Chapter 12: Finally Moving into the Guesthouse

After all the commotion, the neighbors finally dispersed.

Yu Xiuli hadn’t cooked and, for the first time ever, arranged to eat out. Chen Jianjun agreed, so the three of them hurriedly rode their bikes out.

Why the rush?

Because at the state-run restaurant, the head chef finished work promptly at 7:30. No exceptions! Not even for foreign guests—they were locked outside.

The three of them arrived at a restaurant and got lucky: few customers, paid the bill, and ordered a dish of shredded pork in sauce, three taels of meat costing 0.42 yuan; a plate of stir-fried tofu with hot peppers, 0.4 yuan, since tofu was precious; and a bowl of spinach and egg soup for 0.2 yuan.

They also ordered four taels of dumplings. Back then, “four taels” referred to four taels of dry flour, quite different from later times.

Chen Jianjun wanted a bottle of Maotai, but the waiter told him to scram...

Heaven was merciful. Chen Qi had been around for over ten days now, and this was the first time he was enjoying a good meal. While spinning his noodles, he bragged, “I wrote this lousy letter and got to eat out. When I really become famous, won’t you have to book out a hotel in Beijing for me?”

“If that day ever comes, I swear I’ll book it for you, no matter what!” Yu Xiuli said without hesitation, thinking this was her son's peak moment.

“I read your article; it’s not bad!” Chen Jianjun praised modestly. “I also support your ideas. Whatever you do, don’t neglect your spiritual world. If you love literature, write more—that’s how you improve yourself.”

“Mm-hmm!” Chen Qi replied vaguely, stuffing dumplings and meat into his mouth. Then he said, “Mom, another plate of meat, please, this isn’t enough!”

“Comrade, one more order of shredded pork!” Yu Xiuli called out.

“That’s all!” the waiter replied.

“The chef’s about to clock out!”

“Don’t you see what time it is?”

The waiter’s three quick words silenced Yu Xiuli, who sheepishly withdrew her hand. Chen Jianjun wanted to speak but stopped himself repeatedly, and Chen Qi dared not say a word.

Better not cause trouble!

“No unprovoked scolding or hitting of customers allowed!”

...

Back home, Aunt Wang was lurking near the gate.

“Oh, the three of you went out to eat? Such a good thing deserves a celebration... Let me have a word with Young Chen.”

The effect was obvious.

He used to be called “kid,” then “Young Chen,” and soon he would be “Teacher Chen.”

Chen Qi stayed behind. Seeing no one around, Aunt Wang said, “I won’t waste words. The plastic factory leadership came to the street office just to resolve this matter. They promised to discipline those few people; they know their mistake, and they’ll bear the consequences. You should show mercy and let it go. What do you think?”

“Your words are too kind; I feel a bit guilty.”

It wasn’t that Chen Qi was cruel; his first day opening the shop was already met with criticism. If he didn’t punish one person to set an example, it would never end.

Since the other side admitted their fault, he didn’t want to argue. Then he paused and asked, “Aunt Wang, do you know what products their factory makes?”

“Plastic goods, like sandals.”

“Sandals? Plastic sandals?”

“Yes. Everyone loves to wear them in summer—they’re cool and water-resistant. If I weren’t old, I’d want a pair myself.”

Good stuff!

Chen Qi’s eyes brightened. “I have an idea. How about their factory supplies us with some sandals—not too many, just enough to meet our summer demand? When the leaders inspect, we can say a good word for them. What do you think?”

Everyone was confident the leaders would inspect because it was a typical case.

Aunt Wang frowned. “We sell tea water; sandals don’t really fit.”

“Let me remind you, it’s already April and warming up. When summer comes, our tea business will plummet. What will you do then?”

Tsk!

Aunt Wang’s face darkened, but she knew it was true. “Then what kind of cooperative are we? Feels messy.”

“No matter what it’s called, let’s try first. The main thing is to improve everyone’s livelihood. If the plastic factory can’t cooperate directly, maybe they can sell us their waste products at low prices. They have some scrap rate every month, right? Selling to us wouldn’t be illegal.”

“Should I talk to them?”

“Thanks a lot!”

Aunt Wang left.

Chen Qi went inside. His parents were still excited, chatting for a long time.

Finally, late at night, he lay on the wooden bed outside. Selling big bowls of tea was decent but low-profit, slow to accumulate, and seasonal. He had to widen his product range. When summer arrived, first sandals, then popsicles, raincoats, and the like—he could establish a foothold.

Many department stores had lots of unsold stock he could negotiate for.

But he didn’t plan to get involved in that. Having done this much, he felt he had done his utmost.

...

The topic “On the Meaning of Life” quickly sparked widespread discussion.

Letters poured into the China Youth Daily from all corners, with diverse and sometimes profound views. The newspaper busily published these letters daily, and sales were strong.

In the two days following, Yu Jiajia came twice.

She brought a sackful of letters each time and handed him 14 yuan in royalties.

During the Great Leap Forward, there were no royalties.

Authors submitted works and received a postcard in return, which they could exchange at Xinhua Bookstore for a copy of a leader’s writings. Writers like Chen Zhongshi and Jia Pingwa submitted manuscripts then but never saw a penny.

In 1977, writers started demanding royalties, prompting the government to set standards: 2–7 yuan per thousand characters for original works, 1–5 yuan for translations.

In 1980, rates increased: 3–10 yuan for original, 1–7 yuan for translations. Royalty payments based on print runs were restored—authors received a percentage per 10,000 copies printed.

By 1984, rates rose again: 6–20 yuan for original, 4–14 yuan for translations.

Still, royalties were generally low unless you wrote a million-word epic. The first commercial writer was Wang Shuo, who openly demanded royalties. But these standards applied only to newspapers, magazines, and publishers, not film studios.

Chen Qi’s article was two thousand characters, so he got 14 yuan. At first, he was vain and proud, reading the letters like official reports. But soon, he lost interest.

Honestly, the letters weren’t impressive.

Although the young women were enthusiastic, they were conservative; none included photos. How could he be interested? He was the type who, after 30 minutes of online chat, wanted to “see your legs,” and after a day, “see your breasts”...

Nonetheless, the discussion went on.

The hype around him, the instigator, was clearly fading, much like a viral internet celebrity’s fifteen minutes of fame.

Chen Qi didn’t mind. He just wondered why, after submitting the script several days ago, he hadn’t been invited to stay at the guesthouse. He worried something had gone wrong but fortunately, he hadn’t veered from his plan.

“Is Comrade Chen Qi home?”

One evening, a very slender man with thick eyebrows, somewhat resembling Tu Honggang, knocked on the Chen family door and introduced himself:

“I’m Liang Xiaosheng, an editor from the literary department of the Beijing Film Studio...”

(End!)

No more! I have no stored drafts; I write fresh every day, updating as much as possible between 5 and 8 p.m.