2013

Maybe late at night really was the best time for heart-to-heart talks. But only after she’d said it did Chen Tong realize this probably wasn’t the right moment.

Chi Xiaoman had already been exhausted from a full day of running around to help her move; that alone had been hard enough. And besides, it was very late now.

Noticing Chi Xiaoman yawn at that moment, Chen Tong felt guilty and added, “Go to sleep first. We can talk tomorrow.”

“It’s okay, Sister Chen Tong.”

The underground garage, with rent of four hundred yuan a person, had a very, very small window. No one knew which unit had left its lights on, but the glow seeped in from outside. On this sweltering summer night, the girl on the single bed looked at her; the warm light lit her eyes, making her seem like some piece of amber hidden beneath an old gray net, still vividly alive.

“I’m kind of excited anyway, so I don’t think I can sleep right now.”

The rental room was tiny.

The two folding beds were placed very close together.

For a moment, Chen Tong stared at her fine, downy eyelashes and went quiet. “Really?”

Chi Xiaoman smiled.

When she smiled, she liked to blink.

Maybe it was completely unconscious.

But it made every one of her smiles look especially bright, especially real.

“Sister Chen Tong.” Her laugh sounded a little high-pitched, maybe, but it bubbled with life from the inside out. “Actually, what I just said was true.”

“The truth?” Chen Tong was surprised. “Which part?”

“The part where I said my mom is a really amazing actress.” Chi Xiaoman blinked slowly, her lashes moving like summer snow in the dim light. It settled across her young face, making her expression hard to read. “It’s true.”

Chen Tong fell silent.

Chi Xiaoman probably wasn’t the kind of person who would easily go quiet, or be hurt by someone else’s silence.

So she yawned again and kept going. “Actually, it was Grandma who told me.”

“When I was little, my mom wasn’t by my side. Every time I came home from school and saw other classmates being picked up by their moms, I never dared to ask at night. I was scared I didn’t have a mom, you know..."

As she said this, she wrinkled her nose, embarrassed by her own misunderstanding as a child. “But one time I still asked. And then Mrs. Wang Aimei..."

She caught herself at the name.

Chi Xiaoman quickly added, “I mean, my grandma.”

“Mm. And then?”

“Then she got really angry, with her eyebrows jumping like fire. She grabbed a feather duster and was about to hit me, chased me all the way around the dinner table, and in the end just whacked the table with the duster and pretended she’d hit me.”

“She also said she’d take me to find the people who said I didn’t have a mom. Back then I followed behind her and acted all powerful. I was so impressive.”

Maybe it was because Chi Xiaoman told the story with such vivid expression. Chen Tong looked at her through the dim light and felt as if she were seeing the little girl she’d once been; it seemed Chi Xiaoman probably hadn’t changed much from childhood to now.

The light and shadow swelled around them. Chen Tong looked at her for a long time.

The curve of her lips was soft. “Mm, you must have been a very capable kid, too.”

“Of course.” Chi Xiaoman didn’t deny it.

She lifted her chin and was no longer sleepy at all. Her eyes shone so brightly that even in the dark they gleamed. “I was one of the first in our class to join the Young Pioneers!”

Chen Tong laughed.

Chi Xiaoman kept her chin raised, looking very smug.

A few seconds passed.

Then Chen Tong laughed too.

This underground garage was really tiny, so the two of them’ laughter mingled together and easily filled the whole space; it was also easy for them to catch the happiness in each other’s laughter at the same time.

After they finished laughing,

Chi Xiaoman blinked softly and warmly.

Then she explained, “But that night, Grandma Wang Aimei found a button and gave it to me, telling me very seriously—”

“‘Your mom is an actress on television. This is the keepsake she left you before she left.’”

“She also said my mom has been waiting for me to grow up, to grow up very, very big—big enough that I wouldn’t be afraid of the outside world anymore—before I’d go find her.”

After saying this, Chi Xiaoman deliberately stopped, as if waiting for Chen Tong’s response.

Chen Tong didn’t speak.

She just looked at her without blinking.

That reaction seemed to satisfy Chi Xiaoman, or at least relax her.

She let out a breath, rustled around, and turned over to face away from her, continuing, “But she was afraid I’d be disobedient and not study properly, spending all day thinking about watching TV and looking for Mom, so she never told me exactly which amazing actress my mom was.”

Chen Tong still didn’t speak. Most of the time, she was very quiet and good at being a listener. That night, she watched Chi Xiaoman’s back as it faced her, not interrupting.

So Chi Xiaoman kept talking,

“And also, my name was given to me by my mom.”

“Because she was especially educated, the most educated person in our village. She chose this name especially for me.”

“But for some reason, she couldn’t come back.”

Maybe because she’d turned around, her voice lowered; facing the wall made it sound muffled. But her tone was still solemn. “So from that day on, I decided that when I grew up, I’d come to Beijing to find her.”

And she really did come to Beijing.

Because of a single maybe-true, maybe-false sentence from her parents when she was little.

Without hesitation.

Even though she’d already reached university age, she seemed never to have doubted the story at all.

Chen Tong didn’t know what she would feel upon hearing Chi Xiaoman say all this. But at that moment, all sorts of third-person questions did arise in her mind—

Did you find your mom then? Did your grandma tell you which actress your mom was? From childhood until now, not even once, not even for a second, did you doubt this story?

But in that fresh, lively summer night, among the messy luggage and the two folding beds facing each other across the air,

she looked at Chi Xiaoman’s stubborn, certain back.

And found that she couldn’t ask even one of those questions. All she could do was soften her voice and say,

“Xiaoman, you’re amazing.”

As if she hadn’t expected her to say that, Chi Xiaoman froze for a long time. It really was a long time—so long that Chen Tong kept looking at her back for a long time too.

So long that Chi Xiaoman finally dared to turn over carefully and look at her in a blur.

She blinked many times, rubbed her eyes many times.

Then, lifting those eyes that had grown a little damp in the middle of the night to look at her, she said with a somewhat relaxed smile, “But actually, my wanting to be an actress isn’t entirely because of her.”

“Mm?” Chen Tong couldn’t deny that she was very curious about this. “There’s another reason?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Maybe the air was too dry; Chi Xiaoman had talked so much that her throat was dry. So she simply jumped down from the bed, slippers slapping softly against the floor, found the hot water they’d boiled earlier and left to cool in the cold-water bottle because Chen Tong had been afraid she might wake up thirsty in the morning, poured herself a cup, gulped it down, wiped her mouth, and turned back. “Sister Chen Tong, do you want some too?”

Caught up in Chi Xiaoman’s energy, Chen Tong didn’t refuse. “Okay, thanks.”

Chi Xiaoman nodded in satisfaction, then rummaged around the pile of luggage, found Chen Tong’s cup, and carefully rinsed it with a little water before bringing it over and placing it on the tiny, paint-chipped bedside table between them. “It’s still a bit hot; be careful.”

Chen Tong hadn’t expected wanting a glass of water to trouble her this much.

But now that it had been brought over, she couldn’t let Chi Xiaoman’s effort go to waste.

So she simply sat up and took a sip, then asked, “You said there was another reason?”

As if the water break had interrupted her train of thought, Chi Xiaoman stared at her blankly for a moment before suddenly remembering. Embarrassed, she rubbed her ear, hugged the quilt, and slowly said,

“Like, at first I only thought, wow, so my mom is an actress, that’s so cool. So many people can see her on TV. So I became especially interested in acting.”

“At first I only wanted to come to Beijing to find her; I didn’t think I had to come to Beijing to become an actress.”

“But the more I thought about it, the more fascinated I got.”

“One day, I suddenly had this thought—if my mom was already such an amazing actress, then if I became an actress in the future and she saw me on TV first, would that make her happier too?”

“So after I came to Beijing, I didn’t go looking for her right away. I wanted to wait until I’d become an amazing actress myself, then go find her and let her see me, so she’d be proud of me and happy for me.”

Chen Tong traced the still-warm rim of the cup, saying nothing. But the curve at the corners of her mouth and the corners of her eyes still remained.

Chi Xiaoman looked at her and smiled too. Talking about this, her smile was no longer high and bright; it became gentle, shy, and careful, as if she treasured the matter too much to treat it lightly.

“Later, I really did think acting was so cool.”

“Even though I still haven’t played any role worth showing off. But I always feel acting is truly an incredible thing.”

“Every role, every line, every shot lets you see a life completely different from my own. And behind all that, it’s not just one actor we see; there are lighting people, cameramen, screenwriters, directors, art staff, set designers...”

“So many people’s efforts go into forming one second in the audience’s eyes; sometimes not even a full second.”

Maybe it was an illusion, or maybe the summer night was just too hot and made people emotional.

Chen Tong looked at Chi Xiaoman as she spoke to her.

She always felt that her eyes were very, very bright.

A brightness like one that could make someone believe, in the dark, that one day they really would see the dawn.

“I like that feeling. I like everyone fighting side by side. I also like the feeling of everyone doing their best for that shot, for that moment that isn’t even a full second, and finally feeling worthy of it.”

“I want to be one of them too.”

“Even if it’s just a very, very small role, one so insignificant the audience wouldn’t even remember it, I’d still be proud because of that one second.”

Even in the dim, murky rental room, Chi Xiaoman spoke about her dream as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. But it also made it painfully clear that there was a fire burning in her eyes and in her heart; a fire that seemed like it would never go out.

“Sister Chen Tong, don’t you think acting is really cool?”

I’m afraid even the most hard-hearted person in the world wouldn’t be able to remain unmoved after seeing those eyes.

So much so that Chen Tong, who always believed she wasn’t passionate enough inside and had never shown any real interest in this profession, couldn’t say no now.

“Mm, it is really cool, Xiaoman.”

Chi Xiaoman smiled; an openly happy smile.

One that often hung on her face.

“So, do you want to make Lang Lang’s movie with me, Sister Chen Tong?”

Her tone was deliberately softened.

Like coaxing, or like seduction.

Chen Tong smiled, set down the now-empty cup on the bedside table, and lay back down. “You should sleep earlier.”

“All right, all right.” Maybe she really was just joking. Chi Xiaoman didn’t press the matter. She only got down to turn off the mosquito coil, yawned, and when she got back into bed she turned over, facing away from her, and sleepily said, “Good night, Sister Chen Tong.”

Chen Tong looked at her narrow back.

And at the soft strands of hair scattered across her pillow.

For a long time.

Maybe by then Chi Xiaoman had already fallen asleep.

Only then did she belatedly realize she’d been spacing out. In the quiet night, she lowered her voice and said,

“Good night, Xiaoman.”

-

That heart-to-heart on the first night after the move let Chen Tong truly see the appeal of acting through Chi Xiaoman’s eyes; only then did she realize why there were always so many people on set willing to spend all that effort waiting, fighting desperately for an extremely small chance, and even leaving home to suffer so much for something so intangible.

Maybe everyone came with different initial intentions, got different lines, different roles, yet quietly gave everything to form some shot, and in the end each obtained a moment that was either stunning or unremarkable.

But because that shot had truly existed,

every second of effort would never lose its meaning.

That was probably the charm of acting.

Of course, Chen Tong did not simply become tempted by the profession of “actor” because of it. In fact, questions like “Why not try being an actor?” or “You’d be really suitable” had come up many times during her growing up.

Her mother, Chen Xiaoping, had a traditional mindset. She wanted Chen Tong to excel academically, to achieve the highest scores, to become the most superior kind of person at the top of the pyramid, so that one day she could hold her head high and breathe easily.

Chen Xiaoping herself worked in a factory as a sewing worker, saving and scrimping so she could send Chen Tong to tutoring classes from a young age. She also carefully calculated her birth chart and placed a shrine at home in the proper direction. From the moment Chen Tong entered middle school, she was made to get up at seven every morning to burn incense and light candles, bowing to the Bodhisattva before going out.

For someone like Chen Xiaoping, the profession of “actor” carried a stubborn prejudice.

Once, after hearing that some older female cousin had studied theater in college, Chen Xiaoping sneered. That night she brought Chen Tong a cup of bitter cooling tea that numbed the tip of the tongue, watched her drink it all, and tested whether she had been tempted by the talent scout business cards she had once received.

After Chen Tong denied it,

Chen Xiaoping would sit quietly, narrowing her eyes to observe her for two or three minutes before finally leaving in relief. Before closing the door, she would also remind her that the next monthly exam was coming soon and that she absolutely would not allow her to be distracted.

Chen Tong didn’t know why her mother was so cautious, because she had never been very interested in it.

As a child, she knew very well how hard it had been for Chen Xiaoping to raise her alone, and she had made more than once a firm resolve to walk the path Chen Xiaoping wanted.

To rank at the top in every monthly exam, then perform normally on the college entrance exam, get into the university Chen Xiaoping wanted her to attend, major in finance as Chen Xiaoping hoped, enter the high-rise office buildings Chen Xiaoping hoped she would enter, do the job Chen Xiaoping hoped she would do...

And in the end become Chen Xiaoping’s only source of pride and self-satisfaction in life.

Chen Tong lived such a life by the book for a long time, without much time to feel emptiness or confusion.

She lived that way until she was twenty-three.

One day, nothing major happened to her at all.

Her cousin, the one who had studied theater, ended up in miserable straits after graduation and, not long after fainting, was diagnosed with diabetes.

The family surrounded the cousin, criticizing and cursing her, blaming her illness entirely on her desires, her dreams, her efforts; blaming it on the wrong choices she had made in her youth, and firmly believing those wrong choices had led her to Shanghai, where she lived some chaotic, day-and-night-flipped life. They condemned her for poor habits, for making a mess of herself, for falling ill while still so young.

On the phone, Chen Tong listened quietly as Chen Xiaoping discussed this in a vicious tone.

Afterward, she hung up and spent the whole night on the rooftop of a high-rise building in the wind. The next day, she quit the job Chen Xiaoping had hoped she would do and walked out of the high-rise building Chen Xiaoping had hoped she would stay in forever.

She transferred part of her savings to Chen Xiaoping.

She transferred the other part to her cousin, who had stayed in Shanghai and didn’t even dare go home at a time like this, to pay for treatment. She fought the worst argument with Chen Xiaoping, didn’t return to Guangdong, and went to a crew she had never been interested in to help out.

She became a person completely unlike the Chen Tong of before.

In truth, nothing had changed at all, because Chen Tong had always been that kind of person: she accepted the laws by which the world moved and observed the planet’s trajectory with the detached stance of a participant and bystander. She had no favorites, nothing she especially wanted to do, always quiet, tired, and bored, until one day she stepped off that trajectory in silence.

And then.

She met Chi Xiaoman.

Chi Xiaoman herself was a planet.

A planet that had never appeared in Chen Tong’s orbit, yet shone alone in a corner.

Would she be moved?

Yes.

Would she therefore want to walk alongside her?

Not so impulsively.

Would she want to stay behind and carefully watch the light of this planet when she was at her most aimless?

Yes.

In fact, by the days after moving to Xingfu Road, Chen Tong had just quit her job, sent away her savings, and fallen out with Chen Xiaoping, so she didn’t have much money on her. But a basement life similar to her cousin’s, while not exactly rich, wasn’t actually as impoverished as Chen Xiaoping had made it sound.

Less than fifteen square meters of space was neatly divided into different zones by Chi Xiaoman’s industrious hands—

Two small folding beds, an old bedside table with random marks left on top, covered by collages Chi Xiaoman had cut out of old magazines, turning it into an ad space for watches, utility hotlines, telescopes... Every time before entering, Chi Xiaoman would stand at the foot of the bed and knock on the air with a sense of ceremony, asking, “Chen Tong, Chen Tong, may I enter the bedroom now?”

Sometimes Chen Tong would deliberately not answer.

Then Chi Xiaoman would patiently stand at the door and keep knocking until Chen Tong couldn’t help but laugh out loud, until she laughed along with Chen Tong, until their laughter swayed and filled the whole basement.

In the bathroom, a five-centimeter cement threshold, a showerhead, and an old shower curtain found from Lang Lang’s place became what Chi Xiaoman called a luxury shower room. It was just that Chi Xiaoman always thought the water was too weak and every time she got paid she’d resolve to buy a new showerhead.

But because the weak water was a water-pressure issue, changing the showerhead wouldn’t help. So Chi Xiaoman had to leave behind a large four-yuan mineral water bottle, put five yuan into it every day, and use Lang Lang’s ballpoint pen to write, stroke by stroke: Bathroom Renovation Fund ^_^.

A cast-iron wok, an induction cooker, three bowls, three pairs of chopsticks, four plates, a kitchen knife, a board, and a wooden chair bought from the secondhand market. Their kitchen.

It couldn’t stay in the garage because the smoke from frying food was too choking.

Every time, Chi Xiaoman would bend over and tirelessly move their kitchen outside, then bring it back in at night. Because Chi Xiaoman worried about everything, she was always afraid the kitchen would get stolen and they’d have nothing to eat the next day.

When it rained, the garage door would be hammered by the sound of the rain. At times like that it was hard to fall asleep, and the wiring, already unstable with voltage, might have problems too, so they had to run upstairs to shut off the breaker. Then they’d light candles in the garage, lean against the headboards, and play the truth-or-dare-style game Lang Lang had mentioned that day in the rain.

Because the rain was so loud, they had to sit closer together, smelling each other’s shower gel and hair, listening to the other’s muffled voice through the noise.

At first,

the scents of their shower gel and hair were not the same.

Later, after the ones they brought themselves were used up one by one, they started using the same new one—

the classic Safeguard Chi Xiaoman had seriously chosen while squatting in front of the supermarket shelves: cheap, generous, with a fresh soap scent that lasted a long time...

It drifted through their blue sheets, red T-shirts, and the mist of the bathroom, until slowly, they could also smell each other’s scent on themselves.

A piece of corrugated cardboard, a black marker, and on it the words: Xingfu Road, Fragrance Alley, Underground Garage No. 5. Because the garage didn’t have its own house number and Chi Xiaoman wasn’t satisfied with that, she hung up this sign herself. That day, feeling as though she had accomplished something major, she called Chen Tong in a very pretentious way and said over the phone, “Chen Tong, Chen Tong, when are you coming home?”

Chen Tong was still working as crew on the project where she had met Chi Xiaoman, so she told Chi Xiaoman she might be a little late today, and asked over the phone if she wanted some fried rice cake skewers from the entrance of the studio.

As a result, Chi Xiaoman mysteriously said “No,” cleared her throat on the phone, and then said very proudly,

“Then don’t go to the wrong place. Our home is Xingfu Road, Fragrance Alley, Underground Garage No. 5.”

That evening, Chen Tong came home carrying a few fried rice cake skewers wrapped in white foam lunch boxes.

And saw that the dirty garage door had been washed clean. Hooks had been attached to it, and that corrugated cardboard sign was hanging there.

On it, written in black ink: Welcome home, Xingfu Road, Fragrance Alley, Underground Garage No. 5.

And above those words, drawn in colored pencil, was a very, very large rainbow arch.

Because they were short on colors, they had even used blue to pretend it was green.

At a glance, anyone could tell whose handiwork it was.

Chen Tong couldn’t help laughing out loud.

Then she heard a voice behind her,

“Chen Tong, Chen Tong!”

Someone was calling her.

Chen Tong turned around.

And saw that the summer sunset in Beijing was red like burning flames; the evening was noisy with cars and people, and two young shadows stood side by side behind her, each waving vigorously in her direction.

Chen Tong lifted her eyes.

Chi Xiaoman was wearing that faded red T-shirt, sweating hard, her face flushed, but she was holding a large bag of groceries and waving with obvious excitement.

Lang Lang had a little more black growing in her hair, with yellowed ends that made her look undernourished; she was also sweating a lot, which made her look very pale.

The two of them stood together, pushing a black cart. On the cart was a small gray-blue sofa, tied down with a thin rope, looking pitiful, as if it had been kidnapped by the two of them.

Chen Tong stood there and smiled.

But the two of them were both quite smug, slowly pushing the sofa toward her as if they were about to deliver some earth-shattering good news.

Each person’s shadow was stretched very long by the sunset.

Two shadows approached another.

The three shadows slowly came together in the dusk, crowding into one another; they looked a little strange, as if they were a flower from another planet.

Chi Xiaoman happily carried those groceries and leaned closer, bringing the warmth with her. “Chen Tong, Chen Tong, tonight we’re eating hot pot.”

Lang Lang wiped sweat from her chin with the back of her hand; some dust had smeared onto her face. Then she patted the old sofa on the cart.

“A friend of mine bought a new one, and said this one was no longer wanted. I thought it still looked fine, and you guys didn’t have one here, so this works perfectly; next time I come over I can sit on it too, and I won’t have to squeeze onto Chi Xiaoman’s bed and get blamed for shedding hair.”

Probably afraid Chen Tong would feel bad about using someone else’s old things, she took the responsibility onto herself and said she wanted to sit on it.

Chi Xiaoman, carrying the groceries, circled around very ceremoniously and then touched her chin. “It is a bit old. Did your friend give us a handling fee?”

Lang Lang rolled her eyes. “Dream on.”

Chen Tong said nothing.

Then the two of them seemed to sense something and simultaneously looked at her nervously.

Chen Tong laughed. “It’s fine; we were just missing one.”

“Yay!”

Chi Xiaoman and Lang Lang high-fived each other with great enthusiasm, almost jumping up with the bag of groceries. “We’ve got a new sofa!”

“It was narrow-minded of me. I thought a top student would look down on it.” After the high-five, Lang Lang rubbed her nose; a bit more dust stuck to it. But when she smiled, even that bit of dust looked vivid in the sunlight.

“I won’t. I’m not that fussy,” Chen Tong said.

She looked at Chi Xiaoman, who was carrying those two bags of groceries while circling around and searching in her pocket for the key to open the door, and asked with a smile,

“Chi Xiaoman, aren’t you going to high-five me?”

She used her full name.

“Huh?” Chi Xiaoman stopped moving.

She blanked out for a moment.

Realizing Chen Tong was serious, she smiled embarrassedly.

“Sorry, sorry.”

Then.

She put the two bags of groceries down.

Wiped her palms on her clothes.

Walked over with particular solemnity and raised her hand with particular solemnity.

Without speaking.

Maybe because she didn’t know what to say.

She wanted to reach out and high-five her, but hesitated.

So her palm awkwardly arched into the shape of a little mountain.

Nowhere near as decisive, nowhere near as natural as when she’d just high-fived Lang Lang.

Lang Lang saw it clearly.

So she complained from the side, “Chi Xiaoman, are you saluting the teacher as a Young Pioneer?”

Chen Tong couldn’t help laughing out loud.

And then, just as Chi Xiaoman got flustered and was about to go chase after Lang Lang—

she suddenly reached out.

Lightly took hold of her thin, unsteady wrist.

Then.

As Chi Xiaoman abruptly froze.

She used that hand to high-five her.

“Pa—”

The sound was very soft, but the touch was heavy. The contact between their palms didn’t last long.

Chen Tong smiled as she withdrew her slightly numb hand and reached for the two big bags of groceries.

Turning back to the still-dazed Chi Xiaoman, whose ears were red, she called her, “Xiaoman.”

And in a soft voice said,

“Let’s go. We’re home.”

【Author’s Note】

Updating Little Neon on time for its twenty-seventh day [sunglasses]

I’ll cup my hand into Xiaoman’s little mountain, copy Sister Chen Tong’s tone, and shout to the babies passing by—

Aren’t you going to high-five me, who’s been faithfully updating every day? [glasses]