After quite a commotion, the neighbors finally dispersed.
Yu Xiuli didn't cook. For the first time ever, she proposed eating out at a restaurant, and Chen Jianjun readily agreed. So the family of three pedaled their bicycles in a frantic rush.
Why the frantic rush?
At a state-run restaurant, the head chef clocked out punctually at seven-thirty in the evening—no matter who showed up, it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference! Even foreign guests got no special treatment; they'd lock foreign dignitaries outside just the same.
The three of them arrived at a restaurant and got very lucky: there weren't many customers. After handing over their coupons and money, they ordered a portion of glazed sliced pork—three liang of meat for forty-two fen; a plate of stir-fried tofu with hot chili peppers for forty fen, tofu being a precious commodity; and a bowl of spinach and egg soup for twenty fen.
They also ordered four liang of boiled dumplings. In those days, four liang didn't mean what it would in later generations; it referred to four liang of dry flour.
Chen Jianjun even tried to order a bottle of Maotai, but the waitress told him to beat it...
Heaven knew Chen Qi had transmigrated over ten days ago, and this was his first truly good meal. Stuffing his face as he yammered, he said, "I write one lousy letter and we get to eat out at a restaurant. Once I get truly famous, won't you have to book out the entire Beijing Hotel?"
"If that day ever comes, I'll book it for you even if it kills me!"
Yu Xiuli assumed today was her son's absolute peak, planting that flag without a second thought.
"I read your article. It was decently written," Chen Jianjun offered with reserved praise. "I fully support your mindset too. No matter what line of work you're in, never neglect your spiritual world. If you love literature, write more. It's all part of bettering yourself."
"Uh-huh, totally!"
Chen Qi gave a perfunctory nod as he shoveled dumplings and pork into his mouth. When he finished, he said, "Mom, order another plate of meat! This isn't enough!"
"Comrade, another plate of stir-fried shredded pork, please!" Yu Xiuli called out.
"None left!"
"The chef is clocking out!"
"Look at what time it is!"
The waitress fired off a triple combo in one breath. Yu Xiuli sheepishly drew her hand back. Chen Jianjun opened his mouth, stopped himself, hesitated again, and kept his mouth shut. Chen Qi didn't dare utter a peep either.
No one dared cross them!
*Beating and scolding customers without cause is strictly forbidden!*
...
Back home, Auntie Wang was pacing around the courtyard entrance.
"Oh, the whole family went out to eat? With such a wonderful occasion, you really should celebrate... I need a quick word with Xiao Chen."
The effect was immediate.
Before, she'd called him "brat"; now it was "Xiao Chen." In the future, it would have to be "Teacher Chen."
Chen Qi stayed behind. Once Auntie Wang saw there was no one around, she spoke: "Well, I won't waste words. The leadership from the plastics factory made a special trip to the sub-district office just to settle this matter. His position is that they'll definitely discipline those individuals, whatever consequences follow they'll take it, and they know they were in the wrong. So could you be generous and let it drop here? What do you say?"
"You flatter me, Auntie Wang. You make me feel almost guilty."
It wasn't that Chen Qi was ruthless, but being disparaged on their very first day in business meant that if he didn't make an example out of someone, there would be no end of trouble later.
Since the other side admitted their fault and made a clear stance, he didn't want to keep harping on it either. But then he paused and asked, "Auntie Wang, do you know what their factory produces?"
"Plastic goods, of course—things like sandals."
"Sandals? Plastic sandals?"
"That's right. Everyone loves wearing them in summer. They're nice and cool, and you can wade through water in them. If I weren't so old, I'd want a pair myself."
Good stuff!
Chen Qi's eyes lit up. "I have a tentative thought. What if their factory supplied us with some sandals? It doesn't need to be a huge amount, just enough to keep us well-stocked through the summer. When the higher-ups come to inspect, we can also put in a few good words for them. What do you think?"
Everyone was dead certain that leaders would inspect the tea stall, because it had become a model enterprise.
Auntie Wang frowned. "We sell tea. Sandals have nothing to do with that."
"Let me remind you, it's already April, and the weather is warming up. Once summer arrives, our tea business is going to plummet. Are you going to wait until then to scramble for a solution?"
*Tsk!*
Auntie Wang pulled a long face. He had a point. "Then what kind of cooperative are we supposed to be? It feels like a hodgepodge."
"Whatever it's called doesn't matter. Let's try it first. Improving everyone's livelihood is what counts. If the plastics factory finds it inconvenient through normal channels, have them write it off as inventory loss. Every factory has a monthly scrap allowance, right? If they offload it to us at a discount, it won't break any rules."
"Then... I'll have a word with them?"
"Thanks for your trouble!"
Auntie Wang left.
Chen Qi went inside. His parents were still riding high on excitement, and they chatted for a long time.
At last, late into the quiet night.
He lay on the wooden plank bed out in the front room. Selling large-bowl tea was fine, but the profit margins were thin, capital accumulation was slow, and it was heavily affected by seasonal changes. They had to broaden their product lines. Come summer, they'd start with sandals, then bring in popsicles, raincoats, and the like, which would give them a solid initial foothold.
Department stores had plenty of backlogged inventory that could be negotiated for.
However, he didn't plan on handling that personally. Having brought things this far, he felt he had done more than enough.
...
The topic "On the Meaning of Life" quickly sparked wide-ranging discussion.
Letters poured into *China Youth Daily* from all corners of the country. Perspectives varied wildly, and some were genuinely profound. The newspaper was happily swamped just publishing these letters every day, and sales momentum was strong.
Over the next two days, Yu Jiajia visited twice.
Both times she brought him reader mail—sackfuls of it—and handed him fourteen yuan in manuscript fees.
During the turbulent decade, there had been no author fees.
When a writer submitted a piece, the publisher would send back a card. With that card, one could go to Xinhua Bookstore to collect a copy of the Chairman's works. Authors like Chen Zhongshi and Jia Pingwa had been submitting back then, and they never saw a single cent.
In 1977, the people who wrote for a living felt they ought to be paid, so they made a fuss. The state subsequently issued a standard: two to seven yuan per thousand words for original works, and one to five yuan per thousand words for translations.
In 1980, the rates were raised slightly to three to ten yuan per thousand words for original works and one to seven yuan for translations. Print-run royalties were also restored, calculated by ten-thousand-copy increments—author earnings scaled by a set percentage for every ten thousand copies printed.
By 1984, the rates were bumped up again to six to twenty yuan for original works and four to fourteen yuan for translations.
In short, writing fees remained consistently low unless one wrote sprawling, million-word epics. The first writer to commercialize was Wang Shuo, who brazenly began demanding royalties. Still, those standards applied only to newspapers, magazines, and publishing houses.
Screenplays for film studios were a different matter entirely, left aside for now.
Chen Qi's article was two thousand words, which was how he earned fourteen yuan. At first, driven by pride and vanity, he leafed through the letters like an emperor reviewing imperial memorials, but he soon lost interest.
Frankly, the letters weren't written particularly well.
While the young women were enthusiastic, they were also conservative; not a single one enclosed a photograph of herself. How was he supposed to stay interested? In his previous life, he had been the kind of guy who'd ask to "see some leg" after thirty minutes of online chatting, and "show me your chest" after a whole day...
In any case, the debate raged on.
Yet the limelight around him, the instigator, was clearly waning—just like a fifteen-minute internet celebrity in a later age.
Chen Qi didn't mind. He was merely puzzled: his screenplay had been submitted days ago, so why hadn't anyone invited him to stay at the guesthouse yet? He had worried something might have gone wrong, but thankfully, things had not derailed from his plan.
"Excuse me, is Comrade Chen Qi at home?"
That evening, a skinny man with thick eyebrows, bearing a slight resemblance to Tu Honggang, knocked on the Chens' door and introduced himself:
"I'm an editor from the Beijing Film Studio's Literary Department. My name is Liang Xiaosheng..."
Chapter 12