Chapter 78: Jumping to Conclusions Like This Isn’t Fair

No matter if a girl comes from a military family deep in the mountains or from a poor household in a provincial city, everyone harbors a playful spirit at heart.

Zhang Lanzhi’s half-hearted resistance was mostly due to seeing the script they’d put together, but perhaps even more so because she was tempted by Dong Xueqing’s transformation after makeup—such a striking change from her usual self. She was clearly curious and wanted to give it a try herself.

Still, her attire really did require some pointers from Weidong.

He described to her what he’d seen in Shanghai—a “flight attendant.” At that time, no one in the country really knew what that was, or that those two words carried a special meaning.

So, for the costume, Zhang Lanzhi had to take off her military jacket. She always wore a crisp white shirt, buttoned all the way up to her throat, the hem neatly tucked into her trousers—a very upright, proper appearance.

From a distance, Weidong directed the university student makeup artists to help the actress unbutton the collar by just one or two buttons. Then another girl tied a scarf around her neck. “No, no, no, it’s not a red scarf, and not like that either…” he said, unable to articulate exactly what he meant. In his memory, it was more like the image of Aunt Shi from her thirties or forties that he was recalling, and he struggled to match it to the flight attendant look he’d glimpsed in those short videos.

They fiddled with the knot of the scarf for a long time, while Zhang Lanzhi kept her neck tilted without complaint. In the end, someone casually shifted the knot to the side, and Weidong exclaimed, “Yes, that’s it!”

That was the right touch.

Zhang Lanzhi’s natural poise already exuded a certain dignified aura. When she learned to fold her hands in front of her abdomen in that service posture, she truly looked the part of a flight attendant.

They snapped a photo: “Today is our tenth wedding anniversary. I want to give him a memory he’ll never forget…”

With her dignified gesture, she indicated the bed behind her, where Weidong was buried under the covers, feigning deep sleep. In reality, it wasn’t even a real bed—just a few benches from the campus convenience store, covered with blankets and sheets to get the idea across.

Zhang Lanzhi was in great form—it was as if all women were born actresses.

But she resembled a little girl from the Third Front factory district, playing house with her friend from next door. She cradled a steaming hot towel and came to the bedside, half-squatting in a gesture of service: “A life of luxury, you deserve it…”

Before the just-awakened, yawning Weidong could even see her face clearly, the wet towel landed with a smack on his face.

Caught completely off guard in “sleep,” he bounced up in exaggerated surprise, like a folding phone snapping open.

Many people surrounded Yusonghai to take pictures, while others couldn’t help but burst out laughing—the scene was already reminiscent of an absurdist comedy.

Only Dong Xueqing frowned, wondering if there was some hidden meaning. After all, she and her sister really did wake Weidong up that way in the morning, except it was washing a baby’s face.

Next, in a proper fashion, they wheeled over a “meal cart” covered in a white cloth, which was really just a wooden box draped with fabric. The tall secretary even had to bend over to push it.

But it was piled with sodas, yogurt bottles, and canned fruit from the campus shop, creating an abundant display.

The acting lesson paid off—her gestures as she announced, “Morning! Coffee, tea…” were spot-on and carried a sense of authenticity.

Some of the students were already surprised: “This military lady’s English pronunciation is pretty good, she’s got the accent!”

“Yes, it sounds like the foreign teachers at our school,” another agreed.

If Aunt Shi had been there, she would have picked up the difference immediately.

For Weidong, with his county-level school “mute English,” being able to pronounce a few drink names was already impressive.

He pointed, “Tea!”

This was Zhang Lanzhi’s true area of expertise. She gracefully picked up a white porcelain teapot from the box, bowed with perfect etiquette, and poured a cup without spilling a drop—shutters clicked all around.

Weidong even had a line: “Wow, I haven’t had this kind of treatment in ten years of marriage.”

Zhang Lanzhi forced a smile, half amusement, half irony: “Would you like some rock sugar with that?”

Indeed, in some places, people do add sugar to their tea. The man, playing it up, answered, “Sure, let’s have some!”

Clatter—she grabbed a huge handful of rock sugar and dumped it into the cup, piling it up like the ice cubes in a club girl’s cocktail, forming a small mountain.

One cup could cause diabetes on the spot.

The surrounding crowd burst into muffled laughter and rapid camera clicks, and someone cleverly zoomed in for a close-up of the sugar-laden cup.

Even if they didn’t yet recognize the postmodern technique of deliberate exaggeration that often signals a twist, the earnest college students were already giggling uncontrollably.

Because Weidong, with his lead, was about to switch scenes, and even Zhang Lanzhi’s after-work smile followed suit with ease.

She immediately assumed her service persona again: “Would you like zongzi or sushi for breakfast?”

The man feigned delight: “Sushi? So fancy?”

The next shot showed a floral towel being carelessly stuffed into the man’s collar, parodying the pretentious napkin-wearing of the upper class.

Then, using an enamel plate and bowl found at the campus shop, Weidong played along with a staged “wow.”

Anyone who lived through the eighties knew there wasn’t an undamaged piece of enamelware in existence—these two props were battered and scarred, yet they insisted on playing up the sense of luxury.

The contrast was striking.

Thanks entirely to Zhang Lanzhi’s long, capable hands, she mimicked the British butler’s gesture to reveal a rice ball beneath the bowl, adorned with a symbolic strip of black paper as “seaweed.”

She even used a knife and fork to eat it with a gentleman’s air.

It was a vivid satire of aping Western manners.

Modern viewers, used to short-form videos, would instantly anticipate a twist, but even Yusonghai was now taking the plot more seriously, sensing unexpected depth.

They continued with scenes of sending the husband off with an umbrella, diligently massaging his legs and shoulders in the office, and finally a lavish dinner at a restaurant outside the campus, with over a dozen dishes for the grand finale.

The “husband” was still gleefully puzzled: “Have you changed? I’ve never been so satisfied in my life!”

With elegant air, the “stewardess wife” checked her watch and her expression snapped to after-hours mode: “Ah, today’s anniversary service is now over. Here’s the bill for one hundred and twenty yuan and eight cents—cash only, no credit. I’m off to wash up and go to bed.”

Suppressing a smile, but with a look that could also be interpreted as smug, Zhang Lanzhi stood up and turned back: “Oh, I almost forgot—please settle the dinner bill too. I’ll wait for you in the car…”

After a dense series of “close-ups of the bill,” the final photo showed her climbing into the driver’s seat of a truck!

The entire routine, from absurdity to exaggeration to a twist ending—years ahead of its time—was played out in full.

Most people standing around weren’t laughing anymore. They waited for the final shot, and as Weidong led the applause in thanks, everyone else burst into enthusiastic applause too!

Almost everyone felt there were layers upon layers of artistry here.

To be honest, anyone who could come up with the idea of a photographic novella was already an artistic youth. At the provincial university, such artistic youths were the cultured elite among the highly educated, and even in closed circles, they’d been exposed to a fair amount of art literature.

Somehow, they all felt this belonged to some artistic movement, perhaps Symbolism or something similar, but they couldn’t quite say which. It left them both frustrated and in awe.

The key was that Weidong was so experienced: the way he directed the actions, expressions, and the level of exaggeration—wow!

Previously, telling a story through a photographic novella required dozens of pictures, and it was nearly impossible to get the pacing just right. Now, with just over a dozen photos, they managed to tell a concise, complete, and well-structured story, with a punchline every two or three frames—a testament to deep skill.

Weidong, with his mature style, acted as if it were nothing: “Actually, we’re mainly here to sell cameras. We want to popularize cameras for all the people, so they can record the little moments of life. Next, we’ll have the first batch of domestically produced color film from Triumph Film, priced at just over ten yuan each, making it easy for everyone to document their lives. Today, as part of the photographic novella activity, we’re treating everyone to a meal, and hope to participate in the National Day exhibition jointly organized by our camera company, Triumph Film, and Sunshine Daily. Thank you all!”

The students cheered and eagerly inquired about the events.

Goudan and his crew just focused on eating, but the student salespeople, with Manager Dong’s guidance, went to each table to introduce the event.

Even Zhang Lanzhi, with an unruffled air, explained the exhibition to her tablemates while serving herself food.

Only Yusonghai leaned in seriously to ask Weidong in a low voice, “Are you satirizing the comprador class who worship foreign things, or emphasizing that everything must be explained by the logic of commodity exchange in a market economy?”

Weidong’s hand, holding his chopsticks, froze.

You’re not like Jin Zhuoqun, always scheming to climb higher, but how is your mind working even faster than mine?

He suppressed his voice and said, “It’s just a script, just a funny skit. It’s like a punchline from a comic dialogue—why are you talking about satire and worship of the West? Stephen Chow would salute you. I’m just making a photographic novella.”

Yusonghai slowly shook his head. “Weidong, I know you’re smart. Back in Shangzhou, I said you could see the different paces of reform, and you chose to accept reality in stride, working steadily—that’s the best way to deal with all resistance to reform, including this time with the radio factory. In the end, you chose those who could truly participate in reform to follow you into battle…”

Weidong quickly interrupted, “Don’t do this, please don’t make it so grand. I’m just doing a small thing. Old Jin is smarter and more capable than me, and Old You is a genius who came out of nowhere. I’m just a pawn—don’t put me on a pedestal.”

Yusonghai nodded. “I know you’re cautious in everything, including the panda donation and how you’ve subtly hinted at the sequence of events. Compared to you, my way is more direct and forceful, but that’s my responsibility as a journalist. So, before I came, I already submitted my article. If anything happens to me, keep this draft safe. Later, I’ll bring Xiao Zhang to my home to introduce her to my family.”

He was truly going to the front lines.