Lu Dong moves the standing lamp, turns to gauge how far he is from the wall, then goes back to the chair he’d carefully positioned – no, never mind the chair, better to be prone on the floor. Pulling open the glass door, he steps out onto the balcony and extends a clothes-drying pole into the open air. Not heavy enough. That’s the most pressing problem – not the lamp, not the color of the floorboards, not the table in his peripheral vision distracting him from his target, but the pole’s insufficient weight.

His wife Liu Yiduo and their child are in the bedroom playing Lego. He hears his daughter say, Mama, I can’t read the plan, but I know this wheel is wrong. Lu Fan is four and a half, and can already express herself fairly well. Sometimes she uses startling metaphors. During New Year, when their neighbors were setting off fireworks high into the sky, she said, Look, Baba, the stars are breaking apart. Lu Dong keeps his child’s words locked in his heart, a whole string of quotes he’s memorized – not to repeat to anyone else, just for himself. He believes Lu Fan is an extraordinary child who will do exceptional work someday, something superlative. She could be an artist, but not just any kind of artist. No, when she’s grown, some new form of art will surely emerge – maybe she’ll sit among a crowd and spout metaphors, or wear a helmet that allows her to beam the imaginings of her mind directly onto a screen. But this speculation has to be kept under wraps for now, otherwise it’ll be like when you lift the lid off a pot of steaming rice too soon, and it seizes up half raw.

Lu Dong is a fifth-rate actor – that’s by his own ranking system. The first-rate are the big movie stars with burnished reputations who make headlines with every appearance, the ones who earn money as easily as turning on a tap. Second-rate actors are talented enough to support themselves with their craft – they have numerous films or TV series to their names, and reach deep into the human heart with every role. Third-rate actors are youngish and show potential but haven’t been in anything really good yet. People think well of them and with time, depending on personal development and luck, they might attain the first or second rank. The general public would struggle to name any fourth-rate actors, but their faces are familiar from the many TV shows they appear in, playing roles that leave no impression whatsoever. Their features are like a faded backdrop you know you’ve seen before, and as soon as they appear on-screen you feel a sort of reassurance – that’s right, this is the sort of show I’ve always watched, and here are the people who help me pass the time. So what’s a fifth-rate actor? Someone who’s been in quite a few shows, but for whatever reason – whether it’s skill or appearance – he might as well not have done any. He’s spoken many lines and been featured in many shots, but at the end of the day his screen time vanishes as cleanly as water seeping down into the earth. Then a decade passes and he’s still in the profession, never really having been out of work though he’s often just twiddling his thumbs. According to Lu Dong, this sort of actor tends to be once-divorced, and now rents an apartment in an okay location, not too far from where other screen actors live. Sometimes at the supermarket a star he’s worked with will be standing in line behind him in a face mask and dark glasses, but these stars never recognize him. He’s wanted to turn and say, Hey, remember me? That night shoot five years ago – I carried you through the woods on my back, dodging bursts of gunfire, but just as I managed to sling you onto a pony a bullet got me and I died. So far he’s only ever thought these words, paid for his groceries, then left.

It’s a Sunday morning in Beijing, and the May air is full of floating willow catkins. Lu Dong hefts the pole in his hand. His heart feels more arid than ever before. Three nights ago he had dinner with his lover, then they headed to her place. Usually he doesn’t drink much, just enough to take the edge off, but that night he had more than a glass or two because he was getting tired of her, and vice versa, probably. They both needed new partners. Alcohol loosened his tongue, and he began bragging about how he’d always get to the highest point when they played climb-the-flagpole in high school. He’d shimmy down with his legs clamped tight around the slippery pole, pleasurable in a way he couldn’t describe. He never got all the way up to the red flag, even though he was at his strongest then, his legs would always give out a couple of meters from the flag and he’d slide back down. One time it was snowing and he climbed toward the falling flakes, wearing gloves and kneepads, and he almost made it, his hand was reaching out to where the flag met the pole when a girl down below tugged at the rope and sent it flicking out to hit him in the eye. He lost his grip and fell. Broke his arm. Swiping at her phone, his lover asked if he could spend the night, but he said no, which brought an end to their nostalgia-tinged drinking session.

On the way home, the night breeze carried a vegetal scent. Outside a nightclub a man sat on the curb smoking, looking remarkably sober. The man glanced at Lu Dong’s face, then lowered his head again. A few seconds later, he called out, Hey, where do I know you from? Lu Dong had recognized him: Zhang Yu, a well-known director of arthouse films. Fifteen years ago, he’d made a small film with a budget of 300 grand with Lu Dong as the second lead, a contract killer who kept losing his wallet, a role for which he was paid 5,000 yuan. Lu Dong hadn’t put on much weight since then, though his face was now fleshier, mostly pouching beneath his eyes and on his jowls. The eyelashes that Zhang Yu had hired him for were still as resplendent as ever, reaching out like a pair of quotation marks, though the eyes they framed look smaller thanks to the pouching. It’s me, Lu Dong, he said. I was in one of your films. Oh, right, said Zhang Yu, I remember. Come, sit. Cigarette? Lu Dong smoked two packs a day so he sat down and took the proffered cigarette. It was rather mild, but the tobacco seemed to become a giant finger inside his lungs, and his face went red right away.

It was too noisy inside, Zhang Yu said, and they’re all drunk. I doubt anyone even noticed me leave. Lu Dong nodded. Zhang Yu might have won a Golden Bear and a Silver Lion, but he seemed the same as before – whether on set or in his private life, as soon as a situation bored him he’d go off on his own. He seems as shy as ever, Lu Dong thought, and just like before he gets embarrassed for other people, which causes him unnecessary pain. What are you busy with? Zhang Yu asked. Running around, Lu Dong said, taking on whatever roles I can. You married? Yes, said Lu Dong. My daughter’s four. That’s good, said Zhang Yu, I’ve been divorced twice in the last decade. The second time was like a photocopy of the first – I remember back in the day you weren’t in favor of me getting married, but I didn’t listen. Turns out you were right. You’re a good actor, you know, it’s just that you don’t fit in and there’s nothing special about your looks. But the real problem is that your desire is low and your boiling point is high. With successful actors it’s the other way round.