Chapter 40

Qu Yanting's studio was called "Zhishang Yanyun Studio," taken from a line of poetry by Ji Yun: A lifetime of effort is worn away, smoke and clouds on paper pass fleetingly before the eyes.

The studio was located in a villa district. For comfort and convenience, Qu Yanting used his vacant private property for the office, even saving on rent.

After the meeting in the morning, Qu Yanting was in his room on the second floor reviewing a script that needed adaptation. After reviewing it, he would personally provide revision suggestions.

Words were the most draining. Unknowingly, most of the day slipped by. Qu Yanting stretched his neck, carried his empty cup out of the room, and walked to the railing of the spiral staircase to look down at the reception room on the first floor.

Including Yu Nan, a total of four people were busy. The other three, Yao Baiqing, Dong He, and Peng Yueran, were all screenwriters. Qu Yanting hardly managed them and usually didn't require everyone to come to the studio to "work from the office," only caring about the results of their work.

Remembering what Ren Shu was concerned about, Qu Yanting rested his hand on the railing and asked, "Yu Nan, is Screenwriter Qiao here?"

All four people looked up at the same time. Yu Nan had reported it in the car yesterday, and Screenwriter Qiao had personally mentioned it during the morning meeting, but he knew Qu Yanting paid no mind to any and all social events. He replied, "The Film and Media Summit is being held tonight. Screenwriter Qiao went to get her hair done."

Screenwriter Qiao attended all such events on Qu Yanting's behalf. He nodded, resigned to making Ren Shu wait another night.

Outside the window, the sun was about to set in the west. Qu Yanting gathered the script and left a step ahead of the evening rush hour. He had driven here in the morning. The northern autumns and winters were always windy, and the car was covered in a layer of dust.

The Bentley SUV slid out of the garage. Qu Yanting greatly enjoyed the feeling of driving. Sitting alone in the enclosed cabin, hands on the steering wheel, gave him a sense of security and freedom, and he could use "it's inconvenient to talk while driving" as an excuse to reject calls.

Qu Yanting first went to get his car washed, then went home to shower, feed the cat, and cook dinner. It was a daily routine he had followed for years. This was the life he had dreamed of in his youth—to have enough to eat and wear, with no one to bully him, was enough.

But now, as he stood before the kitchen counter waiting for the dishwasher to finish its cycle, just standing there, one second, two seconds, amidst the soft hum, a faint, indescribable emptiness welled up.

It was as if after tasting a flavorful delicacy, one felt an inevitable sense of disappointment upon returning to simple fare.

Qu Yanting suppressed this feeling and returned to the study to continue reviewing the script. Once he faced the dense grid of characters, he could temporarily forget everything else.

He was slender, curled cross-legged in the large leather armchair, hugging Commander Huang, and spent two hours in concentration.

The screen of his silenced phone lit up. The caller ID showed "Teacher Zeng Zhen." Qu Yanting rubbed Commander Huang, a bit too forcefully, causing Commander Huang to meow with its big face.

After a moment of flashing, Qu Yanting picked it up and slid to answer, "Teacher?"

Zeng Zhen was at the Film and Media Summit. Screenwriter Qiao had gone to greet him, and after a brief chat, he lowered his voice, "Xiao Ting, I heard you're back from Chongqing?"

Qu Yanting hummed in agreement, "I got back yesterday."

"You didn't even say a word," Zeng Zhen complained with a smile, then said with regret, "You just got back, and I'm about to join the production team."

The film project had been in preparation since the beginning of the year. It was a commercial blockbuster, the kind the major director excelled at. The cast alone was enough to keep audiences talking for several rounds. Filming was set to begin next week.

Qu Yanting said, "You've worked hard, Teacher. I wish you a smooth start to filming."

"Just lip service?" Zeng Zhen brought up the old topic. "You didn't make it when I was in Chongqing, and now you're back. Just talking on the phone won't do."

Qu Yanting understood; you can't avoid something forever. He reached for his notebook. Tomorrow happened to be Saturday, so he said, "Let me treat you and Master to a meal. Is tomorrow noon okay?"

After setting the time, Qu Yanting chose a restaurant, booked a table, and sent the address to Zeng Zhen and Wang Mingyu. The call lasted less than five minutes, yet he felt more exhausted than after staring at the script for two hours.

Closing the document, Qu Yanting opened his browser and logged into the website jointly founded by the "Fir Tree Project" and the Wen Jia Foundation.

He was the initiator and funder behind the "Fir Tree Project." After several years of running the public welfare project, many patients with mental illnesses had given feedback that they were often misunderstood, had no one to confide in, and felt very lonely.

Qu Yanting had the idea of setting up a website, which was implemented last year. The website's model was still in the exploratory stage. He would occasionally go online to personally experience which parts needed improvement.

He entered his account. The nickname was chosen randomly: "Socially Anxious Little Writer." There was no chance to change it, and Qu Yanting felt a wave of shame every time he logged in.

As soon as he was online, he discovered he had a volunteer.

Qu Yanting considered this function to be one of those "good intentions, but practically useless" features. A volunteer's enthusiasm alone wasn't enough, because most people's enthusiasm burned out quickly.

Qu Yanting hesitated to open the message from the volunteer. There was no need to guess; the first sentence was usually: Hello, I am volunteer so-and-so.

He had gone through four or five volunteers, each one friendly and cautious, afraid of affecting his mood. In turn, he would also be careful and polite, and the back-and-forth made it impossible to relax.

It wasn't until half an hour later, when Qu Yanting was about to log off, that he finally clicked on the unread message before leaving.

A dialogue box popped up, displaying the nickname "Unlucky Little Singer."

Of course, Qu Yanting didn't think the other person was actually a singer. He glanced at the message on the screen, and his hand petting the cat lost its strength again, making Commander Huang yowl.

Unlucky Little Singer sent: Are you a guy or a girl?

Qu Yanting was stunned for a moment before replying: Male.

The Unlucky Little Singer had plenty of time at night and replied instantly: You're a writer?

Qu Yanting: Yes.

Unlucky Little Singer: My favorite writer is a man.

Qu Yanting: Oh.

Unlucky Little Singer: You're so cold.

'...' Qu Yanting felt that something was strange, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

Unlucky Little Singer: As expected of someone socially anxious.

Qu Yanting couldn't continue the conversation. Logging off directly would be rude, so he made up a random excuse: Which male writer? I'll look for his works to read.

Unlucky Little Singer: Nabokov.

Qu Yanting: ...Okay.

Unlucky Little Singer: I've also been Baidu-ing him these past two days.

Qu Yanting: ...

Unlucky Little Singer: Typo, I meant reading his works.

Logging off and exiting, Qu Yanting sank into his chair. He thought of Lu Wen, followed by a series of lights and shadows from the Mountain City. The upcoming filming schedule was very tight. The Idiot would definitely have a hard time.

On Saturday, the sun hung high and bright. Qu Yanting slept in a little. Waking up close to noon, he dressed head to toe in black, then put on an unrefined Panerai watch.

He was the host, so he had to arrive early. He sped through half the district to get to the appointment.

The reserved restaurant was a private kitchen, located on a tree-lined road in a small grey-brick Western-style building. Qu Yanting pulled over and turned off the engine. He got out of the car wearing dark sunglasses, the sunlight plating his fair skin with a layer of gold.

The room on the second floor faced the street and had a leisure terrace. Qu Yanting stepped onto the reddish-brown floor, his steps landing with a slight weight. The owner was from Ningbo and had a soft accent. He recognized him and asked what he would like to drink today.

The wine was stored at the restaurant. Qu Yanting dangled his car keys and said, "Just give me the tea menu for now."

Qu Yanting looked at it absently, his fingertip pressing against the embossed pattern on the tea menu. He rubbed it until it was warm but still hadn't decided what to drink. An engine roared on the street, and he snapped back to his senses, walking over to the terrace to look down.

Behind his Bentley, Zeng Zhen and Wang Mingyu were getting out of their car.

Qu Yanting returned to the room. Hearing overlapping footsteps approaching, he took a deep breath and went out to greet them, a perfect smile on his face.

Zeng Zhen was in his fifties, tall, and had maintained a very standard figure. Seeing Qu Yanting, he first called out to him warmly, then raised his hand and squeezed Qu Yanting's shoulder.

"Teacher, you drove here yourself?" Qu Yanting asked.

Zeng Zhen said, "Yes, I'm not late, am I?"

Qu Yanting smiled and shook his head, gently turning to slip out from under Zeng Zhen's hand to support Wang Mingyu, who was a few steps behind, and called out, "Master."

"Yanting, you're back." Wang Mingyu was wearing a wool shawl, her hair loosely tied up at the back of her head. She had an ordinary appearance, with deep wrinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiled.

The dining table was long. Upon entering the room, Zeng Zhen walked over and said, "Xiao Ting, come sit here."

"Teacher, you sit first," Qu Yanting helped Wang Mingyu hang up her bag. "I can't drink since I'm driving. Teacher, please see what kind of tea you'd like to have."

Qu Yanting chivalrously pulled out a chair for Wang Mingyu, then sat down beside her. The table was set with elaborate sets of plates and cutlery, with a vase and candlestick holder running down the middle.

After ordering, he didn't let the waiter disturb them. Qu Yanting poured the tea himself, admitting his fault, "I should have arranged this meal sooner."

"It really has been a while since we last met," Wang Mingyu asked. "How was the production team in Chongqing?"

Qu Yanting replied, "It was alright." He maintained an indifferent attitude. "I don't care about the other things. I only joined the team to revise the script. A web drama with just over thirty episodes isn't worth worrying too much about."

Zeng Zhen laughed, "If you really didn't worry, would you have run all the way over there? What's there to revise? Just finish filming and edit it."

"Listen to you, Teacher," Qu Yanting joked. "If your words were exposed, public opinion would surely question the professional spirit of a famous director."

Wang Mingyu spoke up, "You don't have to listen to him. How would they, as directors, understand the difficulties of a screenwriter? The audience doesn't know what was filmed or what was cut. If it's not good, they always blame the screenwriter first."

Attacked from both sides, Zeng Zhen couldn't take it and quickly changed the subject, "Xiao Ting, my new film is about to start shooting. Why don't you join the team for a few days?"

Qu Yanting said regretfully, "A lot of things have piled up at the studio recently. I really can't find the time."

"There's always work to be done," Zeng Zhen tried to persuade him. "This film has hired a top-tier American production team. It's a rare opportunity, and I wanted to introduce you to them."

Qu Yanting refused by placating, "Isn't it common for your films to collaborate with top-tier teams, Teacher? There will definitely be more opportunities in the future."

At that moment, the cold appetizer was served—a black fish roe dish that Zeng Zhen had ordered. He couldn't persuade Qu Yanting, so he lowered his head and began to eat. Wang Mingyu glanced at the plate but continued to drink her tea.

Qu Yanting remembered that Wang Mingyu didn't eat fish or shrimp roe, so he refrained from eating as well. When the next dish arrived, he first used the serving spoon to serve Wang Mingyu, and only then did the meal properly begin.

There was a very tasty prawn dish. Zeng Zhen said, "This is better than what they served at the summit banquet last night."

Wang Mingyu subconsciously asked, "What summit?"

With his fork stuck in a piece of beef, Qu Yanting replied, "The Film and Media Summit."

Partway through, Wang Mingyu went to the restroom, leaving only Qu Yanting and Zeng Zhen at the table, sitting diagonally opposite each other. In his peripheral vision, he could sense the other's posture. Zeng Zhen put down his cutlery and leaned back against his chair.

Through the swaying flower petals on the table, Qu Yanting felt Zeng Zhen's gaze on him. He wiped his mouth and proactively started a topic, "What has Master been busy with recently?"

"Not sure," Zeng Zhen replied. "We're busy with our own things. Doesn't she even know I attended an event?"

His phone rang. Zeng Zhen answered it without reservation. A "Hello," sounding condescending, fitting his temper and status. The person on the other end called "Teacher Zeng" in a delighted tone.

"Today?" Zeng Zhen said. "I'm out having a meal."

Qu Yanting could faintly hear the voice but wasn't interested. He picked up his knife and fork again to cut the beef.

Zeng Zhen maintained an arrogant tone throughout. After a few sentences, he made an arrangement, "Then you wait first. I'll head over after I finish my meal."

After hanging up, Wang Mingyu happened to return. Qu Yanting chewed on the piece of beef, not mentioning anything.

The meal was more or less finished. As they were leaving, Zeng Zhen put on his coat and casually announced, "I'm not going home. I have something to take care of."

Wang Mingyu showed almost no reaction, nor did she care what it was. She only asked, "Are you driving?"

Zeng Zhen grabbed his car keys. "Xiao Ting, please trouble yourself to take your Master home."

Coming out of the small Western-style building, Qu Yanting opened the car door for Wang Mingyu. He walked around to the driver's seat, started the engine, and turned the car onto the road. In the rearview mirror, Zeng Zhen's car drove off in the opposite direction.

Feeling sleepy after a full meal, Wang Mingyu wrapped her shawl around herself, looking languid.

Qu Yanting turned up the heat and said, "Master, you look a bit tired."

Now that winter had arrived, Wang Mingyu was already preparing for CCTV's new year opening drama for the year after next. There were many people on the screenwriting team, but the head screenwriter had the most to worry about. She said, "I have another script here that I can't get to. I'll give it to you to look at when we get home."

Qu Yanting agreed without asking for details. While waiting at a red light, he took a bottle of water, twisted it open, and handed it to her, "Master, please get some rest."

Wang Mingyu took it and suddenly smiled, "You should say that to your teacher."

Qu Yanting didn't understand. "Yes, Teacher is also busy."

"Of course he's busy," Wang Mingyu said as if sharing a piece of harmless gossip. "His new flame is hot right now. He runs off to have fun as soon as he's full, not at all worried about throwing out his fifty-something-year-old back."

Qu Yanting felt slightly awkward, not knowing how to respond.

Wang Mingyu continued on her own, "He's a young heartthrob, quite popular. He knows how to serve and please people, which is how he got into his new movie, isn't it?"

The light turned green. Qu Yanting stepped on the gas and drove through the intersection. He didn't pay much attention to entertainment news, nor did he recognize the endless waves of trending celebrities. His memory was a bit hazy. "Seems his surname is Jin?"

"Mhm," Wang Mingyu hummed.

After a moment, she said mockingly, "What's with the culture these days? So many homosexuals."

Qu Yanting's gaze drifted out the window. He gripped the steering wheel tightly and said nothing more.