Chapter 47: A Poem as a First Gift

Inside the guesthouse room, the smell of kerosene mingled with the scent of mothballs. On the battered, dark brown writing desk sat a kerosene lamp, though it was empty of fuel. The window faced East Fourth Street outside; once the thick, gray-checked curtains were drawn, the room was plunged into darkness.

The white bedsheet was badly worn but spotlessly clean, with an inconspicuous corner bearing a cigarette burn. Behind the grimy wooden door stood a faded maroon washstand, a peony-patterned basin resting quietly on top, and a towel hanging from the rack’s upper bar.

Beneath the stand sat a spittoon emblazoned with the words “Practice Good Hygiene.” Liu Yimin put his belongings away, washed his feet, and collapsed onto the guesthouse bed.

He sprawled out, his limbs wide, tossing and turning a few times to stretch his aching body, as if reuniting flesh and soul after a long separation, before finally closing his eyes. In less than five minutes, he was fast asleep.

Back at the editorial office, Zou Huofan was surrounded by editors, all eager to know what Liu Yimin looked like—was he a fresh-faced university student or one of those older “students” increasingly common these days? Yanjing University did have admissions restrictions, but the maximum age for entry was now thirty.

“He’s very young!”

“How young, exactly?” an editor pressed.

“A young man in his early twenties, brimming with energy—he looks like he’s on the rise. Tall, too—about the same height as Zhao Zhenkai, you know, Bei Dao, but he seems more spirited, more genuine… None of that melancholy many poets affect.”

Zou Huofan had meant to say “affected melancholy” but thought better of it and left out “affected.”

“I’d love to meet this fellow countryman of mine!” Ge Luo chimed in from nearby.

Zou Huofan laughed. “After such a long train journey, he’s exhausted. Let the young man rest a bit. He’s here now—there’ll be plenty of chances to meet. For now, let’s focus on the manuscripts.”

With that, he took the lead, sitting down and opening the mailbag filled with submissions, sifting through them. The more he read, the less interested he became. He glanced at his watch—the lunch break was still a way off. With a sigh, he forced himself to keep reading.

After repeating this three or four times, Zou Huofan’s mind wandered too much to concentrate any longer.

“Old Zou, you might as well stop forcing yourself,” Ge Luo said, pushing aside his own pile of manuscripts. “Our young countryman’s got you all distracted. How about a couple of games of chess?”

“Trying to take advantage of my distraction to defeat my army, are you? Come, let me show you what it means to be a master!”

So Zou Huofan gave up on reading and the two found an empty office to set up a game of Chinese chess.

...

By the time Liu Yimin heard the knocking at his door, it was already half past one in the afternoon. He threw on his clothes, raked his hair a few times, and slid back the iron bolt behind the wooden door.

Outside stood Zou Huofan, holding a lunch box and a bottle of soda. Seeing Liu Yimin open the door, he finally breathed a sigh of relief.

He and Ge Luo had come by at noon to wake Liu Yimin, but no matter how hard they knocked, there had been no answer. Ge Luo guessed that Liu Yimin was simply too tired and still asleep, so they left him be. After lunch, Zou Huofan had set aside a portion of his own meal, worried that Liu Yimin might be hungry.

Luckily, the door finally opened. Zou Huofan had been close to having it forced open.

Liu Yimin shook his head, trying to clear the fog of sleep, and hurriedly invited Zou Huofan inside.

“Yimin, you really must have been exhausted. Eat something, and sleep more if you need,” Zou Huofan said, setting down the lunch box and soda. Noticing Liu Yimin sweating in the heat, he fetched a basin of cool water from the washroom for him to wash his face.

“Editor Zou, there’s no need—I can do it myself,” Liu Yimin said, taking the damp towel from him.

Inside the lunch box, the upper compartment held braised pork, the lower, rice and stir-fried cabbage. Liu Yimin was indeed famished and began eating ravenously, Zou Huofan urging him not to choke and to drink some soda.

Once satisfied, Zou Huofan began introducing him to “Poetry Journal”—its founding, its development, how prestigious and authoritative it was in the literary world, especially in the realm of poetry, and how Liu Yimin should remember to submit manuscripts to them in the future.

He went on to mention Bei Dao and Mang Ke seeking him out, that Liu Yimin had already arrived in Yanjing, but he hadn’t yet informed the other poets or Cui Daoyi at “People’s Literature and Art.” He wanted Liu Yimin to rest well, spend time at the office, and…

“Yimin, what do you think of the current direction in poetry?” Zou Huofan finally couldn’t resist asking.

“Editor Zou, I’ve read a few issues of ‘Poetry Journal.’ I think the current direction of poetry is inseparable from the era we’re living through—not just poetry, but literature and fiction as well. Having just emerged from a decade of darkness, people have so much they want to say, yet don’t quite know how to say it.

It’s like someone emerging from a thick fog, only to find themselves more confused, uncertain how to move forward. So poetry now encompasses a variety of styles, but the main thread is inevitably one of critique and reflection, combined with a longing for the future. The thinking of poets and writers is shifting from collectivism towards individual freedom.”

Liu Yimin spoke simply, but Zou Huofan was once again deeply impressed—this young man could view the world of poetry from a perspective beyond that of the poet himself, which was no small feat.

Zou Huofan saw that the lunch was nearly finished and, as the time for his departure approached, finally asked his last question. “Yimin, have you written any poems recently? If so, you can save yourself the trouble of mailing them.”

Liu Yimin frowned slightly, and Zou Huofan hastened to say, “If not, that’s fine too.”

“Old Zou, since I’m here, I should at least offer you a gift. I may not have anything recent, but that doesn’t mean I have nothing now—let me think.” Liu Yimin stood up as he spoke.

Not recent but not none now? What did that mean? Before Zou Huofan could process it, Liu Yimin slapped his forehead and said he had one.

“You do?” Zou Huofan repeated, then asked excitedly, “Really?”

“Comrade Zou, do you have paper and pen? I’ll recite, you write it down!”

“I do, I do! Go ahead!” Zou Huofan hastily pulled a notepad from his pocket, bit the cap off his fountain pen, and looked at Liu Yimin with eager anticipation, feeling certain he was about to witness the birth of another classic poem.

To be able to witness a poem take shape in this way was a tremendous honor. He would have quite a story to tell back at the editorial office.

“Comrade Zou, I’ll start now.”

“Go ahead!”