Chapter 322: East Palace, West Palace, Husband, Don

One song wasn't enough, so Wei Ming wrote another, double insurance—just stayed up late and slept later than usual.

The next morning when he woke up, Biaozi was standing at the foot of his bed, lips pinched tight to suppress a smile.

Wei Ming cautiously felt behind him—thankfully, all was well.

"Biaozi, what are you doing here?"

"I've been here a while. Saw you still sleeping, so I didn't wake you."

"Aren't you supposed to be home with your wife? Why come looking for me?"

"Ming-ge, you came back at the worst possible time—if only you'd returned two days earlier."

"What happened?"

"We went in the other day?"

"Where? The police station?"

"Hai Zi! We went to Hai Zi!" Biaozi exclaimed excitedly. "A senior official surnamed Liao invited us. Me, Yanzi, Xiao Jing, and Director Yang Qitian—all of us. They invited you too, but you weren't around. The official even said it was a pity."

Oh, surnamed Liao, and he likes movies too—Wei Ming immediately knew who it was.

"What did the official say?" he asked.

"Nothing much. He asked how many months pregnant Yanzi was, and he wished us both luck as future parents."

The official simply admired them and wanted to meet and encourage them—but it got Biaozi all fired up. Hearing Wei Ming was back, he rushed over to show off.

He even asked Wei Ming: "So many viewers across the country love our films. Ming-ge, shouldn't I keep contributing to the film industry?"

"You won't be contributing for at least a year. Yanzi's due next month. After she gives birth, she'll need to rest and nurse the baby. As a father, you won't get any peace—you'll be up all night suffering too. If you're too relaxed, Yanzi will definitely argue with you."

Wei Ming wore the look of someone who understood everything, yet still dreamed of going out to shoot films—normal life and work were already luxuries.

"I'll definitely wait until Yanzi recovers before shooting again. Then we'll shoot together. We'll leave the baby with my parents or hers—they're both retired anyway. It's like retired elders taking up new jobs." Biaozi was surprisingly laid-back.

Wei Ming said: "If you really want to shoot films, I can take you to Hong Kong, even overseas."

"Really?!"

"Here's a pie in the face—go ahead and eat it." Wei Ming chuckled.

Afterward, Wei Ming told Biaozi to take Long Xiaoyang to Dongfang Xintiandi—he still had to report back.

Two songs, with lyrics and sheet music—couldn't explain over the phone—Wei Ming first sent an international fax to Melinda.

International fax was cheaper than international calls, but slower. Wei Ming scanned and faxed both songs, then queued up to make the international call.

It was the middle of the night in London, but Melinda should be home—no point calling if she wasn't.

First, fill out the form and pay to avoid being cut off mid-call, then wait in line.

The people ahead of him spoke quickly, finishing everything within a minute. Soon it was Wei Ming's turn.

He was calling London—fifty yuan per minute, equal to an ordinary person's monthly salary. Wei Ming paid five hundred yuan upfront—ten minutes would be enough to explain everything.

The phone rang and woke Melinda from sleep. From the moment she answered, the call was charged as a long-distance—voice slightly crackly.

Wei Ming told her: "Check your fax—I've sent you two songs. One suits a female voice, the other a male voice. You can tell from the lyrics."

Melinda instantly woke up: "You wrote two songs in just three days?!"

"I just got back from Shanghai yesterday. Actually, I only used one night." Wei Ming modestly flexed—and earned Melinda's delighted scream.

Wei Ming also asked about the adaptation of The Lion King.

"Not started yet. You gave up your signing bonus for more performance royalties—don't expect to see that money anytime soon."

"No problem. I'm not short on cash right now."

"In a few days, your North American royalty payment for The Lion King will arrive—fifty thousand U. . dollars. Twenty thousand went to the mainland, thirty thousand to Hong Kong."

"OK, OK."

When Wei Ming hung up, he'd spoken less than three minutes—but billed for three.

After finishing that, Wei Ming went to his district post office again. All the regular letters had been collected by his mother; what remained were overseas parcels or money orders.

He received Amin's parcel, plus a payment slip from Guangzhou Pacific Audio & Video Company—was this the royalty payment for A Ming?

Well, Director Liao was still a man of principle.

Inside Amin's parcel was a cassette tape of her recording of "First Love"—an unofficial version, self-recorded, self-sung.

Perfect—he could take this tape to Satō Masashi and let him listen.

Amin's letter also mentioned Tan Yonglin had guessed his identity and sincerely invited him to write songs.

But considering the cost-effectiveness of Cantonese songs, Wei Ming had little interest now. Hong Kong likely already knew the connection between Wei Ming and A Ming—he'd probably get even more requests to write songs.

If he couldn't handle them all, he'd just ignore them all.

Next, he still had to write Sunlight Clever Days, Jurassic Park 3, and two fairy tale series—he was busy.

At lunchtime, Wei Ming arrived at Beijing Hotel.

Satō Masashi had been waiting a long time.

"Wei-san, have you eaten?"

"Not yet."

"Then let's mishi mishi."

They entered the restaurant. Wei Ming first showed Satō Masashi the simplified sheet music. Satō couldn't read Chinese characters, only the notes—but he felt it was excellent, perhaps something he could truly master.

Wei Ming added: "A singer from Hong Kong recorded a demo. We'll listen upstairs."

"Good, good." Satō Masashi ate faster.

Upstairs in the room, the two said nothing and began listening.

"Big Brother A Ming, we've been apart for a while—I wonder if you've missed me…"

Wei Ming thought they'd start singing right away, but Amin first spoke a few lines.

Satō Masashi looked skeptically at Wei Ming. Wei Ming signaled: "Keep listening."

Since the letter had already contained plenty of text, the tape only spoke for a minute—revealing a young girl's tender feelings—then began playing guitar and singing.

Satō Masashi nodded. Beautiful female voice, light and cheerful rhythm—it made him feel like he'd returned to that first-love summer.

Wei Ming told him: "This song is called 'First Love.'"

After hearing the song, Satō Masashi was thrilled. Though he wasn't yet certain he could adapt it for his male voice or write Japanese lyrics worthy of it, he still decided to buy the song.

Next came negotiating the cooperation details.

Only then did Wei Ming understand why Japanese music was so advanced—they treated creators so well!

Generally, 6% of a single's retail price went to royalties: lyricist and composer each received 1. % to 3%, while the singer got only 0. %. Singers primarily earned from concerts and commercial performances—better than the Western music industry.

This was also a key reason why original Japanese singers thrived. Satō Masashi himself had once claimed the full 6% of album sales.

Satō Masashi offered Wei Ming the highest rate: Wei Ming got 3%, the singer 0. %. If Satō wrote the lyrics himself, he'd get 3%.

Additionally, buying the song gave Wei Ming 300, 00 yen—roughly 2, 00 RMB after exchange, but that was due to distorted rates; in reality, it was already substantial, since royalties came from sales and media usage fees.

Besides radio and TV usage fees, karaoke had already emerged in Japan—and it also required payment.

Wei Ming was delighted after completing the overseas collaboration. Now he needed to find Xue-jie.

Lin-jie was busy—Little Courtyard had finished shooting; now she was studying ancient etiquette at the Central Academy of Drama, clearly on a fast track in her career.

Gong Ying was also busy—busy making friends with Liu Xiaoqing.

After The Young Hero was released, the controversial The Mysterious Buddha was finally approved for screening—by month's end, some cinemas had already posted posters and information.

Liu Xiaoqing, besides praying this film would be as popular as The Young Hero, had already begun preparing for her next film.

It was a film adaptation of Meng Weizai's novel The Birth of a Statue, titled Deep in the Heart.

But recently, a rumor spread through the studio: Hong Kong's great director Li Hanxiang was finally launching his Qing Palace drama with the Beijing Film Studio—and the screenwriter had been changed to Wei Ming, that Wei Ming, the recent foreign exchange prodigy who'd made headlines.

And one film had become two—both would be screened and awarded in Hong Kong, and perhaps the main actors might even get to go to Hong Kong!

She'd also heard that Director Li Hanxiang had entrusted Wei Ming with full authority over casting in mainland China.

Hearing this, Liu Xiaoqing immediately cried out: "This is bad!"

Whether it was Gong Ying, who'd joined the studio, or Zhu Lin, who hadn't—Wei Ming clearly had closer ties with them.

If Wei Ming had the final say, where would that leave her? And she was so desperate for advancement, so eager to land a role in this co-production.

Gong Ying lived in the guesthouse. Liu Xiaoqing visited twice and learned from Gong Ying that she wouldn't compete for any role—and confirmed that Li Hanxiang had indeed entrusted casting to Wei Ming.

Instantly, Liu Xiaoqing—who'd previously been wary of Gong Ying—became her best friend.

If this woman became an enemy, she'd be a nightmare. But as a friend, she was truly reliable.

She not only helped Gong Ying defuse hostility from other actresses in the studio, but also helped her integrate and make new friends.

So when Wei Ming came looking for her, she was unusually not in her guesthouse room. The neighbor said she'd gone out shopping with Liu Xiaoqing and a few others.

Wei Ming returned to the sihe courtyard to work, then called the guesthouse that evening.

Gong Ying: "You came looking for me? Sorry, you made a wasted trip."

Wei Ming: "No problem. You sound happy—I'm relieved. Are you free tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Let's meet at Shichahai." "Mm."

After hanging up, Wei Ming pulled out a stack of manuscript paper. The first page read: "Sunlight Clever Days."

The story about youth and lost time had only reached ten thousand words. He'd paused too long during his Hong Kong trip, so he reread his draft and notes to regain his rhythm.

He read until past nine. Suddenly, the dog Yinxing barked outside.

Considering recent security conditions, Wei Ming picked up a wrench from under his desk.

Scholar, wrench—perfectly reasonable.

"Who is it?"

Outside: "It's me."

Wei Ming immediately opened the door and saw Gong Yu pushing a bicycle outside; in the darkness, he could see sweat beads still on her face—it was unbearably hot today.

Wei Ming yanked her and the bike inside in one motion, before she could throw herself into his arms, he scolded: "What are you doing here so late? This alley is deep—how dangerous! What if something happened?"

Gong Yu had come full of hope to see her lover, only to be scolded first.

Xue Jie looked wounded, her eyes glistening like a fawn's: "But I know you miss me—I miss you too~"

At that moment, Wei Ming could no longer stay angry; he pulled her into his arms.

"You can't do this again. I'll worry."

Gong Yu nodded, then added: "It's close to the Forbidden City, there are plenty of patrol officers, and I'm carrying a knife."

Still talking back? Wei Ming clamped his hand over her mouth.

There were too many mosquitoes outside, so Wei Ming scooped her up in his arms—no writing today, sleep!

The next morning, when she woke up, Gong Yu remembered to ask: "Why did you take me to Shichahai?"

Wei Ming nuzzled her nose: "To look at a house."

"Huh?"

Gong Yu hadn't wanted to go—she'd already accepted a vintage Shanghai townhouse from him and didn't want another house. She weighed less than a hundred jin; why did she need so much space?

But Wei Ming said for their future happiness, they needed a private space of their own in Beijing.

"Besides, I have so much money sitting around—I'm uneasy just holding it. I want to spend it fast. Houses appreciate; buying property is smarter than leaving cash in the bank."

After much persuasion, Gong Yu finally agreed, and Wei Ming had already made an appointment with Li Guang.

After breakfast, the three met at the Drum Tower on the east side of Houhai.

Li Guang was surprised: last time he'd seen Wei Ming with Zhu Lin, now it was Gong Yu—both were top stars.

And Wei Ming claimed he was helping Gong Yu look at a house—so now it was her purchase? She was just a minor actress—could she afford it?

But Li Guang was sharp—he didn't ask what he shouldn't, and led them into Juer Hutong beside Nanduogu Lane.

Wei Ming was satisfied with the location: not far from Nanduogu Lane, but not the busiest area—quiet amid bustle, and convenient for access from Andingmen Inner Street.

He always checked whether driving would be easy when viewing houses.

Even before entering the courtyard, he was already planning how to renovate the garage.

Inside the gate, the owner was a refined, quiet old woman with silver hair—seventy, perhaps, but sharp-eyed and full of vitality.

She clearly didn't recognize Gong Yu, showing no reaction.

For visitors looking to buy, she stated her terms directly: "My son is doing research in America—he doesn't want to return. But I can't bear to leave him, so I'll go to him. I require payment in U. . dollars, cash."

This raised the difficulty another notch—Wei Ming couldn't withdraw dollars from his domestic account, but luckily he still had plenty of cash on hand.

"Fine. Let's see the house first."

The first courtyard wasn't large—about 150 square meters including the house. The rear area was much bigger, over 600 square meters, though there were no trees—those could be transplanted later.

Gong Yu wondered: such a big compound—if Xue Jie moved in too, it'd be fine, but if she lived here alone, it'd feel empty. Unless she bore him ten or eight children—but the policy didn't allow it.

The house was poorly maintained, likely recently returned—she didn't know what the old woman's family had done to own such a vast estate.

Wei Ming was straightforward. When the old woman named ten thousand U. . dollars, he made a token effort to haggle; seeing her firm, he agreed.

Li Guang was stunned—wasn't this too fast? Just one visit and it's settled? Ten thousand dollars! Who in this era had that much foreign exchange?

Wei Ming thought: Why come back? Even if I could lower the price a bit, I'd rather spend that time writing more works.

The old woman remained calm at Wei Ming's promptness—clearly, she'd once been from a wealthy family.

Next came the paperwork—Gong Yu had to handle it with the old woman; Wei Ming only handled payment.

But that afternoon, Wei Ming sought out Li Guang alone and asked him to take him to see the three-courtyard Sihe Academy by Houhai.

The Juer Hutong Sihe Academy was on the east side of Houhai, in Dongcheng; the second one, a three-courtyard Sihe Academy, was on the west side of Houhai, in Xicheng.

Li Guang chuckled: "This one's definitely yours, right?"

Wei Ming: "Not exactly. I'm just looking for a friend."

Zhu Lin was too busy—he'd find the place himself, then notify her once decided.

Li Guang had a bold suspicion: was this one meant for Zhu Lin?

This viewing wasn't successful. First, the house was in terrible shape—needed complete demolition and rebuilding. The layout was poor, not a proper Sihe Academy, more like two courtyards clumsily joined.

Also, the three brothers couldn't agree—Wei Ming didn't have the American patience to argue with them.

"Old Li, keep looking for me—preferably a standard three-courtyard Sihe Academy," Wei Ming said. Since Xue Jie already had a house, there was no rush, but it had to be big enough to keep things fair.

"Alright, I'll keep an eye out."

Then Wei Ming rode his motorcycle to Tuanjiehu, planning to surprise Zhu Lin.

But Zhu Lin surprised him—she'd returned wearing full ancient costume.

"My teacher said I should wear ancient clothes daily, mimic their walk and speech," she said. That was muscle memory.

Seeing Wei Ming's eyes darting, Zhu Lin clutched her chest: "Young master, what naughty thoughts are you having?"

Wei Ming embraced the ancient-style Zhu Lin—it felt like cosplay; this outfit boosted attack speed.

"Little beauty, tell me—what mischief is your lord planning?"

Seeing Wei Ming's fangs show, Zhu Lin played along: "My lord, don't."

Old Wei came home—this evening, Wei Ming returned for dinner.

Old Wei had settled the scholarship issue with the commune middle school and the county No. 1 High School. For supervision, he entrusted it to the old party secretary and Yang Songqiao, a local dignitary and Long Xiao's maternal grandfather.

Old Wei also brought back a personal letter from County Magistrate Qin of Ping'an County.

Learning Wei Ming planned to donate money to rebuild a bridge, Magistrate Qin was overjoyed—nearly forty, he addressed Wei Ming as "Brother Wei Ming" in the letter.

As for the cost of rebuilding a bridge, it varied wildly. Qin said Wei Ming only needed to contribute ten thousand yuan; even if insufficient, the county treasury would cover the rest—but the bridge would be officially credited to Wei Ming and named "Wei Ming Bridge."

"That's not right," Wei Ming told Old Wei. "I'm so young—it's too showy. Why not use your name? Call it Liberation Bridge."

Old Wei waved his hand: "That name doesn't even sound connected to me—it sounds like a bridge built to celebrate liberation."

Old Wei urged his son: "You should accept Magistrate Qin's kindness. You gain fame—and that might inspire other wealthy people to do good."

Unexpectedly, Old Wei, with little education, grasped the core of Zi Gong's redemption philosophy.

Old Wei added: "If one day you become internationally famous, Ping'an County having a bridge named after you will be a landmark."

What could Wei Ming say? He accepted. He'd write back to Magistrate Qin and discuss supervision.

He could donate the money—but if the bridge became a shoddy project later, people would point fingers at Wei Ming. He had to speak plainly upfront.

"Enough, you two. Stop talking—eat," Xu Shufen said, bringing dishes to the table.

Today, Mei Wenhua and Yunyun had come too—the whole family was gathered.

The TV was on in the living room. Grandma, Yunyun, and Xiao Yang were all glued to the news—it was one of their few windows to their hometown's situation.

After six days of relentless rain, the downpour in Sichuan finally stopped—but the disaster had just begun.

Known reports showed the flood affected 14 prefectures and cities, 119 counties and districts in Sichuan. Countless homes were washed away; three major railway lines collapsed; roads were severely damaged.

This meant rescue teams struggled to enter Sichuan—reliance on self-rescue was now primary.

In short: "Terrible." Extremely terrible!

Grandma began crying. Then Yunyun cried. Mother cried. Long Xiaoyang didn't sob, but silently wiped tears.

Seeing this, Wei Ming wondered: what could a mere writer do?

He recalled the 1991 Huai River floods, when Hong Kong's entertainment circle made "A Banquet for the Rich," with actors donating their fees and proceeds going to relief.

But that model couldn't be copied to the mainland—film markets weren't market-driven yet; high box office meant nothing to producers.

As for going to Hong Kong, Wei Ming didn't think he had that kind of clout in the Hong Kong film scene.

Crucially, Sino-British negotiations hadn't even begun yet—1981 and 1991 were vastly different. Most stars wouldn't dare get close to the mainland.

Soon after, the Sichuan disaster worsened—America's Time Magazine even reported on it, with the headline "Floods and Famine." One statistic: 15 million affected, direct losses exceeding 2 billion yuan, over a thousand dead in the floods.

For the first time, China issued an international appeal for aid—something it hadn't done even during those three years.

Seeing this, Wei Ming lost all interest in writing novels. No—he had to do something!

…

(Make-up update for the 6th—request monthly votes! Make-up updates done; now monthly vote make-ups begin~)

(End of chapter)