Chapter 23: Is Starting Work Early at the Cultural Center?

Inside the Cultural Center, it felt as if one had entered a world apart. The courtyard was lined with tall poplars and willows, with ornamental rocks and a pavilion that exuded a simple, elegant charm. Lotus flowers bloomed in the pond, ringed by hibiscus and osmanthus trees, creating the air of a refined northern garden.

On the southern side of the Cultural Center was a moon gate, framed by a climbing trumpet vine. Within, bamboo grew alongside an assortment of fruit trees—quince, papaya, and others.

“If I love you,
I’ll never be the climbing trumpet vine,
Using your high branches to flaunt myself.”

“What do you think of this poem, 'To the Oak Tree'?” Director Zhang asked, his hands clasped behind his back as he admired the lush trumpet vine, a touch of pride in his tone.

Every plant in the Cultural Center had been cultivated by his own hand, and this trumpet vine was his pride and joy. Yet in "To the Oak Tree," the trumpet vine is depicted as one who borrows the oak’s height to show off. Since then, old Zhang had found the vine increasingly unworthy, as if it lacked the moral backbone of a true scholar.

“The author uses the personification of various plants to express her views on love. Through this symbolic art and the power of language, she not only evokes the beauty of the characters but also touches on the beauty of thought, tinged with a gentle melancholy of youthful romance.”

Liu Yimin replied casually. “To the Oak Tree” was an essential modern poem for later generations; not only the text itself but also its analysis was required study. For him, such a question was answered with ease.

“Hahaha, love is for you young people. Us old men, we don’t understand it at all.” Old Zhang laughed, his face wrinkling into deep creases.

“Yimin, besides our literature group, there’s also the folk arts group and the cultural relics preservation group here at the Cultural Center,” Old Sun said, pointing to several rooms off to the side.

Each room bore a wooden plaque with red characters on a white background; some even had several.

Old Zhang and his companions gave Liu Yimin a full tour of the Cultural Center, and then handed him a few meal tickets for the cafeteria. The Center’s canteen served breakfast, lunch, and dinner, mainly for staff.

“Our meal standards here are about the same as the Revolutionary Committee. If you want to eat at the Revolutionary Committee, I can give you a few of their tickets, too.”

“No need, Old Zhang. I’ve already troubled you enough today. I see everyone’s eager to head home, so I won’t keep you any longer.” Liu Yimin tucked the tickets into his satchel.

Meal tickets were quite different from grain coupons; these were only valid in the Cultural Center.

“All right, Xiao Liu, take Yimin to the cafeteria. After dinner, bring him to the guesthouse.”

Once everyone had dispersed, Xiao Liu shook hands with Liu Yimin and introduced himself. “My name’s Liu Yunsheng, but just call me Old Liu. I live right here in the staff dormitory. Once work is over, only a few of us stay—the rest go home. Those who live here are either still waiting for housing from the unit, or they’re single.

Or, another possibility: they’ve had an argument with their wife.”

The cafeteria and dormitory were together. As they passed through the dorm area, Old Liu grew chatty, regaling Liu Yimin with stories from each flat—his gossip skills rivaled the widows sunning themselves at the village gate.

“That’s Old Liang from the folk arts group; he had a fight with his wife. His wife, poor thing, is sallow-faced and her waist is thicker than a barrel. She was a childhood betrothed, but Old Liang objected to the match. In the end, his father threatened to die if he didn’t comply, so he was forced to drink from the bitter cup.”

No sooner had Old Liu finished than Old Liang himself emerged, looking stern, lunchbox in hand, collar pulled up high as if hiding something.

“Who says a cow won’t drink if forced? When it’s thirsty, it’ll drink!” Liu Yimin joked.

Old Liu burst out laughing. “Exactly! Now, next door is…”

Liu Yimin suddenly regretted following Old Liu—this man’s tongue was too lively, always gossiping about everyone. He wanted to keep his distance, lest a careless word from him become the next item in Old Liu’s rumor mill.

The Cultural Center’s cafeteria had only one serving window, and the menu was always fixed. Tonight’s dinner was stir-fried pumpkin and white rice, which, to Liu Yimin, was already a treat.

“Big Liu, this is Writer Liu, here to give a lecture for us. He’s young, you should give him an extra helping. He’s the future of our literary world.”

Chef Da Liu gave Liu Yimin a careful look and replied, “Don’t worry, whenever Writer Liu comes, I’ll give him an extra ladleful.”

Old Liu pulled Liu Yimin to the flowerbed in the courtyard, and they ate with gusto. The canteen was just a small kitchen, with no dining area.

“When you’re done, I’ll take you to the guesthouse. The conditions there are better than in the staff dorm. If you need anything, just come find me—I’m in the first room on the right on the second floor.”

Old Liu was married, but only half so—his wife and child were still registered as villagers and didn’t live with him. They all remained in the countryside. When he had time, Old Liu would visit them. His greatest wish was not to write, but to get his family’s household registration transferred.

“Xiao Liu, is this Liu Yimin, the one who wrote ‘The Donkey Gets Water’?” a voice called out. It was Old Liang, squatting beside them with his lunchbox.

“Old Liang, you’re well-informed,” Old Liu said, puckering his lips. “I’m thirty-five already, and by rights you should call me Old Liu. Stop calling me Xiao Liu in front of Yimin—it’s bad for my dignity.”

Old Liang laughed. “Fair enough, I’ve been here for over a decade, it’s about time. When you arrived, you were still…”

Liu Yimin watched the two bicker, smiling as he quickly finished his bowl of rice.

“Yimin, ‘The Donkey Gets Water’ is really well-written. Do you have any new plans for writing?” Old Liang asked.

“Actually, yes. I’ve just conceived a new idea, but haven’t started yet. The production team was too busy recently—I had no time to write,” Liu Yimin answered honestly.

“What’s the subject?” Old Liang and Old Liu paused mid-bite, staring at Liu Yimin’s mouth as if it might reveal treasure. Suddenly, Old Liang seemed to realize something and quickly raised a hand to stop him. “Yimin, maybe don’t say. We’re all writers here—it’s not easy to come up with a good subject.”

Old Liu hastily agreed, realizing the question was too sensitive and potentially taboo. Inwardly, he was amazed—how long had it been, and Yimin already had a new idea? Was writing really as natural as eating for a true genius?

The guesthouse was two stories high. Liu Yimin’s room was on the second floor. When he opened the door, a musty smell greeted him. In the center stood a bed, with nightstands on either side. On one stood a thermos, covered in a bamboo-woven case. Opening the curtains, he could see straight to the Cultural Center through the window.

“Yimin, get some rest. We’ll talk more at the Center tomorrow,” said Old Liu with a smile, glancing at the book Liu Yimin had just taken from his bag before leaving.

“Old Liu, what time tomorrow?”

“As early as you like. We start early here, but you’re different—no need to stick to the schedule.”

The next morning, Liu Yimin arrived at the Cultural Center bright and early, only to find the place deserted.

“So this is what they call ‘starting early’?”