Chapter 28: Gong Yu

As night fell, Dezhou Station arrived, and the woman across the aisle prepared to disembark.

Wei Ming personally helped her collect her luggage and saw her off the train; they chatted warmly along the way, and she said, “When you reach Luoyang’s Chongdu Gou, ask for Lei Xiping!”

Along this stretch through Hebei and into Shandong, many passengers had gotten off, but few had boarded; earlier, the aisles had been crowded with standing passengers, but now everyone had seats, with empty ones left over.

So a man deliberately sat opposite Gong Yu, hoping to strike up a conversation, but she remained cold to everyone except Wei Ming—after all, he was a writer, a hero, and crucially, good-looking.

Then the dining cart arrived; both bought train meals, no grain coupons needed, with vegetables and meat, though slightly expensive and luxurious.

After eating, Gong Yu’s thermos was empty, so she picked up Wei Ming’s thermos and went with him to refill it with hot water.

This woman truly had a warm presence; Wei Ming never worried she’d poison his water.

After drinking some water, Wei Ming noticed Gong Yu had put down *October* and switched to *PLA Literature and Art*.

Slightly tempted by the magazine, Wei Ming pointed at it: “Can I take a look?”

“Here.”

Wei Ming glanced at the table of contents and flipped directly to the screenplay *Bitter Love*.

Seeing he was reading this, Gong Yu became interested: “After you finish, can we discuss this script?”

“This one? *Bitter Love*?”

“Yes.”

“Alright.”

This was a film screenplay written by Bai Hua; even in the early 1980s, while living in the countryside, Wei Ming had heard of the massive debate surrounding *Bitter Love*, which had lasted nearly three years.

His curiosity stemmed from never having seen the finished film, nor could he find any clips of it online.

In short, this was a banned film—the kind that could never be revived. Rumor had it the finished print was locked in the safe of the Changchun Film Studio’s director, destined to never see the light of day.

Gong Yu cared so much about this script because she knew it was a Changchun Film Studio project, and her own film *Jihong* was also from Changchun—there was a certain kinship between them.

After Wei Ming finished reading, she asked: “Do you think I could play the daughter, Xingxing? My father is also a painter, and his life story resembles the male lead’s.”

She felt the role was tailor-made for her.

Wei Ming thought about it—he agreed it suited her. The male lead’s daughter ultimately left home for abroad due to love, a fate that mirrored Gong Yu’s own later life.

But Wei Ming said: “You shouldn’t take this film.”

“Why not?”

Because I don’t want you to waste your effort.

Wei Ming asked: “How much do you know about this film?”

“I think it’s directed by Peng Ning of Changchun Film Studio; he commissioned Bai Hua to write the screenplay.”

Wei Ming, having stayed in the industry since his rebirth, knew more.

“Do you know Huang Yongyu?” he asked—the monkey stamp that reborn collectors loved to buy and then forget was painted by him.

“Of course—he’s the genius from Xiangxi, a famous painter. My father is a painter too, though far less renowned; I know these famous artists by heart.”

“This script is adapted from his real-life experience with his daughter,” Wei Ming said slowly. “Before the founding of the PRC, Huang Yongyu worked at Hong Kong’s *Ta Kung Pao*...”

At that time, Huang Yongyu had a colleague at *Ta Kung Pao* named Zha Liangyong. After the founding of the PRC, Huang Yongyu’s uncle in Beijing, Shen Congwen, wrote inviting him back to help build the motherland.

Huang Yongyu urged Zha Liangyong to return too, but Zha refused; later, Zha’s father died.

Huang Yongyu and his uncle then...

“You understand now,” Gong Yu said. She understood—because of suspected overseas ties, her own family had suffered too, so she always treaded carefully, keeping her head down.

She’d been so focused on how well the role fit her that she nearly overlooked the risks. After Wei Ming’s clear and insightful analysis, she nodded—better not touch it.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t take it—similar scar literature and films had sprung up like mushrooms after rain in recent years, many of them masterpieces.

But *Bitter Love* contained lines too blunt; one line was directly copied from *Teahouse*—back then, during the Qing Dynasty and Republic, it was acceptable, but now it wasn’t.

There were still supporters of this film; otherwise, the screenplay wouldn’t have been approved for production despite criticism, and even posters and screening notices had appeared in *Popular Cinema*. But at the last moment, production was halted.

It was simply a battle of two ideologies, one side losing.

But this period was already the most open and free for filmmakers.

Gong Yu finally sighed: “You know so much!”

It was already midnight. The carriage was silent; passengers were exhausted but forced themselves to stay awake.

There were too few railway police, and windows could be opened—should a robbery or theft occur, there’d be no time to react.

Seeing Gong Yu yawn, Wei Ming smiled: “Why don’t you sleep again? I’ll keep watch.”

!

“Aren’t you tired?”

Wei Ming: “You sleep first. When you wake, we’ll switch. Someone has to guard the luggage.”

“Alright, we’ll take turns resting.” Gong Yu was delighted—she’d expected to endure over twenty hours alone on this journey home, but meeting Wei Ming made all the difference. Having company felt wonderful.

After Gong Yu fell asleep, Wei Ming spotted a suspicious figure prowling the carriage. When the man glanced at Gong Yu’s bag, Wei Ming shot him a glare and signaled him to get lost.

The man bared his teeth, trying to provoke him, so Wei Ming pulled out the spiked knuckle dusters borrowed from Biaozi, slipped them on, and the man immediately fled.

If reason failed, he still knew a bit of martial arts.

Sleep on the train was uneasy; Gong Yu woke several times, and each time Wei Ming insisted he wasn’t tired.

Until just after three a.m.

“Where are we?”

Gong Yu murmured, still groggy with morning grumpiness.

Wei Ming yawned: “Oh, next stop is Huijing. We just passed Bengbu.”

He was clearly worn out, so they switched shifts; Gong Yu picked up Wei Ming’s book.

When Wei Ming woke to the morning sun, the first thing he saw was a police officer.

The two railway police from last night arrived with another officer—the good news: the interrogation results were in, and they’d come specifically to inform Wei Ming, the victim.

The trafficker was a relative of the little girl’s grandfather, who had come seeking help from the girl’s father to find a job.

But in Beijing, there were no extra jobs; the husband let her stay temporarily, doing housework and picking up the child, waiting for better times.

But she was lazy and gluttonous; the wife grew dissatisfied and wanted to kick her out.

She resented the family too—why could other rural people find jobs through city relatives, but she couldn’t?

She believed the girl’s father was just pretending to help, refusing to acknowledge her as his cousin, so she stole from the household, planning to flee.

She dared not return to her hometown in Baoding, intending to head south and live freely.

But while stealing, she was spotted by the little girl. In a panic, she took the girl with her, planning to sell her in a mountain village, and also stole the mother’s sleeping pills, dosing the child along the way.

Wei Ming listened, unable to suppress a grimace—this trafficker’s story was so similar to his own!

The difference was that Uncle Anping had arranged a job for him; even if he hadn’t, Wei Ming would never have kidnapped Lele.

Lele was so well-behaved—he could never bear to take her away!

(End of Chapter)