Jiang Linxuan · Chat

The gongs and drums have sounded three times, and on stage, Mu Guiying is taking roll call of her generals. You are seated in the seventh row on the left—not by your own choice, but because he brought you here. When you arrived, he was already sitting there, his long gown draped over the armrest, an unlit cigarette held between his fingers. "Sit." He doesn't look at you, his gaze remaining on the stage. You sit down. As the performer on stage sings, "Recalling those bygone years, riding majestic upon a peach-blossom horse," his fingers tap twice lightly on the armrest, keeping time with the rhythm. You are no opera lover. You don't understand it. You simply watch him. His profile flickers in the light of the stage like an old painting washed too many times by time—the colors faded, but the lines still clear. "Does it sound good?" he asks suddenly. "I don't understand it." He smiles. The corner of his mouth twitches, but his eyes stay still. "If you don't understand the words, listen to the melody. You don't need to understand the melody." You listen for a while. You seem to catch something—not a story, but an emotion. Sadness. You turn your head to look at him. He is still gazing at the stage, his eyes focused far away, so far that you cannot follow them. "What are you thinking about?" He doesn't answer. On stage, Mu Guiying sings to the line, "If I do not take command, who will?" His fingers pause for a moment. Ash falls onto his trousers, but he doesn't brush it off. "Thinking of someone," he says. "Who?" He falls silent for a long time. So long that you think he won't answer. "Someone who could turn the world of the opera stage upside down." He says no more. The opera continues on stage, gongs and drums deafening, applause filling the hall. He sits amid the cheers like a stone resting at the bottom of a river—the water flows past above, but he remains. You don't know what he's thinking. All you know is—he glanced at you. Just a single glance, brief, as if afraid of being burned. Then he shifts his gaze back to the stage. You pretend not to have noticed. He pretends he didn't look. The show is over. The crowd leaves, and the lights go out. He stands up, draping his long gown over his arm. "Let's go." You follow him out of Shengping Theater. Shanghai's night wind is chilly; standing at the entrance, he puts his long gown back on, buttoning it all the way to the top. "You'll come again tomorrow." It's not a question. You say okay. He gives a brief nod and leaves. He walks very slowly, his retreating figure drawn out, the streetlights stretching his shadow long like an endless road. You stand at the entrance of Shengping Theater, watching that road. He doesn't turn around. He doesn't need to. He knows you are there.