1979 Gold Age

Chapter 12: The Hostel at Last

After a long commotion, the neighbors finally dispersed.

Yu Xiuli didn’t cook that evening—an extremely rare occasion—opting instead to take the family out for dinner. Chen Jianjun agreed, so the three of them hurriedly rode off on their bicycles.

Why the rush?

State-run restaurants had strict rules—chefs clocked out at exactly 7:30, no exceptions! Not even foreign guests could make them stay late—they’d be locked out just like everyone else.

They arrived at a restaurant and, luckily, found it wasn’t too crowded. After handing over their ration tickets and money, they ordered:

Stir-fried pork slices (3 taels of meat) – 0.42 yuan

Stir-fried tofu with green peppers – 0.40 yuan (tofu was precious)

Spinach and egg soup – 0.20 yuan

4 taels of dumplings (which, in those days, referred to 4 taels of dry flour, not the final weight of the dumplings)

Chen Jianjun also wanted to order a bottle of Maotai, but the waiter told him to get lost.

Poor Chen Qi—he had been here for over ten days, and this was his first decent meal. As he ate, he muttered between bites, “I wrote one measly letter, and we’re already dining out. When I actually become famous, will you book the entire Beijing Hotel?”

“If that day ever comes, I swear I’ll rent out the whole place for you!” Yu Xiuli declared confidently, thinking this was the peak of her son’s achievements.

“I read your article—it’s not bad,” Chen Jianjun remarked with reserved praise. “I also agree with your perspective. No matter what you do, don’t neglect your spiritual world. If you love literature, keep writing. It’s a way to improve yourself.”

“Mm-hmm, mm-hmm,” Chen Qi responded absentmindedly while stuffing dumplings and pork into his mouth. Then, he said, “Mom, let’s order another plate of meat. This isn’t enough.”

“Comrade, another plate of stir-fried shredded pork, please!” Yu Xiuli called out.

“No more!”

“The chef is clocking out!”

“Do you even know what time it is?!”

The waiter shut her down with a rapid-fire response. Embarrassed, Yu Xiuli retracted her hand. Chen Jianjun hesitated to speak but ultimately held his tongue. Chen Qi didn’t dare say a word either.

You did not mess with restaurant staff!

"No unjustified scolding or beating of customers!"

When they returned home, Auntie Wang was pacing at the courtyard gate.

“Oh, the whole family went out for dinner? That’s worth celebrating… I need to have a word with Xiao Chen.”

The impact was clear.

Before, she called him “kid.” Now, it was “Xiao Chen.” Soon, he’d be “Teacher Chen.”

Chen Qi stayed behind. Seeing that no one else was around, Auntie Wang said, “I’ll get straight to the point. The leaders from the plastics factory came to the neighborhood committee specifically to resolve this issue. They’re determined to punish those workers, and they’ll accept whatever consequences come. They also realize they were wrong. So, let’s just call it even—what do you think?”

“You’re making this sound serious—I actually feel a little bad now.”

It wasn’t that Chen Qi was ruthless, but if he didn’t set an example on his first day, people would keep coming for him. Now that the other party had admitted their mistake, he had no intention of dragging it out.

After a pause, he asked, “Auntie Wang, do you know what their factory produces?”

“Plastic goods, like sandals and such.”

“Sandals? Plastic sandals?”

“Yes! People love wearing them in the summer—they’re cool and great for wading through water. If I weren’t so old, I’d get a pair myself.”

Good stuff!

Chen Qi’s eyes lit up. “I have an idea. If their factory can provide us with some sandals—not too many, just enough to keep stock throughout the summer—when the leaders come to inspect, we’ll put in a good word for them. What do you think?”

Everyone was convinced there would be an inspection because this was a model case.

Auntie Wang frowned. “But we sell tea—what do sandals have to do with that?”

“I’ll remind you—it’s already April. The weather is warming up. Once summer hits, our tea business will plummet. What’s your backup plan then?”

Tsk!

Auntie Wang pulled a sour face. He had a point. “So, what exactly is our cooperative? It’s starting to feel all over the place.”

“Doesn’t matter! The priority is improving everyone’s livelihoods. If the plastics factory can’t provide the sandals outright, they can account for it under ‘losses.’ Factories always have a certain loss rate each month. If they sell us the sandals at a discount, it won’t be a violation.”

“I’ll talk to them, then?”

“Much appreciated!”

Auntie Wang left.

Chen Qi returned inside, where his parents were still buzzing with excitement. They kept talking late into the night.

Finally, when the world was quiet, he lay down on his wooden bed.

Selling big-bowl tea was fine, but the profits were low, the accumulation was slow, and it was heavily affected by the seasons. He had to expand the product range.

Once summer arrived, they could start with sandals, then bring in popsicles and raincoats. That would lay the foundation.

Department stores had plenty of overstocked goods—negotiating with them could lead to more opportunities.

But he wouldn’t handle that personally. He had already done more than enough.

“The Meaning of Life” quickly became a widely discussed topic.

Letters from all over the country flooded the China Youth Daily, presenting diverse viewpoints—some even quite profound. The editorial team was overwhelmed with work, publishing letters daily, and sales were booming.

Over the next two days, Yu Jiajia visited twice.

Both times, she brought him letters—bag after bag of them—and also handed over 14 yuan in manuscript fees.

During the Cultural Revolution, writers didn’t receive manuscript fees.

Instead, they were sent a card, which they could take to a Xinhua Bookstore to receive a copy of a leader’s work. Writers like Chen Zhongshi and Jia Pingwa had been submitting pieces back then—but never saw a single cent.

By 1977, writers started demanding payment, so the government introduced standard rates:

Original works: 2–7 yuan per 1,000 characters

Translated works: 1–5 yuan per 1,000 characters

In 1980, the rates were increased:

Original works: 3–10 yuan per 1,000 characters

Translated works: 1–7 yuan per 1,000 characters

Reintroduction of print-run royalties: Authors could now receive a percentage-based royalty for every 10,000 copies printed.

By 1984, the rates rose again:

Original works: 6–20 yuan per 1,000 characters

Translated works: 4–14 yuan per 1,000 characters

It’s fair to say that manuscript fees were never particularly high—unless one wrote a million-character epic. The first truly commercialized writer was Wang Shuo, who openly demanded royalties. However, these standards only applied to newspapers, magazines, and publishing houses.

Screenplays for film studios were a different matter and won’t be discussed here for now.

Chen Qi’s article was 2,000 characters long, so he received 14 yuan in manuscript fees. At first, he was vain and proud, reading the letters he received as if reviewing imperial memorials. But soon, he lost interest.

To be honest, most of the letters weren’t well-written.

The young women who wrote to him were enthusiastic yet conservative—not a single one included a photo. How was he supposed to stay interested? He was the type of guy who, after 30 minutes of online chatting, would ask to "see some legs"—and after a full day, would want to "see some cleavage."

In any case, the discussion continued.

But as the originator of the debate, his own popularity was visibly declining—just like internet celebrities in later generations who burned out after 15 minutes of fame.

Chen Qi didn’t mind. He was just puzzled—he had submitted his screenplay days ago, so why hadn’t they invited him to stay at the guesthouse yet?

For a while, he worried that something had gone wrong. Fortunately, everything was still going according to plan.

"Excuse me, is Comrade Chen Qi home?"

That evening, a thin man with thick eyebrows, resembling Tu Honggang, knocked on the Chen family’s door.

He introduced himself:

"I’m an editor from the Beijing Film Studio’s Literary Department. My name is Liang Xiaosheng..."