Oh, the Road of Life 2

Early the next morning, Chen Qi played truant again. Setting out from Menkuang Hutong, he headed north along the city’s Central Axis, passing the Forbidden City, Beihai, and Shichahai, pedaling all the way into Haidian District. Lightning and thunder seemed to spark from his furious pedaling. Passersby watched him pedal the 28-inch bicycle with genuine heartache—whose family would treat a bike so roughly? Chen Qi let out a cold scoff! *Other folks might baby their bicycles, but I pedal standing up!* *Not only do I stand up, I can even pedal under the crossbar!* What did pedaling under the crossbar mean? When little kids rode bicycles too big for their short legs, they’d slip one leg through the frame’s triangular gap, pedaling awkwardly from underneath. It was no short trip—about twelve kilometers one way. Arriving at Jimen Bridge on the North Third Ring Road, he found himself in the area that housed both the Beijing Film Academy and Beijing Film Studio. This district was also a gathering ground for higher education; Beijing University of Posts and Telecommunications, Beijing Normal University, and Beihang University were all nearby. A bit further on lay Zhichun Road—ha, the very battleground of Commander Yao! This was the third location of Beijing Film Studio, and also the most familiar one. The buildings were all Soviet style, and by the entrance stood a statue of the studio emblem: three figures representing workers, peasants, and soldiers. In twenty years, a fellow named Wang Baoqiang would be loitering here, waiting for his big break… He parked his bicycle, walked up to the gatehouse, knocked on the window, and called out, “Good morning, Uncle!” “Who are you looking for?” the old man asked. “I’m here to submit a manuscript. My family lives down in the south of the city, and I figured delivering it in person would be faster so as not to trouble the postal comrade.” “…” The old man took the kraft paper envelope, glanced at it impassively. Things like this happened all the time. Just as he was about to set it down casually, the young man handed him half a pack of cigarettes with a beaming grin: “Uncle, have a smoke. Sorry to trouble you!” “Mm, leave it there!” These cigarettes were Daqianmen, thirty-two fen a pack. They were his father Chen Jianjun’s private stash, pilfered by Chen Qi. Daqianmen counted as a mid-tier brand. In those days, Chunghwa cigarettes were divided into big and small versions—Big Chunghwa cost seventy-two fen a pack and Small Chunghwa was sixty-two fen, mostly reserved for special allocation. Tianjin also had a brand called Hengda—yes, Hengda—likewise priced at thirty-two fen. The old man was practical: take the smoke, do the deed. He reached out, pulled over a small blackboard, and briskly chalked a line right at the top: *Manuscript received for the Literature Department’s Film Creation!* “Thank you kindly!” Chen Qi hopped onto his bicycle and took off like a streak of smoke toward the offices of *China Youth Daily*, dropping off the essay “Oh, the Road of Life.” He hadn’t submitted it to *People’s X Daily*; they might not publish a piece like this, but *China Youth Daily* certainly would, as it was right up their alley. *China Youth Daily* boasted a circulation of two million copies, making it the highest-circulating newspaper in the country. All told, he spent the entire morning running submissions and only wrapped up near noon. Pedaling slowly back along the Central Axis, he came to a stop before the Chairman Mao Memorial Hall. On September 9, 1977, the memorial hall had been completed and opened to the public. In his previous life, he had visited the capital for the first time in 1998. He remembered it so clearly because it coincided with the World Cup. Visiting as a tourist with his family, he had toured the memorial hall and knew its layout: A seated statue of the Chairman in the front hall, and the crystal coffin in the back. Long queues seemed to stretch outside at all hours. Many people visiting on business trips from other provinces were coming here for the very first time, looking somber and clad in dark mourning clothes—after all, it had only been three years since his passing. “…” Chen Qi gazed at it from outside for a while, but did not go in. Only then did he return to the tea stall, grinning mischievously as he apologized to the others, claiming an upset stomach and whatnot. No one held it against him; yesterday’s battle had already made him a legend. There was still no word from Auntie Wang. He didn’t know whether she was genuinely communicating with the factory, faking it, or still studying the matter. In any case, his manuscripts were already out. *** At the offices of *China Youth Daily*. Founded in 1951, the paper had temporarily ceased publication during the turmoil before resuming in 1978. As the official mouthpiece of the Central Committee of the Communist Youth League, with young people as its primary readership and its title inscribed by the Chairman himself, it carried immense influence. Lately, a festive mood permeated the entire editorial department. Thanks to their keen eye and sheer boldness, they had unearthed a “banned book” from the chaotic years called *The Second Handshake*, condensed it to sixty thousand words, and serialized it daily across a quarter of a page. Immediately, paper in Luoyang became dear. People in every work unit craned their necks each day waiting for the latest issue; long lines formed at newsstands, and fanatical readers had even shattered the glass of a post office in Shanghai during the crush. The novel touched upon top leaders, intellectuals, romance, and overseas ties—absolute taboos in that era. The author had at one point been sentenced to death, but by sheer good fortune, the Third Plenary Session of the Eleventh Central Committee was convened before the execution could take place. Later, when the novel was published as a book, it sold more than four million copies, a record that stood for many years. “Xiao Li, what are you carrying?” “Letters from readers!” “Another sack?” “More than that!” In the editorial room, the young editor dropped a bulging gunnysack of letters onto the floor, turned around, and carried in two more sacks. Panting heavily, he grumbled, “I quit! I’m an editor, not a coolie!” “Doesn’t that just show how passionate our readers are?” “Exactly! Even our circulation has shot up quite a bit.” At the mention of this, everyone swelled with pride. The highest circulation in the country—who could challenge that? “Still, the serialization of *The Second Handshake* is about to wrap up. Any new focal points?” “What about educated youth cooperatives? It’s the hottest topic right now.” “We could do that, but I’ve read a lot of those submissions—they’re bone-dry. We can’t make it read like government files. People want to read things that are vivid and sincere.” “I actually have one right here…” An older editor suddenly stood up, holding a letter in his hand. “This just arrived today. Pass it around and take a look.” “Let me see!” The young editor took it first, glancing at the title: *“Oh, the Road of Life, Why Does It Narrow the Further One Walks?”* “Oho, an emotional piece!” His interest was piqued. In those tense, jittery years, who dared express such raw sentiments in public? Everyone had kept their feelings bottled up for so long; now that a vent had finally cracked open, the torrents surged out. People vented themselves, and loved reading others venting just as much. *“I am nineteen this year. It should be said that I have only just stepped out into life, yet I feel an overwhelming exhaustion, as if I have already reached the end.* *When I was little, I listened to people talk about How the Steel Was Tempered and The Diary of Lei Feng. Though I could not fully grasp it then, the heroes’ deeds excited me so much that I stayed awake night after night.* *I even copied out Pavel’s famous passage about the meaning of life in neat, tidy handwriting onto the first page of my diary: ‘When he looks back upon the past, he will not regret having squandered his years, nor feel shame for having accomplished nothing…’* *When that diary was filled, I copied it again onto the first page of a second one.* *How much encouragement those words once gave me!* *Later came the tumultuous years, omitted here…* *After returning to the city, I was assigned to a neighborhood collective cooperative. Together with twelve companions, we set up a tea stall at Qianmen, selling bowls of tea to make an honest living on our own two feet.* *I held within me a yearning for truth, goodness, and beauty, but I was met with disappointment.* *Social prejudice makes our little tea stall’s path fraught with hardship. On our opening day, enduring our own shyness and unfamiliarity, we worked our hardest, only to be ridiculed and taunted for no reason by several workers from a plastics factory. They called us mangliu, claimed we were fresh out of prison, and even sang ‘Abalagu’ at us…* *One of our girls was driven to tears, yet there was nothing we could do.* *We actually know that what they said hits close to home, and deep down we feel inferior. We cannot compare to those state-owned units, nor do we dream of lavish benefits; being able to live by our own labor already satisfies us.* *Yet the pain and confusion inside grow by the day, weighing too heavily to bear.* *I often wonder: why do people live?* *For lofty ideals? For self-fulfillment?* *Those things seem far too distant from me.* *Some say the era is striding forward, but I cannot reach its powerful arms.* *Oh, the road of life, why does it narrow the further one walks?* *Yet I still possess the strength to walk on…* *Right now, I may not be able to articulate what the meaning of life is. But drawing from my own experience, I believe establishing a spiritual home inside oneself is of utmost importance. It can shine like the sun, illuminating one’s darkest corners.* *It can be literature, painting, poetry, music, or even carpentry, tailoring, fishing, and the like. As long as it is a haven that belongs solely to us, and one that we wholly love, it will grant us strength.* *I have loved literature since childhood, and it is the very sunlight that shines upon me.* *Comrade editors, in writing this letter to you, I do not expect to receive any miraculous cure. Rather, I wish for the youth across our nation to see it, for I believe our hearts are linked.* *I hope to share this encouragement with the countless youths who are lost and bewildered, and I hope we can all break free from our temporary adversity—to face the sea, with spring flowers blossoming!”* “…” The letter made the rounds among the editorial staff. Everyone who finished reading let out a soft sigh. The prose was plain yet deeply felt, expressing the author’s homesickness—ptooey! Expressing the author’s bewildered state of mind and his inner strength to press on. It was written with remarkable sincerity. Yes, sincerity. “What do you think?” “Brilliant! It will absolutely resonate with readers.” “Doesn’t it say they’re running a tea stall at Qianmen? Hey, hey—tell a reporter to get over there and interview them right away! I want this in tomorrow’s paper!!”