Chapter Six: That's Right, I Am a Master of Deception!

A dozen or so minutes later, the extras had all finished preparing, and Assistant Director Guan Lan promptly announced the start of filming.

“Departments in position, actors in position. ‘Twilight of the Forbidden City,’ Scene Two, Act One, action!”

At Guan Lan’s command, the cameraman trained his lens on the street where the scene was to unfold.

Through the monitor, the first shot showed the “Peace and Prosperity” Spring Festival banner being trampled, one heavy boot after another. Guan Lan called out approvingly, “Pull back the shot—civilians, run!”

“Run! The foreign devils are about to storm the city!” At this shout, the extras broke into a panicked sprint. Chaos erupted.

“Keep pulling back—soldiers, enter!”

“Out of the way! Make way for the army! Don’t block the road!” Another shout, and the extras playing Qing soldiers, frantic yet still overbearing, pushed through the streets, scattering chickens and dogs in their wake.

“Keep rolling!”

The cameraman smoothly panned back. The scene was filled with panic: a wealthy merchant had lost his trunk, a young lady ran with one shoe missing, a woman was knocked to the roadside and wept, and children separated from their parents wailed, “Mother! I want my mother! Waaah…”

Everyone onscreen was moving, everyone was in disarray.

But when the camera reached the street corner, a figure appeared on the monitor—utterly still, as if sculpted from stone.

The cameraman’s hand trembled at the sight: in the midst of the chaos, an old man sat upright at the street corner, his back ramrod straight, the image so jarring and out of place that the camera jolted.

“Hey?!” Behind the monitor, Guan Lan’s head shot up. “Cut! Cameraman, what the hell was that? What are you shaking for?”

“Sorry, Director! Zoned out for a moment.” The cameraman flushed, bowing in apology.

“What were you up to last night? It’s barely morning, pull yourself together!”

“Got it, Director. Don’t worry.”

“Back to one, everyone—let’s reset.”

Amid a chorus of grumbling, the extras returned to their starting marks.

“Departments ready, and action!”

“Run! The foreign devils are about to storm the city!”

…

“Out of the way! Make way for the army! Don’t block the road!”

…

“Mother! I want my mother! Waaah…”

The camera jolted to a halt again.

“Cut!!”

Two consecutive mistakes had Guan Lan furious. She rose to her feet and strode over to the cameraman, script rolled up in her fist.

“What’s going on? Did you leave your brain at home or come down with Parkinson’s? Twice now—you can’t manage a simple pan? Why do you keep stopping here?!”

The cameraman, stung by the rebuke, felt wronged. He adjusted the shot back to the troublesome spot.

“It’s not me—this character’s jinxed! Take a look for yourself, Director!”

He zoomed in.

There sat Li Shixin, calm and upright, hands resting on his knees at the roadside. His face, aged and disheveled, bore a numbness tinged with grief, and that grief seemed to carry a hint of defiance. Clearly a beggar, yet his back was straight as a soldier’s.

Guan Lan’s eyes widened at the image.

“Wasn’t this spot supposed to be a beggar?”

Stunned by Li Shixin’s stark contrast with his surroundings, Guan Lan was momentarily speechless.

“Director, what’s wrong?” Zhang Shuo, the extra coordinator, noticed something was amiss and hurried over. Seeing Li Shixin on the monitor, he slapped his thigh.

He’d known this old man wouldn’t be easy to handle! And now, pulling a stunt like this—who ever saw a beggar sitting that straight? This was a joke!

“Director Guan, wait here. I’ll chase this old man off right now. He’s making trouble on purpose!”

With that, Zhang Shuo strode over.

Behind him, the cameraman replayed the footage twice, reviewing the scene. Guan Lan also stood and followed.

…

There were only two scenes to shoot that morning: the current city-wide flight, and then the Allied forces entering the city. Both were manpower-heavy set pieces.

But after two failed takes, the extras’ patience was wearing thin. It was already autumn, but the heat was unrelenting. Most extras were fine, but those playing Qing soldiers were sweltering in layered costumes, some even in armor, stifling and uncomfortable. Lacking orders, they dared not move, and simply sat on the ground, fanning themselves with their sleeves and complaining.

At that moment, Zhang Shuo, fuming, marched over to Li Shixin and unleashed a tirade:

“Sir, are you doing this on purpose? What’s with your performance? You’re supposed to be a beggar—this is how you act? The whole shoot stopped twice because of you. Don’t you care about everyone else’s time and effort?”

The extras, puzzled about the repeated “cut” calls, had thought the issue was with the camera. Now, hearing Zhang Shuo and seeing Li Shixin’s posture, they understood.

Complaints broke out among the extras.

“Enough! I can’t work with you, sir. If you keep fooling around, you’ll cost me my job. Take off the costume and makeup—wherever you came from, go back. I can’t accommodate you!”

Seething, Zhang Shuo reached to strip Li Shixin of his costume.

“Wait!”

Before he could touch Li Shixin, Guan Lan’s voice interrupted.

“Director, I’ll handle this. You can go rest, it’ll be settled soon!” Zhang Shuo, thinking Guan Lan had come to investigate, quickly apologized.

But Guan Lan waved him off and studied the Buddha-like, unmovable Li Shixin again.

She crouched down and asked, “Old man, I remember I asked you to play a beggar, didn’t I?”

Li Shixin wasn’t putting on airs—he was considering whether to try some other stunt. This bit part was a rare opportunity, and his time was running short. He’d been in Chengdu for two days now; if this yielded nothing, it would be a real loss.

Hearing Guan Lan’s question, he slowly opened his eyes and, seeing it was the director, nodded lightly.

“That’s right—you asked me to play a beggar.”

“Then why doesn’t your beggar look like a beggar?” Guan Lan frowned, her gaze searching.

With the director’s question, the crowd chimed in, “Exactly! What kind of beggar sits like that? Stiffer than the gentry! Look at your back—so straight! In ancient times, a beggar like that would get beaten to death!”

Untroubled by the jibes, Li Shixin replied in a low voice, “There are all kinds of beggars.”

“Oh? Then tell us, what kinds of beggars are there?” an extra asked, grinning.

“Some beggars, they struggle day to day just for a bite to eat, scraping by.

Some beggars, having lost everything, are hollowed out—alive in body but dead in spirit, mere walking corpses.

But there are beggars born into chaos, lives adrift like duckweed. Yet give them a single spark, and they’ll set themselves alight to bring a little light to the world. That’s the kind of beggar I’m playing.”

“Oh?” Guan Lan smiled. “So you’ve given your character a bit of inner life? What about lines—did you come up with any?”

“Of course.”

“Let’s see it, then.”

Li Shixin nodded. Amid the mocking stares, he began.

“Sir soldier, have mercy. Spare an old man a steel blade you no longer need!”

Summoning all his dignity, he opened his eyes wide, voice ringing out over the extras dressed as soldiers who had mocked him.

The set fell silent.

Li Shixin had used the humblest words to express a boundless, tragic heroism. Guan Lan leapt to her feet.

“Still missing a little something! Can you give me more fire?”

“I can.”

Li Shixin considered, then nodded.

Under astonished eyes, he beckoned to the stunned Zhang Shuo.

“You—come here.”

“Ah, sure!” Zhang Shuo, sensing a shift in the director’s attitude, suspected she’d taken a liking to the old man. At Li Shixin’s summons, he stepped forward.

“Give me your hand.”

“Alright!”

Li Shixin examined Zhang Shuo’s plump palm, then calmly picked up a chipped bowl at his side.

“Put your hand on the bowl.”

“What are you—ahhh!”

Before Zhang Shuo could finish, Li Shixin pressed the broken edge against Zhang’s fingertip. Blood welled instantly.

“I need a little blood.”

“If you need blood, cut your own! Why cut mine?”

“Nonsense! You want to see an old man suffer?”

So you cut mine instead?! Zhang Shuo grumbled but, seeing Guan Lan watching approvingly, could only grit his teeth, “No, I don’t. But please, be gentle—my blood pressure’s low...”

“Enough talk!”

Ignoring Zhang Shuo’s yelps, Li Shixin tore a jagged strip from his ragged costume.

He seized Zhang Shuo’s finger and, using the blood, wrote two lines on the cloth.

The calligraphy was formal, bold, and full of spirit.

“Beautiful writing!” Guan Lan exclaimed, studying the two lines.

“Departments, ready! Cameraman, you said the old man was jinxed? In a moment, give me a close-up—start with that bloodied strip, then pan up from his feet to his face. Understood?”

“No problem, Director!”

“Everyone, get ready—let’s go!”

The production, stalled for over ten minutes, was finally in motion again.

“‘Twilight of the Forbidden City,’ Scene Three, action!”

The shoot began.

On the monitor, the “Peace and Prosperity” banner was again trampled underfoot.

“Run! The foreign devils are about to storm the city!”

The camera pulled back—panicked civilians fleeing desperately.

The streets were chaos: the merchant who’d lost his trunk, the lady missing a shoe, the woman weeping at the roadside, the child howling for his mother.

“Out of the way! Make way for the army! Don’t block the road!”

A squad of Qing soldiers, rifles at the ready and swords at their hips, rushed through the streets, scattering everything before them.

Everyone was moving, everything was chaos.

But then, the camera halted.

At the street corner, a beggar sat as still as a statue, hands on his knees.

Time seemed to freeze.

His eyes were half closed, a filthy braid wound round his neck, gray-white hair fluttering in the wind, his face steeped in grief.

In front of him, a rag was held down by two small stones. On it, two lines of bold calligraphy:

A single steel blade for the asking,

This frail body offered to the nation!

The words were written in blood, now dried.

Watching the monitor, the stark contrast of motion and stillness brought the turmoil of May 1900 vividly to life. Guan Lan, moved, sprang to her feet.

She clapped her hands hard.

“Beautiful! That’s a take!”