Chapter 69: Liu Yimin Actually Wrote Back to You?

Zhou Yanru and Zhang Dening set off from Yanjing Literary Arts for Yanjing University with one goal in mind: to find Liu Yimin. Before leaving, they had already learned through acquaintances about the payment rates offered by People's Literature—six yuan per thousand characters.

While they lamented Cui Daoyi's disruption of the newcomer market, they also made up their minds. After a quick editorial meeting, they decided to match the six-yuan rate and, if that didn’t work, to go up to seven.

Yanjing Literary Arts had recently appointed a new director, Li Qingquan. Compared to the previous cautious and timid head, Li Qingquan’s boldness and sense of responsibility invigorated the editors, who threw themselves into their work with renewed vigor.

Everyone was eager to secure good manuscripts and make a name for themselves in the literary world. Zhou Yanru brought Zhang Dening along because she was the second review editor, and the first review editor for most of her manuscripts was Zhang Dening; they shared responsibility for their authors.

Another reason was that Zhang Dening, being a senior in the Chinese Department, naturally had a rapport with the students there.

But when the two arrived at the Chinese Department of Yanjing University, full of confidence, Liu Yimin was nowhere to be found. They soon heard that the May Fourth Literary Society was recruiting new members and that many freshmen had gone there. Both smacked their foreheads—Liu Yimin must have gone to join the literary society’s recruitment.

The society at Yanjing University was more than just a student club; it published its own journal, which was sold to the public. Because Yanjing University’s literary achievements outshone other universities, many institutions and schools across Yanjing subscribed to their journal.

After the journal, Nameless Lake, was named, Mr. Maodun himself inscribed the title and penned the inaugural editorial.

Zhou Yanru and Zhang Dening hurried to the May Fourth Literary Society and there met Chen Jiangong from the Chinese Department, who was the vice president. Chen warmly invited Zhou Yanru to give a short speech to the members and prospective members, encouraging everyone to boldly pursue their literary dreams.

They thought Liu Yimin would be in the audience, but when they asked, they learned that he had gone to People's Literature instead. Their hearts sank—it was for him that they had come, and yet they missed him again!

Refusing to waste their trip after the hours spent cycling, they decided to wait on campus, asking Liu Zhenyun and his friends to let Liu Yimin know when he returned. But Liu Yimin didn’t come back that evening.

“Yimin, you have no idea how wistful Senior Sister’s eyes were when she left. And Editor Zhou Yanru—well into her fifties—waited for hours. If any editor were willing to do that for me, I could die happy!” Li Xueqin said with complicated feelings. He’d shamelessly stuffed his seven-thousand-character short story into Senior Sister’s hands, though she’d politely declined.

“This is the letter Senior Sister left for you before she left,” Liu Zhenyun said, handing Liu Yimin the letter left on the table, addressed, “To Comrade Liu Yimin, personally.”

“Thank you, everyone.”

“No need to be so formal.”

Liu Yimin opened the letter and read it carefully. It said:

“Dear Comrade Liu Yimin,
I am Zhou Yanru, editor from Yanjing Literary Arts. Our magazine, as a leading pure literary journal in the country, has readers nationwide. Your works, ‘Donkey Gets Water’ and ‘The College Entrance Exam of 1977,’ have had a tremendous impact on the Chinese literary scene. We would like to invite you to contribute, with no restrictions on subject matter. The payment rate is seven yuan per thousand characters…”

“Comrade Zhou Yanru is quite gracious,” Liu Yimin remarked, putting the solicitation letter back into the envelope and tucking it under his pillow.

Originally, Zhou Yanru had planned to offer six yuan per thousand characters, only considering a higher rate if that failed. But hearing that Liu Yimin had gone to People's Literature, she couldn’t sit still and set the rate at seven yuan before leaving.

She thought this was the highest possible rate. Given that People's Literature offered six yuan, it seemed impossible that they would raise it again so quickly.

Yet, after Cui Daoyi at People’s Literature got Liu Yimin’s manuscript, he went straight to Zhang Guangnian, and the payment rate was immediately raised to seven yuan per thousand.

“Have you heard? The winds have shifted. Our country has recently introduced Japanese films like ‘Manhunt’ and ‘Village of Hope.’ There’s a lot of talk in the newspapers, and I hear that in Shanghai you can’t even get a ticket. I’d love to see what Japanese movies are like—I’ve even heard there are scenes like that!” Li Xueqin winked at them, hinting at something only they would understand.

Liu Yimin snorted. Scenes like that? He’d seen even more explicit Japanese films.

“What’s so special about Japanese movies? I still prefer ‘Fighting North and South.’ The army used to play it all the time when I was enlisted, and I haven’t seen it since I left,” Liu Zhenyun snorted, feigning indifference toward Japanese films.

Chen Dazhi glanced at Liu Zhenyun and chimed in, “Our movies should be shown in Japan—that’s real equality. But it looks like our relations with Japan really are easing. I’d like to see their movies too, but more than that, I want to see a play at the People’s Art Theater—those tickets are impossible to get!”

The People’s Art Theater hadn’t fully recovered yet; performances were still small-scale, but every show was sold out, and ordinary people simply couldn’t get tickets.

Liu Yimin wanted to go as well, but currently, they were performing Guo Moruo’s ‘Cai Wenji’ and ‘Tale of a Loyal Heart’—tentative steps by the theater. What Liu Yimin wanted to see was ‘Thunderstorm’ and ‘Teahouse,’ but he hadn’t joined the scramble for tickets.

…

In the women’s dormitory at the Academy of Traditional Chinese Medicine, several girls walked in, magazines in hand, and excitedly asked Zhu Lin, who was sitting at her desk reading a letter, “Zhu Lin, People’s Literature has published a reader’s letter from someone named Zhu Lin—come on, be honest, is that you?”

Zhu Lin turned quickly, leaning over to look at the magazine. It had finally been published! She’d already received a reply days ago and had been waiting every day for the latest issue.

“Come on, stop staring—is it you or not?” Her roommate Chu Lan nudged her impatiently.

A flash of pride sparkled in Zhu Lin’s eyes as she tried to contain her excitement, replying, “Yes, it’s me. I just wrote it on a whim; I never thought it would actually get published.”

Seeing her own words in print, even though she already knew her letter would be published, she couldn’t contain her excitement. To see one’s own writing in a journal—wasn’t that the dream buried in so many hearts?

“I’m so jealous! Liu Yimin even replied to you. I’ve written several letters and never got a response. Be honest—did you slip a photo into your envelope?” Chu Hong shook Zhu Lin’s shoulders, interrogating her.

“Oh, stop it—what photo? There’s no such thing. I just wrote what was in my heart!” Zhu Lin’s cheeks flushed pink, and she brushed aside a stray lock of hair.

“Where’s the letter? Let us see!”

The dormitory at the Academy of Traditional Chinese Medicine housed eight girls. The other seven now crowded around Zhu Lin’s bed, waiting for her to take out Liu Yimin’s handwritten letter and let them read it.