Chapter Eight: Submission

The next day, at dawn.

“Six o’clock already!”

Feeling refreshed after a good night’s sleep, Cheng Kaiyan glanced at the wall clock and quickly got out of bed.

He went outside to fetch a bucket of cold water and splashed it on his face. The water in the plastic bucket had frozen in the bitter winter cold, causing him to grimace in discomfort.

“Brrr~ so cold!”

After washing his face, he casually wiped it with a towel and then sat down at his desk.

The night before, Cheng Kaiyan had finished writing *The Submarine at Night* and completed the proofreading. Today was the day to submit it.

He carefully organized the manuscript pages in order, then rummaged through the drawer to find a kraft paper envelope and an eight-cent postage stamp—items he had in abundance on his desk, all bought by Xu Yuxiu to help him with his letters.

“North of Zuo Family Village, Chaoyang... Children’s Literature Editorial Department, to be received! Sent by Cheng Kaiyan.”

Yes, he planned to submit to *Children’s Literature*. The original *The Submarine at Night* was first published there.

The reason was simple: the requirements were a bit easier, and they were generous to new writers, especially since there were few authors of children’s tales.

*Children’s Literature* was a magazine dedicated to literary works for young readers. It featured fairy tales, fables, poetry, drama, novels—various literary forms suited to children of different ages.

Since its founding in Beijing in October 1963, it had nurtured generations and was hailed as “China’s premier children’s literature publication.” It not only included exquisite pure literature but also emphasized the unity of thought and artistry, steadfastly upholding literary integrity.

There had been a brief suspension, but it resumed publication in August 1977 and became a regular periodical this July.

Over the years, it had published many beloved classics—works Cheng Kaiyan had often read as a child: Zhang Tianyi’s *The Secret of the Magic Gourd*, Ye Shengtao’s *The Scarecrow*, Yu Pingbo’s *Memories*, Bing Xin’s *Letters to Young Readers*, Li Jinhui’s children’s musical dramas, Zheng Zhenduo’s *Hippo Kindergarten*, and Xia Mianzun’s translation of *Heart*.

Of course, Cheng Kaiyan was most familiar with Zheng Yuanjie, who had been submitting to *Children’s Literature* for several years. Just last September, Zheng had published his first fairy tale, *Blackie on Honest Island*, in the magazine. The wheels of fate had already begun to turn...

After writing down the address and recipient information, Cheng Kaiyan peeled an eight-cent stamp from a box of standard Chinese postage stamps and affixed it to the envelope.

All set.

He took the opportunity to check on his mother’s room.

She was sleeping soundly.

Without delay, he dashed out the door, heading straight for the nearby Wangfujing Street.

Across from Xiaowei Alley, just a few streets away, was Wangfujing. There was a post office there, and further east at Dongdan, a marketplace dedicated to stamps—a place where collectors traded.

Had the golden monkey stamp been released yet?

Not yet. The special misprinted stamp numbered T62 was scheduled for February next year, featuring a golden monkey drawn by renowned painter Huang Yongyu from the Central Academy of Fine Arts, who lived on Xiaowei Alley.

Cheng Kaiyan pondered for a moment. With just over two months to go, he’d better save up and buy several.

***

Upon reaching Wangfujing Street, Cheng Kaiyan dropped the envelope into a dark green mailbox. According to regulations, mailboxes in the city were emptied at least once a day. He figured the letter would reach the editorial office by afternoon.

Why not deliver it directly? Cheng Kaiyan thought it wasn’t worth the trouble. Even if there were buses, it still meant walking several miles. It was better to let the postman handle the delivery.

In these times, transportation meant walking; communication relied on shouting.

Within ten miles, unless a family owned a bicycle, everyone walked.

The streets were blanketed in white snow that had yet to melt. The capital’s temperature had dropped again—last night’s report showed it below minus eight or nine degrees Celsius.

Cheng Kaiyan headed toward the East Gate area.

He had heard that from Dongdan all the way to Dongsi, snack shops stretched for miles, bustling from dawn till dusk. He wanted to experience the famed Beijing breakfast scene.

A biting cold wind swept in, chilling him to the bone, though thankfully no snow was falling—just some slippery patches on the ground.

Following the route in his memory, he walked for about twenty minutes. His feet ached, and the cold wind and hunger gnawed at him. He muttered to himself:

“If only I had a bicycle right now!”

He kept walking until he heard familiar Beijing street cries:

“Candied hawthorn! Candied hawthorn!”

“Fried liver... hot and fresh!”

“Lamb head meat!”

Even at six in the cold winter morning, the streets were already crowded. Many shops had their lights on and doors open, stretching as far as the eye could see. Farmers lugging baskets of eggs and vegetables into the city could be seen.

Despite the disruptions, the old Beijing morning market continued without pause.

“I’ll take half a jin of lamb head meat.”

Drawn by the enticing aroma of meat, Cheng Kaiyan quickened his pace toward the lamb head meat stall.

Growing strong meant eating meat.

“Alright, sir, what would you like?”

The vendor was a middle-aged man speaking in the local Beijing dialect, his voice slightly thick.

Cheng Kaiyan glanced at the simmering pot filled with an abundance of ingredients: lamb head meat, lamb trotters, lamb ribs, liver, tripe, mutton soup, offal, and bitter intestines.

Because lamb head meat was the most delicious, all the assorted cuts were simply called lamb head meat.

He pointed to several lean cuts. The vendor smiled, sliced the meat thinly, sprinkled it with Sichuan pepper salt, and wrapped it in a kraft paper bag. Job done.

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