Chapter 9: The Wealth of a University

The atmosphere in the audience was quickly ignited, with both the leaders on stage and the teachers and students below shouting in unison. Later, it was said that people from different factions tried to pull him into their ranks, but he refused and even had a fierce quarrel with them. Those people jumped up and cursed him, “You crippled Yang, looks like you need to be struggled against!” Yang, known for his limp, tore off his cap and cursed right back, “You little brat, damn you, I’m just a cook, I don’t know anything else.”

His noodles were indeed delicious—even without meat in the bowl, the broth still carried a meaty flavor. When Liu Yimin used to sneak over for a better meal, he would smile and ask how the noodles were made. The cook would always reply mysteriously, “It’s a family secret recipe!” Liu Yimin once joked, “If it’s really a secret from your family, why are you apprenticing at the restaurant? You should’ve been a master chef by now.” The cook would just grin, the corners of his mouth lifting, “I never said it was my family’s secret. It’s from that stingy old manager I worked for—he passed it down. They always cut corners with tricks like this.”

Because of his limp, everyone called him “Lame Yang.”

After sitting down, Liu Yimin ordered a bowl of Lame Yang’s specialty stewed noodles. The aroma drifting from the kitchen made his stomach rumble. When the bowl arrived, Liu Yimin couldn’t wait to dig in. There was no lamb—just a plain vegetarian noodle soup, but it was still rich, with a shimmering layer of oil floating on top.

After a few sips of broth, Liu Yimin looked up and saw that Lame Yang was leaning against the kitchen doorway, watching him with a smile. “It’s you, kid! Haven’t seen you in a while. What brings you here?” he asked as he walked over.

“I just finished exams and was craving your noodles.”

“Sat for the college entrance exam, did you? Then you should eat well—wait here a moment.” Lame Yang turned and went into the kitchen. After a moment, he came out with a small bowl of stewed noodles.

“Go ahead and eat, boy—one bowl isn’t enough for someone your age.” As he turned back to the kitchen, he gestured for Liu Yimin to stir the noodles before eating.

After thanking him, Liu Yimin stirred the noodles with his chopsticks and was surprised to find several pieces of meat hidden beneath. Puzzled, he glanced at Lame Yang, who stood in the doorway, grinning and motioning for him to eat quickly.

After a satisfying meal, Liu Yimin rode his bicycle back to the drivers’ dormitory at the supply and marketing cooperative.

The next day was the Chinese exam. The test papers were quickly handed out, and as Liu Yimin glanced through the questions, his eyes widened in surprise. Could these really be college entrance exam questions? They were much easier than the politics exam. For him, these questions were as easy as an old woman drinking porridge—down in one gulp.

The first question was to add punctuation to three paragraphs of text, worth ten points in total. These were national standardized questions, even simpler than the ones from the province’s own exam in 1977. The second question required filling in the most appropriate characters in the blanks. The third was about linking words, and the fourth focused on correcting sentences with grammatical errors.

He finished all these questions in twenty minutes, including checking his answers.

The essay topic was also extremely easy, more like a graduate-level news writing exercise: reorganize material to create a news report of a specified length. The task was to extract key points, use appropriate linking words, and optimize sentences; even copying the source material would suffice.

The essay prompt provided an article titled “The Issue of Speed Is a Political Issue,” requiring students to condense it into a 500–600 word composition, with points deducted for exceeding the limit. The essay was worth thirty points. The article was a speech delivered by a leader at an industrial conference, filled with political content, calling for accelerated development in industry, agriculture, and other sectors.

As long as the main points were highlighted and the summary revolved around them, a high score was within reach.

Questions six through eight tested knowledge of classical literature, including passages from the Analects and dialogues between Emperor Taizong of Tang and his ministers.

The questions were not difficult. The only problem was the heat—his palms were slick with sweat, and his grip on the fountain pen kept slipping. Liu Yimin wiped his brow with his arm and then lowered his head to finish the final question.

He capped his pen and spun it absently. The teacher on the podium suddenly fixed a sharp gaze on Liu Yimin, eyes locked on the pen in his hand, scanning the area around him, perhaps suspecting some mischief.

But seeing that Liu Yimin was simply idly turning his pen, the teacher shook his head in disappointment, thinking, “Hopeless—if you can’t answer, at least write something down. Who knows, you might get a few points.” The invigilator slowly made his way over, scanning left and right before his gaze landed on Liu Yimin’s test paper.

“Hm? It’s filled in?” The invigilator took off his glasses in disbelief, breathed on the lenses several times, wiped them clean, and put them back on, glancing at Liu Yimin’s paper out of the corner of his eye.

It was really all filled in! The punctuation seemed correct, and the word choices matched too. The essay—turn the page! the invigilator urged silently.

As if responding to the silent plea, Liu Yimin flipped the page over without a word.

The sounds of pens scratching and sighs interwove throughout the examination room. Some students were so anxious they could have pulled out their own hair. No one noticed the silent exchange between one examinee and the invigilator.

The invigilator read Liu Yimin’s essay from start to finish. Even without considering the content, the neat handwriting alone caught his eye. As he read the content, he drew in a sharp breath—what a talent!

After reviewing Liu Yimin’s entire test, he was even more astonished. Being a Chinese teacher himself, he could judge the objective questions even without the answer key. Apart from the essay, which was subjective, he could see the answers were correct.

A candidate from our county with such promise! It seems this year we’ll finally have a college student. Too bad I’m not invigilating the math exam this afternoon—otherwise, I could see how he fares there too.

Liu Yimin, noticing the teacher had finished reading, quietly turned his paper back over. The invigilator snapped out of his amazement, glared at Liu Yimin, and resumed patrolling the room.

As he passed another proctor, he whispered, “We’ve got a real talent in our exam room.”

“Who?”

“The one lying down, about to fall asleep.”

“Are you confused, Old Yang? The one sleeping? How could a top student sleep during the college entrance exam?” the other invigilator replied disdainfully.

“You don’t believe it either, do you? Others are still working because they haven’t finished; he’s sleeping because he’s really done. And he’s almost certainly correct. His handwriting is beautiful, too. Unless he does poorly in the other subjects, his place at university is guaranteed,” Old Yang replied with an air of certainty.