Chapter 11: Just This Once, I'll Make the Decision

Continuing deeper into the expansive editorial office of "People’s Literary Arts," the second room’s door was half-closed. On the left doorframe, a wooden plaque with a white background and red lettering was nailed to the wall, spelling out in bold characters: "Chief Editor’s Office."

Cui Daoyi knocked politely. A strong, energetic voice responded from within. Smiling, Cui Daoyi pushed open the door. The "Old Zhang" he had mentioned was sitting behind his desk, vigorously wiping sweat from his forehead and neck with a damp towel.

Old Zhang was none other than Zhang Guangnian, chief editor of "People’s Literary Arts," known also by the pen name Guang Weiran. For those who might not recognize the name, mention of the "Yellow River Cantata" would surely ring a bell for all.

He was the author of "Yellow River Cantata," a classic work sung by the people before the founding of the country and still widely referenced decades later.

"Years away from Yanjing, I’d forgotten how unbearable the summers here can be," Zhang Guangnian said, pressing the towel under his shirt once more.

Since the 1930s, Zhang Guangnian had been engaged in progressive drama and literary movements, even joining activities with the likes of Li Gongpu and Wen Yiduo. During the tumultuous decade, the earlier years were relatively smooth, but later he was sent to a re-education camp for labor. Throughout that period, he was constantly reflecting on himself. Last year, upon being called back to Yanjing, he was immediately appointed chief editor of "People’s Literary Arts."

From the moment he took over, he began making all manner of preparations for the revival of the literary world. Liu Xinwu’s "The Class Teacher" stood as the pioneering work of the Scar Literature movement.

When Liu Xinwu wrote this piece, he never expected it to be published—he nearly destroyed the manuscript, but, unwilling to let it go, submitted it to the sister magazine, "People’s Literary Arts."

Currently, Liu Xinwu was working as an editor at the People’s Publishing House. Before becoming an editor, he had been a teacher, witnessing firsthand the impact of the past ten years on students. Writing "The Class Teacher" was, in a way, recounting his own experiences.

The other editors fiercely debated the piece after reading it, and it nearly got rejected. Left with no other choice, Cui Daoyi brought it to Zhang Guangnian. With a flourish, Zhang declared, "We’re not afraid of writing about conflict—only of not delving deep enough into it."

He instructed Cui Daoyi to return the manuscript to Liu Xinwu for revision, to intensify the conflict and fully expose the issues, ensuring the piece was both well-argued and revealing. Ultimately, it was published. "The Class Teacher" became something of a weather vane, signaling a shift in the literary atmosphere and inspiring writers to adjust their creative direction.

One could say that Cui Daoyi was, to some extent, Liu Xinwu’s talent scout.

"Old Zhang, I have a novel here," Cui Daoyi began. "It shook me deeply, but I can’t make up my mind about it. I wanted you to have a look."

Hearing this, Zhang Guangnian quickly adjusted his glasses and took the manuscript from Cui Daoyi, reading it intently.

"‘The Donkey Gets Water’—is this using a donkey as satire?" Zhang asked curiously as he read.

"How did you guess it was satire, Old Zhang?"

Zhang Guangnian looked up with a laugh. "As if someone would write about an actual donkey!"

"Just keep reading—it’ll surprise you," Cui Daoyi said, pouring himself a cup of tea and sitting comfortably on the wooden-armrest sofa.

Zhang’s curiosity was piqued, and he read on with even greater focus.

"Absurd—utterly absurd. Then again, it’s exactly the kind of thing some people could do. Pocketing salaries for nonexistent workers was commonplace in those days!" Zhang exclaimed, a mix of agitation and anger in his voice.

"This is just the appetizer. The real intrigue comes later."

Zhang Guangnian spent a full hour reading the manuscript—a considerable amount of time for an editor. Even reading carefully, a piece of that length would usually take much less time. But the details in "The Donkey Gets Water" compelled him to read and ponder repeatedly.

He finally set the manuscript down, took off his glasses, and rubbed his temples and the corners of his eyes.

Seeing him silent, Cui Daoyi worried something was wrong. "There’s a joke that says the inventor of eye exercises, Liu Shiming—nicknamed Liu Blind—was himself and his children severely nearsighted. So why did he keep promoting his eye exercises in schools?"

"Hahaha! Cui, you’re being narrow-minded. That stuff actually works, especially for those of us who stare at manuscripts all day. The eyes need relaxation," Zhang replied, putting his glasses back on.

"What’s your opinion of this piece?" Cui Daoyi asked.

Zhang Guangnian sighed. "Honestly, I can’t even say if it’s a comedy or a tragedy. There’s so much packed into it—the first half satirizes the practice of drawing salaries for fake workers, while the latter half is overwhelmingly tragic.

Human selfishness is exposed without reservation in the face of profit and oppression, harming the individual under the guise of the collective. The helplessness of women and the ingrained inequality between men and women. Love and hatred entwined, ultimately turning love into hate.

It’s hard to imagine so many elements coexisting in a single story. It’s as if you’ve been drinking plain water all along, and suddenly one cup is sweetened."

"So, you think it’s a good piece?" Cui Daoyi pressed.

"It is. I come from a drama background, and I believe with some adaptation, this could become a classic play. It may not rival ‘Teahouse’ or ‘Thunderstorm,’ but it would surpass most others," Zhang Guangnian asserted. The absurdity woven throughout seemed perfectly suited for the stage.

"Who knows, maybe one day it really will become a stage play. So, shall we publish it?"

After a moment’s thought, Zhang Guangnian replied, "My opinion is to use it. But have the other comrades take a look first and consider everyone’s input."

"And if someone objects?" Cui Daoyi asked.

After graduating from Yanjing University, Cui Daoyi had spent over twenty years at "People’s Literary Arts," climbing from editor to deputy chief editor. Heated arguments over manuscripts were routine in the editorial office, especially during sensitive times like these.

Moreover, intellectuals tend to have their pride, or—to put it less kindly—their temperaments; reaching consensus is never easy.

"If someone objects? Then I’ll be autocratic for once and make the final call," Zhang Guangnian declared with authority.

"Excellent!"

Cui Daoyi was overjoyed. After so many years as deputy chief editor, what he needed was a leader who could shoulder responsibility. The worst thing for a subordinate is a leader who can’t take the heat.

He’d worked at "People’s Literary Arts" for so many years—especially during that tumultuous decade—while the chief editors changed as frequently as a revolving lantern. The magazine was known as the "imperial journal," in a way representing the opinions of the upper echelons.

Whenever trouble arose, the chief editor was replaced. There was a joke about Cui Daoyi: "The chief editors flow by like water, but the deputy is as solid as iron." Many believed that Cui Daoyi’s unshakable position meant he must have done something disloyal.

But only Cui Daoyi knew his own bitterness, with no one to confide in. His continued survival was because he stuck strictly to his professional duties and steered clear of politics.