Of course, Tianyi, who felt she had been wrong-footed over Wusheng, was over the moon. She had dreamed for years of ‘author films’, ever since seeing Alain Resnais’s Last Year in Marienbad, in fact. She longed to get the chance to write the screenplay for a film like that, with its mixture of truth and fantasy. Her intelligence had not yet been tarnished by time, and those three avant-garde authors were not only good friends of hers, they were also very much on the same wavelength.
But creative ideas, as she was discover to her cost, looked quite different once they took practical shape. The authors settled on a thoroughly low-life theme, trafficking in women, for reasons she did not fully understand. As they planned the film, it was as if some sinister presence was manipulating them. Even the utterly matter-of-fact Qiang seemed strangely drawn in. One of the three, Xiang, got to his feet and held forth with gusto. This subject matter would certainly create a stir, he assured them. He was from Henan province, and he told them a whole series of extraordinary stories about Henan women who had been trafficked. His listeners were stupefied.
It was Carl Jung who made the great discovery of the ‘collective unconscious’. On that midsummer evening in 1994, the planning meeting virtually sank into a ‘collective unconscious’. Xiang’s lively performance was totally absorbing. Tianyi did have a vague feeling that all was not right, but her objections were quickly overruled amid the general excitement. And in any case, Qiang was there. As he had complete responsibility for signing up the three authors on behalf of the film company, what was she worrying about?
So she relaxed and watched: Qiang, normally such a dapper figure, unbent so far as to take his shoes and socks off and sit cross-legged. His bare feet gave off a faint whiff and she looked away, secretly annoyed. It was really disrespectful, taking your shoes off in front of a woman! This detail brought her firmly back to the real world and she realized she had missed most of Xiang’s speech.
Xiang’s enthusiasm infected the two other authors, Song and Diao, and Song jumped to his feet and talked about a woman in Sanhe County, his old home, who had been trafficked to Inner Mongolia and sexually abused by the man for five whole years. Finally, she had succeeded in running away and made the long journey home. That got all the men in the meeting very worked up and they launched into a discussion of sexual abuse. It went right back even as far as the Vietnam War, said Diao, when the American troops tortured female captives by piercing their breasts with bamboo spikes, whipping their private parts with belts and so on. There were detailed descriptions of this, he went on, in books such as Letter from the South and South Vietnam Youth in Battle.
From trafficked women to South Vietnam Youth in Battle, the discussion had gone wildly off topic, but Tianyi could not get a word in edgeways. She sneaked a glance at Qiang, who looked impassive but was clearly listening intently. She felt an obscure fury and would have loved to throw a temper tantrum. But she knew quite well that she was not at home and Qiang was not Lian. All she could do was excuse herself, go to the toilet and stand there at the window sighing at the stars.
Tianyi was surprised when she discovered that the three avant-garde authors had taken their fee and gone, just like that. As a result, she came under pressure from Qiang to complete the screenplay herself. She had never in her life written anything on this topic, one which moreover she found abhorrent. But this was the company where she worked and she had to get on with the job. No one had forced her to take up this position. She had to do her duty and she had to write well. And writing well in the context of this company meant that even the cook had to approve.
Actually, it all went unexpectedly smoothly and when she had written the synopsis and completed her first draft, she printed one copy for Qiang and one copy for his deputy, Zhi. Some weeks later, at the first discussion meeting, Zhi jumped in with a list of criticisms, thirteen of them, before Qiang could speak. The first criticism carried most weight, and it was this: it would be quite reprehensible for a highly reputable production company like theirs to make a film about the dark underbelly of society.
Instinctively, Tianyi looked at Qiang. Quite obviously, since this topic had met with Qiang’s approval, Zhi’s criticism meant one of two things. Either he was getting at Qiang, or the latter was too embarrassed to say anything and Zhi had to play the bad guy. Qiang still said nothing and sat there leafing through the photocopy of the screen play she had given him, as if he was deaf. She understood.
Zhi had started his career as a secretary, and was adept at divining the boss’s intentions. He made it his business to get on well with his superiors, especially his immediate line manager. He was also at an age when he could hope for promotion, so there was no way he was going to jump out of line and offend Qiang. He must have got Qiang’s approval before speaking out. He might even have discussed it with him.
Tianyi was devastated. Until now she had been ambivalent about Qiang, but from now on, she was finished with him! She did not even hate him anymore. Hate meant that she still had feelings for him, but now she just despised him. She felt suddenly liberated.
She stood up to speak, a mocking smile on her lips. She spoke to Zhi but her remarks were clearly intended for Qiang: ‘I’m not as well as educated as you are, and I don’t think I understand,’ she began. ‘As you well know, this theme was our manager’s personal choice. The detailed synopsis got the nod from the company director, Mr Feng, himself. How come it’s suddenly become “reprehensible to film the dark underbelly of society”? If that’s what you’re saying, where does that leave the director and Qiang?’ Zhi was taken aback. The arts department staff had always been so amenable, he had not expected this pugnacious reaction. She had backed him into a corner! He looked uneasily at Qiang, and Tianyi, seeing the glance, was even more convinced that the two of them had been in cahoots with these thirteen criticisms. Qiang looked up, and swept Tianyi with his dignified gaze. ‘All screenplays come out different from the synopsis. I’d strongly advise you to pay serious attention to this feedback,’ he said. The old Tianyi would have flushed in consternation at this, which was no doubt what Qiang anticipated. Her haughty response must have surprised him: ‘Excuse me! I am not in the habit of re-writing!’ He was outraged. He was suddenly reminded of the Old City fiasco. This woman jinxed everything she touched. Resentments, old and new, rushed to the surface and he leapt to his feet, banging the table: ‘That’s enough from you, Yang Tianyi!’
There was shock at his enraged outburst. All the staff, from senior women to young girls, crowded around the doorway of Qiang’s office, craning their necks to see what was going on. They heard the urbane Qiang bang the table again and shout: ‘Let me make myself clear, Yang Tianyi! We make mass-market films these days, it’s fast-food culture, for ordinary people to watch! So don’t come to me with your highbrow ideas. No one’s going to watch a film like the one you’ve written!’ The staff were thrilled to hear Tianyi roundly condemned. You asked for that, Tianyi! That’s what you get for your smug hoity-toity attitudes! We’ve had enough of being treated like ignorant yokels by Madam Highbrow!
But if they were hoping to hear Tianyi break down in tears, or even choke back a sob, they were disappointed. Tianyi startled them with her response. Quite calmly, she took back the two copies of the screenplay and, looking coldly at Qiang, said: ‘You’re a nasty little man and I despise you.’ Then she turned on her heel and left.