Chapter 86: I Really Didn

For a long time afterward, the atmosphere in the dormitory was thick with people reading newspapers.

Over on the other side, the Koreans were acting like a TV drama—now it was “Ministers of Nanshan,” now “Spring in Seoul,” all major productions, and domestic media loved covering them.

In Wei Ming’s hometown, Wei Jiefang, after hearing broadcasts about the Koreans, even bought related newspapers and burned them at his father’s grave—the father’s bones still lay on the other side, and seeing Korea in chaos made him happy.

Amid this atmosphere of eager spectators, October drew to a close, and the creation of “The Herdsman” was already more than halfway done.

That day, Wei Ming stepped out of the gatehouse at the South Gate and saw Chen Jiangong returning in formal attire.

“Where’d you go, Old Chen?” Wei Ming asked casually.

Chen Jiangong: “Oh, just came back from the Great Hall.”

Such a simple sentence perfectly captured Wei Ming’s art of effortless showing off.

If Wei Ming didn’t press further, he’d probably suffer in silence.

So he added: “So you came back from the Literary Congress?”

Chen Jiangong nodded eagerly: “It just opened today—I’ll have to go again later.”

Wei Ming pulled him inside and asked him to recount what he’d seen; the other colleagues also wanted to hear.

Chen Jiangong, barely containing his excitement, said: “I saw the Elder, and he said…”

For all cultural workers, the Elder’s speech at the congress was deeply inspiring, especially the line: “Artistic labor, as a spiritual endeavor, demands that artists fully exercise their personal creativity—what to write and how to write must be explored by artists through artistic practice; no external interference should be imposed.”

Chen Jiangong said: “The Elder particularly emphasized the six words: ‘no external interference.’”

Wei Ming knew that though it was still autumn and winter, spring was truly coming for cultural workers.

After this Literary Congress, creative freedom was loosened—more could be written, and works would no longer be politically overinterpreted.

A colleague beside him asked: “Did you see any other big names?”

Then Chen Jiangong listed a long string of names: “Lu, Guo, Mao, Ba, Lao, Cao, Wei”—three of the four still living were present.

He mostly named figures from the literary world, a small fraction of the attendees.

This Literary Congress had over three thousand participants; besides the literary circle, nearly all living influential artists from theater, fine arts, music, film, dance, quyi, acrobatics, and photography were there—people like Chen Jiangong, as juniors, could only sit in the back rows and listen humbly.

From that day on, Wei Ming stopped paying much attention to the Koreans in the newspapers and focused instead on the Literary Congress updates—it would last over half a month, with massive coverage daily.

Of course, reading newspapers during work hours didn’t interfere with his writing.

After more than ten days of effort, the roughly forty-thousand-word “The Herdsman” was completed.

“Brother Feng, are you heading into the city?” Early that morning, Wei Ming saw Brother Feng, this rough old man, shaving—and knew something was up.

“Yeah, today I’m going to see your sister-in-law. Been too busy lately, haven’t seen her in a while.”

Wei Ming immediately stood up with his manuscript: “Take me with you!”

Qiao Feng glared: “Is that appropriate? We’ve barely had time to be together.”

“You’ll have to eat anyway—I just want to treat you to that meal we promised. I’ve been thinking about it.”

Hearing this, Brother Feng laughed: “Ah, no need to treat—I’m your family. Just eat something simple.”

Wei Ming: “Fine. How about Donglaishun? It’s a bit cold today.”

Wei Ming planned to deliver “The Herdsman” to “Contemporary” magazine today—since he was going into the city anyway, he might as well treat them to the meal; it had been over two months since he’d eaten hotpot lamb.

The two rode their bikes to the entrance of the Health Research Institute, where Qiao Feng went inside to call someone.

Wei Ming suddenly called out: “By the way, Brother Feng—if Sister Zhu Lin is there, invite her too. My dad loved the radio you brought back last time.”

Qiao Feng shook his head: “You’re just too generous.”

But he realized Wei Ming truly had the means—two months’ earnings already matched his own annual salary.

Qiao Feng didn’t think anything else of it—Zhu Lin was beautiful, but nine years older than Wei Ming, and she already had a boyfriend.

Normally, Zhu Lin either brought her own lunch or ate in the unit canteen, occasionally dining out—but only at small eateries.

Today she was on her period, hadn’t brought lunch, and didn’t fancy the canteen’s unappetizing food, so she planned to grab a quick meal at a restaurant.

While waiting for quitting time, her colleague Mu Rong came over.

“Lin Jie, let’s go eat.”

“You’re going out too?” Zhu Lin stood up to join her.

Mu Rong smiled: “Someone’s treating us—and specifically asked me to invite you.”

“Huh?” Zhu Lin stopped, thinking of refusing.

Mu Rong added: “It’s my husband’s colleague, Wei Ming—the big writer.”

“Little Wei!”

Hearing it was Wei Ming, Zhu Lin agreed—she’d seen his name and works often in newspapers and magazines lately, and wondered if fame had gone to his head after a month’s absence.

But when she saw him, he hadn’t become arrogant—he’d grown even more grounded, his demeanor even calmer.

Besides wearing thicker clothes, Wei Ming’s physique had indeed become more robust.

Zhu Lin greeted him warmly, chatting and laughing—but when she heard they were going to Donglaishun, she hesitated; hotpot lamb wasn’t cheap.

Wei Ming: “Expensive or not, we have to eat it. I wrote ‘Er Niu’ thanks to Brother Feng—he wants dragon meat, I’ll find a way. But you two have to pay for your own tickets.” Mu Rong glared at Qiao Feng: “Why not just eat something simple? Does little Wei earn his royalty fees so easily?”

Qiao Feng was wronged—he’d been the one who suggested Donglaishun, and his royalties really were easy: “The Duck’s First Know” occasionally still brought in reprint fees—it was truly a golden duck laying eggs!

The reprint fee from “The Duck’s First Know” alone could easily cover this meal.

Zhu Lin thought: Mu Rong and Qiao Feng were perfectly matched—what did that make her? A freeloader?

So on the way, she bought four bottles of Beiyang soda—but never opened hers; it was too cold.

Donglaishun Restaurant sat at the north gate of the Dong’an Market on Wangfujing; it had no branches yet. Inside, it was crowded, and foreigners could be seen.

While waiting to be seated, Wei Ming asked about Zhu Lin’s goddaughter.

“I visited her just a few days ago for her full-moon celebration—she’s even prettier than when she was born, with eyes so dark and bright.” Speaking of the baby, Zhu Lin’s eyes sparkled—who could have guessed she’d remain childless for life?

Soon Mu Rong joined the conversation about children—she was twenty-seven, hadn’t dared have one due to lack of housing, fearing she’d have to raise the child in the dorm, but she truly wanted one.

“If you want, just have one,” Qiao Feng said, excusing himself to the restroom to pull Mu Rong aside and deliver good news.

“Anping said—if you get pregnant, he can pressure personnel to transfer your job.”

!

“What about housing?”

“You probably won’t get a house right away, but the school’s corridor-style building can give us one room.”

A corridor-style room was fine! Mu Rong was thrilled: “Great! Let’s conceive today—I’m alone in my dorm!”

So they ate only meat, skipped the vegetables, and made excuses to leave early, leaving only Wei Ming and Zhu Lin to savor their meal slowly.

“Those two,” Wei Ming shook his head. “Lin Jie, why aren’t you drinking? Let me open yours.”

Zhu Lin pushed it toward him: “Too cold. You drink it.”

He couldn’t drink cold things—Wei Ming understood.

“By the way, did you buy a cassette player yet?” Wei Ming asked.

“Yeah, I did—but there are too few good tapes,” Zhu Lin complained.

Official channels only sold old songs; new ones were just recycled tunes. The only one she could stand, “Roses Bloom Everywhere,” she’d worn out the tape.

She had no access to unofficial channels either and was considering contacting old friends from the Cultural Troupe.

Wei Ming asked: “How open are you to English songs… Wait, no need to answer.”

He could already feel the shift in her gaze—burning with intensity.

“Can you get them? But they’re probably expensive.”

Wei Ming: “Forget originals—let me get you some copied tapes. I’m not sure of the price yet.”

Meilinda sold them for five yuan—maybe she’d give him a discount.

“Of course they’re copies—no one even dares dream of official foreign cassettes these days.”

Wei Ming asked: “Which singers interest you?”

Zhu Lin: “I don’t even know their names—anyone’s fine.”

“Then tell me what style you like.”

“Hmm,” Zhu Lin hesitated, “something soft… about love…”

After the meal, they parted ways; Zhu Lin slipped her unopened Beiyang soda into Wei Ming’s hands.

When she returned to work, just before quitting time, her boyfriend called, asking to see a movie that night.

He’d been upset about her spending so much on the cassette player, thinking it unnecessary—they’d had a small quarrel. Now he called to make up.

He’d even bought a box of “Complete Collection of Chinese Folk Songs” as an apology.

Zhu Lin gently touched her lower abdomen: “I’m not feeling well today. Let’s reschedule.”

“Oh, not feeling well? Drink more hot water.”

After hanging up, she returned to her desk and picked up the morning’s “Yanjing Literature,” which contained a short poem called “Far and Near.”

In a dorm room at the Health Research Institute, Qiao Feng and Mu Rong had just enjoyed a passionate encounter, both feeling thoroughly satisfied.

Then they gossiped. Mu Rong asked: “Don’t you think it’s odd that Xiao Wei invited Lin Jie to dinner today?”

“What’s odd? They know each other—they’ve been through things together.”

Mu Rong: “I just think Lin Jie’s personality wouldn’t easily accept an invitation to dinner.”

“So you think Lin Jie’s got a crush on Xiao Wei? No way—they’re nine years apart, three golden bricks apart.”

Mu Rong: “What if Xiao Wei’s the one smitten? Lin Jie’s beauty isn’t overstated—she’s a goddess.”

“Then… well, Xiao Wei’s so outstanding, one little shovel and the wall would collapse,” Qiao Feng chuckled. “But it’s probably not true—I’ll tell you this, don’t spread it: Xiao Wei’s been close to a British female exchange student.”

“Ah, an exchange student—a foreigner!”

“Achoo!”

Before entering the “Contemporary” editorial office, Wei Ming sneezed several times—who’s talking about me…

(End of chapter)