Kai saw Ting across the room, looking cute in black jeans and a pink sweatshirt. She was enchanting the show’s producer. Kai had taught himself not to be jealous. This kind of behaviour was part of her job, and half the men she was flirting with were gay anyway.
Kai took a bottle of Yanjing beer. The technicians and the extras were guzzling free booze as fast as they could, but the actors were more circumspect, Kai noticed. Ting’s co-star Wen Jin, who played the emperor, was talking seriously to the studio boss, a subtle piece of self-positioning. Jin was tall and handsome and authoritative, and the boss was a little awestruck, treating him somewhat as if he was in reality the all-powerful ruler he merely played. Other actors seemed more relaxed, chatting and laughing, but they were being charming to the producers and directors who had the power to give them jobs. Like so many parties, this one was work for a lot of the guests.
Ting spotted Kai, came to him and gave him a long kiss on the mouth, probably to make sure everyone knew this was her husband and she loved him. Kai basked in it.
However, he could see that her happy party smile was masking a different emotion, and he knew her well enough to understand that something was troubling her. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said.
Just then the boss of the studio, wearing a black suit, got up on a chair to make a speech, and everyone went quiet. Ting murmured: ‘I’ll tell you in a minute.’
‘Congratulations to the most talented group of people I have ever worked with!’ said the boss, and they all cheered. ‘We have now filmed one hundred episodes of Love in the Palace – and they get better all the time!’ This kind of hyperbole was normal in show business, Kai knew. They probably talked that way in Hollywood, he thought, though he had never been to Los Angeles. ‘And I have some special good news,’ the boss went on. ‘We have now sold the show to Netflix!’
This really was good news, and there was an eruption of cheers.
There were fifty million Chinese people living in other countries, and many of them loved to watch television shows that came from their home country. The best Chinese-made shows were broadcast in the original Mandarin with subtitles in the local language, and made good money for the producers. The traffic was two-way, sort of. Some foreign-made shows were broadcast in China, to help people learning English; but more usually Chinese studios produced shameless imitations of hit American programmes – without paying royalties to the creators. Hollywood complained bitterly about this. Kai, like most Chinese people, laughed at that. The West had exploited China mercilessly for hundreds of years, so Western protests against exploitation struck the Chinese as hilarious.
As soon as the boss stepped down, Ting spoke to Kai in a low voice. ‘I’ve been with one of the writers,’ she said.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘My character is going to fall ill.’
‘With what?’
‘A mystery ailment, but serious.’
Kai did not immediately see the problem. ‘Big drama,’ he said. ‘Your enemies rejoicing spitefully, your friends in tears, your lovers kneeling at the bedside. Gives you the chance to be tragic.’
‘You’ve learned a lot about television scripts, but not about the politics of the studio,’ she said with a touch of irritation. ‘This is what they do when they’re thinking of writing the character out.’
‘You think your character might die?’
‘I asked the writer that, and he was evasive.’
Kai had a dishonourable thought. If Ting left the show, she might retire and have a baby. He dismissed the idea right away. She loved being a star and he would do everything he could to help her keep the job. If she retired, it had to be her wish. He said: ‘But you’re the most popular character.’
‘Yes. When that complaint was made, a month ago, about me criticizing the Party, I felt sure Wen Jin did it out of jealousy. But Jin doesn’t have the power to have me written out. Something else is going on, and I don’t know what.’
‘I think I do,’ said Kai. ‘This is probably nothing to do with you. It’s directed at me. My enemies are trying to get at me through you.’
‘What enemies?’
‘The usual ones: my boss, Fu Chuyu; General Huang, whom I clashed with today; all the old guys with bad haircuts and bad suits. Let me have a word with Wang Bowen.’ Kai knew Wang, the official of the Communist Party responsible for supervising the studio. He looked around and saw Wang’s balding head in the bedroom of the emperor’s number one wife. ‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ he said.
Ting squeezed his arm. ‘Thank you.’
Kai made his way through the crowd. In Ting’s world, all conflicts were imaginary, he reflected. She was not really going to die, it was only the fictional person she played. Perhaps that was what he liked about show business. In his world, the discussion of the Vu Trong Phung was about real people dying.
He buttonholed Wang Bowen.
Wang’s shirt was crumpled, and what little hair he had needed cutting. Kai wanted to say: You represent the greatest communist party in the world – don’t you think you should look smart? But he had a different mission. After a few pleasantries, he said: ‘I’m sure you know that Ting’s character is about to fall ill.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Wang, looking wary.
That confirmed it. Kai then said: ‘Perhaps fatally.’
‘I know,’ said Wang.
So Ting’s suspicion was right.
Kai said: ‘I’m sure you’ve thought about the political issue that might be raised by that storyline?’
Wang looked completely baffled and a bit scared. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Medicine in the eighteenth century was primitive.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Wang said. ‘Almost barbaric.’
‘She could have a miraculous recovery, of course.’ Kai shrugged and smiled. ‘Miracles can happen in idol dramas.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘But you will have to take great care.’
‘I always do,’ said Wang, still bewildered and troubled. ‘But what, in particular, are you thinking of?’
‘The danger of the story being seen as a satire on health care in contemporary China.’
‘Oh, my God!’ This suggestion frightened Wang. ‘How could that happen?’
There was even a tremor in his voice, Kai noticed.
It was not difficult to scare such men. They were terrified of seeming unfaithful to the Party line. Kai said: ‘There are only two ways this story could go. Either the doctors are incompetent and she dies, or the doctors are incompetent but she survives by a miracle. Either way, the doctors are incompetent.’
‘But doctors knew nothing in the eighteenth century.’
‘All the same, I don’t think the Party wants to see the subject of incompetent doctors raised in a popular television drama.’ In township health centres only ten per cent of doctors had formal medical education. ‘I think you know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I do, of course.’ Wang was now in more familiar territory, and he cottoned on fast. ‘Someone might post on social media: “I had a lousy doctor once.” And another person could say: “Me, too.” And before you know it, there’s a national discussion about the competence of our doctors, with people reporting personal experiences on the Internet.’
Kai said: ‘You’re a very intelligent thinker, Wang Bowen, and you have immediately seen the dangers.’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘The production team look to you for guidance on such questions, and you’re well able to help them. It’s a good thing the Party has you to rely on.’
‘It’s always helpful to talk to you, Chang Kai. Thank you for your input.’
Pride was satisfied. Wang had saved face. Kai went back to Ting. ‘I don’t think they will use that storyline,’ he said. ‘Wang has realized that it has unwelcome political implications.’
‘Oh, thank you, my darling,’ she said. ‘But do you think they’ll try something else?’