River City University. The Foreign Languages College.
“Teacher Little Chen, you’re in early today. It’s only half past seven. Normally I can’t even find you before eight.”
“Teacher Li, that’s slander. Watch out, I’ll report you to the department director for defamation.”
Chen Fusheng then turned to an older teacher in the office and asked, “Professor Wu, has the director arrived yet?”
“I think so. But Little Chen, what brings you to the director so early in the morning?”
“To report Teacher Li for slandering me.”
Li Meili, a fellow language teaching assistant, shot Chen Fusheng an eye roll. “Teacher Little Chen, aren’t you bored? Professor Wu, settle this for us. Wasn’t I telling the truth?”
Chen Fusheng yawned and waved his hand. “Forget it, no more joking around. I’m actually here to ask the director for a day off.”
“A day off?” Professor Wu also noticed Chen Fusheng’s poor state and, thinking of his recent marriage last month, gave him a pointed reminder: “Little Chen, you young people need to practice moderation!”
Li Meili chimed in with an “Ohhh.”
Chen Fusheng’s face went blank.
“Professor Wu, I did stay up late last night, but not for the reason you think.”
“I understand, I understand. Go tell the director, then head back and get some proper rest. Your health is the capital of revolution.”
“…”
Later, when the director heard Chen Fusheng’s request and saw his dark circles, he said: “Young man, remember to practice moderation!”
“…”
At this, Chen Fusheng couldn’t help but wonder: Why is prejudice in people’s hearts like a mountain?
But Chen Fusheng, having gotten his leave, didn’t go straight home to sleep. Instead, clutching the nearly forty-thousand-character novel Cowherd he’d produced through the night, he headed to River City Literature and Arts, the magazine he’d previously worked with.
River City Literature and Arts would later become Fragrant Grass. If Chen Fusheng remembered correctly, the name change would happen around next year.
Its sponsor was the River City Federation of Literary and Art Circles. Within Hubei Province, it was without question the most prestigious literary magazine.
But on the national stage, compared to first-tier magazines like People’s Literature, Harvest, Flower City, Contemporary, and October, it naturally lacked some influence.
Still, it could hold its own against second-tier national magazines like Sprout, Youth, Zhongshan, Writer, and Beijing Literature and Art.
No sooner had Chen Fusheng stepped into the editorial office than an editor who recognized him stood up to greet him:
“Teacher Chen, haven’t seen you in a while. You look quite haggard.”
“All because of this!”
Chen Fusheng pulled out the Cowherd manuscript.
“What’s this?”
The editor asked curiously.
“My inspiration was flowing last night. Ideas pouring out like a spring. I wrote this novel in one sitting. Old Xiao, want to take a look?”
“Really? Aren’t you a translator? You can write novels too?” Xiao Xinghai asked with some doubt.
“After translating enough foreign works, you naturally pick up how to write yourself. It’s not a conflict.”
“That makes sense, I suppose. Let me take a look then. But let me be clear: if the quality doesn’t meet the standard, I can’t guarantee acceptance.”
“Relax, I know the drill.”
“Good.”
With that, Xiao Xinghai took the Cowherd manuscript from Chen Fusheng’s hands and roughly estimated the word count. “This looks like it’s under fifty thousand characters. If you’re not busy, you can rest in the guest room next door. I’ll give you some feedback once I’ve reviewed it.”
“I’m rushing back to catch up on sleep. I’ll see if I can swing by this afternoon. If not, the usual arrangement: have your mailman deliver the results to my community gate.”
“That works too!”
Xiao Xinghai nodded, walked Chen Fusheng out of the editorial office, and reminded him to ride safely.
Then he returned to his desk. Since work wasn’t too hectic at the moment, he picked up Cowherd and began to read.
From the scrawl of the manuscript, Xiao Xinghai could tell that Chen Fusheng’s creative flow had never broken. It matched his claim of ideas pouring out like a spring.
But for a debut novelist like Chen Fusheng, Xiao Xinghai, drawing on years of editorial experience, hadn’t held high expectations for Cowherd.
He was proven wrong, without question.
He didn’t even finish the first read. He’d barely gotten through a third before flipping back to page one and starting over from the beginning.
The reason: his first read had been too fast, and he’d missed too many details.
His colleague sitting across from him noticed this and asked curiously, “Old Xiao, how’s Teacher Chen’s novel? Does it meet the review standard?”
Xiao Xinghai didn’t even look up. “Don’t bother me right now. I’ll answer when I’m done.”
“Oh, looks like you’ve found yourself a treasure.”
His colleague was surprised by Xiao Xinghai’s response.
Their conversation drew the attention of the other editors in the office.
Soon, word that Xiao Xinghai had discovered a stellar manuscript spread throughout River City Literature and Arts. Even the editor-in-chief came to take a look.
Forty thousand characters wasn’t particularly long, and as editors, their reading speed was naturally faster than ordinary readers’. So it wasn’t long before Xiao Xinghai finished Chen Fusheng’s Cowherd.
No sooner had he looked up than he found himself surrounded by a crowd, which startled him.
“Why are you all gathered around me?”
“We heard you picked up a great manuscript. Is it true?”
“It is, indeed, a great manuscript. But I just finished reading it. How did you all know already?”
“Just now the editor-in-chief came to see you, and you swatted him away like a mosquito, saying ‘Don’t bother me.’ So how do you think we know?”
“…” Xiao Xinghai thought: These people ganged up to trick me!
But nobody had time for Xiao Xinghai’s confusion, being far more interested in the Cowherd he had just finished. It was an editorial tradition: whenever a stunning, outstanding manuscript was discovered, the editors would pass it around and share.
Before long, as more and more editors finished reading Cowherd, they finally began to discuss it.
“Ever since Liu Xinwu’s The Class Teacher was published last year, a wave called Scar Literature has swept the literary world. Including this past year, most of the submissions we’ve received have been scar literature novels. Of course, I’m not saying scar literature is bad. I just think our literary world shouldn’t have only this one theme. It should be a hundred flowers in bloom. Fortunately, this Cowherd has shown me the resurgence of serious literature and war literature. I hope this is just the beginning, not a fluke.”
“Old Xu, that’s too grand a thesis. Let me throw out one related to the novel. Did everyone understand the ending of Cowherd? The whole story tells the reader that Niu Er was guarding the dairy cow for the Eighth Route Army, hoping to return it to them someday. But in the end, when the Eighth Route Army came, why didn’t Niu Er hand over the cow?”
“Group Leader Li, that’s an excellent question. In my view, though the ending doesn’t give an explicit explanation, there are hints. At the end, the Eighth Route Army asks Niu Er, ‘What’s the cow’s name?’ After a struggle, Niu Er answers, ‘Jiu’er.’ My personal reading of that exchange is this: it was only at the moment he truly had to let the cow go that Niu Er realized the dairy cow had long stopped being the Eighth Route Army’s cow. It was his Jiu’er. It was his reason to keep living.”
“Sigh, that’s true. Against the backdrop of cruel war, an individual’s fate is so small, yet so great! What surprises me even more is that the author could portray the story of one man and one cow so vividly. Is this really Teacher Chen’s debut? I feel like this must be the work of a great author.”
“By the way, where’s Old Xiao?”
“He seemed to have gone to find the author.”
