The trip from Ying Yin’s place to the office was a little shorter than setting out from the seaside estate. When Shang Shao was awakened by his body clock, the winter morning was only just beginning to lighten.
By his usual routine, he would get up at 5:50 a.m., paddle a kayak alone up and down the waterway once, then head to the whale shark aquarium and sit with Ray for a while. One man and one fish could hardly hold a conversation; instead, his thoughts would settle into the rhythm of its swimming and their silent gaze at one another.
Only after all that would he take his seat at the breakfast table and, without fail, drink a cup of espresso. Before he ate, Lin Cunkang would already have printed out the front-page headlines from major foreign-language websites and placed them beside his seat for him to skim through.
At exactly 7:45 every morning, Shang Shao would leave for the office. The time spent in the car was one of the few periods that truly belonged to him. He used it for reading. Classical philosophy rewarded slow reading; in a day, he might get through only a dozen or so pages, nowhere near the volume he had managed in university. It was his way of staying clear-headed and reflective amid the tedium of corporate affairs.
The morning light filtered through the slightly opened Venetian blinds, casting pale shadows. Tiger-striped patterns drifted across the dark green velvet chaise longue.
Shang Shao opened his eyes and took a second to remember where he was.
There was no boat, no fish, and no newspapers. For a moment, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the extra time he had suddenly gained.
Ying Yin slept curled on her side facing outward, her back toward him. Shang Shao reached out and firmly pulled her back into his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
She was a light sleeper. Even though she was utterly exhausted, her eyelids still fluttered.
Unable to open her eyes, she merely moved her lips, mumbling drowsily with complete dependence, “Don’t go…”
“I’m not going.” Holding her close, Shang Shao looked at how worn out she was and, for a brief second, felt a trace of self-reflection.
He hadn’t intended to keep her up that late the night before, but by the time they finished it was nearly two in the morning. He had his reasons: she was still injured, so he couldn’t be too rough. All he could do was take it slow and linger.
Ying Yin herself seemed unable to tell whether she liked it or simply couldn’t bear it, making soft little noises like a small animal.
At least there was no need to change the bedsheets. But their legs were damp and sticky afterward, making it feel as though whoever had showered had done so for nothing.
They slept for another half hour. During that time, Shang Shao took a call from Lin Cunkang, instructing him to bring the car over and, while he was at it, a clean suit as well.
Junyi had already prepared breakfast. She paced back and forth outside the bedroom several times but simply couldn’t bring herself to knock. Then she heard the sound of an engine downstairs. Leaning out into the hallway, she saw Lin Cunkang arriving in his very expensive Maybach. Clapping her hands in relief, she hurried downstairs to recruit him as her rescuer.
Lin Cunkang glanced at his watch. “No rush.”
He asked Junyi for a cup of freshly ground soy milk. After drinking it with leisurely elegance, he handed her a paper bag. “A little lamb from Kashmir.”
Inside was not the dark red style she’d admired before, but a light camel-colored one, better suited to a young woman’s everyday wardrobe.
Junyi stared at it with wide eyes.
Lin Cunkang said, “This is a thank-you gift for the soy milk.”
Covering her mouth, Junyi blurted out, “Uncle Kang, our ages aren’t appropriate.”
Lin Cunkang nearly choked. “My wife teaches at the University of Hong Kong. We have a very happy marriage.”
Mortified, Junyi flushed bright red.
Chuckling, Lin Cunkang said, “Next time, if a suitable young man gives you a gift, and you’re interested in him too, just accept it. Don’t say things like that, and don’t ask questions. When feelings have only just begun to sprout, directness isn’t appropriate.”
“Then what is appropriate?”
“Quietly waiting. Giving it time to grow naturally. Think of it as watching a plant grow. Whether it ultimately bears good fruit or bad fruit, the process itself isn’t wasted.”
Junyi was still trying to make sense of his misty, roundabout wisdom when Lin Cunkang glanced at his watch once again.
“About time,” he said.
For the moment, he took his leave, carrying the suit protected in its garment bag, and walked through the courtyard archway toward the second floor.
Not wanting to wake anyone, Shang Shao changed clothes and washed up in the guest bathroom outside the bedroom.
To Shang Shao, a villa of just over three hundred square meters barely qualified as “small but cozy.” But a bathroom of only a dozen or twenty square meters felt a little too cramped to comfortably turn around in.
He brushed his teeth with a soft-bristled toothbrush Junyi had given him and washed his face with Ying Yin’s pleasantly scented facial cleanser. When he reached for the styling spray, he paused at the words “Rose & Ginger Lily Essential Oil Fragrance.”
He frowned thoughtfully for three seconds before solemnly setting it back down.
No.
Absolutely not.
At that moment, he fully understood how Zhuang Tiwen must have felt when staying here.
After putting on his suit, Shang Shao returned to the bedroom.
Ying Yin had been kissed awake into a half-dreaming state. Through her lingering drowsiness, she heard him ask, “When are you going to see Rich again?”
“Mmm…” Ying Yin hummed. Her mind was moving very slowly.
“Tonight?”
She nodded.
“And tomorrow?”
Tomorrow…
“Why don’t you stay with him for a while?”
The man before her was taking advantage of every inch he was given.
Ying Yin turned her gaze away. Before she could answer, a kiss landed on her full lips.
A low, steady voice sounded beside her ear. “Then it’s settled.”
Junyi had just finished setting out breakfast on the table in the courtyard when she saw Shang Shao coming down the stairs.
His gaze lowered as he adjusted his cufflinks. Tall and straight-backed, he moved with quick yet unhurried steps. His hair, still unstyled, made him look younger than usual – or perhaps more approachable. But paired with a formal suit, it created a slightly incongruous impression.
Shang Shao had originally planned to fix it once he got to the office. But Junyi suddenly slapped her forehead. “Oh no, I forgot – we have men’s hair wax.”
The moment those words left her mouth, they disrupted the pleasant mood Shang Shao had been in since the previous night.
Yet he didn’t pause for even a second. He finished adjusting his cufflinks at an unhurried pace before finally lifting his eyes to her. “Where is it?”
Junyi thought nothing of the question. “On the second shelf inside the mirror cabinet in the master bathroom.”
The master bathroom.
Shang Shao nodded, his expression unchanged. “No matter. I’ll deal with it at the office.”
Junyi went to the back of the house to sweep the courtyard. As she swept, she gradually slowed, eventually leaning on the broom and staring into space.
She couldn’t help learning to become smarter, more perceptive.
When someone crosses countless social strata upward and spends time among people far above them, it’s like swallowing a needle. Even the most oblivious person will eventually be pricked into greater sensitivity, greater caution, greater self-awareness.
She stood there thinking for a while.
Then, like a gust of wind, she sprinted toward the front courtyard.
The broom slipped from her hand and clattered onto the smooth blue-gray paving stones behind her.
Shang Shao had already gotten into the car. Seeing Junyi running over, he lowered the window halfway. “What is it?”
“Mr. Shang, that hair wax – it was bought for a movie role.”
Breathless, Junyi explained, “The boyfriend dies, and she’s reminded of him whenever she sees his belongings. So she bought a lot of men’s toiletries and products. She’d look at them and start crying.”
Her explanation came out jumbled and disjointed, but Shang Shao pieced together the truth from the key words.
The man before her remained as composed as ever.
Yet Junyi could clearly sense that he was slowly relaxing out of a dark, suppressed displeasure. “I understand.”
Separated by the car window, he gave her a nod. “Thank you.”
Junyi finally let out a sigh of relief and straightened up, watching as the spotless window rose silently back into place, sealing away the champagne-colored luxury within.
Ying Yin slept straight through until eleven o’clock. There wasn’t even time for a proper meal. She hastily toasted two slices of whole-wheat bread, ate them, and then rushed off to the company to terminate her contract.
Since Zhuang Tiwen had officially begun working with her, there was no way she would miss the occasion. The two arranged to meet outside Chenye’s building.
One of them was polished and professionally elegant, immaculate from the tips of her hair to the heels of her shoes.
The other had her long hair hidden beneath the hood of a sweatshirt, wore a pair of light-blue skinny jeans, and only managed to project a little authority thanks to her tall riding boots.
Casual as she looked, Zhuang Tiwen had to admit that Ying Yin was a born clothes hanger – someone with an effortless sense of style.
The only problem was the dark circles under her eyes.
Thinking she was anxious, Zhuang Tiwen comforted her thoughtfully. “Don’t worry. We’ll take it one step at a time. I’ll definitely manage your career well.”
Ying Yin started to speak, then stopped.
Maybe you should just talk to your cousin instead…
The two entered the building, swiped their employee cards, and headed up to Chenye’s floor.
The tower housed countless talent agencies, entertainment companies, and production studios. Even the receptionists in the lobby were former idol trainees who hadn’t made the final cut. Zhuang Tiwen was considering renting an office here herself – it would certainly be convenient.
“Oh, right.”
As they waited for the elevator, she asked, “Your WeChat name – ‘Yinyin Working With Pain’ – what does that mean? Where are you hurt?”
Behind her mask, Ying Yin’s face turned bright red.
This was already the twentieth time she’d been asked that day…
Variety show directors, producers, senior colleagues she knew well, friends, relatives -everyone had seemingly formed a group to check on her and tell her not to push herself so hard.
As for whether she was overworking herself or not, that wasn’t really something she could control.
Her body simply happened to be exceptionally talented at surrendering.
Shang Shao, to his credit, did respect her when she said “no.”
But after retreating just a little, he would lean close to her ear and murmur, “What should we do? It doesn’t seem willing to let me go.”
With that impeccably dignified yet utterly shameless excuse, he would press back into her once more.
In the large open-plan office, the publicity, planning, and business teams had just begun their afternoon work when they saw the “top star” arrive. Almost unconsciously, people stood up one after another as Ying Yin walked through. Along the way, she was greeted repeatedly with “Sister Yin,” “Good afternoon, Sister Yin,” rising and falling around her.
To minimize unnecessary friction between both sides, news of Ying Yin’s contract termination had been carefully kept under wraps. Aside from the brands involved in endorsements, no one else had been informed.
Her blue mask was looped around her wrist. She nodded. “Thanks for your hard work. I’ll treat everyone to afternoon tea later.”
Ying Yin had always been generous to her colleagues; the afternoon teas she ordered were all from five-star hotels. As soon as she spoke, cheers broke out in the open office, while no one noticed the complicated expression on Mai Anyan’s face in the corridor.
The senior executives’ offices at Chenye were lined up along a single corridor. Mai Anyan’s was the second from the end, and the innermost belonged to the CEO, William Zhao. All the offices on this side faced the river, offering a wide, sweeping view of the water.
Ying Yin walked past them one by one, and in doing so, she seemed to retrace in her mind Mai Anyan’s own career path – step by step, inching further inward.
It could also be considered steady advancement.
At that thought, she steadied herself. Her steps stopped in front of Mai Anyan.
“Xiao Mai,” she said, “there’s afternoon tea for you too. Smile a little.”
Mai Anyan actually smiled, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets, as if he had finally let go.
“You know,” he said, “Chenye could make your relationship public. It could reveal your bipolar disorder and suicide history. It could also drag this out and take you to court, prolonging the legal battle until all your film commitments and brand deals collapse because of contractual disputes and legal risks.”
Zhuang Tiwen was about to fire back, but Ying Yin stopped her.
She met his eyes calmly. “I know. Thank you – for you and Mr. Tang – for choosing a less destructive path.”
Mai Anyan invited her into his office. The documents had already been printed, two copies neatly stacked on either side of the desk.
The contract had been reviewed together by Zhuang Tiwen and Yongcheng’s side. Ying Yin picked it up and carefully went through every clause once again, checking it line by line.
“Was it you who leaked Ruan Ye’s scandal?” Mai Anyan asked while pouring her tea. “Not many people knew about Song Shizhang’s property.”
“How could it be me?” Ying Yin smiled. “Is she okay?”
“She’s lost several confirmed endorsement deals. A few high-end luxury events she was supposed to attend have been put on hold as well. But she’s fine. The one who’s really panicking is the person inside.”
Ying Yin knew he meant William Zhao. With Ruan Ye’s carefully planned career trajectory disrupted, the executive who had been pushing her had every reason to worry about his KPIs.
“As long as Song Shizhang doesn’t lose interest, there’s still room for change,” Ying Yin said lightly. “Doesn’t he have dozens of historical drama IPs? Just make Ruan Ye a ‘historical drama princess’ then.”
At that, Mai Anyan glanced at her. “Who taught you to speak with such double meanings?”
Ying Yin gave that sweet, innocent smile again. “The last time I treated you to a late-night snack and asked you not to terminate the contract, you said you guaranteed you wouldn’t leave my sight. I’ve been lying awake at night trying to figure out what you meant.”
Ying Yin burst out laughing. “So you do care about me after all. Afraid I’ll leave.”
“How could I not be?” he said. “China’s youngest dual-award Best Actress is about to slip out of my hands.”
He poured the tea, then gently pushed the cup toward her. “A toast – in tea – in honor of twelve years.”
Ying Yin was quiet for a moment, then drank the cup of tea he had poured her.
“If I hadn’t interfered with your freedom to choose roles – if I’d let you pursue your art freely – would you have stayed?” he still couldn’t help asking.
“No,” she said. “Maybe in that case, I would already be dead.”
Mai Anyan’s heart jolted.
Zhuang Tiwen, not understanding the context, froze and crumpled the paper in her hand slightly.
“I don’t have that much talent, nor the same kind of emotional numbness others have,” Ying Yin said. “You let me act in so many bad films, and earn a lot of money – just think of it as having protected me.”
She pressed her lips into a faint smile. “Do you feel a bit better now?”
For a moment, Mai Anyan couldn’t tell whether what she said was true or not. But seeing her light, almost washed-out smile, he found himself smiling too – and feeling a little relieved.
“My phone will always be open to you,” he said. “If there’s a next time, I’ll still send you to the emergency room.”
Ying Yin nodded, took the termination contract that Zhuang Tiwen had reviewed, uncapped a pen, and bent her head to sign her name.
With the final stroke, she became free.
“What are your plans next?” Mai Anyan asked as he escorted her to the office door.
“I haven’t decided. I’ll take it step by step. No rush.”
“Tonight the company will issue an official announcement. Which PR firm did you sign with? Make sure you manage the public narrative. Some of your fanbase managers are quite extreme – they like to interfere in your career decisions and might even lead a wave of negativity. It’s best if you ignore them, and let Junyi…”
“Anyang.”
He stopped his rambling, then gave a self-deprecating smile. “I just can’t help it. I worry too much. Don’t take it to heart. And next time you see me buying negative trending topics to suppress yours, don’t blame me.”
Ying Yin smiled, her mask still hanging loosely under her chin, not yet pulled back up. “You really are something.”
As they walked through the dozens-of-meters-long open office, the sound of keyboards and phone calls gradually slowed, then stopped altogether, collapsing into a heavy, uneasy silence.
Within that silence lay a truth – one that was about to be made public.
Ying Yin stopped at the doorway, turned around, and slowly swept her gaze across the room.
The people working in entertainment changed constantly and at a rapid pace. Many couldn’t endure it and switched careers; others climbed higher. Some transferred departments, some jumped companies. But among all of them, no one had walked through these twelve years with her.
The office had been renovated three times. She remembered clearly – the workers came to replace the lightbox displays, the portraits changed, and outdated fashions were discarded along with them. But her face was always centered. Her film posters were treated like artwork, hung in the most prominent places.
Ying Yin said goodbye to all of it with her eyes. Finally, she removed her hood, placed her hands neatly in front of her body, and bowed at ninety degrees.
“Sister Yin…” someone called her unconsciously.
Ying Yin let out a breath. Her face, lowered in the bow, felt a little sore in the nose.
“Thank you all for always being with me,” she said, drawing in a deep breath and raising her voice. “I wish everyone vast skies and open seas, steady advancement, good health, and finally… Merry Christmas.”
After offering her blessings, she straightened up and left without looking back even once.
Applause and scattered farewells followed her from behind, like green birds in a garden escorting away the last blooming cluster of roses.
The corridor stretched long ahead. On both sides, covered in red velvet, twelve years of film posters passed by Ying Yin one after another, and one by one were left behind.
Zhuang Tiwen said nothing, but as she looked up, she caught sight of Floating Flowers, the overseas breakout film from Ying Yin’s debut. In it, she still had baby fat – sitting by the river, her jade-like neck and arms carrying a kind of innocent, naïve sensuality. When Zhuang Tiwen had studied her career, she had read the celebratory press releases for that film’s success: Mai Anyan holding the trophy tightly, hugging her, laughing so hard his face was almost distorted.
Back then, everyone was young. They didn’t know the mountains were high or the rivers long, and that they might one day part ways halfway through the journey.
“He just said you had bipolar disorder and a suicide attempt…”
Only when they reached the elevator did Zhuang Tiwen finally speak.
“That was a long time ago. Don’t tell Mr. Shang – it would ruin his mood.”
“You two…” Zhuang Tiwen started to say something, but she didn’t actually know how much truth there was in Ying Yin and Shang Shao’s relationship. When it came to other people’s feelings, it was better not to speak carelessly, lest one misspoke and led things astray.
“Tiwen,” Ying Yin said, “I only want to keep happiness. If a person lives to eighty, then I hope this year is my happiest year.”
The elevator rose floor by floor. With a “ding,” the doors opened, and Ruan Ye stepped out.
A large hat covered most of her face. When she looked up, her expression was pale and haggard.
“What a coincidence,” Ying Yin said lightly, nodding at her.
“I haven’t broken up with him yet,” Ruan Ye said abruptly, without context.
“That’s great,” Ying Yin replied in an offhand, almost innocent tone.
“You’re the one who looks down on him, aren’t you? You kept persuading me to stay away from him, saying he wasn’t a good person. But in the end, you set me up anyway, trying to make him give up on me.” Ruan Ye let out a mocking laugh. “You make it sound so noble, but you just can’t stand seeing me doing well, can you?”
Ying Yin smiled casually. “You’re right about everything.”
“I never harmed you either. At the Galaxy Awards, you’re a Best Actress, a guest of honor – I can’t even get into the venue. Why won’t you just let me go?”
“You’re joking,” Ying Yin said softly, almost sincerely. “Your path is still long. I actually want to see how far you can go.”
She stepped into the elevator and pressed the button. The doors slowly closed. As they did, Ruan Ye said desperately, “Mr. Song said I’m a smarter version of you.”
Ying Yin nodded. “Then I wish you rare clarity within confusion.”
The elevator descended slowly.
From the lobby on the first floor, the sky over Ning City was a deep, clear blue.
Her meeting with Li Shan was scheduled for four in the afternoon, and this timing was just right. Zhuang Tiwen was driving, and Ying Yin dozed off again – still as if she hadn’t slept enough.
In her dream, she saw Shang Shao again. When they arrived, she woke reluctantly, the first thing she did being to reach for her phone.
Shang Shao must have been very busy today; he hadn’t contacted her at all.
Pouting slightly, Ying Yin typed listlessly: [You don’t have me in your heart today.]
Shang Shao really was busy – and also found her very cute. The briefing was important, about a planned biomedical research laboratory with over a hundred billion in phased investment. During the presentation, he allowed himself a two-second distraction and sent a brief reply: [I do.]
And nothing more.
For a moment, Ying Yin felt both brushed off – and yet not quite.
Li Shan was fond of tea. The Japanese teahouse he had chosen for the meeting was quiet and elegant. Within the Zen-like space hung a few ink-wash calligraphy pieces, and a plum vase held several green plum branches.
Only two people were inside: Li Shan, and his longtime screenwriter Shen Ling.
Li Shan was already in his seventies or eighties, but still full of energy. His sharp, hawk-like eyes were bright and alert, his voice strong and resonant. He once joked to reporters that when he was young he could start working at his desk at four or five in the morning; these days he couldn’t do that anymore – he had to wait until half past five.
Shen Ling was more than ten years younger. He had a refined, scholarly temperament. His gray-white hair was left natural rather than dyed black, and even in a simple T-shirt he carried an unmistakable air of literary cultivation.
Ying Yin took off her knee-high boots and followed behind a kimono-clad attendant. The sliding door opened, and the room was filled with the faint curl of agarwood incense and the subtle scent of plum blossoms.
“Xiao Yin is here,” Li Shan greeted her. He stood up with Shen Ling and introduced them. “This is Mr. Shen, and this is Ying Yin.”
Ying Yin felt slightly overwhelmed and quickly said, “Please, sit.”
Li Shan smiled. “Today you seem like you’ve returned to simplicity. People outside say you’re the most seasoned social butterfly in the entertainment world – but meeting two old men like us, you’re actually nervous?”
Shen Ling spoke leisurely. “You’re the old man. I’m not.”
Ying Yin couldn’t help but laugh, and the atmosphere relaxed a little.
She knelt on a cushion and introduced her agent beside her. “This is my manager, Zhuang Tiwen.”
“Mai Anyan didn’t come? Is he unwilling to let you take such a low-paying project, so he simply refused to show up?”
“Mr. Li…” Ying Yin hesitated slightly. “I’ve terminated my contract with Chenye. The official announcement will go out at eight tonight.”
Li Shan was rinsing the tea set. Hearing this, he merely smiled, completely unshaken.
After washing two teacups, he used bamboo tongs to place them neatly in front of the two women before speaking.
“You and Xiao Dao really are friends after all. Same path, same mindset.”
Ying Yin responded modestly, “I’m still far behind Ke Yu.”
“That’s true. He followed Shang Lu and has become more and more like a transcendent being – not like us mortals who still need to film small stories about love and emotion.”
Ying Yin laughed softly. “I trust both of your scripts.”
On the long tea table, a stack of papers had already been placed there – it was the script Shen Ling had brought.
“Just a first draft. Take a look.”
When she opened the cover, the first thing she saw was the character background. The opening line read:
[Yin Xueqing is a prostitute. In the year she turns thirty-five, she simultaneously possesses one million and a terminal diagnosis notice.]
Ying Yin spent two hours reading the script.
During those two hours, only Zhuang Tiwen, Li Shan, and Shen Ling chatted among themselves. Zhuang Tiwen would occasionally glance at Ying Yin to check on her condition, but Li Shan and Shen Ling never once looked at her.
It was as if they already understood her completely. As if they knew her deeply – despite never having had a real conversation with her before.
Zhuang Tiwen didn’t realize this was the world of filmmakers: a world she had never been part of, a world defined by cinema itself.
In this world, they had long since been in silent communion.
Two hours passed. Outside the window, the bright blue sky gradually turned into a muted orange, and eventually, under the evening light, deepened into a dark blue-black.
The sliding door opened and closed several times, though Ying Yin didn’t notice. She smelled the sweetness of sugar-pickled green plums and thought, for a moment, that it had already become winter.
Tempura was brought in and taken away again, cold bento boxes went from full to empty, and tea was brewed pot after pot.
When she turned the last page, two lines of dialogue settled into her mind:
[You still haven’t told me – why is snow green?]
[When snow melts, you see grass. That is green.]
Ying Yin slowly covered her eyes with both hands. Her shoulders trembled – whether from a sigh or from suppressing something, it was impossible to tell.
Zhuang Tiwen wanted to step forward in concern, but Li Shan stopped her with a look. He was teaching her to remain patient.
It took Ying Yin five minutes to recover.
She handed the script back to Shen Ling and casually wiped away a tear. “This film -there’s no way it can pass censorship in China.”
Li Shan let out a quiet laugh. “Correct. You’ve hit the point exactly.”
“Under the new Cannes rules, films without domestic screening permits can’t be selected for official sections. And under new domestic regulations, films without the required approvals can’t go abroad either. So the old route of bypassing censorship for international release – it’s already no longer possible.”
A film’s successful release must go through three stages: project approval, content review, and technical review.
When applying for project approval, the production team must submit a basic plot synopsis and other foundational materials to the relevant authorities. The national film bureau then issues an approval decision in accordance with the Film Administration Regulations, along with any required revisions. This is something every filmmaker is very familiar with.
Under the new regulations, mainland Chinese films must obtain both the opening “dragon logo” approval and the physical theatrical release permit before they can be released internationally.
Li Shan nodded in acknowledgment.
“Indeed,” he admitted. “I can say that from the very beginning, this film was destined to face enormous difficulty in getting approved.”
He phrased it tactfully, but given the subject matter, the characters involved, and the emotional scale, it was essentially almost impossible to pass initial approval.
No wonder that even with Li Shan’s reputation and status, he could only offer a modest one-million fee. No wonder Mai Anyan refused to allocate schedule slots for her.
It was well known that Li Shan shot films with extreme meticulousness – “like the craftsmanship of the Core Boat Record,” refining every detail to perfection, unbothered by spending a year or more in pursuit of the ideal result. His last romantic film was twenty years ago. In order to help the leads get into character, he made them stay together continuously for a full twenty-four hours.
Not more, not less – exactly twenty-four hours, every minute and second together without interruption. When they came out, the actors looked at each other with eyes as rich and concentrated as strong brewed tea.
Those two leads later became a couple – and later still, broke up – along with the film becoming part of cinematic history.
“Director Li,” Ying Yin asked, raising what she knew was the second key question, “who is the producer of this film?”
“Not decided yet,” Li Shan replied with a nod. “It’s difficult, you know our market only pursues profit. There is a lot of money, but that money can only be used to make more money – not to be spared for artistic pursuit. That’s why I say Shang Lu and Ke Yu are like immortals: they have wealth, so they can preserve their beliefs.”
He spoke with calm detachment, slowly pouring cold tea. “In my old age, just for one last story I want to tell, I still have to beg everywhere.”
A long silence followed at the table.
Ying Yin looked at him and noticed that he truly seemed older than he had two years ago.
Back when The Heartbreaker’s Public Enemy went to Cannes, he had been at the height of his brilliance. Later, Goodbye, Angela won the Palme d’Or, and Li Shan had been one of the jury members that year.
That was a moment of glory for all Chinese-language cinema. He had still been full of vigor then, telling the media microphones that the world of light and shadow was ever more lofty, ever more demanding – that he would keep making films until he was eighty-eight.
“Ying Yin,” he said finally, “I won’t force you. Think it over carefully. From the very beginning, I had already decided you were the lead for this film – but fate must be mutual. It has to be both sides choosing each other. If you refuse, I won’t blame you.”
He added at the end, “You are a born method actor. This story belongs to you. And my psychiatrist is standing by at any time.”
