On the way down the mountain, sedan-chair porters carrying bamboo poles approached them, smiling and calling for business. “Want a ride? Come on, have a seat!”
Xiao-Sa was interested again and asked Xing Rong whether he wanted to ride down the mountain. Xing Rong flatly refused, waved his hand, and started running down the steps without even looking back.
“It rocks from side to side. It’s fun,” Xiao-Sa said, full of enthusiasm, hurrying to catch up. As he ran, all the ornaments hanging from him jingled, and his long hair streamed behind him, a few strands sticking to his cheek and lips.
“No!” Xing Rong said.
“What if I carried you?” Sa Risheng suggested.
“You bear! Why don’t you let them carry you? You’re so annoying!” Xing Rong turned and pointed.
“I’m a bear. They couldn’t lift me,” Sa Risheng said with a grin.
“Exactly. A bear.” Xing Rong rolled his eyes and walked on with his head down.
They followed the path back down the mountain at a leisurely pace, taking many more photographs.
At one point they stopped on the mountain trail to watch the sunset side by side, content to stand without speaking for a very long time. Their bodies seemed to melt into that dazzling orange light, all their thoughts absorbed by it…
They might have been floating in the clouds around the mountain…
Xing Rong quietly took hold of Xiao-Sa’s wrist.
Xiao-Sa neither looked down nor spoke. His cheeks turned faintly red, and his lips took on a fresh, vivid color, perhaps simply reflecting the sunset. He seemed to be bathed in warm light…
It was almost as though they were holding hands, yet not quite. One held the other’s wrist, specifically the wrist with the bracelet. Neither said a word. All around them was quiet. In the mountain breeze, it felt possible to hear breathing and heartbeats.
They stood facing the open mountain scenery. A few tourists and porters passed behind them, but nobody recognized them from the back or disturbed them. The air was fresh and damp, the landscape so lovely.
“You’re really good at cards too,” Sa Risheng murmured.
“What’s good about that? At the company, you always end up playing cards with clients and bosses. Those uncultured nouveau-riche businessmen might play a few rounds of mahjong, but half of them can’t even manage serious card games. They’re all fools,” Xing Rong said. “When you play with the boss, you have to know how to win and how to lose. When to win and when to lose. Whom to beat and whom to let win… Play enough games and you’ll learn.”
“But don’t you go learning any of that. You don’t need to entertain clients.”
Young Brother Xing added that last warning.
With his hand held by Brother Rong, Xiao-Sa turned his head toward the sunset light on Xing Rong’s face.
Then Xing Rong released his wrist. Sa Risheng felt the sudden coolness against his skin and only then looked down, searching for that warm hand. He wanted to take it again but, after looking for a long while, was too shy to reach out.
* * *
Back at the hotel that evening, local business owners invited Mr. Zhuang and Mr. Pei out to dinner.
They were big names in the action-film world, and the online discussion of their disaster relief work was at fever pitch. Naturally local entrepreneurs wanted to make their acquaintance. An entire entourage accompanied them, and guests and hosts enjoyed a full evening of socializing. Such dinners were simply part of the business.
Xing Rong remained at the hotel and quietly sent Xiao-Sa a message: [Want to go to Jinli?]
Sa Risheng replied instantly: [To do what? Is it fun?]
Xing Rong wrote: [Night market. Snacks. Skewers and spicy hotpot. Want some?]
Sa Risheng agreed decisively: [Yes. I’ll wait downstairs.]
They arranged to walk around Jinli and get a late-night snack, and perhaps discuss where they might go together after returning to Beijing.
But Xing Rong never made it out that evening.
He ran into his own team’s publicity planner and agent in the hotel lobby and couldn’t get away. They insisted on introducing him to several investors. For the sake of politeness, he nodded and exchanged a few flattering words.
All these people were prominent local businessmen who invested in film and television. In other words, the financiers behind the industry’s smaller stars. Whenever one of those bosses attended a social gathering, he had some social-media beauty or little-known star at his side, attentive and eager to please, whether ranked eighteenth or thirty-sixth in the entertainment pecking order.
Xing Rong was pulled into a private hotel room for a late-night meal.
Who actually enjoyed meals like that?
Among those present was Shang Xuelin, the boss of Zhiyuan Media, who had invested alongside Du Mingjun in the comedy. Xing Rong wasn’t especially afraid of President Du. Everyone knew that the old man was a wilted old chrysanthemum, one that had been battered by frost and lost most of its petals. But Xing Rong was wary of Shang Xuelin. Whenever he saw the man he wanted to hide.
Who was Shang Xuelin?
He was the man who had seen photographs of Xing Rong in women’s costume and used his connections to invite him to a dinner once before. Xing Rong hadn’t gone.
Who didn’t know this old fellow’s background? He’d made his fortune opening mines out in the provinces, ripping wealth out of the earth and digging away at society’s foundations until he became obscenely rich. He’d risen through his father-in-law’s connections. Then halfway to making his fortune, his first wife died. How she died was hard to say, but for an ambitious businessman it was the sort of windfall no amount of prayer at a temple could secure. Like a fish returning to water, or an unbridled horse released on open ground, he plunged into pleasure-seeking and scandal wherever he went.
People like that had no real connection to culture or the arts, yet forced their way into the film industry as investors. As everybody knew, they were there to throw money around and enjoy the company of younger performers.
The man kept pressing drinks on Xing Rong and chatting at him, spittle flying everywhere.
Finally Xing Rong had to ask a waiter for a fan. Not because he wanted to cool himself, but so he could hold it upright beside his face and block the flying spit.
After three drinks Xing Rong’s expression hadn’t changed, but he refused another. “President Shang, please don’t make me drink any more. My alcohol tolerance is really good. You can’t outdrink me. Imagine how embarrassing it’d be if you collapsed before I did.”
President Shang pulled out his phone and showed it to Brother Rong, deliberately trying to ingratiate himself. Just look who I’ve got as my phone wallpaper!
The surgically enhanced minor celebrity attending Shang was absolutely green with jealousy, glaring at Brother Rong as though at a romantic rival. Xing Rong glanced over and saw that Shang Xuelin’s phone displayed his publicity photograph in costume as Du Liniang.
President Shang kept praising him, saying how beautiful his makeup was and how lovely his figure looked.
Xing Rong didn’t respond. He felt as though the millet rice cakes he’d just eaten were coming back up.
Shang Xuelin asked what size shoes he wore, since his feet looked so delicate.
“My feet are enormous,” Xing Rong answered. “I could wear a boat.”
He secretly sent Xiao-Sa a message: [I’m sorry. Something came up. Can you find somebody else to go shopping with you?]
Xiao-Sa replied: [I’ll wait for you.]
Xing Rong wrote: [Forget it. I have a business dinner. Don’t let me hold you up. Go have fun yourself.]
Xiao-Sa replied: [Oh. All right.]
In the jianghu, there were many things a person couldn’t choose for himself. Xing Rong didn’t want to be there, but he was nearly twenty-nine, far too old to pretend to some lofty independence. He’d seen the world’s imperfections and disappointments many times over.
Company directors and the management team discussed these things in private too. Celebrities had obligations. They were expected to attend dinners and keep company with people. Even someone as famous as Zhuang Xiao, an award-winning leading man, couldn’t just slap an investor’s dinner invitation in his face.
Zhuang Xiao wasn’t so oblivious. When he met a generous financier like President Yan of Baoding Group, didn’t he politely eat, drink, and socialize with the man too? Anyone trying to make a living in the industry had to bow his head sometimes. Films and television were powered by rich investors. Without those wealthy fools shoveling money into this bottomless pit, what would all the actors have to earn a living from?
A hotel attendant brought in tea water for guests to wash their hands. Each person was given an exquisite gilded basin, as though the party were trying to imitate the luxurious extravagance of royal families in novels by washing their hands in fine tea.
Then Shang Xuelin ordered the minor celebrity at his side to fetch a bigger gold basin. Washing their hands wasn’t enough, was it? They should wash Rongrong’s feet too.
* * *
Nobody outside that private room saw exactly how everything erupted afterward. Even the minor celebrity attendants were kept outside.
Reportedly, President Shang had crouched down solicitously and attempted to remove Young Master Rong’s socks to wash his feet. The basin was kicked over.
The basinful of tea intended for washing feet splashed straight over the man’s head and face.
His glasses, hair, suit, and shoes were soaked. He looked utterly wretched…
That night Xing Rong burst through the hotel door, trembling from head to foot, and ran frantically down the street.
He wanted only to leave that place, get as far away from those people as he could.
President Shang was cursing furiously after being drenched. Xing Rong heard every word. The glamorous little attendants outside the room had watched with cold expressions and heard it all too. Shang Xuelin called him “crazy,” shouted that he had “foot-washing water for brains,” accused him of having no sense of the situation, and swore he’d never work in the industry again.
The night air was cool. Streetlights flowed through the city’s busy streets, and the food stalls on the sidewalks filled the air with the irresistible smell of cooking. How wonderful it smelled.
He ran until he abruptly stopped, looked ahead, looked behind, then ahead again… All at once he wasn’t sure which direction to take. He didn’t know where to go, what to do with his life.
He accepted every insult the big boss had hurled at him. He probably deserved to be cursed. He must have lost his mind.
What was the big deal? It was only a dinner. All he had to do was smile and play along. Even if somebody at the table kissed him or touched him or made a show of fussing over his feet, that didn’t automatically mean a worse assault would follow. He’d tolerated petty indignities before. What was so impossible about enduring this one? Why hadn’t he managed to put up with it tonight?
Things weren’t going well for him at the company in any case. He was withdrawn and unsociable, hopeless at ingratiating himself with President Zhang. He was nowhere near as popular with the boss as lively favorites like Xu Ran.
His management team had been full of schemes too. They’d even urged him to transfer to Baiguixing or Zhiyuan Media when his contract expired. Wonderful. Now he’d dumped foot-washing water over President Shang and ruined his own future prospects…
The hotel was close to Jinli, only two bus stops away. Xing Rong ran all the way there and arrived gasping for breath.
Beneath the glowing lights at the entrance to that famous old street, he saw a tall figure standing by the roadside, clearly waiting for somebody.
Xing Rong stood about twenty meters away behind a bus-stop sign and watched from a distance.
He saw the man repeatedly lower his head to send messages.
Every time Xiao-Sa looked down, the phone in Xing Rong’s pocket vibrated. He could have counted exactly how many WeChat messages he’d received.
Xiao-Sa paced around for a long while, making a small circle, unwilling to give up just yet. He still wanted to go eat skewers with his companion. They always had so much fun together.
The roasted squid smelled too tempting to resist. Sa Risheng bought two skewers, devoured one himself, and kept the other in his hand as he waited.
Xing Rong quietly approached, standing behind Xiao-Sa and waiting for him to turn around.
Should he go to him?
Or should he let go and leave the other man alone?
Xiao-Sa’s inner world was so straightforward and free of care, a vast grassland under pure white clouds, without the grime and complications Xing Rong had learned to live with…
So Xing Rong closed his eyes and counted silently. Slowly, ten counts. If the man turned around before he finished, he’d go over.
He counted to ten and opened his eyes.
The tall figure under the streetlights had his head slightly lowered, a long braid trailing over his shoulder. He looked so handsome. Xing Rong could imagine his expression: disappointed, looking around for somebody who never arrived, lips pursed in unhappy impatience.
Then Sa Risheng ate the squid on the remaining skewer, turned away, and walked off alone into the crowded alley. He never noticed Xing Rong standing ten meters behind him.
Xing Rong’s eyes suddenly burned. Tears streamed down his face, and he couldn’t stop them.
It was just like the moment they’d parted on the grasslands. He’d looked back with one last thread of hope, but Xiao-Sa had galloped away without ever turning around.
This time he hadn’t turned around either.
Perhaps this was fate. They were never meant to be together. They came from two different worlds. Xing Rong had never truly hoped for a perfect ending and told himself he wouldn’t regret it too much.
The following day the production team traveled toward the airport and even had that spicy chicken meal along the way. Sa Risheng was among them, but Xing Rong was not.
“Where is he? … Where’s Rongrong?”
“Why is he always causing trouble? He’s gone missing again!”
Young Master Pei searched the airport for him, questioning everyone he saw. He’d only returned from his own social obligations in the early hours of the morning and had no idea what had happened the night before. Brother Rong was several years older than he was, yet he kept calling the man a kid.
They soon received terse, vague messages. Xing Rong had texted several people to say he had “business entertaining to attend to” and would be staying behind rather than flying back to Beijing with everyone else.
* * *
* * *
In that cool autumn, Dragon Battles Heaven’s Pass became a box-office sensation.
From the start, the film had brought together a well-known screenwriter, a talented young director, a famous Hong Kong producer, and an impressive cast, all backed by Jiahuang. What it had lacked was a single breakthrough moment. An unforeseen natural disaster ultimately united the image of the heroes onscreen with the ordinary heroes who’d helped people in real life. In the public imagination, those images merged beautifully. That was the heart-stirring story that sent the movie soaring. It was that simple.
Young Hero Pei’s death scene, when he was thrown from the fortress tower at the frontier, showed him dressed in red, a peach-blossom beauty with longing in his eyes, unable to have the love he wanted, with the desert and countless mountains behind him.
The scene was breathtaking, a classic of cinematography and visual design. It moved many viewers to tears. Even playing an enormous villain, he managed to make people cry over his death.
People said Pei Yan had become an expert at “dying” on camera, stealing every scene from the leads with his spectacular exits. The last time he’d stolen the show was the “Dance of Death” in Drunken Fist, amid green water, bloody mist, and tattoos, startlingly beautiful and terrifying.
Critics piled praise on the traditional wuxia film, building positive word of mouth. Cinema chains always followed the wind, flattering success and abandoning failure. When a film became a hit, they added more showings and gave it better schedules. The big chains negotiated with the distributor to extend the theatrical run. It was originally supposed to leave theaters in early October; instead it received another month, pushing poorly performing films aside.
* * *
President Du probably couldn’t afford to keep faking the numbers now.
After all, if he colluded with cinema chains to manufacture a hundred million yuan in ticket receipts when the actual revenue was only thirty million, then paid another five million to maintain those connections, he was basically burning money just to save face. If all you wanted was to fill out your face, silicone would be cheaper than banknotes. Neither his dignity nor his backside could be saved. What was the point of carrying on?
Audiences were tired of being dismissed as naive fools. They believed they had their own standards of taste.
Starting in its third week, instead of declining as expected, ticket sales for Dragon Battles Heaven’s Pass climbed sharply. The film had extraordinary staying power. Many viewers followed the wave of public discussion into the theater to see what all the excitement was about. Others were drawn by the gossip surrounding the Zhuang–Pei pairing, wanting to see the action-film world’s “last two great heroes.”
Official fan clubs opened their wallets to buy out entire screenings. They promoted the two actors online and gave free tickets to casual viewers.
Many fans sent gifts to Zhuang Xiao’s studio: lower-back supports, medicinal plasters for bruises and aches, and various injury ointments.
Eventually Zhuang Xiao had to speak up in an interview.
Facing the cameras, he bowed deeply three times to thank the audience sincerely for their support, then begged the younger fans not to throw their money away. They should save their parents’ money!
The audience had taught industry insiders something about how many people still believed in the word xia.
The film achieved the best box-office result for a traditional wuxia movie in nearly ten years, eventually taking in more than two billion yuan.
Many people said wuxia wasn’t finished after all. Even in an age obsessed with entertainment, plenty still admired genuine righteousness, loyalty, and the chivalric spirit. The disappointments and injustices of real society only made ordinary people long more deeply for the return of heroes who would protect the weak, confront the violent, and help those in danger.
* * *