The rest of the crew had scattered decades ago. The director, a fierce woman named Lin, had emigrated to Canada and died of cancer in 2009. The cinematographer, Old Fang, had gone blind from diabetes. The young players in the film—pimply, earnest, terrible at interviews—were now grandparents. Chen kept in touch with none of them. He kept only the reel.
That girl’s name was Li Jie. She had been the star of the club, a left-handed looper with a ferocious backhand. In the film’s final scene, she lost the provincial championship to a taller, older girl from the city. She cried in the locker room, then stopped, wiped her face with a towel, and walked out to the bus. Lin had wanted to end on the crying. Chen had argued for the walk. He had won. It was the last argument he ever won. film pingpong
Chen had been the sound recordist on the shoot. It was his first job out of film school, a school that had since been demolished to make way for a shopping mall. He remembered the weight of the Nagra III on his shoulder, the smell of cigarette smoke and sweat in the gymnasium, the particular thwock of a celluloid ball against a blade of rubber and wood. He had captured that sound. It was, he sometimes thought, the only perfect thing he had ever made. The rest of the crew had scattered decades ago
Chen hung up. He made tea. He sat by the window. Outside, the city was tearing down another building to put up another tower. Somewhere in the valley, frames of Pingpong were bleaching in the sun. And somewhere else, a twelve-year-old girl was still walking to the bus, her face set against the future, not knowing she had already become a ghost. The young players in the film—pimply, earnest, terrible
He took the canister to a coffee shop where, he had heard, young people sometimes projected old films for “nostalgia nights.” The barista, a girl with green hair and a nose ring, looked at him like he had brought her a fossil. “We only have digital, uncle,” she said. “HDMI. You know?” He did not know. He went home.