Chapter 72: The Joyful Comedians

The bill came to just over ten thousand, much cheaper than a similar meal in the capital, a real bargain—definitely worth coming back a few more times. Back at the seaside suite, for once, Japanese cuisine had left him full. He lounged on the balcony, sipping champagne and admiring the night view.

Browsing through his social media feed, he saw that Yu Qian had posted a few photos from a recent show—"Comedy Stars"—with Lao Guo, Yue Yunpeng, and, surprisingly, Zhang Helun as well.

He sent a message, asking if they were free for dinner. The show had just wrapped up and the group was looking for a place to eat, so they told Zhuang Chen to come over.

Other than Lao Guo and Yu Qian, Zhuang Chen’s favorites at the Deyun Society were Xiao Yueyue and Zhang Helun. The former, needless to say, embodied cheekiness to a fault.

In crosstalk, there are four performance styles: suave, earnest, quirky, and mischievous. "Suave" doesn’t just mean good looks, but rather a poised and graceful stage presence. "Earnest" refers to energetic performances, a flexible grip on characters, and vivid imitations. "Quirky" is all about having a unique, unmistakable style—not in physical appearance, but in performance. "Mischievous," as the name suggests, is playing tricks on your partner or delivering spontaneous jabs on stage. Zhang Helun was a classic—quietly but unmistakably mischievous.

If Zhuang Chen were to categorize the Deyun disciples, Tao Yang, also known as Tao Yunsheng, would count as "suave." Though he was now singing Peking opera at the Qilin Club and rarely performed crosstalk, his confident stage style meant he could easily earn that title in time.

As for the recently popular Zhang Yunlei?

Heh...

For "earnest," Luan Yunping undoubtedly took the lead among the disciples. With a steady stage presence, he was Guo Degang’s most trusted protégé, a Tsinghua University graduate with real cultural depth. He poured the same energy into his performances as he did into his life, often partnering with Deyun’s chief instructor Gao Feng—he was known as the Society’s chief steward.

For "quirky," Meng Hexiang fit the bill, his style truly one-of-a-kind.

Arriving at a modest hotel restaurant near the TV station, Zhuang Chen met the master and disciples in a private dining room. After brief introductions, he took his seat and watched these stage luminaries devour their food as if they’d been starved for days.

"What can you do?" Yu Qian, who was closest with Zhuang Chen, laughed. "We’re always flying somewhere, rushing from one gig to the next. I’m just here to support these kids tonight—these two have barely slept in days!"

Zhuang Chen glanced at Zhang Helun, his eyes bloodshot. No one had it easy. Lao Guo now pushed new talents to the fore every year—last year it was Yue Yunpeng and Guo Qilin; this year, it seemed, Zhang Helun’s turn had come.

"This child’s had a rough road, just like Yue Yunpeng," Lao Guo said, pointing at Zhang Helun. "Back in his twenties, he ran a barbecue joint up north. He loved the stage from a young age, sang 'er ren zhuan,' even dabbled in pop."

"He left and rejoined Deyun Society three times before finally making it—no small feat!"

Zhang Helun put down his chopsticks and flashed his trademark sly grin. "Back then, I was just fumbling around, learning by trial and error. In 2006, I saw videos of Master online and realized that was the style I’d always been chasing. 'Er ren zhuan' was too wild for me; crosstalk was much subtler and suited me better."

"When I learned Deyun Society was recruiting, I was determined to go to the capital to study crosstalk, but everyone in my family tried to talk me out of it. They thought it was a dead end, said I’d be better off learning auto body repair or hairdressing—at least I’d make a living."

"I begged my mom for 1,300 yuan, scraped together a few hundred more, and set out for Beijing with two thousand yuan, full of confidence, ready to join Deyun Society."

Zhuang Chen nodded—no wonder Zhang Helun and Yue Yunpeng got along so well. Both came from rural backgrounds, both had struggled to reach where they were.

"I arrived in Beijing, rode a clunky old bus to Dashilan, and checked into a 35-yuan-a-night hostel. The room leaked, but I was too excited to care—after all, I’d meet my idol Guo Degang the next day."

"I remember standing in line with hundreds of others outside the Guangdelou audition. Many had clappers or instruments; I was number seventy-seven in line. I was confident I’d pass."

"The judges were Master, Old Yu, Mr. Zhang Wenshun, Xing Wenzhao, and Li Wenshan. Master asked me what I could do. I said, 'Anything!'"

Everyone burst out laughing. Guo Degang scolded, "You were so full of yourself that day!"

Zhang Helun, for once, looked a little embarrassed. "I started with a rapid-fire tongue-twister in a thick northeastern accent, then sang Master’s 'The Legend of the White Snake,' and even did a cross-gender Peking opera piece from 'The Matchmaker,' then finished with my best 'er ren zhuan.'"

"When I finished, Master said, 'Alright, there’s a Deyun show at Tianqiao next Wednesday—come.' You have no idea how happy I was!"

Zhuang Chen was surprised—wasn’t it said he’d left and returned three times? Lao Guo explained, "Actually, after the auditions, the judges met and decided his 'er ren zhuan' style was too strong, so he was eliminated."

Zhang Helun sighed. "When the new class started, I showed up early at the theater, but my name was never called. It hit me like a thunderbolt—I just sat there, stunned."

"After begging and pleading, Master let me sit in and audit classes, so I could at least stay. At that time, I worked as a security guard at Beichen. The manager fired me on September 28th because I was always muttering crosstalk lines on duty."

"During the Mid-Autumn Festival, there was a second round of auditions. My Mandarin wasn’t good enough, so I was eliminated again. All I could do was spend thirty yuan on a ticket to watch and learn from the audience. I remember after the show ended at eleven, buses had stopped running."

"The security dorms wouldn’t let me stay, and I had nowhere to go. I slept outdoors that night in the little square by Deyun’s door, on the overpass, and didn’t leave until five in the morning."

"I wasn’t willing to give up. I practiced my Mandarin relentlessly, found another security job, and would practice the same line a thousand times in the mirror. On my third try, I sang the ballad 'Sword Pavilion Hears the Bell.' Luckily, Master’s wife was there, and she accepted me as a student."

A minute onstage requires ten years of practice. The apparent ease now was built on untold hardship.

Lao Guo also sighed heavily and said, with deep feeling, "When I look at this kid, I see myself in my youth—bold and naïve, heading to the capital three times to make something of myself, with no money, no connections, no backing, forced to start from the very bottom."

"There were times when only one person sat in the audience. I sold my pager just to buy two steamed buns. To survive, I tried my hand at variety shows and TV, always as the clown, the butt of the joke—once even dressing as a gorilla just to make people laugh and earn a meal."

"The one time that stands out most: after a show, the buses had stopped running, and there was a black cab idling by the curb. I took off my watch and told the driver, 'I have no money, only this watch—will it do?'"

"The driver didn’t even look at me—just drove off. So I spent what little money I had left on a few buns and walked over twenty kilometers back to my rented room, trudging alone along the dark highway."

"In the early days, business was so bad we sometimes had just one or two people in the audience. We were on the brink of closing down. Since crosstalk couldn’t support the Deyun Society, we had to go out and perform elsewhere. In Hefei, I even lived for two days in a glass display case in a busy mall as a challenge."

"The weather was muggy and hot, the glass case was cramped, the sun beat down, and not even a fan for relief. I had to live in that oven for two days, still performing for the crowds passing by."

"Inside the case, I had only a sleeping bag, water, instant noodles, a toothbrush, a clock, and a book. I sang and danced all day, and at night when no one watched, I just sat there in a daze. The air was thick with the smell of instant noodles, my clothes soaked and dried again and again. Only then did I truly understand—"

"What it means for every second to feel like a year."