One of them said, “He’s so hot. Must be running a fever.”
“Phew! Smelly!” said another.
Now that our hero was gone, what could we do? At last it began to sink in that the tiger was too fierce for any man to tackle. Somebody suggested having the beast gelded so as to bring the animal closer to the human level. We gave a thought to that and even talked to a pig castrator, but he didn’t trust tranquilizers and wouldn’t do the job unless the tiger was tied up. Somehow the Choice Herb Store heard about our situation and sent an old pharmacist over to buy the tiger’s testicles, which the man said were a sought-after remedy for impotence and premature ejaculation. In his words, “They give you a tiger’s spirit and energy.”
But finally realizing that the crux of our problem was the hero, not the tiger, we decided against castrating the animal. Without a man who physically resembled Huping, we could get nowhere, even with a tamed tiger. Then someone suggested that we find a tiger skin and have it worn by a man. In other words, shoot the last part of the scene with a fake animal. This seemed feasible, but I had my doubts. As the set clerk, whose job it is to make sure that all the details match those in the previous shooting, I thought that we couldn’t possibly get a skin identical to the real tiger’s. After I expressed my misgivings, people fell silent for a long time.
Finally Director Yu said, “Why don’t we have the tiger put down and use its skin?”
“Maybe we should do that,” agreed Old Min, who was also in the series, playing a bad official.
Secretary Feng was uncertain whether Huping could still fill his role. Director Yu assured him, saying, “That shouldn’t be a problem. Is he still a man if he can’t even fight a dead tiger?”
People cracked up.
Then it occurred to us that the tiger was a protected animal and that we might get into trouble with the law if we had it killed. Director Yu told us not to worry. He was going to talk with a friend of his in the Municipal Administration.
Old Min agreed to wear the tiger’s skin and fight with Huping. He was good at this kind of horseplay.
Two days later, our plan was approved. So we had the tiger shot by a militiaman with a semiautomatic rifle. The man had been instructed not to damage the animal’s head, so he aimed at its chest. He fired six shots into the tiger, but it simply refused to die — it sat on its haunches, panting, its tongue hanging out of the corner of its mouth while blood streamed down its front legs. Its eyes were half closed, as though it were sleepy. Even when it had finally fallen down, people waited for some time before opening the cage.
To stay clear of anybody who might be involved with the black market, we sold the whole carcass to the state-owned Red Arrow Pharmaceutical Factory for forty-eight hundred yuan, a little more than we had paid for the live tiger. But that same evening we got a call from the manager of the factory, who complained that one of the tiger’s hind legs was missing. We assured him that when the carcass left our company, it was intact. Apparently en route someone had hacked off the leg to get a piece of tiger bone, which is a kind of treasure in Chinese medicine, often used to strengthen the physique, relieve rheumatic pains, and ease palpitations caused by fright. The factory refused to pay the full price unless we delivered the missing leg. But how on earth could we recover it? Secretary Feng haggled hard in vain, and they docked five hundred yuan from the original figure.
This time there was no need to persuade our hero. Just at the mention of beating a fake tiger, Huping got excited, itching to have a go. He declared, “I’m still a tiger-fighter. I’ll whip him!”
Because the shooting could be repeated from now on, there wasn’t much preparation. We set out for the woods in just one truck. Old Min sat in the cab with a young actress who was allergic to the smog and wore a large gauze mask. On the way, Huping grinned at us, gnashed his teeth, and made hisses through his nose. His eyes radiated a hard light. That spooked me, and I avoided looking at him.
When we arrived at the place and got off the vehicle, he began glaring at Old Min. The look on his face suggested intense malice. It made me feel awful, because he used to be such a good-hearted man, gentle and sweet. That was another reason why the girls had called him Prince.
Old Min changed his mind and refused to play the tiger. Director Yu and Secretary Feng tried to persuade him, but he simply wouldn’t do it, saying, “He thinks he’s a real tiger-killer and can have his way with me. No, I won’t give him the chance.”
“Please, he won’t hurt you,” begged Director Yu.
“Look at his eyes — they give me goose bumps. No, I won’t have anything to do with him.”
Desperate, Secretary Feng shouted at us, “Who’d like to play the tiger?”
There was no response, only a grasshopper snapping its whitish wings in the air. Then an explosion was heard from the distant mountain, where granite was being quarried.
Director Yu added, “Come on, it will be fun, a great experience.” Seeing nobody step forward, he went on, “I’ll treat whoever takes the part to an eight-course dinner.”
“Where will you take him?” asked the young truck driver, Little Dou.
“Four Seas Garden.”
“You really mean it?”
“Of course — on my word of honor.”
“Then I’ll try. I’ve never been in a movie, though.”
“You know the story Wu Song Beat the Tiger, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Just imagine yourself as the tiger being beaten by the hero. Crawl and roll about, keep shaking your head until I say, ‘Die.’ Then you fall down and begin to die slowly.”
“All right, I’ll give it a shot.”
Huping was already in his outfit, but this time not wearing the cudgel.
They wrapped the small driver in the tiger’s skin and tied the strings around his belly. Director Yu said to him, “Don’t be scared. Try to be natural. He’ll wrestle with you bare-handed. This tiger skin is so thick that nothing can hurt you.”
“No problem.” The driver spat on the ground, then pulled on the tiger’s head.
The director raised his hand, an unlit cigarette between his index and middle fingers. “Action!” he called.
The tiger crawled into the grass, wandering with ease. Its rump swayed a little. Huping leaped on its back and began riding it around, shouting, “Kill!” Gripping its forelock with his left hand, he hit the tiger hard on the head with his right fist.
“Oh, Mama!” the tiger squealed. “He’s killing me!”
Huping kept punching until the tiger staggered, then collapsed. Just as we were about to intervene, Director Yu motioned for us not to move. Old Min laughed boisterously, bending forward and holding the swell of his belly with both hands. “Oh my! Oh my!” he kept saying.
Meanwhile, Huping was slapping the tiger’s face and spat on it as well. The animal screamed, “Spare me! Spare me, Grandpa!”
“He’s hurting him,” said Secretary Feng.
“It’s all right,” Director Yu assured him, then turned to the crew. “Keep the camera rolling.”
I said, “If he cripples Little Dou, it’ll cost us lots.”
“Don’t put such a jinx on us!” the director snapped at me. I held my tongue.
Finally, Huping got off the motionless tiger, but then he started in ferociously kicking its flank, head, neck, face. His boots produced muffled thuds as he cursed, “Kill this paper tiger! I’m going to finish him off!”
How frightened we were! The driver wasn’t making a sound at this point. Huping stepped aside and, picking up a rock as large as a melon, muttered, “Let me smash this fake.”