Chapter 20: Who Writes Better, You or Yimin?

Led by Old Sun, the staff from the Cultural Center swiftly gathered their belongings, preparing to set out for Shiling Commune in search of a writer named Liu Yimin.

Before their departure, Old Zhang personally handed each of them a canteen, speaking to them with heartfelt gravity: “We are men of culture, revolutionary writers. The world of literature is flourishing, and the writers of Ruxian County cannot stand by idly; we must take part. Your task is a weighty one. When you arrive, be sure to build good relationships with the people at the grassroots. Don’t act superior or distant from the masses—only by staying close to them will your search proceed smoothly. My colleagues and I at the Center await your good news.”

Old Sun replied solemnly, “Rest assured, Old Zhang, we will fulfill our mission. A few years back, I went to the countryside to help with the ‘double harvest’ and labored in a production team near Shiling Commune. I’m quite familiar with that area. If Liu Yimin is from Shiling, I’ll find him—unless he’s not from there, and that’s the only thing I fear.”

Old Zhang nodded, sharing the same concern. “My colleagues and I will call each commune in turn to inquire. As soon as you have any news, call the Center at once.”

The three of them mounted their bicycles and departed, heading toward Shiling Commune.

...

“Oh, I’m exhausted. My back is raw,” Li Lanyong cried, flopping into the shade beneath a tree and immediately lying down, only to grimace in pain as the rough stones pressed against his peeling back.

Liu Yimin handed him a canteen, but Li Lanyong waved it off, too tired even to drink.

Liu Yimin winked at him. “Really? You don’t want any?”

Sensing something was amiss, Li Lanyong took the canteen, tipped it back, and drank greedily. His face lit up in surprise and delight as he gulped down several mouthfuls.

“Soda? Only you would think to fill a canteen with soda,” he said, handing the canteen back while licking his lips, reluctant to part with the taste. “If this heat keeps up, I’ll get heatstroke.”

The drought this year was severe. The corn leaves in the production team’s fields were already curling, some yellowing at the edges. With little choice, the team began organizing the members to haul water and fight the drought.

There were only a few oxen in the whole team, and they worked ceaselessly, their hooves worn raw and bleeding from pulling water carts. The other members had to carry water with shoulder poles into the fields. Yet despite their efforts, the drought showed no signs of easing. The most worrying thing was that the Withered Leaf River was nearly dry. The river was fed mainly by mountain springs, but after so many rainless days, several springs on the mountain had already dried up.

These days, Liu Fuqing wore a constant look of worry, his face only breaking into a smile when he thought of Liu Yimin.

“Comrades of Shiling Commune, good news! According to the meteorological department, a heavy rain is forecast for our county soon. Once it comes, our drought will be eased. But we cannot wait for the heavens; if the rain does not fall, we must find our own solutions. Every production team must respond actively to the drought-fighting directives issued by the County Revolutionary Committee.

“In difficult times, we must look for achievements and hope. We must have the courage to wage war against nature. Mobilize the women comrades, mobilize every force we can. Even the commune cadres and the Commune Director have joined the efforts in the fields.

“Unite, for hardship is temporary, and victory will ultimately be ours. We must produce more grain to support the nation’s modernization!”

The loudspeakers in the team broadcast the commune’s message over and over, followed by revolutionary songs, creating a fervent atmosphere.

[“The ocean voyage depends on the helmsman, all living things depend on the sun...”]

“Yimin, get up! Lead the members in singing—sing along with the broadcast!” Li Dashan, clad in his Zhongshan suit, stood atop a small mound, directing the work and calling out to Liu Yimin.

Liu Yimin laughed and slapped Li Lanyong on the shoulder, making him wince again. “Come on now, aren’t you always saying you want to be Pavel Korchagin?”

After several days, Liu Yimin’s skin had darkened noticeably, his hands showing no trace of the pen calluses they once bore, his palms rubbed raw from labor. At night, he would collapse onto his bed like a dead fish, unable to move.

Often, when Yang Xiuyun called him for meals, she would find that he had already fallen into a deep sleep.

When Old Sun and his two colleagues from the Cultural Center finally arrived at Maiji Team, three days had passed. They had searched all over Shiling Commune, visiting nearly every production team.

They had intended to find the cultural officer at Shiling Commune to get more information, only to discover that the commune had only a single broadcaster and a gatekeeper left; everyone else had gone to help fight the drought. After much effort, they reached the cultural officer by phone, who pointed them to a production team where someone might know. When they arrived, the person told them it was a rumor from one of the northern production teams, but didn’t know which.

There were thirty or forty production teams. With each retelling, the story became more confused and distorted. Finally, they found someone at Maiji Team who had seen a film there and learned that Liu Yimin was indeed from Maiji Team.

“Hello, comrade, is there someone here named Liu Yimin?” Old Sun asked a team member excitedly, as if he’d found a long-lost relative.

After days on the road, they looked dusty and travel-worn, sleeping rough at the commune offices, resembling refugees more than anything.

“Yimin? The team leader’s son?” the member replied.

“Son?” Old Sun exchanged glances with Xiao Liu and Xiao Wang behind him, then asked cautiously, “Is there an older Liu Yimin here?”

The man chuckled. “You’re funny, comrade. In our Maiji Team, there’s only one Liu Yimin, and he’s about twenty-two. There’s no older one.”

“Twenty-two?” Old Sun thought, Have we come to the wrong place again?

“Is there a writer here named Liu Yimin?” Xiao Liu asked, unwilling to give up.

“Writer? Yimin is the writer. His work was published in Capital City—you know Capital City, right? That’s our capital. Funny thing, out of this little mountain hollow, a golden phoenix has flown out,” the member said proudly.

“It’s really him!” Old Sun was astonished. He had never imagined Liu Yimin would be so young—he’d thought he’d be about the same age as Xiao Liu and Xiao Wang, in their thirties or forties.

“Who are you people? Are you writers too?” The team member eyed their clothes curiously, then extended his right hand in a gesture for a cigarette. Xiao Wang from the Cultural Center quickly obliged.

Old Sun straightened his back and said with a hint of pride, “We are writers from the County Cultural Center.”

“Oh? Have you ever published in Capital City? Is it hard to get published there? Between you and Yimin, who writes better?” the member asked with keen interest.

Old Sun’s smile froze on his face, and he stammered, “I...I’ve published...”

“So you have, and what’s the harm in that? No need to be bashful. Our Party Secretary says it’s not fashionable to criticize intellectuals anymore.”

Old Sun wiped the sweat from his temples, uncertain whether it was from the heat or something else.

“Come on, I’ll take you to see Yimin!”