Chapter 63: On the Progressiveness of

Colleagues gave Wei Ming strange looks: “What’s going on?”

Wei Ming was puzzled too—what was going on? Why was Zhu Lin calling him?

“No, sis, explain clearly—my colleagues are right here listening,” Wei Ming said solemnly.

“Oh, Gao’s baby was born. Gao is so grateful he wants you to be the child’s godfather,” Zhu Lin quickly added.

Wei Ming glanced around: “You heard that? It’s not my kid.”

“Whether I’m godfather or not aside, why are you the one calling?” Wei Ming asked again.

“Oh, I’m at the hospital.”

Then Zhu Lin explained the whole story.

After returning to the department store, she suddenly realized that Gao had rushed over from work with nothing—no supplies for the new mother at all.

Since she felt partly responsible for the baby’s early birth, Zhu Lin skipped buying a tape recorder and instead bought essentials for the mother.

“They say the baby sees who first and takes on their features—they insisted I be the first to hold the baby.”

Such a self-obsessed queen.

But Wei Ming refused the godfather role—he was barely an adult himself, still a kid.

“But you could take on a goddaughter.”

“I actually thought of that—I’ll buy the baby a longevity lock. She’s so pretty,” Zhu Lin giggled.

Back in the dorm, the room was packed with people.

Word had spread that Wei Ming was telling another wuxia story, and they’d come specifically to listen.

Wei Ming cleared his throat: “Today’s story begins in a village called Niu Family Village…”

The next morning, as Feng Ge and Biaozi saw Wei Ming off, they complained he was being unfair.

Why tell your story now, right before you leave, and right at the critical moment?

Will the Seven Freaks of Jiangnan find Guo Jing? Will Qiu Chuji find the Yang family’s child? Will they ever end up together?

You left it hanging like this—who taught you to do this?

At the bus stop outside the gate, Wei Ming told them to go back.

As soon as they left, a school bus pulled up beside Wei Ming.

Wei Ming blinked: “Comrade Liu!”

Comrade Liu stuck his head out and grinned: “Get on, let’s go.”

Wei Ming: “I’m going to the train station.”

Comrade Liu: “Who doesn’t go to the train station? Don’t dawdle.”

Professor Hou Renzhi from the Geography Department had just returned from a desert expedition in the Western Frontier, and Old Liu, having not driven a bus in ages, was itching to get behind the wheel again.

“I thought you got demoted for messing up,” Wei Ming teased, lighting Old Liu a cigarette.

“Wait—you keep giving me cigarettes, but I’ve never seen you smoke.”

Wei Ming: “Smoking’s bad for your health—I don’t smoke.”

Comrade Liu: “...”

Suddenly, the Damen cigarettes lost their charm. Meanwhile, right after Wei Ming left, the postman arrived at the South Gate.

He dumped all the letters from his bag: “There’s mail for Big Writer Wei.”

Mei Wenhua and Biaozi, heading for the cafeteria, immediately started searching: “Where? Where?”

The postman pointed to the table: “All of these.”

Learning that Comrade Liu hadn’t eaten either and planned to grab a bite at the station, and knowing Professor Hou’s train arrived an hour later, Wei Ming had plenty of time.

So he asked Comrade Liu to detour to Wangfujing—he’d pop into the department store.

Soon after, Wei Ming boarded the bus with a pickled vegetable jar and two jianbing guozi—one for each.

Comrade Liu didn’t hesitate, took the jianbing, and asked: “Why are you bringing a jar home?”

“For my mom,” Wei Ming smiled—he’d spotted a mini version for only two yuan, much more portable.

But Wei Ming’s luggage was already full: gifts from girls, a radio, magazines and newspapers, plus the high school study materials he’d collected for Xiao Hong.

What a fruitful month!

Though Ping’an County was only two hundred kilometers from Yanjing, transportation was still terrible—and Ping’an County had no train station. Wei Ming had to first go farther to Hengzhou, then take a bus back to Ping’an County; how he got home from there would be up to fate.

!

So Wei Ming wasn’t even sure he’d make it home that day.

After saying goodbye to Old Liu, Wei Ming hurried into the station; the train pulled out around ten.

He’d spend over four long hours on it.

This time he didn’t bring a thick novel—just two magazines.

One was the October issue of *Popular Cinema*, featuring Zhao Dan on the cover, highlighting the dozen tribute films for National Day—all of which Wei Ming hadn’t seen yet.

The other was the September issue of *Yanjing Literature*, a special fiction issue with no poetry or prose.

It included Chen Jiangong of Peking University’s Chinese Department ’77 class with “A Troublesome Tartar in Western Beijing,” plus masters like Xiao Jun, Wang Meng, Liu Shaotang, and Gao Xiaosheng—truly a stellar lineup.

This train ride had no pretty girls beside him—only middle-aged men and women. The only one remotely pleasant was the bespectacled young man across the aisle.

Soon after boarding, he pulled out a copy of *People’s X Daily* and began reading.

When he finished one side and flipped to the other, Wei Ming accidentally caught sight of a headline.

“On the Progressiveness of ‘The Ducks Know First That the Spring River Is Warm.’”

Wei Ming froze. After the man finished reading, he smiled: “Comrade, could I see your newspaper?”

“And could I see your *Popular Cinema*?”

“Of course—we’ll swap.”

Wei Ming took the newspaper and saw the author’s name beside the headline: Fan Rongkang. Oh—his brother-in-law had written this!

Yanjing, Peking University.

Liang Zuo sneezed—they were holding a celebration for the sold-out debut issue of *Weiminghu*.

Finally, the May Fourth Literature Society hadn’t lost money—they’d even made a small profit, and all classmates who’d funded the magazine got their money back.

They even considered reprinting the issue, since public response had been strong; supporters included the magazine’s editor, Old Xiong, and Liu Zhenyun.

But Society President Cen Xianqing disagreed: “The magazine sold well thanks to Wei Ming’s ‘Ideal,’ but the latest issue of *Poetry Journal* has just come out, and ‘Ideal’ is in it. Poetry lovers who want ‘Ideal’ would be better off buying *Poetry Journal*. So I think we should keep the funds for the next issue.”

In the end, Cen Xianqing won majority support. Liu Zhenyun worried: without a hit like ‘Ideal,’ could the next issue still sell well?

Brother Wei, Brother Wei—I hear you’ve returned home. How long will you stay? Day one of missing you~

(End of Chapter)