Letter from Hong Kong Chapter 90

From the airport arrival hall to the managed parking apron is a distance of several hundred meters. It’s a bright, clear day; beyond the unbroken expanse of glass windows, the shadows of clouds are vividly reflected on the rolling barren hills.

“Hey.” Shang Lu pushed his carry-on suitcase with one hand and hooked a Bluetooth earpiece over his other ear.

“You’ve landed?” Ke Yu crouched on a wild sandy beach of a remote island, digging a small crab with a still-tender shell out of the sand.

The sound of the waves didn’t escape Shang Lu. He asked, “On the beach?”

The Yun Gui Villa district had a private stretch of beach for its residents, and he and Ke Yu often spent time there. With the recent fine weather in Ning City, Ke Yu enjoyed reading on the beach chairs or doing crossword puzzles.

Ke Yu was actually on another island – a very small one he’d picked at random. Compared to a five-star resort, this place had more tidal flats and oyster farms. But he didn’t say that outright. He gave a vague “mm” and asked, “Is Xinjiang cold?”

“Not too bad.” Shang Lu walked up to the glass door and cut to the chase. “I wanted to ask you – is that string of Buddhist prayer beads yours?”

“Mm.” Ke Yu pressed the little crab into the sand to make it blow bubbles. “I gave them to you.”

Shang Lu narrowed his eyes. The ground crew at the parking apron bowed to him; he nodded in return, took off his earpiece to say “Just a moment” to her, and then asked Ke Yu, “What made you think of giving me this?”

Ke Yu said seriously, “They can help calm your mind, protect your heart, and soothe your liver.”

Shang Lu: “…”

The black-coated helicopter had already been inspected and fully prepped, ready for takeoff at any moment. Shang Lu handed his luggage to the pilot who had come to welcome him, boarded the aircraft, and took the pilot’s seat.

The pilot: “?”

But his client had already put on his sunglasses, removed the microphone, and was communicating with the ground tower. His hands moved across the control panel with fluent ease, leaving no trace of hesitation – plainly showing he was thoroughly familiar with all of it and long accustomed to handling such machinery.

“Certificates are in the backpack.” Shang Lu glanced at him. “Put on your headset and navigate for me.”

The pilot did indeed find his relevant credentials – some in English, some in Chinese -and saw that Shang Lu owned a twin-engine rotorcraft of the same model as the one they were in. Judging by the issuance dates on his licenses, he had been flying longer than the pilot himself, who made his living doing this.

Reassured, the pilot put his documents away and asked, “Do you have experience with snow landings?”

“One winter, I lived in Anchorage and used to fly into the Arctic Circle pretty often.”

Anchorage is close to the Arctic Circle, with long winters; helicopters there are almost a daily household necessity, and flying over snow-covered terrain is routine for them.

The pilot had nothing more to say. He gripped the armrest and climbed briskly into the cabin. As he fastened his seatbelt, he casually remarked, “So you’re heading to Aqiap – are you joining the film crew too? We’ve already had one of our aircraft flying there for over a month now – also a twin-engine.”

They were the only operator in Xinjiang providing large twin-engine rotorcraft services, so industry news traveled fast.

Shang Lu didn’t think much of it, assuming Li Shan had rented it for aerial cinematography. But it struck him as a bit odd – from what he’d heard Ke Yu say about this film, even if they needed sweeping overhead shots, they wouldn’t be extensive; a month-plus of flying seemed excessive.

The tower’s flight clearance came through the headset. Under the clear sky, the rotor blades churned the wind, carrying the black helicopter toward the distant wilderness beyond.

Perhaps mindful that he was an uninvited guest and shouldn’t make a grand entrance, Shang Lu set the helicopter down on a plain outside Aqab more than two hours later. He’d brought the carry-on specifically for his down jacket; now he packed his laptop, tablet, and assorted odds and ends into a black backpack, then walked twenty minutes into the village.

On set, the atmosphere was tense.

They were shooting a scene in which Yin Xueqing was harassed by several young men from the village.

After coming to terms with her feelings for Haying, Yin Xueqing had returned to her hometown to see the grand house her parents had built with the money from selling her. The foundation was deep; rainwater had pooled in the concrete grids, glistening green.

“Xueqing, we’re going to build four stories – everyone’s building four stories now,” her father said with certainty, his deeply lined, simple face animated with pride because of the house.

Yin Xueqing nodded and transferred the money to him. Standing on the open ground outside, she looked up at the masons laying the outer walls, floor by floor – red bricks and dark gray mortar fitting tightly together. She wouldn’t be around to see this house finished.

“Your aunt on your mother’s side has found you a match. When will you meet him? He’s with the town fire brigade – a contract worker, but still…”

Yin Xueqing gave a soft “mm,” withdrew her gaze from the house, and looked carefully at her father and mother, one after the other. “We’ll talk about it when I come back next time.”

She could feel her life force ebbing away. On the minibus back to this remote pastoral village, the pain had been unbearable – she’d bitten down on a towel, her forehead beaded with sweat the size of beans, her palms slick with moisture as she clutched her wedding dress.

Yin Xueqing had returned with the hope of walking through the finest stretch of her life, yet what awaited her was the village gossip and slander. These rumors had no clear origin – perhaps it was because she always dressed flamboyantly, in the brightest colors, or perhaps it was because even when wrapped up modestly, there was still a certain allure lingering at the corners of her eyes and brows. That allure was innocent when innocence was needed, but when the world required a woman to be guilty, it truly became evidence of guilt.

The villagers said: Look at the way she walks – so coquettish, clearly not a decent woman. And sure enough. No wonder Haying has been tangled up with her. A woman like that – even the dirtiest stallion would turn up its nose. Oh, oh, stop it – Ha Ying will go crazy if he hears you. Haha, he’s up in the mountains. Look, look – she’s heading back to the house again. Gotta keep clean, huh – bathing every few days. So what? That doesn’t wash her clean. She heard you. Want to come over to my place for tea? Shh, don’t look at her – pretend you don’t know. I wonder if her body is as fair as her face? Haha.

Shang Lu casually stopped a child and asked, “Where are they filming today?”

The child looked up at him, craning his neck so far it nearly ached. After a dazed moment, he timidly pointed in a direction.

Shang Lu gave a nod, his tone as cool and detached with the child as with anyone else. “Thank you.”

His black work boots left a deep trail of footprints in the patchy snow.

Li Shan’s set was tightly managed. Every shooting day, the crew cleared the area of onlookers and stationed production assistants at the entrances and exits to prevent leaks. They’d been filming here for nearly three months now, and the residents of Aqiap had grown used to it, so there weren’t many idle spectators gathered outside.

The production assistant frowned, about to shoo away the approaching figure – but the next second, he recognized the young and formidable director and blurted out in surprise, “Director Shang?”

Shang Lu, carrying his backpack on one shoulder, asked, “Shooting in progress?”

“Yes, shooting in progress.”

“I need to see Director Li. Can I go in?”

“Oh, you’re being too polite. Hang on – let me check with Director Luo.”

After a moment, Luo Siliang jogged over. “Director Shang! Why are you standing outside? Let me take you to the director’s team.”

The PA stepped aside, and the two walked toward the director’s area, their steps light. Arriving under the shelter, no one dared disturb Li Shan. Shang Lu gave Luo Siliang a slight nod and stopped silently behind Li Shan. Beneath his arrogantly arched brows, his gaze habitually fixed on the monitor screen.

Ying Yin was wearing a dark green silk-padded cheongsam with a short batwing-sleeved cotton jacket over it. Her face was very pale, her nose and the rims of her eyes bright red – whether from makeup or the cold, it was hard to tell.

Shang Lu pulled out his phone and texted Ke Yu back: [Your friend looks good.]

A few young men who loafed around the village with nothing legitimate to do had stopped Yin Xueqing.

“Don’t walk so fast – come have a drink at my place. You must have quite a tolerance, right?”

Yin Xueqing brushed his hand away. “Get lost. I don’t have time.”

The snow came up past her calves; she swayed and stumbled slightly.

“Come on – isn’t Ha Ying up in the mountains? So you’re free, aren’t you?” another young man laughed, blocking Yin Xueqing’s path.

Yin Xueqing’s face went blank for a moment, and obvious tension flickered in her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get away! Keep your hands to yourself.”

“It’s no fun if only Ha Ying gets to play, is it? We’re way more capable than you Han Chinese men – isn’t that why you came here in the first place? It’s deep winter, and we’re pretty lonely too.”

Yin Xueqing’s voice was thinned by the ice and snow – fragile, trembling. “If you don’t stop, I’ll scream.”

“Scream?” The men exchanged glances and broke into lewd grins. “What, the four of us aren’t enough to keep you entertained?”

The four of them closed in around her, forming a suffocating ring of pressure. Yin Xueqing’s face disappeared from the frame. In the shot, there was only snow and the converging black circle of their bodies.

It was a pure, stark composition, yet it gave off an airless, oppressive weight. Through the gaps, the audience caught a glimpse of Yin Xueqing’s cyan cheongsam tumbling into the snow – her hand flung up in a cry for help and then sliding back down, briefly flashing through the darkness of that encircling ring.

Li Shan called “Cut.” “Good. Half-hour break, then prep for the next shot.”

The next take would be the same scene, but from an overhead close-up angle – Li Shan’s signature framing, where the character is pinned down like a specimen, helplessly fixed at the bottom of the frame. In this next take, Yin Xueqing would force herself to smile, putting on the flippant, seductive air she used to handle clients, bantering with them through her words. Only then would she manage to escape. Back in her wooden cabin, shivering as she slid the bolt into place, tears would roll down her numb – frozen and terrified – cheeks. Finally, she’d turn around, slide down the door panel, and slump to the floor.

As her hollow gaze refocused, Yin Xueqing would vomit.

This is the typical rhythm of work under a tyrannical director: rest breaks are given, but there’s no room to breathe. Actors are required to stay steeped in their emotional state continuously. It’s an intensely taxing mental labor, which is why many actors feel as though they’ve been flayed alive after collaborating with a major director. Li Shan is known within the industry as the director who’s best at molding actors – precisely because his harsh ruthlessness forces them to be reborn.

The set came alive with the break. Junyi handed Ying Yin her down jacket and a hand warmer. “The next take is crucial – and there’s the scene where you escape back to the cabin afterward. I’ll go get Mr. Shang.”

“No rush.” Ying Yin took a sip of hot water. “He has an afternoon meeting. I can manage.”

Junyi studied the vitality in her eyes and, satisfied that she wasn’t pushing herself, asked, “Then where do you want to rest?”

Ying Yin hugged the hand warmer and pressed it against her cheek – a girlish gesture.

“I’ll go see him.”

Junyi carefully wrapped her shawl around her. “Then I’ll let the director’s team know. You go ahead.”

Ying Yin gave an “mm” and turned to leave the set in another direction. Shang Lu withdrew his gaze and waited until the take on the monitor was finished before speaking: “Director Li.”

Li Shan paused. In this industry, there was only one person who, even when being respectful, still carried an air of composed defiance. He gripped the armrests of his folding chair and stood up, the wrinkles on his face relaxing slightly. “What brings you here? Where’s Xiao Dao?”

Shang Lu let out a short laugh. “He didn’t come – it’s just me.”

Li Shan took a hot towel from his assistant, wiped his hands, and asked, “You’re looking for me?”

“I have an idea I’d like to discuss with you in person.”

To be honest, Shang Lu didn’t particularly admire Li Shan’s style, and Li Shan happened not to admire his either – their aesthetics, from cinematography to narrative, were poles apart. Hearing Shang Lu’s Rashomon-style concept, Li Shan furrowed his brow, pondered for a moment, and said, “I do find it rather interesting, actually – but it depends on the script. Besides, this current film has been exhausting to shoot; I’m afraid I’ll need a long rest.” With that, he gestured with his hand. “This way.”

“Not shooting going smoothly?” Shang Lu stepped aside to walk alongside him.

“I think Ying Yin’s in great form – much more mature than she was back in Angela.”

Li Shan nodded. “I have high hopes she’ll take home an award.”

“Would submitting through Hong Kong for the Oscars give her a better shot?”

Li Shan handed him a cigarette, noncommittal. “These past few decades, the barriers have been hard to break.”

Shang Lu took the cigarette but didn’t light it right away, holding it between his fingers for a moment. “Of all the Chinese actresses who could win an Oscar, she’s the one I’m most optimistic about.” Then he let out a soft scoff and gave a slight, slow shake of his head. “What a shame.”

“Go see her.” Li Shan lit his own cigarette and led the way in the direction Ying Yin had gone.

“You say she’s in great form – but it’s really her giving it everything she’s got. I respect her for that.”

Shang Lu let out a rueful laugh. “That ‘respect’ of yours – what exactly has she had to sacrifice behind it? I almost don’t want to imagine.”

Li Shan flicked off some ash and squinted into the distance. “When I retire and write my memoirs, I’ll tell you then.”

The set wasn’t far from the room where Ying Yin was staying; a few exchanges brought them right to it.

But Li Shan suddenly stopped, taking the cigarette from his lips and looking at Shang Lu. “No – the way you mentioned her doesn’t sound right. She’s not your…”

His words were cut off by the creak of a wooden door opening. Ying Yin stepped out, clutching the collar of her down jacket and her shawl in both hands. She looked up and froze on the spot.

“Bonjour, pretty lady.” Shang Lu gave a slight lift of his chin.

He had one hand in his pocket, the other holding his cigarette, his tall frame at ease. “What’s with that look? Even if you didn’t expect to see me, you don’t…”

The unlatched door was held open by a hand. It was long-fingered, with distinct knuckles, traced by faint blue veins – something about it struck Shang Lu as familiar.

The next moment, a man in a black coat stepped out from the shadow of the doorway. He was off guard, still on the phone, and when he raised his eyes, they carried the habitual solemn detachment of someone handling business.

Their eyes met. Ash fell from Shang Lu’s fingertips, and he swore, loud and clear. “Holy shit.”

Shang Shao: “…”

He still had the composure to answer a question from the executive on the other end of the line, then ended the call. Meeting Shang Lu’s gaze, he raised his right hand and, quite naturally, pulled the dumbstruck, speechless Ying Yin into his embrace –

Ying Yin stumbled a step, her face flushed crimson. “Mmph.”