Chapter 33: Impressive, Yi Min (Please Keep Reading)

It seemed that everyone had been inspired by Liu Yimin’s manuscript fee standards. For several days in a row, the writers of the Cultural Center’s Creative Group sat motionless on their office chairs, letting sweat soak their clothes. With such determined resolve, each person averaged three poems a day.

This pace was so astonishing that even Liu Yimin was left speechless.

Old Zhang sat aside, watching these people recite their own poems, his head beginning to ache. Still, he had to admit their enthusiasm was commendable. Glancing at Liu Yimin, who held their handwritten poems with a pained expression, he felt a bit sorry for him.

After finishing their work, the writers always insisted on reciting their poems in the office before handing them to Liu Yimin, demanding his comments.

Whenever other groups from the Cultural Center passed by the Creative Group’s office, they couldn’t help but pause at the door, listening to the passionate chanting. After a few lines, though, they’d shake their heads in disgust and walk away.

The Creative Group seemed utterly mad.

The other members of the Cultural Center secretly joked that lately, one should avoid passing by the Creative Group’s door, lest they be force-fed something unpleasant.

“Ah!
The mountain,
Still the same mountain!
Ah!
The man,
No longer the same man!”

“Yimin, what do you think of this one? I believe it’s the best I’ve written today!” Old Li asked excitedly. He had been particularly lively these days, his gray-and-white hair slicked back neatly, his white short-sleeved shirt spotless, giving him a more dignified air than Old Zhang himself.

Liu Yimin wanted to cover his ears, but thought it impolite. He sighed, then replied, “It’s not bad. Reminds me of a poem by an Old Zhang I used to know.”

Old Li didn’t bother to ask who Old Zhang was. He continued, “I agree. Can you tell what it means? It’s about how things remain but people change.”

“Green mountains last for millennia, but men turn to dust in a hundred years,” Liu Yimin mused.

“Yes, exactly! Yimin understands me. The rest of you, you’re just not quite at his level. Old Zhang, I want to submit this to Poetry Journal. What do you think?”

---

Director Zhang was dozing off when he heard Old Li’s words. He merely uttered a sound, saying nothing more. In the past, he would have offered a word of encouragement. Lately, however, he had been wondering if, as the Cultural Center’s director, he should devote less energy exclusively to the Creative Group.

Ah! If only Yimin could stay at the Cultural Center!

Taking advantage of the group’s discussion, Liu Yimin slipped out of the office, wandered the small garden for a while, and only returned once his mood had settled.

He suddenly realized that those experts who praised Miss Jia’s infamous poem for its spirit, originality, and free style—without laughing—had a skill he himself didn’t possess.

Just as he reached the door, he saw a young woman standing beside Old Sun’s desk. It was his granddaughter, Sun Yihong. Seeing Liu Yimin enter, Old Sun smiled and said, “Yimin, Yihong brewed some reed root tea for you. Have a drink.”

“This summer is tough. Reed root tea quenches thirst, clears the lungs, and cools the body. Most importantly, the roots aren’t worth much—you can dig them up anywhere.”

Only now did Liu Yimin notice Sun Yihong holding a thermos, her fingers red from carrying it so long. Everyone else had reed root tea in their cups.

Old Li kept praising the taste. Sun Yihong glanced at Liu Yimin and smiled, “Grandpa Li, if you’d like, I can bring a pot every day. My office is right next door, at the guesthouse. I’m on day shifts lately. I dug these roots myself—it’s no trouble to brew a pot and bring it over.”

“Drink up, Yimin. Young people have too much fire in them,” Old Li teased.

Before Liu Yimin could reply, footsteps sounded outside, followed by the gatekeeper’s voice: “Comrade, Liu Yimin is inside. Go on in.”

“Thank you, sir!”

Liu Yimin was startled by the familiar voice. Wasn’t that Li Lanyong? He turned quickly and saw Li Lanyong sneaking in at the doorway. Not spotting Liu Yimin at first, he poked his head in, asking Old Zhang, “Excuse me, sir, is Liu Yimin here?”

“Lanyong!”

Old Zhang was about to reply, but Liu Yimin’s laughter interrupted him. He happily watched from the side, deciding not to interfere.

“Director, this is my friend. We’ll step out to talk.”

Old Zhang smiled warmly, “Go on, go on!”

---

Liu Yimin led Li Lanyong to his dormitory. Li Lanyong looked around admiringly, saying, “Impressive, Yimin. You’ve got a place to stay now.” He curiously touched the wall, then plopped onto the bed, shaking it vigorously—it was quite sturdy.

“I’m just staying here temporarily. Have some water—it’s a hot day. What brings you here?” Liu Yimin poured him a glass from the kettle.

“It’s been hot lately, and there’s not much going on at the brigade. I came into town, dropped by the county revolutionary committee to inquire about the draft. The commune hasn’t received notice yet, but according to a friend of my father’s at the committee, there’ll be more slots this year than last.”

“Yimin, this means I have a chance.” Li Lanyong finished, gripping the chipped enamel cup with both hands, his face flushed with excitement.

Only then did Liu Yimin notice that Li Lanyong was dressed in a sailor’s shirt and green army trousers, topped with a military cap he rarely wore. The shirt had a hole, patched with gray-white cloth right at the collar—quite conspicuous.

“I told you you’d have a chance. Believe me!” Liu Yimin patted his shoulder with a smile.

“My aunt sent this parcel for you—it’s from People’s Literature and Art. When did you submit something again?”

“I didn’t—I haven’t sent anything there recently. I wonder what it is.” Liu Yimin opened the package, finding another layer of oil paper tightly bound with twine.

After unpacking, a stack of letters rested in the middle of the kraft paper. Among them was a solicitation letter from Cui Daoyi, informing Liu Yimin that he’d heard about his poetry and hoped to receive more submissions, along with several selected reader letters about “Donkey Gets Water.”

There were eight reader letters in total; one was signed “Zhang Yu” in graceful handwriting, unmistakably from a young woman.

“Incredible, Yimin! Readers are writing to you?” Li Lanyong exclaimed in shock.

Liu Yimin tucked the letters into the drawer, pulling Li Lanyong along with a smile, “Come on, Lanyong, I’m treating you to dinner.”

“I’m definitely going to make you pay—let’s eat at Dongfanghong, Dongfanghong it is!” Li Lanyong said excitedly.

“No problem!”

Downstairs, Li Lanyong eyed Liu Yimin’s brand-new Phoenix 28 bicycle and blurted out, “Impressive, Yimin!” By now, saying “Impressive, Yimin!” came as naturally to him as drinking water.