CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 23 Writing in the Republic Era (22)

Li Jingliang stepped down from the rickshaw. When his eyes fell on the four big characters at the school gate—Luming Middle School—he couldn’t help but sigh inwardly.

If it weren’t for Tang Nan, he wouldn’t have had to transfer from Kaiming Middle School to this one! In terms of reputation, Luming Middle School couldn’t compare to Kaiming, and transferring had also cost his family quite a sum of money.

Every time he thought of how he had ended up in his current situation because of Tang Nan, Li Jingliang ground his teeth in hatred. Outwardly Tang Nan looked like a proper gentleman, but in reality he was nothing but a treacherous villain! Just look at the scandalous things he had done—could any normal person do such things? If he had only ruined himself, that would have been one thing, but he had dragged Li Jingliang down with him!

Many at school knew that he and Tang Nan had been close; Tang Nan would often swagger into their classroom to look for him. So, once Tang Nan’s deeds were exposed and he was utterly disgraced, Li Jingliang too became implicated. His classmates pointed fingers, whispered behind his back, and gossiped about him constantly.

To temporarily escape the storm, Li Jingliang had no choice but to transfer schools. His family had slipped a good amount of silver to the principal to make it happen.

“Good morning, Li.” Someone patted him on the shoulder. He turned and saw Fu Kemao, whose family owned a moneyhouse and was very wealthy. Immediately, he put on a warm smile. “Good morning, Fu.”

The two walked toward the classroom together. On the way, Fu Kemao asked eagerly, “Did you read yesterday’s installment of The Rise of the Dynasty in the Beiping Novel Gazette?”

Li Jingliang nodded as if it were only natural. At Luming Middle School, anyone who hadn’t read The Rise of the Dynasty couldn’t even get into social circles. Since its serialization began in the Beiping Novel Gazette just two weeks ago, the novel had swept across the entire campus like wildfire. Boys and girls alike were fervently discussing it between classes.

Li Jingliang himself was a devoted reader, so when he heard Fu Kemao’s question, he launched right in, words flowing nonstop:

“Of course I read it. Yesterday Xu Wangmu organized the villagers to start catching locusts to eat.” At this point, he wrinkled his nose in disgust, quickly skipping over that filthy subject to raise a concern of his own. “But those locusts will run out sooner or later. What will Xu Wangmu do then?”

Fu Kemao shook his head, answering with a grave look, “More than that… I’ve got an even bigger question.”

“What is it?”

Swallowing, Fu Kemao’s eyes shone with longing. “Do you think those locusts are really as delicious as the author Lin Zhongqi described? Not only smelling fragrant, but actually tasting like chicken?”

Li Jingliang nearly choked. He replied stiffly, “How should I know? I’ve never eaten them.”

Fu Kemao asked in puzzlement, “But your family deals in grain. Haven’t you ever tried them in your own fields?”

Li Jingliang: Damn idiot.

If it weren’t for that Fu surname, Li Jingliang would have snapped back at him long ago. What did this young master mean by that? Did he really think he was one of those mud-legged peasants scraping for food in the fields? Just because Fu Kemao was a rich young master didn’t mean he wasn’t one too! His family hadn’t fallen so low that he had to eat bugs!

Forcing a strained smile, Li Jingliang tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Sorry, I haven’t.”

Fu Kemao, whether truly oblivious or just pretending, seemed not to notice his dark expression. Instead, he said coyly, “Then… how about this weekend, we go to my family’s estate in the suburbs and catch some locusts to eat?”

Li Jingliang: Swear words, swear words, swear words…

“I can also introduce you to some of my friends.”

Li Jingliang rubbed his face, then plastered on a broad smile. “Alright, I’ll definitely come!” Damn it, for the sake of connections, I’ll endure!

The sunset, golden like salted duck egg yolk, clung tightly to the eaves ahead. From the rooftops of several homes rose thin trails of smoke. On the street, pedestrians hurried along, while peddlers weaving through alleys cried out loudly, working hard to make their final sales.

“Collecting hair, sharpening knives, scissors for trade~”

“Selling sesame oil! Pure sesame oil!”

“Fresh locusts for sale! Just caught from the fields this morning—crispy like chicken!”

A rickshaw stopped in front of the shouting vendor, and out stepped a young man in a long gown. Even though the vendor had seen all kinds of people while roaming the land, he couldn’t help but brighten at the sight of this man, inwardly marveling at his good looks.

The man looked young, probably still a teenager. His skin was fair and clean, and anyone could tell he was a proper scholar. Honestly, he was even better-looking than the vendor’s own daughter.

“You’re selling locusts?”

The young man—Le Jing—looked at him with a strange expression. The vendor quickly explained:

“Sir, you may not know this, but don’t be fooled by how ugly they look. These locusts are excellent stuff. They grow up eating crops, better fed than me! So for people, they’re real nourishment.”

Afraid that Le Jing still wouldn’t believe him, he added:

“It’s not just me saying this. That Mr. Lin Zhongqi, who writes articles in the newspaper, said so. Ever since he mentioned the benefits of locusts in The Rise of the Dynasty, many wealthy gentlemen have hired people to catch locusts for eating!”

Le Jing fell silent for a while. What else could he say? Truly worthy of the name “a nation of foodies”—their focus was always so peculiar. At this rate, with how he planned to write the story, would someone eventually be stupid enough to eat Guanyin clay?

Le Jing had made his protagonist Xu Wangmu transmigrate into such an era of endless wars and famine for a reason. The plight of the fictional Da Hua was eerily similar to that of the Republic of China.

He had pored carefully over the humiliating modern history, so he knew exactly what this disaster-ridden country was about to face.

In 1929, eight provinces in the north suffered a devastating famine. Shaanxi was hit the hardest, its fields yielding nothing for three years. History calls it the “Famine of the 18th Year of the Republic.” And what is famine? The Erya · Explaining Heaven defines it: “If none of the edible plants ripen, it is famine.” Out of Shaanxi’s 92 counties, 91 were affected. More than 13 million people died, over 2 million starved to death. Hence the phrase often seen in historical texts to describe such times: “Great famine, people eating people.”

In 1931, the Yangtze River flooded, displacing 100 million and killing over 3 million—recorded as the “Great Jiang-Huai Flood,” again ending in famine and cannibalism.

In 1934, a nationwide drought brought famine and cannibalism;

1936, the Sichuan-Gansu famine, again cannibalism;

1941, famine in Guangdong, cannibalism;

1942, famine in Henan, cannibalism;

1943, Guangdong again, famine and cannibalism;

1946, famine in the south, cannibalism…

This was the Republic of China: a land where the average life expectancy was only 35 years, and people ate people.

Le Jing had always loved freedom and the beauty of humanity, which is why he so despised the Republic. For this “big dye vat” turned everything pure black, everything beautiful ugly. Looking across modern history, apart from a few scattered glimmers of human brilliance that lit up the era, what he saw most was the savage brutality that burst forth from people in their desperate struggle between life and death.

He didn’t know whether his presence in this era could change anything—maybe he couldn’t change a thing. But at the very least, he wanted to share the precious survival knowledge he carried from the future. He wanted to tell people: locusts can stave off hunger, these wild herbs are safe to eat, Guanyin clay is deadly, here are a few survival tricks…

He had no idea how many lives that knowledge could save, but for now, it was all he could do.

And from what that vendor said, his efforts were at least having some effect. That alone comforted him.

When Le Jing returned home, he found Yang Jinglun waiting for him.

Since it wasn’t yet the deadline to hand in his manuscript, Le Jing asked, “Is something the matter?”

Yang Jinglun replied, “Sir, Mr. Zheng Yiliang sent a letter to our magazine. I’ve come to deliver it to you.”

The envelope had already been opened, which was natural. Le Jing was now a minor celebrity, and letters from readers arrived at the editorial office every day from all corners of the country. Usually, Yang Jinglun would open them, select a few representative ones, and pass them on for Le Jing to answer.

Le Jing unfolded the letter and skimmed through it. Mr. Zheng wrote that he had long admired The Watchman. Judging a man by his words, he believed they must share much in common, and thus wished to invite Le Jing over for tea at his home sometime.

By temperament, Le Jing would normally refuse such an invitation. But remembering the assassination that would claim Zheng Yiliang’s life three years later, he hesitated.

After a few seconds’ thought, he decided to accept.

He had also read about Zheng Yiliang in historical texts of his later life, and knew him to be a straightforward, upright man of clear loves and hates. Such people were easier to befriend without worry. What’s more, Zheng Yiliang had often spoken up in his defense in the newspapers lately—he truly owed him thanks.

So after Yang Jinglun left, Le Jing penned a reply. He began by expressing his admiration and longing for Zheng Yiliang, then thanked him for his public support in the papers. Finally, he wrote that, to express his gratitude, he would host Zheng Yiliang himself that Sunday at his home for dinner, and would warmly welcome him.

When Zheng Yiliang received the letter while chatting with a friend, he laughed heartily after reading it.

“Good, good—so bold and generous.” He lifted his gaze toward his gloomy friend, an idea sparking in his mind. “Are you free this Sunday? Why don’t you come with me to see The Watchman?” He went on to explain how The Watchman had invited him to dinner in return.

The principal of Kaoming Middle School, Zhou Dezhang, glanced at his concerned friend. He knew Zheng Yiliang was trying to coax him out for some fresh air. Lately, Zhou Dezhang had been in low spirits, vexed by those corrupt opium-ridden officials in the government. Perhaps going out wouldn’t be so bad.

“I’ve read some of his writings too. They’re indeed good. Meeting him wouldn’t hurt.” Zhou Dezhang asked, “Do you know what kind of person he is?”

Without hesitation, Zheng Yiliang replied, “From his style and content, I’d say he must be about my age.”

Zhou Dezhang, already in his forties and a generation older than Zheng Yiliang, chuckled: “Then having one more friend a generation younger wouldn’t be bad either.”