A Literary Life Starting from the First Year of High School

Lin Shubai put the pen on the table, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

The noodle shop from lunchtime popped into his mind.

Chunhua Noodle Shop.

The glass door creaks when it's pushed open, and a waft of hot air mixed with the aroma of noodles wafts out. The colors of the New Year pictures on the wall have faded, and the ceiling fan makes a noise when it turns on.

A red paper was pasted next to the counter, which read "Our store celebrates its 15th anniversary".

A woman wearing a blue apron stood behind the cashier, looking around the store. When she smiled, there were wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.

The mother at the next table rolled noodles around chopsticks, blew on them a few times, and then fed the child.

My father once said that when he was young, he ate plain noodles, and the first time he treated my mother to a meal, it was at a noodle shop.

What if "Hokkai-tei" became "Shunka Noodle Shop"?

How about changing Lunar New Year's Eve to Lunar New Year's Eve?

The mother is a laid-off female worker, and her two sons are in junior high school and elementary school respectively.

Are the owners the woman wearing the blue apron and her husband?

He picked up his pen again.

Character names: Mother – let's call her Xiuying, a common name. Eldest son – Zhiqiang, younger son – Zhiming. Noodle shop owner – let's call her Chunhua Sao, the noodle shop is named after her.

Background: This isn't Sapporo, Hokkaido, but an inconspicuous alley in the old city of Shanghai. Chunhua Noodle Shop has been open for fifteen years, and everyone in the neighborhood knows it. The noodle shop isn't big, with only seven or eight tables. The New Year pictures on the walls have faded, and the ceiling fan creaks when it turns on.

Time: Not the Showa era, but now, 2010. But the story begins many years ago on New Year's Eve and continues to this day.

Details: the layout of the noodle shop, the location of the cashier, the New Year pictures on the wall, the creaking of the ceiling fan, the notice at the door announcing the 15th anniversary of its opening... He wrote down the scenes he saw at noon today, bit by bit, on the manuscript paper.

He wrote about the New Year's Eve when Xiuying first brought her two sons to Chunhua Noodle Shop. It was snowing outside, but the shop was steaming warmly. Zhiqiang and Zhiming followed closely behind their mother, but their eyes couldn't help glancing at the bowls of noodles on other tables. Chunhua's wife noticed that the youngest child was staring intently at the noodles on the next table, but he didn't say a word, only swallowed hard.

Xiuying hesitated for a long time before finally saying, "One bowl of clear broth buckwheat noodles." Chunhua's wife paused, glanced at the two children, said nothing, and turned to go into the kitchen. She grabbed an extra handful of noodles and ladled out an extra spoonful of broth, then brought it out and said to her husband, "Just one bowl, the same as before."

Year after year, every New Year's Eve, Xiuying would bring her two children. Every year, she would only order one bowl of noodles. Every year, Chunhua would secretly add half a portion more, always saying, "It's the same." One New Year's Eve, the snow was particularly heavy, and the mother and her two children arrived covered in snow. Chunhua poured them three cups of hot water so they could warm up before eating. As they left, Xiuying bowed deeply and said, "Thank you, and I wish you a happy New Year."

One New Year's Eve, the mother and her two children didn't come. They didn't come the following year either. Sometimes Chunhua would mutter, "I wonder how those three are doing." Her husband would say, "Maybe the children have grown up and gone somewhere else." Chunhua didn't say anything more, but every New Year's Eve, she would put three extra pairs of chopsticks next to the cashier.

More than a decade later, on New Year's Eve, two well-dressed young men helped a gray-haired woman into a noodle shop. They ordered three bowls of clear broth buckwheat noodles. When it came time to pay, the eldest son paid ten times the usual amount. He said, "Madam, thank you for that half-portion of noodles all these years."

Chunhua's sister-in-law stood there, staring at the steaming three bowls of noodles, her eyes reddening. She opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but in the end only asked, "The snow is heavy this year, are the roads easy to travel on?" Xiuying nodded, her eyes also reddening.

As Lin Shubai wrote this, his own eyes welled up with tears.

He continued writing the last paragraph:

"It was still snowing outside. Chunhua's wife stood at the shop entrance, watching the backs of the mother and her two children disappear at the end of the alley. The snow fell heavier and heavier, covering their footprints. She turned around and saw her husband clearing away the dishes. All three bowls were empty, and the soup had been drunk clean."

"The snow is really heavy this year," the husband said.

"Um."

Are you open tomorrow?

"We're open for business," said Sister Chunhua. "On the first day of the Lunar New Year, maybe some people will come for noodles."

She went into the kitchen, her apron still covered in flour. The snow was still falling outside, and the light at Chunhua Noodle Shop was still on. The light swayed in the wind and snow, illuminating the signboard at the entrance that had been there for fifteen years.

He put down his pen and read it once.

Outside the window, a gentle evening breeze blew in, carrying a hint of coolness.

He glanced at the time: 1:40 a.m.

He wrote for more than three hours.

He read the manuscript again from beginning to end. Three thousand eight hundred words. A little longer than the original, but he felt it was just right.

Those details—Sister Chunhua's gaze, the location of the cashier, the New Year pictures on the wall, the creaking of the ceiling fan, the notice at the door announcing the 15th anniversary of its opening—all came from that noodle shop at noon today.

He thought of the woman wearing the blue apron. He wondered if she had ever encountered a mother and son like that. He wondered how many years her noodle shop had been open, and how many New Year's Eves it had witnessed.

Lin Shubai carefully put the manuscript back in the drawer and turned off the desk lamp.

Outside the window, the sound of pile driving at the construction site had long since ceased. On the distant overpass, traffic was sparse. Shanghai in 2010 finally quieted down in the early hours of the morning.

He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow will be another new day.

Sunday morning.

Lin Shubai sat up abruptly and glanced at the stack of graph paper on his desk. Three manuscripts were piled together: "The Most Precious Gift," "Lunch," and the one he had just finished writing last night. He had changed "A Bowl of Clear Soup Buckwheat Noodles" to "Chunhua Noodle Shop," changed the name of the noodle shop, and completely transformed the story into one set in Shanghai.

Lin Shubai glanced at his watch; it was 8:10 AM. Today was Sunday, no school. He got dressed, put the three manuscripts into his schoolbag, and went out the door. He planned to ask the proprietress if she would be willing to use her noodle shop as a background. He had impulsively used the noodle shop's name yesterday, and he didn't even know if the proprietress's real name was Chunhua.

"Are you up?" Wang Xiulan was serving porridge.

"Okay." Lin Shubai took the bowl. "Mom, I have to go out today to Nanjing Road. I have something to take care of."

Wang Xiulan glanced at him but didn't ask any further questions: "Come back soon."

"understood."

Lin Shubai quickly finished his porridge, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and went out. Just as he reached the corner on the fifth floor, he saw Su Wan's door open.

Su Wan peeked out, her hair uncombed and disheveled, wearing a loose nightgown with Mickey Mouse printed on it. She was holding a bag of milk and drinking it through a straw.

"Lin Shubai?" she mumbled, "Where are you going so early?"

"Go out for a bit."

"Where are you going?" Su Wan took the milk carton out of her mouth, her eyes lighting up. "You stayed home doing your homework on Saturday, but you're going out on Sunday? Something's not right."

"Nothing's wrong, I'm just going to take care of some business."

"What is it?" Su Wan pressed, looking him up and down. "What's in your backpack?"

Lin Shubai hesitated for a moment. Su Wan and he had grown up together since childhood; nothing could be hidden from her. He unzipped his backpack and took out the three manuscripts to show her.

"I've written three stories," he said, "and I want to submit them for publication."

Su Wan took the manuscript, flipped through it, and her eyes widened: "You wrote this? When did you write it?"

"These past few days."

"You can write stories?" Su Wan handed the manuscript back to him, her face full of disbelief. "Where should I submit it?"

"Story Club"

Su Wan paused for two seconds, then shoved the milk carton into her mouth, turned, and ran into the house: "Wait for me! I'll change my clothes! I'll go with you!"

"You don't need to come with me—"

"Just wait!"

"Bang!"

Lin Shubai stood at the top of the stairs and smiled helplessly. Less than five minutes later, Su Wan rushed out, dressed, her hair tied in a ponytail with a hair tie, her coat on but not yet zipped up.

"Let's go, let's go." She pulled Lin Shubai downstairs.

The two walked to the bus stop, just as a bus arrived.

Standing next to the back door of the bus, Su Wan grabbed the handrail and leaned closer to ask, "What story did you write? Tell me about it."

"Three stories. One is about a poor couple buying gifts for each other, each selling their most precious possessions. Another is about a young writer who treats his guests to dinner and ends up bankrupt. The third is about a noodle shop, a warm and welcoming noodle shop."

"I feel like everything you write is weird. I thought you were writing martial arts stories," Su Wan replied.

There will be opportunities in the future.

Su Wan tilted her head to look at him, her gaze a little strange, and suddenly asked, "You never wrote anything before, why are you suddenly writing stories?"

Lin Shubai paused for a moment: "I just suddenly felt like writing."

Su Wan didn't ask any further questions, and simply said "Oh".

Upon arriving at Nanjing Road, Lin Shubai led Su Wan around a bend, and the sign for Chunhua Noodle Restaurant was right in front of them.

"Weren't you going to submit your work? What are you doing here?" Su Wan looked around.

"I copied the noodle shop post from that shop, so I need to go ask them today if they agree with it."

Lin Shubai pushed open the door, and the glass door creaked open.

"You're here? Come in and have a seat!" A woman's voice came from behind the counter, with a Shanghai accent.

Zhou Chunhua, wearing a blue apron, looked up and smiled when she saw Lin Shubai: "Oh, it's you. What brings you here again today?"

"Auntie, I want to talk to you about something." Lin Shubai walked over. "This is my classmate, Su Wan, who came with me."

Su Wan greeted her sweetly, "Hello, Auntie."

"Okay, okay." Zhou Chunhua nodded. "What's the matter?"

"Auntie, what's your surname?"

"My surname is Zhou, Zhou Chunhua. This shop is named after me."

Lin Shubai took out the manuscript of "Chunhua Noodle Shop" from his bag and handed it to her: "Aunt Zhou, I wrote an article about your noodle shop. I used your shop's name and wrote about the proprietress in your style. I want to submit this article to 'Story Club' for publication, so I wanted to ask if you agree."

Zhou Chunhua took the manuscript, put on her reading glasses, and slowly began to read. Su Wan stood beside her, curiously peering in.

The shop was quiet. The customers at the next table finished their noodles and left.

After reading the last paragraph, Zhou Chunhua took off her reading glasses and gently placed the manuscript on the table: "This...is it about me?"

"I wrote this based on your shop, but the story is made up. Xiuying and her two children are fictional. I just thought your shop was really great and wanted to write it down."

Zhou Chunhua nodded: "It's good that it's been published, so more people can see it. Using my shop name or my appearance is fine, it doesn't matter."

"Thank you, Aunt Zhou."

"No need to thank me." Zhou Chunhua pointed to the manuscript paper, "But you need to change the location. My shop has been open for seventeen years, not fifteen."

"Okay." Lin Shubai took a pen and made the changes on the spot.

Zhou Chunhua looked at the revised manuscript and smiled: "Little girl, you wrote well. Reading it makes me feel warm and cozy."

Su Wan, who had been silent the whole time, suddenly interjected, "Auntie, you're so generous. I would definitely feel embarrassed to let someone else write it for me."

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about," Zhou Chunhua waved her hand. "Well written is well written. You should try writing some in the future; maybe you'll be even more talented than her."

Su Wan stuck out her tongue.

Lin Shubai put away the manuscript, stood up to say goodbye. As he reached the door, Zhou Chunhua's voice came from behind him: "Come over for noodles next time!"

"I'll definitely come!"

"So where to go now? Home?"

Lin Shubai glanced at the post office across the street: "Go mail the manuscript."

The two crossed the street and went into the post office. Lin Shubai bought a large envelope, sat down, and checked the three manuscripts again. "The Most Precious Gift," "Lunch," and "Spring Blossom Noodle Shop" were all put inside.

He picked up a pen and began writing the address on the large envelope. He stopped abruptly halfway through.

"What's wrong?" Su Wan leaned over to look.

"The submission guidelines say to indicate which editor you are submitting to. 'Story Collection' has a red edition and a green edition, and the two editions have different editors."

"Which one should we vote for?"

Lin Shubai thought for a moment and opened the copy of "Story Collection" that he had brought from his schoolbag.

The call for submissions was written in small print: "Please be sure to indicate 'Red Edition' or 'Green Edition' on the envelope so that the editors can sort them."

"We have to choose one," Lin Shubai said.

"What genre are these stories you've written?" Su Wan asked.

Lin Shubai thought for a moment. "The Most Precious Gift" was a heartwarming story, "Lunch" had a touch of satire, and "Spring Blossom Noodle Shop" was also heartwarming. He flipped through the magazines in his hand; the red editions were more urban, emotional, and socially conscious, while the green editions were more folk, legendary, and suspenseful.

"Vote for the red version."

He neatly wrote in the lower right corner of the envelope: "To the editor of the red edition".

Then write your name and home address in the sender field.

He sealed the envelope and walked to the mailbox. Su Wan followed behind him, watching him drop it in.

The envelope made a soft "thump" sound as it fell in.

"That's it?" Su Wan asked.

"that's all."

When will we hear anything?

"I don't know." Lin Shubai looked at the mailbox.

"It might take a week, it might take two weeks. Or there might be no news at all."

"How could there be no news? It's written so well, it's bound to be published," Su Wan said, pursing her lips.

Lin Shubai didn't say anything, he just smiled.

The two walked out of the post office, and the sunlight had already bathed the entire street. In September, Shanghai was bathed in clear skies and gentle breezes, and Nanjing Road was bustling with people.

Lin Shubai said, "Let's go, I'll treat you to pan-fried dumplings."

"Really?" Su Wan's eyes lit up. "Then I won't be polite."

"Have you ever been polite?"

The two walked across the pedestrian street towards the snack shops. Su Wan walked ahead, muttering to herself, "When did you learn to write stories? I never knew you had this talent before..."

Lin Shubai followed behind her, listening to her rambling on, without replying.

The sunlight shone on his face, warm and comforting.

Now all that's left is to wait.