Chapter 53: Receiving Royalties and Liu Xiaoli's Sorrow

"This person looks so young and very handsome."

"Indeed, it's quite rare to see such a young author."

"Someone introduced by the editor-in-chief must be an exceptional writer."

Inside the office, the editors whispered among themselves.

Chen Shanshan was no exception. Sitting next to an older woman who was knitting a sweater, she organized the documents, paper, and pens on her desk while casting glances at the editor-in-chief and Cheng Kaiyan standing not far away.

"This is the author of *Fragrant Grass*, Teacher Cheng Kaiyan. He will be working with everyone here for the next little while. Let's welcome him with a round of applause," Yang Shu'an introduced solemnly.

"The author of *Fragrant Grass*?!!"

"So young?"

The members of the editorial department were astonished. *Fragrant Grass* had been the most talked-about piece in the office that month. Practically everyone had read it at least once, and some had read it two or three times, such as Chen Shanshan and Yang Shu'an.

Suddenly seeing the author of *Fragrant Grass* standing before them, the crowd instantly became animated and gathered around him.

"Teacher Cheng writes so wonderfully! Everyone in our editorial department cries every single time we read it. Why do your stories have to be so full of tragedy? Little Fang and Little Cao are just too pitiable..."

"That's right, Teacher Cheng, may I ask..."

...

"Ask what?"

"Do you have a partner? What do you think of me?"

A young female editor with thick braided hair asked shyly, her face flushing red.

Then the others began to hoot and tease. Most of these editors were newcomers, many of them recruited from universities in Jiangcheng, both men and women in their early twenties—right at the age when they yearned for romance.

Surrounded by a dozen or so people, Cheng Kaiyan felt a mixture of amusement and helplessness.

Barring any unforeseen circumstances, once the novel was published and gained traction, this kind of attention would likely only increase.

At this moment, Cheng Kaiyan cast a helpless plea for help toward Editor-in-Chief Yang, but Yang Shu'an simply laughed heartily and retreated into his office.

After a little while, the editors' curiosity and astonishment subsided somewhat, and they returned to their respective desks to resume work.

"Hello, Teacher Cheng, I am your editor, Chen Shanshan."

Chen Shanshan walked over, extended her hand, and said.

"I am Cheng Kaiyan, author of *Fragrant Grass*, Editor Chen."

Cheng Kaiyan nodded, and with that, the two were acquainted.

Next, Editor Chen Shanshan found a workstation for Cheng Kaiyan right beside her own desk. It was by the window, offering a clear view of the Yangtze River Bridge and the tall buildings along the riverbank.

After a while, Yang Shu'an emerged holding a thick stack of manuscript pages and patted them both on the shoulders. "Teacher Cheng and Editor Chen, come along to my office for a chat."

In the editor-in-chief's office:

"Have some tea to warm up."

Yang Shu'an brewed the tea and handed cups to Cheng Kaiyan and Chen Shanshan.

Accepting his cup, Cheng Kaiyan began to flip through his own manuscript. It was a thick stack; by his preliminary estimate, it was around three hundred thousand words.

"Teacher Cheng's book is equivalent to several books by other authors in sheer word count. To write twenty or thirty thousand—no, two to three hundred thousand words in one go—contemporary writers rarely do it like Teacher Cheng," Chen Shanshan remarked with a sigh as she looked at the manuscript in his hands.

"Indeed, it's quite rare in domestic literature. This is the result of Teacher Cheng's profound accumulation and steady release," Yang Shu'an agreed. Then, turning serious, he got down to business. "The reason we invited Teacher Cheng to Jiangcheng from thousands of miles away is twofold: first, to make appropriate adjustments to certain parts of the manuscript, and second, to discuss the world of this work. The third matter concerns royalty payments and subsequent publication."

"Please go ahead," Cheng Kaiyan nodded. *Fragrant Grass* was a work into which he had poured his heart and soul, and during its creation, it had even been vetted and repeatedly revised under the guidance of the elderly Mr. Ye Shengtao before finally taking its current form.

However, whether the work would be published, and when, ultimately rested with the editor-in-chief.

"In my view, *Fragrant Grass* is nearly perfect. Clearly, it has been polished based on professional editorial suggestions. At first, I was quite puzzled as to how any author could achieve this level of quality," Yang Shu'an asked out of curiosity.

"That is true. Before submitting the manuscript, I asked an elder to vet it for me."

Cheng Kaiyan did not mention Ye Shengtao, referring to him only as an elder, so Yang Shu'an did not press further.

"I see... Let us discuss the plot of the story next. Teacher Cheng knows that scar literature is currently all the order in the literary world. *The Class Teacher* in *People's Literature* pioneered scar literature, with both taking accusation as their central theme. Yet the sent-down youths written by Teacher Cheng in the first volume of *Fragrant Grass* are so passionate, so fervent. The perspective is truly novel and unique, quite breathtaking.

"To me, it is like a blade that slashed open the heavy curtain hanging over the literary world by scar literature, bringing forth an entirely new perspective and a completely new theme."

"In my view, whether it is scar literature or my novel, broadly speaking, they both write about the lives of sent-down youths. It is nothing more than two sides of the same coin of life: one side sees hardship and sorrow, while the other sees burning passion and an unregretful youth. Neither is superior to the other," Cheng Kaiyan explained.

Hearing this, Yang Shu'an and Chen Shanshan pondered it carefully in their hearts and realized the truth in his words.

"Actually, there is one point I have always been curious about," Chen Shanshan said in a deep voice, pulling out paper and pen to take notes.

"What is it?"

"What on earth is spring in this piece? In your novel, there seems to be no spring at all, yet upon careful analysis, one can find traces of it everywhere..."

"The sent-down youth policy, the sent-down youth going to the countryside—Song Jingming practically serves as an explicit metaphor for spring. Yet this spring, viewed from the story, seems to be a false spring: present everywhere, yet false everywhere. Will the true spring ever arrive after the winter?"

Chen Shanshan rattled off a long string of questions at a rapid pace.

"I hold an affirmative view. Winter passes and spring comes. Did not Little Cao, Little Fang's daughter, burn herself to death in winter? Doesn't that signify that wildfires cannot burn it out, and the spring breeze blows it back to life?" Yang Shu'an immediately countered.

"If there is no spring at all, how can it be blown back to life? Furthermore, I think the most heartbreaking part of the ending is her brother, who raised Little Fang through petty thievery. After his release from prison, he sees his sister who burned herself to death—she was his life's painstaking effort, the sister upon whom he pinned all his spiritual pursuits..."

Soon, the two of them were engaged in a heated debate, their faces flushed and necks red, yet neither could reach a definitive conclusion.

"Haha, there are as many Hamlets as there are readers. I'm just someone who writes novels; what do I know about *Fragrant Grass*?"

Watching the two argue, Cheng Kaiyan increasingly felt that although people in this era lacked material wealth, they actively pursued a spiritual realm.

"Teacher Cheng is saying that on purpose, aren't you? You're the author; you certainly know more details than we do."

Seeing that he wouldn't answer, Chen Shanshan and Yang Shu'an felt a tinge of disappointment, but they quickly regained their composure.

Indeed, a good work always has many aspects worth interpreting, and it was entirely normal for everyone's understanding to differ.

"Little Fang, Little Cao—combining their two names gives us *Fragrant Grass* (*Fang Cao*). Fragrant grass is a metaphor for a person of fine moral character. Inferring from the minute details of the text, I believe the mother and daughter are actually the same person, or rather, together they constitute a complete human being."

Chen Shanshan suddenly propounded a startling view that left both Cheng Kaiyan and Yang Shu'an dumbfounded, neither having anticipated such an interpretation.

"How do you figure that?" the two asked hastily.

"Little Fang's bravery is beyond doubt. Whether it is bravely expressing her love, or taking the risk of catching an epidemic to investigate and visit places with Song Jingming, or venturing into the primeval forest to find medicinal herbs—all of these reflect it.

"Little Cao, on the other hand, embodies cowardice and timidity. After her mother dies of illness in the snow, she lacks even the courage to touch her mother's corpse.

"Little Fang raises her daughter alone, enduring hardship with unyielding resilience. She never sends a single letter to the departed Song Jingming, bearing the heavy burden of life entirely by herself. Even when villagers—whom she and the old branch secretary had helped—try to relieve her, she refuses their aid, saying only that 'women hold up half the sky.'

"Little Fang has backbone and moral integrity.

"But Little Cao is different. True to her name, Little Cao's mission is to survive tenaciously, willingly casting aside her dignity for survival—kneeling to beg, stealing food from vegetable plots... The mother and daughter represent two sides of human nature; only when they are combined into one do they form a real human being, an ordinary human being."

...

The three of them chatted all the way until lunchtime, initially finalizing which details needed adjustment and mapping out the subsequent publication schedule.

At noon, Yang Shu'an paid out of his own pocket to treat them to Wuchang fish and lotus root soup.

That afternoon, Cheng Kaiyan began revising his work.

The parts needing adjustment were few and did not affect the core ideology; they were merely minor details that could be finished in two or three days.

At the same time, Editor-in-Chief Yang informed Cheng Kaiyan that *Fragrant Grass* would be too late for the February issue and would likely be published in March, after the Lunar New Year.

He offered Cheng Kaiyan the top-tier remuneration rate of ten yuan per thousand words, which would be calculated by the proofreaders once the revisions were complete, at which point the royalty slip would be issued to him.

Over the next few days, Cheng Kaiyan became a regular fixture in the *Fragrant Grass* editorial office, revising his manuscript at his desk and occasionally sitting in on a few panel discussions about the work.

...

At noon on January 26th, after squeezing the final line of small characters among the neatly aligned manuscript pages, Cheng Kaiyan suddenly felt a wave of relaxation wash over him.

The revisions were finally done!

"Teacher Cheng, have you eaten yet?"

The sweater-knitting older woman walked in carrying a lunchbox and asked casually.

"I was just about to go, Sister."

Cheng Kaiyan replied with a smile, then packed up his belongings and turned to head to the cafeteria.

"Tsk tsk, this Comrade Cheng, a book of two or three hundred thousand words—he's about to make a small fortune! He has money, he's good-looking, and his family is from Beijing... He's a catch and no mistake!" the woman muttered to herself.

That afternoon, Chen Shanshan proofread it once more and declared, "It's ready, basically all revised. Teacher Cheng, you're really fast!"

"You're the fast one."

By early evening:

Yang Shu'an walked over holding a royalty slip and said with a smile, "Kaiyan! Here is your royalty slip. Take a look, and if everything is correct, just sign it."

"So fast?"

A wave of delight swelled in Cheng Kaiyan's heart. He took the slip; written on the red paper were the words:

"*Fragrant Grass*, total word count: 287,651 words. Remuneration calculated at the standard rate of ten yuan per thousand words, for a total remuneration of 2,876 yuan and 51 fen. Additionally, a print-run royalty calculated at 3% of the total remuneration is granted."

Two thousand eight hundred seventy-six yuan and fifty-one fen, plus print-run royalties!

In 1980, the new remuneration system was restored, raising the payment proportion for print-run royalties in China while implementing a progressive and regressive scale. For instance, for print runs under 50,000 copies, the copyright fee per ten thousand copies was set at 3%, while for print runs exceeding 1 million copies, it decreased to 0.2%.

"Kaiyan, you've struck it truly rich this time! A massive sum of over twenty-eight hundred yuan!"

Even Editor-in-Chief Yang could not conceal his intense envy. An ordinary worker might not save that much even after seven or eight years of frugal living; yet Cheng Kaiyan had written a massive, epic work of over two hundred thousand words and pocketed the reward directly!

Truly, a formidable younger generation!

"Let's go! My treat—let's go eat fried bullfrogs!"

With a grandiose wave of his hand, Cheng Kaiyan projected the bold air of a wealthy Beijing tycoon.

In Jiangcheng of the 1980s, if you asked which dishes were most famous, they were undoubtedly braised Wuchang fish and fried bullfrogs.

"Extravagant!"

Yang Shu'an gave him a thumbs-up, called out to Chen Shanshan, and the three of them left the editorial department.

Yang Shu'an rode his bicycle, while Chen Shanshan lent her own bike to Cheng Kaiyan so he could give her a ride.

"Slow down, slow down."

Like a gust of wind, the three of them wove through the bustling streets and alleys of Jiangcheng.

As he pedaled, Cheng Kaiyan took in the surrounding architecture. Jiefang Park Road was named after Jiefang Park and ran adjacent to Jiefang Avenue.

This was the core district of Jiangcheng, and its urban construction level was in no way inferior to Beijing. Six-story buildings stretched on endlessly, and the old buildings along the street still exuded the atmosphere of the Republic era.

Looking up, one could faintly make out the national flag atop the Jianghan Customs Building in the distance, as well as the imposing grandeur of the Hankou Hotel, Jiangcheng's tallest building at the time.

It was the evening rush hour, and the streets were bustling with activity.

Jiangcheng's pedicabs and tricycles raced against the streetcars, and the pullers invariably had small wine bottles hung from their waists, taking a sip between fares and looking slightly intoxicated—earning them the local moniker "wine paralytics."

Later on, people simply referred to tricycle pullers as "malytics" (*maliu* or *mali mu*), shouting things like, "Malytic, malytic, take me to Liudu Bridge!"

Eventually, Jiangcheng residents came to call all three-wheelers "malytics."

"Eh? Isn't that the Jiangcheng Song and Dance Theater?"

Cheng Kaiyan paused, pointing at a tall European-style building not far away.

He hadn't expected the Jiangcheng Song and Dance Theater to be so close—right at the intersection of Jiefang Park Road and Jiefang Avenue.

The *Fragrant Grass* editorial office was at the end further from the river, while the Song and Dance Theater was at the other end.

The straight-line distance between the two was less than one thousand meters!

"What is it?"

Chen Shanshan said from the back seat, "The Jiangcheng Song and Dance Theater? It's a sister institution to our editorial department. Units like ours basically get a few tickets every month to go watch performances.

"Let me tell you, the performances at the Jiangcheng Song and Dance Theater are immensely popular; their shows are packed to capacity almost every week.

"They even participated in the celebratory performances for the tenth and twentieth anniversaries of National Day! If Teacher Cheng is interested, we can go watch a performance tomorrow, Saturday. I'm telling you, several of the female dancers among the new performers are exceptionally pretty, like Liu Xiaoli and Hu Zhangyan—they're just like movie stars and are wildly popular!"

"All right, I'll be sure to check it out tomorrow."

Facing the brisk, chilly wind, Cheng Kaiyan's soft, ink-dark hair was blown about, fluttering past his ears. A faint smile graced his face, making him look remarkably handsome.

"Okay, I'll take you there tomorrow."

The three of them pedaled away like a gust of wind...

At that moment, several young girls emerged from the theater, walking arm in arm.

"Xiaoli... why have you been so out of sorts these past few days?"

One of the petite girls hugged a tall girl with a gentle temperament and asked out of curiosity.

"No, I haven't," Liu Xiaoli replied, smoothing the hair blown across her cheek by the wind and shaking her head.

A full week had passed since she received that letter last time.

*Could it be that if I don't write back, he won't write either?*

*Or has Xiao Cheng... has Cheng Kaiyan grown tired of me?*

*Come to think of it, that one-year pact was merely my stalling tactic, an excuse. I suppose he must have realized this as well, and his ultimate purpose was simply to break off the engagement—which is why he hasn't written to me again, isn't it?*

Liu Xiaoli bit her lip, a heavy, unaccountable weight pressing down on her heart.

Though she had shaken off an annoying betrothal, and he had not shown any intention of pestering her...

This ought to have been a joyful thing, as it meant she was free in body and mind to pursue whatever she desired: career, love...

Yet why... why did it feel a little painful?

*Hoo...*

She gazed down the distant street, her dark, pool-like eyes tinged with a hint of sorrow, as two figures on bicycles flashed across her field of vision...