Chapter 25: My Surname is Let, as in "to let"

At times like these, you can truly see how cost-effective it is to rent a place. Dining out for hotpot costs about ten yuan, already considered a luxurious expense, but if you have your own place and cook, it’s much cheaper.

Staying at the guesthouse behind the hotpot restaurant is even more economical—just five yuan for a room. Originally, it would have sufficed for Weidong and Dogan to share a room in Shuhai; he would never stay in those large dormitories with a dozen or twenty people in a single room. He vaguely recalled the notorious guesthouse thieves of the eighties, who would kill others in the big shared rooms at night and rob them.

Now, with more girls joining, they had to rent an extra room, lest the police be called over some incident at night. While queueing for registration at the hospital, the eldest girl mentioned their older sister had run a clandestine dance hall, and those packed rooms with chaotic sleeping arrangements had led to death sentences.

So, spending ten yuan for lodging nearly equals a month’s rent elsewhere. If not for their decision to develop near the factory district on the Jiangnan banks, Weidong would have renewed the rental of his small room by the hospital long ago. For now, they were simply experiencing life.

Erfeng had not the slightest intention of sharing a bed with her own man; everyone was still quite conservative. Excitement kept her tossing and turning all night, even though this was just a guesthouse for the military district’s material transfer station in the city center—it already astounded her, so clean compared to the dim, earthen houses of the countryside. Now she truly understood the phrase “worlds apart.” For her, this felt like being in heaven.

The next morning, Weidong wasn’t in a hurry to catch the ferry. Instead, he went to the somewhat modernized Post and Telecommunications Hall in the city center to make a long-distance call to the Jiangzhe Nonferrous Metals Factory, inquiring and negotiating: Could they handle a ton of titanium ingots, and how could the goods be transferred by water?

This private factory simply added pure titanium to certain special components to ensure pipes and joints would be more durable under extreme conditions. The titanium would be used in everything from satellites and spacecraft to petrochemical pipelines, pump components, and containers. Pure titanium was like a magical additive—a little mixed in would harden ordinary materials significantly, and its price soared.

Pure titanium was scarce in the market, and imported titanium smelted from rutile was monopolized, with the tiny quota in Shuhai quickly snapped up. So, hearing about a whole ton, they agreed joyfully.

When told the shipment would be by water, they proposed a new plan: deliver directly to Shuhai, since their titanium would ultimately end up in the specialized workshops of the Shuhai Steel Plant for alloy smelting. The small factory couldn’t handle such advanced processes; they would merely cut alloy plates into components.

They set a departure time, and their staff would wait at the Shuhai port to receive the cargo.

Weidong managed to suppress his excitement as he hung up. In half a year of careful accumulation, he had become a ten-thousand-yuan household; now, with this deal, he’d become several times over. There was real promise in following a master.

Even if the master was a bit flashy and stubborn, it still proved that clinging to a big shot was the way to reach a higher platform. Preserving the lower limit was what bacon was for, but aiming for the upper limit meant following the master closely.

The two country bumpkins sat outside the Post and Telecommunications Hall, watching intently. This was the busiest, most prosperous area in the city center, bustling with people from morning on—department stores, foreign goods shops, theaters, performing troupes, children’s activities, even rare traffic jams.

Weidong was unimpressed; thirty years later, any county town would be busier, with taller and prettier buildings. Time to go.

They stopped by a famous old eatery for tangyuan and pork buns. Erfeng could now discern the quality of ingredients, far superior to the riverside snack stalls from yesterday.

When Weidong strutted out, he pointed to the sign beside them: this place had hosted dignitaries since the Republic era. This city had once served as the wartime capital, gathering celebrities from across the nation. Erfeng surely wanted a photo by the sign, but didn’t know how to express her excitement.

Passing a photo studio, she gently pleaded, “Let’s just take a couple pictures; Dogan said you all took photos when you traveled.” Cautious, hungry Dogan nodded eagerly.

They didn’t realize that the studio next to the famous Republic-era eatery was itself a renowned old brand, famous since the same era. The receptionist was inevitably arrogant, looking down on these country folk: “We specialize in artistic portraits and are the designated photo studio for passport photos for those going abroad—not just any studio for casual snapshots.”

That was fine, but it made Weidong’s eyes light up: “I want that, the standard passport photo for going abroad!” He then unleashed his cigarette-offering tactic to probe for information: “So, how does one go about the procedures for going abroad?”

Truly, at that moment, his forty years of experience were useless. As a disabled old security guard who’d never left Shangzhou, he only knew that after the new century, the compound experienced a sudden craze for overseas travel, with retired elders forming groups for Southeast Asia, even Japan and Europe. He’d watched quietly, a bit envious, knowing it wasn’t his fate.

He had no idea how difficult it was to go abroad at this time; everything was in preparation for changing his flight. Retired cadres first applied for passports and visas; some missed out on trips with their friends because they hadn’t completed procedures in time, and regretted it, pestering the gatehouse daily about express deliveries.

That was the extent of his knowledge.

So, he decided to start the process himself, ready to act when needed.

He finally hit a wall. The reception staff, full of superiority, said, “This year alone, only sixteen individuals have had photos taken here for passport procedures. You need organizational approval for an overseas assignment to qualify. What’s your status—professor, scholar, national team athlete?” He blocked the cigarette: “No smoking in the studio.”

Weidong, now shameless, persisted, “I don’t smoke, just wanted to ask—if I want to go abroad for business, what do I need for passport and visa?” The staff felt something odd, as did the doctors earlier. This young man in ordinary clothes spoke with rare politeness and composure for the era.

He might not know much, yet he could clearly articulate the need for passport and visa—something ninety-nine percent of people in the eighties didn’t understand.

He turned to his companions, “You two take single portraits, make them pretty with flowers, and at the end we’ll take a group photo. I want the standard passport photo.”

Having ensured their business, he returned with a smile: “How much? We’ll pay now, because we might need to go to Russia… Eastern Europe or the Soviet Union for business, and want to sell Jiangzhou and Shudu’s specialties over there. Just preparing ahead…” He finished with a thumb’s up, jokingly adding, “Spicy chicken shreds!” Russian jokes were popular at the time.

It was a compliment to the studio for its sophistication.

Having seen all sorts, the staff finally dropped their attitude and smiled, arranging for payment and considering, “You’ll need to go to the police to apply. Usually it’s for official research or business exchange, and quotas are rare. With an invitation from foreigners, it’s much easier. Your situation… seems to fall under foreign trade; an invitation from overseas would help. Official assignments are much harder, unless you have relatives abroad.”

Just these words made Weidong feel his money well spent. In an era where profits came from information gaps, he felt confident in exploiting them. Every detail could serve his business, ultimately serving his plan to change flights.

He smiled, “Could I have your business card? If I need important photography, I can pay to hire you—product shoots, company projects, whatever.” Now they were sure this young man could get things done—he knew exactly what he was about.

He could effortlessly treat these things as mere tools. When handing over his business card, the manager asked, “Do you have a card yourself?” Perhaps in his mind, such extraordinary poise in someone so humble could only come from families with overseas connections.

This was common in Shuhai, but in Jiangzhou it was dazzling.

Weidong didn’t realize he was unconsciously exhibiting the confidence of society forty years in the future. Smiling, he dusted off his trendy green army jacket, took the card with both hands: “I’m nothing yet, still learning actively. A pleasure, Mr. Zhang. My surname is Rang—as in ‘to yield.’”

Even years later, Manager Zhang remembered this young man with the unusual surname. He had neither the suppressed agitation common among intellectuals of the era nor the naive excitement of the proletariat—just cheerful, energetic optimism.

Though his surname meant ‘to yield,’ he had an air of making way for himself wherever he went.

Hence, they specially arranged for the studio’s master photographer to take his passport photo.

He didn’t change clothes much—just removed his jacket and sweater, straightened the collar of a white shirt, dabbed on some makeup, styled his hair with gel, and relied mainly on lighting.

The result was a portrait much like those later favored by insurance agents and real estate consultants—a successful person’s artistic photo. In front of a velvety, elegant dark background, he appeared wise and composed, extraordinary in bearing.

In 1983, it was a portrait that outshone the age.

Erfeng and Dogan, watching nearby, were stunned: was that really Dong?

Weidong took it in stride, even though he hadn’t seen the negatives. They agreed to pick up the prints in a few days, paid, and left.

Even the master photographer gave Manager Zhang a thumbs up.

Artistic portraits were rare—many prominent figures were ill at ease in unfamiliar settings, showing awkwardness and uncertainty. This young man was too calm.

For people forty years in the future, it was nothing. Every household took wedding, work, and graduation photos; let alone artistic portraits like Photoshop creations anyone could do on their phone.

Weidong thought, “Give me a phone and a filter, and I could take one myself.”

Never having used a camera, he really didn’t care.

Only the ignorant can display such worldly composure.

He deliberately dawdled, wandering about until after eleven before taking the ferry across the river. Erfeng admired his gelled hair all the way, in classic lovestruck fashion.

They split up and arrived at the nonferrous metals store, where a Dongfeng truck was parked at the entrance.

Weidong’s eyes lit up; he had trained on the same model at the transport company, though this one was much better than those hauling sand and cement in the countryside.

Meeting the others, he handed out cigarettes and invited, “Let’s have hotpot together to warm up—it’s really good.”

He even invited the driver.

Erfeng and Dogan had already gone ahead to reserve a table.

Thanks to his hairstyle, he seemed rather dashing and youthful.

In those days, no one cared about brand-name clothes or fancy watches as status symbols.

It was all about charisma.