Chapter 5: The Gatekeeper of Peking University

“Dad, you’re back?”

When Wei Ming came out pulling up his pants, Old Wei was already in bed.

“Mm,” Wei Jiefang said with his eyes closed, “you should sleep early too—tomorrow your uncle’s taking us into the city.”

“Oh, I’ll write a bit more—I’ll try to finish this article,” Wei Ming declared with determination.

Old Wei thought: What a waste of ink, paper, and brush.

But they’d soon be apart, so he didn’t want to scold his son; though he didn’t understand adolescence, his son had definitely become less obedient than when he was little—like a donkey in the commune, you had to stroke his fur the right way.

Unexpectedly, Wei Ming wrote until one in the morning and felt his memory had improved since his rebirth—he could still recall cartoons from the 1980s with crystal clarity.

Looking at his five-thousand-word essay, Wei Ming felt a deep sense of accomplishment, corrected the typos, stuffed it into an envelope, and fell asleep immediately.

That night, Wei Ming dreamed he had become Wu Song, climbed Jingyang Ridge, and encountered the tiger with bright eyes and white forehead—it terrified him so badly he wet himself.

The tiger laughed heartily; only then did Wei Ming notice the tiger had no teeth, so he grabbed it, placed it on his lap, and began spanking it.

“Slap! Slap-slap!”

Wei Jiefang nudged Wei Ming, but he didn’t wake up, so he gave his thigh a few good swats.

“Ah, what’s going on? Earthquake?”

This time he finally woke up.

Wei Jiefang grunted, “I told you to sleep early—you wouldn’t listen. Get up now, don’t keep your uncle waiting.”

It was already daylight.

Wei Ming dressed, went to the bathroom, and when he came out, Old Wei had already packed a small bag.

He told his son, “If your uncle gets the matter settled today, I’ll leave after lunch.”

“What?” Wei Ming felt reluctant. “Won’t that be too rushed? Can’t we stay one more day and really explore Beijing?”

Wei Jiefang waved his hand. “I’ve been to Beijing so many times—I’ve seen most of it. It’s just the same old thing. I’m still worried about your mom, your sister, and all those animals back in the commune.”

Wei Ming said nothing more, but resolved that someday, when he earned money, he’d buy a house in Beijing for his family.

Though Old Wei spoke dismissively, he knew how much he longed for the capital; each trip to Beijing was his greatest bragging right back in the village, and now he’d finally have fresh material to share.

About half an hour later, Wei Anping arrived. Wei Jiefang asked anxiously, like a student waiting for exam results: “How’d it go?”

“It’s done!”

Wei Anping sat down and said, “I got the deputy head of the Security Department drunk yesterday—finally secured a temporary worker slot. Tomorrow, Xiao Ming, report to the campus security team.”

So his first job was a Peking University security guard?

Oh, they called them security officers now.

Wei Ming consoled himself: Soon, I’ll be the gatekeeper of Peking University.

Wei Jiefang was very pleased with the job—he’d noticed yesterday that the guards at the gate all wore uniforms and looked sharp.

“You two haven’t eaten yet, right? Let’s grab breakfast, then head into the city!”

The Third Ring Road hadn’t been built yet; only Dongcheng, Xicheng, Xuanwu, and Chongwen inside the Second Ring counted as Beijing proper—the most vital, bustling heart of the ancient capital.

Since the distance was far and one bicycle couldn’t carry three adult men without looking absurd, they took the bus.

Slowly, with two transfers, it took an hour and a half to reach their destination—slower than biking.

So Wei Ming decided that as soon as he started work, he’d buy a bicycle; the Peking University campus was huge, and having transport would be convenient.

Since Wei Anping had already taken Wei Jiefang to the Forbidden City, Beihai Park, and Shichahai, he chose Qianmen Dazhalan this time—it was closer to where they’d eat lunch.

In the late Qing and early Republican era, Dazhalan was Beijing’s famed commercial and entertainment hub, packed with theaters, shops, and chicken farms.

The Eight Great Alleys lay right in this area.

You could also see old-established brands like Xiangyihao, Ruifuxiang, and Neiliansheng—all now state-private joint ventures.

There were some tourists, but nowhere near as many as in the future, and a few foreigners could be spotted here and there.

On the south side of the western entrance to Dazhalan Street stood China’s first cinema, “Daguanlou,” now renamed “Daguanlou Cinema”—where “Dingjun Mountain” had its premiere.

A clerk named Wang Qiankun was pulling down the poster for Beijing Film Studio’s “Look at This Family” and replacing it with the promotional poster for Changchun Film Studio’s “The Gunshots of the Secret Bureau.”

Beijing Film Studio, Changchun Film Studio, and Shanghai Film Studio were the three giants of the current film industry.

“Come closer, both of you—smile… Got it, got it!”

Wei Anping was thoughtful—he’d borrowed a camera from school and took several photos of the father and son together.

Wei Ming caught on quickly: “Uncle, take a picture of you and Dad too.”

Wei Jiefang draped his arm over his brother’s shoulder. Wei Anping remembered his first photo with Wei Jiefang—the one taken when he brought him to Beijing for university—same pose. It had been sixteen or seventeen years already.

Decades had passed; he himself was still in his prime, but Brother Jiefang was growing old. Fate was cruel indeed.

Wei Anping sighed in reflection, while Wei Ming, holding the Haiou-brand camera, thought: When I have money, I’ll buy one too!

He loved photography, especially portraits, and the 1980s were worth documenting.

After touring, Wei Jiefang bought his wife a hair clip, his daughter a notebook, and some Beijing snacks.

Feeling thirsty, they stopped at the “Youth Tea House” west of Qianmen Arrow Tower and drank two-fen-a-bowl big-bowl tea—the owner’s name was Yin Shengxi. After setting down the bowl, Wei Anping checked his watch: “It’s almost twelve. Let’s head out—Xiaoyan should be off work too.”

Wei Ming thought: I need to buy a watch—I have no sense of time at all.

He wanted so many things; his motivation to earn money grew stronger.

If I can get eight yuan per thousand characters, I’ll write anything!

“Children’s Literature” was located at No. 21, Dongsi North 12th Alley, founded in 1963, hailed as the banner of Chinese children’s literature and the best-selling children’s publication.

Due to special historical reasons, it had once been suspended; after resuming publication in 1977, its schedule was unstable—issues came out only when enough manuscripts were gathered, sometimes every three months, sometimes four. Since this year, it had returned to a monthly schedule, greatly increasing editorial pressure.

Literary giants usually looked down on children’s literature; writing stories for children brought far less prestige than serious literature, so few professional children’s writers existed, and their quality varied widely.

Mao, who sat across from Lu Xiaoyan, walked out of the editor-in-chief’s office beaming: “My story ‘Heihei on the Island of Honesty’ got approved—it’s from a newcomer too. Xiao Lu, you’ve got to work harder.”

Lu Xiaoyan was about to retort when Wei Xi came over, tugging her pant leg: “Mom, Lele says she’s hungry.”

Lele, who was reading a picture book: “???”

Lu Xiaoyan checked the time—it was time to leave. “Alright, alright, let’s go.”

Downstairs, she put Lele on the front rack and Xi on the back seat, then kicked off—only to hear Wei Xi yell, “Aaaah!”—he’d been hit by her flying kick.

!

“Oh no, sorry, Xi! I forgot you were behind—are you okay?”

Wei Xi clapped his hand over his mouth, waited a moment, then spat on the ground—a tooth fell out with a crisp snap.

He was thrilled: “Mom, my cavity tooth fell out—does that mean I can eat candy now!”

She wasn’t even sure which tooth it was. Lu Xiaoyan wiped the shoe print off her son’s face, feeling guilty: “Fine—when you eat duck skin, you can dip it in sugar.”

“Thank you, Mom!” Wei Xi was utterly satisfied—he felt his tooth had died a noble death.

Riding from there to Quanjude’s Ping’anmen branch took about twenty minutes; they arrived to find Wei Anping’s group waiting at the door.

“Brother Jiefang, Xiao Ming, sorry to keep you waiting.”

Wei Jiefang: “No, no, we just got here.”

Wei Anping smiled, took Lele from Lu Xiaoyan: “I’ve reserved a table—let’s go in.”

This new branch stood at No. 14, Qianmen West Street, four stories tall, built only half a year ago, and had been open to the public for just two months.

Since it was established after Reform and Opening, it was more internationally aligned: first, it was huge—enough to seat 1,500 diners at once.

Second, it had multiple functions—the “Golden Hall” on the fourth floor could host both banquets and meetings.

Since opening, it had hosted foreign dignitaries and celebrities, bearing the responsibility of spreading culinary culture.

In the future, Quanjude’s prices would be outrageous; even now, its roast duck wasn’t affordable to ordinary people.

Wei Jiefang glanced at the menu and put it down—what? One duck cost ten yuan! And the sauce cost extra!

But compared to the live duck price of one and a half yuan per kilogram, Quanjude’s markup wasn’t yet extreme—it would be absurd in the future.

Quanjude’s roast ducks ranged from eight to ten yuan each depending on size; Wei Anping knew Wei Jiefang’s appetite and ordered the largest.

“Also, one large bowl of duck-bone soup, and leave the duck frame to be fried later—we’ll take it to go.”

Then he ordered several stir-fried dishes: wood ear and pork, pork slices with tofu, kung pao chicken, fake crab, shiitake and bamboo shoots, plus several lotus leaf pancakes.

Normally, Wei Anping wouldn’t order so many meat dishes—they were too greasy—but he knew rural folks lacked oil and meat, and a proper meat meal was rare; today’s goal was to let Wei Jiefang and his son eat well.

Old Wei’s mouth watered just listening to the order—he was glad he hadn’t stuffed himself with buns that morning.

Wei Ming, besides marveling at the one-and-a-half-yuan price of fake crab, roughly calculated the meal’s cost: just under twenty yuan.

He didn’t know if his temporary worker salary at Peking University would even reach twenty yuan a month.

Uncle Anping was clearly a Level-13 administrative cadre—earning over a hundred and fifty yuan a month; together with his wife, they made at least two hundred yuan monthly, equaling his entire family of four’s annual income from farming!

The duck-slicing master performed a culinary show right before them—meat, skin, and meat-with-skin, three separate plates, showcasing superb knife skills.

Everyone started with the roast duck; Xi and Lele clearly weren’t first-timers—they knew how to eat it.

The other dishes arrived one by one; Wei Ming paid special attention to the fake crab—it smelled just right, and upon careful tasting, he could detect the grainy texture of salted duck egg yolk.

Lu Xiaoyan was the same age as the People’s Republic; she’d lived since birth in a military compound and was the most qualified to speak about Quanjude—she’d eaten there as a child.

“I ate it twice when I was about Xi’s age—it was truly delicious back then. After state-private joint ventures, the taste changed.”

Wei Anping: “Of course—prices dropped, quality inevitably fell—but as long as the sauce recipe stays the same, most people can’t tell the difference in meat quality.”

Lu Xiaoyan nodded. Seeing Wei Jiefang enjoying his meal, she said, “Now that you’ve had Quanjude’s roast duck, next time Brother Jiefang comes, we’ll try Qianyifang.”

Wei Jiefang swallowed his bite and asked: “They’re both roast duck—how are they different?”

Lu Xiaoyan: “Quanjude uses hanging oven, Qianyifang uses sealed oven—slightly different techniques. Quanjude’s skin is crispier.”

She glanced at her wristwatch: “Oh! It’s one-thirty—I still have to go back to work. I won’t be able to stay with you, Brother Jiefang.”

Not only did she leave early, she dumped Xi and Lele on Anping—he was off today anyway.

Wei Ming watched Lu Xiaoyan leave and hurried after her.

“Oh, Xiao Ming, no need to see me off—I’ve got legs!”

"Auntie, actually I have something to say," Wei Ming pulled out the envelope he had been holding for a long time, "I want to submit a manuscript..."

(End of Chapter)