Chapter 43: Yannan Garden and the Cat (Requesting Monthly Tickets!)

In a military camp on the outskirts of Beijing.

Feng Xiaogang, a propaganda officer of the Tank Sixth Division, was searching through newspapers in the reading room.

Liang Tian, who had recently been transferred to the propaganda unit for his writing skills, came over.

“What are you up to?”

“Oh, Brother Tian,” Feng Xiaogang said, though he was a year older than Liang Tian, he knew Liang’s family was well-connected, so he willingly took the younger role, “I saw a really funny novel in yesterday’s paper—I was just about to read the next part.”

“What paper?”

“Wen Hui Bao.”

Liang Tian reached into the pile and pulled out today’s Wen Hui Bao.

Feng Xiaogang gave a thumbs-up: “As the old saying goes, small eyes gather light—your vision is amazing.”

Liang Tian rolled his eyes—you could just praise me straight, why insult my small eyes?

Fortunately, he wasn’t petty, and asked: “What novel?”

“This one—‘The Ducks Know First the Warmth of Spring Waters.’”

Liang Tian glanced at it and saw the author’s name.

“Hey, Wei Ming?”

“What? Is he famous? I’ve never heard of him,” Feng Xiaogang said—he was an avid reader and had memorized the names of all the new writers who’d emerged in the past year since he enlisted.

“If it’s the Wei Ming I know, he’s not famous yet—but who knows what’ll happen later.”

“Oh? So he’s a hidden dragon?”

Liang Tian: “That’s a good phrase—maybe he really is a hidden dragon.”

Then he told Feng Xiaogang what he’d heard from his mother and older brother about Wei Ming.

His stories were published in Shou Huo, he could write a poem in seven steps, and the key point—he was just a gatekeeper!

Feng Xiaogang, a cunning little man, lit up with excitement—this was so inspiring! So talent, no matter how humble the origin, would never be buried!

Then Liang Tian asked him: “How’s the novel written?”

Feng Xiaogang, who had only thought it decently impressive, immediately said: “It’s incredible—unique style, packed with punchlines, and it uses small things to reveal big truths. It’s about selling goods, but I feel it’s really about reform and opening-up.”

Feng Xiaogang had sharp eyes—he’d only read a third of it, but already guessed Wei Ming’s hidden intent buried in the final third.

Then he pulled out yesterday’s Wen Hui Bao and handed it to Liang Tian; the two sat side by side reading.

After half a day of training, Wei Ming understood his patrol duties: if nothing happens, do nothing; if something happens, handle everything.

But in this era, there were no surveillance cameras, so occasionally slacking off didn’t matter.

At noon, he bought a pack of cigarettes from the school canteen, and as he headed toward the staff dining hall, he ran into Liu Zhenyun.

“Oh, you’re finally back! You haven’t forgotten about treating me to dinner, have you?”

His urgent tone made it sound like Wei Ming was supposed to treat him.

“I remember. Right now?”

“Yes, right now!” The girls were already impatient.

Thus, Liu Zhenyun dragged Wei Ming to the No. 1 Dining Hall—Wei Ming’s first time eating in the student cafeteria. Though he was now comfortably off, he believed every meal saved was a meal gained.

Dressed in his uniform, he immediately drew attention; people whispered among themselves.

“Is that the gate god of Nantianmen?”

“The great poet who wrote ‘Ideal’?”

“I heard he just came back from Shanghai—Old Ba himself named him the literary heir…”

Though not a Peking University student, Wei Ming had clearly become a campus celebrity.

By lottery, the one who invited him to dinner today was Wang Xiaoping of the ’77 Chinese Department, a native of Yanjing and a future famous screenwriter.

Wei Ming loved her work “Scraping,” which portrayed East-West cultural conflict, but what he watched most was “Empresses in the Palace”—though based on a novel, the screenplay was indispensable.

He watched it on TV, then on Douyin: today, Empress Zhen Huan gunned down the harem, tomorrow, Consort Hua began cultivating to dominate the court, the day after, the Empress learned black magic—this drama never grew old.

Unexpectedly, Wang Xiaoping didn’t ask what he wanted to eat, but asked if he could write a poem in seven steps right now.

“No, I told you—I have no inspiration. Not even a poem, I can’t even let out a fart.”

The great poet and writer spoke so crudely—he was so unique! Then the two lined up together to get food; Liu Zhenyun crossed Wang Xiaoping off his little notebook—one down.

Liu Zhenyun ate plainly: a dime’s worth of fried tofu and a steamed bun. When Wei Ming and Wang Xiaoping got their food, he gestured for them to sit at his table.

Then he swallowed hard—a serving of braised pork, a bowl of rice, and an extra four-joy meatball!

That had to cost at least five dimes—and Wang Xiaoping showed no hesitation.

Wang Xiaoping was curious about Wei Ming’s experience revising his manuscript in Shanghai; she listened as he described meeting Old Ba and receiving a personally signed copy of “The Newborn,” and felt deeply envious.

Liu Zhenyun envied Wei Ming’s stomach—he couldn’t help asking: “Do you think these four-joy meatballs aren’t pure meat? Maybe they’re mixed with flour?”

Wei Ming: “Let me taste.”

He picked up a chopstick: “There’s starch, tofu, and egg—but mostly meat.”

After speaking, he quickly ate all four of the meatballs, and Liu Zhenyun chose to look away.

After finishing the meal and parting with satisfied Wang Xiaoping, Liu Zhenyun flipped through his little notebook: “Tonight’s dinner invite is…”

“I’m busy tonight—I made plans with my dorm mates to eat out.”

!

“Oh, then tomorrow lunch…”

“Tomorrow lunch won’t work—I’m going out tomorrow, but I’m free tonight.”

“Alright, then dinner tomorrow.” Liu Zhenyun carefully scheduled Wei Ming’s meals.

“Brother Zhenyun, if you don’t mind we’re all guards, come along with us—more people, more fun.”

“Huh? You’re going out to eat? Where?”

“The Long March Dining Hall.”

Liu Zhenyun instinctively swallowed—let alone the Long March Dining Hall, he’d never even eaten meat dishes in the school cafeteria.

Once, passing by the Long March Dining Hall, he smelled the aroma from outside and went back to eat an extra steamed bun.

Still, he refused immediately: “I won’t go—it’s too expensive.”

One meal there equals three meals at school.

“You don’t pay—I’m treating you. Just bring your mouth and your food coupons.”

“Then I definitely won’t go—I don’t accept favors without earning them.”

Wei Ming: “Then you’re looking down on guards.”

Seeing Wei Ming provoke him, Liu Zhenyun reluctantly said: “To prove the unity of workers and peasants, that we’re all class brothers—I’m going, no choice.”

Besides, he’d been frequenting the South Gate lately and had already become familiar with Zhao Debiao and Mei Wenhua—no strangers there.

After parting with Liu Zhenyun, Wei Ming went to find his senior mentor to begin his first official patrol.

The two first arrived at the Yannan Garden villa district.

In the southern part of Peking University’s campus, near the main dining hall, lay a special area enclosed by a short wall, slightly elevated from its surroundings, covering 48 mu, with 17 historic buildings built of gray brick, numbered 50 to 66—this was Yannan Garden.

It housed the university’s top professors and scholars, making it the highest priority for patrols; Wei Ming had only passed by before, never entered.

The senior pointed to No. 66: “This is where Professor Zhu Guangqian lives. Previously, Bing Xin’s family lived here. Professor Zhu is now eighty-two, his health has declined greatly, but he still insists on mentoring graduate students.”

“No. 62 is where Professor Lin Geng lives—a Chinese Department professor and poet. If you meet him, introduce yourself—he’ll probably drag you into a poetry discussion.”

“No. 61 is where the geographer Professor Hou Renzhi lives—he’s also the head of the Geography Department. He’s currently away, researching deserts in the Western Frontier.”

Then he pointed to No. 56: “This is the home of our president, Professor Zhou Peiyuan—he’s a physicist specializing in mechanics.”

Wei Ming listened with a smile as his senior recounted each courtyard and each scholar’s story—he could see the senior’s deep love for Peking University; every detail was known by heart.

Just then, someone called out: “Meier, come down~”

The senior hurried Wei Ming over to the outside of No. 57.

“Old Feng, wait—I’ll go get a ladder!” the senior said.

There stood an old man with a white beard, leaning on a cane beneath a tree; perched on the branches was a beautiful long-haired white cat, yowling anxiously in a shrill, high-pitched voice.

Wei Ming smiled faintly, rolled up his sleeves: “Why bother with a ladder?”

…

(End of Chapter)