Chapter 61: There's Nothing Else I Can Offer

Because just like facing the grocer on the banks of West Lake, Wei Dong showed no reluctance toward these college students either. He handed over all the cameras he had left in Pingjing—over a hundred—to He Yuemei, the bespectacled student, to take charge of. This student seminar had drawn student leaders from eight nearby institutions to the Institute of Metallurgy, so He Yuemei, Han Guobin, and two others were from the Institute of Metallurgy, while the other three came from the Institute of Aeronautics, the Geological Academy, and the Medical Academy, one from each.

Wei Dong accompanied them back to the press house on the city bus, explaining every detail, even recounting his ingenious strategy for selling at West Lake. “I don’t want you to scrape together the payment by any means necessary,” he said. “I believe the seven of you will encourage and supervise one another to do this well. You may face setbacks, ridicule, or even get into trouble, but I’ll support you. Together, we’ll get these cameras into tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, and even millions of hands.”

It was rather amusing. Wei Dong himself didn’t like gambling—unlike You Qili and the others, he would never wager his fortune on a single venture. But within the realm of manageable risk, he was quite willing to put on a bit of a show. It was like when he played cards; near the end, he liked to lay out his hand and say, “Don’t bother, let me calculate the rest for you.”

The college students had already thought his “game” was about treating human fate as a kind of play. Now, their admiration for him was absolute.

One hundred forty-seven X cameras—that number stuck with He Yuemei and the others for years, as if it foretold a clear division of labor among them. The total value exceeded four thousand yuan, plus a hundred and fifty unbranded, white-packaged test rolls of color film. All this was handed over on the strength of a handwritten receipt from He Yuemei.

Wei Dong, still very much in character, escorted them to the bus stop, then turned back toward the guesthouse, ready to depart early the next morning. He never traveled at night.

Han Guobin stood on the bus, glanced back at the figure quickly surrounded by a crowd of padded coats, and rallied his six new companions: “He treated us as guests of honor; how can we not repay him in kind?” The others responded with laughter—“So earnest!”

The next morning, before dawn, the two most energetic among them rode their bicycles more than ten kilometers to Qianmen. There, they handed over 5,913 yuan in crisp bills to Wei Dong, who was just loading his truck for departure.

It was all so simple. At the seminar, more than a hundred students clamored to buy a camera. Out of a thousand attendees, a fair fraction wanted one. With tens of thousands of students across the eight local colleges, it was as easy as selling out a cup of water in the desert during dinner at the cafeteria.

Color film at twelve yuan a roll was even more sought after than the cameras. Outside, it cost twenty-four or twenty-five! And the plain white packaging gave it an air of exclusivity; everyone wanted more. But no—each camera came with just one roll.

Of course, the group kept a camera each for themselves at the “internal price,” and held back a few rolls for practice and familiarity. They spent the night drafting sales and financial rules, compiling contact lists, and handed everything over to Wei Dong along with nearly six thousand yuan.

That was the advantage of college students. Wei Dong, both surprised and gratified, accepted it with a smile. Then he took out 735 yuan in camera profits, plus another seven hundred yuan, and distributed it among them: “I might not be back in Pingjing for a while. Consider this your first bonus of the year. Let’s hope that by the end, there’ll be a handsome year-end reward in store.”

How could the young men not be excited? Their faces shone with conviction—they’d chosen the right leader, and promised to do their best. Each received 205 yuan in earnings, nearly half a year’s salary for a regular worker at the time, equivalent to ten or twenty thousand in later years—all for just one night’s work, which wasn’t even all that taxing.

Such was the lure of commercial profit.

Wei Dong drove the truck, loaded with three tons of beef and mutton tallow, and before he’d even left for Shuchuan, Han Guobin had already phoned the Hongguang shop to report in. They simulated shipments from Jinmen and northern Hebei to Pingjing, practicing the logistics and looking forward to starting sales as soon as possible.

With knowledge and brains, things moved differently. Compared to Gou Dan and the others, who had to be walked through even the basics of train travel, let alone picking up goods or renting a place.

Every night, at each county stopover, Wei Dong would try to call his father. Old Wei would grumble that now the phone never stopped ringing—the hotpot shop was busier than ever, and they had to assign someone just to take calls and record contacts for camera sales, filling pages and pages.

Annoying as it was, Wei Dong just laughed and suggested they hire the sickly girl from the village, who couldn’t do heavy work, to answer the phone. Old Wei, realizing the benefit, was both pleased and proud; just by involving the village youth in business, the Wei family’s reputation in the commune was untouchable.

After hanging up, Wei Dong immediately contacted Xishan Factory to increase supply—one thousand cameras and three thousand rolls of film to be delivered separately to Jiangzhou every week.

Originally, Wei Dong planned to travel via northern Hebei, southern Henan, and Guanzhong to Shuchuan, then meet Yu Songhai in Guozhou. But when he called Xishan Factory to discuss increased orders, they insisted on a meeting to discuss future plans. Unable to refuse their enthusiasm, this “ten-thousand-yuan-a-week” earner decided he should strengthen ties with the factory—after all, with over a thousand employees, not one was earning as much per camera as he was. The old security guard at the tax office still felt uneasy about it all.

Since Guozhou and Xishan Factory were just a hundred kilometers apart, he changed course and headed to the factory first. The oil traders, who’d once jockeyed for space in the cab, were now silent as they passed the film plant in Jicheng and, outside the Pingjing press house, retreated to the corners as mere bystanders.

On the way back to Sichuan, they eagerly volunteered as helpers, and Wei Dong, in turn, welcomed them as part of the group—though he had no intention of getting involved in the unrewarding fat business.

But as soon as the truck turned into Xishan Factory, he was stunned. From the gate, red banners celebrated his sales success, and the entire workforce, with their families and the factory leaders, lined the road in welcome. Yu Songhai had stayed behind, snapping away with his Canon SLR.

They even set off firecrackers, beat drums, and played the suona. Gou Dan, now adept at steering, joked that it sounded just like a funeral procession back home—Wei Dong nearly kicked him.

He quickly stepped out, shook hands warmly with the factory leaders, and accepted flowers and a red scarf from two Young Pioneers in white shirts and navy trousers—a great honor in those days. Anything higher? Well, perhaps offering him a secretary. Hongguang Factory had never thought of that.

Perhaps last time, when Dong Xueqing, with her bright eyes and white teeth, had accompanied him, she’d left a deep impression on the management. Noticing that this time Wei Dong was traveling with only young men, they hastily assigned a secretary at the last minute. But Wei Dong strongly suspected she was the daughter of one of the factory leaders—a classic case of nepotism.

With four thousand cameras ordered per week, Xishan Factory was already expanding its production lines. Fortunately, this expansion was cost-effective, as they simply borrowed personnel and equipment from the neighboring plant—just like modern outsourcing.

During the celebration, the leaders explained that as long as production ran smoothly, they’d apply to merge with the neighboring factory and form Xishan No. 2 within half a year. And they said this openly!

In the region, there were nine military factories, five of which focused on optics, while the others handled camera bodies, metalwork, and various supporting capacities. All belonged to the Fifth Ministry of Machinery—or the Ministry of Ordnance—which since the late seventies had emphasized converting from military to civilian production.

Thus, Xishan Factory’s sudden turnaround into profitability attracted leaders from the surrounding factories, all eager to learn from their experience. They were so earnest; not one considered how, by giving Wei Dong control of sales, they were handing him leverage over the entire production chain. Instead, they held enthusiastic discussions.

Wei Dong, who could withstand harsh interrogations without revealing business secrets, clung tightly to his profits—a real test of conscience. Still, he candidly explained the agreements he’d reached with Jicheng and Kaixuan Film Plant: “A camera is useless without film. The biggest obstacle for customers is the cost of film, so I visited the main photosensitive materials factories to negotiate…”

A row of factory leaders in Zhongshan suits and old military uniforms smoked furiously, breaking into applause just like the college students. Everyone received meeting documents, but who else would have traveled so far to negotiate in person? Who else would dare to work alone?

Yu Songhai, aware of the backstory, stayed silent except to take notes and photos with his X camera. The phrase “thought imprisonment” was no exaggeration. After decades under a planned economy, everyone was trained to follow orders, never making plans of their own.

The higher one rose in a state-owned enterprise, the less likely they were to entertain such unconventional ideas as Wei Dong’s uncle once had. What seemed routine to Wei Dong—actions that would be commonplace forty years later—were nothing short of earth-shattering to those present.

The line of military-clad figures sitting quietly against the wall, listening in awe, hardly caught Wei Dong’s attention at all.