Chapter 89: Wei Ming

“12 times 8…”

Melinda pressed her calculator and took a long while to get the result.

She smiled at Wei Ming: “It’s ninety-six yuan total. Round it up—you can give me a hundred.”

Wei Ming and Xiao Cha were both stunned—could you even round like that?!

Never mind whether Britain’s rounding method was reasonable; Wei Ming asked, “But I heard you sell these outside for five yuan. We’re acquaintances—why’s the price gone up for me? You’re robbing your own friends, aren’t you?!”

Melinda: “Five yuan is for customers who bring their own blank tapes. I just help with copying.”

Xiao Cha nodded: “That’s true.”

Wei Ming: Damn, that’s five yuan profit per tape!

Melinda added: “Look at these tapes—I bought them all from the Friendship Store, made in America, top quality. Selling them for four yuan isn’t expensive at all. Add in song selection and copying—time and materials both—eight yuan is already a friend’s price.”

Fine, an eight-yuan friendship.

Wei Ming crossed his arms: “Then what’s the deal with you recording twelve tapes all at once?”

Melinda: “Everyone says you’re rich, so I thought—why not gently transfer rich people’s money to us poor folks?”

Wei Ming laughed: “You’re disappointed—I’m definitely not richer than you. And I didn’t buy these tapes myself; I’m buying them for someone else. You’ve made so many, they’re worth two months’ salary for her. She definitely can’t afford them.”

“Ah!” Melinda froze—now she’d be stuck with them, and she hadn’t taken any deposit.

Wei Ming glanced at the tapes—each had a sticky note with Melinda’s careful handwriting listing the song titles.

“How about I take two?” Wei Ming picked through them.

“Just take them all~” Melinda grabbed his hand, pleading, “I—I can lower the price!”

“Oh, you can cut the price? Then we’ve got room to talk.”

In the end, they settled at five yuan each. Wei Ming paid sixty yuan for all of them, planning to resell them slowly to Zhu Lin so she wouldn’t be overwhelmed by a big payment all at once.

Melinda was satisfied—at least she hadn’t lost money, and even made a small profit.

Wei Ming shook his head: “You’re better off not doing business. Just take these copied tapes and sell them outside for six or seven yuan—eight even—they’d fly off the shelves.”

Melinda’s eyes lit up—she smacked her own head in frustration: “Of course!”

Also, Wei Ming was curious about something: “Why do you need so much RMB? Aren’t you going back to China soon?”

Melinda’s study abroad program was two years—she was leaving at the end of this term.

Melinda said: “I want to save up some money, buy antiques, and bring them back home. Flip them, maybe I’ll become financially free!”

Wei Ming widened his eyes—this foreign girl actually wanted to resell antiques? Probably inspired by that Lu Ban lock.

You have no idea how deep the water is here! Swindling foreigners is a classic staple of this trade.

Still, Wei Ming gave her advice: “Don’t buy from small shops. Go to the Friendship Store or Rongbaozhai for paintings by famous artists. They may not be worth much now, but when the Chinese get rich, those pieces will rise in auction markets.”

Like works by modern and contemporary artists.

For those who don’t know how to judge quality but want to profit from this trade, it’s a safer bet. The Friendship Store often has Qi Baishi and Wu Guanzhong paintings—you might even stumble upon Ming or Qing dynasty works.

Right now, the state, desperate for foreign exchange, is very willing to part with ordinary cultural relics that aren’t national treasures.

Melinda’s eyes lit up again.

“Leonardo, come with me to buy them! You’re an expert!”

How am I an expert? I just know a little.

Melinda pulled out a ten-yuan note from the pile and shoved it into Wei Ming’s pocket, pressing it in tight.

She was good at this.

“Alright, I’ll go with you when I’m free.” Since she was so sincere, Wei Ming agreed—he wanted to visit the Friendship Store anyway, and without a foreigner tagging along, it’d be hard to get in.

Xiao Cha volunteered to walk Wei Ming down, and even kept walking after they left the building.

“You’ve got something to say to me?” Wei Ming felt tense—was she going to confess to him? Xiao Cha wasn’t unattractive, but she was just average—not his type.

After fidgeting for a while, Xiao Cha praised: “Your ‘Far and Near’ is written beautifully. In just a few words, it captures the complexity of human relationships. I think you’re more gifted at poetry than fiction.”

Wei Ming exhaled: “Thanks for the compliment, but poetry doesn’t pay as well as novels—I still need to buy a motorcycle.”

After securing the camera, Wei Ming’s next goal was a motorcycle—it’d make city trips easier. Otherwise, each round trip to town took over three hours—too wasteful.

Xiao Cha smirked: “You’re always pretending to be so materialistic. Next time you write poetry, could you consider ‘Today’? Bei Dao even praised your poem.” Wei Ming first thanked the elder poet for the praise, then added: “But sorry—I was pressured and bribed by the editor of ‘Poetry Magazine’ at the Writers’ Congress. I promised to give them the exclusive first publication of my next poem. And poetry depends on inspiration—I don’t even know where the next one will come from.”

“Then why not come to ‘Today’’s poetry event? There are lots of your fans!”

“No. Time is precious—I’d rather use it for literary creation. Today, Deng Nainai told me to write more good works. I feel a heavy responsibility on my shoulders.”

Damn, using Deng Nainai to shut people down—fine, you win!

Xiao Cha reluctantly headed back.

Meanwhile, at Weiming Lake, another “Xiao Cha” was holding ‘Yanjing Literature,’ savoring the poem ‘Far and Near’ over and over.

Zha Haisheng was a rural boy from Anhui—unremarkable in appearance, short in stature, but highly talented. At just fifteen, he’d crushed the brutal competition among repeat students and gotten into Peking University’s Law Department.

He loved poetry and felt he had some talent, but his first submission was rejected by ‘Weiming Lake’—and reportedly, it was bumped out by ‘The Ideal.’

Now, thirteen university literary journals, including ‘Weiming Lake,’ were jointly launching a magazine called ‘This Generation,’ and he wanted to submit again. He’d painstakingly written a long poem—five or six hundred words—on the theme of human relationships.

Then today he saw ‘Far and Near’—same theme, just over twenty characters, yet more profound than his own hundreds!

It was like a thunderclap telling him: You’re not cut out for this.

That night, Zha Haisheng burned his poem draft to ash and buried it by Weiming Lake, then returned to his dorm and opened his law textbook, focusing intently.

The November issue of ‘Yanjing Literature’ had just been released for a few days. Without a blockbuster like ‘Er Niu,’ its popularity was modest, but Wei Ming’s little poem sparked wide discussion among poetry lovers.

!

And because it was short, it spread easily. Few people could recite ‘The Ideal’ in full like Kai Zi, but everyone could recite ‘Far and Near’ word-for-word—and took pride in it, competing to prove who knew it best.

Even the gatekeeper, who rarely read, could quote a few lines when he saw clouds in the morning.

“You look at me, then look at the clouds—I feel distant when you look at me, but suddenly close when you look at the clouds!”

“Comrade, you’re quoting Wei Ming’s ‘Far and Near,’ right?”

A young man with a briefcase and an official air interrupted the gatekeeper’s poetic moment.

“Yeah, who are you?”

“Oh, I’m He Chengwei, deputy editor of ‘Story Weekly’ in Shanghai. I’m a friend of Mr. Wei Ming’s—I came specially to visit. Is he here?”

“Oh my! Editor He, I’m here!” Just then, Wei Ming stepped out of the gatehouse, heading for the library.

He wouldn’t attend the Writers’ Congress this morning—another meeting. He’d go in the afternoon. There was an event tonight anyway; since he was unofficial, he could be more relaxed.

He Chengwei gripped Wei Ming’s hand tightly: “I came to Beijing for a meeting and heard ‘Story Weekly’s November issue was out. I came specially to visit you—and brought you a copy.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” Wei Ming smiled, taking it. “What meeting are you at? Also the Writers’ Congress?”

He Chengwei’s facial muscles twitched—the word “also” was perfect.

"Am I some nobody? I don't have the qualification to attend such a grand event~" He waved his hands, staring at Wei Ming in disbelief, then quickly relaxed.

‘The Duck That Knows,’ ‘The Ideal,’ ‘Er Niu’—each work had sparked nationwide discussion. Though young, his invitation was entirely reasonable.

But now that he knew, He Chengwei felt embarrassed to bring up his own request.

He only told Wei Ming that under his theories, reader feedback had been excellent—yesterday they’d printed another run, setting a new record for this year’s circulation.

“Especially your story ‘Such Love’—we got tons of letters from readers in Shanghai.”

“Haha, good. Reader approval matters most.”

“Mm-hmm~”

He Chengwei never mentioned the manuscript request. A shining new star in the literary world—he felt it would be a great loss, even a sin, to pull him into popular literature.

But Wei Ming didn’t hold such rigid boundaries between serious and popular literature—especially since he had a doppelgänger!

Looking at the byline ‘Wei Kuangren’ under ‘Such Love’ on the table of contents, Wei Ming smiled faintly.

Though He Chengwei hadn’t mentioned it, when Wei Ming met Xia Meng at the Writers’ Congress, an idea struck him.

Back in his dorm at noon, Biaozi happily flipped through ‘Story Weekly.’ He felt this magazine suited him better than ‘Yanjing Literature.’

These little stories were so entertaining—especially ‘Such Love.’ How could someone be so stupid? Didn’t even know if the man or woman was real before getting involved—hahaha.

As Biaozi laughed, Wei Ming suddenly said: “By the way, Biaozi—you once told me about your legendary childhood story of running away from home, right?”

“Yeah, what of it?”

Wei Ming: “I suddenly think this story would make a great wuxia novel~”

“Thud!” Biaozi sat up on his bed, hitting Mei Wenhua’s bunk, startling Mei Wenhua into a jolt…

…

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(End of chapter)