Congress of Literary and Art Workers

There are two ways to bridge the distance between people in short order. One is to do something together, whether good or bad; the other is to have a true heart-to-heart. Such was Gong Xue's state right now. Having calmed down, she knew Chen Qi's words hadn't been malicious—he was only seducing... er, enticing... well, guiding! Guiding her. Yet she was still deeply shy. Walking in silence until they reached the fork in the road, Chen Qi suddenly said, "You head back first. I'll go back in a bit." "Mm!" Nodding obediently, she took her leave ahead of him. "Tsk, tsk. Truly a sight to inspire tender pity." Chen Qi watched her retreating figure, picturing the way she had looked just moments ago with tear-streaked cheeks like pear blossoms bathed in rain. That sort of pure, natural Jiangnan beauty would be terribly hard to find in later generations. In truth, by the time Gong Xue filmed *Under the Bridge*, her acting had already become quite good—handled with remarkable delicacy. In her early days, she really hadn't been up to par, possessing only a pretty face. What's more, she hadn't shot many films during the very prime of her youth, which was rather a pity. Today, her taking the initiative to ask about her shortcomings truly made Chen Qi regard her in a new light. She was a very fine young woman. "*Mandarin ducks roost in pairs, butterflies flutter side by side; spring colors fill the garden, intoxicating the eye. Softly I ask the holy monk: is the maiden lovely or not?*" Lingering on purpose for a little while, he finally started walking back, humming absently under his breath. Then a sudden whim struck him: *If I get the chance, I should recruit Zhu Lin and put her and Gong Xue in the same scene. Plum blossom, orchid, bamboo, and chrysanthemum in each arm—pah, each with their own peerless grace... Wouldn't the goofy netizens of future generations build a shrine and burn incense in my honor to rack up merit points?* ... "Xiao Gong, just getting back?" "Yes, I went out for a walk. Get some rest early." Over on the other end, Gong Xue returned to the hotel and jogged into her room. Shutting the door, she leaned back against it without moving, her mind seemingly going blank as she spaced out for a while. She felt she had been far too bold today, actually blurting out so many things. She hadn't even mentioned those hardships to her parents, fearing it would worry them. "Xiao Gong?" A knock sounded from the other side of the door. Turning around, she opened it and smiled. "Jinling, finished eating?" "I've finished twice over by now! Why were you out for so long?" "I thought the sunset glow looked nice, so I watched it a bit longer..." "Was there even a sunset glow today?" Zhang Jinling scratched her head and held out a garment. "I don't know when it tore, but I'll have to trouble you to mend it. I know my way around needle and thread, but compared to you, I'm like a scullery maid." "Don't say that, you're embarrassing me." Taking the shirt, Gong Xue fetched her sewing kit, briskly threaded a needle, and set to work, without the slightest hint of impatience or reluctance. Back in the sixties, each person could buy only three chi of cloth per year, which later rose to six chi, gradually increasing alongside the development of the textile industry. This depended on the conditions of each region; currently, the most generous places allowed sixteen chi per person, plus an extra sixteen-chi allowance upon marriage. Impoverished families with many children had it hardest. Whatever little cloth they bought went into making clothes for the kids, while the adults could only wear recycled cloth—made by shredding old, ragged scraps and spinning them into coarse yarn that felt rough and even prickly against the skin. So in these years, whenever a piece of clothing tore, it was patched and mended over and over; nobody ever threw anything out. As Gong Xue sat on the bed mending the garment, Zhang Jinling didn't stay idle either, showering her with emotional validation: "Look at you—so pretty, such a sweet temper, and so deft with your hands. How were you made? I'm envious to death." "You're exaggerating way too much." "I mean it! Whoever marries you will have racked up eight lifetimes of good fortune." "Say another word and I won't mend this for you!" "All right, all right, I'll stop..." Zhang Jinling was one of the 'Three Golden Flowers' of Beijing Film Studio, known for works such as *Reconnaissance Across the Yangtze*, *The Great River Surges*, and *Xu Mao and His Daughters*. In the mid-eighties, she would marry, have a child, and retire from acting very early on, later delving into calligraphy and painting and apprenticing under a disciple of Qi Baishi. "Your needlework really is wonderful, a hundred times better than mine. When we head back to Beijing, I'll still come find you!" The shirt was quickly mended. After making that little joke, she added, "Oh, have you heard from Director Wang? We're heading back in ten days." "I haven't. What's the occasion?" "The Congress of Literary and Art Workers is opening at the end of the month. Director Wang and I both have to attend." "You're going to the Congress of Literary and Art Workers? That's wonderful!" Gong Xue's eyes sparkled with genuine envy. Zhang Jinling smiled. "Don't fret. Once *Romance on Mount Lu* hits the screen, you'll have your turn too." "That's not a sure thing yet!" "How could it not be? The quality of the film speaks for itself. It's bound to succeed." Zhang Jinling left, but her words left Gong Xue feeling restless and torn. Of course she hoped *Romance on Mount Lu* would be a success, but realizing there were only ten days left before they had to return, an unexpected pang of reluctance to leave welled up inside her. ... "Xiao Chen!" "Over here, over here!" When Chen Qi returned, he was called into the first-floor dining room. The gala had wrapped up, but a group was still gathered around a table, picking through the leftover melon seeds and potatoes. Tomorrow was also a day off, so everyone was thoroughly relaxed. "That song you sang earlier wasn't much to brag about!" "To butcher 'Toast Song' into a wailing banshee screech—that takes real talent!" "My form was just off today. I'll sing for you guys another time. What are you all chatting about?" Swinging his leg over the bench, Chen Qi sat down among them. Wang Haowei grabbed a handful of melon seeds for him and smiled. "Good timing, I was just about to let you know: the production crew has officially decided we'll head back to Beijing in ten days. Several comrades, including myself, need to attend the Congress of Literary and Art Workers at the end of the month, so there'll be about half a month of rest." "So filming resumes in mid-November?" "Right. We'll be able to finish in December—just about half a year in total." "Coming out of the blue like this, I'm actually feeling pretty reluctant to leave." "Everyone feels that way. We can always come back when there's an opportunity. Who knows, maybe when *Romance on Mount Lu* premieres, we'll get to make another trip." Cracking melon seeds, Chen Qi nodded and asked offhandedly, "A lot of people attending this congress?" "From what I've heard, roughly three thousand-plus. Fine artists, calligraphers, writers, musicians, dancers, and us filmmakers—everyone across the board..." Counting them off on her fingers, Wang Haowei wore a look of yearning as well. "This is the first Congress of Literary and Art Workers since the winds shifted. Mao Dun, Ba Jin, Xia Yan, Ye Shengtao, Bing Xin, Zang Kejia, Bai Yang, Zhang Ruifang, Sun Daolin, Qin Yi, Chen Qiang, Xia Meng... Just name them. Every single one you can think of will be there!" "Then you've got to get me some autographs... wait?" Chen Qi suddenly froze. "Who did you just say? Xia Meng?" "Yes! Comrades Fu Chi and Shi Hui are coming too! Our crew has them to thank for all those gorgeous outfits." Wang Haowei had addressed Xia Meng directly by name, yet had added the 'Comrade' suffix to the other two. "Oh? Any chance I could meet them?" "You definitely won't sneak into the congress itself, but they'll likely visit Beijing Film Studio as guests. You'll be able to see them then." "If I don't get to see them, I'm holding you responsible!" Chen Qi laughed along on the surface, but his mind was already turning over countless possibilities. The Congress of Literary and Art Workers—formally the National Congress of Literary and Art Workers of China—had held its first session in 1949, its second in 1953, and its third in 1960. This was the fourth session, slated to open on October 30. Every single session was attended in person by national leaders, held in the highest regard. ... While Mount Lu had put on its National Day gala, the Great Hall of the People far away in Beijing was holding one as well. On Lunar New Year's Eve in 1979, ballroom dancing had suddenly reappeared at a government gala after vanishing for many years. It served as a symbolic sign that the ban on dancing was likely to be lifted. Still, ordinary citizens didn't dare make a show of it, dancing only behind closed doors. Come National Day, the authorities held another dance, making their stance increasingly apparent. Among the attendees was an unusual fellow named Wang Shuo. Wang Shuo was serving as a navy corpsman in the North Sea Fleet stationed in Qingdao. Having returned home on leave, he managed to score a ticket, and his entire worldview was upended. What met his eyes were countless fashionable young men and women dancing the waltz, with "The Blue Danube" and "Tales from the Vienna Woods" resounding throughout the hall. None of it felt familiar to him. In this era where conservatism and openness mingled, where confusion and vacillation intertwined, it was just as Wang Shuo had written: "*I felt the times had changed. Both I and the military uniform that had once been the height of fashion and my great pride were now out of date. The people dancing were already wearing high heels, bell-bottoms, and nylon shirts, with permed hair and electronic watches on their wrists, and some were even speaking English. Back in my unit, I no longer submitted applications to join the Party, nor did I rush to scrub toilets or wash clothes for my comrades just to show how hard I was learning from Lei Feng. I told our chief I had a way to get Japanese color TVs, and with the three thousand yuan earned from the unit's kelp farming stuffed in my pocket, I headed to Guangdong to flip color televisions...*"