Chapter 49: The Author

Thanks to Zhao Debiao, Wei Ming’s face was no longer unfamiliar to some poetry enthusiasts, and they also learned about his heroic act of intervening in a just cause.

The man before him had clearly read that issue of Peking University’s campus magazine.

Wei Ming was not the type to hide or evade; he readily admitted it.

The moment he admitted it, the man grew even more excited: “Wait a moment—I’ll introduce you to Acheng first; just take a look at my work first.”

Saying this, he grabbed Wei Ming’s arm and pulled him along.

A Long followed behind, bewildered—what the hell was this “seven steps to compose a poem” thing?

Was that poem really that famous? Why did my brother suddenly seem like some big-shot celebrity?

“May I ask your name, brother?” Wei Ming asked.

“Oh, I’m Qu Leilei—you can call me Lei Zi.”

Wei Ming had heard the name before; since Qu Leilei mainly operated in Europe, he wasn’t well-known domestically, but his father was utterly famous.

“The heavens bow to the king, the pagoda subdues the river demons!”

“Why did your face turn red? Radiant! Why did it turn yellow again? Wax for cold protection!”

The author of the classic novel Linhai Xueyuan, which spawned these iconic lines, was Qu Bo—his father—and the novel’s female lead, “Little White Pigeon,” was modeled after his mother.

Qu Leilei led Wei Ming to several ink paintings; ink painting was Liu Rulong’s specialty, and he too stepped closer to admire them.

As a disciple of a master who had seen too many outstanding works, Liu Rulong couldn’t help mentally critiquing: the technique was still lacking; these paintings emphasized expression over skill, falling behind in execution.

Yet both men nodded politely, feigning appreciation—they were both masters of social grace.

But when he saw one particular painting, Wei Ming paused for a long time, his expression oddly thoughtful.

Qu Leilei explained: “Yesterday I read a newspaper article—a novel, unfinished—but it inspired me, and I created this piece, ‘Ducks Know First the Warmth of Spring Water.’”

“Oh~”

Qu Leilei continued: “Isn’t it strange? The author of that novel is also named Wei Ming—same name as yours!”

Wei Ming laughed: “What if it’s not just the same name?”

A Long, who had been leaning in to study the painting, and Qu Leilei both froze.

Wei Ming explained to them: “‘Ducks Know First the Warmth of Spring Water’ is a short story I submitted to Wenhui Bao—I write poetry as a hobby, but novels? I take those seriously.”

Wenhui Bao was among China’s top few major newspapers; although Liu Rulong hadn’t read it, he’d heard of it, and Qu Leilei, given his family background, knew full well the weight of this famed Shanghai paper—many high-ranking officials likely read it.

Liu Rulong: My brother’s story was published in Wenhui Bao? He actually writes novels?!

“Don’t look so shocked—it’s normal. After all, I’m the writer whose novel is about to appear in Shouhuo.”

Liu Rulong / Qu Leilei: “...”

There’s a Shouhuo connection too?!

Wei Ming gave A Long a meaningful glance, signaling they’d talk later.

“Lei Zi, go ahead and do your thing—we’re just passing by, taking a casual look.”

“You’ve got to meet Acheng—he’s crazy about your poem.”

“Sure, I’m also fond of his painting.”

Soon, Qu Leilei called over the person—and not just Zhong Acheng, but nearly every initiator of the Star Art Exhibition.

At this time, Zhong Acheng had not yet written the works that would make him famous—Qiwang, Shuwang, and Haiziwang—he had spent ten years in the countryside and had just returned this year; besides helping his father Zhong Dianfei with film theory, he liked to paint.

The others included Huang Rui, who later founded the 798 Art District; Ma Desheng, a polio victim who walked with a cane; Wang Keping, a sculptor; Yan Li, both painter and poet; and the sole female member, Li Shuang, who later caused a major scandal over an international romance.

These people? None of them were easy to handle.

Later, almost all of them left China—some stayed abroad permanently, some took foreign citizenship; only two or three ever returned.

But artists, after all, can’t be too rational, restrained, or rule-bound—otherwise they can’t make art.

So although Wei Ming understood art, he could never become an artist—he was too rational and restrained.

A Long couldn’t become an artist either—he was too rule-bound—but after joining the underworld, who knew? He said his gang’s tattoos were all designed by him; perhaps then, art had been born.

They introduced themselves, and Wei Ming introduced Liu Rulong; when they learned A Long was from the Film Academy, they immediately asked, “Do you know Chen Kaige?”

“Of course—he’s a legend at our school.”

Chen Kaige was closely tied to the Today Poetry Group; Today and the Star Art Exhibition were kindred spirits, so they all knew each other.

Later, Chen Kaige even adapted Acheng’s Haiziwang into a film.

As they chatted, a passing aunt suddenly shouted, “Art exhibition? What art exhibition? I looked and thought it wasn’t beautiful at all.” Everyone laughed, offering no rebuttal—the wooden sculpture titled “Silence” on display mocked the act of covering one’s mouth, and they welcomed all kinds of commentary.

Wei Ming admired this attitude, but his interaction with this group remained superficial—he didn’t delve deeper.

After all, these were marginal artists outside the mainstream, while Wei Ming sought the broad highway, aiming for legitimacy and grandeur.

So when a leader from the Artists’ Association arrived, Wei Ming seized the moment while they were occupied and pulled Liu Rulong away.

They still had time, so they decided to visit the art museum—but before that…

“So, spill it—what else are you hiding from me?” A Long said, sounding wounded.

“I wouldn’t say hiding—just you didn’t ask, and I hadn’t gotten around to telling you yet~” Wei Ming first built himself a shield, then began from the beginning.

At first, to earn some pocket money, he wrote fairy tales for the children’s magazine Children’s Literature, where his aunt worked.

Later, he began writing novels; after being provoked, he submitted one to the literary pinnacle Shouhuo—and to his surprise, they invited him to Shanghai to revise it.

Before heading to Shanghai, he had another mid-length story accepted by Yanjing Literature, and simultaneously, inspiration struck—he wrote a moderately popular long poem, “Ideal.”

On the train to Shanghai, he accidentally subdued a human trafficker and rescued a little girl.

!

And after arriving in Shanghai, because he bought wine, he wrote a short story that Wenhui Bao accepted.

“That’s about it.”

Liu Rulong picked up his dropped jaw: “Are you sure all this happened within a month?”

“Yes, precisely twenty-eight days.”

Liu Rulong tugged at his hair: “I’ve never seen a writer like you—your plot elements are way too dense!”

“Maybe the author controlling my life is just terrible,” Wei Ming laughed.

Liu Rulong shook his head—he felt he needed to reassess this old classmate. Why the hell was he starting to admire this guy?!

“By the way, I’ve got another question—would you be interested in illustrating illustrations for Children’s Literature?” Wei Ming finally brought it up outright. “I mean, specifically for my stories—you could earn some money, of course, nothing like what Uncle gave you.”

“Of course I’m willing!” Liu Rulong didn’t hesitate. “I’d do it even for free!”

“That’s not necessary—everything has its place.”

Liu Rulong added: “Do you need me to draw now?”

“Not yet—I haven’t decided what to write yet.”

“Alright, I’ll come to Peking University in a few days—I’ll bring my latest work!” A Long was eager.

After the college entrance exam, Liu Rulong returned to Guangzhou to study under his teacher, then spent a month at Beijing Film Academy; after three months apart, he’d made some progress.

After clearing things up, they walked into the art museum and spent over an hour browsing, mostly ink paintings, but also plenty of oil paintings and sculptures.

There, they saw works by Li Keran, Li Xingjian, Huang Runhua, and other contemporary artists.

They also saw Huang Yongyu’s woodcuts from Hunan, and the paintings of Guan Shanyue, Liu Rulong’s master.

But the themes were indeed outdated and repetitive—they saw at least ten paintings of Jinggang Mountain, and over twenty portraits of the great leader.

Viewing exhibitions inside the museum was a completely different experience from outside.

Inside, you could study and discuss the techniques of these masters—but you couldn’t get excited.

Outside, it was pure visual bombardment—no technique, only raw emotion.

When they stepped out of the museum, A Long asked Wei Ming’s opinion of the Star Exhibition pieces; after thinking, he offered this sixteen-character critique: “Passion abundant, technique lacking; boldness great, scholarship insufficient.”

A Long said: “I think they’re lucky—they appeared at just the right moment, not too early, not too late. Too early, they’d have been arrested; too late, they’d have been forgotten.”

Wei Ming deeply agreed with A Long’s assessment.

But with these two exhibitions—one new, one old—this trip had been worthwhile.

Liu Rulong found his classmates who were returning to school and asked them to give him a ride.

When introducing Wei Ming to them, he boasted: “This is my high school classmate—he guards the gate at Peking University, but someday you might need him if you want to break into animation.”

The classmates: “?”

“Oh, A Long, when you get back to school, remember to ask Zhang Yimou from the Photography Department for my photo.” With that, Wei Ming mounted his Flying Pigeon bike and pedaled furiously—but still took an hour and a half, and by the time he arrived, it was dark—he’d probably missed dinner with the Chinese Literature girl.

As he rode through the South Gate, a senior guard on duty called out: “Little Wei, you’re finally back! Go check—Biaozi’s been beaten up!”

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(End of Chapter)