Chapter 502: The Ministry

“Ah Long, you said earlier there was an audition offer for a lead role in a film, but you’re still unsure—should you talk to Wei Ming? He’s a Palme d’Or winner and knows film better than we do.”

Huang Zhelun enthusiastically pulled Zun Long into conversation with Wei Ming.

Although Zun Long was already established in the theater world, having won the Obie Award, and was currently rehearsing the musical “Sound and Beauty,” which he wrote, directed, and starred in, set for an Off-Broadway premiere, he was virtually a newcomer in film.

In fact, he entered the film industry first, but Hollywood’s competition was fierce, leaving few opportunities for Chinese actors, forcing him to play unnamed Chinese roles filled with stereotypes.

Now, a lead role lay before him, from a major studio like Universal.

“Actually, I’ve already accepted the role,” Zun Long said, introducing the character. “He’s a savage from forty thousand years ago—no language, only body and facial expressions to convey emotion, and he’ll need heavy prosthetic makeup that hides my real face. That’s exactly why white actors won’t take it—otherwise, it wouldn’t be mine.”

This was the reality for Chinese-American actors. Gong Ying, listening nearby, couldn’t help feeling a pang of kinship; she had once imagined the outside world too beautifully—leaving home, fighting for scraps in someone else’s bowl was never easy.

Gong Ying couldn’t help thinking of Chen Chong, also from the Magic Capital—she wondered if Chen had made it out there yet.

Wei Ming knew Zun Long was referring to “The Ice Man,” his first Hollywood film, which received only moderate box office and critical reception, but his performance was undeniably the film’s greatest highlight.

After that, he successfully entered Hollywood studios’ Shiye , leading to later roles in “Year of the Dragon” and “The Last Emperor,” becoming a flagbearer for Chinese actors in Hollywood.

“Sounds quite challenging. I’m sure Hollywood producers, seeing you in the film and then meeting you in person, will be stunned—and start waving contracts at you.”

“Thanks for the good wishes.”

The day after the salon ended, Wei Ming took Gong Ying and David Sapirstein directly to Los Angeles to meet Robert Shaye and bought the rights to David’s story, “The Magic Cocoon.”

“The Magic Cocoon” would enter development alongside “It,” and Wei Ming had already appointed director Ron Howard—a young director under thirty.

He began as an actor and had already completed two directorial projects; he was currently filming his third, “Splash,” starring the famous Tom Hanks.

But at this point, old Tom was still just an obscure actor, and as for Tom Cruise—

The last film Wei Ming and Gong Ying watched before leaving America was “Top Gun,” screened at midnight on August 4—this was the film that launched Tom Cruise’s stardom.

Tom Hanks wouldn’t truly take off until next year, after “Splash” premiered.

Wei Ming had been away from Hong Kong for a week; Wei Anping was preparing to return to Beijing, having experienced double the fatherly love these past days.

But some things missed in childhood, even if frantically pursued in middle age, never feel quite right—some things, once lost, are simply lost.

Wei Jiefang said: “Don’t worry—Xi Zi is under my care in Hong Kong. After filming, I’ll bring him back.”

Xi Zi had already joined the set, avoiding the painful scene of father-son separation, but another father-son pair remained: Old Ghost had bid farewell to his younger son at home and wouldn’t go to the airport.

He helped Wei Anping pack his luggage, bringing gifts for his daughter-in-law and granddaughter—bought personally by him and Lin Ni.

Seeing Old Ghost’s hopeful gaze, Wei Jiefang nudged Wei Anping—this kid, so stubborn.

Wei Anping picked up his bag and walked out, only turning back when the elevator arrived: “Then we’re off, Dad. Don’t see us off.”

He quickly pulled Wei Jiefang into the elevator and waved at the slightly hunched Old Ghost.

Old Ghost’s lips moved. After the elevator descended, he asked Lin Ni beside him: “Did Anping just say, ‘Then we’re off, Dad’?”

Wei Hong scratched her head: “Didn’t he say, ‘Then we’re off, then’?”

Lin Ni: “Little Red, how can your ears be worse than ours old folks? He clearly said, ‘We’re off, Dad.’ The old man called you Dad!”

Old Ghost excitedly hugged Lin Ni and jumped up: “He finally acknowledged me!”

Lin Ni: “He acknowledged you long ago—he just didn’t dare say it.”

Seeing these two elders so emotional, they might even kiss—Wei Hong quickly pressed the elevator button. She’d better go hide at A Min’s place for some peace.

“Sister Hong, you’re here! Listen to this!” Zhou Hui Min pointed to the record player.

“What song is this? So beautiful.” Wei Hong had no artistic sensibility, but she could still tell good from bad.

It was an English song. Zhou Hui Min said: “It’s your brother’s new song for David Bowie, ‘Right Here Waiting.’ Released last month—it’s currently number one on the Billboard charts!”

Wei Hong analyzed the lyrics: “Across oceans, day after day, I’m slowly going mad… When did he write this? It sounds like he’s missing you.”

Zhou Hui Min cupped her cheeks: “He wrote it after meeting David Bowie in Cannes. He mentioned it, but I only heard it recently—just released in Hong Kong.”

She felt the song was written for her—after she left Cannes, Ah Ming had composed it with guilt and intense love. His talent was truly beyond her reach.

Though she’d written several good songs during her heartbreak, hers were fleeting—Ah Ming’s songs would surely remain popular into the next century.

Listening to the song, Ah Min seemed to become the figure in the lyrics: “You drive me mad—wherever you go, whatever you do, I’ll be right here waiting…”

But when will you come back, Ah Ming? It’s just an award ceremony—why take so long?

And the media too—long after the award ceremony ended, the news only came out now.

Today, Zhao Debiao drove the two old uncles to the airport. In the car was his new newspaper—Ah Ming had insisted he read more newspapers to understand the world’s changes.

There, he saw a long feature in Ming Pao about Wei Ming winning the Hugo Award in America.

It also introduced the Hugo Award and Isaac Asimov’s achievements, using praise for Asimov to elevate Wei Ming—and Chinese sci-fi—especially highlighting their conversation about the Zeroth Law of Robotics, described so vividly it felt as if the reporter had been there.

Wei Anping looked at the newspaper happily: “Xiao Ming is so impressive—this must be the award every sci-fi writer in the world dreams of!”

Wei Jiefang laughed: “Hong Kong has a sci-fi writer too—seems he’s even our own surname. I wonder how jealous he’ll be when he sees this.”

Zhao Debiao chuckled from the front: “Same surname Wei, but how different their lives are.”

Wei Anping, though rarely in Hong Kong, knew well: “You mean Wei Si Li? He’s not a writer—he’s a fictional character. The real writer is Ni Kuang—has nothing to do with our Wei family.”

“You know more than we do,” Wei Jiefang, carrying his brother’s luggage, said. “Hey, what did the old man buy you?”

“Makeup and jewelry for Xiaoyan, and a two-pound long-life lock for Le Le—matching the one given to Xi Zi.”

Old Wei clucked in amazement—this flood of compensatory fatherly love was overwhelming, but he felt no envy; Second Aunt and Anping had sacrificed too much.

After reading the article, Wei Anping flipped it over—another piece about Wei Ming: “The Palme d’Or winner ‘The Chorus’ is about to premiere in Hong Kong.”

After dropping Wei Anping at the airport, Wei Jiefang and Zhao Debiao went to the “Home Alone” set—he’d also arranged to meet Zhao Debiao at the racetrack that evening.

One, to expose Zhao Debiao to new experiences; two, to reconnect with old horse friends—he wondered if they liked the calligraphy and paintings he’d given them.

On the other side, Wei Ming and Gong Ying didn’t return to Hong Kong—they went back to Beijing first, because embassy staff had contacted his New York hotel, asking him to return to China to receive cultural ministry commendation for winning a world-class literary award.

Gong Ying came along, but upon reaching Beijing, they deliberately separated—Gong Ying reported to Beijing Film Studio; Wei Ming went home.

On the way home, he looked at his newly bought issue of “People’s Literature”—the August edition carried Wang Meng’s “Editor-in-Chief’s Manifesto”: …We hope to offer readers the voices of hundreds of millions and the magnificent, yet complex, tapestry of our times… We welcome works deeply tied to the fate of the people, bound by blood and soul…

Wang Meng had just become editor-in-chief of “People’s Literature” last month—his political career was about to soar; soon he might be called “Minister Wang.”

Also, the newspaper hinted at an upcoming “Severe Crackdown”—this issue of “People’s Daily” stated that from January to May, 25,000 serious crimes occurred nationwide, especially in bustling cities, nearly turning them into criminals’ paradises.

The language was so severe, backed by numbers—it was clear a formal document was imminent. That’s why he and Gong Ying were so cautious; he’d need to be extra careful when visiting Lin Jie later.

But he didn’t even need to seek Lin Jie out—he met her directly at the Overseas Chinese Apartment.

Wei Ming went upstairs; she came downstairs carrying a vegetable basket.

Zhu Lin, already heading downstairs, immediately turned back up and told Xu Shufen: “Auntie, Xiao Wei is back!”

Wei Ming was surprised: “Lin Jie, what are you doing here?”

Xu Shufen, fully recovered, said: “It’s all because of me…”

She then recounted how her illness had prevented her from going to Hong Kong, and how Zhu Lin had taken care of her.

“Thanks to Xiao Zhu—she’s been staying at our place these past days,” Xu Shufen patted Zhu Lin’s hand.

Even Zhu Lin, a bold woman, felt embarrassed—she’d slept in Wei Ming’s room, where she’d lost her virginity on that very bed.

Xu Shufen glanced at Wei Ming’s burning gaze and Zhu Lin’s shy expression, suddenly realized, then snatched the basket from Zhu Lin’s hands.

“Oh my, I haven’t bought today’s vegetables yet—I’ll go now!”

“Auntie, I—” Zhu Lin tried to take it back, but clearly couldn’t.

Xu Shufen added: “The nearby market has no fresh meat or vegetables—I’ll go to the supermarket at Hai Dian.”

“Mom, all the way there?” Wei Ming laughed helplessly.

“No problem—there’s a bus,” Xu Shufen vanished instantly, leaving them alone.

No sooner had Xu Shufen closed the door than a loud “smack-smack-smack” sound came from inside.

Two scorching bodies had already clung together.

But just as Wei Ming was about to go further, Zhu Lin pushed him away—this wasn’t her home, nor Gong Ying’s; she still felt shy.

Wei Ming wrapped his arms around her waist: “If you’re shy, then I’m sorry—I leave for Hong Kong in two days, and I probably won’t dare visit you. The crackdown on perverts is so strict now.”

Zhu Lin sniffed: “You know you’re a pervert? Good, you’ve got self-awareness—little pervert.”

After receiving Lin Jie’s praise, Wei Ming scooped her up and kicked open his bedroom door.

Zhu Lin’s final words were: “Close the door! And the curtains…”