12 Wheat

Wheat had written plays, television dramas, and films. He owned a traditional courtyard house in Beijing, living comfortably without worries about food or clothing. Yet, it had been three years since he last wrote a script.

Three years ago, he wrote "The Final Testament," about a starving thief who, while breaking into a house, discovered the owner's will. After eating and drinking his fill, the thief decided to search for the owner's corpse. The film was banned from screenings due to rule violations and severely punished. Despite receiving high praise at film festivals, it never saw a theatrical release.

Three years later came "The Tremor of the Earth."

Unlike Wheat's previous style, "The Tremor of the Earth" was a somewhat tender story.

Zhao Yingmei, a 34-year-old woman, was born deaf in her left ear, and her right ear was rapidly losing hearing. Within six months, she would be completely deaf.

At the same time, her unfaithful husband was planning a divorce, their child had failed the lottery for elementary school enrollment, and the restaurant where she worked part-time was preparing to dismiss her due to her irritable temper and frequent quarrels with customers.

When friends asked what she intended to do, Zhao Yingmei gave an unexpected answer: "I want to dance with Wang Jing."

Wang Jing was a dancer who had just won the professional modern dance category at the Blackpool Dance Festival in the UK.

When Zhao Yingmei was a child from an ordinary family, she would pass by the dance rehearsal room at the youth center every day on her way home, secretly watching for a long time. Boys her age practiced in front of mirrors; dance partners blossomed in their arms like dahlias.

Occasionally, the boy’s eyes met hers.

Thus, Zhao Yingmei learned the name Wang Jing — a prodigy who had already achieved fame at a young age.

But Wang Jing did not know her.

It was absurd, ridiculous. Everyone mocked her for overestimating herself, for being unappreciative, for daydreaming.

"I want to dance with Wang Jing just once," Zhao Yingmei said, a rare moment of unwavering resolve. "Just once, while I can still hear."

Chi Xing never told anyone why she was moved by "The Tremor of the Earth."

Zhao Yingmei reminded her of her mother, Sun Juanjuan.

In those chaotic days, people cling desperately to the only light they have. Chi Xing still remembered her mother in a dance dress, spinning and stretching before the mirror in the studio, as happy as a stranger.

In Zhao Yingmei, she saw a faint reflection of Sun Juanjuan.

It was the first script reading session. Apart from the director, screenwriter, and three producers, the attendees were mainly lead actors and core crew members, packed tightly in a circle.

Chi Xing arrived too late. Pei Yuan and Wheat clearly had no intention of repeating the earlier process for her. The introductions were already done, roles assigned, and the first five scenes read through.

Chi Xing had to rely on the conversation to guess everyone's identity.

The sixth scene involved Zhao Yingmei’s child discovering his father’s affair at home. The child and father had a few minutes of dialogue before the father slapped the child. Zhao Yingmei returned home just then.

Chi Xing only had two lines: "This is my house, get out," and "I find you disgusting."

The actor playing Zhao Yingmei’s husband was Zhang Min, whom Chi Xing had worked with before. He wore glasses and looked refined. Their costume drama aired last year to good reviews. Zhang Min played a gentle and cultured civil official, well-loved by audiences.

Chi Xing was curious how he would portray a violent, irritable, and crude husband.

The actor playing her son was absent due to a school physical test and could not get leave. The boy was only in first grade. Wheat stood in for him to act opposite Zhang Min.

Neither put much emotion into the reading; they simply recited the lines flatly. After one read-through, Zhang Min pointed out a clumsy spot: "Hong Shifeng is from Shanxi, right? The dialogue is too formal; it should be changed to dialect and colloquial speech."

Wheat nodded, making a note. "Okay, no problem. Zhang Min, are you from Shanxi?"

Zhang Min chuckled: "My wife is from Shanxi. Alright, I’ll have her help with the dialect."

The props team leader asked Pei Yuan, "In this scene, do we smash the TV completely, or just break the screen?"

Pei Yuan replied, "Hong Shifeng, what do you think?"

Zhang Min said, "Not completely. Hong Shifeng didn’t expect Zhao Yingmei to have the divorce papers ready—he’s still a bit shocked in this scene..." He flipped the page. "The next scene is at the restaurant where he hits Zhao Yingmei and realizes he might be at a disadvantage, having to pay her compensation."

The props leader pressed, "What does the director say?"

Pei Yuan: "We’ll see how the mood is on set. If we’re afraid of breaking it completely, get a couple of spares."

The leader whispered, "Damn, Pei Yuan, do you think TVs are easy to find everywhere? Teacher Wheat specified the brand and model. I’ll have to hunt around. If I can’t find them..."

A producer cut in, "If you can’t, just make a shell to cover it up. No big deal. Keep going."

The leader fell silent.

Chi Xing enjoyed listening to their disputes.

The real fun of a script reading was in the arguments. She had even seen actors and screenwriters banging tables in heated debates while the director turned to ask others if they wanted coffee and ordered some for everyone. When the coffee arrived, they drank and argued passionately.

But today, no loud quarrels were expected—the producer was controlling the scene.

Pei Yuan rarely spoke. She wore no makeup, tied her hair in a ponytail, and mostly listened.

Wheat was entirely different from his online persona: polite, steady, not at all the kind to casually make crude remarks to women, as Chi Xing had imagined.

Arriving late, Chi Xing missed Wheat’s earlier explanations to the main cast. Pei Yuan, the producer, and investors had an early dinner, ending the reading ahead of schedule.

Chi Xing glanced at the time: 4:30 p.m., an awkward moment between meals—too early for dinner, too late for lunch.

Everyone began to leave. Zhang Min raised his eyebrows at Chi Xing, nodding toward Wheat, who was looking down at his phone.

Chi Xing understood the hint to talk to Wheat and nodded quickly.

"Hello, Teacher Wheat," she greeted him. "Sorry I’m so late..."

She briefly explained the reason for her delay and mentioned why she was accompanied by a bodyguard.

To her surprise, Wheat listened carefully and nodded. "I’ve heard about it. Was that person caught?"

Chi Xing: "Yes, detained for fifteen days."

Wheat: "That’s too short."

Chi Xing smiled and opened her script, covered with tiny sticky notes and pencil annotations.

"...You’re interesting," Wheat suddenly said.

Chi Xing was taken aback. "What?"

Wheat: "Offended me, yet you still come to talk to me."

Now it was Chi Xing’s turn to be surprised. "Aren’t you the one who offended me?"

Wheat paused, then laughed heartily, slapping the table.

Chi Xing responded with her trademark smile—sweet, beautiful, yet sharp.

"Interesting, you really are interesting!" Wheat said, flicking out a cigarette, asking, "Mind if I smoke?"

Chi Xing: "Yes, I do."

Wheat: "I remember you smoked too, right? There’s smoke in that Lan Kwai Fong photo—you looked stunning with that white camellia cigarette."

Listening to Wheat mention the "white camellia" again, Chi Xing didn’t feel offended. She realized he wasn’t making a crude joke but simply spoke without restraint or filter.

Wheat didn’t even look at her as he spoke, as if describing a scene he imagined, the unlit cigarette between his fingers.

"Have you seen ‘The Whistling Wind’? Bai Ping, camellias, do you know them?" Wheat said animatedly. "‘I’ say Bai Ping is the most beautiful rose tonight. Bai Ping says no, I am everyone’s camellia. Amazing, really amazing! Camellias! Heavy, rich, when they die, they fall all at once—it’s incredible!"

Chi Xing: "..."

Wheat, lost in his world, continued: "Xu Xu wrote about Bai Ping as a lily, wrote it many times—smiling like a lily, dressed like a lily... But Bai Ping said she was a camellia. Why? Tell me why."

Chi Xing: "I haven’t seen it."

After a moment, Wheat opened his eyes and abruptly changed the subject: "So, want to smoke together?" He flicked the pack toward her. "Try it. I brought it from Berlin. It’s strong."

Chi Xing: "I don’t smoke anymore."

Wheat lit his cigarette. "Sorry, I have to. Bodyguard, turn on the air purifier, please. I need some stimulation in my head to stay sharp when talking about the script."

He glanced at Zhou Mang. "People need some driving force to do things they wouldn’t dare do before. What kind of stimulation do women like? Love? Desire? Money? Tell me everything."

Chi Xing asked, "What do you think drives Zhao Yingmei to have such an unreasonable wish?"

Wheat grinned.

Chi Xing seized the moment to steer his rambling back to the script. He asked, "What’s your answer?"

Chi Xing: "...Regret."

As she and Zhou Mang left the Guangcai Theatre, night had fully fallen.

Inside, a play was underway. The audience was seated, and faint music thrummed softly.

Chi Xing ran back up the steps, placing her hand on the theater’s entrance door.

The wooden door was wide and heavy, trembling faintly beneath her palm with the sounds from inside.

At first, she hadn’t understood the meaning of the title "The Tremor of the Earth." But by the final moment, she realized: Zhao Yingmei, who was losing her hearing, stood on the earth where the world was utterly silent to her.

All she could feel was the tremor of her soul, blood, and bones—the music and others’ dance steps shaking the ground beneath her feet.

In that moment, Chi Xing deeply empathized with the woman, not yet fully visible on the page.

Her exchange with Wheat went smoothly. She didn’t perceive his earlier remarks as offensive. Words like "white camellia" and "men want to keep her at home" were not repeated.

Of course, he never apologized.

Men’s judgments of women were taken as natural. All men inherently claimed the right to judge: whether a woman was beautiful, desirable, or good—though her beauty, desire, and existence had nothing to do with them.

Chi Xing’s impression of Wheat remained unresolved. She despised that condescending attitude.

The nonsense on the internet hadn’t left her unaffected; she had already thought of many sharp retorts to throw back at Wheat.

But upon learning he was the screenwriter of "The Tremor of the Earth," her rebellious courage vanished.

In its place came the slickness honed by adulthood through life and work.

...I am no better.

She turned and walked down the steps, her steps light.

"I want ice cream," she told Zhou Mang.

Zhou Mang was asking He Yue for the styling photos of Chi Xing taken in the studio that day.

He Yue was showing off the pretty shots in their group chat; Zhou Mang messaged her privately, and she obediently sent a bunch.

He put away his phone, looked at Chi Xing: "...You’d rather sleep four hours a day and go for morning runs, eating only salad for lunch and dinner. Do you even know how many calories are in an ice cream?"

Good, daring to criticize the employer—no, the client’s habits. Chi Xing thought, this person has changed.

She looked up and clearly stated again: "I want ice cream."

Zhou Mang gave in: "Fine."

He bought two cones from the theater’s convenience store, one for each of them. They sat on a bench beside the theater. Above them, the maple leaves had mostly turned red, shining brilliantly under the streetlights, a dazzling blaze in the dark night.

"Do you remember when we ate ice cream together before?" Chi Xing asked between bites. "In winter."

Of course, Zhou Mang remembered. Before he could speak, Chi Xing continued.

"I even groped your chest..." She opened her hand, still wrapped in gauze, reaching toward Zhou Mang’s chest.

Before she could touch him, Zhou Mang suddenly grabbed her palm, refusing to let her move an inch.

They struggled a bit, and she realized he was using real strength; she couldn’t break free, and the wound on her palm twinged slightly.

She frowned, and Zhou Mang immediately loosened his grip, but his hand slid to her wrist and clenched tightly.

Chi Xing couldn’t escape.

"...If I can’t touch it, then I won’t," she smiled. "Why so fierce? You’re so petty, no girl would like you..."

She wore a white hoodie; her loosely curled long hair was casually tied to one side, resting on her shoulder. Though she had removed her makeup, her brows and eyes were like ink; her cheeks glowed faintly in the night light. Her lips parted lightly, deliberately saying things to annoy Zhou Mang.

"White camellia," Wheat had described Chi Xing that way.

Zhou Mang suddenly recalled her peach-scented kiss.