by Xiaolu Guo
The argument seemed to carry on forever. I think it was about money, but I could only hear one side of the conversation. I felt furious for him. So angry that Script Master had spent every waking hour of a whole year writing this script and the producer hadn’t given him a penny.
My master had been swindled.
I heard the telephone being thrown back on the table and the bursting sound of my master swearing. He began to pound noisily on the keyboard. I tiptoed down the corridor and glanced at him. His brow was furrowed and his face was ashen. Writing truly is harder than labouring as a blacksmith or toiling in a factory, I thought. As a blacksmith or a labourer, you can’t be cheated too badly. In absolute silence, I began to sweep the carpet around him. While my master tried to immerse himself in work, his ghostly pale face gradually became streaked with scarlet.
The thumps from the keyboard slowed down until eventually I heard him stop writing altogether. He lit a cigarette, took a sip of cold tea and began to pace the length of the table. Suddenly he raised his fists in the air and shouted, ‘No more!’ I stared at him, and then I whispered, ‘If I can be of service in any other way …’
‘Nobody can help me with this!’ His voice was hoarse. His hair drooped down and covered his eyes and I saw that his old, crumpled jumper was on the wrong way round. I almost wanted to lay my hand on his hand.
After a while, my master seemed to change his mind and I remember he looked at me with a helpless expression. ‘Will you listen to my grumbling?’ He sat down in his rattan chair and I curled up at his feet and listened.
‘The first draft of this script took me fourteen months to write, day and night,’ he stuttered, ‘and then I spent yet more time revising it according to the producer’s opinions. Months and months. You know – you’ve seen me at it! But when I delivered the final version, the producer just said it was a rubbish script and he refused to pay. As far as I can see, the producer doesn’t have the money to pay me anyway, nor does he even have any budget for the production. He is a liar and a cheat. He uses my script to go hunting for money from rich people, the moment he secures this money he’ll buy a fancy car or spend it on an expensive holiday in Thailand with his mistress. I know his type, he won’t use it to fund the project. That’s what all the thieves in the film industry do here in China.’
‘How much does he owe you, Script Master?’ I asked.
‘One hundred and fifty thousand yuan. And if I don’t get that money, there’s no point in your coming back to work next week because I won’t be able to pay you.’ He looked desperate.
Ning
Once again life has proved to me that man is forever untrustworthy. I have spent so much of these last years writing that script, and now nothing will come of it. I should never have stopped writing poetry just for myself. I am exhausted.
Yujun
I watched the Script Master sitting in his chair all night. The ashtray was overflowing, an empty whisky bottle by his side, as the grey morning light seeped through the curtains. I dared not disturb him. I cooked some dumpling soup, but he had no interest in eating.
The next morning the producer called again and my master went as mad as the first time. He smashed the phone across the room and it shattered against the bookcase. Then the house was silent again.
As I swept the broken telephone from the floor, he grappled with the child lock on a bottle of sleeping pills. I couldn’t just sit by and watch. I was worried – so worried! So I took the bottle from him and placed one tablet in his open palm. I looked at this poor, ragged, man who had brought me into civilisation and luxury through his trust and kindness. Suddenly, I had an idea.
‘Do you want me to rough him up a bit?’ I asked.
The Script Master didn’t respond. For a long while he sat there staring at the swirling screensaver on his laptop, as if in a trance, and then he turned to me.
‘Rough him up how?’
And so we talked, and after hours of discussion a plan was decided on: he knew the producer was in business with a karaoke bar owner who made his money smuggling cocaine into China. I would go to the producer’s and hide round the back where he parked at night. I’d wait for him to come home then attack him with a hammer. I would tell him that if the Script Master didn’t get his money the police would receive a tip-off about his criminal dealings. My reward was to be ten per cent of the money – that was what the Script Master proposed.
I found a hammer in one of my master’s kitchen drawers, then left his house under the glow of moonlight.
Ning
After Yujun left, I started pacing up and down the living room. I was worn out and restless. I went to bed with a nervous fever. My mind was full of regret. I fidgeted uncontrollably and fought off constant nausea. I had written dozens of cops and robbers stories – I knew almost every type of crime and murder – but I had never actually broken the law. I began doubting whether Yujun could go through with the plan, and felt even more miserable than I had done earlier. What if Yujun were to break his leg or the hammer were smashed into his lovely face?
Yujun
Early this morning I rode the Script Master’s green bike into Gathering Dragon Garden, carrying a bulky bag weighed down by the hammer. No one noticed me; the guards were still sleeping in their shed. I opened the Script Master’s door. He was there at his writing table – exactly as I had left him the night before – smoking a cigarette and sitting still like a statue, staring at me with his bloodshot eyes. I took the hammer out of the bag and as I washed the blood off under the tap, the Script Master remained silent. He continued to stare at me as if I was some sort of alien invading his house. I told him everything had gone exactly as planned, and assured him that no one had died. ‘I left him with only a few injuries,’ I said, ‘nothing serious.’ It was an easy mission for me – I am a strong peasant and a hammer is always a good tool. I told the master that the producer’s face had split like a blossoming flower.
Then I took the money out of my bag, and laid it on the master’s table. Both of us remained silent. After a moment, the Script Master put out his cigarette, counted out thirty thousand yuan and gave the notes to me – twice as much as we had agreed. I had never earned so much money in my entire life. I sat on the sofa, and started to worry about what I should do with it. Suddenly it felt as though all this money was worth nothing.
My master looked miserable; he didn’t speak at all but peeked at the outside world through the gap in his curtains, as if he had come to the last day of his life. It was nearly lunch-time. I opened the fridge and started to prepare Mala tofu for him as if it were any normal day.
‘I don’t need anyone to serve me now,’ my master said.
I didn’t understand what he meant.
Avoiding my eyes, the Script Master stared at the tofu and went on. ‘I will call you if I need you again.’
I didn’t know what to think or what to answer. Silently, I cooked the tofu, my last tofu for the Script Master.
Ning
Today Yujun left. I am alone again, after all these months of having a lovable young man around. The kitchen is lonesome, the fridge stinks and there is no one to cook me my meals. I can feel dust already starting to accumulate on my books and floor again. I have a boundless feeling of emptiness. I can’t bear to stay in this gloomy house any longer. And so I have decided to leave. Tomorrow morning I will pack my suitcase and buy a one way ticket to Putuo Mountain.
Putuo is an island in the East China Sea. It is the place to find peace. I can imagine my life there easily: I will read the Buddhist sutras, watch the birds flying between the trees, and listen to the great waves of the sea rising up and down under the clouds. I think, probably, I will be a happier man.
Yujun
So with the money my master gave me I have now rented a small room in a cheap area of Beijing. I have found myself a table, and a chair. I have a plan: each day I will buy a copy of the Beijing Evening News, and read every single word of it. I will scribble. Already today
I have started to write down things that have been swimming about in my mind for a long time from those first crazy hot days when I arrived in Beijing.
Perhaps one day I will buy myself a green bicycle and ride it into the centre of Beijing. Perhaps I will ride to the Three Treasure Film Studios and see crowds of young men from the provinces hanging around by the gate, hungry for job opportunities. And I will think of a story that began many years ago, about a scriptwriter, whose life started as a poor migrant from the provinces. Then I will ride the bicycle back home, and write down a title on a blank piece of paper: Into the World.
ADDRESS UNKNOWN
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: 10.07.2009 03:32
Subject: Beijing calling
My dearest you,
So here I am. The twelve-hour flight from London to Beijing has worn me out. When I arrived in my neighbourhood yesterday, I couldn’t find the entrance to my apartment. Almost every old building has been demolished, my house now stands by the highway. It feels strange, after four years living in a run-down street of London, I’m now back in this brand-new world, like living in a pastless city in America. I can no longer find my old familiar foodstall, and the pear trees that grew in a nearby alleyway have gone.
My flat is up in the high thin air where the aeroplanes pass, casting shadows into my room. From my bedroom window I’ve been watching the courtyard of the restaurant next door. The chefs and waiters shout at each other in a southern dialect. Their faces are dark, sunburnt, as if they’ve just left their rice paddies back home. Last night I saw them plucking ducks’ feathers and cutting off pigs’ feet. The scene looked oily and bloody – I thought perhaps they were making my favourite pork dumplings. Remember in London I just wanted to eat Chinese food every day. You know how I always hated English food – the sad salads without any salt! One good thing about being back here, I suppose.
It will be hard to sleep tonight. It’s strange without your body next to mine. And there’s so much noise – the restaurant chefs scream twenty-four hours a day, the construction work on the highway carries on and on – more trucks bringing more cement, even after midnight. It feels like no one sleeps in Beijing …
I will write to you soon. Bye for now.
Take care and love,
Your Ling x
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: 18.07.2009 10:35
Subject: Beijing calling again
My dearest you,
How are things in London? Are you seeing your friends? Are you managing to swim every morning as you used to? I called you twice today but couldn’t reach you. Are you still working nights? Is it rainy there? It’s almost 40 degrees here. Cars and air conditioning produce even more heat in this dusty city. Beijing is crazy – it’s like a forty-year-old man trying cocaine for the first time. Everything is booming, regenerating, but in a twisted way.
In the morning I see old people coming out of their apartments – I think they are happier here than in the west because they live with their families and spend time with their grandchildren.
If we live together forever in a council house in east London we will never have this kind of life. We will die lonely. And you will die first, because women live longer than men. Then I will die alone, in a silent and gloomy flat, with only the sound of the TV from the Bengali family next door. It’s so scary when I think of our old age. Maybe we should move back to China, and live like these people – energetic, strong, laughing all day from early in the morning.
I hope you manage to find yourself a good, solid bicycle from Brick Lane market. Write to me soon.
Love,
Your Ling x
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: 26.07.2009 20:45
Subject: Where are you?
Dearest,
I haven’t had any emails from you. I have called you many times, but no one answers the phone.
Have you already moved out of your flat? Before I left England you promised that you would tell me when you moved. I don’t understand what’s happening with you.
Here in Beijing the temperature continually rises. In those air-conditioned restaurants everyone talks about VC – venture capital – I guess it’s an American word. Apparently it’s a new way to make lots of money.
I spend my days wandering around in the busy streets; I can’t decide if I like this country or not. I want to hear from you, my dearest – where are you?
Kisses,
Your Ling xx
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: 10.08.2009 22:57
Subject: You’ve disappeared!
Dearest,
Today is 10 August. I’ve now been back in China for a month. But still I have heard nothing from you. I used to think the world was small, and London was not really very far from Beijing. But I was wrong.
Everyone asks me what England looks like, whether Westerners are all very rich, and if they have sex with each other without getting married. I can’t answer them any more. Maybe you can?
I miss the walks we used to take late at night along Regent’s Canal and the morning wind in Haggerston Park. I miss those arguments we always had in Tate Modern; the bright green leaves of the horse chestnut trees outside your flat.
I miss you.
Your Ling x
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: 20.08.2009 09:20
Subject: Is this your answer?
Dear you – I feel truly sad as I write down these words.
I have dialled your number almost every day, but I never hear anything back. I have also tried calling your friends, but they couldn’t tell me where you were. I think they do know, but they don’t want me to find out. People don’t say straight things in the West. That’s what I hate about it.
Here, I’m trying to live each day more or less like other people – buying vegetables, cooking meat, wandering around the cheap markets, watching pirate DVDs in the evening, thinking about family life and all that.
I’m sure you have received my emails, and I wonder if you’ll ever write to me or call me.
I thought you might like to know that my father is not well. It’s really, really hard. He doesn’t recognise family members any more. I think he’s dying – he needs me. So this morning I cancelled my flight. I won’t be coming back to England this week.
I don’t know when I will be in London again, maybe the day you write back to me, or maybe I will never return to England. But I know tonight I will think about that world on my pillow.
Take care, and still, love to you.
Your Ling x
THE THIRD TREE
Friday:
SENDER: J
+7771783477
17-07-2009 16:20
Hi, this is J, we met in the park
today, by the third tree near the
gate. Do you remember me?
SENDER: E
+7891533432
17-07-2009 16:23
Hello. Yes, I remember.
SENDER: J
+7771783477
17-07-2009 16:25
Never seen anyone sitting by that
tree, yet I walk past it everyday –
it’s a perfect reading spot!
SENDER: E
+7891533432
17-07-2009 16:28
Thats odd because I reading by
that tree a lot now. Spring and
now summer, but summer in this
country is brief.
SENDER: J
+7771783477
17-07-2009 16:31
Hmm. Yes, summer here is brief.
Odd question – do you play
badminton? Game tomorrow at
London Fields? 4pm?
SENDER: E
+7891533432
17-07-2009 16:35
Sound good. Or maybe we play
table tennis?
SENDER: J
+7771783477
17-07-2009 16:37
Good Idea! I’m a pretty mean
player though.
SENDER: E
+7891533432
17-07-2009 16:41
No you cant be better than me.
I am an Asia. We are good at that.
SENDER: J
+7771783477
17-07-2009 16:45
I bet you’re very good but you’re
talking to a champion here. I won
youth championships at home in
New Zealand.
SENDER: E
+7891533432
17-07-2009 16:48
You from New Zealand! If you so
good I dont play with you. Sorry.
SENDER: J
+7771783477
17-07-09 16:52
Oh no – only joking! Actually I’m
totally hopeless at table tennis!
Do play. Please.
Saturday:
SENDER: E
+7891533432
18-07-2009 11:04
So sorry but i cant table tennis
today. Have to work late.
SENDER: J
+7771783477
18-07-2009 11:07
Pity. Bad for your health working
so late. What are you doing
tonight? Fancy getting a bite to
eat? Japanese? Maybe even
octopus sashimi?
SENDER: E
+7891533432
