That evening, Zhuang Xiao drove home alone.
There was a good Korean restaurant near his place. He glanced over as he passed, turned the car around, parked, and went inside for takeout, ordering two portions of the spicy shredded squid side dish.
Pei Yan wasn’t especially fond of Korean food. He wouldn’t touch ordinary cabbage kimchi and was terribly picky, but for some reason he loved these spicy squid strips. Fragrant, hot, and boldly seasoned, they really did taste better than the packaged dried squid sold in supermarkets.
The restaurant required a name for takeout orders. Zhuang Xiao always used “Ben,” the English name of his manager, Fatty Bao.
The place was crowded. To get his takeout, Zhuang Xiao sat on the long bench by the entrance and waited twenty minutes.
He grabbed a couple of Korean food posters from beside him. He couldn’t read a single word of Korean and wasn’t trying to; he wanted something to hide his face. He held a poster advertising ginseng chicken soup in front and another advertising pork-rib and potato stew to the side, then sat quietly in a corner.
At last his order was ready. The cashier held up the bag and hesitated for several seconds over the name. “Ben? … Ben? … Is it pronounced ‘ben’? … Who’s this for?”
Holding the ginseng-chicken-soup poster in front of his face, Zhuang Xiao walked over under everyone’s eyes, said nothing, took the food containers, and left. Fine, call him “dumb.” Wasn’t that what everyone in love had stamped across their forehead anyway?
It was the fault of those troublemakers who’d thought up Fatty Bao’s English name. Originally they’d wanted to call him “Bun,” after baozi. Fatty Bao had refused because it sounded too stupid and changed it to “Ben,” which had somehow turned out even worse.
Elio’s Notes: The restaurant calls the English name “Ben” as 笨 (bèn), a Chinese word meaning “foolish” or “stupid.” That is why Zhuang Xiao thinks people in love might as well have “fool” written on their foreheads.
His everyday life was remarkably simple. He hadn’t had many people around him in the first place. Now there was Mr. Pei. The so-called Zhuang Stunt Team wasn’t a company with contracts; they were sworn brothers who worked on various productions as stunt performers, fight choreographers, instructors, or doubles. They didn’t stay together all year. After returning to Beijing, Zhuang Xiao had visited the hospital rehabilitation center to see Letu, who was recovering muscular responses but remained unconscious. He stayed with him for two nights. The rest of his time had mostly been spent thinking about Mr. Pei.
He hadn’t even arranged to see him that evening. But when he spotted something Pei Yan liked, he simply wanted to buy him some.
Perhaps that, too, was a form of companionship maintained at a distance.
He put the takeout box on the passenger seat and turned into the underground garage of his apartment building.
The evening lights were on, and an occasional car moved in or out of the garage. An upscale residential compound like this was generally quiet.
He parked in his own space. The car beside him was parked atrociously tonight, its wheels actually crossing the line on the left and encroaching on his spot, forcing him to edge his own car to the left. As he reached for the food container, he noticed that the neighboring vehicle was unlike the one he’d seen parked there over the past few days, not remotely the same model or color. It was a luxury-brand RV.
He looked up just as the person inside rolled down the window. Their eyes met.
A man in a black trench coat with a crew cut nodded slightly to him from inside.
His phone vibrated too. A text appeared on the screen: [Zhuang Xiao. It’s been years.]
Without thinking, Zhuang Xiao turned the key and started the engine. At the far end of the garage, another vehicle abruptly backed up, cut sideways across a lane, and braked sharply right behind his car. Tires shrieked against the concrete. His vehicle was now securely boxed into its parking space.
Zhuang Xiao glanced behind him, pulled out the key, reached under the seat for a wrench, and got out with it gripped in his hand, his expression blank.
Another message flashed: [I just want to talk.]
Wrench in hand, Zhuang Xiao turned and walked quickly along the wall, only to see another black RV enter through the garage entrance and block his path out.
He swore under his breath and turned around.
Another text arrived, its tone almost casual: [Ah-Xiao, I’m Yanyan’s boss. Yanyan is one of my people, too. I’m not going to hurt you. Get in the car.]
* * *
Zhuang Xiao ordinarily traveled without bodyguards. He didn’t have a manager’s entourage swarming around him. He was alone.
The other man got out, apparently trying to put him at ease. He stood beside Zhuang Xiao’s car and gestured with considerable courtesy for him to come over and talk.
There was no need to turn it into an armed standoff or a shouting match. They both got into the car. In the quiet cabin, an atmosphere full of unseen sharp edges made the air feel stifling.
The man really was Pei Yan’s boss: President Zhang of Jiahuang Brothers, whose full name was Zhang Shaochi.
He wasn’t the same person as Zhang Huan, the publicity planner on Pei Yan’s own team. They weren’t relatives; they simply happened to have the same surname. Zhang Huan might even have benefited from sharing a surname with the chairman when he joined Jiahuang. Outsiders often assumed the two were related, and Zhang Huan was more than happy to let that misunderstanding lend him authority. Whether Zhang Shaochi appreciated it was another matter.
They rolled down a window for air and offered each other cigarettes. Zhang Shaochi even borrowed a light from Zhuang Xiao. A man who owned the company didn’t carry his own lighter; he waited for someone else to light his cigarette.
“I only smoke a ‘social cigarette’ with someone I think is worth my time,” Zhang Shaochi said. “Yanyan doesn’t smoke. He can’t keep you company, so I’ll have one with you!”
A thin, cold sheen lay over his face. His chin was as clean-shaven as his sideburns. It was difficult to tell his age by looking, though he must have been around forty.
“Ah-Xiao…” Zhang Shaochi said slowly. “That film I mentioned before, Beautiful Colleagues. You’ll take the role, won’t you?”
Zhuang Xiao said, “I don’t want to. It doesn’t suit me.”
“Heh.” Zhang Shaochi smiled too. “What does it matter whether it suits you? I’m asking you myself. You’ll accept, won’t you?”
“Sorry, President Zhang. I really won’t do it.” Zhuang Xiao rested a hand on the steering wheel and looked straight ahead.
“Ah-Xiao, if you’re not going to make a film for me, what did you come back for?” Zhang Shaochi asked.
“I already made one. I finished Dragon Battles Heaven’s Pass for you without any fuss. We’ve wrapped,” Zhuang Xiao replied.
“Is that so? Heh. So that’s why you suddenly came back.” Zhang Shaochi raised an eyebrow, smiling. “You came back to settle your debt to me?”
“Yes.” Zhuang Xiao nodded. He’d avoided filming in China for years precisely because he didn’t want to confront these muddled old disputes. It wasn’t a debt arising from a legal contract in black and white, but from unfinished film agreements his father had made with Jiahuang and another company years before. Later, the companies had come after the son. He was younger and more famous, so they wanted him to take the roles instead. In the world of personal obligations, this did constitute a longstanding dispute.
“Hahaha. I thought it was because Yanyan begged and pleaded for you to come back, pulled strings for you, and insisted you play ‘Yun Zhong.’ He spent ages trying to persuade me. I saw how much it mattered to him, so I agreed.” Zhang Shaochi laughed, then casually tossed the takeout bag from the passenger side toward the windshield. “Spicy squid strips? They’re not for you, are they? That little wildcat loves these things!”
Zhuang Xiao’s expression changed slightly. He turned his gaze to the side window.
Some things really tested a person’s patience.
The “little wildcat” Zhang Shaochi was talking about chose that moment to bombard Zhuang Xiao with WeChat messages.
[Finished your interview? Where are you? Still out?]
[Come over.]
[Or should I come find you?]
[When are you getting home?]
Zhuang Xiao replied quickly: [Not home yet. Busy with something. Don’t come over.]
Then he said to Zhang Shaochi, “Dragon Battles Heaven’s Pass has a strong cast and production team. I expect the results will be good, maybe even two billion yuan at the box office. Wouldn’t that be satisfactory, President Zhang?”
Zhang Shaochi nodded. “But you can’t claim to have earned those two billion all by yourself. It’s one of our biggest investments of the year, with huge upfront costs. Don’t locations cost money? Doesn’t Yanyan’s salary cost money? What about Rongrong’s salary? Besides, who knows whether it’ll make two billion? You haven’t brought in that money yet, Ah-Xiao.”
“Why go to all this trouble?” Zhuang Xiao lowered his lashes. “A contemporary youth movie with entertainment-industry characters, a role that doesn’t require any real technical skill. You could cast anyone in it. There’s no need to make things difficult for me.”
Zhang Shaochi stared at him. “But right now, Zhuang Xiao, you’re famous. Very famous.”
Zhuang Xiao said nothing.
It wouldn’t stop at one film. This was a bottomless pit of obligations that could go on forever. When actors suddenly began accepting astonishingly brainless, low-grade projects after a breakthrough hit, trading on their popularity and irritating the very audiences who loved them, there were often reasons and pressures behind it. Who couldn’t tell a serious production from worthless filler?
Zhuang Xiao asked, “I suppose you’ve also already decided not to let Pei Yan star alongside me in this film.”
“Of course not,” Zhang Shaochi said without a trace of embarrassment. “Yanyan is so obedient, so hardworking, so useful. I’ve got other things lined up for him. You do get a choice. Our Rongrong or Xu Ran. Both youngsters are good, both famous and well-behaved. Pick one.”
Impossible. Zhuang Xiao shook his head. “And you’re not going to pay me that supposed hundred-million-yuan salary.”
“No.” Zhang Shaochi fixed his eyes on him. “That’s just the figure we’ll use in publicity. I’ll pay you ten million and announce to the public that your fee was a hundred million.”
Zhuang Xiao turned sharply to stare at Zhang Shaochi.
He understood now what Jiahuang’s boss wanted him to do.
Zhang Shaochi’s expression remained mild. “You’re not losing out. The role is easy and takes no brains. Two or three weeks of filming, ten million yuan in pocket money for hardly any effort. Help me earn a little more and pay off your debt. And the publicly announced salary raises your market value, too. Everyone benefits from the arrangement, and you won’t lose a cent. So how about it?”
A wonderful business deal.
On paper, his salary would be a hundred million, when in reality he’d receive only ten million. They’d proclaim the film a major contemporary idol romance, with location shoots in Europe, North America, or Japan. The accounts would record several hundred million more in location expenses, though the supposed overseas scenery would actually be fake sets costing perhaps a million. Shell film companies would be brought in. A celebrated star would generate relentless promotion and lure audiences into theaters. At release, a few tricks involving late-night “ghost screenings” and bogus ticket prices would make the box-office figures look spectacular, producing a supposed blockbuster earning several billion yuan.
Spend very little, “launder” billions through the accounts, and send another little satellite shooting up the box-office rankings.
Pei Yan finally lost patience and called.
Zhuang Xiao rejected the call at once.
Pei Yan called straight back, as stubborn as a sulking child determined to make him pick up. Mr. Pei was exactly that sort of person, and Zhuang Xiao liked how frank he was, never hiding his feelings.
But he rejected the call again.
On the third attempt, Zhuang Xiao answered. “Hello? Mm… Sorry, I’m busy.”
“Can you please not come over?”
“Can you just stay away? Can you listen to me for once?!”
His voice had risen slightly. He hung up and switched the phone off altogether.
“Yanyan?” Zhang Shaochi asked. He’d been glancing at the phone screen all along.
The caller ID wasn’t even a person’s name. It displayed “Longan,” and no matter how long Zhang Shaochi stared, he couldn’t make sense of it.
It was an inside joke between the two men. Nobody else could have known where the longan joke came from. Sometimes they teased each other with silly nicknames. Zhuang Xiao would call, “Longan, come here,” and Pei Yan would retort, “Brother Long.”
Zhang Shaochi handed Zhuang Xiao the thick kraft-paper envelope again. It contained the script. He signaled with his eyes. “Think about it. I’ll wait for your answer. I’d still like you to take the part. We’re talking cooperation here!”
Zhuang Xiao asked politely and frankly, “What happens if I refuse? Please just tell me.”
“Heh.” Zhang Shaochi waved a hand. “I won’t do anything to you. I’ve been in this business too many years for crude tactics. I give people benefits, not knives! Why pass up something that’s good for everyone? The choice is yours.”
Suddenly he smiled, an abrupt, exaggerated smile. “Ah-Xiao, I also heard about that young fellow you have lying in a hospital bed. Such a shame. I know both doctors who were brought in. I was the one who introduced Yanyan’s family to those old acquaintances. Everyone does adore Yanyan!”
Zhuang Xiao was silent.
Zhang Shaochi smiled. “Ah-Xiao, if you really won’t take the role, then hurry back wherever you came from. Don’t stay in mainland China. You won’t get to make a single film here.”
Nothing could have been clearer.
All of it was said with perfect manners and apparent calm. Neither side was going to lose his temper so easily.
No matter how big a star the audience believed you to be, you were no bigger than the people who controlled the entire film business in this market.
President Zhang opened the door and stepped out, his black trench coat snapping beside it. His gaze had the sheen of iron and his features looked carved by a knife. In his younger years, he’d been a tough guy too. He’d lived a varied life, gone into business after leaving the military, built a wide network of connections, and expanded his company enormously.
As he was leaving, Zhang Shaochi leaned one elbow on the top of the window frame and added, “While we were talking, I had my secretary give this apartment address to the paparazzi at Leixing Studio. Don’t let Yanyan come looking for you here anymore. That kid worked hard to become famous, and he’s already been sick and injured. We wouldn’t want those people photographing him doing anything unfortunate, would we, Ah-Xiao?”
Zhuang Xiao stared at him, then nodded. “They won’t. Don’t worry.”
Zhang Shaochi returned to his own car and his driver started the engine.
He casually sent Pei Yan another text: [Had dinner yet? Drive carefully. Don’t drive like a maniac.]
A voice message came back almost immediately. Pei Yan sounded furious: [What are you, my nanny?!]
Listening to the recording, Zhang Shaochi frowned and leaned back a little. Such disrespect toward an elder. That little wildcat.
Zhuang Xiao sat in his car for a while, then turned the key, thinking of going for a drive. At that moment another set of shrill tires and brakes sounded in the garage. Yet another car came careening toward his parking spot and wedged itself tightly behind his rear bumper.
Pei Yan sprang out of the car and marched straight over. His first glance was for Zhuang Xiao. His second was for the back seat, looking for whatever little temptress might be hiding there. He had the full expression of a rightful husband barging home to catch an adulterer.
There was nobody else in Zhuang Xiao’s car. No affair.
Zhuang Xiao still had one hand on the wheel. He removed the key and looked at him, as if to say, Well?
Pei Yan hesitated, embarrassed and aggrieved. “Weren’t you busy? Weren’t you still out?”
Zhuang Xiao took the food container from the dashboard. “Spicy shredded squid. Bought it for you on the way home.”
Pei Yan accepted the container, still upset. “You actually hung up on me… and switched your phone off… What was that about?”
Zhuang Xiao said, “Too many people know where I live. Don’t come here anymore.”
Pei Yan said, “But I want to see you.”
* * *
He just wanted to see him.
Whenever they went a single day without meeting, it felt as though he’d been suspended by wires above a film set and nobody had ever lowered him to the ground. He was left hanging helplessly in midair.
Liang Youhui’s apartment had rapidly filled up with traces of Mr. Pei over the past few days.
Previously there’d been only one bedside cabinet, the setup of a lifelong bachelor.
On their flight back to Beijing from Inner Mongolia, Zhuang Xiao had browsed a whole assortment of furniture websites for bedside cabinets and quietly asked Mr. Pei, “Which style do you like?”
Pei Yan said, “Something simple. Enough storage for a few essentials.”
Zhuang Xiao asked, “What do you usually need to keep in one? How much?”
“What else would I keep in it?” Pei Yan laughed. “You think I’m a scholar who sits in bed reading a Nobel Prize treatise on mathematics? Hahaha! That’s not my style. A bedside cabinet isn’t a bookcase or a refrigerator. It’s for little things, condoms, those flavored jelly… you know, that stuff, and a tissue box. Just the necessities.”
Zhuang Xiao placed the order online, had the furniture delivered to his door, and ended up with a matching pair of bedside cabinets and lamps.
Pei Yan came into the room and sniffed. “No cigarette smell. You don’t smoke at home anymore?”
“I do.”
“In the bathroom?” Pei Yan stuck his head inside to sniff. “Doesn’t smell like it.”
Zhuang Xiao smiled. “Take a guess.”
Pei Yan searched all over the apartment and finally noticed a round floor cushion in the corner of the balcony. “Good grief, look at you, poor thing…”
He turned and threw his arms around Zhuang Xiao, rubbing his cheek against the other man’s. “Who said he didn’t know how to take care of someone? So considerate…”
For Pei Yan’s sake, Zhuang Xiao now smoked only on the balcony. But he worried someone might photograph him from a distance using a long telephoto lens, so every time he went out there, he ducked low and sat tucked away on the floor in the corner to smoke. He was flanked by a Brazilian ironwood plant on one side and a monstera on the other, both supposedly capable of purifying the air.
An ashtray with several cigarette butts was hidden behind the monstera.
This way the apartment stayed clean.
The night before, after they’d spent the night together, made love, and come out of the bathtub, Pei Yan woke in the early hours to discover he was alone under the covers, with nobody there to kiss or cuddle him. He was furious, full of energy and ready to start shouting again.
“Exploding Chestnut” was about to detonate when he craned his neck and looked down. There, on the carpet beside the bed, lay Mr. Zhuang.
Zhuang Xiao had rolled himself into a thin quilt and gone to sleep on the carpet.
Pei Yan immediately felt sorry for him. “Is your back hurting?”
Whenever Pei Yan wasn’t spending the night, Zhuang Xiao removed the soft mattress and slept directly on the hard bed boards. But whenever Pei Yan stayed over, he put the mattress back for him.
Pei Yan said, “Then why don’t I sleep in the guest room next time? The sofa’s fine too.”
“How could I put you in the guest room?” Zhuang Xiao said. “You’ve got master-bedroom privileges here. Put you in the guest room and you’d start making a scene, wouldn’t you?”
Pei Yan muttered, “I’m not that unreasonable…”
They held each other around the waist and kissed quietly.
With Zhuang Xiao’s lips between his own, Pei Yan asked softly, “Why won’t you see me? You can really bear not seeing me?”
Zhuang Xiao nipped the corner of his mouth, kissed his face, and then kissed the spot on his earlobe that had once been injured.
Pei Yan couldn’t resist smiling again. “Don’t keep buying me spicy things. Squid strips, garlicky chili sauce, spicy pickled radish. I’m thinking of giving up spicy food altogether!”
Zhuang Xiao was unimpressed. “I’d rather you gave up drinking. Why quit spicy food?”
Pei Yan kissed his cheek and dimple. “Spicy food makes your asshole hurt. You’ve never had any pain back there.”
Zhuang Xiao said, “Heh…”
“Seriously. I’m not even talking about it hurting me. If I eat too much chili, hot oil comes out the other end. I’m afraid I’ll burn you. What if you find it uncomfortable and complain I’m too spicy?”
Zhuang Xiao finally broke into laughter. “Stop talking bullshit.”
“Want to? Want to do it…?” Pei Yan had his arms around Zhuang Xiao’s waist and was smiling, pushing and nudging him toward the bedroom and all the way to the bed. “Spicy, remember? Want to try some…?”
He slipped one hand into the back pocket of Zhuang Xiao’s trousers. In his favorite way, he grabbed a firm buttock and kneaded it hard, stoking desire.
“Aren’t you tired? Let’s rest for a bit,” Zhuang Xiao said. “Don’t start anything. You’ve got an early call tomorrow, and I still need to visit the hospital and take care of some things.”
Zhuang Xiao pushed away the hand roaming all over him.
Pei Yan said nothing.
He’d already started touching him, and now he withdrew his hand in silence. Standing in the middle of the bedroom, Pei Yan looked completely at a loss. In truth he’d begun to panic. The moment Zhuang Xiao had inexplicably hung up on him, he’d panicked. All sorts of thoughts started circling, leaving him perpetually unsure of himself.
He was the one who’d done the chasing.
The one who’d offered himself up, practically presenting his ass and begging to be fucked.
What were two men supposed to do when they dated and spent the night together?
They were grown adults, not children. Were they supposed to sit on the bed and study advanced mathematics and foreign languages from textbooks?
They already knew each other so well there wasn’t much new to talk about. When they met, they tangled together and made love.
“Which production are you joining next?” Zhuang Xiao suddenly asked.
“Shadow War III starts next week. It’s a police-and-crime thriller, but I won’t have to leave Beijing. Most scenes are at suburban studios or abandoned factories. After that there’s a historical fantasy TV series, adapted from a hugely popular online novel. I’ll be at the film studio complex for three months,” Pei Yan reported candidly.
“Good.” Zhuang Xiao nodded. Now he knew the schedule and could feel reassured about Yanyan. Whatever happened, he mustn’t drag the people close to him into it. He mustn’t affect Yanyan.
He stroked Pei Yan’s face, pulled him closer and planted a noisy kiss on him. “I’m tired. Really not in the mood. I haven’t got the energy to fuck you. Do you want to do it? If you do, you can top me.”
It was almost as if he were offering his beautiful, tempting body in exchange for soothing Pei Yan’s worries.
Pei Yan had nothing to say.
Did he want to do it?
Zhuang Xiao was being genuinely generous about it, not shy or conflicted in the least. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched him. Why fight over who was on top and who was on the bottom? Did he want to do it? If he’d been thinking so much about topping, then fine. He could.
If Pei Yan couldn’t see that Brother Xiao was in a terrible mood tonight, he’d truly be a brainless fool who didn’t know how to care for someone.
Pei Yan walked over, straddled Zhuang Xiao’s lap, held him close and nibbled at his ear. “Look at you, being so good. I almost can’t bear to top you. Can’t bear to take your virginity, hehe… Come to the balcony. I’ll keep you company while you have a smoke?”
They looked into each other’s eyes, both gazes clear and transparent. Their lips met, and they enjoyed a moment of peace, kissing quietly without a word.