After moving, my new study has three wide glass windows. Looking out, I can see the lush greenery and overgrown weeds of the small garden. Summer has ended, and only a few lonely roses remain in bloom. Ruan Qiuji expressed confusion over my choice; he said there would be many mosquitoes. Yesterday, we were on the balcony—smoking for a minute, kissing for thirty seconds—and were quickly driven away by mosquito bites.
Normally, after returning to the living room, we should have continued what we started, but we accidentally fell into an argument. He said he wanted me to move in with him, but I didn't agree. He got angry—the first time he’s been truly angry with me since we reconciled this spring. He asked me why. Why would I rather rent a place than buy a house for the two of us? I said I was afraid. "Afraid"—that word made him frown instantly. He doesn't know that I fear the unprecedented feeling of becoming attached to a person or a place, only to be abandoned again. That is why I always need to change residences. He said, "I'll move in with you then." I thought about it and said, "You can stay for a month."
At the time, I was sitting on his lap. I watched his expression turn sour. He took my hands off his neck and said, "Bailu, my patience has its limits." Then he left me there and walked out. I sat on the sofa in a daze and heard him leave. The door closed. A long silence. Then the door opened again; he had returned to the coffee table to grab his forgotten car keys. He gave me a look and left.
How could I describe to him that specific dread of an empty room, or the fear of dependency? After he left, I began to miss him. I wanted him to hold me, to be with me, yet while missing him, I also felt a sense of relief. I didn't want him living with me because the thing I find most unbearable is habit. His pajamas were still tossed on the headboard in the bedroom; his scent gave me insomnia. So, at two in the morning, I got up, threw the pajamas into the wardrobe, and finally fell asleep.
The next day, Cheng Wenhui called to remind me not to forget the interview. I struggled to get up and continued tidying the mess in the study after the move. By noon, Ruan Qiuji came over anyway. He leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching me. I was dizzy with hunger and tried to pass him to get some cake from the fridge. He blocked me with one hand and pulled me into his arms, looking into my eyes.
Fine, my heart softened, but I couldn't surrender. I said, "Isn't it good like this?"
Over the past few years, this is how we’ve lived. I film, he works. When neither of us is working, we stay together—I go to his place, or he comes to mine. We haven't officially moved in together, and we don't need to. Occasionally, we travel together—to Cannes, New Zealand, Hong Kong, Los Angeles. We even went to Switzerland, where he took me skating on a lake near his old school. We don't go to Tahiti or Paris.
After a while, he nodded and said, "As long as you're happy."
He let go of me and turned toward the bedroom. His tone wasn't great; I thought he was going to pack his things and leave, but he was just picking up Jeanne to give her a bath. I put two pieces of matcha cheesecake on the dining table, ate one myself, and left the other for him. After a while, I went to the living room to find scissors and saw that Ruan Qiuji's portion had been eaten. Ruan Qiuji was crouching on the floor, smoothing Jeanne's fur with his hand and scratching her chin. I felt that he was the same with me when we first met. He is considerate and loving; I am the pitiful stray animal in his palm. The more I shrink back, the more he says he loves me.
If he heard me think that, he would be angry. He would feel I was belittling and misunderstanding him.
An hour later, the journalist for the interview rang the doorbell. I was busy assembling a bookshelf. Ruan Qiuji passed the study door to open the entrance. I heard them talking in the foyer. Ruan Qiuji asked, "Tea? Or coffee?"
I walked through the cardboard boxes and scattered clutter on the floor. I saw the journalist sitting on the sofa, and Ruan Qiuji was making coffee for us. The journalist seemed a bit nervous upon seeing me, standing up to call me "Teacher Qi." Journalists are always a bit curious and nervous when they see me. Strange—a few years ago, I was the one who was nervous during interviews. But once I became famous and won awards, they became more high-strung than I was. They say I'm difficult to deal with because I don't like to talk or smile. I don't like being talked about that way; I dislike many of the things they say about me, but I've learned not to let it show.
The journalist was an alumnus of Yuewei's, having just graduated and used her connections to find me. Ruan Qiuji brought me my coffee. The journalist watched him lean over, looking a bit startled, and stood up to take his own cup. He probably recognized Ruan Qiuji and couldn't hide the surprise and awkwardness on his face. It’s no wonder; the word in the industry was that Ruan Qiuji and I broke up last year. The breakup was a fact.
We were apart for one hundred and sixty-eight days. It’s not that I intentionally remembered it so clearly, but Yuewei's movie happened to take exactly one hundred and sixty-eight days to film. We broke up when she left Beijing, and we reconciled the day she finished and returned. She sent me a WeChat message from the airport, asking: "Am I some kind of Matchmaker Deity?"
I replied with a dizzy emoji.
She said, "It's been seven years. I've never seen a couple who can toss each other around like you two." If she hadn't said it, I wouldn't have realized Ruan Qiuji and I had been together for seven years. Actually, subtracting the time I spend filming and the time he spends working, the days we are truly together aren't that many. He always calls me a workaholic. I say that acting gives me more security than anything else. He asks, "Then what about me?"
What about him? I don't know. He wants me to love him, and I say okay. He says he loves me, and I say okay too. But love does not equal security. Love can also be dangerous, dark, passionate, sparking with sizzling electric currents.
The journalist took out a recording pen, paper, and a pen. Ruan Qiuji didn't leave; he sat on the adjacent sofa checking messages on his phone, openly eavesdropping on our conversation. There were snacks on the table. I picked up a bag of dried apricots and offered them to the journalist. He shook his head, so I stuffed one into my own mouth. The journalist carefully placed the recording pen on the table and asked the first question.
I set the dried apricots aside and sipped my coffee. Ruan Qiuji had put a lot of sugar and milk in it, but I felt it still tasted bitter. I answered the questions one by one. He occasionally looked down to write. I spoke to him about Lantian County, thinking of the wisteria flowers that night. I told him those things were never political, but if one insisted on a political interpretation, then they had to be political—Ruan Qiuji shot me a quick glance.
Ruan Qiuji interjected, "You're not going to write everything down, are you?" The journalist paused and said, "Of course I will." I glanced at Ruan Qiuji; he was no longer replying to messages, resting his face on his hand as he watched me.
The journalist continued chatting with me, asking what I thought was the most important trait for an actor. I said sensitivity. He asked why. He asked about my original motivation for choosing this profession. I said money. He asked why. He asked about my favorite directors and films. I said *The Sacrifice*. He asked why. I answered. I blinked, looking down at his hands; he was still gripping his notebook nervously. He asked if the questions were a bit boring. I smiled and said, "A little."
"Why does the theme of using sacrifice to exchange for harmony touch me? Is it the bilateral dependency of love? Why does no one think that love can only be mutual? Any other form is not love. Love that isn't unreserved isn't love. It is fragmented. It is beneath mention.
What interests me is: who can manage to sacrifice their status and reputation, regardless of spiritual principles, regardless of the salvation of oneself or one's kin, or any such things? Taking this step means going against the so-called normal logic of selfishness; this behavior rejects the materialistic worldview and its standards."
He was busy recording, his eyes carrying a hint of confusion and a hint of respect. I said, "Tarkovsky said that."
It wasn't me who said it.
It’s on pages 230 and 231 of his biography; I remember it that clearly. The first time I watched that movie was after the Linhu Villa was burned down. During those two years when I had nothing to do, I was drowsy while watching it, but when I saw the flames roaring on the screen, my sleepiness vanished. I called Yuewei in the middle of the night. She asked why I wasn't speaking, then asked why I was crying.
When I was an undergraduate, I was best at memorizing; I had a great memory and ranked first in my lines class. If you asked me a question, I could recite it. Every actor can surely rattle off a string of names and titles like they're reciting a menu. I am tired of reciting menus. I am tired of lines, tired of life, tired of everything. I want to change, but I can't. I am pedantic; I indulge in sentimental groaning. Ruan Qiuji says it's a common ailment among "artsy types."
I object to his phrasing, as if he isn't an artsy type himself. An art merchant is still involved in art; messing around is part of the "art" too.
Yuewei asked me what the reason for my breakup with Ruan Qiuji was. Was it because he finally couldn't stand my fragility? I said, "I'm not that fragile, am I?" She said, "Right, I can write that line into a script next time." She asked again, "Then what was it really about?" I said, "A misunderstanding."
That day, I had just moved. Everything was in a mess. He came over to sleep with me. On the sofa, we kissed for a while, and I asked him to get the condoms we’d just bought. He went; they were in the drawer of the nightstand. He didn't come back for a long time. I asked if he still hadn't found them, but he didn't respond. I walked over and saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a square box—a small, pink contact lens case with a Hello Kitty sticker on it, not even half the size of a palm. He looked at the thing in his hand and said, "You kept this all along."
I was stunned for a long while before I remembered what was actually in his hand. If Ruan Qiuji hadn't taken it out, I might have forgotten. Ruan Qiuji rubbed the lid with his finger, his expression looking very calm. When the lid was lifted, I saw that pair of rings—understated, narrow platinum bands with inscriptions on the inner walls. The only things I had taken from the Linhu Villa.
They were like a pair of symmetrical eyes.
The pink box belonged to Yuewei.
I've moved over a dozen times in these few years and accidentally lost many things, yet this pair of rings somehow never went missing.
Ruan Qiuji closed the small box and placed it on the bed. He walked past me. I grabbed his arm. He brushed me off to get his coat. I hugged him from behind. He turned around, pinched my cold hand, and said, "Bailu, you haven't changed at all."
Can a person love two people at the same time? Can one be unable to cut off past ties, unable to return from the sea of bitterness, partial to the flowing water of the past, and unable to retract lingering regrets?
He finally leaned down and kissed me forcefully.
Later, we watched *Gone with the Wind* together. Scarlett asked Rhett, "What will I do if you go?" Rhett said, "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." Ruan Qiuji looked at me. But I'm not Scarlett, and he's not Rhett.
That pair of rings wasn't the reason we broke up. We broke up half a month later. At the time, I was filming a movie about a gay romance. I was photographed on set smoking the same cigarette as my male co-star. It was very late that day, and no one was around. I was dozing off while holding a hot water bottle and didn't notice it was the cigarette he had been smoking; I just reached out and took it. To be honest, I liked him quite a bit. He was a good person; his face would turn red during intimate scenes, and he always considered my feelings. He watched me smoke his cigarette and, unable to help himself, leaned over and kissed my mouth. I was startled awake.
His sasaeng fan captured this moment and uploaded it to the internet.
The matter became a huge scandal, and the production crew was also having a headache. They claimed externally that we were rehearsing. The sasaeng fan had the call sheet and shouted online that we had no kiss scenes scheduled for that day. So the crew wanted to add one temporarily, but Ruan Qiuji didn't agree. Ruan Qiuji almost slapped him with some trumped-up charges, but I stopped him. As a result, his management company bought press releases saying I had "seduced" him, telling the story with vivid detail. I took a look; the comments seemed more inclined to believe that my face had seduced him.
I knew Ruan Qiuji hated me for it.
If that actor hadn't happened to also wear glasses—a pair of transparent frames—perhaps Ruan Qiuji wouldn't have been so jealous. He was always suspicious that I liked men who wore glasses, using them as substitutes.
Ruan Qiuji asked me if I was aware that the actor liked me. I said I was. He looked at me without a word. I knew he wanted to ask: *If you knew, why didn't you stay away from him?* But I am an actor. How can I stay away—from the play, the lines, the fictional emotions? I am not performing a monologue. I must love many people and be loved by many people, even if it's fake, like beautiful fireworks built from chemical elements, vanishing in an instant with a *bang*. He should also understand that it can only be fake.
I know they love me. Zheng Kunyu loved me, Ruan Qiuji loves me, other men and women love me. I know how their gazes linger on my face, how they shift, how they darken. I just can't explain what love is, or how much of it stems from sex and how much from loneliness. Forget it, let it stem from whatever.
Before the journalist left, I treated him to a tub of ice cream. The three of us chatted idly. I said the air conditioning was a bit cold, and Ruan Qiuji went to find the remote. Once he stepped away, for a few seconds, the journalist's gaze lingered on my lips as I held the silver spoon, and for several more seconds, it quietly rested on my face. He didn't dare look me in the eye. I was curious: for men, is sexual attraction really that irresistible?
If our heads are filled only with reproduction and copulation, I think it's a bit pathetic.
The sky had long since turned dark. After the journalist finished his ice cream, Ruan Qiuji saw him out. When he returned, I was so tired I lay flat on the sofa, saying I didn't want to do any more interviews for the rest of the year. Interviews are too mentally taxing. Ruan Qiuji sat beside me. I pointed to his half-eaten bowl of ice cream, and he handed it to me. I said the journalist wasn't very professional and then said some bad things about him. Ruan Qiuji said, "You're truly wicked," but his tone was very indulgent as he gently pinched my ear.
I finished eating, and we had sex on the sofa. His movements were a bit aggressive today. I touched his face just as he was losing control. He must have seen the way the journalist looked at me. His possessiveness has always been strong.
Our previous breakup had made me miserable for a while. We had a cold war for many days and had a big fight, bringing up all the old and new grievances to settle at once. Only then did I find out that he had looked into the origin of that painting, *The Death of Ophelia*, and had called the painter's agent in Paris. He was brooding over it. He was biting about me hanging the painting in the bedroom; he was biting about my rings, my lingering thoughts.
He said, "Maybe every time we have sex in bed, Zheng Kunyu can see it too." Why did he mention that name? I almost hit him; I wanted to kick him off. He pinned my hands down, pinching my face to make me look at the Ophelia in the painting. He pressed me into the sheets, thrusting in hard from behind, and said, "Can he see you? If he can see you, why doesn't he save you?"
I didn't cry, but I was miserable to the point of death—for myself, and for Ruan Qiuji.
In the past, he might not have cared this much. Because of that one kiss, because of those rumors, he doubted that I loved him, suspected me of being unfaithful, and found this pile of "evidence" to interrogate me. He would rather I loved Zheng Kunyu than have me fall for that actor or someone new.
He has a weak, twisted side too; I know.
I was still so miserable. The Ophelia in the painting was so beautiful, the water flowing down, down. Does anyone kiss her lonely lips? The river is so cold; death is so cold.
I kissed Ruan Qiuji's palm. His hand, covering my mouth, tightened, his fingertips pressing hard against my lips. After he finished, he let go of me. I said, "I know. Zheng Kunyu is dead."
He was silent. He dressed and left. I lay there for a long time looking at the ceiling, cleaned myself up, got dressed, called my assistant, and went to the set to film.
Eye contact scenes, kiss scenes, passion scenes.
Action, Cut, Again. Do humans really need love this much?
Regardless, we broke up. He initiated the breakup; I initiated the reconciliation, though we had hooked up before officially getting back together. At a domestic film festival, we sat at the same table during the banquet. I went to the balcony with a colleague to smoke. After a while, Ruan Qiuji followed. The colleague left, and I was prepared to leave too, but Ruan Qiuji grabbed me. He was wearing a black suit and a bowtie, dressed impeccably, sitting in the chair like a duke, but his hand was pressed against my thigh. I knew then—he thought my colleague was the "other man" because that colleague also wore glasses, a pair of tortoiseshell frames.
Ruan Qiuji was driving a new car that day. When he gave me oral, I smelled the leather of the car seats. I pressed my hand against his neck, not expecting him to do this. Afterward, he held me, and I kissed his lips.
"What is this, *The Red Rose and the White Rose*?" Yuewei asked over the phone.
"It's not an Eileen Chang novel," I said.
"Then who do you like more?"
Fine, I was defeated.
Yuewei likes Eileen Chang and had thought about filming one of her books. She specifically went to negotiate the rights, but gave up just as they were about to close the deal. I asked why. She said only someone who holds both film and literature in contempt would want to turn a masterpiece into a movie.
I know, Tarkovsky said that too. In Beijing, during my second meeting with Zheng Kunyu, he asked what I had watched recently. I said *Nostalghia*. The next time we met, he gave me *Sculpting in Time*, wrapped with a beautiful ribbon. I honestly told him that I fall asleep watching Tarkovsky's movies. He said, "You won't with the book."
Sometimes I couldn't understand him—couldn't understand this psychopathic control freak, couldn't understand his good taste and bad temper. Much of my understanding of this industry was taught to me by him. He taught me how to deal with producers and directors; he taught me that a good director leans more toward the emotional. He spent money to hire a retired actor to teach me acting, which was far more than I ever learned in school. He sent me to learn dance, taught me to ride horses. I still thought he was a psycho, sick; I wasn't grateful to him. I despised him. I suspected him of having Humbert-esque proclivities.
He knew my entire past—knew that I had stolen, lied, and run away from home; knew that I used to be called Zhou Bailu. What exactly did he want to do? Remodel me into the ideal person in his heart? Perhaps he had a first love when he was young, someone he couldn't have or someone he lost. Once I said as much, and Zheng Kunyu sneered.
He sent me to learn dance because he believed a dancer's posture looked better on camera; he said Marilyn learned to dance too. But I suspected part of the reason was that he liked to toss me around in bed.
Zheng Kunyu's horsemanship was excellent, and so was Ruan Qiuji's. This might be the thing they had most in common—their passion for equestrianism. In my heart, I attributed this to the fact that they both had money and nothing better to do. When I rode with Ruan Qiuji at a stable in Switzerland, he was surprised by my proficiency. Then, thinking of something, the expression on his face faded.
Many actors have to learn to ride because they'll eventually film a period piece. Zheng Kunyu taught me hand-in-hand. At first, a coach taught me, and he had no objection. But once, I almost fell off at the riding arena. If he hadn't pulled my reins in time, I might have broken a leg. He vaulted off his own horse and reached out to help me down. I was a bit speechless. He probably thought I was terrified; he unbuckled my helmet and touched my hair.
I looked into his eyes under the scorching sun. There were beads of sweat at his brow and temples; his lips were pressed into a straight line.
After I learned to ride, our relationship eased significantly. Before that, I had been very biting toward him. I had thought of many ways to make him hate me, even tried to make him disappear from this world. When I was still living in the Third Ring apartment, he came home drunk once. At that time, I didn't smoke yet; I hated the smell of cigarettes on him and wouldn't let him kiss me. After we finished, he went to the balcony to light a cigarette. He only smoked Yunyan. Ruan Qiuji smokes Marlboro, and also Hilton.
I hated the smell on him. Whenever I smelled Yunyan, I had nightmares.
He was drunk, leaning against the railing looking at the night sky. I got out of bed barefoot and walked silently behind him. My heart was pounding. I stared at his back. As long as I pushed him, I would be free. I placed my hands on his back. With just a little force—he sharply grabbed my hands. He saw through my intent to murder him. He turned around, threw me to the floor, and tossed the cigarette butt into my lap.
He gave me too many things, but all I wanted was a single sprig of green onion. In the beginning, Ruan Qiuji didn't give me that either. I searched and searched, but couldn't find it.
Until Zheng Kunyu said, "Bailu, you are free."
I have hated him, loathed him, and been mesmerized by him. Yuewei says I'm soft-hearted. Yes, when he proposed to me, my heart softened. He leaned down to kiss my hand; he said "I love you," though he denied it the next day. When we were in Paris, we went to a cathedral. We watched a pair of lovers kiss and embrace before God. Marriage is painful, marriage is sacred, marriage is false... marriage. We would surely kneel before God to repent. We walked on the beach outside the hotel, the moonlight on the sea bright and pure. He slowly kissed me, stripping off my clothes.
He taught me how to handle the intrigue and the scramble for fame and fortune in film crews; he taught me not to be intimidated by directors. He said people use power to hide their own cowardice and incompetence. I asked mockingly, "Like you?" He looked at me and, surprisingly, didn't deny it. He wrapped me in materialism and desire, enticed me, treated me maliciously on one hand to let me know how cruel reality was, yet protectively on the other in a self-contradictory way. I felt so miserable; he couldn't jump out, so he hoped I could.
Ruan Qiuji once saw a business card for a drug rehabilitation hospital in my bag. I had gone there a few times with him; I make regular donations every year. The director said I could visit the place where they do volunteer work, but I didn't go. I saw Chen Xiangfeng at the hospital, teaching several children how to do handicrafts. For the first time, I realized his face could hold such a gentle expression. I asked where these children came from. The director said their parents were drug dealers who had recently been caught; the children weren't addicted, but they had nowhere to go, and the orphanages wouldn't take them.
I thought Ruan Qiuji would reproach me, but he didn't.
Ruan Qiuji said my memory was bad. I asked how. He said, "I've lived at your place for over a month, and you haven't noticed."
I joked about kicking him out. I stood on the sofa and jumped away from him. He grabbed my ankle, and I let out a cry.
Ruan Qiuji didn't take down that painting on my wall, nor did he throw away my rings. I woke up in his arms and said I’d had a nightmare—dreaming that I had lost something very important and kept searching and searching for it. He said life always has regrets.
I said I remembered a fairy tale I’d read long ago. I told him the story. He asked, "Grimm's Fairy Tales?" I said, "Andersen's."
The tale is called *The Snow Queen*. Ruan Qiuji said he knew it, the inspiration for Disney's *Frozen*. A devil broke a mirror, and a fragment fell into little Kay's eye, making him cold and heartless. The Snow Queen took him away, making him forget little Gerda. Little Gerda was the bravest girl; she searched and searched, going through many hardships to find the Snow Queen's palace. Finally, she found little Kay. They spelled out the word "Eternity," and went home together.
He kissed my forehead and said, "So Andersen writes good endings too."
***
Glossary Table:
