Chapter 50: The Literary Association Meeting

There are two ways to quickly bridge the distance between people. One is to do something together, whether good or bad; the other is to have a heartfelt conversation.

At this moment, Gong Xue was doing just that. Now calm, she understood that Chen Qi’s words bore no ill intent; he was merely coaxing… no, guiding—yes, guiding her.

Yet she remained shy, silently walking to the fork in the road. Suddenly, Chen Qi said, “You go back first. I’ll come back later.”

“Okay,” she nodded obediently and took a step ahead.

“Tsk tsk, truly, I can’t help but feel pity for her,” Chen Qi thought as he watched her retreating figure, recalling the tears mingling with the pear blossoms just now. Such pure, natural beauty from southern Jiangnan was rare in later times.

In fact, when Gong Xue filmed Under the Bridge, her acting was already quite good, handled with great subtlety. She wasn’t perfect in the early days, more just a pretty face, and it was a pity she hadn’t starred in more films during her prime.

Today, she had proactively asked about her shortcomings, which made Chen Qi regard her more highly—a genuinely good girl.

“Mandarin ducks nest together, butterflies fly in pairs, the garden in full bloom intoxicates all hearts; quietly I ask the holy monk: is the girl beautiful…”

He lingered playfully before starting back, humming nonsense under his breath. Then a sudden idea struck him: “If I could get Zhu Lin to join Gong Xue in a film, with plum, orchid, bamboo, and chrysanthemum all around—ah, no, each with their own charm… Those foolish netizens in later generations would surely worship me and build temples, saving merit points!”

…

“小 Gong, just back?”

“Yeah, went out for a walk. You should rest early.”

Over there, Gong Xue returned to the hotel, rushed into her room, closed the door, and leaned against it motionless, as if her mind had gone blank, lost in a sudden daze.

She thought she had been too bold today, speaking so openly about things she hadn’t even told her parents for fear of worrying them.

“小 Gong?”

A knock came from behind. She turned to open the door and smiled. “Jin Ling, have you finished dinner?”

“I’ve eaten twice already. Why were you out so long?”

“I just liked watching the sunset, so I stayed a bit longer…”

“Was there even a sunset today?”

Zhang Jin Ling scratched her head, brought over a piece of clothing, and said, “Don’t know when it got torn. I’ll trouble you to patch it up. Though I can sew, compared to you, I’m like a fire-starting girl.”

“Don’t say that, it’s really embarrassing.”

Gong Xue took the shirt, found her sewing kit, and deftly threaded the needle, stitching without a hint of impatience or reluctance.

In the 1960s, each person could only buy three chi of cloth per year, later increased to six chi as the textile industry developed gradually. This varied by region; in the most generous places, each person could get up to one zhang six chi, with an additional one zhang six chi granted at marriage.

Poor families with many children faced the hardest times; they had to make clothes for the kids from purchased cloth, while adults wore re-spun fabric made by shredding old scraps—coarse and rough, sometimes even prickly to wear.

So, in those days, when a piece of clothing tore, it was always mended and patched, never discarded.

Gong Xue sat on the bed repairing clothes. Zhang Jin Ling was also busy, pouring out emotional support: “Look at you—pretty, kind, skillful. How did you get so lucky? I envy you to death.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m serious. Anyone who marries you has accumulated the blessings of eight generations.”

“Say that again and I won’t help you patch it!”

“All right, all right, I won’t say anymore…”

Zhang Jin Ling was one of the three golden flowers of Beijing Film Studio, known for The Reconnaissance Across the River, The Great River Runs, and Xu Mao and His Daughters. She married and retired early in the mid-80s, later dabbling in calligraphy and painting, becoming a disciple of a student of Qi Baishi.

“Your skills are amazing, a hundred times better than mine. When I go back to the capital, I’ll look you up.”

The shirt was patched quickly. She joked, then said, “Hey, did Director Wang tell you? We’re going back in ten days.”

“Didn’t hear that. Why?”

“There’s a cultural representatives’ conference at the end of the month. Both Director Wang and I have to attend.”

“You’re going to the cultural conference? That’s great.”

Gong Xue’s eyes sparkled with envy. Zhang Jin Ling smiled, “Don’t be impatient. Once Lushan Love is released, you’ll have your share too.”

“That’s not certain!”

“How could it not? This film’s quality is top-notch and bound to succeed.”

After Zhang Jin Ling left, her words stirred Gong Xue’s mixed feelings. Of course, she hoped Lushan Love would succeed, but with only ten days left before returning, a tinge of reluctance arose.

…

“Xiao Chen!”

“This way, this way!”

When Chen Qi returned, he was called down to the first-floor dining hall. After the gala, a group was sitting around snacking on leftover sunflower seeds and potatoes. Tomorrow was a day off, and everyone was relaxed.

“The song you sang just now wasn’t great!”

“How can the Toast Song sound good when you sing it? That’s a rare talent!”

“My performance was so-so today. I’ll sing again another time. What are you all chatting about?”

Chen Qi swung his legs over and sat down. Wang Haowei grabbed a handful of seeds for him with a smile. “Just to inform you, the crew has officially decided to return to Beijing in ten days. Some comrades, including me, will attend the cultural representatives’ conference at the end of the month. We’ll have about half a month’s rest.”

“So filming will continue in mid-November?”

“Yes, it should wrap up by December, exactly six months.”

“Suddenly hearing this, I’m quite reluctant to leave.”

“Everyone is reluctant. We’ll come back if there’s a chance. Maybe we’ll visit again when Lushan Love premieres.”

Chen Qi nodded, cracking seeds between his teeth, then casually asked, “Will a lot of people attend this cultural conference?”

“From what I heard, over three thousand people. Artists, calligraphers, musicians, dancers, and all of us filmmakers…”

Wang Haowei counted on his fingers, showing excitement. “This is the first conference since the change in cultural policy. Mao Dun, Ba Jin, Xia Yan, Ye Shengtao, Bing Xin, Zang Kejia, Bai Yang, Zhang Ruifang, Sun Daolin, Qin Yi, Chen Qiang, Xia Meng… You want to go, right? Every one of them will be there!”

“Then you’d better get me their autographs… huh?”

Chen Qi suddenly froze and asked, “Did you just say Xia Meng?”

“Yes! Comrades Fu Qi and Shi Hui will be there too! They helped with our beautiful costumes.”

Wang Haowei called Xia Meng by name but added “comrade” after the other two.

“Oh, can I meet them?”

“You definitely won’t get into the conference, but they’ll probably visit Beijing Film Studio. You’ll get to see them then.”

“If I can’t see them, I’ll have to blame you!”

Chen Qi laughed but his mind was already racing.

The Cultural Representatives’ Conference, officially the Chinese Literature and Art Workers’ Congress, was held in 1949, 1953, 1960 for the first three sessions, and this was the fourth, scheduled for October 30.

Each session was personally attended by national leaders, showing great importance.

…

Meanwhile, Lushan held its National Day gala, and the capital’s Great Hall was also hosting events.

On New Year’s Eve of 1979, social ballroom dancing, long vanished, suddenly reappeared at a government gala, signaling a symbol: dancing might soon be permitted again. But among ordinary people, it remained secretive and discreet.

By National Day, officials held another event, with an increasingly clear attitude.

Among the participants was a special fellow named Wang Shuo.

Wang Shuo served as a medic in the North Sea Fleet in Qingdao, returned home on leave, and had his worldview shaken.

Because he saw countless fashionable young men and women waltzing, the hall resounded with The Blue Danube and Vienna Woods, all very unfamiliar to him.

In this era of mingled conservatism and openness, confusion and wavering, Wang Shuo wrote:

“I felt the times were changing. Both I and my once proud, fashionable military uniform had become outdated. The dancers wore high heels, bell-bottom pants, nylon shirts, had permed hair, wore electronic watches, and some spoke English.

Back at the unit, I stopped applying for Party membership, no longer scrambled to clean toilets or wash comrades’ clothes to show how hard I was studying Lei Feng. I told my commander I could buy a Japanese color TV. With three thousand yuan earned from farming kelp with the unit, I went to Guangdong to trade color TVs…”