Chapter 69: Take a Guess—What’s My Little Goal?

So, with her new look, the young woman standing in the offices of a news agency shone brilliantly among her peers.

It was no exaggeration.

For the way Zhang Lanzhi dressed represented the very best of popular taste for this era—she wore what was most fitting and beautiful under the prevailing aesthetic. Standing on the busiest streets of Rongdu, where the masses were clad in blue or green military uniforms and dingy white shirts, her slightly permed, voluminous shoulder-length hair, black half-skirt, and black-and-white checked blouse made her instantly stand out.

Any splash of bright red or green on the street seemed garish by comparison.

But Wei Dong, having seen all kinds of fashion from later generations, chose an off-white turtleneck sweater with a close fit that, to his surprise, accentuated Dong Xueqing's petite frame, lending her an air of graceful allure.

He paired it with bell-bottomed pants—rare among respectable girls at the time, essentially the early form of fitted fashion trousers, with intentionally widened hems that gave her legs a long, pillar-like look. A pair of mid-heeled leather shoes was hidden beneath the bell bottoms, further elongating her legs.

Had she not spent some time sitting in the truck to acclimate, the fledgling chick who clung to Wei Dong’s arm as they left the clothing market would hardly have known how to walk in this ensemble.

Such a combination was rare in the clothing market, elegant and fashionable, attracting countless admiring glances. People traced the style back to its source, and soon the sweater and trousers sold out.

At the reporters' office, Dong Xueqing tried her best to mimic the refined and understated smile of a secretary as she stood beside him.

Her presence made Wei Dong look all the more distinguished; even the editor-in-chief and Yu Songhai were struck by her brilliance.

“She looks a bit like the heroine from that Japanese TV drama, doesn’t she?”

“‘Sachiko style,’ I think. The Shanghai reporter’s office recently sent photos—many young people in the city are dressing like this now.”

“Let’s take a photo!”

Even Zhang Lanzhi, after a few more glances, remarked, “She really does resemble her. No wonder she looked familiar—if she cuts her hair shorter and perms it a bit, she’ll look even more like her.”

It was clear that Wei Dong’s impression of urban women’s fashion was just as advanced as the difference between Japanese and mainland fashions over several decades.

The Japanese serial drama “Blood Suspicion,” which had started airing before the Spring Festival, was actually nearly a decade old, yet it still swept through cities and towns nationwide.

The young leads’ style of dress was the envy of city dwellers everywhere.

Dong Xueqing couldn’t help but gently touch her hair, regretting there wasn’t a big mirror nearby—even though she’d never watched the drama.

The business at the reporters’ office was somewhat tedious. They first conducted a formal interview, beginning with perspectives from Shangzhou on the uneven pace of reforms at the grassroots level, efforts to mobilize disadvantaged urban populations, and mutual support between town and rural agricultural products.

Then, they discussed sales cases for third-line factories and state-owned enterprises transitioning from military to civilian production: tape recorders, cameras, alloy materials—all were listed.

The Xishan Factory was a highlight, now supplying its seventh batch. In just two months since the Spring Festival, nearly twenty thousand units had been sold. Secretary Zhang had precise figures, and supply had just increased by another twenty-five percent.

It was considered a model for military-to-civilian conversion among third-line factories, particularly those that hadn’t undergone restructuring.

Wei Dong could tell that the “accidental success” of Xishan Factory, achieving good results without restructuring, was being used as evidence that the state-owned model still had much to offer.

Debate over restructuring was intense, but here in Sichuan, people were inclined to wait and see.

From his previous trip to Shangzhou and conversations with city officials, Wei Dong sensed the unique characteristic of the era: no one really knew what to do.

Don’t be fooled by the coast’s rapid progress—the interior had many concerns, waiting for those coastal folks to stumble.

Thus, everywhere, different approaches—radical and conservative—were locked in a tug of war.

His standout case was bound to attract attention, especially since military factory performance couldn’t be hidden. He wondered when Hongguang Factory’s titanium ingot business would be exposed.

He felt a little anxious: “This is just a small experiment we’ve tried—there’s no need to put me in the spotlight as a controversial figure. It’s just a minor business, only a few tens of thousands—hardly worth all this focus.”

Yu Songhai applauded: “Focus is a great word. Xiao Rang often has a knack for language, but perhaps you don’t realize the significance—seeing the big through the small. A factory on the verge of shutting down, choosing the right product, the right sales strategy, suddenly turns its fortunes around in the market. If this can be summarized as a broadly applicable experience, reviving other factories, it’s no small matter.”

Wei Dong muttered inwardly—could this really be broadly applicable? If he hadn’t devised this new sales model almost as if he had divine insight, could other products sell at West Lake or university campuses?

His face grew more pained, insisting business was difficult, that old You was still locked up, and that they’d only developed two sales points nationwide. It still required enormous effort, and they were far from winning their turnaround battle.

He meant it as a warning to the secretary—not to think she could strike out on her own now that things had improved.

Yu Songhai didn’t bite at the mention of old You, instead stressing that now the camera factory, film factory, and Sunshine Daily were all involved, the media-facilitated photo exhibition must become a National Day tribute project.

Wei Dong met his gaze, silently conveying: it all depends on whether Jin will take this five-hundred-yuan job.

And if Jin caused trouble and messed it up, it would be Yu’s responsibility.

After the interview, the editor-in-chief, while reviewing the agreement, asked detailed questions about the tape recorder sales—a project Yu Songhai had previously glossed over.

Wei Dong could only say that the Jiangsu-Zhejiang manufacturer had distinctive products in terms of quality and design, and that he’d purchased a batch before Spring Festival. Now it was hard to get more; apparently, they were already advertising on the radio.

He seemed to recall seeing them on television around the festival, but he knew the famous song hadn’t aired yet, meaning the Yanwu tape recorder’s breakthrough moment hadn’t arrived.

Over lunch, the editor-in-chief remained focused on this case, asking how long Wei Dong would stay in Rongdu.

“About a week. Lots of work, but we have an office here. Comrade Zhang is the military representative of Xishan Factory, so we can stay in touch anytime.” Wei Dong quickly pushed the secretary forward as a shield.

Zhang Lanzhi, absorbed in spicy lung slices and stir-fried kidneys, immediately set down her chopsticks, swallowed with difficulty, and nodded politely.

But the editor-in-chief’s attention locked onto Wei Dong: “Xishan Factory is still a military enterprise deep in the mountains. The agreement says you registered the brand privately and received exclusive sales rights—that’s not appropriate. You should register a company, work with the factory under its name. Since you’re in Rongdu, register it here. We can help you get it done quickly, get your business license.”

The former tax office security guard wondered if the reporters’ office wanted to invest in the company too.

But seeing Yu Songhai give him a look, Wei Dong knew he wasn’t adept at these political games. He nodded in agreement, arranged for the secretary to pay the bill, and asked her to go to the reporters’ office to learn what was needed for company registration.

He finally signaled to Dong Xueqing: “I’ll go have tea with Yu and talk things over. Before your class this afternoon, go with Secretary Zhang and learn about the procedures. For dinner, maybe I’ll find you at your campus basketball court.”

Without mobile phones, pagers, or telephones, this was the most straightforward undercover work.

The fledgling chick knew she was meeting university students for basketball in the afternoon and eagerly promised to stick with the secretary.

Zhang Lanzhi opened her mouth but didn’t break her composure—she obeyed quietly.

In the car, Yu Songhai explained: “The provincial government has issued directives for military-civilian cooperation. This year, military enterprises must complete production, research, and technology transfer tasks for civilian products. Your ready-made project would be wasted if not included. With this as your shield, your sales work is much more secure—no more cases like You Qili. The newspaper can give it special coverage, and with the photo exhibition as a National Day tribute, our mission will be complete.”

Wei Dong half-joked, half-probed: “I thought your reporters’ office wanted to invest.”

Yu was incredulous: “We’re a news agency! How could we be involved in that?”

Wei Dong swallowed his comment about later institutional companies having third-party subsidiaries: “Fine, old Yu, you can arrange for your wife’s parents or other reliable relatives to take a small share in the company. Maybe when you retire or want to go into business, those shares will be your safety net.”

Yu Songhai seemed to have had his world expanded: “Wh-What do you mean?”

At this time, there were no rules prohibiting public employees from holding shares in private companies. Even if the reporters’ office wanted to invest, there was nothing to forbid it.

No one really understood the situation.

The tax bureau had seen these tricks many times: “Better to keep it discreet. This camera sales company could make a lot—if I told you how much, it’d scare you. That’s why I don’t care if old Jin does his thing or not.”

The reporter took a deep breath, full of courage: “Go ahead, scare me.”

Seeing he wasn’t recording, Wei Dong felt a rare bit of trust. Honestly, after nearly a year in the 1980s, he hadn’t even told his parents his real situation; others were kept at arm’s length. If he trusted anyone, it was perhaps the Dong sisters.

He needed to vent: “I sell them for twenty-nine yuan apiece; you and Xishan Factory know this. They give me eighteen yuan. This time, I asked to raise it to nineteen. My method is to sell directly to the front lines—there’s almost no cost. Now, it’s four thousand cameras a week; I make five yuan on each. Calculate how much I earn monthly.”

Yu Songhai knew Wei Dong made money, but hadn’t expected this much.

Eight new ten-thousand-yuan earners every month!