Chapter 59: Mr. Wei, Who Can Disarm an Opponent with Bare Hands (Monthly Votes and Follows Requested!)

Wei Ming held a Magu watch in his left hand, a Hongdeng radio in his right, and a giant Yongjiu bicycle parked outside—finally feeling like a successful man of this era.

But perhaps his frequent glances at his watch were too conspicuous, for a long-haired youth had been tailing him.

Wei Ming skillfully avoided every attempt at physical contact, but the youth persisted; so Wei Ming pulled out Biaozi’s knuckle dusters and, under the glare of the youth’s bloodshot eyes from sleeplessness, made him slink away down the stairs.

Wei Ming shook his head. There were so many unemployed youths in Yanjing these days, society was restless, and public security was far from reassuring. He’d brought this much cash—he was glad he’d prepared ahead.

He rolled down his sleeves to cover his watch, circled the third floor, found nothing he wanted, then went downstairs.

On the second floor, in the kitchenware section, Wei Ming’s eyes lit up.

“How much is this kimchi jar? … Oh, five yuan.”

Wei Ming spotted a Sichuan kimchi jar—the kind with a water groove on top and an inverted bowl sealing the jar with water.

In Hebei, they didn’t care for kimchi and had no such jars; they usually pickled vegetables in big vats—simple and crude, but not to his mother Xu Shufen’s taste. She often talked to Wei Ming about her hometown’s kimchi.

In his past life, when he returned to his family’s home in Sichuan and Chongqing, his mother had brought back one such jar, and every winter she’d make some.

For present-day Wei Ming, the price wasn’t the issue—it was carrying this jar on a train, then a bus, even a tractor, and worrying it’d break before he got home.

“I’ll look around some more,” Wei Ming said, then wandered elsewhere and spotted the radio section—and Zhu Lin.

Besides radios, there were also the now-popular cassette players—basically radios that played tapes; even before he reached them, he could hear songs coming from the machines.

The song was “Roses Bloom Everywhere,” the one with “Roses bloom everywhere, youth thrives everywhere…”—recently revived by Deng Lijun’s cover.

But Deng Lijun hadn’t broken into the mainland market—official channels wouldn’t dare sell her music; people had been jailed for selling her tapes. Yet mainland singers, altering their vocal styles, could perform them without sounding decadent.

This song, for instance, was the first pop music stereo cassette recorded by singer Zhu Fengbo for Guangzhou Pacific Audio, marking the beginning of mainland China’s pop music history.

Released in May, priced at five or six yuan per cassette, it had sold over two million copies in just over four months, with final sales exceeding eight million—terrifying numbers reflecting the massive void in the people’s demand for entertainment.

This wave of re-recorded old songs had greatly accelerated the popularity of cassette players on the mainland; Zhu Lin wanted one precisely to listen to these songs.

But domestic factories couldn’t produce them yet, so nearly all were imported, especially the Sanyo brand, along with Toshiba and Hitachi—all brought in under the banner of “China-Japan friendship.”

Zhu Lin had set her sights on a “Sanyo M-X250F” cassette player and was about to pay.

Seeing Wei Ming approach, she nodded cheerfully: “Got what you wanted?”

Wei Ming: “Done. You picked yours too?”

“Yeah, this one,” Zhu Lin said. “I’ll go pay first.”

As she walked off, Wei Ming focused on the music—he wouldn’t buy now. The cheap ones cost over a hundred yuan; the lighter ones were over two hundred. He’d keep his money to improve his family’s life.

While listening, Wei Ming suddenly heard Zhu Lin’s anxious voice from a nearby counter.

“My wallet’s gone!”

Wei Ming walked over: “What’s wrong, Comrade Zhu Lin?”

Zhu Lin’s eyes were red. She showed Wei Ming her backpack—there was a neat slit, and her wallet had been stolen.

Wei Ming immediately thought of the long-haired youth he’d encountered upstairs.

He asked: “How much was inside?”

“Including yours, about three hundred yuan. Plus my work ID,” Zhu Lin choked back tears.

She’d brought extra cash in case Wei Ming didn’t buy her radio—money she’d saved over months, plus help from her parents.

The sales clerk asked: “Can you recall any suspicious people?”

Zhu Lin thought: “There was a young man with long hair, wearing a gray coat, standing right beside me.”

As a Peking University guard, a criminal’s nemesis, Wei Ming had no choice but to act.

He sprinted to the window, looked out—good, the guy hadn’t gotten far.

He tossed his radio and coat to Zhu Lin: “Follow behind. I’ll go after him.”

Before she could even shout, “Be careful!”—Wei Ming was gone, like a whirlwind.

Hours earlier, at dawn, Zhu Lin had prepared for today’s meeting at her home in the Industrial Institute: she’d changed into a pretty outfit, slung on a handbag, and applied Friendship Snow Cream.

Not because she had designs on an eighteen-year-old boy—this was her respect for a writer.

She admired such people. Though now a medical worker, she’d once been a cultural soldier, with a touch of the literary youth about her.

For over half a month, she’d often heard Wei Ming’s name from her colleague Mu Rong.

Writing fairy tales, composing poetry, even submitting to “Shouhuo” and getting published—it was absurd beyond belief.

Zhu Lin had doubted it—until Mu Rong laid before her copies of three issues of “Wenhui Daily” and Peking University’s campus journal, all featuring Wei Ming’s work. Then she believed: geniuses did exist.

So when Mu Rong inquired about a radio, Zhu Lin, who’d planned to sell it at a pawnshop, gladly agreed to the deal, adjusting time and place to suit Wei Ming.

She’d originally set her price at fifty yuan—slightly over sixty percent off—just to make a friend.

They’d agreed to meet at nine, but she arrived at eight-thirty—not waiting an hour, but an hour and a half, nearly giving up several times.

If not for Wei Ming’s talent and Mu Rong’s description of him as a spirited young man, she’d have walked away.

She just wanted to see how handsome he was to treat an appointment like a joke and make her wait so long.

!

Then she saw him—and his handsomeness surpassed her expectations. He’d given a flat tire as an excuse, but it didn’t fully appease her. So Zhu Lin, who’d planned to sell it for fifty, now demanded seventy—and he didn’t haggle. He was straightforward.

Afterward, they entered the department store together. Now Zhu Lin walked out alone—her evaluation of Wei Ming had shifted from “straightforward” to “upright, kind, brave.”

She saw Wei Ming sprinting westward. She went to retrieve her bike, then realized in dismay: her train ticket was in her wallet—the proof needed to claim the bike. And her shoes had heels; she couldn’t run fast.

Then she reached into her pocket—“Huh?”—she felt the ticket and keys inside Wei Ming’s coat.

So Zhu Lin promptly retrieved Wei Ming’s bike—and saw the ancient, rusted Yongjiu, its chrome gone. Wei Ming was indeed simple.

“This isn’t your bike, is it?”

“No, it’s my brother’s,” Zhu Lin lied. With her looks, she got the bike easily, mounted it, and sped off after Wei Ming.

But before she left Wangfujing Street, the bike slowed. She stopped: “The tire’s flat!”

Luckily, there was a repair shop nearby. She pushed the bike over, asked the mechanic to fix it, then ran off to chase him.

“Wait,” the mechanic swiftly pulled out the inner tube. “This tire’s too ruined. Better replace it.”

“What?” Zhu Lin remembered Wei Ming’s words. “Can I see the front tire?”

The mechanic glanced and snapped: “The front’s just been replaced! Why replace again? Is this even your bike?”

“It’s my brother’s,” Zhu Lin repeated the lie, flooded with guilt.

So he really had a flat tire on the way—and pushed it all the way here. I treated him so poorly just now—I was terrible!

Zhu Lin grew more self-reproachful, then remembered she had no money at all. She quickly slipped away, saying she’d return later to collect the bike.

First, find him.

But Wei Ming was long gone. When she passed a police station, she decided to ask—and lucked out.

“Oh yes, we caught a knife-wielding bag-snatcher with help from a concerned citizen. What’s your name?”

“Zhu Lin.”

“Where do you work?”

“Institute of Hygiene, Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences,” Zhu Lin answered quickly. “About three hundred ten yuan inside—money I was using to buy a cassette player.”

Her answers were perfect. They had her identify the thief—yes, the long-haired one.

But seeing his bruised, swollen face, clearly from a fierce fight, Zhu Lin gripped Wei Ming’s coat and asked worriedly: “You said he had a knife—what about the concerned citizen? Is he okay?”

The officer: “He went to the hospital.”

Zhu Lin: “What!”

(End of Chapter)