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This really was good news, and there was an eruption of cheers.

There were fifty million Chinese people living in other countries, and many of them loved to watch television shows that came from their home country. The best Chinese-made shows were broadcast in the original Mandarin with subtitles in the local language, and made good money for the producers. The traffic was two-way, sort of. Some foreign-made shows were broadcast in China, to help people learning English; but more usually Chinese studios produced shameless imitations of hit American programmes – without paying royalties to the creators. Hollywood complained bitterly about this. Kai, like most Chinese people, laughed at that. The West had exploited China mercilessly for hundreds of years, so Western protests against exploitation struck the Chinese as hilarious.

As soon as the boss stepped down, Ting spoke to Kai in a low voice. ‘I’ve been with one of the writers,’ she said.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘My character is going to fall ill.’

‘With what?’

‘A mystery ailment, but serious.’

Kai did not immediately see the problem. ‘Big drama,’ he said. ‘Your enemies rejoicing spitefully, your friends in tears, your lovers kneeling at the bedside. Gives you the chance to be tragic.’

‘You’ve learned a lot about television scripts, but not about the politics of the studio,’ she said with a touch of irritation. ‘This is what they do when they’re thinking of writing the character out.’

‘You think your character might die?’

‘I asked the writer that, and he was evasive.’

Kai had a dishonourable thought. If Ting left the show, she might retire and have a baby. He dismissed the idea right away. She loved being a star and he would do everything he could to help her keep the job. If she retired, it had to be her wish. He said: ‘But you’re the most popular character.’

‘Yes. When that complaint was made, a month ago, about me criticizing the Party, I felt sure Wen Jin did it out of jealousy. But Jin doesn’t have the power to have me written out. Something else is going on, and I don’t know what.’

‘I think I do,’ said Kai. ‘This is probably nothing to do with you. It’s directed at me. My enemies are trying to get at me through you.’

‘What enemies?’

‘The usual ones: my boss, Fu Chuyu; General Huang, whom I clashed with today; all the old guys with bad haircuts and bad suits. Let me have a word with Wang Bowen.’ Kai knew Wang, the official of the Communist Party responsible for supervising the studio. He looked around and saw Wang’s balding head in the bedroom of the emperor’s number one wife. ‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ he said.

Ting squeezed his arm. ‘Thank you.’

Kai made his way through the crowd. In Ting’s world, all conflicts were imaginary, he reflected. She was not really going to die, it was only the fictional person she played. Perhaps that was what he liked about show business. In his world, the discussion of theVu Trong Phungwas about real people dying.

He buttonholed Wang Bowen.

Wang’s shirt was crumpled, and what little hair he had needed cutting. Kai wanted to say:You represent the greatestcommunist party in the world – don’t you think you should look smart?But he had a different mission. After a few pleasantries, he said: ‘I’m sure you know that Ting’s character is about to fall ill.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Wang, looking wary.

That confirmed it. Kai then said: ‘Perhaps fatally.’

‘I know,’ said Wang.

So Ting’s suspicion was right.

Kai said: ‘I’m sure you’ve thought about the political issue that might be raised by that storyline?’

Wang looked completely baffled and a bit scared. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘Medicine in the eighteenth century was primitive.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Wang said. ‘Almost barbaric.’

‘She could have a miraculous recovery, of course.’ Kai shrugged and smiled. ‘Miracles can happen in idol dramas.’

‘Yes, indeed.’