Letter from Hong Kong Chapter 76

Li Shan makes films very slowly.

Being his producer means always being ready to give yourself a stern pinch between the eyes just to stay conscious. Over the course of his long, drawn-out productions, the things that have happened on his sets include, but are not limited to:

The third female lead finished filming, but he felt the overall vibe wasn’t right – so he recast the role, and the original actress was cut down to zero frames remaining in the final edit.

On-set sound was recorded and post-production was underway, when he decided that the various regional accents throughout the film should probably be dropped. So the three months of accent training the actors had undergone became wasted effort, and everyone was called back to re-record their dialogue in post-sync.

Midway through shooting, he decided that in a particular scene, it would be more beautiful if the male lead died. So the male lead suddenly dies, and the second lead is hit with a windfall of a role, abruptly promoted to top billing. At the time, the actor playing the male lead was from Japan; he had turned down six months’ worth of offers for the sake of this Asian master director’s film. Now, suddenly “dead,” he found himself with nothing to do on set all day. After a month of this, he finally made the painful decision to return to Japan. Facing the Japanese entertainment press, he spoke with characteristically roundabout Japanese politeness: “Li Shan is a unique director. I learned a great deal – especially about the matter of ‘unexpectedness,’ which I will carry with me for life. Well, such is life – truly as brilliant and elusive as fireworks.”

The film was originally scheduled for a three-month shoot, but because Li Shan felt the entire cast’s performances were too superficial, he shut down production for a month. Every day, he led the actors in meditation and mindfulness practice, walking, endlessly walking – “absorbing the energy of nature.” When the male and female leads appeared on an interview show and were asked what they had learned under this master director most renowned for sculpting actors, the male lead propped his chin on his hand and said, “Walking.”

But none of this means Li Shan is a disorganized or undisciplined director. On the contrary, he possesses the most precise and meticulous project timelines, along with the most torturous, exacting standards.

The most famous story of his actor-tormenting ways involves Ke Yu, back when Ke Yu was still considered merely a “pretty face” actor. Under Li Shan, he played a fugitive returning to his hometown after prison, and he had to eat a bowl of wonton noodles. In the end, Ke Yu ate thirty bowls – induced vomiting, acid reflux, acute gastroenteritis. As he lay on set hooked up to an IV, he felt that what was flowing into his veins was wonton noodle broth.

All these abnormal, topsy-turvy actions stem from one simple fact: they didn’t align with his lines of latitude and longitude. Li Shan is a director with an unerring sense of precision. In his dictionary, there is no such thing as “good enough” – only “perfect fit.”

Admittedly, in the audience’s imagination, a seasoned director making a film should be like assembling a model kit: the blueprint is fixed, the modules are clear, the camera positions are pre-drawn. Before shooting begins, the director should have the entire picture in mind, and everyone else simply follows the plan. But in reality, making a film is like going to war – especially for films shot in natural environments rather than on studio lots or in backlots. The battlefield shifts in an instant, and so does the set: light, environment, the chemistry between actors, every element within the frame – all must be fine-tuned according to the changing tides of battle.

Anything that must be sacrificed can be sacrificed. For a director, mercy is the greatest disaster. This is Li Shan’s famous maxim, left behind in his masterclass at the Galaxy Awards.

Though Li Shan never says it, everyone knows full well: this healthy but aging director has only so many films left in him. And so, even as he spends his days holding his viewfinder, roaming far and wide with his cinematographer instructor Lao Fu and the main cinematographer Cai Si, meticulously composing shot after shot, no one nags him about when production will finally begin.

The villagers of Aqiap gradually grew accustomed to the presence of these strangers. A small eatery opened at the head of the village, and a tavern that could stir-fry dishes late into the night also set up shop. Everyday pastoral activities – shoeing horses, slaughtering whole sheep – never failed to draw crowds of curious onlookers. Sometimes, Ying Yin stood among these onlookers, with Jiang Te by her side.

His daily life was simple: aside from accompanying Ying Yin on walks around the village, he tended to livestock. His own horse wasn’t here, so he helped herd others’ animals for free. Nearly a hundred horses crossed the stream – a sight that should have made the earth tremble beneath their hooves, yet because of the snow, it was utterly silent. The horses’ hooves kicked up puffs of snow and splashed crystalline water from the stream.

Watching this scene, Ying Yin thought of Yin Xueqing’s state of mind. She had become Yin Xueqing’s eyes, Yin Xueqing’s breath, Yin Xueqing’s heartbeat.

She used immersion to escape.

One day, in the bitter freezing cold, she crawled out of her warm bedding without rousing Junyi or waking Tiwen. She pushed open the wooden door, crusted with frost and wind – creak – and stepped outside. At three in the morning, the snow reflected the moonlight. She knelt on the snowy ground, her pajama sash loosening from her waist, the collar slipping off her shoulders, revealing her lean yet full upper body.

So cold – her, who was so afraid of the cold.

But she scooped up a handful of snow and began to gently, absorbedly rub it over her body.

That was Yin Xueqing’s scene – bathing in snow on a winter night, gazing at the moonlight on the snowfield. The camera was positioned from behind, capturing the slender, supple curve of her back, and that stretch of her nape, slightly bowed like a lotus flower stirring in the wind.

The temperature was too low; the snow didn’t melt – it clung like powdered frost.

The door hadn’t been shut properly, and the wind pushed it open. Junyi had been sleeping near the draft. As she groped her way across the threshold, her drowsy eyes suddenly flew wide open. In the silent, snowy night, she stumbled and staggered across the snow, falling flat with a thump, then scrambled back up on all fours, and grabbed Ying Yin’s hand –

“Ying Yin!” She was breathless, her eyes round and wide, calling her name at the top of her lungs – like summoning a soul back from the dead.

Whether Ying Yin’s soul had returned or not, her body gave a start. “Junyi.” She lowered her lashes.

“Come back inside with me.” Junyi’s voice was firm and unyielding. She crouched down and draped Ying Yin’s clothes back over her shoulders.

Ying Yin’s soul came back. She gently put her arms around Junyi.

Junyi froze, not daring to move a muscle.

“I miss him so much.”

Five words, spoken in the tone of reciting a line – enough to make tears stream down Junyi’s face.

By the time Zhuang Tiwen’s parcel – shipped all the way from Hong Kong – finally arrived, Ying Yin’s fever was raging fiercely.

The parcel was delivered by the village’s forest ranger. In winter, his work was light, so he rode his horse back and forth along the stream, carrying letters and packages. The box was heavy, and when it was opened, it still carried the warmth of the south.

Inside was a set of exquisite porcelain – blue-and-white patterned, translucent in the sunlight. Tiwen truly was a lady of means, possessing that unruffled ease that only the wealthy can sustain. As the sole investor in the film, she showed not the slightest impatience with the production schedule. She spent her days idly sightseeing and even found the leisure to brew tea. Finding the local teaware too crude, she had specially ordered this set of English-style afternoon tea porcelain to be packed and sent over by her servants, along with a shipment of expensive black tea.

“You’re running a fever and probably have no appetite. A bit of tea will warm you up. I’ll have Luo Siliang find a herder to get us some fresh milk, and I’ll make you Earl Grey.” As she spoke, Tiwen cast a glance at Ying Yin’s face.

Ying Yin sat cross-legged, wrapped in her blanket, her face drained of color. She reached out to help Tiwen unwrap the carefully packed vessels.

With a series of clinks and clatters, they uncovered piece after piece until the entire coffee table was covered.

What’s the best thing to wrap porcelain in? The servants used old newspapers. Not terribly old – at least they hadn’t yellowed – just expired. But the names on those pages, the events they recounted – they were already yesterday’s flowers, already scenes of a bygone time.

[To the esteemed citizens of Lijia:

Victoria Harbour will host a fireworks display on December 24th, Christmas Eve, at 8:00 PM. All are cordially invited to attend.

Respectfully presented to Miss Ying.]

So this was a newspaper from December 23^rd – from last year.

As if in a dream, Ying Yin slowly and gently set the unwrapped cup onto the table. The blue teacup wobbled, failed to find its balance, tipped over the edge, and crashed to the floor.

Thud – it didn’t break, but the sound was so heavy.

Yet Ying Yin didn’t hear it. She was wholly absorbed, holding the newspaper in both hands.

The paper had been used as wrapping – creased and folded all over. Her palms smoothed across it, again and again, flat and deliberate.

“To the esteemed citizens…” Her lips moved, but no sound came out – only a trace of warm moisture dampening her lips.

Junyi and Tiwen both froze, watching her, as a sob escaped her throat.

The crying stopped almost as quickly as it started. She caught her breath, smiling through it, and recited: “Victoria Harbour… will… will hold on December 24th…”

Tears fell, pitter-patter, ceaselessly, onto the old newspaper – onto her story and his -blooming one damp ring after another.

That night of fireworks at Victoria Harbour – why hadn’t she taken a single photo?

She thought: Having it once is enough. No need to cling to it for the rest of my life.

Let her go back.

Let her go back to that time.

“Junyi, it hurts.” Ying Yin clutched her chest, her pale eyes squeezed tightly shut, her lips trembling uncontrollably. She collapsed onto the quilt, only able to murmur, “Junyi, it hurts… it hurts so much…”

Something inside her was tearing apart – her heart, a bloody, mangled mess. The pain sent her blood flowing backward; her heart muscle nearly gave out.

“Breathe! Ying Yin, inhale, inhale!” Junyi gripped both her arms, frantic, tears swirling in her eyes.

But Ying Yin’s breaths grew shorter and shorter. Her mouth hung open, gasping, but the air felt too thin – it scattered before it could ever reach her lungs.

“She’s hyperventilating!” Tiwen dropped what she was holding and shot to her feet without hesitation. She scrambled around, searching, until she found a plastic bag. She cupped it over Ying Yin’s mouth, twisting the opening into a seal with her fingers. “Breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in again…”

The oxygen in the plastic bag made its way back into Ying Yin’s lungs. She pulled through that bout, but she was utterly spent – like a lamp burning through its last drop of oil.

The fever raged for three days. During those three days, Li Shan did not allow Jiang Te anywhere near her. On the fourth day, she rose at dawn to another clear sky. When she pushed open the door, snow tumbled from the branches of the spruce tree in the courtyard.

Li Shan stood outside the gate, watching Ying Yin. “We can start shooting,” he said.

The official announcement photo for the start of production was not the usual character still or ceremony snapshot. Instead, it was a vast expanse of snowy wilderness, with Ying Yin and Jiang Te trudging along side by side. She wore green – a fitted, waisted A-line skirt – and he wore a herder’s jacket, slightly worn. Neither spoke; they simply walked in silence. In the photograph, there were no birds, no signs of life – only the two of them.

Once filming began, interactions among the crew suddenly multiplied. One day, a group from the art and prop department passed by Ying Yin, and she caught a familiar scent.

The crisp, clean freshness of a high-altitude, high-latitude morning – like snow-capped spruce forests.

What brand of perfume it was, she had never known. She had always assumed it was a custom blend – so it wasn’t?

She froze. The fragrance faded quickly, and her steps hurried after it just as fast. But after two paces, she stopped. She didn’t follow any further.

Tennessee, the production designer, asked, “Miss Ying, is something wrong?”

Ying Yin shook her head. “I caught a lovely scent… never mind.”

She said “never mind,” came back to herself, and smiled faintly. With a small nod, she turned and walked away.

A gust of sea breeze swept past, rocking the keel sailboat gently.

The boat’s sails were furled, so it wouldn’t drift aimlessly on the open sea. The sun shone warmly, warming the man lying by the winch at the stern. He didn’t use an electric winch – only the most primitive, manual kind. Raising and lowering the sails, adjusting their angle – all required him to pull and coil the ropes by hand. For this reason, his beautiful hands, like jade fan ribs, were actually covered in a thin layer of calluses on the palms. And for the same reason, his fingers were nimble, long, and strong – expert at unfastening a woman’s bra clasp with such lightness that one might mistake him for being well-practiced in the art.

Shang Shao lay there, on the waves far from the shoreline, hovering between sleep and wakefulness.

When that jolt of searing pain seized him, he abruptly sat up, gasping for air, his palm pressed against his heart.

The keel sailboat was steady, with no real danger of capsizing, but it still rocked violently from his sudden movement.

For two agonizing seconds, Shang Shao’s gaze was utterly blank and lost. All he knew was the trembling of his fingertips and the chill running through his body. The sun was blocked behind his broad shoulders, and his eyes fell into shadow, unable to focus.

There was no light either.

What had happened?

In his dream, he seemed to see her getting married – walking into a flower-filled hall with a man whose face he couldn’t make out. Then, as if she had fallen from a cliff, drifting down like a kite on the wind.

Zhuang Tiwen answered the phone.

She stepped away from the others, paused for a moment, then answered, “Hello.”

Before he could ask, Shang Shao took a long time to steady his breathing and his heartbeat.

“Has something happened to her?”

Tiwen had no idea why he would ask that – or why he sounded so certain.

“No, everything’s going smoothly with the shoot.”

The fever had been a week ago. She didn’t think it was worth bringing up outdated news – besides, Ying Yin wouldn’t want her reporting back anyway.

On the other end of the line, Shang Shao fell silent.

Through the receiver, only the sound of sea breeze remained.

“I dreamed of her,” he said.

He dreamed that she had grown used to living without him.

And that she no longer feared it. He dreamed that she had gotten used to life without him – and found that it wasn’t such a big deal after all.

That was why he woke with a start.

That was why he woke in such anguish.