Chapter 51: What is Called a Benefactor? This Is It

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Li Heng turned to Zou Ping. “Editor Zou, what about you?”

At this crucial moment, Chen Xiaomi and Wang Runwen stared straight at each other.

Facing three pairs of eyes, Zou Ping sighed. “Thirty yuan per thousand words is already the highest manuscript fee in the country. Harvest Magazine can only offer that much.”

Hearing this, Chen Xiaomi secretly breathed a sigh of relief. A moment later, she shifted her gaze to Li Heng, wanting to see what decision he would make.

Receiving that vile woman’s look, how could Li Heng fail to understand what she was thinking? But he paid her no attention. Instead, he tentatively asked, “Editor Zou, what about royalties? What percentage does your magazine offer?”

Chen Xiaomi was somewhat bewildered.

Zou Ping was equally confused. Almost instinctively, he asked, “What royalties?”

His reaction was hardly surprising.

In more than a decade of working in the profession, this was the first time a writer had ever asked him about royalties.

Before this, the concept had never even entered Zou Ping’s mind.

The bewilderment of the two men was exactly what Li Heng had expected. After all, in later years, the first writer to receive royalties would be Wang Shuo—and as far as he remembered, that would not happen for another two years.

Nevertheless, he continued, “The two of you may recall that the country introduced a policy several years ago establishing a royalty rate of five percent for every ten thousand copies sold.

“If I were to waive the manuscript fee and instead reach an agreement with your magazine based on print-run royalties…”

He deliberately stopped there, gazing meaningfully at the two of them. His meaning was already perfectly clear.

His ambitions were immense. He knew this was nearly impossible and that the odds of receiving royalties were practically nonexistent, but he still wanted to try.

Or rather, even if nothing came of it this time, perhaps laying the groundwork today would make it possible the next time.

After all, in his previous life he had seen real money. His horizons and ambitions far exceeded those of his peers.

Since Wang Shuo had managed to accomplish this in his former life, Li Heng wanted to see whether there might be even the slimmest chance of doing it two years ahead of schedule.

If there was, he would have accomplished something truly historic. With that reputation behind him, he could stride boldly through the literary world, and every writer would owe him a favor.

And if he failed, so what? He could simply tuck his tail between his legs and retreat. If necessary, he could turn around, find another magazine, and earn his yuan honestly.

Hearing this, Chen Xiaomi and Zou Ping exchanged a stunned glance. Their first thought was that Li Heng was young and hot-blooded, utterly unaware of the limits of heaven and earth.

It was absurd.

The country did indeed have such a policy, but those above issued policies while those below found ways around them. In reality, no one had ever received royalties.

Even the editor in chief of Harvest Magazine, the highly respected Mr. Ba, had never made an exception. He, too, had always accepted the standard manuscript fee.

Chen Xiaomi and Zou Ping were of one mind: Alive was an excellent work, an extraordinary one—but not so extraordinary that Li Heng, a newcomer, could use it to overpower a publishing house.

The two editors sat there with twisted expressions, saying nothing.

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The English teacher watched the scene with mounting anxiety. She desperately wanted to persuade Li Heng, but the occasion was inappropriate, and in the end she said nothing.

Seeing that Chen Xiaomi and Zou Ping had both tacitly chosen not to express an opinion, Li Heng glanced up at the clock on the wall. Then he rose and said, “The two of you, class is about to begin. I have to go teach. Let’s meet again this afternoon.”

Seeing that he truly meant to leave, Zou Ping could no longer hold back. “Teacher Li, there is no precedent for print-run royalties. I cannot give you an immediate answer. I’ll have to consult the leaders at the magazine.”

Li Heng smiled. “Of course. I’m in no hurry. I’d also ask the two of you to keep my identity confidential. Until this afternoon, then.”

With that, he opened the door and truly left.

Chen Xiaomi watched his departing back and frowned. It felt as though all her painstaking efforts to force him into a corner had once again come to nothing.

After a while, having composed himself, Zou Ping thanked Wang Runwen. “Teacher Wang, I’ve caused you trouble today. I need to contact the magazine’s leadership, so I’ll be taking my leave.”

Wang Runwen accompanied him to the door. “It was only a small favor. You’re too polite, Editor Zou. Take care.”

With two people gone, the room instantly fell quiet. Chen Xiaomi looked Wang Runwen over, lingering especially on her full bosom for several extra glances, and eventually announced that she, too, would leave.

…

“Ring-ring… ring-ring…”

Shanghai. The editor-in-chief’s office at Harvest Magazine.

After the telephone had rung three times, the editor in chief ended his conversation with Mr. Ba, who was seated opposite him, and rose to pick up the receiver.

“Hello, who is this?”

“Editor in chief, it’s me, Zou Ping.”

Hearing Zou Ping’s voice, Editor Liao glanced at Mr. Ba beside him and quickly asked, “How did it go? What about the rest of Alive?”

“The situation is a little complicated. But the rest of Alive is excellent—truly excellent. It surpasses the first forty thousand words by another level…”

At this point, Zou Ping paused. He felt he had become somewhat incoherent, so he carefully chose his words before continuing.

“I haven’t seen a work of this caliber in a very long time. It is the finest submission I’ve encountered since entering the profession. I estimate that it will be difficult to find another work of comparable quality in the next several years.”

Editor Liao knew Zou Ping well. He was steady by nature, disliked boasting, and was the very embodiment of a practical professional. If he had praised a work repeatedly, then the rest of Alive could not possibly be anything less than exceptional.

Editor Liao pressed him. “If that’s the case, why haven’t you secured it at once? Don’t tell me People’s Literature has taken it?”

“Not yet…”

Since he was consulting the magazine, Zou Ping did not dare conceal anything.

He immediately recounted everything in full: Li Heng’s age, his education and manner of speaking, his second granduncle as the source of his inspiration, the hundreds of books in his private collection, and his demand for print-run royalties.

Not a word was omitted. Nothing was exaggerated, and nothing was downplayed. He presented the facts exactly as they were.

Editor Liao listened patiently to the end. The expression on his face was hardly less astonished than those of Chen Xiaomi and Zou Ping.

After a long silence, he turned to Mr. Ba and asked, “Teacher, did you hear all that?”

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In a room that quiet, of course Mr. Ba had heard everything. He nodded with a smile.

Editor Liao looked astonished. “Seventeen years old! Not even eighteen! He wrote Alive? How much of it do you believe?”

Mr. Ba remained silent for a long while before sighing. “Some things are either genuine or they are not. They cannot be faked. Didn’t you hear that his father works in education? Didn’t you hear about the hundreds, even thousands, of books in his collection?”

“But…” Editor Liao began.

Mr. Ba raised a hand and cut him off. “Zou says that the rival writer and this December fellow came from the same place. If the other writer did not question the collection of books or the second granduncle on the spot, then those things probably exist. They are probably true.”

“Should we have Zou Ping investigate?”

Mr. Ba shook his head. “Anyone capable of writing Alive is a genius. We should not disturb him rashly.”

Editor Liao nodded.

In truth, an investigation would probably reveal little. If even Zou Ping had felt an involuntary sense of inferiority, then this December fellow might not have read every book under the sun, but he was certainly learned and possessed genuine ability.

Having understood the matter, Editor Liao sought his opinion. “Teacher, what about the royalties?”

Mr. Ba replied with a question of his own. “What is your view?”

Editor Liao shook his head. “There is no precedent.”

Mr. Ba picked up his teacup and took a sip. “Then I suppose we are destined to miss out on Alive.”

“You mean People’s Literature?”

“Under equal conditions, whom would you look after first?”

A fellow countryman, of course. Editor Liao understood the principle perfectly. “But print-run royalties…”

After uttering those five words, Editor Liao said no more. He simply fixed his gaze on his teacher.

For some inexplicable reason, those words brought back memories of bygone years—the poverty of countless writers, and the stories of those who had taken their own lives. After a very long silence, the old man set down his teacup and said,

“Writers have never had it easy. The sky of literature in this new era should be broader and more radiant.”

What did it mean to have a benefactor?

This was what it meant.

With one decisive word, the matter was settled.

Editor Liao froze for a moment, then understood what he had to do. A little later, he instructed the person on the other end of the telephone,

“We can agree to part of what December has requested. But since this would break precedent, certain restrictions will have to be imposed…”

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