Rebirth 04: Starting from Taking an Unconventional Approach

Chapter 169 The Noose

Zhang Qiming closed his eyes. Liu Zhenhua continued.

"Qiming, to put it another way, you can't be Han Fei's babysitter forever. He needs to learn to walk without crutches. The further away you are from him, the more stable he will be."

Zhang Qiming opened his eyes and stared at Liu Zhenhua.

Their eyes met. "You can speak freely about your thoughts."

"I have another concern."

"explain."

"If I'm transferred, who will take over in Shanghai? The Qingniao project can't be interrupted."

"Yes, yes." Liu Zhenhua nodded repeatedly, as if they had already discussed this matter. "You recommend someone; you know the person in the data business department of the Shanghai branch better than I do. Let him act as an interim manager first, and once you've established yourself, we'll issue a formal order."

"Have Mr. Fang and Yuanshan found out?"

"Not yet. Don't make this public yet. I'll let Fang Jing and Yuanshan know about it."

"Then, Mr. Liu..."

"7

"There's no rush." ​​Liu Zhenhua leaned forward and put a hand on his shoulder. "I won't rush you regarding the transfer, but it can't be delayed either. After you go back, spend a month cleaning up your current tasks, ensuring a smooth transition for Qingniao in the local area, and mentoring the people you recommended. A month later, report to headquarters and attend two strategy meetings to familiarize yourself with the environment. At the latest, the official appointment document should be issued in two months. By then, you'll be stationed at headquarters permanently, so be prepared."

Zhang Qiming looked out the window. "Two months..." he said, as if talking to himself, "Two months is indeed long enough. I understand, Mr. Liu."

Zhang Qiming stood up, and Liu Zhenhua followed suit.

"Things are all settled at headquarters for now. Get some rest tonight and head back tomorrow," Liu Zhenhua said, extending one hand.

Zhang Qiming found the handshake rather strange, and Liu Zhenhua noticed it too, his expression suddenly becoming very unnatural. But it was too late; Liu Zhenhua's hand was already outstretched, fingers spread, hanging helplessly in mid-air. Zhang Qiming quickly shook his hand, defusing the awkward situation.

As Zhang Qiming passed Zhao Guoqiang's office in the Marketing Department, Zhao Guoqiang called out his name. Zhang Qiming nodded to Zhao Guoqiang and continued walking heavily down the corridor, pondering how to tell his wife, daughter, and Han Fei about the transfer, and who should take over his job in Shanghai.

He did not hear Zhao Guoqiang following.

"Qiming, did General Manager Liu speak with you?"

Zhang Qiming suddenly stopped, almost causing Zhao Guoqiang to bump into him. The two stood facing each other.

"Hmm." Zhang Qiming did not deny it, but he did not intend to explain further.

"Good news?"

"It's neither good nor bad," Zhang Qiming said. "The leader gave me some instructions and told me to go back and digest them."

The two stood in silence. Zhao Guoqiang walked to the window and leaned against the wall.

"That Bluebird, it's been making quite a splash lately." Zhao Guoqiang paused. "I mentioned it briefly at the meeting about the Guangdong matter, and General Manager Liu wasn't too happy about it."

"Oh?" Zhang Qiming coughed. "I know you're doing this for the company's sake."

Zhao Guoqiang smiled slightly: "I'm doing this for the company's sake. But look at the situation now. A provincial pilot project has caused such a stir. If I mention it a couple of times at the risk control meeting, I'll be labeled a bureaucrat and afraid to take the lead."

Zhang Qiming looked for a hint of complaint in Zhao Guoqiang's eyes, but fortunately he didn't find it.

"Guoqiang, the incident in Guangdong was a close call, and the final outcome was good. Why are you still dwelling on it?"

Zhao Guoqiang did not answer.

"You understand data better than I do. The window of opportunity is only a few hours. If you miss it, you miss it. We've been doing SP business for so many years, when have we ever seen this conversion rate? Besides, given Qingniao's emergency response capabilities, how many teams in our own provincial branches of China Mobile can do that?"

"It's not that I don't acknowledge that Qingniao is doing a good job," Zhao Guoqiang muttered, turning to face the window. "I'm worried that you've staked everything on a small publishing house. Right now, they're obedient, rule-abiding, and energetic, but what about later? When they grow bigger, will they still be like this? When they have the leverage to negotiate, will they still be willing to be on China Mobile's side?"

Zhang Qiming took a deep breath and said in a low voice, "What you're worried about now, some people were worried about a few years ago when the post and telecommunications were separated. They were worried that the mobile network would be unmanageable after it was separated from the post and telecommunications bureau, that the provincial companies would act independently, and that the subordinates would cause trouble."

But in the end? Didn't we make it through?

Zhao Guoqiang shrugged, his gaze fixed on the view outside the window: "Qiming, are you leaving?"

"Go? Where to?"

"I don't know. But the way you spoke just now wasn't like the tone of the Shanghai branch; it sounded more like the tone of headquarters."

Zhang Qiming went to the window, looked over Zhao Guoqiang's shoulder and down towards the park. He saw many people lying on the grass, enjoying the last rays of sunlight.

"Guoqiang, no matter where I am, we still have to stick together on the Qingniao line. You take care of your risk control, and I'll take care of my progress. Let's not treat each other as enemies."

"Enemies?" Zhao Guoqiang gave a wry smile. "When did I ever consider you enemies? I just..."

""

"You're just afraid," Zhang Qiming said.

Chen Dajian glanced at his watch; he had been sitting outside the president's office at Hujiang Literature and Art Publishing House for half an hour. President Zhou Zhengru was inside reading his manuscript. Today was Tuesday, August 31st, the day his final work was completed.

The last day of August marks the end of summer and the prelude to the upcoming harvest season. But for Chen Dajian, it is the beginning of the end of his life and the day his creative career comes to a close.

To the right of the president's office was the editors' work area, where only two editors were seated. The male editor was flipping through a magazine. Even from this distance, Chen Dajian could clearly see the cover. It was a Bluebird magazine. An editor from Hujiang Literature and Art Publishing House was actually reading a Bluebird magazine? That was utterly absurd.

The male editor turned a page. He had a beard that extended all the way to his chin, just like Old Zhou, the protagonist in Chen Dajian's final work, "Paper Fate".

Old Zhou was an old writer who went to the countryside to work after graduating from junior high school at the age of sixteen. There was another educated youth in the team who brought a suitcase full of books. Inside were "Song of Youth," "Tracks in the Snowy Forest," and a handwritten copy of "The Second Handshake." Old Zhou read those books over and over again until he could recite them from memory. Later, he began to write. He wrote about the lives of educated youth, about working in the fields, and about the unspeakable secrets of the educated youth settlement at night. But even when he was thirty-five, no magazine was willing to publish his articles.

Old Zhou sported a beard identical to the male editor's, his eyes filled with sorrow. At thirty-six, he finally published a novella in *People's Literature*, titled "The Wheat Harvester." It was about the wheat harvesters of Northwest China, who every June traveled from Gansu and Ningxia all the way to Shaanxi to harvest wheat for others. Old Zhou interviewed an elderly wheat harvester, over seventy years old, his back bent like a bow, who had spent his entire life working in the wheat fields. The story was reprinted in several anthologies, and a critic even wrote a special review, saying that Old Zhou had "written a biography for the silent land."

At that time, Lao Zhou felt that things would get better and better.

Things haven't gotten better.

After the 1990s, literary magazines began to close down one after another. Some of the editors that Lao Zhou knew switched to making best-selling books, some went to GG Publishing, and some simply went back to their hometowns.

Old Zhou was still writing.

What he wrote, if called rural literature in the 1990s, what would it be called in the 2000s? He didn't know. He only knew that it was becoming increasingly difficult to get his manuscripts published, the fees were decreasing, and the number of readers was dwindling. But he still kept writing. Not because it was useful. It was because if he didn't write, he wouldn't know what the point of living would be.

"Hey, Teacher Chen."

Chen Dajian raised his head.

"What are you thinking about, so engrossed?"

President Zhou Zhengru stood at the office door, trying to put on a cheerful smile. He led Chen Dajian into the office. His eye bags were getting bigger and bigger.

"I've called you three times already."

I always forget that my surname is Chen, Chen Dajian thought to himself. Before leaving Qingniao, everyone only called me by my pen name.

Judging from Zhou Zhengru's eagerness to help him, Zhou Zhengru must have bad news to say.

"Uh, Professor Chen, I've read your manuscript carefully." Zhou Zhengru said immediately as soon as he sat down, as if he wanted to finish the task of reporting bad news as soon as possible. "To be honest, I felt very uncomfortable while reading it. The character of Old Zhou is like a character we are writing about. He has been writing about us for decades, and he can't do anything but write, but now his handwriting is becoming less and less valuable."

"Whether it's valuable or not depends on what scale you use to weigh it," Chen Dajian said. "If you use Qingniao's scale, this thing of mine is probably worthless. But my scale is the result of a man crying for Lao Zhou at two o'clock in the morning."

"Yes, yes, that's true." Zhou Zhengru wiped the table, removing the unseen dust.

"Which scale is more valuable?" Chen Dajian said. "I can't say. But I do know that if only the scale of the Bluebird is left in the whole world, then no one will cry for a fictional person anymore."

"Yes." Zhou Zhengru sat slumped in the chair, seemingly forcing himself to relax.

"I've read Qingniao's novels too. What's with all the 'Four Great Whites'? Do you know what I was thinking when I read the third line? I thought, if Han Baohua hadn't been sick and hospitalized, if he were still like he was when he was young, would he have smashed that red pen in the kid's face if he saw his son publishing a book like this?"

"You're right, absolutely right." Zhou Zhengru smiled and put on his glasses. "To be honest, Hujiang Literature and Art Publishing House... won't last much longer. Last month, our circulation dropped by nearly 50%, our distributors have been holding back payments for more than half a year, and the printing plant has already called three times to urge us to publish your manuscript. We... can't afford to publish it."

"Can't afford to send it?"

"right."

"What do you mean by that? What do you mean by 'can't afford to publish'? Is it that my article is bad, or that you simply don't want to publish it at all?"

Zhou Zhengru's Adam's apple bobbed rapidly: "Teacher Chen, we're preparing... to transform. To be honest, I don't want to transform either, but if we don't, we'll die."

"Does it mean...??"

"It means that Hujiang Literature might also need to create a better-selling magazine in the future, or simply follow the path of Qingniao's new rural style, or something like that..."

'

"Oh my god, just tell me if this article can be published or not."

Zhou Zhengru was speechless.

"What's tied to the bluebird? Did you see it clearly?" Chen Dajian asked.

"What did you say?"

"It's nothing. Please let me know if I can send it."

"I know you look down on things like 'Bluebird,' but readers do, and the market does. If I keep clinging to literary dignity, my employees' salaries next month...."

'

Chen Dajian slammed his fist heavily on the table, so hard that the telephone receiver jumped off its holder. Zhou Zhengru also jumped up from his chair, opening his mouth as if to say something, but swallowed his words when he saw Chen Dajian's trembling index finger. He sighed, took off his glasses, and wearily wiped his face with his hand.

"I simply cannot accept your essay, 'Paper Fate'."

"That's great," Chen Dajian said. "That's for the best. If my stuff is going to die, it should die in my own hands, not be tainted by the market."

"If you don't mind, once we've established connections on our end, I can ask around to see if there are any places that accept pure literature manuscripts... But right now, I really can't."

"No."

"Your piece, 'Paper Fate,' is excellent, but I genuinely can't afford to publish it. Hujiang is barely able to pay for the printing presses right now. If this had been five years ago, I would definitely have published it..."

'

"I don't need your comforting words."

"Teacher Chen, please believe me, I was driven to the brink. Readers don't like the kind of articles they used to write anymore."

""

"So you're just admitting it?"

"I'm scared. I'm scared that I won't get paid next month. I'm scared that when I close my eyes one day, the words 'Hujiang Literature and Art Publishing House' won't even have a tombstone. I know that transformation is difficult. I know everything. But I have to try. Even if I die a little slower in the end, it's better than dying now."

"You're like someone whose water is up to your neck, grabbing onto any straw you can to climb out. I just want to remind you one last time that the straw you're clinging to is called the Bluebird."

"I'm sorry, Teacher Chen." These were Zhou Zhengru's last words. Chen Dajian stood on the steps. He hadn't understood why there were so many people on the street, but after Zhou Zhengru apologized and reminded him that his readers no longer enjoyed his writing, he saw a satisfied look in the eyes of the hurried passersby—a look he had never seen before, nor recognized. In People's Square, shoppers gathered around a street performer playing music. A man in a Red Cross uniform walked around with a donation box. An old man paused on the roadside, his eyes flickering like a candle about to go out. Two young girls walked past Chen Dajian hand in hand, their cheeks rosy; their bright futures were about to unfold into a wonderful story—a story with boys, hopes, and smiles. Damn it! How could everyone's face be smiling? He looked up at the sky of Shanghai, the warm golden sky reflecting the city lights. Good heavens, how he wished he had enough strength and a strong body; things would be so much easier then.

Han Fei, he thought, it's all because of Han Fei. Han Fei is a sinner against history, and even more so, a sinner against literature. Han Fei is the destroyer of literature. Han Fei must pay the price, must be judged. He knew what he had to do in the final moments of his life. This was what he should do. This was not merely judging a person's life or death, but restoring justice to literature to the public. Sometimes, the death penalty is necessary.