Letter from Hong Kong Chapter 78

The wealthy in Hong Kong have always placed great importance on New Year traditions, and businesses are no exception. Every Lunar New Year, the five children of the businessman, no matter where they are scattered around the world or how tied up they are with work, must fly back to Hong Kong to celebrate the New Year – and even Shang Mingzhuo, far away in the United States, is no exception.

For Shang Qingye and Shang Shao, the busyness of the Lunar New Year carries an additional layer of significance. Shangyu Group has over ten thousand employees worldwide, many of whom are Chinese nationals posted overseas, unable to reunite with their families all year round and even required to stay on project sites during the New Year. Thus, extending New Year greetings to these employees has become a tradition for Shang Qingye and Shang Shao.

But this year, all events were attended solely by Shang Qingye. The board of directors probed repeatedly, but the response remained firm. “Executive Director Shang Shao, due to health reasons, will not be participating in the New Year events for the time being.”

Only then did all employees realize it belatedly. That’s right – at this year’s year-end banquet on the 16th December, Director Shao had also been absent. After all, in previous years, it was always Shang Shao who delivered the keynote speech on behalf of the board, with employees worldwide tuning in at the same time to hear his words of farewell to the old year, encouragement, and goodwill.

As Executive Director – a position with real authority and hands-on responsibilities -Shang Shao was involved in far more matters than Shang Qingye. After his duties were temporarily suspended, the workflow for senior executives’ requests and approvals fell into disarray, as they habitually turned to him for guidance. He did not decline, offering a few pointers here and there to help clarify their thinking, but refrained from saying more. With a faint smile, he would calmly remark, “Out of position, out of policy.”

On the day he returned to Hong Kong from La Base in France, Shang Qingye also came home late at night.

“I let you go date, and you go sailing in France instead.” Shang Qingye handed him a cigarette, tapping his own cigar against the table. “Did you get tired of the romance, or did you come to your senses?”

The entire estate was dark, save for the study’s lamp, as the father and son sat across from each other, separated by the burl-wood desk.

Shang Shao didn’t take his father’s cigarette. “We broke up a while ago.”

Shang Qingye frowned in surprise, lifting his gaze. “Why?”

“I was afraid that if it went on any longer, she wouldn’t survive.”

Shang Qingye pressed his lips together, the cigar poised between his fingers, frozen mid-motion. He was far too perceptive – a few words were enough for him to piece together the whole picture.

“She was already going to break up with me anyway. She never once thought of becoming the future mistress of the Shang family. Your moves, my moves – they were all quite unnecessary.” Shang Shao’s lips curved slightly. “She didn’t want to marry me, because she understood that illness better than you did, and she was even less willing than you to burden me or cause me trouble. She said she was willing to remain my lover – until the day I decided to marry someone else, or grew tired of her.

“On that boat I bought when I was twenty, I finally came to understand one thing. She always called herself my ‘lover,’ never my ‘girlfriend.’ It wasn’t a difference in language between the mainland and Hong Kong – it was that a girlfriend is someone you talk about marriage with, while a lover isn’t. You knew about the fireworks, didn’t you? That night, I confessed to her. Looking back now, the word ‘girlfriend’ was something I had to teach her to say.”

“She didn’t want anything from you.” Shang Qingye finally brought the cigar to his lips.

“She wanted nothing at all.” Shang Shao sat there, elbows resting on the edge of the desk, the heels of his palms pressed against his deeply shut eye sockets.

“Do you blame me?” Shang Qingye asked a question that was utterly unlike him.

He seemed to have overreached and made things worse.

“I don’t blame you.” Shang Shao let out a self-deprecating laugh. “How could I blame you? If it weren’t for you, how much later would I have discovered her illness? Would it have been too late by then? I should thank you – for saving her life.”

Shang Qingye paused for several seconds, a voice echoing through his mind.

He shouldn’t have asked. But if he didn’t, he might forever be in debt to his eldest son. A woman he had known for only a few short months could put his lifelong happiness above all else – yet he, as a father, had been blinded by family responsibilities for far too long.

“How do you know,” Shang Qingye examined himself briefly, then asked flatly, “that it’s not too late now?”

Shang Mingbao was the second to come home. She ran into Lin Cunkang in the garden and learned that Shang Shao was also at home. She had so much to talk to Shang Shao about that she tossed her bouquet to a servant without even stopping to greet Wen Youyi, and went scampering off toward Shang Shao’s place.

The youngest Shang sister was still a bit wary, knowing that his study was off-limits for barging in. She rapped her knuckles on the door. “Do you wanna build…”

She didn’t dare finish the lyric.

A voice came from inside. “Come in.”

Mingbao entered, tiptoeing lightly, with the careful excitement of someone visiting a sovereign’s domain.

Shang Shao lay reclined in a single-seater sofa, his long legs propped up on an ottoman. A thick book lay open but unread, covering his face.

The warm sea breeze climbed the cliff and drifted in through the window – it was a lazy, pleasant afternoon.

“Someone’s so anxious they can’t even read?” Mingbao pulled out his office chair and settled in comfortably. “Are you afraid that Sister-in-law’s gotten too deep into her role and forgotten about you?”

She still didn’t know that the two of them had broken up, and her tone was dripping with gleeful schadenfreude.

Beneath the book covering his face, Shang Shao’s expression was utterly blank. At her words, he removed the book with his fingers. “Is her filming going well?”

“You don’t know, and you’re asking me?” Mingbao found this strange.

“I don’t know. What do you want? Your brother will give it to you.”

His tenderness was unusual, and it startled Mingbao. She sat frozen in the chair, not daring to move. “I…”

It seemed that asking for any amount of money would be inappropriate at a time like this.

Mingbao had no choice but to answer honestly, “I don’t really know either. You’d be better off asking Tiwen – she’s faster, isn’t she the agent? Li Shan is very strict about filming; he demands that his actors hold nothing back. Oh,” she suddenly remembered, “did I ever tell you? He’s the director who makes the male and female leads spend twenty-four hours alone together.”

“I see.” Shang Shao had also forgotten whether Mingbao had mentioned it before, but his mind remained calm. That dull ache at the bottom of his heart was like sand on the ocean floor – rising very, very slowly. Because it was at the bottom of the sea, it was silent and dark.

One day in the future, would he see her love story with the leading man, born out of their on-screen chemistry? Perhaps by then, she would smile sweetly at the camera.

Mingbao opened Weibo. “Have you seen the official announcement photo? Seriously, how can she not tell you anything?”

“She’s in character. She can’t be disturbed by outside matters.”

Mingbao nodded, half-comprehending, and wanted to say something but momentarily forgot. She found the photo and handed it to Shang Shao. “Here, look.”

In the pure white snow, she walked side by side with the male lead, a long trail of footprints behind them and endless snow stretching ahead. She wore a green belted coat, like an early spring flower. Shang Shao recognized it – Anna had bought it for her back in Germany. It was beautiful and suited her perfectly; it stirred his heart, and it would stir other men’s hearts too. He tried to imagine what the male lead beside her must be feeling. That man was tall and young, silent and sharp, with a strong, aggressive presence.

Mingbao looked at it with him. “Oh, right – I just remembered… the deeper she gets into character, the more she needs outside distractions.”

“Why?”

“Because she needs a kite string.” Mingbao’s bright eyes fixed on him, innocent and carefree. “For example, when Xiao Dao gets into character, Shang Lu is his kite string. That string is what pulls him back from the dream of the role. Without it, they’d never land. Are you Ying Yin’s kite string?”

Because of Mingbao’s words, Shang Shao couldn’t sleep that night.

He had dreamed of her falling from a cliff, drifting away like a kite.

Ke Yu received his call at three in the morning. The phone vibrated for a while before finally jolting him awake. He stared at the caller ID, his expression shifting from confusion to shock, and then settling into deeper bewilderment.

If Shang Shao was looking for him, it could only be because of Ying Yin. So he carefully peeled back the covers and got out of bed, careful not to wake Shang Lu.

“Bro, it’s late.” He threw on a robe and went to the living room, lighting a cigarette to keep himself alert.

Shang Shao wasn’t the type to disturb people in the middle of the night. Ke Yu held the cigarette between his fingers and let out a brief laugh. “When you call, my heart nearly jumps out of my chest. What’s wrong with her?”

“When an actor gets deeply into character, what kind of state is that?” Shang Shao asked him directly, without any detour.

Ke Yu paused, then remembered that Ying Yin had gone to film Li Shan’s movie, and understood.

His relationship with Ying Yin was like that of gentlemen – a friendship as clear as water, not one of frequent contact. But when she needed to borrow twenty million, the first person she thought to ask was him, and he wouldn’t refuse. Li Shan had observed many actresses for When Snow Melts It Turns Green, and eventually settled on Ying Yin – partly thanks to Ke Yu’s recommendation. After she joined the production, they had only been in touch once or twice. He asked how the shoot was going, and she said everything was fine, just that it was too cold.

Ke Yu had exchanged acting experiences and insights with Ying Yin before. He thought for a moment, then began with the methodology of acting. “In the current film and television industry, the most popular acting system is method acting. The core technique of method acting is ’emotional recall’ – that is, drawing on one’s own life experiences to unearth emotions that overlap between the character and the actor, and then channeling them into the role they’re playing. There are also two other schools: representational acting and experiential acting. Representational acting is outdated, so I won’t go into that. Experiential acting is a approach that can be distilled into a methodology, but in practice it’s extremely difficult to execute – it goes against natural instinct. In some ways, both Ying Yin and I belong to the experiential school, but with a difference: mine is spontaneous – it was only after Shang Lu guided me that I became conscious of it – whereas Ying Yin’s is deliberate and self-aware.”

Ke Yu paused briefly, not worried that the man on the other end wouldn’t understand. He took a drag of his cigarette and continued, “The first principle of method acting is ‘you must live in the character at all times while performing.’ For experiential acting, however, it’s ‘I am the character.’ So saying ‘getting into character’ to describe our state isn’t quite accurate. For an experiential actor, I am the drama – whether the camera is on me or not, I’m always in it. For example, if the role she’s playing this time is a prostitute, a method actor would first find life experiences that parallel the prostitute’s – being watched, being objectified, being treated cheaply, being exploited – and then project those into the performance. But for an experiential actor playing it – I am the prostitute. I am available to anyone. I am wanton and cheap.”

Shang Shao said nothing, but Ke Yu knew he was listening intently.

“If performing a desperate love, a method actor would find a similar moment from their own past. But for an experiential actor, that desperate love is what they are currently living through. However…” Ke Yu hesitated, the cigarette burning quietly between his fingers. “There’s one thing I’m not entirely sure about – I think there are traces of method acting in her approach. Her performance incorporates method techniques. That is to say… if the role she’s playing is very close to her own state and experiences, then it becomes a kind of reinforcement and superimposition. She’ll find it even harder to distinguish reality from the role, because she simultaneously possesses the character’s emotions and is awakening her own.”

Ke Yu poured himself a glass of water and smiled. “I don’t know if I’ve lost you in all that? So in a sense, Ying Yin’s acting is more dangerous than mine. If she doesn’t want to bring her personal, private experiences into her performance, then she has to make a cut – a distinction. That distinction is like separating flesh from sinew – how do you even do that? But if she doesn’t make that cut, then she’ll blur the line between self and role, reality and drama will merge, and she’ll lose sight of the way back even more. For us, making a film is ‘living elsewhere’ – but I know that Shang Lu is waiting for me behind the camera. As long as I remember that he’s waiting for me to come back, I’ll find my way home.”

The transparent glass rested against his lips, moonlight swaying within it, reflecting into Ke Yu’s calm eyes.

“Are you the road that leads her back?”

He curled his lips slightly. “She’s a very dedicated actor. Though young, her achievements are unparalleled – and precisely because they’re unparalleled, it seems like she’s been spinning in place these past few years. A few years ago, a variety show about acting invited her to be one of four team mentors, to go head-to-head with another well-known film queen. She turned it down. Keep in mind, the production company offered eighty million for twelve episodes – she loves money, but she refused without batting an eye, and even her agent couldn’t push her into it. Because she believed that such a show would damage her life as an actor – the more she chatted eloquently about acting methodology in front of the camera, the more ‘Ying Yin’ would show up in her films, the more traces of technique would appear, and the less integrity her characters would have.”

Because Ke Yu had asked, “Are you the road that leads her back?” when Shang Shao got back into bed, a road appeared in his dreams.

But that road was winding and empty. He waited and waited, but no one came.

Was it that she didn’t want to come back – or that she didn’t believe there was a road behind her?

When the paroxetine was forcibly pried from Junyi’s tightly clenched palm, Junyi cried.

The small pill bottle had been gripped so tightly in her hand that it was warm and damp with sweat. Ying Yin wiped it carefully with her sleeve, lowering her face with a half-smile. “So you found me out.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? If you’re sick, you take your medicine.”

“If you’re sick, how can you still act?”

“What kind of talk is that? Are you asking me to drop out of the production? Tiwen invested so much money in this – and my own twenty million is in there too. You want me to fail at another investment?” Her voice was gentle and soft. “Besides, taking medication and acting don’t conflict.”

“But this is medication for depression.” Junyi wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

“I went to see Dr. Shen and got a diagnosis. You should congratulate me – bipolar turned into depression. One less condition, isn’t that a good thing?”

“That’s not how it works.” Junyi kept crying, her nose so stuffy with sorrow she couldn’t help it.

“There’s nothing wrong with me. Look at me – I’m perfectly fine, and my acting isn’t wooden. After I finish this film, I’ll take a year or so off. I’ll take you travelling, how about that? Do you know there’s a place in France called La Base? There are lots of sailboats docked there. I want to go see it.”

Junyi shook her head incessantly. “I’m going to tell Tiwen. I’m going to tell Li Shan. Don’t think you can fool me.”

“What are you going to tell them? Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. It’s because you’re so clumsy that I didn’t dare let you find out. Are you going to cause me trouble?”

“Li Shan always says you’re half a beat slow getting into character, that you don’t look at Jiang Te – is it because of this medication? It makes you sluggish.”

“This?” Ying Yin was stumped by her question. She paused, her smile serene. “I don’t want to forget the feeling of loving him so soon.”

Her approach to acting was too clumsy – almost as unintelligent as Junyi. She neither wanted to give away her experience of loving Shang Shao to Yin Xueqing, to Jiang Te – splintering it, sacrificing it – nor did she want to fully immerse herself in Yin Xueqing’s life. Because if she did, she would completely forget the feeling Shang Shao had given her. By the time she came out of character, the Ying Yin who had loved Shang Shao would have been dead for a long time.

And yet, she actually longed to forget the feeling of loving Shang Shao.

She thought she had already forgotten. When she looked at the mountains and the waters, she was Yin Xueqing. But whenever she saw Jiang Te, she was always Ying Yin. She kept herself on guard, refusing to allow herself to become Yin Xueqing.

She thought she had already forgotten. When she caught a whiff of a scent similar to his, she could turn around and walk away.

She had been clumsily trying for so long. One Ying Yin wanted to snatch Shang Shao away and throw him aside, while the other clung to him desperately, gritting her teeth and refusing to let go. What could be done? One of them would have to lose. Only now, she still didn’t know which one it would be.

“Junyi, I’m so tired,” Ying Yin said, shaking the pill bottle and hearing the rattle inside. “Looks like the medicine is almost gone? Time to open a new bottle.” She murmured to herself, then turned and walked back toward the wooden cabin.

There were still four days until the New Year.

In this pastoral village, all traces of the New Year’s arrival came from the production crew. The production manager, Luo Siliang, had ordered a shipment of Spring Festival couplets, “fu” characters, lanterns, and New Year’s flowers. In such a cold place, the festive flowers were cheerful but destined to wither all too soon.

Scheduling on a film or television production is usually driven by economic considerations – actors’ availability, equipment and location rentals, and so on – but it also takes into account the actors’ performance states. Scenes that require a similar emotional or physical state are often grouped together and shot consecutively.

During the filming of When Snow Melts It Turns Green, the intimate scenes requiring a closed set were arranged precisely according to this principle.

After the first such scene, over the next three consecutive scenes, Ying Yin grew increasingly adept, and Jiang Te’s gaze grew increasingly precise. She caressed his strong body, her soft palm wandering from his chest down to his waist. He lifted her in his arms, pressed her against the wall, and she closed her eyes and tilted her neck back. They tumbled across the horsehide rug in the candlelit cabin, the rug wrinkling beneath them as the wind fell still outside and the snow ceased to fall, both of them drenched in sweat.

There were no kisses in any of these scenes.

A kiss is a spell, a metaphor – the director exercised restraint and did not overuse them. Physical contact could be bold, frequent, and intense. Jiang Te could even cover her face, his fingers splayed wide, nearly suffocating her, while his body made fierce, thrusting motions – but they never kissed.

Li Shan did this deliberately. When would the physical scenes involving kisses be filmed? That was for him to decide. His criterion was: when Ying Yin looked at Jiang Te, was there still any trace of herself in her eyes?

He wanted her intoxicated. He wanted her dazed. He wanted her to hold nothing back.

The day they could film a kissing scene could only be the day “Ying Yin” truly fell. From that day, from that kiss onward, there would temporarily be no “Ying Yin” in her body or soul – only Yin Xueqing. Only then could she feel Yin Xueqing’s pain, startle at Yin Xueqing’s shocks, and fear Yin Xueqing’s fears – whether being spied on by Ha Ying’s ex-wife, being ostracized by the villagers, or being harassed by thugs.

Li Shan’s eyes were like a measuring ruler when it came to people. If anyone’s performance was off by even a crack, he could see through it. He had the patience to wait and the methods to grind it out. With eyes like a hawk’s, he observed everything; with hands like a hawk’s, he orchestrated everything.

Whatever had to be sacrificed, could be sacrificed. Mercy was the greatest disaster.

On the twenty-ninth, after wrapping up work, Li Shan offered New Year’s greetings to the entire crew and announced that filming would end at four o’clock the next day, after which everyone would celebrate the New Year together. After the crowd dispersed, he kept Jiang Te and Ying Yin behind and said, “Tomorrow, we shoot the kissing scene.”

Ying Yin was stunned for a long moment, then said nothing, only nodded.

“After we finish the kissing scene, we’ll go back and fill in the few flirtatious scenes we skipped earlier,” Li Shan said matter-of-factly. “The way you look at each other now – it’s finally right.”

In the lens, their gazes had finally become tangled and fierce – unavoidable, irresolvable. They trembled at the barest touch in the air, and a moment apart brought longing.

Ying Yin accepted his judgment calmly.

She was about to say goodbye. The part of her that clung desperately to Shang Shao was about to be discarded. She had lost her strength, was utterly exhausted, and would be cast aside along with Shang Shao.

She would forget the feeling of loving him.

So this was what saying goodbye to him felt like – not the calm serenity of that day on the Maybach. Back then, she still had ten years, still looked forward to the passage of time and the hope of meeting him again.

Now, there was nothing. She no longer looked forward to ten years from now, nor to seeing him again.

Ying Yin’s hand rested over her heart. It was hollow and empty, as if a draft were blowing through.

Why did you betray me? she asked.

Tomorrow would be New Year’s Eve, and the little wooden cabin was also festively decorated. That afternoon, Junyi had cut paper window decorations and pasted them on the always-misty glass windows and along the wainscoting. The Spring Festival couplets and “fu” characters would be put up first thing tomorrow morning.

Ying Yin removed Yin Xueqing’s makeup and changed into her own clothes. That green coat – the one Anna had bought for her in Germany – looked like a green rose.

Once changed, she dialed a video call.

The phone vibrated, and a video request popped up. The name displayed was unfamiliar:

[Yinyin is at work today but free]

The ash from Shang Shao’s cigarette fell in a sudden flutter.

So a person’s heart could suddenly race to a hundred and eighty beats per minute even while sitting still, doing nothing at all.

He assumed she must be drunk. He took a deep breath, held it into a thin, even exhale, then composed his expression and answered the call.

“Shang Shao.” Ying Yin called his name, a faint smile on her face.

The night was so thick, the moonlight shining on the snow, the snow reflecting the moonlight, casting her bare-faced features in brilliant clarity.

“What’s wrong?”

There was so much he wanted to ask. But he had nothing else to ask.

Only this one question – so safe.

“Nothing much. We wrapped late today, and tomorrow we start at six in the morning and shoot until very late. Since it’s New Year, I wanted to wish you a happy New Year.” Ying Yin explained earnestly. “Happy New Year, Mr. Shang.”

Shang Shao’s lips curved slightly. “Happy New Year.”

Was his gaze too greedy? He tried to restrain his eyes, but they lingered, unwilling to look away.

“Happy New Year.” Ying Yin said it again, then laughed. “How are you?”

“I’m not doing well.”

At those words, the smile that had been fixed on Ying Yin’s face nearly crumbled into tears.

She barely held them back, as if chilled by the cold, and drew in a breath. “Me neither.”

She kept smiling the whole time, like a young girl.

“I wanted to ask you for the address of La Base – the place where you keep your sailboat. After I finish work, I can have Junyi take me there to see it.”

“I’ll send it to you.” Shang Shao’s fingertips were cold, trembling with a strange, fine tremor.

“Ying Yin…”

He thought she had come to her senses and was about to return.

“You’re still the same as always.” Ying Yin couldn’t stand any longer. She crouched down in the snow, just like that night on Edward’s yacht when she had knelt by his bedside, gazing at him – the one she liked – without taking her eyes off him.

He still looked very handsome, just a bit thinner, and seemed more brooding. He wore a white shirt – a sign that Hong Kong was still warm. Ying Yin had almost forgotten what warmth felt like. He was so elegant and distinguished, and the way he looked at her was as gentle as ever. Thinking back to the first time she saw him, sitting in the back seat of the Maybach, his profile so silent and distant – back then, how could she have imagined they would have a story together?

It was worth it. This lifetime.

“Are you still very busy with work?” she asked.

“Not busy. I’ve been quite free lately.”

“You should rest well.”

Shang Shao nodded, struggling to keep his composed expression, but a slight frown creased his brow. “Did something happen?”

“No, it’s just that this film has been particularly difficult to shoot. I’m a bit tired.”

Afraid that he might grow suspicious, Ying Yin gave him one last, deep look and said, “The director just called me – I should say goodbye now.” She waved her hand, the corners of her mouth pressed up high. “Bye-bye, farewell, Mr. Shang.”

She hung up, turned, and went back to her room. Junyi and Tiwen were both helping Luo Siliang, so Ying Yin crouched down, leaned against the edge of the bed, and with a ballpoint pen began writing on an informal piece of paper:

Junyi,

You know all my account passwords. Give them to Ying Fan, and use them to support her in her old age. She doesn’t know how to play the stock market – tell her not to touch it.

There are also two large certificates of deposit at the Bank of China, totaling five million. I give them to you. Live well.

Don’t grieve for me. Take my ashes to La Base – the address is in my phone, in my chat history with Shang Shao – you’ll find it there. Pick a clear day and take me to see the boats moored there. There’s one called Free Will – a sailing yacht, in traditional Chinese characters. That was the dream he left there when he was twenty. Let me see it, and scatter me there. In the future, when he comes here, I’ll be there with him.

After I’m gone, it will surely make the news – he won’t be able to avoid it. When he asks you anything, just tell him: She was happy during that time.

Tell him to live well, to marry and have children. Tell him I liked Rich – I just couldn’t take good care of him.

Take care of Ying Fan for me. Your own parents haven’t treated you well, but she will treat you like a real daughter.

I have no regrets in this life. Being loved by him was the best thing in it. After I die, will I become a legend? Live to a hundred, and watch over that for me.

After writing this, she folded the paper once, twice, and tucked it into the newspaper that had come from Hong Kong, the words pressing intimately against the announcement about the fireworks display.

After tucking it away, she slid the newspaper under her pillow, took her medicine as usual, washed up, and went to bed to sleep. She had to wake early tomorrow – she couldn’t have puffy eyes, nor could she leave this world looking like that.

She dreamed again.

In the dream, the goldenrain flowers had all fallen, and he set sail with his boat, never knowing that her ashes, turned to dust, had once fallen upon it.