Chapter Sixty-Four: Brother Cannon, Please Don’t Cry

“You reek of alcohol. Hurry up and change your clothes, I’ll wash them for you.”

Early the next morning, Ma Dongmei slipped quietly into Wang Lei’s house. She dragged the hungover Wang Lei out of bed.

Last night’s drinking session had been a raucous affair for everyone involved. After they’d finished off the vintage Maotai brought by Old Zhang, Yu San, caught up in the excitement, produced two bottles from his own collection. Later, Yu San’s son, Yu Zeqing, joined them after work. Thoroughly in their cups, Old Zhang grabbed Wang Lei by the hand and declared he would write a song for him. Then, in front of the whole crowd, he stood on a stool, banging cutlery like a drum, and roared out Li Bai’s “Bring in the Wine” with such heroic gusto that everyone was utterly astonished.

Afterward, the group of tipsy men broke into their own forms of mischief. While overindulgence is certainly nothing to brag about, one has to admit that at times, alcohol can lay bare a man’s true nature.

Wang Lei was relatively quiet compared to the others. Yet in his drunken state, he clung tightly to the hand of the girl beside him, refusing to let go no matter what he did. Ma Dongmei was both annoyed and touched, knowing that Wang Lei was afraid she might leave. In his drunkenness, he revealed his most vulnerable side to her.

Despite his hangover, Wang Lei didn’t feel too uncomfortable; after all, the night’s drinks had all been of the highest quality, leaving him with little ill effect.

After eating the rice porridge and pickles Ma Dongmei had brought from home, Wang Lei felt fully awake.

Ma Dongmei had to go out today. The day before, as they were leaving, Yu San had asked her to return again—he was making soup for Old Master Zhanshan, and Ma Dongmei planned to visit her grandfather as well. Otherwise, the old man would really be angry. Three or four days had passed since her return, and she still hadn’t gone to see him.

Since he’d already promised Old Zhang he would do the work, Wang Lei set to it right away.

Ma Dongmei had wanted to watch her Lei’s creative process, but Wang Lei, with coaxing and a few little tricks, managed to send her out the door.

A guitar, a cup of tea, half a pencil, and an eraser—if Old Zhang had witnessed Wang Lei’s “creative” process, he’d probably have blown a fuse. To a professional, it all looked like a bit of a farce.

No matter how tough it was to transcribe the music, it was still far easier than true composition. Wang Lei, retrieving memories from the depths of his mind, hummed and sang as he scribbled down the lyrics.

Returning to his own studio, Old Zhang finally allowed himself to relax. Things had been busy for him lately. Not only were top singers seeking him out, but old friends were lining up to commission songs. The sensation caused by “Believe in Yourself” had been enormous—after all, no one in the Republic had yet produced a sports song of such style. Even though Old Zhang had clearly credited the songwriter, many believed that without his production, the song wouldn’t have been half as good. So people trusted the renowned Old Zhang far more than the seemingly inexperienced Wang Lei.

Now, Old Zhang could use the excuse of working on his own album to turn everyone down. He was also planning to find a specialist distribution company. These days, only professional firms could handle album releases; otherwise, it was almost certain to lose money. Despite his devoted fan base, even Old Zhang couldn’t guarantee his new album would be a hit.

But Old Zhang was in no hurry. He knew that true creation was never easy. He’d thought that if Wang Lei could hand over three to five songs in three or four months, that would already be fast. If the album could be ready by the third quarter of 2016, it would be a success.

But on the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth lunar month, Wang Lei arrived at Old Zhang’s studio with Ma Dongmei.

“Here you go, Brother Zhang. These are the new songs—five of them. See if you’re satisfied. There are probably plenty of mistakes in the scores; let me sing them for you, and you can make changes as you see fit.”

As soon as they met, Wang Lei handed Old Zhang a stack of densely scribbled papers.

“So fast? Lei, you’re not pulling a fast one on your old brother, are you?”

It had only been two days, and Wang Lei was already here with five new songs. Old Zhang couldn’t help but feel suspicious—this was simply too quick.

He took the papers, still doubtful, and began to read.

“Existence”—that was the title of the first song.

“How many people love, yet seem apart...”

“Springtime”—the next song.

“Still remember those spring days so many years ago...”

“Flying Higher.”

“Life is like a mighty river...”

“Unfurling Life.”

“How many times have these wings been broken...”

Glancing through the first four songs, Old Zhang’s jaw had already dropped. Even without studying them in detail, he could tell that each one was more exhilarating than the last.

He opened the fifth song. The title was utterly direct—“I Love You, China.”

Having grown up in a military compound, Old Zhang knew that people like him had split into two camps. Some became utterly disillusioned with the system, and, having made their fortunes, emigrated as soon as possible to avoid any entanglement. The others became even more patriotic for having grown up in hardship and confusion, their fathers having helped build the nation; imperfect though it was, they loved it all the more. Old Zhang himself was utterly and unapologetically patriotic.

Though he never went into politics and instead chose the rebellious path of music, many believed that rock musicians were all about worshipping the West. In truth, most of these young rockers were simply literary “angry youths.” Compared to ordinary people, their love for their country ran even deeper.

As he savored the fifth song, Old Zhang felt his emotions surge. The melody was rough in places, but the lyrics and tune radiated a profound love.

“Come—let’s try this one first. Never mind the rest; I want to hear it.”

Unable to wait, Old Zhang pulled Wang Lei into the recording booth. He was eager to hear the actual effect, even without any accompaniment.

Wang Lei, guitar in hand, sang “I Love You, China” inside the booth. While he didn’t pour much emotion into it, his voice was perfectly suited to such grand, sweeping music.

When they emerged from the booth, Wang Lei saw a tear-streaked face—Old Zhang’s tears streamed unchecked down his cheeks, leaving Ma Dongmei at a loss.

“What’s wrong?”

“Lei, I have to thank you. This is exactly what I wanted—exactly what I wanted! Ha!”

Moments ago in tears, Old Zhang was now as happy as a child. All that could be said was that people like him felt everything with a rare and genuine intensity.