Chapter 84: Mooching Meals: Zhang Yimou (610 Requests First Subscription!)

The phone was connected.

Upon hearing it was a mid-length novel of about forty thousand characters, they immediately said they had no plans to film a feature-length movie, mainly due to tight funding and no budget for it.

The voice on the other end was He Yumen, an old friend of Jin Jin, who had collaborated with him on “The Little Carp Leaping Through the Dragon Gate.”

Editor Jin felt awkward and quickly recommended two short fairy tales, “The Toothless Tiger” and “If I Were Wu Song,” to his old friend. This time, Director He didn’t refuse—he said he’d get the magazines and check if they were suitable for adaptation.

Lu Xiaoyan finally felt satisfied and marched out of the editor’s office with pride, though a few colleagues looked at her with even greater annoyance.

In the guard’s dormitory.

Title: “The Herdsman”

Protagonist’s name: ??

Wei Ming first wrote down two names on his notebook: Wei Jiefang and Xu Shufen, then swapped their surnames to become Xu Jiefang and Wei Shufen.

He made slight modifications afterward, turning them into Xu Shengfang and Wei Fenfang—flowers blooming in full splendor, fragrance spreading everywhere.

Using his parents’ real names would sound awkward, but neither Xu Lingjun nor Li Xiuzhi from the original “Soul and Flesh” could be used either.

Wei Ming had some knowledge of the novel’s creative process; although Zhang Xianliang wouldn’t begin writing until next March, he had already drafted a story outline years earlier, with the protagonists being a married couple named Xu Lingjun and Li Xiuzhi, whom he later directly used in “Soul and Flesh.”

Wei Ming then shaped several key characters based on the old party secretary Zhou Xingbang and other villagers.

Although the story remained “The Herdsman,” many characters and details reflected Wei Ming’s rural life.

Even the protagonists’ character designs, while still featuring an older man and younger woman, weren’t as drastically different as in the original—one in his early twenties, the other nearing thirty—one gentle, virtuous, and beautiful, the other optimistic, carefree, responsible, and dependable.

The female lead was written largely after his mother; the male lead needed to be improved upon Old Wei by several times over.

Between the two works, Wei Ming barely rested at all.

He tallied his cash reserves, including reprint royalties and money tucked into reader letters, totaling 595 yuan—accumulated quickly, mostly from reprints of “The Duck Knows.”

This sum was enough for a family of four to travel to Sichuan and Chongqing, but Wei Ming had higher material and spiritual aspirations.

And all of these required money to achieve.

As he was writing, a colleague at the gate called out for him to take a call—it was Liu Rulong’s.

Ah Long had come by that morning and learned from Wei Ming that the novel and illustrations had been accepted, so he could now confidently continue with the subsequent illustrations.

Wei Ming asked him to find Zhang Yimou after returning to school and ask if he’d be willing to help him look at a secondhand camera.

According to Liu Rulong, why buy secondhand? Why not just go to the Overseas Chinese Store and buy new? I’ve got so many foreign exchange coupons—I’ll spend them on you, who else?

Wei Ming thought that made sense, but he’d have to make up the price difference to Ah Long.

Also, Zhang Yimou had to be treated to a meal.

Liu Rulong’s call was about this very matter.

“At first he wasn’t willing—I told him you were the model in the photos, and he still refused. Only when I mentioned you were the author of ‘Er Niu’ did he agree.”

“Oh, he’s read my work?”

“Yeah, he especially admires ‘Er Niu.’ When he heard you wrote it, he thought it was unbelievable.”

They set a time and place: tomorrow, Wei Ming was off duty, and Liu Rulong and Zhang Yimou would come to Peking University to meet him, then head into the city together.

Just as he hung up, the gate guard said: “Oh, one more thing—here’s an invitation for you.”

Wei Ming remembered—it was the day he’d arranged to have dinner with the Li family. They’d even sent a formal invitation; there was no way he could refuse.

Fortunately, it was dinner, so the timing didn’t conflict. By the way, Gong Ying should be there too—they hadn’t been in touch for a while.

The next day, Wei Ming met Liu Rulong and Zhang Yimou at 8:30 a.m. Zhao Debiao, on the day shift, could only miss out on the city trip.

Zhang Yimou’s bicycle was just as old as Wei Ming’s, just like the man himself.

“Comrade Wei Ming, hello. I always thought you were a performing arts student—never imagined you were a writer!” Zhang Yimou gripped Wei Ming’s hand tightly, shy yet eager.

“I didn’t expect you’d read my novels. Let’s ride and chat.”

“Hey, you two slow down!” Liu Rulong, slightly overweight, struggled to keep up—his bike was the best one, after all.

Ahead, Wei Ming and Zhang Yimou first talked about the novel “Er Niu,” then moved on to photography.

Zhang Yimou: “You’re right to want to learn photography—it adds visual power to your writing, making readers feel immersed. ‘Er Niu’ already has strong visuals, but it can be even better.”

He spoke bluntly; Wei Ming took it as the kind of advice a senior would give: Young man, your visuals aren’t good enough—you still need to practice!

Then Zhang Yimou introduced his own camera, his first camera, his faithful companion that changed his fate.

“Seagull 4 twin-lens reflex camera. I earned 40 yuan a month back then and had to support my family. To buy this camera, I gave up meat, ate dry steamed buns with pickled vegetables every day, saved for three years, and spent over 180 yuan to get it.”

As for the rumor that Zhang Yimou sold blood to buy the camera, it was actually blood donation—he went for the subsidy.

Peking University now also encourages students to donate blood, offering subsidies—quite generous ones, ranging from a few yuan to over twenty, depending on volume.

Once in the city, they arrived at the Overseas Chinese Store, where Zhang Yimou was dazzled by the dazzling array of goods.

It was his first time in such a place. Ah Long had been two or three times and still found it novel; Wei Ming, used to future-scale scenes, remained unfazed.

Ah Long told Wei Ming: “If you know any foreigners, get them to take us into the Friendship Store—there’s even more and better stuff there.”

Wei Ming nodded. Foreigners could be useful tools back then—he knew several.

Time was running late, so they headed straight for the camera section, which had both domestic and imported models.

The domestic ones were mainly Seagull and Phoenix.

The imported ones included Leica, Sony, Nikon, and Polaroids—many styles, and prices were steep.

Zhang Yimou had come to help pick a camera, but he also wanted to try out some high-end imported models.

He pointed to a Nikon EL series: “Can we take a look at this one?”

The sales clerk replied flatly: “Two thousand.”

!

Zhang Yimou hissed.

Wei Ming smiled: “Just let’s take a look.”

In the end, Zhang Yimou got to try it, but after learning the price, he lost his initial casualness—he didn’t even try the more expensive Leica or Sony. If he dropped one, the school would have to come bail him out.

They then moved from the Europe, America, and Japan section to the domestic section.

Liu Rulong, clutching his wallet, sighed in relief—he couldn’t afford those foreign cameras anyway. Not only had his father not sent him money this month, even if he had, it still wouldn’t be enough.

Between twin-lens reflex and single-lens reflex cameras, Wei Ming chose the cheaper twin-lens model—the same kind Zhang Yimou used, and also the one used by Uncle Ping’an and Professor Qu—relatively affordable.

The viewfinder of a twin-lens reflex shows an image with noticeable parallax compared to the film image, requiring simultaneous lens changes to maintain consistency.

When Wei Ming had more money to burn, he’d definitely upgrade to a single-lens reflex—after all, that’s where real spending happens. For now, the twin-lens was just a temporary step.

Finally, on Zhang Yimou’s advice, Wei Ming bought a Seagull 4A twin-lens reflex camera—an upgraded version of Zhang’s model—priced at 200 yuan; a comparable single-lens Seagull would cost four to five hundred.

Besides the camera, Wei Ming bought some film rolls. Since they were at the Overseas Chinese Store, he bought only imported Kodak—mostly black-and-white, with only one roll of color, too expensive.

“Old Zhang, want to buy some film? Put it on my tab.”

Zhang Yimou waved him off—he usually used domestic Lokon consumer film, each roll costing just a few yuan.

Though he refused the film, he couldn’t refuse lunch.

“Oh, just have some noodles—it’s unnecessary to come to such a fancy restaurant. I didn’t really help much.”

Zhang Yimou meant it sincerely—since all the cameras were new, there were no quality issues. He felt his contribution was worth at most a bowl of oil-slicked noodles; coming to Quanjude felt like mooching.

Wei Ming smiled: “Old Zhang, you’re being modest. The camera’s bought, but I still need to learn photography from you—don’t be so formal.”

They chose Quanjude on Hepingmen—Wei Ming hadn’t tried several dishes there last time. With his current finances, spending ten or so yuan on a meal was nothing—he deserved to treat himself occasionally.

At first Zhang Yimou was a bit awkward, but once he started talking about his field, he became loquacious. Their conversation, besides photography, naturally turned to film.

“What films do you watch at the Film Academy? Classified screenings?”

“Yes!” both replied in unison.

But the titles they listed were mostly European art films; American films were rare—even American ones were mostly award-winners, like last year’s Oscar Best Picture “Annie Hall,” since that was their training focus.

Wei Ming also shared what he’d learned from foreign students and from Time magazine about the state of American cinema.

Sci-fi, monsters, spy thrillers—Zhang Yimou knew these were far from his reality, yet he listened with rapt attention.

“Old Zhang, have you ever thought about becoming a director?” Wei Ming suddenly asked.

Zhang Yimou wiped his mouth: “Of course I have. A photographer who doesn’t want to be a director isn’t a good worker. I’d take any chance to attend directing classes—I’m close with everyone in the directing department.”

Speaking of the directing department, Zhang Yimou added: “By the way, a classmate in directing really likes your poetry.”

Wei Ming’s lips twitched—could he mean Chen Kaige?

“I think he’s the most talented among them. His name is Chen Kaige. By the way, have you written any new poems lately? I can tell him.”

Wei Ming: It really is him!

“Uh, tell him to buy a copy of ‘Yanjing Literature’ next month.”

Since Wei Ming had another engagement that evening, he let the two leave after dinner. He then walked through some areas of Beijing that would later be demolished, taking photos and using up one roll of black-and-white film.

He arrived at Fengze Yuan on Meishijie at six p.m. and saw Gong Ying, looking around anxiously at the entrance…

(End of Chapter)