Lin Yuan entered the municipal Party committee compound with an “old notebook” written by his father.
It contained the “old-school art of getting along with people” his father had gleaned from a lifetime working at the compound: how to brew a cup of tea that would put a leader at ease, how to take the heaviest bag from a leader's hand, and how to offer a pair of cheap yet heartwarming cloth shoes on a rainy day.
In an age when everyone prizes PowerPoint presentations and technical metrics, and is eager to reform the workplace, Lin Yuan seems like an anachronism. Every morning, he sweeps the floors and wipes the tables, always keeping an eye out for the little jobs nobody else wants to do.
His peers mock him as “the cheapest sycophant,” while veterans laugh that he's “wasting his time.”
That is, until the famously upright, impossible-to-bribe senior leader relaxes his tightly furrowed brow over the warm water Lin Yuan prepared.
And until the self-proclaimed career climbers make mistake after mistake at a critical moment, while Lin Yuan walks steadily into the central office.
“Xiao Lin, this compound can get by without anyone else, but it can't do without you.”
From the lowest-level general affairs office to the heart of power behind the red walls,
Lin Yuan takes the most down-to-earth approach to forging the steadiest path to the top.
