The Five Brothers' Dream

When Ma Xinde graduated from the philosophy department of Fudan University, his original thought was very simple: first return home, follow his second brother Yide for a while, see what the business world looked like, and later, slowly seek a suitable road.
Having studied philosophy for so long, there was always a faint bookish air in the way he spoke. When others asked what he wanted to do, he would smile and say, “First observe the world, then enter the world.” His mother did not understand this. She only felt that the child had read too many books, and the more he read, the slower he became. His father was more practical and said, “Observing the world is fine, but first you must have a rice bowl. If you cannot hold the rice bowl steady, the world will not let you observe it.”
At first, the whole family felt that following Yide would not be bad. Yide had gone out and made his way; he had a company, projects, and connections. Letting the fifth brother first do some writing, contracts, materials, and planning would not count as burying his talent, and it would also allow him to see something of the world. Who could have expected that after Yide returned from America, his thoughts had already flown to Hong Kong? He wanted first to establish a foothold in Hong Kong, then seek the internet, and afterward turn back and charge into the mainland market. His own storms had not yet settled; how could he immediately have the leisure to arrange his younger brother at his side? And so Xinde’s idea of working with his second brother for a time was like a cup of tea left cooling on the table, set aside for the moment.
Once it was set aside, his parents became anxious.
A graduate of Fudan University’s philosophy department sounded, of course, respectable. But when it came to finding work, respectability could not serve as a letter of introduction. Staying at the university to teach was possible, but positions were limited. Going to a publishing house as an editor would be suitable, but the income was plain and light. Entering an enterprise raised another fear: that he was too bookish, and would be turned around in circles by three sentences from someone else. His father asked old colleagues. His mother asked relatives. His elder brothers and sisters-in-law each went to inquire in their own way. During those days, the telephone at home rang like water boiling in a hot pot, never stopping. Whoever had a cousin-uncle in the education system, whoever had a brother-in-law who knew someone in the Organization Department, whoever had once eaten with Deputy Mayor Guo—all were turned out and examined.
The most subtle thing about finding connections in the Dragon Kingdom was not in the “finding,” but in the “circling.”
No one opened his mouth and said, “Help me arrange a job.” That would be too direct, lacking culture and also lacking courtesy. One always began by asking after the other person’s health, then mentioning the weather, then saying that the child had graduated, that young people were not easy, that he had studied fairly diligently, only had too little social experience, and hoped there might be a place where he could train himself a little. If the other side said, “Positions are very tight now,” this sounded like refusal, but one still had to listen to the tone. If he then added, “I’ll ask around for you,” then there was a thread of light. And so the next day, the family would have to prepare a few things and go “sit for a while.”
Gift-giving also required learning.
If the gift was too light, it seemed insincere; if too heavy, one feared the other side would not accept it. Cigarettes, wine, tea leaves, fruit, pastries, local specialties—on the surface, all were human feeling; beneath them lay measure. His father paid the greatest attention to this and said, “When asking someone to help, the things cannot look like a transaction. They must look like goodwill.” His mother then wrapped the gifts one by one, murmuring, “This box is for whom? And this bottle is for whom? Do not mix them up. If we mix them up, it will be embarrassing.” His sister-in-law laughed beside her. “Mother, this does not look like giving gifts. It looks like deploying troops.” His mother glared at her, then could not help laughing too.
Watching all this, Xinde felt very uncomfortable in his heart.
He had studied Kant, Hegel, and Nietzsche. In class, they spoke of free will, of the spirit of the subject, of human dignity. Now that it was his own turn to find a rice bowl, he saw his parents carrying gifts and smiling carefully for his sake, passing through one alley of relationships after another. He wanted to say, Forget it; any publishing house would be fine. But when the words reached his mouth, he swallowed them again. He knew his parents were not doing this for face. They were afraid he would suffer in the future. A young graduate of philosophy could speak grandly of fate in books, but in his parents’ eyes, fate was often a stable job, a wage slip, a work-unit canteen, and an eave that could keep off the rain.
Yet connections were connections; what truly allowed Xinde himself to gain face was still his good handwriting.
Since childhood, Xinde had written beautifully. When others did homework, they merely arranged characters on paper. When he wrote, it was as though he placed breath down stroke by stroke. His fountain-pen characters were elegant and upright, with bones and grace. His brush calligraphy showed even greater skill: his regular script was dignified, his running script flowed, the brush did not float when it fell, and did not scatter when it closed. During his years at Fudan, he had entered several calligraphy competitions both inside and outside the university, and had won prizes for both fountain-pen and brush calligraphy. He himself had casually tucked those certificates between books and had never taken them seriously, but his father regarded them as treasures. When they were preparing job materials, he put them into the document bag together, and even specially asked Xinde to write several sample pages.
“Not everyone can necessarily understand the philosophy department,” his father said, “but everyone can see good handwriting.”
The words sounded plain, yet they were very reasonable.
After several turns, the matter finally came to their in-law, Deputy Mayor Guo. After hearing the situation, Deputy Mayor Guo did not pound his chest and make promises. He only said, “Fudan graduate, philosophy department—that still counts as talent. Government offices now need young cadres, and those with good writing ability are also lacking. I will ask the Provincial Import and Export Trade Administration and see whether there is a suitable post.”
After the materials were sent in, the other side at first hesitated as well. Philosophy, after all, was not foreign trade, law, inspection, or quarantine. Graduating from a famous university was an advantage, but once placed in an administrative office, one still had to see whether the person could be used. Later, when an old cadre in the Personnel Department was looking through the materials, he saw the few pages of handwriting Xinde had attached and suddenly stopped.
“Were these characters written by him himself?”
“Yes. He also won calligraphy prizes at university.”
The old cadre lifted the pages and looked at them again and again, then nodded. “This child can quiet himself down. If his characters can be written like this, his heart cannot be too restless. The Personnel Department is just short of such a person. Writing materials, copying files, making forms, drafting notices—one cannot be careless and rash.”
Just like that, Xinde’s fine handwriting, like a small seal, stamped itself upon the turning point of his fate. Relationships helped knock open the door for him; his education supported his identity; and those few clear, fresh pages of characters finally made the people inside the door nod.
Several days later, the news truly came.
The Personnel Department of the Provincial Import and Export Trade Administration lacked one young cadre. The requirements were good education, clear writing, and a steady temperament. Xinde’s conditions matched them, unexpectedly and exactly. When his father received the telephone call, he said “Good, good, good” three times in a row. After putting down the receiver, he did not sit for a long time, but only walked back and forth in the room.
His mother hurriedly asked, “It’s settled?”
His father nodded, his voice pressed very low, as though afraid of startling this good fortune. “There is a place for him now. Public post. Provincial Foreign Trade Administration. Personnel Office.”
His mother first stood stunned, then pressed her palms together as if thanking Heaven and Earth. His sister-in-law laughed and said, “Our family philosopher will now be studying the philosophy of personnel affairs.”
Everyone laughed. Xinde laughed too, only his laughter was somewhat dazed.
He had thought he might enter a publishing house and sit among piles of manuscripts, slowly turning other people’s words into printed type. He had also imagined following his second brother into the sea of commerce to see wind and waves. On certain nights, he had even imagined staying at the university to teach, speaking from a lectern about Plato and Zhuangzi. He had not expected that fate would circle such a wide arc and send him into a provincial government office to become a personnel cadre.
Was this arrangement absurd?
It was not absurd either.
In that age, many people’s lives were not stepped out by themselves alone, but pushed forward together by family, networks of relationship, work-unit quotas, and accidental opportunity. Some searched bitterly and found nothing. Some arrived through errors of chance. Some wished wholeheartedly to travel far, yet were settled down by one transfer order. Some thought they were only stopping temporarily, and later remained for a lifetime.
On the day Xinde reported for duty, he wore a clean white shirt. His hair was neatly combed, and in his hand he carried an old briefcase. Inside the bag, besides his diploma and assignment certificate, there was also a fountain pen. His father saw him to the entrance, patted his shoulder, and said, “After you go in, speak fewer empty words, watch more, and learn more. Philosophy is learning, but personnel affairs are also learning. And do not lose that handwriting of yours. At crucial moments, handwriting too can speak on a person’s behalf.”
Hearing this, Xinde suddenly felt that this sentence of his father’s was more practical than many lectures by professors.
He lifted his head and looked once at the gate of the work unit. Taking a deep breath, he walked inside. Sunlight fell upon the nameplate, and the few golden characters shone with solemn brightness. He did not know whether he would like this place, nor whether in the future he would become a writer, an editor, or return to some other road. But he understood that from this moment onward, the world inside books had temporarily closed, and another, more complicated, more human, more subtle Chinese-style great book was slowly opening its first page before him.