Three days before departure, the production crew went to their home to film “packing luggage.”
The apartment was located in a quiet neighborhood nestled amidst the bustling city of Shencheng, not far from Jiangwan University and the Luosheng Campus. The director’s first impression upon entering was the sheer volume of books. The entryway cabinet, the entire living room wall, and the narrow hallway shelves were packed with books, neatly organized by height and color in a visually pleasing manner. The second impression was the abundance of photographs. The wall in the master bedroom was practically covered with family portraits: their red-background marriage registration photo, a honeymoon beach snapshot, one outside the delivery room, a one-month photo of Yi Jianwei, another of Yi Jianwei at one year old picking up a writing brush during the traditional zhuazhou ceremony, and one from last spring of the three of them at Qiying Park with cherry blossoms falling all over their shoulders.
The cameraman’s lens lingered on that wall for a long time.
In the center of the living room lay two open suitcases. Zhang Qinglan wore a beige knit sweater and dark grey lounge pants, her hair tied in a low ponytail. Looking as fresh and unadorned as a university teaching assistant, she was squatting on the floor, packing items into the cases methodically. Her organization was extremely meticulous: the suitcase on the left belonged to Yi Junling, while the one on the right was her own, and the left one was noticeably a size larger.
“Teacher Zhang, I want to ask a question that all the viewers are curious about.” The following director squatted opposite the suitcases. “When your family packs luggage, is it always you who does it?”
“Mm-hmm,” Zhang Qinglan replied without lifting her head. “When she packs a suitcase, opening it looks like a crime scene.”
A voice drifted from the inner room, unhurried and steady: “Zhang Qinglan, the camera is rolling.”
“I’m just stating facts,” Zhang Qinglan said to the camera, her tone completely matter-of-fact, though her hands neatly smoothed out Yi Junling’s cashmere sweater a bit more.
The bullet chat comments had already reserved this as a legendary scene, but that is a story for later.
The camera followed her movements. She reached into a drawer and took out a seven-compartment pillbox. For Monday through Sunday, she labeled each section with a tiny sticker, then sorted the medications item by item: restorative herbs, vitamins, and a small blister pack of backup painkillers. The portion in each compartment was measured with absolute precision, her fingers moving with the dexterity of someone who worked with precision instruments year-round.
“What is this?”
“Big Sister’s medicine,” Zhang Qinglan said naturally. “She gets busy and forgets. Once they’re sorted, she just takes one compartment when the time comes.”
“Even when going out for twenty days?”
“Twenty days’ worth, divided into three boxes.” She placed the packed pillboxes inside a double-layered ziplock bag, set them squarely into the side pocket of the suitcase, and patted it as if completing some important ritual. “Diancheng is humid, so it has to be sealed.”
The following director later wrote in the work group chat: Family, today I witnessed with my own eyes someone turn the word “care” into a standardized workflow.
Just as they were filming, the front door clicked open.
A little cannonball wearing a small backpack rushed inside. At four and a half years old, her skin was as white as a glutinous rice dumpling, and her eyes were big and bright. Unfazed by the cameras filling the room, she tossed her backpack onto the sofa and shouted in clear, articulate diction: “Mommy, I’m back!”
Then she spotted Zhang Qinglan squatting in the middle of the luggage, and the little cannonball immediately changed direction: “Mama!”
Zhang Qinglan opened her arms to catch her, staggering backward half a step from the impact before holding her securely.
“Yi Jianwei, what did you learn at kindergarten today?”
“Learned the hand-washing song.” Nestled in Zhang Qinglan’s arms, Yi Jianwei’s dark eyes rolled around, landing on the suitcases, and she suddenly grew alert. “Mama, why are you packing boxes?”
“Mama and Mommy are going on a business trip to record a show.” Zhang Qinglan set her on the sofa and squatted down to be at eye level with her. “You have to listen to Grandpa and Grandma at home, eat your meals on time, and go to bed on time.”
“Then Mama has to bring me flower pastries from Diancheng.”
The negotiation came swiftly and accurately. Zhang Qinglan froze for a moment. “How did you know it’s Diancheng?”
“I heard Mommy on the phone.” Yi Jianwei held up three fingers with an air of seasoned maturity. “I want three boxes. One for Grandma, one for Grandpa, and one for me to eat.”
“Your box, you can only eat one a day.”
“Two!”
“One and a half.”
“What is one and a half?”
“One in the morning, half in the afternoon.”
Yi Jianwei furrowed her little brows in serious mental calculation for two seconds, then reluctantly nodded: “Deal.” Then she extended her small hand, “Pinky swear.”
Zhang Qinglan extended her finger to hook that tiny finger, one big and one small, with utmost solemnity. In the cameraman’s lens, the thirty-six-year-old Class-A alpha squatted in front of the four-and-a-half-year-old child, her features gentle, having just signed an unequal treaty.
The following director’s shoulders shook as they tried to suppress their laughter.
After Yi Jianwei was picked up by Grandma, the filming continued. During the wardrobe segment, the production crew asked their routine question: “Who usually puts together your outfits when you go out?”
Yi Junling crossed her arms and leaned against the doorway of the walk-in closet, raising her chin toward the inside. Zhang Qinglan was standing in front of the full-length mirror with two trench coats draped over her, one in her left hand and one in her right, wearing an expression as serious as if she were presenting an academic report.
“I put them together,” Yi Junling said. “Her casual wardrobe consists of only two things: sportswear and promotional t-shirts issued by the lab. If I didn’t watch her, she would dare to wear a lab t-shirt onto the red carpet.”
“That one is very comfortable,” Zhang Qinglan defended herself quietly.
“Comfortable and photogenic are two different things.” Yi Junling walked over, took the camel trench coat from her right hand, held it up against her, and nodded with satisfaction. “This one. Pair it with a white turtleneck underneath, as it makes the neck look longer.”
“Listen to Big Sister.”
“When do you not listen?” Yi Junling said smoothly, her fingers stopping briefly at the collar as she turned it down for her. “Zhang Qinglan, do I manage you too much?”
“Not much.” Zhang Qinglan looked down at her, her eyes bright. “I like being managed by you.”
Yi Junling raised an eyebrow and reached out to tap the small mole on Zhang Qinglan’s chin: “This is being recorded by the camera.”
“Even if it’s recorded, it is still the truth.”
The following director later wrote in the behind-the-scenes notes: Having filmed celebrity couples’ variety shows for so many years, this is the first time I’ve ever seen someone talk about being managed as if they were receiving an award.
On the morning of their departure, the luggage was lined up in the entryway: a 28-inch large suitcase, a 24-inch medium suitcase, plus a carry-on and a backpack. Just as the cameraman set up the camera angle, they saw Zhang Qinglan roll up the sleeves of her windbreaker, lift the 28-inch case with her left hand, the 24-inch case with her right, swing the backpack onto her back, and loop the carry-on’s small retractable handle over her wrist.
Three and a half pieces of luggage, carried all by one person, she stepped smoothly and steadily into the elevator.
Yi Junling followed behind empty-handed, carrying only her own small handbag.
“Teacher Yi,” the following director called out instinctively, though this time no one corrected the title. “Aren’t you going to help carry a little?”
Yi Junling pressed the elevator button, turned back to smile at the camera, completely justified:
“My hands are useful.”
“What are they useful for?”
The elevator doors opened. She stepped inside first, then naturally reached out to take hold of Zhang Qinglan’s hand, the one that had finally been freed up, the one with the carry-on bag hanging from it.
“To hold her.”
The lens faithfully recorded all of this, and also captured the tips of Zhang Qinglan’s ears turning instantly crimson.
The study was filmed last. Two studies, door to door.
In Yi Junling’s study, an entire wall was dedicated to literature, ranging from Principles of Neural Science to rows of bound foreign journals. On her desk lay student papers with dense red-ink annotations, and the pens in the pen holder were arranged by color. In Zhang Qinglan’s study, a bookshelf was filled with monographs on computational chemistry and drug design alongside three computer monitors. On the corner of the desk sat a small photo frame, a family portrait under the cherry blossom trees, with newspaper clippings and sticky notes pressed beneath the glass pane.
When the camera swept across the glass pane, it paused for half a second.
Tucked into the lower corner beneath the glass was an old photograph. The edges of the paper were worn and frayed, and the color had yellowed, looking as though it had been reproduced from something posted up long ago, featuring a red background and gold characters. It was a congratulatory poster from many years ago. The photo had some age to it, and with its low resolution, the writing on it was unclear.
The camera flashed past without lingering, and no one offered any explanation.
Archaeologists of the bullet chat would, a long, long time later, dig out this 0.5-second clip and enlarge it frame by frame.