Chapter Forty-One: Philosophy, Poetry, and Love (1)

At this moment, while Cheng Xiaoyu was already mired in endless rumors, he felt not the slightest sense of pride at being linked with a beautiful woman. As he rose to leave the classroom, teasing voices erupted around him; even someone as thick-skinned as Cheng Xiaoyu couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed. There was nothing to be done, so he braced himself and walked forward under the barrage of curious, gossiping eyes. Wang Ou dared not walk with him and instead trailed behind at a distance.

He hadn’t even reached the stairwell when Gu Manting called out to him, saying that the Chinese teacher, Jiang Wenhua, was looking for him in the office. Only then did Cheng Xiaoyu realize that being a literary plagiarist could be a troublesome business.

When he entered the office, Jiang Wenhua was chatting and laughing with four or five other teachers, who seemed to be members of the Chinese teaching group. Cheng Xiaoyu hadn’t expected such a formidable gathering; it looked as though a round of interrogation was inevitable. Steeling himself, he greeted them. “Teacher Jiang, did you want to see me?”

Before Jiang Wenhua could reply, a tall, thin, middle-aged man with the fashionable medium-length hair of the day and gold-rimmed glasses spoke first. “So this is Cheng Xiaoyu?” he asked, glancing at Jiang Wenhua.

Jiang Wenhua smiled. “Yes, this is him. Cheng Xiaoyu, come here. This is Editor-in-Chief Hu Qingge from ‘The Surge’ magazine. He came here today specifically to meet you.”

Cheng Xiaoyu gave a slight bow. “Hello, Teacher Jiang. Hello, teachers. Hello, Editor-in-Chief Hu.”

Though Hu Qingge found Cheng Xiaoyu’s appearance a little lacking, his admiration for the boy’s talent was overwhelming. He strode over, grasped Cheng Xiaoyu’s hand, and exclaimed, “Your poetry is extraordinary—thunderous, thought-provoking! In our generation, poetry has already begun to fade away; how long has it been since China produced a poet who could make people sit up and take notice?”

Cheng Xiaoyu blushed slightly. “You flatter me. I was just moved by what I saw and wrote down my feelings. I’m only an amateur poetry enthusiast, not a real poet.”

“To write such poetry and still claim not to be a poet—then what, exactly, is a poet? Is it those writing from below the belt? Or the ones who rely on coquettish tricks? Chinese poetry has entered a bizarre dead end—either it’s so strange and convoluted it leaves people dumbfounded, or it’s all flowery but empty rhetoric, with no real spirit left. Your ‘Dream as Steed’ is truly remarkable!” Hu Qingge said with emotion; he hadn’t expected a high schooler to write with such grandeur and depth.

Cheng Xiaoyu could only offer a wry smile. “So, you didn’t come all this way today just to praise me, did you?”

Hu Qingge patted his shoulder. “Please, let me publish a few of your poems in the next issue of ‘The Surge.’ Including that one you wrote for your little girlfriend, ‘The Farthest Distance in the World.’” He chuckled heartily.

Cheng Xiaoyu replied, a bit embarrassed, “Editor-in-Chief Hu, you misunderstand. Ji Yunyun and I are just ordinary classmates…”

He was interrupted by Hu Qingge’s good-natured laughter. “Don’t worry. Your teacher Jiang is my old classmate—his wife now was also our high school classmate. He started dating even earlier than you. As they say, when the beam at the top is crooked, the ones below will follow—blame yourself for choosing the wrong teacher.”

Jiang Wenhua laughed as well. “Old Hu, is this how a role model should behave? This is my student—if you keep talking nonsense, I’ll have him send his poems to a different magazine!”

Hu Qingge pointed at Jiang Wenhua, still grinning. “If you dare, I’ll tattle to Liping—who was it sneaking drinks and cigarettes at my house?”

The surrounding teachers all burst into laughter, and Cheng Xiaoyu could only join in.

Jiang Wenhua shook his head. “Being friends with you must be the result of eight lifetimes of good karma!” Then, turning to Cheng Xiaoyu with a smile, he added, “‘The Surge’ is one of the best poetry magazines in the country. Your teacher here has submitted several times, only to be rejected by Editor-in-Chief Hu. For him to come and meet you in person is an extraordinary honor. He’s also vice chairman of the Shanghai Writers’ Association. For him to see promise in you is no small thing!”

Seeing there was no room to refuse, Cheng Xiaoyu could only say, “I leave it entirely to your discretion, Teacher Jiang.”

Jiang Wenhua went on to introduce the other teachers, especially Li Junlan, who had insisted on giving Cheng Xiaoyu full marks for his essay despite considerable opposition.

Li Junlan himself had dreamed of being a poet in his youth, submitting countless works to various poetry societies and magazines, most of which vanished without a trace. Of the few that were published, the response had been tepid. Still, he was a true lover of literature, repulsed by the sensationalist trends in modern poetry. When he read Cheng Xiaoyu’s essay, he was utterly astounded; every line struck a chord, and he was nearly moved to tears. Otherwise, he would never have written that Cheng Xiaoyu was a totemic poet of this era.

After grading, he immediately shared it with his fellow teachers. There were suspicions of plagiarism, but after scouring the internet and all the magazines for traces of the poem and finding none, their doubts subsided.

When grading was finished, the math teacher, Mr. Wu, delivered Cheng Xiaoyu’s zero-mark math paper to the Chinese teachers, prompting another round of laughter. The names matched—it really was Cheng Xiaoyu. The teachers were relieved: Fudan Affiliated High School had finally produced a true oddity.

Jiang Wenhua had sent a special message about it to his old friend Hu Qingge, which was why Hu had come in person to seek out the young poet.

Hu Qingge asked Cheng Xiaoyu if he had any other works.

Cheng Xiaoyu quickly waved his hands. “Just these few—what you see is all there is!”

Hu Qingge looked a little disappointed. “Well, if you write anything new, don’t keep it to yourself. Let me see it first.” He took down Cheng Xiaoyu’s contact information. “An editor will be in touch about payment. Once you’ve gathered enough poems, I’ll try to help you publish a collection.”

Cheng Xiaoyu could only smile awkwardly. After a bit more small talk, Jiang Wenhua told him he could go.

Cheng Xiaoyu left the office without looking back; by now, most people had already left the school.

Wang Ou, Xia Shamo, and Chen Haoran were waiting for him in Lantern Forest.

After changing his shoes, Cheng Xiaoyu headed for the bulletin board, intending to tear down “The Farthest Distance in the World.” To his surprise, he spotted Su Yuxi.

It was not yet ten in the morning. The vast campus was shrouded in a silent mist, the air as soft as gauze spreading in every direction. The solemn teaching buildings stood quietly, as if the world had shrunk to just two souls.

Cheng Xiaoyu thought he heard a string melody by his ear. Standing there, ponytail swinging, dressed in her school uniform, Su Yuxi looked like a white lotus blooming in the cold wind—a scene so beautiful it took one’s breath away.

Cheng Xiaoyu drew a quiet breath, suppressing an inexplicable nervousness, and walked toward the bulletin board. He thought Su Yuxi would turn at the sound of his footsteps, but she continued reading the poem with intense concentration.

When he reached out to tear down “The Farthest Distance in the World,” he was surprised to feel a pale hand restrain him.

He turned to see Su Yuxi’s calm face. She didn’t ask for permission; she simply asserted, “Wait until I’m finished.” The tone was so imperious that, strangely, it caused no resentment.

Cheng Xiaoyu could only stand aside and wait quietly as she read.

That brief wait seemed to freeze time, the moment turning into a sepia photograph. He heard a faint sigh, and Su Yuxi turned, her clear eyes fixed on him. Her lips parted as she asked, “assb?” (German: What is love?)

For a literary youth like Cheng Xiaoyu, such a question was hardly a challenge. After a brief thought, he responded in crisp, proper London English, his rich voice lilting softly through the thin mist, reciting Yeats’s “When You Are Old”:

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Su Yuxi was silent for a moment, then frowned, looking at Cheng Xiaoyu with disdain. “Is all your talent just for stringing together pretty words to amuse girls?”

“You’ve never even been in love, yet you pretend to understand it better than anyone. Is your mind so deeply mired in these decadent love poems that you can’t extricate yourself?”

“You truly are laughably shallow.”

Her cold voice was like shards of ice swept along a rushing, frozen river, each one carrying a biting chill straight toward Cheng Xiaoyu.