Chapter 31: Such Love

“How long did it take you to write this?”

“Just now, less than two hours.”

That guy wrote it fast!

Professor Qu, surprised, picked up Wei Ming’s story and began reading.

It was titled “Such Love,” about a young man who only cared about beauty when seeking a partner.

One day he saw a female ticket seller on the bus who was very beautiful, so he wrote a full page of love letters and slipped it under her desk as he got off.

But the ticket seller threw the note out the window, where a passing young man caught it—he thought the ticket seller was confessing her love to him.

He kept writing letters to the address on the note, and soon they exchanged letters constantly, growing closer with each exchange.

When they finally decided to meet, they discovered both were young men.

Professor Qu laughed heartily while reading; though the story had almost no literary merit and poor logic, it was genuinely amusing, especially the back-and-forth letters—each had to express affection while obscuring gender to create misunderstanding, handled with remarkable skill.

This became a classic story in “Story Weekly” two years later, and it was the very first piece Wei Ming ever read in “Story Weekly” in his past life—he remembered it vividly; later, this story was even selected for university textbooks.

Wei Ming didn’t care about the meager payment—he just wanted to build goodwill with “Story Weekly,” hoping to one day publish longer popular fiction in this nation’s highest-circulation magazine.

“Mass Cinema” might have higher single-issue sales during award season, but its monthly circulation still lagged behind “Story Weekly.”

Professor Qu agreed to help: “But you’re a rising star in the literary world—are you sure you want to write popular stories?”

Wei Ming shrugged: “Writing a great novel is hard. Stories demand less literary rigor—I need more manuscript fees. I can always use a pen name.”

Professor Qu liked the boy’s honesty; afterward, they went downstairs for dinner and ran into Sister Chen Rong, so Wei Ming introduced them.

They were similar in age, both women, both educated, both schoolteachers—soon they chatted animatedly, leaving no room for Wei Ming to interject.

From their conversation, Wei Ming learned that Sister Chen also went out during the day and wrote at night; Professor Qu then recommended some interesting places for her to visit, though she had lived in Beijing for years, she returned every holiday.

After dinner, Wei Ming immediately began revising his manuscript—he worked too fast, revised half of it in one night; he was truly a revision prodigy!

Professor Qu’s meeting would last nearly a week; at this pace, he’d have to leave early. No—he had to slow down. After all, Peking University still paid his salary, so no absenteeism, and here he got two yuan daily allowance; if he didn’t care about appearances, he could revise for a whole year!

So the next day, after the free breakfast, Wei Ming went out for a stroll, taking in local customs and the era’s atmosphere.

Though reform and opening began in Beijing, after a year, Beijing had changed little; Shanghai, however, buzzed with energy—many buildings were under construction, and people, especially girls, dressed more fashionably.

Besides pedestrians and bicycles, taxis were everywhere on the streets.

But they weren’t four-wheeled sedans—they were three-wheeled motorcycles, locally called “toad cars” or “turtle cars.”

The number of sedans was slightly higher than in Beijing, since the Shanghai-made sedan hadn’t disappeared yet.

Or perhaps Wei Ming rarely entered Beijing’s city center, whereas Huangpu was now the heart of Shanghai.

Seeing a mall by the roadside, Wei Ming remembered he needed to buy something for Master Liu, so he went in to ask—and found no “Ginseng and Cinnamon Nourishing Wine.” Was this wine so popular it was sold out?

Seeing he was handsome, the female clerk warmed up a bit: “It was hot for a while after the TV ads, but then prices were too high, sales dropped, so we stopped stocking it. You’d better check a pharmacy.”

Ginseng and Cinnamon Nourishing Wine—buying it at a pharmacy made sense.

“Oh, thank you.”

Later, Wei Ming found a nearby pharmacy—and finally located it: fifteen yuan, cheaper than what Master Liu had heard.

A transparent bottle, plain packaging; besides the product name, it bore the manufacturer: Shanghai No. 2 Chinese Medicine Factory.

Wei Ming didn’t rush to buy it; instead, he chatted with the clerk: “It’s so expensive—I’d need a whole month’s salary to afford one bottle.”

Hearing this, the female clerk’s enthusiasm vanished—good looks meant nothing if he didn’t spend money.

She said: “Then you should ask yourself why you earn so little.”

Unexpectedly, on such a hot day, she uttered such a cold remark.

Wei Ming wasn’t rattled; he pressed on: “Not many people buy this wine, right?”

“Still quite a few during holidays—gift-giving, you know, it’s prestigious,” the clerk replied.

!

But Wei Ming could tell her words lacked conviction.

When was the next big holiday again?

Oh—National Day, in ten days; Mid-Autumn Festival, in fifteen.

Giving gifts during Mid-Autumn was an old tradition.

In just over ten days—if this were truly a hot seller, the shelves should be overflowing. But the clerk had dug this bottle from the bottom shelf—clearly, the product had passed its peak.

Outside, Wei Ming noticed a wall opposite covered in advertisements for Swiss Rado watches—an sight absolutely unseen in Beijing.

Wei Ming recalled Li Xiaolin’s advice: wander more in Shanghai, maybe inspiration would strike.

Hey—inspiration had arrived. He had an idea now; this could make an interesting topic, not too long—he could finish it during revision.

Since he had nothing else to do, after paying, he stepped out and flagged down a “toad car.”

“Master, take me to Shanghai No. 2 Chinese Medicine Factory!” Wei Ming declared boldly.

Seeing the driver’s exaggerated grin, Wei Ming knew he’d messed up.

He jumped out quickly and added: “How much?”

“Not much—two yuan will do.”

Wei Ming stepped back two more steps: “Sorry, I don’t have that much cash—I’ll take the bus… I don’t even have one-fifty… What? One yuan’s fine…”

(End of Chapter)