There were more and more rows with Lian, too. ‘You have no sense of responsibility to your family … You weren’t made for marriage,’ were just some of Lian’s accusations, no matter how hard she tried. Maybe it was true. She felt torn between her undoubted love for her child (and she really did adore him), and a dreadful feeling that having a child was a life-sentence. She loved nothing more than to let her creative imagination take wing, but she could only do that at night. On paper. She wrote one story after another, finish it, read it, then bin it, showing it to no one. It was like having sex, she got it all out of her system, and then her body was at peace. Until one day Lian happened on the novel she had just completed and read it.
It was called The Tree of Knowledge, and it had a simple dedication: ‘To H Z.’ Who was H Z? An old flame? Lian was not bothered by her past loves, they were all child’s play in his view, so they did not count. But he sensed she had really lived this experience as he read this story. She made her hero sound very attractive: ‘This young man’s features were almost perfect. He had a bright, clear forehead, a prominent nose, the pupils of his eyes were not black but the translucent colour of lake water, brimming with light. He had a noble air, but it was the nobility of a fallen prince …’ she had written. Lian discovered, apparently for the first time, that Tianyi’s prose was beautiful. It was certainly wasted on her academic writing!
Back then, a new generation of young film directors were quietly emerging. Yellow Earth and One and Eight had just come out, among other films. They made a big impression on Lian. He felt instinctively that Tianyi’s novel should be made into a film and, without telling her, he wrote to a director called Ji, recommending it and signing himself ‘A Reader’. He mailed the letter and forgot about it. Two weeks later, out of the blue, he received a reply from a production company overseas. It was signed with a flourish by none other than the celebrated Mr Ji himself. Lian was thrilled.
Another two weeks passed and Tianyi and Ji met in person. He was pretty much as she had imagined him, fashionably bearded, large, expressive eyes. They had a very enjoyable discussion: Ji said he liked her story, though of course he had a few criticisms, it would have to be worked on, and so on and so forth. He said he wanted to use this film to get one up on Zhang Yimou. Tianyi was taken aback. He was talking about using the film to get one up on another director, before he and she had come to an agreement? But she was soon swayed by Ji’s obvious ability. After all, jadeite was still jade, wasn’t it? You couldn’t afford to be too picky with your friends in this business. Or so Tianyi told herself. She had to admit that Ji treated her with much more respect than most directors accorded their screenwriters. ‘Your writing is very good,’ he told her, ‘I’d like to bring you in during shooting, to write a few extra scenes.’ The assistant director, who was in on the meeting, told Tianyi: ‘The director’s never praised any screenwriter for writing well before. Why don’t you do an article about working with Ji when you have time? After all, people were always publishing stuff about working with Zhang Yimou, so why not Ji? Tianyi looked at him, then gently suggested that they should stick to what they were good at and not try and compete. Ji looked at his assistant too: ‘Mrs Yang is right. We should get on with our own project, and let Zhang get on with his, and let’s see who does a better job!’ Tianyi couldn’t help smiling to herself. What children these film people were! What she said was: ‘Please don’t call me Mrs Yang! Tianyi is fine.’ The three of them talked some more, then Ji got to his feet. ‘Time for lunch! Let’s find somewhere good.’
The fashion for sumptuous banquets had yet to sweep through China; people’s taste in food was not terribly sophisticated in those post-Maoist days. However, the restaurant they went to near Weigongcun Street was one of a few really fine ones, and had a grand name to go with it: the Luxury Seafood Centre. They ordered cod with shrimps and egg yolks, ham with broad beans, steamed shark, soy-stewed goose wings, crispy fried pigeon, stir-fried bean shoots, and ham and wax gourd soup. The dishes had no sooner arrived than a young woman breezed in, as if she had deliberately picked her moment to make an entrance. Tianyi, who had met few actors in person, was startled at her appearance: a dark ruby-coloured skirt accentuated the whiteness of her skin and her scarlet lipstick. At first glance, the girl looked fresh and unsophisticated, but when Tianyi looked more carefully, she realized she was being distinctly flirtatious. Her arrival certainly seemed to make Ji perk up. He looked like a different man.
Ji made flattering introductions: ‘This is Tianyi, the celebrated writer. And this is Kexing, the celebrated actress.’
Kexing beamed smiles and extended a small delicate hand, shaking Tianyi’s, as lengthily as if they were old friends. ‘How nice to meet you, Tianyi’ she said, in a hoarse voice at odds with her fragile beauty. ‘Ji has said so much about you, he says you’re a terrific writer.’ Tianyi never knew what to say to comments like that. She made a dismissive gesture: ‘… Oh, no, really!’ A long time later she realized that everyone dropped comments like that, it was the done thing. There was nothing personal about it at all, and her embarrassment simply came across as asking for more compliments.
Tianyi’s admiration of beauty predisposed her towards Kexing, at least at the beginning. On the surface, she seemed a charming young woman, utterly likeable, the sort who would be popular in any day and age. She knew exactly what to say to butter people up, knew how to smile and talk her way into everyone’s affections. Her flattery was so sophisticated it sometimes verged on the insulting, before veering off at the last moment to compliment the subject. There was hardly anyone to match her in the art.
But Kexing was not just a superlative flatterer. Gradually Tianyi learned about the other killer weapon the young woman had up her sleeve: sex. The 1980s were a time of social as well as economic liberalization and Kexing was up right there in the vanguard. She made a clear distinction between lust and love and was willing to have sex with any man, with one purpose in mind: to get whatever it was that man could give her.
Tianyi had a good time at the banquet that day. But not long afterwards, Ji phoned to ask her to recommend a woman for the female lead: ‘Anyone who comes to mind who you think would be right for the role? Have a think … someone you’ve met, with the temperament that fits the role, anyone you can recommend …’ Finally, Ji threw in anxiously: ‘It could be someone you’ve only just met!’
But Ji was out of luck. Tianyi was ultra-sensitive, but her sensitivities did not lie in that direction. No matter that Ji talked round and around the subject, Tianyi just did not get what he was hinting at. The trouble was that Tianyi was too straightforward. She did not understand subtexts. As Ji spoke, she was racking her brains as who might play the lead role. Who would be right for it? Suddenly she remembered having watched a film called Youth two years before, where the female lead was a young woman with a hazy look in her eyes, impoverished, a devout Buddhist. She was called something like …