In the chilly first-class cabin, Zhuang Qin curled up to catch some sleep. He was wrapped in a sweater, covered with a down jacket and a blanket. His assistant, Xiao Lian, sat beside him, frequently glancing over to check on him. She quietly asked the flight attendant for another blanket.
During the long-haul flight, the plane had minimized energy consumption, leaving the cabin in almost complete darkness. Xiao Lian carefully draped the additional blanket over him.
The sleeping superstar was a far cry from his dazzling stage presence. His face was pale and sickly, his eyelashes drooping like tired crow feathers, and his breathing was so faint it was almost inaudible.
“Zhuang Ge, we’re almost there.”
The broadcast announcement seemed to stir Zhuang Qin awake. Xiao Lian unscrewed the thermos and poured some hot water into the lid.
“Are we there?” Zhuang Qin slowly opened his eyes, feeling the descent.
“The flight attendant just said we’ve got about forty minutes left. Have some water,” Xiao Lian handed him the cup while also pulling up the window shade. It was broad daylight outside, the sunlight so bright it stung. The plane shook slightly as Zhuang Qin squinted, his pale face illuminated by the golden light, revealing fine, soft hairs.
“Thanks.” He adjusted to the light, sat up, and took a sip of water. His throat was still a bit hoarse, having not slept enough.
As the plane landed, Xiao Lian swiftly handed him a hat, mask, and sunglasses. Zhuang Qin chuckled, “We’re in America; no one knows me here.”
“Zhuang Ge, you’re underestimating yourself. You’re a top-tier star! It’s almost Chinese New Year—how many students studying abroad are heading home? You think they won’t recognize you?” Xiao Lian ignored his protests, wrapped a scarf around his neck, and covered his chin.
Zhuang Qin fell silent. For a long time, he was just an ordinary person, able to appear anywhere clean and unnoticed.
But suddenly, he was thrust back into the spotlight, at the peak of his fame, and it was still something he wasn’t fully used to.
Minneapolis was blanketed in heavy snow, covering everything in a vast expanse of white.
“Shifu!” Zhuang Qin stepped out of the airport, scanning the crowd on the phone until he finally spotted the person he was looking for.
“Hey!” Zhuang Xuejiu shouted, “Xiao Lingdang!”
The wind howled, carrying snowflakes with it, swirling around them.
Zhuang Qin looked up. When his shifu had taken him in, he was already in his forties, and now, nearing sixty, he had spent most of his life worrying about their drama troupe. His hair had grayed, but thanks to years of rigorous training, he still carried himself with vigor, not showing any signs of the illness that would later consume him.
The moment Zhuang Qin saw him, the emotions he had been holding back for so long finally broke free. He rushed over, hugging Zhuang Xuejiu tightly, his voice choked with tears, “Shifu, I’ve missed you so much… and Shiniang too.”
Zhuang Xuejiu laughed heartily, patting him on the back, “I’ve missed you too! You rascal, I was just thinking about you the other day, and then out of nowhere, you called. Tell me, is this what they call a father-son bond?”
“Yes, yes.” Zhuang Qin was overwhelmed with emotion, his vision blurred with tears.
He was too young to remember, but he had been abandoned on the steps outside the Fourth Year Drama Class when he was just a child. Shifu Zhuang Xuejiu and his pregnant wife had taken him in, naming him Zhuang Qin. He had two elder shijie and a younger shidi, all the biological children of his shifu and shiniang, along with a few apprentices, forming a family troupe.
After the economic reforms, the Fourth Year Drama Class had its moment of glory, with Shifu Zhuang Xuejiu becoming a celebrated figure, but the good times didn’t last, and the troupe soon declined again.
Zhuang Qin had grown up learning opera, waking up at 5:30 every morning to practice for years. As he got older, the troupe couldn’t sustain itself, and Zhuang Xuejiu, knowing the hardships of the industry, sent him to school instead. Later, his shixiong in America wrote to him, inviting them over after finding success there.
As a child, Zhuang Qin loved watching movies, singing opera, and acting, and he dreamed of becoming an actor.
Zhuang Xuejiu never expected that he would actually get into the film academy. He didn’t agree with it, but the boy was unusually determined, so Zhuang Xuejiu eventually let him go. After the boy left for college, Zhuang Xuejiu moved to the U.S. to join his shixiong, where they had settled for several years now.
When Zhuang Qin called him, he was surprised, but then, realizing the New Year was approaching and that they hadn’t seen each other for years, he was overjoyed. He took time off work and drove over early to pick him up.
Xiao Lian quickly greeted the elegant and dignified Zhuang Xuejiu, who then noticed there was someone else with Zhuang Qin.
“Shifu, this is my friend, Lian Sansi,” Zhuang Qin introduced.
Zhuang Xuejiu shook his hand, “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Zhuang Xuejiu.”
“Hello, Uncle Zhuang… My name is Lian Sansi, but you can just call me Xiao Lian. I’m Zhuang Ge’s assistant.”
“So, you’re the one taking care of him? Thank you so much,” he smiled warmly.
“Oh, it’s nothing, it’s my job,” Xiao Lian noticed that being polite was a family trait. Zhuang Xuejiu was tall, around 1.8 meters, just like Zhuang Ge, with well-defined features and a straight posture. He must have been a handsome and charming opera star in his youth.
“You must be exhausted from the journey. Have you eaten?” Zhuang Xuejiu opened the trunk of the red Chevrolet, and Xiao Lian loaded their luggage inside. They all got in the car, and Zhuang Qin said he hadn’t eaten yet. As Zhuang Xuejiu reversed the car, he asked, “How about a hamburger? You loved those when you were a kid. The Americans might not be good at much, but they sure know how to make a solid hamburger, full of meat.”
Xiao Lian was about to remind him not to eat fast food when Zhuang Qin eagerly responded, “Whatever you say is good, Shifu. I’ll eat whatever you recommend.”
To him, his shifu and shiniang were his closest family, his true parents. Besides the time he insisted on going to film school and becoming an actor, Zhuang Qin had never argued with them.
“If you don’t want fast food, we can go to a Chinese restaurant, but it’s still a few hours’ drive to get home.”
“That far?”
“Your shishu has set up a camping resort, with a lot of outdoor activities. Your shiniang and I live there now, and there’s even a small ski slope. Your shiniang works there, and there aren’t many people around. Xiao Lingdang, how long are you staying this time?”
Hearing “Xiao Lingdang” again and again, Xiao Lian perked up his ears. Was this Zhuang Ge’s nickname? Isn’t it a bit too cute?
“I’ll stay through the New Year,” Zhuang Qin said, then asked, “Shiniang works at a ski resort? Why is she working? How’s her health?”
“She’s doing well. And she can’t stay idle. Your shishu found her an easy job, helping people activate their ski passes at the resort. She works one day, rests the next, and the pay is good. It’s an indoor job, so she’s not overworked. Let her be,” Zhuang Xuejiu glanced at him through the rearview mirror, “Aren’t you busy with work?”
“I am,” Zhuang Qin knew his shifu and shiniang didn’t use the internet much and didn’t know about him fainting during a show. “But the company gave me time off to come home for the New Year. I wanted to… spend more time with you both.”
Thinking about the news he would receive in four months about Shiniang’s serious illness, Zhuang Qin’s heart clenched. He said, “Shifu, have you both been getting regular check-ups?”
“Check-ups for what? We don’t go. Healthcare in America is ridiculously expensive.”
“That won’t do. You need to go, even if it’s just for prevention. I’ll cover the costs. When we get there, we’re going to the hospital for a full check-up.”
Zhuang Xuejiu couldn’t argue with him. After going back and forth for a while, he reluctantly agreed, “Fine, fine. We’ll do the check-up, alright?”
“Good!” Only then did Zhuang Qin smile.
Xiao Lian, who was busy reporting their itinerary to Wen Jie, was momentarily stunned by his smile.
Zhuang Ge was just too handsome. He had a perfectly shaped face, with almond eyes that seemed to speak. That’s one of the benefits of learning opera—his eyes were exceptionally bright and clear, full of life. When he smiled, it was like the melting of winter snow, with a small, shallow dimple forming on his cheek.
Even those critics who were constantly nitpicking could only insult him by calling him a “pretty face.”
It was a pity, though, that Zhuang Ge had a mishap during a variety show last week, and it seemed like he had hit his head and made a big decision that put him at odds with the company. Xiao Lian was there to keep an eye on him and hopefully persuade him to reconsider.
The car drove into more and more remote areas, heading into an uninhabited zone. The scenery on either side of the road was breathtaking, with people skiing in their snow suits.
Before long, Zhuang Qin fell asleep again, and Xiao Lian offered his shoulder for him to lean on. Zhuang Ge had this peculiar habit—once, on set, he was so tired that he fell asleep leaning against a sofa. He instantly fell asleep, resting his head on another male actor’s shoulder without even realizing it. The actor didn’t have the heart to wake him, so he just held Zhuang Qin and let him sleep on his shoulder for an hour.
Someone had taken a photo, but it hadn’t been leaked. Nevertheless, Wen Jie, their manager, had been furious and told Zhuang Qin not to do that again.
Seeing that Zhuang Qin had fallen asleep, Zhuang Xuejiu turned off the radio. The road they were on led to the rural area where he lived, a straight, narrow road flanked by snowy forests. The small dot at the end of the road was home.
The red Chevrolet drove along, looking like a tiny speck on the vast expanse.
When they arrived, Zhuang Qin woke up and asked Xiao Lian, “Is your shoulder sore?”
Xiao Lian shook his head.
Zhuang Qin gave his shoulder a quick massage and said, “Next time you sleep, lean on my shoulder.”
Xiao Lian was flattered, thinking how down-to-earth and gentle Zhuang Qin was. He felt lucky to be chosen as his assistant.
“Where’s Shiniang? Why isn’t she home?”
Zhuang Xuejiu parked the car. Their house was a small, old, second-hand villa with a yard. The floorboards creaked as they walked in, and the furniture was all old pieces.
Zhuang Xuejiu hung his coat on the rack by the entrance and took off his leather gloves, “She’ll be home soon. She gets off work at four-thirty.”
It was already dark by four o’clock.
“Have you gotten used to living here?” Zhuang Qin asked as he carried his bag inside, with Xiao Lian following behind, taking in the cozy, lived-in feel of the house. He even noticed some ham and cured meat hanging near the kitchen’s ventilation area.
“We’ve gotten used to it,”
Zhuang Qin immediately suggested, “Shifu, I was thinking… would you and Shiniang consider moving back to China? I’ve made enough money to buy you a new house.”
Zhuang Xuejiu chuckled, “To be honest, when we first got here, we weren’t used to it either. We’d never seen snow this heavy before. They have this sport here called ice climbing—when the waterfall freezes, they climb it like rock climbing. I’m surprised they’re not frozen to death! Now I understand why there are so few foreigners, haha… But now that we’ve finally gotten the hang of the language, your Shiniang has made new friends, and your Shidi is studying here, so we’re not thinking of going back anytime soon. And Shifu doesn’t need you to buy us a house. That old opera troupe of ours, do you know how much it’s worth now?”
Zhuang Qin didn’t know what to say, so his shifu continued, “Come on, let’s go upstairs. This house isn’t as big as our old troupe building, but there’s still a room for you two to squeeze into.”
There was a guest room and an attic, and Xiao Lian volunteered to sleep in the attic.
Zhuang Qin found the bathroom and took a shower, changing into fresh clothes. When he heard that Shiniang was back, he threw on a coat and hurried downstairs.
“Shiniang! Shiniang!” In his haste, he missed a step and nearly tripped. Shiniang, who was quick on her feet, rushed to catch him, exclaiming, “Oh dear, Xiao Lingdang, you’re still as clumsy as ever.”
Zhuang Qin hugged her back, choking on his words, “Shiniang…”
Shiniang was older than Shifu by a few years. She had once been a renowned beauty, famous throughout the city as a stunning leading lady, but now, time had taken its toll. However, traces of her former beauty could still be seen.
“Let me have a look at you. Have you lost weight?”
“The company doesn’t let me eat much. Every meal is part of a strict diet, so I’ve lost some weight.”
“Your company’s boss is awful! How can they not let you eat…”
Shifu had always been strict, punishing him with kneeling, spanking, or even skipping meals if he didn’t memorize his lines properly. But Shiniang had always been like a mother to him, treating him well and never letting him be punished.
At dinner, they chatted like they used to, with Shiniang mentioning that Xiao Dao, their younger shidi, would be coming back in a few days, so they could all reunite for the New Year.
“Your Shidi was always attached to you when he was little. When he heard from your shifu that you were coming, he immediately bought a plane ticket to come back. That kid never stops worrying us.”
Xiao Lian quietly listened to the family reminiscing about their days in the opera troupe, finding it all very interesting.
Later that night, as they were getting ready for bed, Xiao Lian couldn’t help but ask Zhuang Qin, “Zhuang Ge, your family sure has some interesting nicknames for each other.”
Zhuang Qin laughed, “Those names were given based on what we grabbed during the first-month birthday grabbing ceremony. Shiniang said my eldest shijie grabbed a pouch during her grabbing ceremony, so she was named Xiao Hebao. My second shijie was named Xiao Yuanbao, and my younger shidi grabbed a knife, so he’s Xiao Dao.”
Xiao Lian suddenly understood, “And you grabbed a little bell?”
“During my shidi’s grabbing ceremony, Shifu let me pick something I liked. I don’t remember much about it, or why I grabbed the bell.”
But being called Xiao Lingdang by Shiniang was still a joy and a blessing.
As the night deepened, Zhuang Qin went back to his room and began unpacking his clothes, hanging them one by one in the wardrobe. Then, he noticed a crumpled script, printed on A4 paper, with two bold characters on the cover and a ring left by a coffee cup.
The script was titled “Cang Xin1Hidden Heart.”
He had found it on the table before leaving and had stuffed it into his suitcase. Then, he recalled something that had happened years ago.
A then-unknown director had come to the film academy, casting a wide net. He happened to see their end-of-term performance and, somewhat furtively, handed this script to Zhuang Qin.
Who would have thought that this film would become the debut work of the now-famous actor Li Mu? The once-obscure director soon won Best Director, becoming someone that actors now fawned over.
After being forced to leave the industry in his past life, Zhuang Qin had watched “Cang Xin” several times, studying Li Mu’s acting and trying to emulate his subtle, almost unnoticeable performances. He had watched all of Li Mu’s movies and admired this actor who seemed so out of place in the industry.
In truth, Li Mu didn’t really belong in the entertainment world. He seemed to be simply interested in acting, unlike those who were in it for fame and fortune.
Zhuang Qin remembered that the role he had turned down wasn’t particularly outstanding. He didn’t remember much about it, and the actor who took it had faded into obscurity.
The film didn’t contain many homosexual elements. The relationship between the two male leads was more about mutual salvation than any inappropriate romantic undertones. There were no kissing scenes or explicit content.
After it won awards, the movie even passed censorship, had its ending changed, and was released domestically. Most people didn’t even realize that the script was initially intended as a gay film.
Zhuang Qin turned the script over and saw the director’s contact information written on the back.
Last year, the young-looking director had stopped him outside the school theater, running up to him and pulling the script out of his bag, handing it to him secretly. “Teacher Zhuang, this role was tailor-made for you. No one else could satisfy me as the actor for this role! You must read the script. I’ve left my contact information on it. Please, please call me!”
Zhuang Qin had been moved by the words “tailor-made” and asked a few questions about the role and the plot.
He found the plot intriguing and challenging. He had never acted in a movie before.
But the homosexual element made him hesitate.
Then, that same day, he saw the young director, sweating profusely, chasing after a slightly more famous senior and shouting, “This script was tailor-made for you! You’re the only one I think fits this role!”
So, the script ended up as a coaster at home, never even piquing his interest enough to open it.
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