After finishing the medicine Louis had brought, Wen Tingli’s fever broke that very night, and she had no more fever the next day, only some lingering fatigue. Ordinarily she would never have obediently stayed in bed to recuperate, but this day she didn’t want to go anywhere at all, only lay in bed drowsily sleeping.
The whole day, Zhou Sao and Xiao Taozi spoke to each other in hushed voices, afraid of disturbing Wen Tingli’s rest.
In the evening, Qiao Baoxin suddenly called, saying that Tong Zhaohui had come back, but he’d been badly injured. At first he’d wanted to wait until his wounds healed before contacting Baoxin, but he was afraid Baoxin would worry herself sick over him, so he couldn’t help but reach out to her anyway. Baoxin had quietly settled Lawyer Tong in an empty house belonging to the Qiao family, and at the same time had contacted a private doctor to treat him.
Qiao Baoxin also said that once Tong Zhaohui recovered, she would set out with him for Beiping.
This call pulled Wen Tingli back to reality. She called Li Chengying and learned that Li Chengying had not been injured while rescuing Tong Zhaohui, and only then did she feel at ease.
The moment she hung up the phone, Wen Tingli told Zhou Sao she was hungry. Zhou Sao happily went to the kitchen and brought out a bowl of beef congee.
When she woke on the third morning, Wen Tingli felt much more refreshed in her body, but when she got out of bed to look in the mirror, she gave herself a fright—her complexion was haggard, her eye sockets somewhat sunken, and she looked utterly despondent.
She hadn’t looked like this at all the past few days recuperating at Huiqun Hospital.
Seeing that it was already six o’clock, she had no choice but to put away those low spirits and go wash up.
Today was the day Southern Beauty officially began filming, and she had to get to the company early.
Zhou Sao circled around Wen Tingli like a fretful old mother hen: “Pack a few more changes of clothes, take this lotus-leaf rice to eat at the set, the thermos has warm water in it, don’t drink anything cold these next couple of days, I’ve put your medicine here, remember to take it when you leave.”
Wen Tingli was applying maple-red lipstick to her lips—it made her complexion look no different from usual—and hearing Zhou Sao’s string of instructions, she laughed helplessly. “I’m going to shoot a film, not off to my first day of primary school… All right, all right, I’ll take my medicine on time. Oh, and I’ll be back rather late today, don’t wait to eat dinner. Take this money—this morning, take Xiao Taozi into town by car and buy a few pairs of shoes, and have some new clothes made for yourself too. Don’t you dare be stingy about it—if I come back and don’t see new clothes and shoes on you and Xiao Taozi, I’ll really be angry.”
To make Zhou Sao believe she was completely well, she deliberately gave many instructions as usual, and finally, as always, went into the room and kissed her soundly sleeping little sister on the cheek before walking out the door as if nothing were wrong.
But the moment she stepped outside, Wen Tingli’s shoulders sagged heavily.
The scene at the front door was still the same familiar one, yet under the parasol tree there was no longer that familiar car, no longer that familiar figure.
That piercing feeling was indescribable; she couldn’t hold herself up and sank down onto the steps in front of the building.
The illness was cured, but a fresh wound had been left on her heart. She was like an injured young animal now, desperately needing to find a corner where no one could see her to lick her wounds.
In this secluded lane, at five or six in the morning, everything was so still. The Liu couple across the way hadn’t gotten up yet; there was no one at the front door but her.
This was just as well—she could think things over in peace and quiet, alone. Unfortunately, the more she recalled the past, the stronger the sense of loss in her heart grew. She and Lu Shicheng hadn’t spent that many days together, yet nearly everything he’d left her was a beautiful memory, just like the morning light at this moment—gentle, quiet, tranquil, filled with warmth.
She lowered her head and wrapped her arms around herself. This ordeal, however hard, she had to get through it. One person’s strength was limited—only time, only time could dilute everything. Unfortunately she didn’t have much time to wallow in the past; she had to face life.
After sitting in silence for a while, she wiped the corners of her eyes and rose, walking briskly out of the lane.
By the time she reached the company, Wen Tingli had already adjusted her state completely, smiling and greeting everyone she met, every movement full of vitality. Even Huang Yuanshan, who knew her best, didn’t notice she’d just been through an illness.
To celebrate the start of filming for Southern Beauty, Golden Film Studios held a grand opening ceremony. Early in the morning, reporters from various newspapers crowded the entrance, and figures from Shanghai’s literary and artistic circles came to show support one after another. Even Ms. Yue Zhaoyun, who rarely appeared at such occasions, attended by invitation.
At eleven in the morning, the first scene in the studio officially began shooting. To show their regard for the film, the company elders, the three producers, and Yue Zhaoyun all rode together to the studio to watch.
Facing this unusually grand opening, Wen Tingli appeared completely composed. These past two months she’d done nothing else but study the character “Nan Qi.” She’d put in more than enough effort, and had long since nurtured Nan Qi within her heart—the moment she entered performance mode, her every word and gesture was thoroughly “Nan Qi.”
Huang Yuanshan called out “action,” and Wen Tingli, full of confidence, said her line to Wu Sheng, who played the male lead, according to the script: “If you think this is depravity, then so be it—this is the path I chose myself, and I owe no one an explanation.”
But then Huang Yuanshan called, “Cut, cut, cut!”
She frowned and beckoned Wen Tingli over. “Come here a moment.”
Wen Tingli hurried over.
“What’s wrong with you? You and Liu Baosheng grew up together as childhood sweethearts, and at the moment of your sudden reunion, how can your emotions be so calm—where’s that feeling of things being changed while people remain the same? Where’s that pain that can’t be spoken aloud? You’re normally so good at conveying this kind of emotion—why did you just now sound like you were reciting lines from a script?”
Wen Tingli herself felt somewhat flustered, touching her cheek. “Maybe I’m just too nervous on the first day. Sister Huang, let me build up the emotion a bit more.”
Yet the next three takes in a row were unsatisfactory. Huang Yuanshan had always been strict when filming, and the more important the scene, the more particular she was—every ten-odd minutes you could hear her shout “cut,” and every time Wen Tingli got scolded, a ripple of murmuring would spread around them.
Wen Tingli endured the strange looks coming at her from all sides and gritted her teeth to start over again and again, only barely passing on the fourth take.
The two scenes in the afternoon were likewise plagued with problems.
“Wen Tingli, your movements shouldn’t be so stiff—this is your own home, not somewhere outside. Come in from over there, yes, sit down on the sofa naturally, relax your body more—cut, cut! Wrong again!”
“No, that’s all wrong! Tears should well up in your eyes, not come pouring out the moment you enter.”
Because Wen Tingli kept making mistakes, the two scenes weren’t finished shooting until after seven o’clock.
The moment filming wrapped, Huang Yuanshan, her face dark, told Wen Tingli to wait for her in the dressing room, but she herself was immediately called away by the producers.
Wen Tingli waited in the dressing room for a long while with no one showing up, so she went to the tea room to get some water. She suddenly heard someone inside saying, “I always hear Sister Huang say Miss Wen has real talent, but watching today, that’s about all there is to it, huh.”
“I’m starting to wonder if they swapped her out for someone else. That screen test competition last time, even Miss Zhou Manru admitted defeat completely. But today on set, Miss Wen—tsk tsk, at this level, our company could scoop up a dozen like her, why does it have to be her specifically? This Wen Tingli hasn’t even been in a single film before, she’s a total newcomer.”
“The one under the most pressure right now must be Sister Huang. Earlier, passing by the lounge, I heard Boss Liu really laying into Sister Huang. Boss Liu said if Miss Wen is still in this state tomorrow, they’ll consider replacing her on the spot, and if Sister Huang insists on keeping Wen Tingli, they’ll pull her off as director too.”
Wen Tingli stood frozen in the doorway, her face pale, and when she turned her head, she unexpectedly saw Yue Zhaoyun standing right behind her.
Needless to say, Yue Zhaoyun had heard that whole conversation too.
Wen Tingli couldn’t hide her embarrassment. “Ms. Yue.”
The conversation in the tea room cut off abruptly. Yue Zhaoyun didn’t look inside, only said gently to Wen Tingli, “Are you free tonight, Miss Wen? I’d like to invite you out for a walk.”
Wen Tingli’s face lit up with delighted surprise. “Of course I’m free. Please wait for me a moment—I’ll go get my things from the dressing room and come right out.”
Huang Yuanshan, hearing that Yue Zhaoyun wanted to see Wen Tingli, was somewhat surprised herself. She’d prepared a whole speech to give Wen Tingli, but seeing this, she only exchanged a glance with Yue Zhaoyun and, saying nothing, let Wen Tingli go.
The two of them walked out to the street, and Yue Zhaoyun had Wen Tingli wait in place while she walked toward the corner. Before long she came driving up smartly in a car herself. For the convenience of getting around, she’d borrowed a car from a friend the moment she arrived in Shanghai, and drove it herself.
“Get in.”
Wen Tingli was startled for a moment, then happily got in. So far she’d only crossed paths with Yue Zhaoyun a few times, but Yue Zhaoyun carried a humorous, approachable air about her that made people want to grow close to her.
“Ms. Yue, where are we going?”
“Shall we go take a walk near the Bund?”
Wen Tingli said happily that sounded good.
Once the car got moving, she tried to find topics of conversation with Yue Zhaoyun, but one’s state of mind isn’t something that can be concealed by pretending. Though she’d already tried hard enough, she was far from her usual talkative self, and the car fell silent several times.
“Has Miss Wen been ill?” Yue Zhaoyun suddenly asked.
“I had a slight cold a couple days ago, but I’m completely better now. Is my complexion very poor?”
Yue Zhaoyun nodded slightly.
Wen Tingli’s heart was a tangle of mixed feelings; her state today had been quite poor. In the scenes, when she should have laughed heartily, her laugh came out stiff; when she should have cried, she couldn’t hold it back at all.
This out-of-control state frightened even herself.
She couldn’t be sure how long this low state of hers would last, but she vaguely felt it was as if beyond her control, as if some gift that had followed her since childhood had suddenly been taken back by heaven.
She felt a strong sense of unease over this, and her mood had sunk to an extreme low.
Fortunately, Yue Zhaoyun didn’t ask much more. Wen Tingli didn’t want to be questioned and fussed over at a time like this, even by Yue Zhaoyun.
The car drove on at a measured pace, slowly approaching some street corner.
Wen Tingli, elbow propped on the window, was lost in thought when she happened to look up and saw, in the distance, an enormous neon sign.
Not far ahead was the Great World amusement park.
The Great World at night was even livelier than in daytime, purple neon lights flashing against the deep blue sky, looking from afar like an unpredictable, shifting dream.
It was indeed a dream, she thought sorrowfully—in her bag she still kept the long-term pass to the “Great World” that Lu Shicheng had gotten for her—and now this dream had woken.
She didn’t remember how many times she and Lu Shicheng had laughed that day, only felt that Xiao Taozi’s laughter still seemed to ring in her ears. However sweet it had been then, that was how lost she felt now. She subconsciously moved her gaze away from that dreamlike neon light, to keep her eyes from stinging.
Then Yue Zhaoyun’s voice sounded beside her.
“Let’s get out and walk a while.”
Wen Tingli nodded, and to lift her spirits, she spoke the moment she got out of the car.
“There’s a shop next to the Central Theater that makes excellent leizhaotuan (rice balls in sesame-peanut coating)—shall I treat you to some?”
The two of them found an unremarkable little shop, and Wen Tingli ordered the shop’s signature sweet for Yue Zhaoyun, plus two extra servings of iced tofu pudding.
Once seated, Yue Zhaoyun’s eyes never stopped moving—either observing the passersby through the window, or sizing up the shop owner, or studying the signboards at the intersection.
She seemed genuinely full of curiosity about everything around her. Finally she glanced at Wen Tingli, then pointed at the Great World neon sign ahead.
“Do you remember? We met once at the Great World.”
Wen Tingli nodded, and afraid Yue Zhaoyun might notice something, quickly added with a smile, “That day you were riding the bumper cars alone at the amusement park, and you kept staring at me. I was puzzled at the time—I don’t know this lady, why does she keep looking at me. Later I found out you were the famous novelist Yue Zhaoyun.”
As she spoke, she set down her spoon and laughed outright. “I’d guess by then you’d already heard about me from Sister Huang.”
Far from denying it, Yue Zhaoyun took out a small photograph from her bag and handed it to Wen Tingli. “Look.”
“Last month Huang Yuanshan mailed me your photo. She said she’d finally found a girl perfectly suited to play Nan Qi, and asked me to take a look. I thought, what can you tell from a photo—I really had to see this girl with my own eyes to know. So I bought a ticket and came to Shanghai. The first time I saw you at the Lu residence, I didn’t notice anything special, but that time at the Great World, I felt you really could play Nan Qi well.”
Wen Tingli’s curiosity was thoroughly aroused. “What about me made you think of Nan Qi?”
Yue Zhaoyun tilted her head and narrowed her eyes, sizing Wen Tingli up.
“Maybe it was just intuition. I saw you walking hand in hand with your sister under the parasol trees, chatting and laughing, and I thought, what a wonderful laugh this girl has—it comes through from the inside out. There were so many visitors at the amusement park that day, but you alone caught the eye. Then when you noticed me watching you, you immediately fixed those clear, bright eyes on me—there wasn’t a trace of timidity or inferiority in them at all… And that young Master Lu—I saw how you were with him, saw the look on your face when you spoke to him, and I thought, this girl was simply born to play the role of Nan Qi.”
Wen Tingli’s smile stiffened slightly.
Yue Zhaoyun didn’t stop there, slowly stirring her tofu pudding with her spoon as she continued. “So on the day of the screen test competition, before it had even officially begun, my heart had already tipped in your favor. After watching your three-scene performance, I decided on the spot to cast my vote for you. It’s true, Zhou Manru, Le Zhiwen, and Xiao Diejun were all excellent, but none of them were Nan Qi. Today on set, I had full confidence in you, but—”
Yue Zhaoyun abruptly changed direction: “I don’t believe a person’s talent can vanish in such a short time. Miss Wen, can you tell me what’s actually troubling you?”
Wen Tingli’s nose ached faintly, but she didn’t find Yue Zhaoyun’s question intrusive.
The concern and worry in Yue Zhaoyun’s voice were genuine, and didn’t make her feel resentful at all.
She hadn’t forgotten that the crucial deciding vote at the screen test competition had been cast by Yue Zhaoyun. It could be said that without the full support of Yue Zhaoyun and Huang Yuanshan, she never could have won the role of Nan Qi.
But her performance today had clearly disappointed them.
She bit her lip and lowered her head, saying hoarsely, “I’m sorry. Please rest assured, I’ll adjust my state as quickly as I can. Tomorrow will absolutely not be like today.”
Yue Zhaoyun said nothing—whether because she could see how poor Wen Tingli’s state truly was, or because she’d heard the producers wouldn’t give Wen Tingli much time to adjust, she clearly wasn’t optimistic about this assurance.
But she only patted Wen Tingli’s shoulder comfortingly, then changed the subject. “Shall we go for a walk outside?”
“All right.”
The two walked along the street. Passing the Oriental Hotel, Yue Zhaoyun suddenly turned and pointed off into the distance behind them. “I used to live over there. See, in a little alley next to Xinqiao Street, called Xingchang Li—I rented a garret room there, lived there for over two years altogether.”
Wen Tingli was surprised. “So you spent that much time in Shanghai.”
The area Yue Zhaoyun pointed to, being right next to Yangjingbang Creek and Zheng Family Bridge, had always been territory contested by all sorts of unsavory characters, and the lanes there were often piled with chamber pots and the like, the stench noticeable from far away.
“No choice—rent here is cheaper than elsewhere.” Yue Zhaoyun seemed to guess what was on Wen Tingli’s mind, and smiled, turning to walk forward. “Back then I’d just left home, and by the time I got to Shanghai I barely had any traveling money left. Finding a place to lodge at all was hard enough—I couldn’t have hoped for anything more.”
“Why didn’t you find work in Beiping?”
Yue Zhaoyun shook her head self-mockingly. “My family situation was rather complicated—I ran away from home.”
Wen Tingli started. Yue Zhaoyun went on unhurriedly:
“My mother was a concubine—the greatest regret of her life was being sold to my father as a concubine at sixteen. From then on she lost all dignity as a person, having to read others’ moods in everything. She didn’t want me to repeat her path, so she begged my father to send me to school. I did my mother proud—at a young age I could already tell the stories of Three Kingdoms and Water Margin vividly. My father, seeing I was clever, reluctantly agreed to send me to school, but the year I finished middle school, our family’s fortunes had already declined badly. To ease his business troubles, my father made me drop out to become a concubine to an official in the Beiyang government—the old man was already over sixty, and I was his eighth mistress.”
At this point, Yue Zhaoyun’s face turned frosty. “My mother was ill in bed at the time. When she heard the news, she cried until she nearly fainted, and stayed up all night packing to help me escape. But before I made it to the train station, my father’s men had already caught up. To throw them off, I had to abandon my suitcase and jump onto the train, so by the time I fled to Shanghai, the only thing of value on me was a pair of bracelets my mother had had made for me years before. I sold the bracelets to get some living expenses, or I’d have starved to death in the street.”
Wen Tingli listened with her heart pounding, and asked urgently, “And then? Is your mother still in Beiping now?”
She’d forgotten that Yue Zhaoyun was now a famous, accomplished woman—this past must have been more than ten years ago.
Yue Zhaoyun’s eyes were full of desolation.
“The moment I got to Shanghai I secretly wrote to my mother, but I never received any word back from her. Later I learned that on the day I fled, my mother was strung up and beaten savagely by my father. She’d already caught a chill, and after my father’s abuse that night, her life was gone. You could say—my life was bought with my mother’s life.”
Wen Tingli’s throat tightened. Though Yue Zhaoyun quickly turned her face away, she still saw the tears that suddenly welled up in the other woman’s eyes.
The two fell silent together. The street outside was so noisy, yet the air around Yue Zhaoyun seemed to have frosted over, quietly giving off a chill.
After some unknown length of time, Yue Zhaoyun said wistfully, “That year, I was nineteen—the same age as Miss Wen is now.”
Wen Tingli felt strangely moved by this. “How did you support yourself after that? Is that when you started writing novels?”
“I’d published some articles while in middle school. After coming to Shanghai I tried submitting a few pieces, and occasionally one would get accepted, but that could only sustain me for a day or two of food and living expenses. I was frantic with worry, going out every day before dawn to look for work. Around that time, there were people on the Shanghai scene who made big money writing serialized novels, so I borrowed one from a neighbor and read it, then tried writing one myself—and it turned out surprisingly well. I took the manuscript to submit it, but the newspaper office saw I was just a young girl and rejected my manuscript without even looking at it. I had no choice but to submit it under a man’s pen name instead—and this time it was actually accepted.”
She laughed scornfully. “That’s how I learned that we women are unfree not only in marriage, but in our careers too.”
As they spoke, they walked beneath a streetlamp, and Yue Zhaoyun spread the five fingers of her right hand under the light for Wen Tingli to see. Between her index and middle fingers were thick calluses, clearly built up over years of labor.
“I wrote day and night, and while still young I wrote myself into a body full of aches and pains, but hard work paid off—within a year I’d built up a bit of a name in literary circles. When the newspaper office came to commission my tenth manuscript, I finally had leverage to bargain with them, and switched to the pen name ‘Yue Zhaoyun.’ Under this name I published my first novel, Old Tales of Chunshen, and from then on I had a firm footing in literary circles. But it wasn’t until my fourth novel was published that readers learned I was a woman writer.”
Wen Tingli thought sorrowfully—no wonder Yue Zhaoyun’s early pen name had been the man’s name “Mr. Li,” and her breakout work, set against the backdrop of Shanghai, was Old Tales of Chunshen.
“I wrote and wrote, wrote until my old father drew his last breath, and only then did I triumphantly move back to Beiping, buy back our old family house, throw my father’s ancestral tablet into the chamber pot, and thoroughly renovate the little side room where my mother and I once lived. I set up my mother’s memorial tablet in the main hall, paying respects daily, but what good does that do, my mother, she—”
Yue Zhaoyun’s voice caught, and she fell silent.
Wen Tingli only felt a bitterness in her throat; she didn’t dare speak—for Yue Zhaoyun at this moment, any comforting words would be feeble and powerless.
Fortunately, Yue Zhaoyun soon emerged from that despondent mood. As if trying to shake something off, she gave her head a vigorous shake and strode forward.
“Sister Yue.” Wen Tingli hurried to catch up. This conversation had drawn the two of them closer, and without realizing it she’d changed how she addressed Yue Zhaoyun.
Yue Zhaoyun didn’t mind Wen Tingli calling her this either, only turned back and waved her over.
“Come.”
Wen Tingli’s heart surged with emotion as she caught up with Yue Zhaoyun’s pace.
The two walked side by side for a stretch, and the atmosphere along the street began to change. The whole lane was hung with lanterns in dazzling colors, and heavily made-up women stood before every house.
Further ahead was Huile Li on Fourth Road—that was Shanghai’s most famous red-light district. Wen Tingli hesitated and asked, “Sister Yue, are we still going in there?”
Yue Zhaoyun stepped right in.
The night wind carried gusts of cloying hair-oil scent, mixed with the soft, silky sound of erhu music.
That fragrance was like cassia and orchid, thick enough to congeal one’s willpower into a knot.
Wen Tingli felt dizzy from the fumes; she didn’t dare look back at those women leaning in doorways soliciting customers—this place reminded her of her mother, who’d once worked as a dance hostess in Nanjing years ago. She felt that if she looked at these people even one more time, it would be a desecration of her mother’s memory.
Suddenly a small figure burst out of a doorway and crashed into Yue Zhaoyun.
“Save me.” This person clutched Yue Zhaoyun’s hand in a death grip.
Yue Zhaoyun quickly bent down and wrapped the other tightly in her arms.
It was a girl of twelve or thirteen, her clothes in disarray, her face covered in tear tracks.
“Save me, ma’am! I don’t want to take clients!”
Right after, two burly men chased out from inside and seized the girl like catching a chick.
“You—” Wen Tingli rushed forward, wanting to snatch the little girl back.
Yue Zhaoyun, her face ashen, held Wen Tingli back.
“Which house are you two from?” one of the men demanded at the doorway, rolling up his sleeves aggressively.
Yue Zhaoyun covered Wen Tingli’s mouth and quickly pulled her away from the spot.
Wen Tingli, stumbling, was dragged along for a distance, and finally managed to wrench free of Yue Zhaoyun’s grip, saying urgently, “Didn’t you just see that? She’s still a child.”
Yue Zhaoyun silently rolled up the sleeve on her left arm, showing Wen Tingli a scar there.
“I once did the same thing you just tried. But not only did I fail to save the girl, I got whipped by that gang for it. Afterward I tried to find a lawyer friend in Shanghai to help rescue people, but they advised me not to court trouble for nothing. This place is hell on earth—just like opium—long monopolized and controlled by the local racketeers of the concessions. Outsiders can’t interfere, unless—we no longer care about our own lives.”
Wen Tingli was sweating profusely as she listened, and at the same time felt a thick wave of nausea rising in her stomach. Looking around, the women in the lane were all watching them with strange looks.
For their attempt at rescue just now, not one of these pitiable women showed any gratitude—instead, each face was filled with disdain, mockery, and confusion.
Among them were two young girls who looked no more than thirteen or fourteen, yet had already been trained into a jaded coquetry.
Wen Tingli couldn’t help but retch, bracing herself against a wall.
Yue Zhaoyun half-dragged, half-supported Wen Tingli out of Huile Li.
Once outside, the two leaned against a railing, gasping as they looked out at the river. Yue Zhaoyun handed Wen Tingli a handkerchief.
“Wipe your sweat.”
Wen Tingli silently shook her head.
“Anything you want to say?”
Wen Tingli said nothing.
Yue Zhaoyun suddenly raised her voice: “What, after seeing that hellish scene just now, do you still intend to keep wallowing?”
Wen Tingli felt as if she’d been slapped; her ears rang.
“Do you know how many women are forced into prostitution within the two concessions? As many as a hundred thousand!”
“Compared to them, how fortunate we are—you have the talent and the beauty to act in films, and I’ve had the fortune to be able to write stories. But even so, the road we’ve walked has been full of danger every step of the way, each of us treading a knife’s edge, and one moment’s carelessness would send us tumbling into a bottomless abyss.”
Wen Tingli listened, breaking out in a cold sweat.
Yue Zhaoyun suddenly pointed back the way they’d come. “Still don’t understand? We could become one of them at any moment. Even if you don’t want to, society will push you into it step by step. The opportunities before us are already few and far between—when one comes along, why wouldn’t you seize it with all your strength?”
By the time she said this last sentence, Yue Zhaoyun’s tone had turned sharp and severe.
“Miss Wen, I don’t know what’s been troubling you lately, but I do know this—if you go to shoot tomorrow in the same state as today, the producers are very likely to replace you on the spot. There’s no helping it—in an industry as full of talent as film, competition is this fierce! And once you’re kicked off a production, don’t expect any other company to come looking to cast you in the future. You have no one to rely on, both your parents are dead—how will you pay for the next four years of tuition? How will you and your sister sustain your lives going forward? Or is it that you intend to let yourself, like these pitiable women on Fourth Road, be driven step by step into a dead end by life?”
Every sentence Yue Zhaoyun spoke struck Wen Tingli’s face like the crack of a whip, making her shudder uncontrollably, beads of sweat rising on her forehead.
Seeing Wen Tingli in this state, Yue Zhaoyun’s heart softened.
“I’d guess you’ve recently lost something very important to you.”
Wen Tingli’s eyes reddened, but Yue Zhaoyun’s tone immediately turned stern again. “But you don’t have time—you don’t have time to indulge yourself, do you understand?”
She turned Wen Tingli around bodily, making her face the ghost-haunted stretch of Fourth Road directly.
“Open your eyes wide and look carefully! There are no flowery dreams here, only a harsh and treacherous world—in this land, even the most beautiful and resilient flowers get ground down into mud. You and I may stand on this side of the line, but in truth only a single ‘road’ separates us from them, and that road is called fate!
“You’ve now arrived at fate’s crossroads. Muddling through in a daze won’t work; hesitating and looking around will only ruin your own future! And another thing—don’t count on entrusting your whole life to someone else! The only one you can ever truly rely on in this world is yourself. Now, you must cross this crossroads by your own strength, just as I once did. If you hold onto the slightest wishful thinking, you’ll miss this chance, and in the future you’ll have no opportunity to regret it, because you will have missed fate’s one favor to you!”
Wen Tingli’s tears streamed down, and she nodded desperately.
Yue Zhaoyun was silent a moment, then sighed and handed the handkerchief to Wen Tingli again. “If you’re done crying, wipe your tears.”
Wen Tingli pressed the handkerchief tightly to her tear-filled eyes.
She didn’t say a single word, only silently wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes.
She knew that only by wiping away her tears could she see the road ahead clearly.
Seeing the road clearly, she’d have to stride forward.
She wiped very carefully, and the more she wiped, the clearer her mind became; the more she wiped, the more concrete the fear in her heart grew—and this fear, in turn, helped her cultivate boundless courage.
She had no time to be despondent; the cruel environment could crush her at any moment. She had to run forward, run forward no matter what, to have any chance of escaping those unseen black hands behind her.
At last, she slowly lowered the handkerchief, raised a pair of eyes now utterly clear, and said to Yue Zhaoyun, “I’m much better now, Sister Yue.”
Yue Zhaoyun broke into a relieved smile. “Good, then. Come, I’ll take you home.”
That night, back home, Wen Tingli took out that ruby necklace and sat down at her dressing table.
In the dim night, the gem still blazed with beautiful light, reflected in her eyes, piercing into her heart.
Only at this moment did Wen Tingli understand how much deeper her attachment to Lu Shicheng ran than she’d imagined.
At the same time, she also realized that this attachment and reluctance to let go had already become a stumbling block on her path forward.
It was time to let go!
She told herself this in her heart.
Like treasuring an old photograph of the past, she slowly put the necklace away into that pale pink shell-and-enamel jewelry box, gently closed it, and let out a sigh as if a great weight had been lifted.
That morning, the Southern Beauty studio was unusually busy, and among all the staff, the most tense of all was Huang Yuanshan.
Today they were shooting a major scene—Wen Tingli alone had to deliver a full five pages of dialogue, and acting opposite her was the industry’s renowned veteran actress Ms. Wen Guanhua. Given how Wen Tingli had performed on set yesterday, Huang Yuanshan seriously doubted whether she could pull it off.
During preparations, Huang Yuanshan kept glancing worriedly toward Wen Tingli.
Yue Zhaoyun, Liu Menglin, and several producers were also present. Besides them, a number of actors not yet needed for work that day stood around the set—yesterday’s incident had already spread through the company, and everyone was curious whether Wen Tingli would be replaced on the spot today.
In this tense, strange atmosphere, Wen Tingli behaved no differently than usual. After finishing her makeup, she walked to mirror station one and politely bowed slightly to Wen Guanhua in greeting.
Huang Yuanshan cleared her throat anxiously, clapped her hands, and called out, “Attention all departments—lighting, camera… action!”
The moment the set lights came on, Wen Tingli turned a strange smile toward Wen Guanhua, who was playing Mrs. Duan.
Huang Yuanshan was stunned for a moment—from this entrance alone, it was clear Wen Tingli’s state was completely different from yesterday’s.
Her spirits lifted at once.
“Good, keep that state, walk toward her.”
Wen Tingli, playing “Nan Qi,” stepped forward affectionately and took “Mrs. Duan’s” hands in both of hers.
“Isn’t this Big Sister? What brings you here?”
“I came… to see how you’re doing.” Mrs. Duan seemed a bit at a loss. “Are you well?”
“I’m very well.” Nan Qi’s face pressed close to Mrs. Duan’s, and she stared into the other woman’s eyes with pleasant intensity, saying word by word, “Thanks to you, everything’s fine with me. Can’t you tell I’m doing well? What is there for you to worry about?”
“Nan Qi.” Mrs. Duan looked somewhat startled. “What’s gotten into you—do you still bear a grudge against me over what happened before?”
Nan Qi’s face was still smiling, but suddenly a thick killing intent gathered within that smile, and she cut Mrs. Duan off viciously.
“Drop that fake, hypocritical face of yours! You think I don’t know what you did to me behind my back?!”
The set fell utterly silent, and only once the scene finished did everyone come back to their senses as if waking from a dream.
Cinematographer Zheng Qizhang was the first to applaud and cheer.
The two Bell & Howell cameras in his hands had captured every subtle change on Wen Tingli’s face from different angles, so he understood better than anyone how good this performance had been—Nan Qi’s “madness” struck exactly the right note, inspiring boundless pity in the viewer while also sending a chill down the spine.
The crew on set burst into applause one after another, and Huang Yuanshan wore a broad grin rarely seen from her lately.
“One take, print it! Teacher Wen, Wen Tingli, well done.”
Wen Tingli, beaming, went to touch up her makeup, and as she walked, her eyes searched for Yue Zhaoyun, only to see Yue Zhaoyun quietly slipping away down the corridor.
Wen Tingli gazed fixedly at Yue Zhaoyun’s retreating back and said earnestly, quietly, “Thank you, Sister Yue.”
Then she suddenly heard Huang Yuanshan say excitedly, “Next scene starting—Wu Sheng, Wen Tingli, to camera four.”
The corners of Wen Tingli’s mouth lifted, and full of spirit, she called back, “Coming!”