The Poetry Virtuoso

A few days before the Spring Festival, at the General Political Department Drama Troupe. On a bitterly cold morning, Gong Xue packed her things and emerged carrying a large bag. She was wrapped snugly in her usual military overcoat, with her hat, gloves, and scarf bundled tight so that only her eyes showed. She looked around and walked toward a figure with a hint of trepidation. "Didn't leave anything behind, did you?" "No." "Then let's go!" Chen Qi swung a long leg over the bicycle. Gong Xue jogged a few steps after him and sat down lightly on the back rack. Clutching her bundle tightly with one hand and holding the edge of the seat with the other, she suddenly felt a twinge of regret. A few days ago, when he came by to drop off those manuscripts, he had asked when she was heading home. Then he had offered to see her off, but she hadn't wanted to trouble anyone. Yet he insisted, and she politely declined. Still he persisted, leaving her no choice but to agree... Now the regret was settling in, because she felt terribly awkward—not knowing where to place her hands or what to say. Fortunately, Chen Qi was a chatterbox. Pedaling into the wind, he said, "I wrote a martial arts script, and I was out casting actors for it a while back. Just got back." "You're the screenwriter, and you went out scouting actors yourself?" "I managed to get the title of creative planner, so I'm involved throughout the whole process." "Oh, congratulations then!" It was human nature to admire the capable, let alone when it was one's good friend. Gong Xue was genuinely delighted for him. "Look at you," she said sincerely. "You're only nineteen this year... oh wait, twenty. How many people your age have accomplished what you have? Writing two scripts so young. Compared to you, all my years have just gone down the drain. Hey, who's the director?" "Li Wenhua. Ever heard of him?" "I know him, I know him! He used to be a very famous cinematographer. How are you two getting along?" "Not bad. Quite harmonious." "That's good. He's a veteran, so you need to communicate more on certain things. Though with your temperament, I doubt anything could go wrong." "Why are you sounding like my mother, lecturing me on life lessons?" "I'm considering things sincerely on your behalf as an older friend... Fine, I won't say any more." Knowing he couldn't see her, Gong Xue gave a soft humph and wrinkled her nose. Tsk! *As an older friend...* Chen Qi curled his lip. *Drawing the line so clearly, are you? Sooner or later, I'll have you calling me Daddy!* Braving the freezing wind, he pedaled all the way to the railway station. The Spring Festival travel rush in this era was different from later generations. People mainly relied on long-distance passenger buses; trains wouldn't become the primary mode until developed coastal regions drew massive waves of migrant workers. Even so, China's population base was enormous. Even with relatively fewer train passengers in these years, the station was a bustling, surging sea of heads. The line from Beijing to Shanghai ran through Tianjin, Hebei, Shandong, and Jiangsu. Many passengers were short-distance travelers, much like Gong Xue, heading home to visit family. There were no seats in the waiting area, so people stood. Gong Xue placed her bag on the ground, pulled down her scarf, and breathed warm puffs of air from her mouth. Her lips were lovely—the upper lip curved in a delicate bow, while the lower was plump and full without looking thick, like a blossom just beginning to open. "There's still more than an hour left. You should head back first. I can wait by myself." "It's fine. I'd just be sitting around if I went back." "It's just too much trouble for you." "You said yourself that I'm your only good friend. How could I not help?" "When did I ever say 'only'?" Gong Xue retorted under her breath, more as if muttering to herself. She had no friends from her hometown around her. Every year, she went home alone, quietly slinging a big bag over her shoulder and slipping away. This year was the first time someone accompanied her. And Chen Qi was thoughtful—bustling about, buying a magazine one moment, some snacks the next, even picking up a roll of toilet paper. It truly felt different. Finally, ticket inspection began, and passengers lined up in a long queue. Chen Qi bought a platform ticket. Seeing people onto the train was very common in those days—later on, platform tickets would be discontinued, and the sight of relatives and friends bidding tearful farewells between carriage and platform would disappear forever. "A window seat, nice!" "I put your bag up here—you can keep an eye on it just by looking up." "Take this out; there's food inside." Gong Xue was so well looked after that she felt completely flustered. She had long grown accustomed to an independent life and rarely experienced such care. To make matters worse, people nearby started teasing them with remarks like, "Girl, is this your boyfriend?" "A talented lad and a pretty maid!" and "May you have a chubby baby boy!" The carriage erupted in cheerful laughter, filling the air with merriment. The departure bell rang, and Chen Qi stepped off the train. *Wooooooo!* With a long blast of the whistle, the train chugged into motion, clattering along the tracks. Gong Xue waved to him through the window. She watched as he slipped out of the frame bit by bit until he was gone, yet her eyes remained fixed on the spot where he had stood. It took a long time before she pulled herself back. Aside from parting with her parents, this was perhaps the first time she had felt the pang of parting. *** "That punk made a piece of absolute garbage. Calls himself a famous director?" "Never seen a 'famous director' like that. A few criticisms from us and he burst into tears. Pathetic!" "What kind of famous director is he anyway? He used to do art design—this was his directorial debut." On a street outside the Beijing Film Studio, two men and a woman, all in their twenties, were walking toward the studio grounds, arguing and spraying spit as they talked. One was scruffy and unshaven, with stubble across his cheeks; his name was Tian Zhuangzhuang. One wore glasses, had sharp, hardy facial features, and spoke in a deep, raspy voice; her name was Li Shaohong. One was tall and upright, with handsome features, a brooding gaze, and an aura that made it seem as though he might break into poetic recitation at any moment; his name was Chen Kaige. All three were second-generation children of studio veterans. In 1978, they had all gained admission to the Directing Department of Beijing Film Academy. Now on winter vacation, they spent their days loafing around, idle and restless. As one of the nation's premier film institutions, the Beijing Film Academy frequently screened new films for students to critique. But this crowd was exceedingly arrogant and looked down on everyone, often tearing directors down to the point of weeping on the spot. They were currently dissecting a film they had watched a few days ago. Even though all three were children of studio insiders, hierarchy was evident everywhere. Li Shaohong's mother was merely an assistant director, giving her the lowest pedigree of the three. Chen Kaige's father, Chen Huaikai, mostly directed traditional opera films; while he possessed seniority, his stature was not particularly prominent. Tian Zhuangzhuang belonged to the true aristocracy. His father was Tian Fang, the studio's first director. His mother was Yu Lan, Sister Jiang in *Living Forever in Burning Flames*, one of the 22 Film Stars of New China, and currently the head of the Children's Film Studio. No matter how arrogant Chen Kaige was, he still had to fawn on Tian Zhuangzhuang. The three entered the main gate and continued inside. Suddenly, a creaking sound came from behind, followed by a fellow lazily drifting past them on a beat-up bicycle. "Who's that? Unfamiliar face," Li Shaohong said, puzzled. "A new hire by the studio?" "No, his name is... what was it..." Tian Zhuangzhuang was the most well-informed. After a moment's thought, he said, "Oh, right, Chen Qi. Recently seconded here." "Seconded? Which studio was he with before?" "Not a studio. Word is he sold large-bowl tea." Chen Kaige's face twisted as if he were constipated, and he couldn't help cursing, "A tea peddler can fucking get into Beijing Film Studio?!" "Seems he wrote a script. I don't know the details." "We've been holed up at school out of touch with the world, haven't we? The world sure changes fast when any random riffraff can worm their way in! Come on, let's go see what he's made of." The Grand Director didn't dare mess with Tian Zhuangzhuang, but did that mean he couldn't mess with a newcomer? He came from a good family, possessed talent, could write poetry, and had attended Beijing No. 4 High School—a prestigious school. As for the students of Beijing No. 4 High School, the Grand Director had once described them thus: "Most took pride in their fathers' accomplishments, regarded themselves as natural-born revolutionaries, believed they possessed noble bloodlines and pure minds, deemed themselves worthy of shouldering great national tasks, and ardently yearned for glorious deeds..." Just listen to that—that was the sort of person he had been since childhood. Back in '78, he had aimed to test into Peking University's Chinese Department. Having failed to make the cut, he had condescended to attend Beijing Film Academy instead. In the years to come, the Grand Director's heart would ever swell with grand passion, brimming with narcissism. Looking at a wretched tea peddler now, of course he felt aggrieved!