Chapter Thirty-Seven: Rejecting People’s Literature!

"Well then, let us wait and see. 'Death' is merely a description; this subject matter has its social limitations. Just wait and see, Zhicheng."

Zhang Guangnian shook his head, finishing his remark without further regard for Ye Zhicheng. He then turned his gaze toward Ye Shengtao and Cheng Kaiyan, who were sitting to the side, leisurely and calmly sipping tea.

Zhang Guangnian couldn't help but chuckle, saying, "Look at this, just look at this. The two of us are here arguing until our faces are red and our necks are thick, yet this grandfather and grandson are here calmly drinking tea."

Ye Zhicheng also looked over, and sure enough, he remarked, "Don't let Kaiyan's young age fool you; the sense of maturity and composure he carries is stronger than that of people in their thirties or forties. If an average person heard the editor-in-chief of *People's Literature* praising them like this, they would be beaming from ear to ear, but this lad is just like the old master."

"Uncle Ye, you flatter me. I was just caught off guard and a bit dazed by the joy," Cheng Kaiyan replied with a smile, reluctantly finishing the Da Hong Pao tea in his cup.

Truth be told, drinking tea every day these past few days had helped him develop a real taste for it, and now he had grown quite fond of it. The Wuyi Mountain Da Hong Pao was truly intoxicating, though unfortunately, it was far too precious.

"I don't think you're dazed by joy; I think you've set your sights on my Wuyi Mountain Da Hong Pao, haven't you?" Old Master Ye Shengtao pointed at Cheng Kaiyan, laughing and scolding him. He had been wondering why the boy had been staring at his tea for so long.

"Hehehe, the old master is wise. For those of us in the creative arts, without something to refresh the mind, sometimes it's truly hard to produce good work," Cheng Kaiyan admitted with a grin, not at all offended.

"Fine, fine, look at you. Take some home with you later," Ye Shengtao said, puffing out his cheeks in mock anger at the boy's cheeky expression.

"Comrade Kaiyan is right. When we work in literature and art, sometimes inspiration strikes and we write through the night. What are we to do when we're exhausted? There are only a few things: smoking and tea. As for imported foreign coffee, it’s bitter and sour; I’d rather drink douzhi than that," Zhang Guangnian said. As if his nicotine craving had kicked in, he reached into his collar pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Da Qianmen cigarettes. He tapped it, shook it into his palm, and offered a pristine cigarette to each of the three. "Comrade Kaiyan, do you smoke?"

"I don't smoke; I don't have the habit." When the offer reached Cheng Kaiyan, he shook his head and declined politely, then asked, "Editor-in-Chief Zhang, they say senior cadres smoke Peony, mid-level cadres smoke Xiangshan, workers and soldiers smoke the two-mao-three variety, and rural cadres roll their own tobacco. Why don't you smoke Zhonghua or Peony?"

"I don't care for that stuff; I'm not used to it," Zhang Guangnian waved him off. "Comrade Kaiyan, what are your plans for this piece, *Fragrant Grass*? Its excellence is plain for all to see. Just submit it to us at *People's Literature*. I’ll personally authorize ten yuan per thousand characters. As it happens, the Party Group of the State Publication Bureau set new remuneration standards last week, appropriately raising base rates to levels seen before the 'buzzing' era. Authors' fees have been raised to 3 to 10 yuan per thousand characters, and translation fees to 2 to 7 yuan, while also restoring print-run royalties."

"The remuneration standards have been revised?" Cheng Kaiyan was surprised and looked toward Ye Shengtao. Last time he submitted to *Children's Literature*, it was only five yuan per thousand characters; now it had already doubled.

"Yes, it will be announced before the Spring Festival," Old Master Ye nodded; he was one of the advocates for this change.

"How about it? Submit it to our *People's Literature*. As the first national literary journal of New China, since its founding in 1949, it has carried an important literary mission and witnessed the glory and changes of Chinese literature. *People's Literature* has created one literary sensation after another and is regarded as the 'national journal.' In January 1980, its sales reached an unprecedented 1.4 million copies!" Zhang Guangnian, worried that Cheng Kaiyan might not be fully aware of the journal's prestige, began to introduce it to him immediately.

Seeing that Cheng Kaiyan seemed conflicted, Ye Shengtao spoke up to alleviate the tension: "Guangnian, you are being too impatient. Kaiyan only just finished writing this novel today."

"Haha, that's true. Tell you what, let's go eat first and talk while we eat. Let's go to Donglaishun for hot pot; my treat." Realizing he had been too pushy, Zhang Guangnian spoke with grand generosity.

In truth, he couldn't be blamed; *People's Literature* had ignited the wave of "scar literature" and was at the forefront of many literary journals. Having had the good fortune to see this new work, he naturally wanted to hold onto it firmly rather than lose it to others.

"Then I'm truly riding on Kaiyan's coattails today. Let's go! To Donglaishun!" Ye Zhicheng’s face lit up with joy. He had been craving Donglaishun’s mutton hot pot for a long time.

Donglaishun was founded in the 29th year of the Guangxu reign of the Qing Dynasty (1903). From a "porridge stall" to the "number one hot pot in China," its original site was at the north entrance of Jinyu Hutong on Wangfujing Street, by the north gate of the old Dong'an Market.

"I'll let you eat your fill today!"

The three hurried out and headed toward Wangfujing. The streets were bathed in a layer of crimson sunlight. As the sun had not yet set, Wangfujing Street was bustling with activity. It was the end of the workday, and by the time the three arrived at the restaurant, it was unsurprisingly packed. The air outside was chilly, while inside, the room was filled with the distinct, savory aroma of mutton and the sharp, spicy scent of chili oil.

The three chose a corner table by the window. They ordered a plate of peanuts, a bottle of Erguotou, several plates each of mutton slices, mutton meatballs, and shredded mutton, along with a few sesame seed cakes. It is said that watching the masters at Donglaishun slice the meat is a sight to behold, and eating the hot pot is a true delight. This was certainly true. Before them, fresh, tender mutton slices were arranged on blue-and-white porcelain plates, so thin and vibrant that one could faintly see the patterns on the plate through the meat.

The pure copper hot pot, weathered by time, bubbled with red oil and emitted clouds of steam that misted up the eyes of the four men—especially since everyone except Cheng Kaiyan wore glasses.

"Come, let's have a drink to warm up and eat some food to line our stomachs."

"Let's have a toast, though the old master should skip the alcohol."

They raised their glasses. Cheng Kaiyan took only a small sip before diving into the food and conversation. Once the pot was boiling, he dipped the mutton in, swishing it back and forth—it cooked in seconds—and dipped it into the sauce. The condiment was a mixture primarily of sesame paste and soy sauce, supplemented with fermented bean curd, chive flower paste, a dash of shrimp oil, and chili oil.

He quickly stuffed it into his mouth while it was still piping hot, the savory flavor of the meat and sauce filling his palate. "Ha! This is delicious!"

Cheng Kaiyan ate a few more bites, working up a light sweat.

"I told you the lad would like it. Young people love meat—eat to your heart's content." Zhang Guangnian watched Cheng Kaiyan with a smile, looking at him as if he were a precious treasure.

"A growing boy can eat a father into poverty; don't go eating your Editor-in-Chief Zhang into poverty," Ye Zhicheng teased. Their salaries as editors weren't high; who could afford to eat at Donglaishun casually? A meal for four cost at least six or seven yuan.

"What's that? As long as I can secure the manuscript, what's a single meal? Zhu Wei over at *Chinese Youth* magazine rides his bike to authors' homes every day to urge them for manuscripts; people call him 'the grim reaper is here again.' Comrade Kaiyan, just submit it to our *People's Literature*!" Zhang Guangnian stared intently at Cheng Kaiyan, who was busy eating; he didn't believe anyone could eat his hot pot and still have the nerve to refuse.

"Editor-in-Chief Zhang, to be honest, I’ve already made my choice," Cheng Kaiyan said, scratching his head in embarrassment. Aside from girls, he had never been stared at like this by a man.

Zhang Guangnian’s tone faltered, and he asked reluctantly, "Which editor cut in line? Does a meal at Donglaishun not count for anything?"

"I had actually decided on *Jiangcheng Literature*. But don't worry! Next time I have a new work, I will definitely submit it to you first!" Cheng Kaiyan replied honestly.

"*Jiangcheng Literature*? That’s acceptable; at least they are one of the 'Four Young Stars'." Zhang Guangnian sighed, surprised that someone could be so thick-skinned.

"*Jiangcheng Literature*?!" Old Master Ye Shengtao exclaimed, drawing the attention of everyone nearby.

"What's wrong with *Jiangcheng Literature*?"

"Don't you know that this month, *Jiangcheng Literature* officially changed its name to *Fragrant Grass*?"

"*Fragrant Grass*?!!"

"Isn't that the same name as Kaiyan's novel? Could there really be some fated connection?"

"This is too coincidental! The editors at *Fragrant Grass* have certainly struck gold!"

"But it makes for a wonderful story: *Fragrant Grass* publishing *Fragrant Grass*!"

"Uh... actually, I was just looking for my partner... the *Fragrant Grass* thing is just a coincidence."

"What? Just to see your partner?"

After the meal, they went their separate ways. Cheng Kaiyan rode his bike home, then went back out to mail Liu Xiaoli's letter along with his manuscript.