A New Variety Show

At six in the morning, the sky over the Port of Hamburg had yet to fully brighten. Su Jin stood in the cockpit of the Jin, a great curved windshield stretching out before her. Beyond it was the gray-blue Elbe River, with mist over the water. The mist was white, the river gray, and the distant shore black.

Su Heng stood beside her, holding a cup of coffee. He did not drink it, just held it as steam rose from the rim and blurred his features.

"This is the helm," he said.

Su Jin looked at the helm. It was wood, deep brown, worn smooth by countless hands over decades. Its surface gleamed like jade, like porcelain, like a stone scoured by river water for too long. She reached out and grasped it.

The wood was cool, but once her palms pressed against it, the chill slowly faded into a dry warmth, like the body heat left behind by someone who had held it.

"A ship doesn't behave," Su Heng said. "You think you're steering it, but really it's steering you. Go along with it, and it listens to you. Go against it, and it still listens, but it gets angry. When it's angry, you can't see it. By the time you do, it's already too late."

Su Jin did not let go. "Has it ever been angry with you?"

Su Heng shrugged. "It has."

"Out on the Pacific Ocean, I ran into a storm. I wouldn't listen to it, and it got angry. The waves battered us for three days and nights, and the ship tilted fifteen degrees. I didn't sleep. I stood at the helm for three days. On the third night, the wind stopped, and the ship righted itself. It wasn't angry anymore."

"Were you afraid?"

Su Heng nodded. "I was."

"When you're afraid, you don't dare let go. If you let go, then you're really afraid. Hold on, and you aren't afraid anymore."

Thoughtful, Su Jin turned the helm five degrees to the left. The bow slowly swung aside, and the water of the Elbe River bumped against the hull with a dull thud, like someone punching a wall a long way off.

Su Heng gazed into the distance without speaking and took a sip of coffee.

By the time the ship reached the North Sea, day had broken.

A small part of the sun showed above the eastern horizon, red but not dazzling, like a blood orange cut in half, its juice running.

The sea was gray-blue, the waves small, and the ship sailed steadily. Su Jin handed the helm over to the first mate and went out on deck.

The sea breeze rushed coldly into her sleeves. She wore a pale green turtleneck cashmere sweater from The Row, light blue straight-leg jeans from Acne Studios, and denim-colored Common Projects sneakers. The wind had blown her hair loose, and a few stray strands clung to the corner of her mouth. She brushed them away with her fingertips.

Su Heng stood beside her. "You learn quickly."

The corners of Su Jin's mouth rose. "The ship behaves."

The horizon stretched in the distance. The horizon was straight, the sky was straight, and she stood upright.

It was afternoon when they returned to the estate.

Su Jin changed clothes and went to the stables.

The white horse was in the innermost stall, its door open. It stood beside a pile of hay, head lowered as it ate. The dry hay was tied into small bundles. It chewed slowly, lifting its head after each swallow to sniff the air before lowering it and continuing to eat.

Su Jin stood in the doorway, wearing a dark gray riding jacket, fitted at the waist, with two silver buttons on each cuff. Beneath it was a white cotton shirt, and she wore fitted breeches and dark brown leather riding boots that reached just below her knees.

Her hair was tied in a low ponytail with a dark gray velvet ribbon, and she wore no makeup.

She walked slowly inside. The horse raised its head, looked at her, and snorted, its warm, damp breath falling on the back of her hand.

She gently stroked its face. Its coat was short and smooth against her palm, like a length of silk that had been washed many times, faded but still gleaming.

It brought its face close and rubbed against her shoulder. It pushed so hard that she swayed, then steadied herself.

She swung onto its back without using the stirrup.

The horse walked slowly, not because she made it, but because it chose to.

It knew she was sitting on its back, knew her hands were light, knew she would not strike it, squeeze it with her legs, or tug at its mouth with the reins. So it walked slowly and steadily, taking a step, pausing until she was settled, then taking the next.

Su Jin leaned forward against its neck. The braids in its mane brushed her cheek, tickling her.

Her eyes were closed. She did not watch the path; the horse knew the way. It had run for many years and could run it with its eyes closed.

That evening, Su Jin called Zhao Mingyuan.

"Open a riding stable in Beijing, outside the Sixth Ring Road. No indoor arena, just an outdoor one. The grass has to be real grass, and the sand real sand. The stables should be big, one stall per horse, with the doors left open so they can come out for a walk when they don't want to stay inside. The track doesn't have to be regulation, just big enough to run on. We don't need many horses. Buy five to start: three riding horses and two ponies for children to ride."

Zhao Mingyuan was silent on the other end of the line for a long time. "President Su, you really do have more and more ideas."

Su Jin gave a huff and hung up.

Zhao Mingyuan was left silent on the other end of the line. "All right, I'll arrange it."

The Nüwa film was being shot in Xinjiang.

The location was a grassland at the foot of the Tian Shan, with snowcapped mountains in the distance and grassland close by. A river ran across the grassland. It was not wide, and the water was clear. The stones on the riverbed were white, their edges worn smooth by years of running water.

By the time Su Jin arrived, it was nearly dark. The sun was setting behind the snowcapped mountains, their peaks gold, their slopes purple, and their feet black. The three colors crowded together, none willing to give way to the others.

She stepped out of the car in a long black down coat zipped up to her chin and a pair of UGG snow boots. Her hair hung loose, and she wore a thin layer of light makeup.

Fang Ying followed behind, carrying a thermos.

The director was waiting for her by the monitor, a script in his hand, open to the page where Nüwa was Mending Heaven. The corners of the page were curled from being turned so many times.

Su Jin changed into Nüwa's ceremonial robes.

Black silk covered her from head to foot. The red trim of the collar lay against her jaw, and the sun, moon, and stars at her waist gleamed gold and silver, with the light of tiny diamonds, in the last rays of sunset.

She walked barefoot onto the grass by the river. The ground was wet, and cool dew seeped between her toes, like a gentle lick from an icy tongue.

She stood there, feet together, back straight, arms hanging at her sides.

The director called, "Roll!"

She raised her head and looked at the sky. The sky had split open.

But she did not cry, did not panic, did not fall to her knees and beg the gods and Buddhas for help. She only looked. She stared for a long time at the crack only she could see, then lowered her head and began kneading clay. The clay was not in her hands, but in her heart.

She kneaded it for a long time, until the clay softened, until it was worked through, until it had warmth, breath, and memory.

The director watched, entranced, and did not call cut. No one behind the monitor spoke. The cameraman had the camera on his shoulder and forgot to change lenses.

Everyone was watching her. She stood in the heavens, among the stars, looking down at the earth.

There was no expression on her face. No, it was not that she had no expression. There was one, but no one had ever seen it before.

Later, when film critics wrote about that scene, they used the word "divinity." Not "acting," but "divinity."

She stood there, not playing Nüwa. She was Nüwa. When Nüwa was Mending Heaven, she was not mending heaven, but the cracks in people's hearts. The cracks were too small to see, but she saw them. She stood among the stars and did not come down.

The director finally called, "Cut!" He stood up, knocking over his chair, but did not right it.

He walked over to the monitor and watched a replay of the scene. When it was over, he sat down. The chair had fallen over, but he did not pick it up.

He drew a breath. "That's enough. We don't need another take. This is Nüwa."

No one spoke.

Su Jin walked back from the grass barefoot, her feet covered in mud and dew, like an immortal maiden who had just descended to the mortal world.

She took the thermos from Fang Ying and drank some water. It was warm.

"Was that good?"

The director hurriedly nodded. "Yes, yes."

When Su Jin returned to the hotel, her phone vibrated.

Zhao Mingyuan had sent her a message.

"President Su, Zhejiang Television's 'Poetry Across China' has invited you to be a guest. It's an S-tier variety show, one of the top three in the country by ratings. Each episode goes to a different place, reads a poem, and walks a stretch of road.

"They want to invite you to Dunhuang to read Wang Wei's 'On a Diplomatic Mission to the Frontier.' They say you're the only one who can bring out its flavor."

Su Jin looked at the words and typed a few of her own: "The chanyu flees, and the generals are granted marquisates."

Zhao Mingyuan could make neither head nor tail of it. "Will you take it?"

Su Jin gave a soft laugh. "I'll take it."

She put her phone face down on the bedside table.

A light rain was falling on the Tian Shan outside the window. The sound of it striking the glass did not sound like rain, but like someone far away cooking a pot of very thick porridge, bubble, bubble, bubble.

She turned over, pulled the covers up to her chin, and closed her eyes.