The Cooked Seed Read Online Free Page B

Afterward, she joined us for the martial arts practice class, and then a rally denouncing Madame Mao.
    The Shanghai Film Studio changed hands within a week. A new production was ready to go on location. We heard that the director was searching for a “fresh image” to star in the film. The new face would represent a stark contrast to Madame Mao’s taste. It would be the face of classic Chinese beauty with a touch of modernism. The production had already started, and the director had become a drugged fly bouncing aimlessly about in a desperate search for his leading lady.
    The director and his men came to our shabby dorm and noticed Chong. They gathered around to analyze the girl’s features. The chief cinematographer remarked that the girl’s face had the possibility of going both ways—proletarian and traditional classic beauty, depending on camera angle and makeup. “A girl that we can work with,” they concluded.
    Little Chen Chong was taken away for test shots. After she returned to the dorm, she showed me a stack of black-and-white photos. I asked how she felt about the photos. She shook her head. “They make me look like a child.”
    The photos were stunningly beautiful. The light, the shadow, and the perspective made her look like a young goddess. There was no doubt in my mind that she was to be a star.
    “Sorry to disturb you.” Chen Chong whispered as she stood outside my mosquito net. She explained that she had climbed down to go to the washroom and was now having difficulty climbing back. She was afraid that she would get tangled in the ropes. She didn’t want to wake everyone by turning on the bare-bulb light. Without the light, she couldn’t get back into her bed.
    “Are you cold?” I asked, sitting up.
    Shivering, the girl nodded.
    I opened the curtain of my mosquito net. “Share my bed if you like.”
    Thrilled, she jumped in.
    The bed was narrow. I let her sleep against the wall so she didn’t have to worry about falling out of bed. I pulled my blankets up to cover her after she was settled. Within minutes, she was sound asleep.
    My thoughts went back to the labor camp and Yan. I missed her. In her last letters, she mentioned no misery, hardship, or hopelessness. She was always good at smiling through bruises. Yet I knew she was reaching the limit of her strength. The labor camp was a beast’s den. She let me know that she felt better when she suffered alone. I was ashamed for not being able to rescue her. I felt as if I had betrayed her.
    The girl’s body was heating up. In her sleep, Chen Chong kicked off her thick sweatpants and her head slid off the pillow. She tossed, seeking the comfort of a pillow. I attempted to lift her head so that I could slide my pillow under her. But she grabbed my arm like a drowning person. I tried to pull my arm away, but she wouldn’t let go.
    With her eyes shut, she pressed her head against my arm as if it were a pillow. I could do nothing but listen to the rhythmic sound of her breathing. What a child, I thought.
    The sky began to break. The sound of the city’s traffic came through the window. My right arm was numb. Chong’s weight grew heavy. I attempted to free my arm, but she held on. I pushed her gently. She was an unmoving rock.
    The light showed Chong’s profile in silhouette. She turned again, revealing her swanlike neck. She wore a tight bra. I wondered how she could breathe—the bra was like foot-binding cloth. In a few months, she would soar to superstardom and become the object of adoration and obsession. Chen Chong would go on to star in American movies. Shewould play the empress in Bernardo Bertolucci’s
The Last Emperor
, which would win nine Oscars, including Best Picture.
    The girl on my arm had velvety-black, beautiful eyelashes. She was blossoming in her sleep. I wondered if she would remember me in the future. We were on two different tracks and headed in opposite directions. It was odd that we should share this moment.
    The first