Rebirth 04: Starting from Taking an Unconventional Approach

Han Fei walked down the corridor of Jiaotong University Affiliated Hospital, a black briefcase and a fruit basket in his right hand. The air was thick with the smells of alcohol, old people, and death.

He had never liked this smell because it always reminded him of his mother and his childhood, so his aunt had been taking care of his father since he was hospitalized. Han Fei called his aunt before leaving, but she said she had something to do that morning and couldn't come.

Han Fei followed a female nurse forward. She pushed open a door and said, "Pay attention to the patient's mood. Don't talk for too long; he needs to rest."

Han Baohua lay in the narrow single hospital room bathed in the morning sunlight, a gentle yet fragile smile on her face, which made Han Fei swallow hard.

"You're here, Xiao Fei," Han Baohua said. "Have you been busy these past few days?"

Han Fei shrugged: "What did the doctor say?"

"The doctor's reluctance to say anything is not a good sign, but it actually reassured me a lot, perhaps because I don't quite know how to face the truth of life yet."

Han Fei stared at him. Han Baohua's originally full and rosy face had sunken in, his complexion was pale, and his white hair fell neatly across his forehead, making Han Fei feel that it was not his father's hair, but rather an accessory to his hospital gown and bed sheet.

Han Fei remembered clearly that his father passed away about six months later. However, Han Baohua did not have a terminal illness, but rather a chronic kidney disease. It was just that in his previous life, due to financial difficulties, he could not afford the long-term dialysis treatment and eventually died from complications caused by kidney failure.

"Don't think too much, Dad," Han Fei said, dragging a chair to the bedside. "Everything will be alright."

Han Baohua smiled slightly: "Okay, let's not talk about this anymore. How's the publishing house? If it's really not working out... then don't bother with it anymore."

Han Fei took out the book "Wave Riders: A Glimpse into the People of Shanghai Post and Telecommunications Over the Past Twenty Years" from his briefcase.

"Dad, actually, the main reason I came today is to ask you about something concerning the publishing house." He turned to the first page of the book, held it up in front of Han Baohua, and pointed. "Do you remember this Zhang Qiming?"

Han Baohua sat up and reached for her glasses from the bedside table: "Zhang Qiming...Director Zhang?"

"Do you remember?"

"Hmm, this book..." Han Baohua nodded and slowly flipped through the booklet. "In 98, Zhang Qiming was the deputy director of the publicity department of the post and telecommunications bureau. It happened to be the time when the post and telecommunications bureau was being reformed, and the higher-ups assigned him a task, which was to compile this booklet."

"How did he find you to help edit the book?"

Han Baohua chuckled a few times, very restrained: "The task from above is demanding, time-sensitive, and requires both literary merit and emotional impact; it can't be dry reportage. Although Zhang Qiming also comes from a writing background, he feels immense pressure and fears he won't be able to complete it perfectly. At the time, I was somewhat well-known in the publishing industry, so he found me through a friend at the literary federation. I heard that he was transferred from the post office not long after. Why are you asking about him?"

"This Zhang Qiming is now the vice president of Shanghai Mobile Communications Company."

"Oh?"

Han Fei took a breath and began to describe his plans to transform the publishing house and the current collaboration with the mobile company. He cut out the extraneous details and highlighted the current progress. Han Baohua only interrupted a few times to ask a few concise questions. Otherwise, he listened quietly and attentively, his face showing an almost fascinated expression.

When Han Fei finished speaking, the sickly Han Baohua seemed to perk up. His cheeks regained color, and he sat up straight on the bed.

"Times have really changed," Han Baohua sighed, looking out the window. "You young people really can think of things we couldn't have back then. I remember President Zhang was quite a sentimental person. Although I haven't had much contact with him since then, it doesn't mean he doesn't cherish our past friendship. Here, get me some paper and pen, I'll write a letter to the mobile company."

Han Fei's eyes widened: "Write a letter?"

Han Baohua turned around, smiled, and said, "Let's use the old methods to witness the friendship between the older generation."

Han Fei nodded, went downstairs to buy envelopes, stationery, and stamps, adjusted the angle of his father's hospital bed, placed a book on his lap, and watched as his father wrote neat lines of regular script with a fountain pen:

"Brother Qiming, please take note:"

Six years have passed since we parted, yet I often think of you. The other day, my son Han Fei was sorting through old belongings when he came across the book we co-edited, *The Wave Riders*. Seeing it brought back many memories, and I was filled with emotion. Recalling our time working together, I was deeply impressed by your rigorous scholarship and warmhearted nature.

My son is now at the helm of Qingniao Publishing House, aiming to leverage the rise of mobile communications to explore new avenues for content dissemination. While his vision differs from our past ideals, upon reflection, it is a product of our times. In the past, we used paper as our medium to impart knowledge and skills; today, young people use screens as their windows to the world. Though the form has changed, our original intention to disseminate knowledge and enlighten the public remains unchanged.

My son is young, but quite courageous. I hope you can spare some time to meet him and offer your guidance. If you would not mind and grant me the opportunity to cooperate, I would be extremely fortunate, as would the Han family.

Your younger brother Baohua wrote this while ill, and the words are hastily written. I hope you will forgive me. I look forward to the day I recover and we can reunite, drink and chat happily.

Best regards

Shiqi

Respectfully submitted by Han Baohua, younger brother

July 12, 2004.

......

The yellow light from the table lamp shone on the letter paper.

Zhang Qiming looked up from his desk, leaned back in his spindle-backed chair, and took a deep breath.

Han Baohua... President Han?

When his secretary delivered the letter to his office this evening, he was puzzled as to why anyone would still use such an old-fashioned way of communicating as letters in 2004. It turned out to be President Han.

Zhang Qiming stood up with his wine glass in hand, strolled to the French windows, sipped his wine, gazed at the glittering lights of Shanghai, and listened to the rumbling noise of the city.

Six years ago, Zhang Qiming met Han Baohua for the first time in the office of Qingniao Publishing House, which was filled with manuscripts.

At that time, he was overwhelmed by the tasks assigned by his superiors and was often up all night. Han Baohua looked up from the mountain of manuscripts and gave him a warm smile.

For the next three months, they often stayed up late into the night in the publishing house's small conference room. Han Baohua had an almost obsessive fastidiousness about words; he could spend half a day pondering a title and revise an editor's note seven or eight times.

Once, during a heated debate over whether to use "resolutely enterprising" or "forging ahead with determination," Han Baohua suddenly laughed: "Director Zhang, aren't we being too serious? Readers will just skim through these words; who will remember them?"

Zhang Qiming replied at the time, "Someone always has to take things seriously when it comes to words."

However, after the post and telecommunications bureau was separated, Zhang Qiming gradually distanced himself from writing and had no further contact with Han Baohua.

Today, that copy of "The Wave Riders" has long been submerged by the tides of time, becoming a dusty memorial in the archives.

Unexpectedly, Han Baohua's son wanted the publishing house and the mobile company to cooperate.

Although the letter did not mention the specific details of the collaboration, the phrase "Today's youth use the screen as a window to see the world and all living beings" suggests that this is a very fresh and interesting idea.

Zhang Qiming returned to his desk, put down his wine glass, stretched his shoulders inside his suit jacket, and thought that since President Han had spoken up, he should show enough interest regardless of whether they could ultimately cooperate.

He picked up the phone from the table and dialed the extension number.

"Mr. Zhang," came the secretary's voice.

"Xiao Zhou, look up the phone number for Qingniao Publishing House."

"Okay, Mr. Zhang. Bluebird... Blue..."

"What's wrong?"

A moment of silence.

"What's wrong?" Zhang Qiming asked again.

"Mr. Zhang," the secretary stammered, "the night before last... the night before last, a man claiming to be the president of Qingniao Publishing House came by, but..."

Zhang Qiming pinched the sides of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and closed his eyes.

He knew without a doubt that his diligent secretary had once again taken it upon herself to turn down a collaboration for him, telling the client who came to see her that she was too busy. She was always so considerate.

"Mr. Zhang, I'll check for you right away!"

"No need," Zhang Qiming said, hanging up the phone, then opening a drawer and pulling out a stack of letters.