thinking it too expensive; after all, each painting was tiny, and one standard for pricing artworks was canvas size.

Finally, Wu Lao stepped in, speaking fluent French to the man, and casually persuaded him to buy one of Wu Lao's own paintings—for $200, a large one.

The commission from just that one painting covered Wu Lao and his wife's entire year's expenses for brushes, ink, paper, and inkstone.

So how vital it was to master a foreign language.

He'd just earned foreign exchange for the state again; Wu Lao was delighted. As they walked out of Rongbaozhai, Wei Ming asked how he'd gotten there.

"By bus."

At over seventy, he couldn't ride a bicycle anymore.

Wei Ming: "Shall I give you a ride back? I'm heading home too."

"Then I'll trouble you, Xiao Wei," Wu Lao said without refusal—motorcycle was faster.

On the way, Wei Ming rode slowly, careful not to jolt the old man, and asked about selling paintings at Rongbaozhai.

"Selling one a month is already good."

Of course, he meant just Rongbaozhai; other major-city Friendship Stores also sold some, bringing in a few hundred yuan monthly, sometimes over a thousand in good months. His oil paintings fetched even higher prices abroad than his ink paintings.

"Which foreigners usually buy our ink paintings?"

"Besides Hong Kong compatriots, the Japanese buy the most—first, because Sino-Japanese exchanges are frequent and Japanese tourists are numerous; second, only the Japanese, deeply influenced by Chinese art, truly grasp the essence of ink painting. Then come the French—they love art, even if they don't understand ink painting, they know its value, and hanging it at home adds elegance. Then the Americans—though a country with little artistic tradition, they've got money." Wu Lao spoke at length.

Wei Ming asked again: "Who's selling the best right now?"

"Definitely not me," the old man said first, then added, "As for top sellers, besides Qi Lao, Xu Lao, and Zhang Lao, a young man named Fan Zeng has been doing well lately—Japanese collectors love him, and his prices are even higher than Qi Lao's."

Wei Ming had heard of him; in the 1980s, this notorious painter of older women would become a foreign exchange powerhouse, with a single painting selling for tens of thousands in a few years, especially beloved by Japanese collectors.

Then they spoke again of the Qi Baishi set they'd just seen.

"The paintings are truly exquisite—I really liked them, but I just don't have that much foreign exchange."

Wu Lao chuckled: "Oh? You can earn foreign exchange too?"

Wei Ming: "My novels have been published in Hong Kong—I've got some foreign exchange channels."

Right now he still had over 4, 00 Hong Kong dollars—about $900 USD—enough for half.

Wu Zuoren quickly asked: "How long until you can save enough?"

Wei Ming thought: "Hard to say—maybe a month, maybe two?"

Wu Zuoren immediately said: "Turn around and go back."

"Huh?"

"You want to buy the paintings, right? Tell them, make an appointment, have them hold them for you. Otherwise, when you've saved up, the paintings will be gone—who'll you blame?" Turn back.

Wei Ming thought to himself—he didn't really want them that badly; he'd planned to exchange his Hong Kong dollars for foreign exchange to buy a refrigerator.

But he also felt those eighteen insect-and-flower paintings were rare treasures—if he missed them now, it might be a lifelong regret.

After thinking it over, he decisively turned around.

With Wu Lao's influence, the manager immediately agreed to hold the set for Wei Ming for a month—and they accepted only foreign exchange and foreign exchange vouchers.

This detour made Wei Ming late for work that afternoon, but no one said anything—they only said, "Wei Writer, your poem was amazing!"

In just half a day, Wei Ming's inspiring poem spread through Peking University and Tsinghua University.

The circulation between Peking and Tsinghua was too strong; by lunchtime, copies of Peking University's campus paper had already appeared in Tsinghua's cafeteria, and Wei Ming's poem gained fame again.

When he got off work, he met Liu Zhenyun, who asked him: "Big Brother Wei, how many steps did it take you to write this poem?"

Wei Ming laughed: "Zero steps—I just turned around in place and wrote it."

Knowing it was a joke, Liu Zhenyun laughed it off; Wei Ming smiled too—he had a date with Lin Jie, no time to dawdle.

This was the third day Zhu Lin had come to Wei Ming's place; they usually cooked and ate together first.

Then Wei Ming wrote in his study, Zhu Lin read romance novels in the living room, and finally, they had a little time left to paint—just that routine.

But today, when they returned, they saw two men in worker's clothes standing at the door.

"You're Wei Ming from 302, right? We're here to install the telephone." They spoke to Wei Ming, but their eyes were helplessly drawn to Zhu Lin.

Beautiful—so beautiful!

Finally—they've arrived!

After checking their work credentials, Wei Ming happily opened the door and invited them in.

Zhu Lin held up her shopping basket: "I'll go cook first."

Hearing this, the two telecom workers immediately assumed they were a couple—oh, the homeowner looked so young, but his wife? She was thoroughly matured.

They stopped staring at Zhu Lin and got to work; the phone was to be installed in the living room, with wires run from outside. Wei Ming helped, passed out cigarettes—he'd waited too long for this!

Zhu Lin finished cooking and waited a few more minutes until they were done.

There was no installation fee yet, but there was a materials fee, plus a one-time payment for a year's monthly rental—Wei Ming paid nearly three hundred yuan all at once.

Less than he expected; now he had over four hundred yuan left—he could consider buying new furniture, at least three beds for the bedrooms.

"Let's eat!"

Wei Ming ignored the phone for now and ate with Lin Jie, telling her about his visit to Rongbaozhai.

Even though Zhu Lin didn't understand painting, she knew Qi Baishi's name; hearing Wei Ming wanted to spend so much on his work, she knew he wasn't ordinary—and she loved listening to him talk about art.

But she was curious: "Did you go there specifically to buy paintings?"

"No, I went to get a painting framed—just happened to see them."

"Framing?" Zhu Lin remembered. "Oh, Gong Yu's grapes."

"Yeah. Before, it looked ordinary, but after framing, the painting suddenly looked elevated."

Hearing Wei Ming's evaluation of Gong Yu's painting, Zhu Lin burst out laughing.

After dinner, she rushed to the study to look at the framed painting—it did look better. Then she picked up "Smoke and Rain" to continue reading; she'd been thinking about Yi Ping and Ru Ping all day at work.

Ah, how could a girl in the 1980s resist the lure of Qiong Yao novels?

Maybe I should get her to read my novels instead—mine count as romance too, and they're less toxic.

For this novel, Wei Ming still planned to use the pen name Wei Kuangren and publish it simultaneously in mainland China and Hong Kong.

Originally, now that he had the apartment, his creative attitude had turned relaxed—but now, with the Qi Baishi set haunting him, he had to work harder again.

So never get expensive hobbies—better to just eat well and drink well. He hadn't eaten out in days.

Not that Lin Jie's cooking was bad—just not that good.

"Lin Jie, how about we eat out tomorrow? The phone installation cost less than I expected."

Zhu Lin thought: "I heard a new movie's quite good—why not watch another film?"

He hadn't expected her to be so good at enjoying life. Wei Ming: "Great! It's settled!"

After three days, Zhu Lin finally finished her sketch, staring at the portrait of herself and murmuring in admiration.

"I didn't know you were this good—yesterday you couldn't capture my likeness, today it's like a photograph."

Wei Ming's skill, if displayed on the street in the future, would be worth at least fifty yuan per portrait—not art, but reliably lifelike.

"Fine, I'll hang it on my bedpost and look at it every day."

Zhu Lin suddenly remembered teenage boys' peculiar habits and quickly added: "Don't hang it in the bedroom—hang it in the study."

Wei Ming: In the study, I won't jerk off? How childish!

After dropping Zhu Lin off at her dorm, Wei Ming went home and immediately started.

Dialing~

(Six thousand words—please vote for monthly tickets! More coming!)

(End of Chapter)