But the need was becoming urgent. In her thirties it would slowly become less easy for her to conceive. When Kai thought of this he felt panicky.
He would say none of this today. There was a more immediate problem.
A small crowd of fans, all women, stood outside the studio gate, autograph books in their hands, as Kai’s car approached. His driver spoke to the guard while the women peered into the car, hoping to recognize a star, then saw Kai and looked away, disappointed. Then the barrier was lifted and the car drove in.
Monk knew his way around the sprawl of ugly industrial buildings. It was early afternoon, and some people were taking a late lunch break: film workers could never rely on regular mealtimes. Kai saw a costumed superhero slurping noodles from a plastic bowl, a medieval princess smoking a cigarette, and four Buddhist monks sitting around a table playing poker. The car passed several outdoor sets: a section of the Great Wall, painted wood supported by modern steel scaffolding; the facade of a building in the Forbidden City; and the entrance to a New York City police station, complete with a sign saying: ‘78th Precinct’. Any fantasy could be realized here. Kai loved the place.
Monk parked outside a warehouse-like building with a small door identified by a handwritten sign that read: Love in the Palace. It could hardly look less like a palace. Kai went in.
He was familiar with the maze of corridors with dressing rooms, costume wardrobes, make-up and hairdressing studios, and stores of electric equipment. Technicians in jeans and headphones greeted him amiably: they all knew the star’s lucky husband.
He learned that Ting was on the sound stage. He followed a twisted plait of fat cables around the backs of tall scenery flats to a door where a red light forbade entry. Kai knew he could ignore the sign if he was quiet. He slipped in. The large room was hushed.
The show was set in the early eighteenth century, before the First Opium War that began the destruction of the Qing Dynasty. People thought of it as a golden age, when the learning, sophistication and wealth of traditional Chinese civilization were unchallenged. It was similar to the way French people harked back to Versailles and the court of the Sun King, or Russians glamorized St Petersburg before the revolution.
Kai recognized the set, which represented the emperor’s receiving chamber. There was a throne under a draped canopy, and behind it a fresco of peacocks and fantastic vegetation. It gave an impression of enormous wealth, until you looked closely and saw the cheap fabric and bare wood that the camera did not reveal.
The show was a family saga, disapprovingly called an ‘idol drama’ by high-minded people. Ting was the emperor’s favourite concubine. She was on set now, in heavy make-up, white powder and bright red lipstick. She wore an elaborate headdress studded with jewels, fake of course. Her dress was meant to be ivory silk exquisitely embroidered with flowers and birds in flight, though in reality it was printed rayon. The waist was tiny, as her own really was, and its smallness was exaggerated by a broad bustle.
Her look was innocent and precious, like something made of porcelain. The appeal of the character was that she was not as pure and sweet as she looked – not by a long way. She could be horribly spiteful, thoughtlessly cruel, and explosively sexy. The audience loved her.
Ting was the great rival of the emperor’s senior wife, who was not on the set. But the emperor was. He sat on the throne wearing an orange-coloured silk coat with huge flared sleeves over a multi-coloured undergarment like a floor-length dress. His hat was a cap with a little spike, and he had a drooping moustache. He was played by Wen Jin, a tall, romantic-looking actor, the heart-throb of millions of Chinese women.
Ting was being angry, berating the emperor, tossing her head, her eyes flashing defiance. In this mode she looked supernaturally desirable. Kai could not quite make out what she was saying, for the room was large and she was speaking in low tones. He knew, because she had explained to him, that shouting did not play well on television and the microphones could easily pick up her quiet vituperation.
The emperor was alternatively conciliatory and stern, but he was always reacting to her, never taking the initiative, something about which the actor often complained. Finally, he kissed her. The audience looked forward to such scenes, which happened infrequently: Chinese television was more prudish than the American equivalent.
The kiss was tender and lingering, something that might have made Kai jealous had he not known that Wen Jin was 100 per cent gay. It went on for an unrealistically long time, then the director, a woman, shouted: ‘Cut!’ in English, and everyone relaxed.
Ting and Jin immediately turned away from one another. Ting patted her lips with a tissue that Kai knew was a sanitizing wipe. He walked over to her. She smiled in surprise and embraced him.
He had never doubted her love, but if he had then a welcome such as this would have reassured him. She was obviously delighted to see him, even though it was only a few hours ago that they had had breakfast together.
‘I’m sorry about the kiss,’ she said. ‘You know I didn’t enjoy it.’
‘Even with that handsome man?’
‘Jin’s not handsome, he’s pretty. You’re handsome, my darling.’
Kai laughed. ‘In a craggy sort of way, maybe, if the light’s not too good.’
She laughed and said: ‘Come to my dressing room. I’ve got a break. They have to move to the bedroom set.’
She led the way, holding his hand. Once inside her dressing room she closed the door. It was a small, drab room, but she had brightened it with some of her own stuff: posters on the wall, a shelf of books, an orchid in a pot, a framed photograph of her mother.
Ting climbed quickly out of her dress and sat down in her twenty-first-century bra and panties. Kai smiled with pleasure at the sight.
‘One more scene and I think they’ll wrap for the day,’ Ting said. ‘This director gets things done fast.’
‘How does she manage that?’
‘She knows what she wants and she has a plan. But she works us hard. I’m looking forward to an evening at home.’
‘You’re forgetting,’ Kai said with regret. ‘This is our night to have dinner with my parents.’
Ting’s face fell. ‘So it is.’
‘I’ll cancel, if you’re tired.’
‘No.’ Ting’s face changed, and Kai knew that she was acting Bravely Facing Disappointment. ‘Your mother will have prepared a banquet.’
‘I don’t mind, honestly.’
‘I know, but I really want to be on good terms with your parents. They’re important to you, so they’re important to me. Don’t worry. We’ll go.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You do so much for me. You’re the rock of stability in my life. Your father’s disapproval is a small price to pay.’
‘I think my father secretly likes you, in his heart. He just has to keep up the facade of stern puritanism. And Mother no longer even pretends not to like you.’
‘I’ll win your father over in the end. What brings you here this afternoon? Nothing much to be done at the Guoanbu? Americans being understanding and helpful to China? World peace imminent?’
‘I wish. We’ve got a little problem. Someone has been saying that you criticize the Communist Party.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, what a stupid idea.’
‘Of course. But the report has reached Li Jiankang, and naturally he wants to make the most of it, to damage me. When the minister retires – which can’t be long – Li wants his job, whereas everyone else wants me to have it.’
‘Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry!’
‘So you’re being investigated.’
‘I know who accused me. It’s Jin. He’s jealous. When this show started he was supposed to be the star. But now I’m more popular, and he hates me.’
‘Is there any basis for the accusation?’