All she remembered later was the smell of smoke.
The alley is very narrow. There is only enough space between the two walls for two people to pass side by side. There are sheets and underpants hanging on the wires above their heads. When the wind blows, it looks like someone's soul is floating. The pavilion rented by He Tang was at the corner of the stairs on the second floor. When the window was opened, there was someone else's kitchen opposite. The fumes from the braised pork poured in in the evening and stuck to her script, her hair, and every word.
She doesn't hate it. The smells are real, the bones and flesh of the city.
More real than movies.
He Tang chewed an unlit cigarette and walked around the room.
The sky outside the window is getting dark. The lights in the alley were turned on one by one. They were all yellowish incandescent lamps that made other people's lives look like old photos. She heard someone quarreling next door. The Shanghainese dialect was so fast and urgent that she couldn't hear the content clearly. She just felt like a piece of music being played at a fast pace. The tune was wrong, but the mood was right.
She wrote scripts in the pavilion for three years, but none of them were produced. After reading the synopsis, the producer took off his glasses and wiped them: "Director He, audiences now love to watch short dramas with three twists per minute. If you write about a man like this, who will watch it?"
He Tang said nothing. She took the script back and continued writing.
Jiang Jin. The river burned out, and the remaining ashes sank to the bottom of the water, invisible and intangible, but you knew it was there. Just like those half-demolished old houses, with a huge word "demolished" painted on the wall, but gauze curtains are still hung in the windows, and there are still half-dead pothos growing on the balcony. You can't tell if it's alive or dead.
The actor she needs is like a piece of cigarette ashes.
It's that feeling - it's obviously burned to the end and will break, shatter, or scatter in the wind at any time, but it's still connected, maintaining its intact shape, and hanging there tremblingly.
It rained on the day of the casting. There was water at the entrance of the alley, and He Tang rushed to the scene wearing a pair of soaked canvas shoes, with his trouser legs rolled up halfway, as if he had just returned from the vegetable market. The assistant handed her a glass of iced Americano, and she took a sip, frowning in bitterness.
Actors came in one after another. There are good-looking ones, bad-looking ones, professional ones, and wild ones. Some recited their lines like poetry recitations, and some cried until their hearts broke but could not shed a single tear. He Tang leaned on the back of his chair and turned the pen in his hand around and around.
"This is the last one, Director He," the assistant said.
When he walked in, He Tang didn't look up. She was looking through the information of the person in front of her, thinking that if this didn't work, her work today would be in vain.
"Hello, my name is Lu Zhi."
The voice is not high, even a little hoarse. It feels like I just woke up, and I feel like I haven't spoken to anyone in a long time.
He Tang raised his head.
His coat was black and washed until it turned white. The hair is a bit long and hangs in front of the forehead. The rain has not yet dried, and a few strands stick to the temples. He didn't bring his agent, so he held the line sheet in his hand and folded it into a small, square piece, like a white chess piece.
He stood there, not in a hurry to speak, and not deliberately relaxing. He just stood, like a tree that had grown by the side of the road for a long time. No one had watered it or pruned it, but it was still alive, silent and determined.
He Tang suddenly smelled the smell of smoke.
Not his cigarette. It was the cheap cigarettes smoked by the doorman, slowly drifting in from the other end of the corridor, mixed with the smell of rain. But the smell of smoke became very strong at this moment, so strong that He Tang felt that the unlit cigarette on his lips was burning.
"You smoke?" She asked.
Lu Zhi shook his head slightly: "Quit."
Like an old wound that has healed but still hurts.
He Tang took the fake cigarette out of his ear, turned it around in his hand, and then said, "You perform the third scene. Say goodbye to that scene."
No opponents, no scenery, just an empty chair. Lu Zhi walked over and didn't sit down. Instead, he put his hands on the back of the chair, lowered his head and was silent for a while. The whole room was so quiet that you could hear the rain hitting the glass.
Then he started.
The way he said his lines was very special, as if he was recalling something that really happened. There is hesitation in the gaps between every sentence, there is breathing, and there is that sense of adhesion that you want to say but dare not. His hands never left the back of the chair, as if it was the only thing he could hold on to.
When he raised his right hand and stopped in mid-air, He Tang couldn't help but hold his breath.
The hand was shaking slightly. Not because of nervousness, but a more internal tremor, like the aftershock after a string is plucked. What he wants to touch is a person who does not exist - the heroine is standing in front of him, but in fact it is empty. He made the most tender farewell to the air.
The hand did not fall.
Slowly, slowly withdraw it to your side, clenching it into a fist. His fists unclenched and then clenched. His lips moved but no sound came out, but everyone could see those two words clearly——
"Don't leave."
The moment the tears fell, he didn't blink. The tears just fell down on their own, like the rainwater on the eaves being full, naturally. His expression did not break down, and there was even a very faint smile on the corner of his mouth, as if he had known this would happen and had accepted everything.
The whole place was quiet for a long time.
He Tang took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth, put it under his nose and smelled it. There is a faint smell of mint on the cigarette paper, mixed with the hand cream of the girl in the props team. She felt her eyes were a little hot, but she didn't cry. She never cried on set.
"It's just him." He Tang said.
The assistant starts to register information. Lu Zhi came over and shook hands with He Tang. His hand was a bit cold and had distinct joints. He held it lightly but for a long time. When he let go, He Tang found something extra in his palm.
A mint candy. Small sugar cubes, white, wrapped in transparent sugar paper.
"Smelling cigarette smoke all day will make your throat uncomfortable." After Lu Zhi finished speaking, he turned and left.
He Tang looked down at the candy in his palm and suddenly smiled. She took off the prop cigarette pinned to her ear, threw it into the trash can, peeled off the candy wrapper, and put the mint in her mouth.
The coolness spreads from the tip of the tongue to the throat, like the draft in an alley.
Intention:11