Chapter 24: North of the Yangtze, Zhu Lin Is the Most Beautiful

Wei Anping could never have imagined that Wei Ming could recite this poem so fluently—it was mostly thanks to him.

After retirement, Uncle Anping enjoyed writing calligraphy; his prized piece was a small regular script version of “Ideal.”

When Wei Ming started his company, Uncle Anping gave it to him, and it hung in his office; Wei Ming looked at it during work and after work, until he knew it by heart.

In the car, Wei Ming sat in the front passenger seat, giving the entire back seat to Professor Qu Yu-de.

She was in her forties, slender and petite, the classic image of a delicate Jiangnan woman; it was said she had once been Peking University’s most beautiful blossom, and Professor Jin had gone to great lengths to win her over.

But over ten years ago, she developed nasopharyngeal cancer; after surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, and being worn down by various exercises, she survived the gates of death—but her vital energy was severely damaged.

At forty-something, she looked more like fifty, and her face bore prominent purple blotches that greatly marred her appearance.

Professor Qu’s voice problem was even worse; the surgery left her speech unclear, shrill, and grating. Only this year did she transfer back to Peking University to teach folklore literature, but because of her voice, many students couldn’t understand her—or simply skipped class.

For this reason, though she was curious about Wei Ming—the literary prodigy who had been noticed by *Harvest* at age eighteen—she didn’t initiate conversation after getting in the car.

But the journey would take over an hour, and Wei Ming didn’t want to neglect the professor, so he started the conversation.

“Professor Qu, are you going to Shanghai for some meeting?” Wei Ming turned to ask her.

Professor Qu replied: “Have you heard of *Story Weekly*?”

Wei Ming paused, before he could answer, Liu Wenjie, the driver, chuckled and chimed in: “Hey, that’s a pretty interesting name for a meeting.”

Wei Ming said: “If I remember right, Professor Qu is referring to *Story Weekly* as a magazine, right?”

Professor Qu: “Yes.”

Master Liu scratched his ear: “I think I’ve heard of it—the one with all the stories.”

“Professor Qu, please go on.”

Professor Qu: “Shanghai’s Literary and Art Publishing House is holding the first nationwide symposium for story writers since the founding of the PRC, inviting many storytellers from across the country and scholars like us who research theory in universities. This symposium is essentially being held for *Story Weekly*…”

*Story Weekly* was launched in the early 1960s and had a relatively long history; it once sold very well, with print runs of several hundred thousand per issue, beloved by the masses for its accessible, easy-to-understand tales.

Now it’s not doing well anymore—only tens of thousands of copies per issue, still high compared to many pure literary journals, but a survey by the publisher revealed most copies were bought with public funds by cultural departments at all levels—essentially zombie readers.

The stories in *Story Weekly* now are ideologically flawless, but lack entertainment value; ordinary people no longer find them appealing.

When Wei Ming submitted to *Harvest*, he mentioned that if it was rejected, please forward it to *Story Weekly*.

He had been overly optimistic then; he guessed “Donkey Five and Donkey Six” didn’t meet *Story Weekly*’s current submission standards—it was a bit too unconventional.

Following this topic, Wei Ming chatted further with Professor Qu about her field of folk literature, and Master Liu joined in too; this seasoned driver knew countless folk tales.

Professor Qu even encouraged him to write something and submit it to *Story Weekly*.

But she didn’t say this to Wei Ming—anyone who could submit to *Harvest* was already a literary figure; why lower himself?

Yet Wei Ming had already begun thinking about what to write for *Story Weekly*.

Earn some pocket money, and let the editorial board of *Story Weekly* see what a story the masses truly enjoy.

He didn’t think too highly of himself—if *Story Weekly* paid well, paid promptly, and accepted submissions without delay, it was a good place; he’d just use a pen name when he submitted.

His real name for serious literature, two pen names—one for popular fiction, one for fairy tales.

Three legs to walk on—perfect plan!

Around ten o’clock, they arrived at Beijing Station.

Wei Ming quickly got out and retrieved Professor Qu’s suitcase and his own bag from the trunk.

Then he leaned against the window and asked Liu Wenjie: “Master Liu, is there anything you’d like me to bring back from Shanghai?”

Back then, goods moved slowly; many scarce items could only be bought in the south.

“Oh, how could I possibly ask you to do that? It’s too much trouble.”

“No problem, just tell me—I’ll write it down.” Wei Ming pulled out a fountain pen and a small notebook, clearly serious.

Believe it or not, Master Liu did have one thing he’d long wanted to buy.

“I heard Shanghai’s Ginseng and Cinnamon Tonic Wine is amazing—it gives you a real boost,” he lowered his voice, “could you get me a bottle?”

“One bottle enough?”

“More than enough—I’m already plenty strong!” Master Liu declared solemnly. The stuff was ridiculously expensive: Maotai was seven yuan a bottle; this cost sixteen!

Even with Master Liu’s high salary, he could only afford one bottle to try.

He pulled out two big red notes and shoved them into Wei Ming’s hand.

Wei Ming was startled: “One bottle or a case?”

“Sixteen yuan a bottle—the rest, buy yourself something.”

“No, no, I can’t take it.” Wei Ming wouldn’t accept his money; he figured Master Liu didn’t really mean it—he’d just slip the leftover cash into the wine box later.

He didn’t know if Master Liu had seen the Shanghai TV commercial earlier this year that introduced this wine.

Actually, this Ginseng and Cinnamon Tonic Wine was China’s first TV commercial, the first to make people realize the power of TV advertising—historic in China’s advertising history.

“You’re quite good at handling people,” Professor Qu said after Master Liu left, her voice shrill but Wei Ming knew she was complimenting him.

Wei Ming grinned: “I’ve got a favor to ask too.”

“What favor? You can’t just ask for a school car—it’s governed by rules; better to ask your uncle.” Professor Qu was very clear-eyed.

!

Wei Ming: “I’m not asking for a car—I want to learn how to drive and get a license.”

“Oh? You want to join Peking University’s driver team?” Professor Qu thought she understood.

Many writers back then were part-time—holding another job, since writing relied on inspiration and wasn’t stable.

Being a gatekeeper was a bit beneath dignity, but being a driver carried real prestige.

After all, “stethoscope, steering wheel, personnel officer, sales clerk”—in this era, these were all coveted positions.

Wei Ming didn’t explain further—he couldn’t say he was preparing to buy a car in a few years; she’d just tell him to wake up and stop dreaming.

Before entering the station, the two had a simple noodle meal at a restaurant outside the train station, then went inside to wait.

Train No. 13, the fastest train in the country, was scheduled to reach Shanghai in just twenty-one hours.

Professor Qu’s ticket was in Wei Ming’s hands—she was in Car No. 1, soft sleeper; Wei Ming was in Car No. 6—not too far, not too close.

Wei Ming carried her luggage, walking and saying: “Professor Qu, I’ll come check on you every two hours—just tell me if you need anything.”

“I’m not seventy or eighty—I can take care of myself. Don’t bother. But you—you can take turns using my bunk. When you’re tired, come to Car No. 1 and rest.”

“Oh no, that wouldn’t be right.”

“Why not? I can’t lie down all day—I need to move around. It’s settled.”

Wei Ming felt pleased—he’d get to ride in a soft sleeper, cutting the twenty-hour ordeal a bit shorter.

In the waiting hall, there were no seats left; Professor Qu simply laid her suitcase down and sat on it—it was sturdy enough.

She asked Wei Ming: “Is that bulge in your bag a day’s worth of food?”

Wei Ming laughed and pulled out a neck pillow, slipping it on: “It’s more comfortable this way.”

Professor Qu studied it, then smiled: “Good idea—I’ll get one for my old Jin.”

As they chatted, a woman in a green military-style short-sleeve shirt passed by them.

This woman—how to describe her? At first glance, breathtakingly beautiful; look closer, and she grew even more beautiful.

She was of average height, slender but not frail; two short braids blurred her age, making her seem barely eighteen or nineteen.

Not just Wei Ming—even Professor Qu’s gaze followed her for a long distance.

She seemed to recall her own youth and sighed: “What a beauty.”

Wei Ming thought: Of course—old saying goes: North of the Yangtze, Zhu Lin is the most beautiful.

And this woman just now ruled the south as well.

Wait—she was on the same train as him!

…

(Finally, a female lead appears—votes and sprint support please!)

(End of Chapter)