Chapter 46: What on Earth is Inside the Schoolbag?

The massive commercial success of the comic book *Wind and Cloud* naturally ruffled some feathers.

Those comrades at the Shanghai Fine Arts Publishing House who had opposed the publication of *Wind and Cloud* during the initial review were wearing very gloomy expressions upon learning of its skyrocketing sales, especially the deputy editor-in-chief surnamed Jiang.

Through various connections, he had managed with great difficulty to secure a copy of *Wind and Cloud*. When he found out that the Xinhua Bookstore was preparing an additional print run of fifty thousand copies, his face twisted as if he had just swallowed bitter herbs.

Because his own picture-story books sold poorly, they were still piled up in the warehouse of the Xinhua Bookstore to this day.

With the New Year approaching, he was so angry that he refused to speak. While Editor-in-Chief Chen of the publishing house maintained a veneer of respect toward old comrades like them on the surface, behind the scenes, he pulled numerous strings. He had directly handed *Wind and Cloud* over to the Vanguard Publishing House and even opened the backdoor for them.

When all was said and done, Chen simply wanted to prop up that young man named Zheng Fei while washing his hands of any responsibility.

Jiang Weishan looked at the comic book in his hands, convinced that such a trend must not be allowed to grow; otherwise, it would spell the absolute end for traditional picture-story books.

He and several other veteran comrades had already formulated a countermeasure. For days, he had not gone anywhere, sitting constantly at his desk.

Picking up his pen was not for drawing, but with the intention of writing a critical essay. Yet, time and again, he lifted his pen only to lay it back down.

He simply could not find the right angle to cut in.

Just in the past couple of days, seeing a few students reading *Wind and Cloud* provided him with a flash of inspiration.

*What Is Actually Hidden Inside the Schoolbag?*

*Today on the street, I saw a child pull out from their schoolbag not textbooks, but a flashy, colorful "New-Style Picture-Story Book"......*

*Those seemingly flamboyant combat scenes are nothing more than the embodiment of violence. We must be on high alert against the emergence of this new type of opium...... and forge a positive, upward-moving learning environment for the flowers of our motherland.*

.......

.......

As the New Year drew closer, Zheng Fei had put down his brush.

Around these days, the neighborhood committee also issued a large ration coupon sheet to his family, which included not only grain and vegetable tickets, but meat tickets as well.

If one wished to use them, they had to take scissors and cut them apart themselves—though leaving them uncut was acceptable too.

The vegetable market prepared a "Assorted Stew" package roughly equivalent in value to the ration sheet; handing over the coupon directly would grant one a Spring Festival gift package.

In previous years, upon receiving the large ration coupon sheet, Zheng Fei would head straight for Shiliupu.

That was because there were plenty of headscarf-wearing village girls there, carrying baskets of chicken and duck eggs specifically to trade for various types of ration tickets.

During the New Year period, everyone turned a blind eye to such blatant ticket-scalping activities.

After all, people had just begun to live a decent life, and nobody wanted to make trouble during the festive season. A single large ration coupon sheet could be exchanged for roughly two baskets of eggs.

Someone like Zheng Fei, who had coupons but no cash, was ideally suited for trading eggs.

In past years, once Zheng Fei acquired the eggs, he would return to the alleyway to barter with everyone for various goods such as Eight-Treasure rice, glutinous rice dumplings, and flour products.

This year, he had no intention of doing so.

On the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth lunar month.

Before the sky had even brightened, Zheng Shuyao crawled out of bed at four o'clock, grabbed the large ration coupon sheet, and dashed off to the vegetable market with a basket, intending to buy a package of "Assorted Stew."

Yet by daybreak, Zheng Shuyao returned with an empty basket, her eyes red from crying. Having queued for over two hours, she was finally next in line.

Just then, the sales clerk announced: "Stop lining up behind! The vegetable baskets are sold out, come back tomorrow."

"Brother, I should have gotten up earlier."

Zheng Fei comforted his younger sister. Such occurrences were quite common; after all, while ration coupons were issued in sufficient quantities during the New Year, material supplies remained a perpetual problem.

Especially in a place like Tanziwan, which had been unceremoniously dumped onto the Putuo District back in the day—a place where neither father loved nor mother cared.

Even with holiday supply distributions, they could only ever scrape together a few meager leftovers.

In short, during the New Year, having money and coupons did not guarantee one could actually buy holiday goods. This drove the residents living in the Sanwan Yirong shanty towns to cordially greet the family members of the local leadership every single New Year.

Just as his little sister was lamenting her failure to queue up earlier, Zheng Fei dragged a large wicker basket out from the corner of the room.

Upon seeing the contents of the basket, Zheng Shuyao's mouth dropped wide open. Inside lay not only Chinese cabbages, but even pig trotters... and even a large yellow croaker.

"Brother, where did all of this... come from?"

"Shh, keep it down. Walls have ears."

Zheng Shuyao hurriedly covered her mouth with her hand.

She peered around cautiously before giving Zheng Fei a thumbs-up.

Zheng Fei smiled. He was not about to lecture his little sister on grand principles like "money makes the mare go."

Suffice it to say that those who lined up at the vegetable market at two or three in the morning were not all genuinely there to "buy groceries"; some harbored ulterior motives.

Early this morning, right after Zheng Shuyao left, Taotao and Qiusheng had covertly delivered a wicker basket full of New Year goods to his door.

Taotao grinned playfully and said:

"Brother Fei, do you have any stock of that comic book *Wind and Cloud*? If we took those out to sell, they would fly off the shelves for sure."

Noticing Taotao leaning toward this idea, Zheng Fei instantly turned stern: "You can sell melon seeds, peanuts, or even peddle some daily necessities, but publications and books—don't ever touch them."

"Why? What's wrong with touching these?"

"There's no way to explain it to you, just take it as absolute truth that you cannot touch them." Zheng Fei had heard before that in this country, certain red lines must never be crossed.

If they hawked books on the street, on a minor scale it was considered speculation and profiteering, but on a major scale it became a severe crime. Getting locked away for ten or twenty years would be a breeze.

Seeing Zheng Fei grow so grave, Taotao dared not bring up the matter again. Instead, he pulled ten large-denomination bills from his pocket.

"Brother Fei, this is your dividend for the past two months. We got reprimanded quite a bit in the beginning, so the yield is a little low."

"You got lectured that many times, didn't lose money, and even managed to turn a profit—that's already quite impressive."

"It's all thanks to Brother Fei's good coaching. Nowadays, whenever we whip out those newspapers, they don't dare casually confiscate our melon seeds and peanuts anymore."

Wang Qiusheng snorted.

"Those bastards! Every time they confiscated our goods, they never handed them in; they just divvied up the loot among themselves."

Zheng Fei did not stand on ceremony and accepted the money.

Just like when the three of them decided to collaborate on painting temple murals, this time Zheng Fei acted as the investor, putting up a total of two hundred yuan in the beginning.

The three had agreed that Zheng Fei would receive a twenty percent share of the profits.

Being able to take home a hundred yuan this time meant that Taotao and Qiusheng had earned a total of five hundred yuan over the past two months.

In other words, on average, each of them made at least one hundred yuan per month—hardly inferior to holding an iron rice bowl.

While Zheng Fei now possessed the status of a cartoonist and could spend lavishly without anyone questioning him, the other two young men had to feign poverty despite holding cash. Every time their goods were confiscated by the "mysterious organization," they wept more bitterly than anyone, wailing that they were being denied a path to survive.

Yet in truth, in order to tame these two troublemakers, Director Wang had long ago arranged for the neighborhood production team to assign them two quotas to knit yarn balls.

Having already tasted the sweetness of private enterprise, how could the two of them possibly care for a production team job paying less than twenty yuan a month?

They simply continued to cry poverty on the one hand while engaging in private peddling on the other. With the New Year approaching, their boldness grew even greater, and they had gone to set up roadside stalls near the vegetable market.

Taotao spoke with excitement, recounting how they had set up a stall near the market for just two hours yesterday, during which he and Qiusheng sold nearly a hundred yuan worth of melon seeds, netting a profit approaching fifty yuan.

If not for the lingering fear that the iron hammer of private enterprise crackdown might strike them down at any moment, setting up a stall for a full day and selling three or four hundred yuan worth of melon seeds would truly be no tall order.

Seeing the two getting carried away, Zheng Fei tossed some cold water on them to cool their heads.

Money could be earned, but one must never become the highest earner, because when the mallet fell, it always struck the tallest stake first.

If his calculation of the timeline was correct, Manager Chen of the "Wumei Restaurant" on Wulumuqi Road was likely sitting in a detention cell right now, writing ideological self-criticism reports simply because he had made too much money.