The winter of 2017 was not the coldest winter Chen Yimang could remember.
They were filming an advertisement on grassland near Baotou, Inner Mongolia. Chen Yimang didn’t know the name of the place. A bus had rattled the entire crew out there; he’d spent the journey sleeping. When he woke, gray-green grassland stretched before him. The sky started darkening shortly after four in the afternoon, and the landscape looked vast and desolate.
Looking out the window, Chen Yimang asked his assistant, “Can we shoot in weather like this?” It looked as though it might snow.
His young assistant shook his head worriedly. “I don’t know. Director Wang hasn’t said anything else…”
Of course they could shoot. This was precisely the weather they’d come for, Director Wang declared with satisfaction. Then he launched into another long speech. Thirty-six people: two directors, twelve models, plus makeup artists, stylists, lighting technicians, assistants… All thirty-six had flown from Shanghai to Baotou, then spent nearly four hours on a bus. Why? For this gray-green grassland, this gloomy sky, these few rays of faded sunshine. Capture it! Director Wang said. Listen to me. This moment I’m capturing, and all of you as you are in this moment, can break free from linear time. Do you understand? Some memories can break free from linear time.
The other models were listless too. Director Wang had no particular faults except that he talked far too much. Once he’d finally talked himself out, everyone noisily set to work.
This time they were shooting an advertisement for a Chinese menswear brand. Chen Yimang had been assigned a plain white shirt from the latest collection, nothing remarkable. Yet the instant he put it on, his young assistant clapped a hand over his mouth and let out a little squeal. “Aren’t you exaggerating a bit?” Chen Yimang said helplessly.
The assistant shook his head over and over. “You look incredible in that! Damn, when we went to choose the clothes, I thought it was ugly. Some people really do have all the luck…”
Chen Yimang took off his jeans and changed into a short black leather skirt. The stylist came over and exclaimed, “I knew it! This gives the look much more tension!” Chen Yimang casually tied his long hair into a ponytail and asked what tension meant.
She laughed. “That’s hard to explain. Say there’s someone you have a whole stomachful of things you want to tell, but in the end all you do is wave at them. That’s tension…”
By eight that evening, most of the shoot was complete. There was one sequence Director Wang still wasn’t happy with, and he kept pulling two newcomers back to try it again and again.
After dark, a fierce wind howled across the grassland. Stars crowded the sky, and the air smelled of cold, dry earth. Chen Yimang sat curled up on a little folding stool, the tip of his nose bright red, slowly drinking from a thermos. As soon as steam rose from the mouth of the cup, the wind swept it away.
Perhaps he looked so absorbed in drinking that the boy who’d been staring steadily at him didn’t dare sidle over until his cup was empty. Chen Yimang knew who he was: an assistant to the lighting technician. That was all.
How old could he be? Eighteen at most.
“Brother,” the boy began in a voice just as rough and uncertain as the rest of him, “I’ve still got some hot water. Would you like some? I haven’t drunk from it. The cup’s clean.”
Chen Yimang smiled. “I’m not thirsty anymore, thanks.” Actually, he was still a little thirsty. For the three days before a shoot, he hardly ate or drank, afraid of looking puffy.
“Oh…” The boy scratched his head awkwardly. “You lot seem to work really hard.”
“Gotta earn a living,” Chen Yimang said.
They started talking. The boy plopped down directly on the ground, long-limbed, with a northern accent and unremarkable looks.
“Everyone where I’m from does this kind of work,” he said. “One person brings another into the business. We’re famous all over the country, you know. Have you heard of Yanling? Yanling County, Henan Province. Zhangqiao Town.”
Chen Yimang turned to look into his eyes. “I know. The lighting village.”
“That’s right!” The boy grinned with a touch of pride. “That’s our village.”
“Is this your first time on a crew?” Chen Yimang asked.
“Second! The first crew was in Beijing. I was only there for a few days, but I actually got to see Fan Bingbing! She even gave me her autograph.”
Chen Yimang kept looking into his eyes. “Is she beautiful?”
“Beautiful! She’s nothing like she looks on television. I couldn’t even react at first. I thought…” The boy’s voice grew quieter and quieter until he fell silent, both cheeks flushed as he stared at Chen Yimang’s hands.
Chen Yimang smiled but didn’t ask why he’d stopped talking. He knew that when he looked at someone that way, whether they were a man or a woman, gay or straight, it was difficult not to feel drawn to him.
He added the boy on WeChat and stood up. “I’m going back to the bus. It’s too cold.”
The boy stared. “Oh… okay.”
Once aboard the bus, Chen Yimang sent him a WeChat message: What type are you?
The reply came instantly: 1.
Chen Yimang: Come to my room tonight. 307.
There was no response. A full ten minutes later, the boy wrote: Brother, someone called me away just now… What time should I come tonight?
Chen Yimang: Whenever you like.
Chen Yimang put his phone away, settled back against the soft seat, and closed his eyes. Outside, the wind howled. It was so cold here. He hoped he wasn’t getting sick, because otherwise… otherwise he wouldn’t have the energy for tonight.
He was twenty-seven now. Not old, but no longer young enough to pick someone up at Shengshengman, get a room, and then go back to the dance floor looking for the next one. By rights, he ought to take a hot shower, apply a face mask (Inner Mongolia was terribly dry), and get a proper night’s sleep.
But the boy’s expression and tone were too familiar. Chen Yimang could see the excitement and shyness in his eyes, and he could see the restless desire beneath them too. In his first year of middle school, his mother had moved him and his younger brother from Zhong County to Chongqing. The night before they left, he was so nervous he couldn’t sleep. He lay awake in the dark, eyes wide, listening to sounds outside the window. Every now and then a dog barked in the neighbors’ courtyard, almost as though it were seeing them off in advance. It was a stupid little mutt with black-and-white patches.
Back then, Chongqing had represented everything he imagined a big city might be. The look on his face that night had been exactly the same as the Henan boy’s when he spoke about how beautiful Fan Bingbing was.
Then he arrived in Chongqing and moved into the oldest, dirtiest tenement building. Their room faced away from the sun and never got any daylight. A damp stench lingered in the corners. He was astonished to discover that a steamed flower roll cost fifty fen in Chongqing; in Zhong County, fifty fen bought two, and they were bigger, too.
Later his mother remarried, taking his younger brother with her, and he left them behind. He spent two years drifting through society, washing cars, waiting tables, and sleeping in KFC restaurants. When he met Peng Fucai, he heard everyone calling him President Peng, so he did the same. Peng Fucai took him back to his villa and, while undoing his belt, told him, “Chen Lei, from now on, you can call me your godfather.”
Chen Lei was his original name.