Chapter 419: You Think It

The next day, Li Ye was scheduled to meet Qiang, who had come from Jingcheng, then leave Changbei together to head for the filming location of "Spring Comes, Spring Returns Again."

But he didn't arrive until ten minutes after the agreed time, when a small sedan zoomed up like a flying projectile.

"Is he playing a street racer?"

Li Dayong, who had planned to accompany Li Ye, couldn't help shouting out in anger.

As Qiang pulled the car to a stop, Li Dayong couldn't resist teasing him: "Qiang, did you even look in the mirror this morning? Look at your dark circles—you look like some poor scholar from a comic who got his soul sucked out by a female demon."

Hu Renqiang rolled down his window, glared angrily at Li Dayong for a moment, then turned awkwardly to Li Ye: "Sorry, Mr. Li, I'm… really sorry!"

Li Dayong froze—he was already quite familiar with Qiang because of Pei Wenhui; otherwise, Qiang wouldn't have shown him his most "prized" comic manuscripts.

So Li Dayong knew this guy, who used to be a gangster, wasn't the type to take verbal abuse lying down.

"Hahaha! I hit the nail on the head, didn't I? You couldn't get out of bed today because Pan Xiaoqing tangled you up, right? I didn't believe others when they said you're a wife-worshipper—hahaha!"

"Shut your big mouth, you little gossip! Do you think I won't challenge you to a one-on-one?"

"Sure, sure—I'll let you use just one hand."

Li Ye watched the two big boys—one tall, one short, vastly different in build—chasing and wrestling around the car, and couldn't help smiling softly.

The Li Dayong of today was no longer the simple high school student from Qingshui County—he'd picked up plenty of rough language.

And Qiang had changed even more: that once-reclusive orphan had long since become a captive of family warmth, as docile as they come.

Ever since marrying Pan Xiaoqing from the Youth Daily, Qiang had revealed his "homebody" nature—whenever he had to travel to Chang'an or Shanghai to coordinate filming, he dragged his feet for days before finally leaving.

But whenever he got a chance to return to Jingcheng, he'd rush home that same night—even if it meant standing on the train.

"Let's go, let's go—we'll get there sooner and come back sooner. Looks like it might snow today!"

Li Ye stopped the two boys' roughhousing, opened the car door, and urged them to hurry up.

The crew had chosen a remote location: after driving north from Changping for over ten kilometers, the final stretch of country road was too narrow for cars.

Li Ye and the others had to get out and walk, carrying two large bags of consolation gifts, trudging for half an hour before finally spotting the village halfway up the mountain.

"Brother, why did they pick such a place? Don't Gong Rui and Zhu Shimao find daily life inconvenient here?"

Li Dayong insisted on coming today just to see Gong Rui and Zhu Shimao.

Forget idol pop stars—back in this era of scarce entertainment, with only a handful of movies and TV dramas each year, any actor was instantly recognizable.

Audiences weren't like kids in the future who could scream "I love you, XX!"—they still flocked to stars; if you could get a photo with a star like Gong Rui, you'd be the envy of every kid in your neighborhood.

Li Ye looked up at the village on the mountainside and said admiringly: "Because the stone well village in my script is exactly a small village halfway up a mountain—they actually found it."

Qiang, visibly weak and panting, said: "Mainland actors are incredibly dedicated, incredibly hardworking, and have excellent acting fundamentals. With just a slight shift in approach, they're truly competitive."

Indeed, the film and TV professionals of this era were genuinely dedicated—even Qiang, once a Hong Konger with a touch of superiority, was impressed.

Look at the conditions in that mountain village—there probably wasn't even clean, sanitary lodging, let alone daily meals costing thousands, mineral water baths, or chauffeur cars.

"Seeing a mountain doesn't mean you can reach it"—Li Ye and Li Dayong carried their heavy bags, trudging up the winding path for another grueling stretch before finally stepping onto the small platform of Shijing Village, while Qiang, hands empty and trailing behind, was already panting like a gasping husky.

And just then, a crystal-clear snowflake drifted slowly down before Li Ye's eyes.

The first snow of winter 1984 had finally arrived.

"It's snowing! Come out and see! Old Zhu was right after all!"

"He really was! The weather forecast got it right once—rare, rare, finally didn't make us wait in vain."

As snowflakes drifted down, a group of people suddenly rushed out of the village, shouting and cheering at the falling snow.

Li Dayong pointed at a woman in a floral padded jacket on the drying ground and asked in surprise: "Brother, is that person… Gong Rui? Isn't she supposed to play a city girl?"

Li Ye smiled: "Who says a city girl can't wear a floral padded jacket? I think the braided hair and floral jacket are a unique sight of our era—soon, you won't be able to see it anymore."

Due to the special nature of the character "Huaihua," Director Lao Xie ultimately chose Liu Xiaoru over Gong Rui as the female lead.

Gong Rui played the first female supporting role—the beautiful girl who eventually marries "Chun'er," portrayed by Zhu Shimao.

Li Ye thought it suited her well—if they'd cast someone less attractive, his sister Li Yue might have complained, since this character was modeled after her.

Among all the leading actresses on the mainland at the time, Gong Rui was among the most beautiful.

But now, Gong Rui was dressed as a village girl, excitedly rejoicing with the rest of the crew over the season's first snow.

Li Dayong couldn't help asking: "Brother, why are they so happy?"

Li Ye thought for a moment: "They're probably filming an important scene that requires snow—judging by their excitement, they've been waiting for days."

Just then, someone spotted Li Ye and the others.

"Oh, Mr. Hu is here? We didn't see you—sorry, sorry…"

"Hey, it really is Mr. Hu! Oh, Li Ye is here too—you two are lucky! If you'd come two days later, we'd have already left."

It turned out that status still mattered: among Li Ye, Li Dayong, and Hu Renqiang, Qiang had the least wealth—but was the most welcomed by the crew.

Meanwhile, the billionaire Li Ye and Li Dayong looked like Qiang's attendants.

After all, they were carrying heavy bags, while Qiang had empty hands.

Li Ye arrived at just the right time—today was the crew's final scene, the most difficult and heartbreaking moment for Huaihua.

Huaihua, born strong-willed, gritted her teeth as she sent off her in-laws, struggled to raise two adopted children, lived in poverty but took comfort in her son's excellent grades—there was still hope.

But in the winter when "Chun'er" was in the second year of middle school, he suddenly fell ill, stayed in the county hospital for a while, and left behind over ten yuan in medical bills.

In the 1970s, medical bills could indeed be left unpaid—yet every year at a fixed time, the hospital would send staff to go door-to-door collecting debts, sometimes even offering reductions based on family circumstances.

Huaihua's door bore a plaque designating her family as "Honorable," so hospital staff were willing to waive the debt.

But Huaihua wasn't the type to dodge debts; when she couldn't gather enough money from home, she braved the snowstorm, going door-to-door to borrow money—she insisted on repaying the hospital.

Yet after visiting every household in the village, she borrowed almost nothing.

It wasn't that the villagers lacked compassion—they simply didn't understand Huaihua.

"That money's from the state—they said you don't have to pay it back. Why borrow? Who has extra cash? Aren't you being stupid?"

Everyone thought refusing to lend Huaihua money was "saving" her from the burden.

But Huaihua finally burst into tears and said: "If I dodge this debt today, can I still look at the Honorable plaque on my door?"

When Li Ye wrote this section in the script, he'd struggled—it was hard for him, a man from the future, to fully grasp Yang Huaihua's mindset.

But his sister Li Yue told him this had actually happened: Yang Huaihua, with Yang Yumin and Yang Yujiao, worked for the hospital the next year, helping build houses to earn money and repay the debt.

So Li Ye simply wrote this section truthfully.

But today, on set, Li Ye realized this most awkward part of the script had been transformed by Director Lao Xie and the actors into the most powerful scene.

Liu Xiaoru stepped through the freshly fallen snow, knocking on doors to borrow money, her stubborn, resolute expression more upright than any man's.

Her frail body, set against the icy snowscape, radiated an indescribable spirit of defiance.

Every actor who shared scenes with her portrayed the full spectrum of human nature—simple, numb, yet subtly shrewd—not portraying outright villainy, but rather the helplessness born of poverty.

When a girl tried to hand Liu Xiaoru her only one yuan and fifty fen, only for her "father" to snatch it back, Li Dayong clenched his fists tightly.

Beside him, Qiang said: "They're acting brilliantly! They're no worse than Hong Kong's best actors. Too bad the mainland system doesn't allow it—if we could sign them to a film company, we'd make a fortune."

He spoke without thinking, but Li Ye noticed several actors glancing over quietly.

That evening, the crew used the consolation gifts Li Ye and the others brought to host a communal dinner for the entire village.

This was a request made by the crew after hearing Qiang was coming—they'd heard the villagers, so generous during their stay, had nearly slaughtered every chicken in the village for them.

The meal was lavish, everyone ate heartily; Li Ye watched the villagers—adults and children alike—gorging themselves, and felt deeply moved.

It was already 1984, and this place was less than a hundred kilometers from Jingcheng—yet here was still such poverty. As someone who'd gotten rich first, he suddenly realized how much more he needed to do.

"Li Ye, your script is excellent—but the shooting schedule was too rushed. We could've done even better."

Midway through dinner, Director Lao Xie came over with a cup of wine and spoke to Li Ye.

"Better?" Li Ye asked calmly: "Where do you think it fell short, Director Xie?"

"Not bad, just… not perfect."

Director Lao Xie paused, regretful: "Time was too tight—we could only focus on Huaihua, and the other characters weren't polished enough.

For example, Zhu Shimao's Chun'er—if I'd had more time, I could've shown his journey from initial anger toward his biological parents to eventual forgiveness, revealing noble morality and broad-mindedness."

"So I feel I've let down your excellent script, Li Ye."

Li Ye looked at the clearly disappointed Lao Xie—and then smiled smugly.

What you see as regretful, I find perfect.

In fact, when Li Ye wrote the script, he deliberately crafted it this way—"imperfect."

Li Ye first made "Chun'er" flawless—no matter how shameless a moral bully, no one could ever question his character, since he was modeled after Yang Yumin.

But Li Ye also wanted viewers to mutter afterward: "Chun'er shouldn't have recognized his biological parents—why send them monthly money for their old age? He should've just told them to go eat dirt."

So if the film turned out exactly as Lao Xie described, it would be exactly what Li Ye intended.

All the hypocrisy of the world is a necessary weapon in politicians' eyes—but to ordinary people, it's just a thin layer of paper, easily torn through.

Li Ye stood alone, quietly smug, while Mr. Hu Renqiang was surrounded, adored like a star.

Everyone spoke up, praising him, all conveying the same idea: "Could you go to Hong Kong like the Kung Fu Emperor?"

But Qiang dampened the mood: "You want to go to Hong Kong? Sure, there are art films there—but the mainstream is still kung fu movies.

And I think staying on the mainland isn't without opportunity—in fact, in some ways, it might be even better than going to Hong Kong."

The group around Qiang looked skeptical, unconvinced.

After all, Hong Kong's prosperity had spread throughout the mainland film industry over the past few years.

More importantly, this year, the Kung Fu Emperor had been seen driving his own private car all over Jingcheng—police at traffic posts had witnessed it, undeniable proof.

When would mainland actors ever own their own private cars?

"My wife is from Jingcheng. She originally wanted to study abroad in Hong Kong—but now, she prefers staying in Jingcheng."

"A man I deeply respect once said: the mainland's development speed is extremely fast—faster than Hong Kong's. One day, the mainland will far surpass Hong Kong."

The actors watched Qiang earnestly "chatter on," and couldn't help laughing—they thought he was politely declining their invitation, but at least he'd offered a pleasant reason, not something harsh like "You're not good enough."

But they had no idea—he was telling the truth.

Men like Pei Wencong, Hong Kong tycoons, are now striving to expand into the mainland, so the mainland's prospects are certainly very promising.

Qian Xiaoqing, Ah Qiang's wife, had originally intended to go to Hong Kong for studies, but after Ah Qiang took her on a tour of Hong Kong and then fed her Li Ye's entire theory, she quickly abandoned the idea of leaving.

If you live in Hong Kong in a 50- to 60-square-meter apartment, you're at best lower-middle class, and everyone around you looks at you with strange, hostile glances.

But if Qian Xiaoqing stays in Beijing, she lives in a big courtyard, rides a small motorcycle, and can call for a car anytime she wants it.

Whether at her workplace or among family and friends, Qian Xiaoqing is the one everyone envies.

One is an unwelcome outsider; the other is a lucky darling everyone admires—tell me, which life do you prefer?

"Cough, cough."

Seeing Ah Qiang squirming under the pressure, Li Ye changed the subject and asked Director Xie: "Director Xie, when will our film be released?"

"At least one or two weeks, right?"

Director Xie hesitated. "The editing process can't be rushed, and there are still many steps afterward. We can't hurry anymore."

Li Ye nodded slowly; he knew post-production was crucial—if rushed, the whole project might fail at the last moment.

But these past few days, his sister Li Yue's mood had seemed unstable; she might soon lose control of her temper.

Li Ye understood, but Ah Qiang did not.

He asked earnestly: "Director Xie, if we offer overtime pay, could we hire extra help to shorten the schedule?"

Director Xie licked his lips, wanting to say something, but his eyes darted away, too embarrassed to speak.

Li Ye bit back a smile and asked for him: "How much overtime pay can you offer?"

Ah Qiang was stunned.

How much overtime pay? Isn't that up to your boss's boss? I'm just a worker, okay?

(End of Chapter)