Chapter Twenty-Three: If It Brings You Joy, I’ll Give It to You

Zhao Zejun’s voice was not loud, and his tone was perfectly normal, with no hint of flaunting wealth. Yet the shop was crowded, and to those unfamiliar with the situation, his words sounded outrageously extravagant, inevitably drawing a tapestry of curious and varied glances.

The saleswoman was the happiest of all; she hadn’t expected to make such a big sale as soon as the doors opened—five phones, over ten thousand yuan, earning her several hundred in commission. Especially the latest Motorola V60, which carried a hefty profit and thus a greater bonus for her.

Who says being laid off is a bad thing? If it weren’t for that, I’d still be stuck at the soda factory pulling in a dead-end six hundred a month!

Moments ago, she’d insisted “no bargaining,” but now she was all smiles, tapping away at her calculator before sliding it toward Zhao Zejun. “Does this price work for you? For such a big transaction, I’m offering you my most sincere price.”

A few years later, with electronics widespread, the profit margins for phones and computers would dwindle, making accessories and manufacturer rebates the real money-makers. But back in 2002, retailing phones was still lucrative. The screen showed twelve thousand yuan, shaved down nearly a thousand for all five devices.

“All right, just pack them up in a few bags for me.”

The transaction, over ten thousand yuan, was completed in minutes. Zhao Zejun then spent another five hundred on five phone cards, and left the shop with his bags.

Outside, he hailed a cab, went home to stow away the phones, then took three with him. Using the blue-screen Nokia, he paged Jiang Xuan; soon, Jiang Xuan called back.

“It’s Jiang Xuan, who is this?”

“It’s me. Where are you? Is Junzi with you?”

“Oh? When did you get a mobile? You’re doing well. I’m at True Love Disco, Junzi’s here too. What’s up?”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. We’ll talk when I arrive—wait for me.”

He hung up, and told the driver, “Take me to True Love Disco at the entrance to the pedestrian street.”

The taxi driver glanced at Zhao Zejun in the rearview mirror, thinking, “Young people these days, always running off to places like discos,” and shook his head as he steered toward the pedestrian street.

True Love Disco was Jiang Xuan’s turf, the biggest and most profitable business under ‘Mr. Song,’ the boss. Jiang Xuan had taken Zhao Zejun there twice before.

The disco was too noisy for Zhao Zejun, who, with two lifetimes behind him, could never quite bear it.

In broad daylight, the disco hadn’t opened yet; it was quiet and empty. Jiang Xuan and Junzi sat on circular sofas by the dance floor, surrounded by a handful of scantily-clad dancers, who were chattering around Jiang Xuan. As Zhao Zejun entered, Jiang Xuan must have just told a risqué joke, setting off a burst of laughter among the girls.

Seeing Zhao Zejun arrive, Jiang Xuan waved his hand at them. “All right, all right, go have fun. I’ve got business. After work, barbecue’s on me—come tonight if you’re free.”

“Xuan-ge, if you’re treating, we’re all free—just hope you can feed us all!” a sultry lead dancer teased.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re stuffed!” Jiang Xuan replied, double-entendre clear, slapping her shapely backside.

“Such a tease!” The dancer shot him a flirtatious glance and sashayed away.

Once the girls were gone, Zhao Zejun took a seat on the sofa and placed the Motorola phone, box and all, on the table.

Jiang Xuan, lounging back, glanced at the phone box. “That’s the phone you just called me with? Nice. Our Mr. Song uses the V60 too.”

“Do you like it?” Zhao Zejun asked.

“Of course. Who doesn’t like Motorola? My pager was fine a couple years ago, but lately I’m embarrassed to take it out—too outdated, and inconvenient. Finding a phone booth just to return a call wastes so much time. Mr. Song told me to upgrade, but he’s stingy—he says I should get a phone, but won’t give me the money.”

“If you like it, that’s all that matters.” Zhao Zejun slid the phone toward Jiang Xuan. “It’s yours.”

Jiang Xuan was stunned for a second or two; even Junzi, who’d been quietly smoking, looked up in surprise at Zhao Zejun.

A Motorola V60 was far beyond their means. Jiang Xuan hadn’t been working with Mr. Song long, and tended to spend freely; even when he had money, he couldn’t hold onto it.

Jiang Xuan quickly understood—it was for the internet café license. He’d helped twice: lending his ID, and stirring things up online.

There was also a third plan, never used.

Being true friends isn’t just about a good relationship—it’s about a unique, mutual understanding. Jiang Xuan knew well that Zhao Zejun wasn’t someone who hogged benefits for himself, so he never asked “what’s in it for me” or “what are you planning”—none of those pointless questions. If Zhao Zejun needed something, he’d only say “yes” or “no.”

And Zhao Zejun knew that Jiang Xuan helped out of loyalty; to talk of money would cheapen it.

But truth be told, if one friend always asks the other for favors without reciprocity, the relationship won’t last.

Jiang Xuan needed money for his lifestyle and for helping with things—especially the online campaign, which cost money. So, both sentiment and logic dictated that after the café license, Zhao Zejun should show his gratitude.

When the V60 was released, it cost over six thousand; even now, it was still priced at four to five thousand—high-end. Jiang Xuan’s boss, Mr. Song, used the same model.

Jiang Xuan didn’t bother with false modesty; if Zhao Zejun could afford a phone worth thousands, he must have already sold the café license. He took the phone box, opened it, and said, “Damn, you should change your name to Rain in Time—last time I was at the shop, I liked this model, just didn’t have the money. Huh?”

Inside the box, besides the sleek black V60 and accessories, was a bulging envelope.

“What’s this now?” Jiang Xuan knew by touch that it contained at least five thousand yuan.

Zhao Zejun, seeing there were no outsiders, said, “Six thousand. Didn’t you say you’re about to lead an engineering crew? Starting out always costs money—I thought you might be short on cash.”

Jiang Xuan nodded, poured out the money and pocketed it. “All right, I’ll hang on to this… Wait, what’s this—there’s a fuel card too?”

Along with the money, the envelope contained a China Petroleum fuel card.

Zhao Zejun grinned, relaxing into the sofa. “Funny story—on the way here, the taxi driver stopped for gas. The station was running a discount on fuel cards, so I bought one for five hundred yuan. You ride a motorcycle—using a card to fuel up is more respectable than cash.”

Jiang Xuan turned to Junzi, who was smoking nearby. “See that? He’s a considerate guy. If you had a sister, she’d be lucky to marry him!”

“Heh, I don’t even have a sister,” Junzi replied sheepishly.

Zhao Zejun then produced a blue-screen Nokia, setting it on the table and sliding it to Junzi. “Junzi, you helped out a lot with the café license. Jiang Xuan likes to show off, so I got him a Motorola. For us, let’s settle for Nokia—not expensive, two thousand yuan.”

“No need, Zhao-ge, really,” Junzi shook his head, refusing to accept it.

Jiang Xuan looked surprised. “You’re taking Nokia for yourself and giving me Motorola? Are you kidding? Switch—give me your Nokia.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Zhao Zejun brushed aside Jiang Xuan’s hand, unconcerned. “I’m just a student, not trying to impress anyone. Why would I need such a fancy phone—might as well paint a target on myself.”

“If someone really tries to rob you, I’ll make them cough up two for every one they take,” Jiang Xuan said.

But with Jiang Xuan’s comment, Junzi felt even more awkward about accepting the phone, glancing at him.

Jiang Xuan waved him off. “Just take it, all right? No need to be so polite among friends—you’ll find it useful.”

Junzi nodded, accepting the phone, but didn’t open it right away. After a moment’s hesitation, he asked Zhao Zejun, “Zhao-ge, could I trade it for cash instead? Just a thousand is enough.”

“Why?” Jiang Xuan asked.

Junzi’s dark face flushed, and he lowered his head, speaking softly. “My mom was laid off from the flour factory and has been coughing ever since—diagnosed with a lung condition. We’ve been going to the hospital a lot lately.”

Before Zhao Zejun could reply, Jiang Xuan pulled out the six thousand he’d just pocketed, and without counting, took about half and set it in front of Junzi.

“Keep the phone, and take the money too.”

Junzi’s mouth twitched twice, but he took both the phone and the money, murmuring, “Thanks, brother.”

“Don’t thank me—thank him. The money was his to begin with, and I skimmed half off the top,” Jiang Xuan joked, shaking the remaining wad.

Junzi stood up abruptly and bowed to Zhao Zejun. “Zhao-ge, I’ll remember this.”

Zhao Zejun nodded, saying nothing.

His heart felt heavy.

Even a hero can stumble for want of a penny; whether Junzi was a hero, or Jiang Xuan, Zhao Zejun didn’t know, nor did he wish to judge.

He knew, though, that there were countless people like Junzi—capable, gifted, with qualities that could have led to real achievement, but because of poor backgrounds, lack of opportunity, or sudden misfortune, they struggle against the tide of life, ultimately sinking into mediocrity and obscurity.

A verse occurred to him:

How I wish for ten thousand grand halls, that all the suffering scholars of the world might find joy within.