Chapter 41: What! The Poetry Prodigy Recited My Poem?!

“Of course there is, but that was a long time ago—Mr. Hua Junwu wrote an article for Children’s Literature back then, with his own illustrations, and his illustration fee was higher than the manuscript fee.”

Of course, after all, this man is one of the Three Elders of Chinese comics.

He wrote the scripts for Magic Capital Film Studio’s The Proud General and The Golden Dream.

Moreover, Old Mu was instrumental in getting Old Hua admitted to Beijing Film Academy as a special case.

Lu Xiaoyan asked curiously, “What, are you going to draw the illustrations yourself?”

Wei Ming waved his hand: “I was thinking of one of my classmates—he draws better than I do.”

Wei Ming could draw too, but he was a self-taught third-grade art teacher, so it took him more effort, while his classmate had trained since childhood.

Since illustrations could be self-provided, he made a note of it: better to help a friend than pay some outsider, and he’d get exactly what he wanted.

After dinner, Wei Ming didn’t stay long; he grabbed a large bag and returned to Peking University.

He entered through the West Gate, where the guards greeted him warmly.

“Brother Ming, you’re finally back!”

“Haha, come by the dorm later.”

He walked through campus to the South Gate; some passersby glanced back, unsure if he was the Wei Shen Shen who composed poetry in seven steps.

His story had spread across campus—even those uninterested in modern poetry or literature had heard of him, and many beyond Peking University were curious too.

At the South Gate, Mei Wenhua was on duty, wiping windows with a damp cloth, while a crowd waited outside.

He told the Tsinghua girls outside, “Wei Ming hasn’t returned yet—go home. Also, my poems aren’t bad either; they’re no worse than Wei Ming’s. Wait till I finish my shift, and we can exchange verses.”

Hearing this, the Tsinghua girls covered their mouths, laughing uncontrollably, then turned and left—don’t think we don’t know you, brooding pretty boy.

Wei Ming had noticed none of the girls were especially beautiful, so he didn’t show himself; once they left, he slapped Mei Wenhua on the back.

“Mei Wenhua!”

“Oh shit! You’re back? When did you get back?”

Wei Ming: “I came back when you said ‘not worse than Wei Ming.’”

Mei Wenhua, shameless as ever: “You didn’t hear the beginning—I said wiping glass is an art, and I’m good at it, not worse than Wei Ming.”

The two veteran guards at the gate were doubled over with laughter.

“Keep wiping then,” Wei Ming said, stepped into the guard booth, greeted them, and went down to the basement.

Zhao Debiao was the only one left in the dorm; Feng Ge had gone to visit his wife again, and Zhao felt especially lonely, so he thought of Duan Yu, Duan Zhengchun, and Yunzhonghe—and his wicked hand drifted downward.

Just as he was getting into it, the door burst open with a loud “Biao Zai!”—he jumped twice in shock.

“Oh! Brother Ming, you’re back?” Zhao extended a hand in greeting.

Wei Ming frowned: “It’s not even late—why are you already in bed?”

“Oh, I’m on night shift,” Zhao blushed, making up a lie.

“Oh, I see,” Wei Ming sniffed, then set his luggage on the bed. “I’m gonna take a piss—talk later.”

“Oh, okay, okay!” Zhao sighed in relief and hurried to tidy up.

Wei Ming waited until he thought the time was right, then strolled back and pulled out the gifts he’d brought for his roommates.

“This is sulfur soap from Magic Capital—just toss it in the basin.”

“Oh, great, I’ll try it,” Zhao said, carrying the basin to the bathroom; minutes later he returned. “It’s great—super clean. Brother Ming, how much did this cost?”

“A few cents—don’t bother with money. Do you think I’m short on cash now?”

“Brother Ming, you’re the real deal!” Zhao gave a thumbs-up.

At that moment, Wei Ming was staring at the wall, where a campus magazine was posted—one article, written by Uncle Anping himself, was titled “Peking University Guardian, Criminal Nemesis—Wei Ming.” Hey, it was actually well-written; Wei Ming felt embarrassed reading it.

Zhao grinned: “I suggested it.”

“Too exaggerated,” Wei Ming criticized. “I’ll tear it down later and take it home to show my parents.”

“No way! I’ve got more!” Zhao pulled out a thick stack from somewhere—every copy from that day’s magazine. “You can give them away freely—we’ve got plenty!” Wei Ming was utterly impressed: “Where the hell did you get all these?”

“You wouldn’t believe it—since that poetry recital at Yuyuantan, dozens of college students, especially girls from Tsinghua, Normal University, Foreign Languages Institute, even the Music Academy, came here looking for you. But you weren’t around, so I thought: since your hiring photo’s in the magazine, I’ll hand out copies to anyone who comes—don’t let them waste their trip.”

Now the poet + hero + handsome guy combo—these female college students were surely hooked. Zhao, you’re a menace.

But what exactly was this “Yuyuantan Poetry Recital”?

“Hahaha, oh man, hahaha!” Zhao nearly doubled over laughing. “Too bad I wasn’t there—I heard about it from other students.”

“Just tell me what happened.”

Zhao calmed down and began recounting the story.

“That day, Mei Wenhua showed up for the recital and planned to recite your poem ‘Ideal.’ He got through four lines, then forgot the rest.”

“Man, if you’re gonna show off, at least memorize the damn thing.” You have no idea how many times I memorized this poem in my past life.

“Exactly,” Zhao laughed. “Mei Wenhua even pulled out a cheat sheet, and the crowd booed him offstage. Then, supposedly, a tall, handsome film academy prodigy—nearly two meters tall—stepped up and recited the entire poem from start to finish, full of emotion, and got a standing ovation. Your poem spread across every university in Beijing.”

Two meters tall? Film academy prodigy? And he actually liked reciting poetry?!

Wei Ming asked: “Do you know this film academy genius’s name?”

!

“Not sure—something like ‘Kai.’”

“Kai?”

“Yeah,” Zhao said. “I think it was ‘Kai’—Mei Wenhua said people called him ‘Brother Kai.’”

No doubt about it—he’s the Poetry Prodigy!

He truly loved poetry, close to Bei Dao, Mang Ke, and the ‘Today’ poets; he regularly attended their events and even wrote novels under a pseudonym for ‘Today.’

But Wei Ming had to correct him: the guy was tall, sure, but at most 1.85 meters—not two meters. In his past life, he’d seen him in person: the poet radiant and confident, while Wei Ming stood in the corner like a nobody.

“It doesn’t end there,” Zhao laughed again. “Later, Mei Wenhua got back on stage to recite his own poem ‘Sunny and Bright,’ and the crowd booed him off again. That’s when his ‘brooding pretty boy’ nickname went viral.”

“Zhao Debiao, you bastard, mocking me again?!” The door burst open again as Mei Wenhua lunged at Zhao.

One minute later.

“Big Brother Zhao, I’m sorry! I won’t dare again! Big Brother, easy on me, ahh…”

Though Zhao’s legs were a bit weak now, ten years of training meant he could easily handle a little Mei.

When Zhao finally let Mei go, Wei Ming tossed him a piece of sulfur soap—everyone in the dorm got one.

Mei Wenhua was delighted—he was fastidious about cleanliness.

About half an hour later, Feng Ge returned, looking cheerful. Wei Ming noticed he seemed a bit weak in the knees—had his wife’s dorm been empty today?

“Oh! Little Ming’s back! You’ve worked hard!” After greetings, Feng Ge asked excitedly, “By the way—where’s the stuff?!”

Wei Ming rummaged through his bag: besides the free sulfur soap, he’d brought Feng Ge a bottle of Friendship Cream—his wife’s colleague used it, said it was from Magic Capital and made skin extra smooth, so he’d brought one.

The pure white porcelain bottle had a forest-green metal cap; in the center, a small arched indentation bore a gold-embossed logo. Feng Ge played with it lovingly, then opened it and sniffed: “Smells good—really good!”

Expensive too—4.5 yuan a bottle, a luxury in these days.

Qiao Feng carefully put it away, then asked Wei Ming: “Are you starting work tomorrow? Need a rest?”

“No, I’ve already taken too many days off.”

“Those days counted as regular duty—not leave,” Qiao Feng sipped water. “But we’re short-staffed supporting the National Games—tomorrow you join the patrol team.”

“Brother Qiao, I want to join patrol too!” Mei Wenhua hurried to say—he was becoming a joke at the gate; sometimes he wanted to cover his face while on duty.

Both wanted to go—Zhao Debiao wasn’t about to be left out: “Then I want to go too!”

“You two didn’t say anything sooner—can’t rearrange now. We’ll see later,” Qiao Feng opened a drawer. “By the way, Xiao Ming, here’s your mail.”

“Mail?”

“Yes—sent from home. Your father sent one the day you left, and another yesterday.”

Wei Ming grabbed it immediately—student letters could wait; first, what did his old man want?

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(End of Chapter)