Chapter Thirty-Four: The People

The Zhao family’s roots lay elsewhere. His mother, Zhou Ya, hailed from Shanghai, while his father’s ancestral home was in Jianwu, the provincial capital of southern Su. Their fateful meeting occurred amid the rural fields surrounding Yijiang City during the tumultuous era of educated youths sent down to the countryside. Love blossomed, and together they settled in Yijiang to build their family and careers.

Most relatives lived far away, so their home was usually quiet. Yet this had its benefits: during the New Year, there was no need to visit endless kin; instead, the three of them gathered closely together. Zhou Ya prepared a lavish spread, while his father fried a huge basket of glutinous rice balls—Zhao Zejun’s favorite.

“More meat, more meat!” Every time they made rice balls, Zhao Zejun would clamor for extra meat, and this time was no different.

In the living room, the Spring Festival Gala had just begun. After Sister Ni Ping’s emotional introduction, the opening dance, “Welcoming Spring Together,” took the stage.

For over a decade, China’s Spring Festival Gala had been running; the programs became less exciting, the formulas more repetitive. It seemed only a matter of time before the words “Spring Festival Gala” were replaced with “Praise and Celebration Conference.” But like dumplings on New Year’s Eve, the taste hardly mattered. They were eaten for tradition’s sake. Whether the show was good or not, watching it was part of the celebration.

Huang Hong had just come on stage when Zhao Tao sneered, “How does this guy have the face to appear at the Gala?”

Back in the 1999 Gala, Huang Hong had cried out with passion, “We workers must think for the country! If I don’t get laid off, who will?” It stirred thunderous applause from the audience, and a flood of criticism from the public.

“Steadfast in his stance, strong in his resolve,” Zhao Zejun replied with a smile.

This year’s Gala, the main anticipation was Zhao Benshan’s skit. Last year’s “Selling Crutches” had rocked the nation; this year, the sequel “Selling Cars” appeared on the program. Chef Fan Wei’s intellect seemed to diminish year by year, while Zhao Benshan’s career soared ever higher.

From this year onwards, Zhao Benshan’s entertainment empire in the northeast began to take shape.

The people’s eyes are sharp as snow; those who look down on them, who lord their power over the masses, will be trampled and nailed to the pillar of shame. But those who bring joy to the people will be rewarded in turn.

The first half was Chairman Mao’s saying; the latter, Zhao Zejun’s own.

As midnight drew near, the family made calls to relatives and friends, exchanging New Year’s greetings. Here, the advantage of three mobile phones became clear: Zhao Zejun and Zhao Tao each dialed on their own; Zhou Ya, reluctant to spend on phone bills, used the home landline.

After his rebirth, Zhao Zejun didn’t have many friends, but the few he kept were of exceptional quality—not simply in terms of usefulness, but in the meaningful experiences and memories forged with them.

He began by sending a few texts—to his homeroom teacher, Lao He; to Niu Bida; to Shen Lian. None were close friends, but they kept in touch.

Niu Bida was the first to reply, forwarding a witty and warm message hundreds of words long.

Shen Lian responded after a couple of minutes, with a brief line: “The Buddha statue is finished; come get it when you have time.”

Lao He never replied.

Then he called several key people, one by one.

The first was Yu Zhe. That rascal was still updating his novel online even on New Year’s Eve, though he had prepared drafts ahead of time.

This had been Zhao Zejun’s advice: if you truly want to walk the path of online literature, talent aside, diligence is essential. Reflecting on the great web novelists of his past life, each had an impressive update pace in their early days. One much-maligned “elementary school” writer, despised by so-called literary snobs, had never missed an update in ten years, even after achieving fame. The consistency was remarkable.

Anyone who achieves something must possess a unique quality. No success is purely accidental.

Yu Zhe’s spirits were high. His first “Rogue” novel had been hugely successful. Upon seeing the outline for the second installment, “Swordwash” editors decided to focus on cultivating him. His book would launch after the holiday, and on Zhao Zejun’s advice, Yu Zhe had been posting short, whimsical side stories and teasers—little vignettes of a few thousand words, loosely connected, perfect for whetting readers’ appetites.

Yu Zhe, or “Blood Cloud” as he was known online, was destined for stardom in the web novel world.

Good fortune always favors the successful. When Yu Zhe was looked down upon by all, only Zhao Zejun befriended him. Now, riding the wave of success, many authors from Swordwash sought him out, and it was rumored he’d invited several colleagues to Yijiang for a holiday gathering.

“Mm, that’s a good idea. No matter the field, you can’t fight alone. It’s always useful to know more web writers.” Zhao Zejun had meant to say he’d join, but thought better of it—there was plenty to do over the winter break, and time might be tight.

Yu Zhe slyly shared a “secret”: his father had applied for five internet café licenses before the New Year, and sold them all. The Yu family was celebrating a prosperous holiday.

“My parents want you to come to dinner if you have time,” Yu Zhe said cheerfully.

“Got it. Wish them a happy New Year for me.”

After Yu Zhe, the next call was to Xia Yubing.

The other end was noisy, like a karaoke bar. He could faintly hear a girl singing Xu Huaiyu’s “Riding the Waves.”

“Hey? When did you get a phone? Didn’t even tell me your number? Haha…”

Xia Yubing’s voice was dreamy and languid, syrupy as if she had a mouthful of water.

Women always sounded this way after drinking.

“Where are you?” Zhao Zejun asked, curious.

“A few friends from the provincial capital are here—all childhood pals… I’m singing with them… Hehe, no one’s home when I go back. My mom’s gone to the capital for a conference… Spending New Year’s Eve alone at home feels so lonely…”

Zhao Zejun was speechless. What kind of friends were these, not going home for the holidays?

“Nothing, just calling to wish you a happy New Year. Oh, drink less, your voice sounds off,” he reminded.

Xia Yubing was usually reserved, rarely revealing her feelings. When she did touch on deeper topics, it was always vague and fleeting—never so candid as to say “being alone is so lonely.”

“Don’t worry, they’re all childhood friends—no bad apples! Hehe, are there any New Year’s gifts?”

“Mm, I’ll get you a bike. Didn’t yours get stolen?” Zhao Zejun offered after thinking.

Xia Yubing was silent for two seconds, then burst into an unladylike fit of laughter. Zhao Zejun could almost picture her, one hand braced against the wall, one holding her phone, shaking with laughter.

After a long while, she managed, breathless, “What… what do I need a bike for… haha!”

She was thoroughly drunk.

“You’ve got my number now. Call me if you need anything, and drink less,” he said before hanging up.

The next call was to Jiang Xuan.

Out of 365 days, Jiang Xuan was rarely home, but on New Year’s Eve, she always spent it with her mother—a tradition unbroken even up to her arrest in his previous life.

“This Gala gets worse every year. What are you up to?” Jiang Xuan asked.

“Watching TV at home,” Zhao Zejun replied.

“How about after midnight, I take you to set off the first firecracker of the New Year?” Jiang Xuan whispered, laughing.

Jiang Xuan had been in a foul mood lately. General Song had played him for a fool.