Huayu: This director is pretty strong.

Chapter 31 Palm Weight

At four in the morning in Cannes, a dull gurgling sound came from the drainpipes in the old town.

Su Wan sat on the creaking wooden chair, carefully mending the torn side seam of her cheongsam by the dim light of the table lamp.

Chen Yan pushed open the door and brought in a damp, cool breeze, carrying a bag of ice he had bought from a convenience store.

"Stop it," he said, pouring ice into the washbasin with a splashing sound. "The satin is too brittle; it won't withstand the force. Even if you sew it up and put it on a red carpet, it will still burst open."

Su Wan pricked her fingertip with a needle; the band-aid from yesterday was still wrapped around it.

"We can't let Qingqiu go out in tattered clothes. The reporters outside have sharp eyes. If they take a picture, tomorrow's newspapers will dare to write that our crew is so poor that they can't even afford underwear."

Chen Yan didn't reply and went into the inner room.

Lin Qingqiu lay on the bed, her forehead covered in cold sweat. The folk remedy ointment that Su Wan had found, mixed with the smell of herbs, lingered in the small room.

"Get up and take an ice bath."

Chen Yan slammed the washbasin onto the bedside table.

Lin Qingqiu propped herself up, looked at the basin of water with ice crystals floating on it, then looked at Chen Yan, her eyes full of doubt.

"There are too many female celebrities dressed up in flamboyant outfits on the red carpet, and the judges are getting tired of it."

Chen Yan tapped his knuckles on the edge of the bed. "I want you to carry a chilling aura, a feeling of being on the verge of breaking, yet also hard and unsettling."

Lin Qingqiu didn't ask why, gritted her teeth, and walked into the bathroom while holding onto the wall.

……

Six o'clock in the afternoon, outside the Palais des Festivals.

Telephoto lenses lined up on both sides of the red carpet, forming a wall.

Lu Haiming sat in the extended Lincoln, watching his colleagues scheming outside the window.

"President Lu, Chen Yan and the others have received their admission passes."

Wang, the comprador, covered his swollen cheek, his speech slurred.

"So what if you get the certificate?"

Lu Haiming straightened his French cufflinks. "I've seen the seating chart. It's a folding chair in the far corner. In Cannes, if you don't sit in the central area, you won't make the headlines no matter what award you win. I've already spoken to the domestic media."

Before the words were finished, a van with peeling paint cut into the entrance to the red carpet passage.

The car door opened, and Zhang Yuan, carrying his worn-out camera bag, jumped out first.

Next was Su Wan, dressed in an outdated black suit, her hands tightly protecting the metal incubator.

Finally, Chen Yan and Lin Qingqiu got off the car one after the other.

The shutter sounds on both sides paused briefly.

Lin Qingqiu was wrapped in that old, dark purple cheongsam.

Her back injury made her walk slightly stiff, and combined with her pale face, which had just been pulled out of the ice water, she exuded a kind of extremely aggressive vulnerability.

"Look this way!"

The AFP reporter was the first to react, shouting out loud.

The sound of camera shutters clicking was continuous.

Chen Yan, dressed in an ordinary black suit, ignored the blinding flashes of light and whispered in Lin Qingqiu's ear, "Don't laugh, don't stop. Behind you isn't a red carpet, it's that collapsed clock tower."

Lin Qingqiu straightened her back, enduring the tearing pain in her lower back, and stepped into the torrential rain of flashing lights.

This vitality, emerging from the ruins and tinged with the stench of blood, is a quality never before seen on the Cannes red carpet.

Upon entering the hall, Pierre was waiting on the steps.

He strode over and whispered in Chen Yan's ear, "The situation is complicated. The jury is debating the 'material' you added at the end; some believe it undermines the purity of the film."

Chen Yan stopped in his tracks.

"Did it compromise purity, or ruin someone's good mood?"

Pierre gave a wry smile and patted him on the shoulder: "Good luck. This place is not only a temple of art, but also a marketplace of power."

……

The rules of Cannes are written on the seating chart.

The Debussy Hall was extremely cold.

The velvet armchairs in the core area belong to the wealthy and famous, while Chen Yan's team's folding chairs were placed in the far corner, out of sight of even the broadcast cameras.

Su Wan gripped Chen Yan's sleeve from below, her palms covered in cold sweat.

Chen Yan grasped her hand in return, his emotions calm, his gaze sweeping over the crowd and landing on Lu Haiming in the third row.

Lu Haiming was talking to the French publisher with his head turned to the side, looking relaxed.

The awards were announced one by one, but "The Night Watch" was not among them.

The Greek director, Christophe, paused for a few seconds as he walked onto the stage.

"This year, I saw a work that used film as a dagger to pierce reality. It destroyed a hypocrisy about art and rebuilt a miracle about dignity."

Christopher opened the envelope, his gaze sweeping across the room before finally settling on a dimly lit corner.

"The Palme d'Or for Best Short Film goes to—'The Night Watch,' by Chen Yan!"

The hall fell silent for a moment.

Then, applause erupted in the enclosed space, vibrating the soundproofing panels on the ceiling.

Su Wan remained seated, tears falling onto the back of her hand.

Zhang Yuan leaped up, causing the folding chair to tip backward, making a loud, jarring noise.

Chen Yan did not move.

He slowly exhaled the stale air from his chest, stood up, and straightened his collar.

He walked very steadily, and when he passed the third row, he did not stop for a moment, but went straight to the blinding light.

Christopher handed over the gold trophy, lowering his voice: "That clock tower collapsed beautifully, young man."

The trophy was heavy, with the cold hardness characteristic of metal.

Chen Yan stood in front of the microphone, looking directly at the broadcast camera below the stage.

"Domestic media will most likely remain silent about my award today."

He spoke, his tone flat and devoid of emotion.

"But I make movies not to pander to the headlines. Movies are megaphones; no matter how many ears you cover, the thunder can't be stopped."

He raised the Palme d'Or with one hand, turned around, and left the stage.

……

The celebration banquet was held at the Martinez Hotel, but Chen Yan and his entourage returned to their leaky fifth-floor apartment.

Lin Shufen broke open a baguette: "Really not going to the party? Vincent is definitely waiting there with the contract."

"He won't see me at the party, but he'll come knocking on my door with a check first thing tomorrow morning."

Chen Yan sat on a folding chair, toying with an unlit red plum blossom.

Lin Qingqiu, who was changing the dressing on the bed, asked, "When will filming for the feature film begin?"

Chen Yan pushed open the window, and the sea breeze from Nice rushed into the room.

"I started preparing for it as soon as I returned to China. The name was changed; it's no longer called 'Rain Sounds in the Old City'."

Zhang Yuan leaned closer: "What's your name?"

"Thunder".

……

At the same time, at the Martinez Hotel.

Lu Haiming slammed the wine glass heavily onto the table, shattering the base of the stemmed glass.

He stared at the sea outside the window, his voice tense: "Find out what he's going to film after he goes back to China. Since he dared to release that roll of film, I have to make him understand that art can't save his life on my turf."

Wang, the comprador, wiped his sweat and said, "I heard he's looking for a martial arts boss named Wu Gang."

Lu Haiming remained silent, wiping the glass shards off the tablecloth with his thumb.

late at night.

The noise in the apartment subsided.

Chen Yan sat alone at the table, unscrewing the rusty film tube.

He probed the metal gap at the bottom with his fingernail and picked out a yellowed strip of paper folded into a square.

It has a name and a number written on it.

This is the account that Lu Haiming spent his entire life trying to bury.

Chen Yan glanced at it, stuffed the note back into the hidden compartment, and locked the lid.