As Beautiful As a Dream

In the backstage makeup room, Wen sat before the mirror, its row of glowing bulbs casting a sharp light that left his freckles nowhere to hide. The mirror seemed a portal, carrying him back to the self he had been twenty years ago. His agent urged the makeup crew to hurry, the sound team tested the system over and over, and he drew a deeper breath before stepping onto the stage. As the spotlight engulfed him, he felt suddenly blind. Faces dissolved into brightness, leaving only the glare. For an instant, he was nothing more than a specimen in a glass jar. Still, his facial muscles performed flawlessly, guided by years of training. In 1990s, he was among the most sought-after pop singers in China. Back then, his songs spilled from cassette players everywhere – at the newspaper stands, in parks, at bus stations, in supermarkets and across restaurants. With his songs saturating daily life, it seemed almost everyone could hum along.

All of a sudden, the spotlight went out, pulling him back into the present moment. A woman burst into the makeup room and snapped at him. “Who are you?” she barked. “This is Fei’s room! Why are you here? Get out — now!” Terrified, Wen turned to flee — only to collide with a man. As Wen lifted his gaze, the man’s face came into focus. It was Fei, the pop star. Wen kept apologizing, expecting fury, but Fei showed none. Instead, he gently helped Wen to his feet and offered an apology in return. Wen had once shared Fei’s level of fame, but what surprised him was Fei’s demeanor. Far from the arrogance of a pop star, Fei carried the air of a kind yet adrift teenager boy.

The woman’s impatience flared. “Where are you?” she snapped. “We need to get to your celebration dinner before eleven. Hurry up – Mr. Wang cannot stand people being late.” Fei’s breath was shallow, and he let out a faint sigh. Even that sigh irritated his agent. “Grow up,” she said sharply. “Without Mr. Wang, you’d probably still be struggling in bars. Show more gratitude.”

Wen fled back to the men’s washroom, his workplace. There, a mirror waited as well — the kind that reflected not dreams but reality, showing him exactly who he was, where he stood and how he truly looked. Since the collapse of his singing career, he had drifted through countless jobs: waiter, ticket seller, supermarket cashier, street peddler, and now, janitor. He gazed into the mirror at himself in the janitor’s grey uniform as though its monotony dissolved him into the cement wall, unnoticed. His cheeks drew inwards, a silent sign of failing digestion. The years had carried him here—on the verge of forty-eight.

He always carried a thermal cup to fill with water. On rare occasions when he forgot it, a janitor friend would hand him a bottle of water instead. He accepted it, but his pulse quickened and breath raced. For twenty years, he had regretted that single moment he drank from the bottle of water – the very one that had halted his career.

He recalled the night after his hundredth concert – at dinner, a simple bottle of water left his throat aflame, burning and stinging as though he had swallowed fire. After the celebration dinner, he lay in the hospital bed for a week. When it was over, he realized his throat had been ruined. He tried to sing, but his voice came out hoarse and broken, carrying the raw edge of a crow’s caw. He grew suspicious of those around him – his agent and his staff. He was discarded by the entertainment company. Now, he scrubbed the men’s washrooms in a stadium, a silent witness to the glittering stars he once stood among.

Wen mopped the floor tirelessly, but the wet floor was soon scarred by new footprints.

“Still dreaming of being a singer, are you?” his supervisor sneered, his tone brimming with humiliation. “Lower your head. Kneel. You’re here to make sure the floor is spotless.”

Wen tried to explained, but his supervisor only grew more furious.

“Look in the mirror,” his supervisor still scoffed. “See who you truly are. Wake up – before you lose this job.”

Wen felt his throat burned and anger flared as well. He shoved the supervisor against the wall, his eyes blazing with fury and grievance.

“You dare lay a hand on me?” the supervisor barked. “You’ll be ruined. You’ll beg me for mercy.”

“Don’t push me to strike you,” Wen growled through clenched teeth. “I’ve already lost everything. I’m not afraid losing my life as well. And if I go to hell, I’ll drag you with me.”

Wen released his grip, stepped back and let him go. Leaning against the basin, he regretted his impulsive outburst. What awaited him if the supervisor chose to hold a grudge, he could not know.

As he drifted in his thoughts, two men burst into the stalls, murmuring about Fei. Though their voices were muffled, yet Wen could still catch their words.

“Do you know why Mr. Wang is throwing that dinner?” one murmured.

“It’s for Fei,” the other said. “Fei brought in more money than he expected.”

“You’re too naïve,” the first said. “Mr. Wang doesn’t just admire Fei.”

“Of course – Fei is a golden goose,” the other replied.

“No,” the first said. “I mean the kind of love between a man and a woman.”

After the two men left, Wen pushed open the stall door, he noticed a card lying on the tiles and then picked it up. It was a restaurant’s card, its name, number, and address neatly printed. Wen recognized it instantly; the place was costly. Each time he rode past, he saw Benz, BMWs and Porsches gleaming by the curb. He slipped the card into his pocket. The air carried the sting of disinfectant, sharp and sterile. Then the quiet was broken by a harsh, guttural sound – someone was undoing his work. Irritated, he rushed out of stall, only to find Fei bent over, vomiting. Fei’s face was drained of color, one hand clutching his stomach, too weak to speak. After a long pause, Fei gathered what little strength remained, and began to speak.

“Can you help me lock the door?” Fei’s voice was weak but urgent.

Wen understood instantly – the paparazzi were relentless, always hunting for popstars at their lowest.

Wen opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. He was just a janitor, whose words carried no weight – light as feathers, destined to drift away.

Fei broke the silence. “I’m sorry to make this mess.”

“It’s ok. Cleaning is my job,” Wen said.

But then Fei began to wail.

“Being a popular singer is too exhausting. I want to quit.” Fei muttered. “But I can’t. My father’s debts hold me here.”

“I understand you. Life leaves us no choice.”

“Sorry. You may think I’m ungrateful for what life has given me. I thought I would be happier, but I’m not. I feel emptier, more unhappy than before.”

“Strange as it may sound, I was a singer once. But after years of struggle, I lost almost everything. Now I’m only a janitor, cleaning the mess others leave behind.” Wen said.

“You said you were a singer too?”

“Yes,” Wen murmured. “It was two decades ago – before you were born.”

Fei was eager to hear more, but the pounding knock shattered Wen’s words. Fei’s agent barked outside and together they left.

When Wen finally finished his work, it was already one o’clock. Outside the stadium, several men stood smoking and talking.

“Phoenix and Asian Waves are about to merge,” one of them said. “Who do you think will come out on top?”

“Our boss, of course,” another replied.

Now, a man approached with a cigarette between his fingers. The two men hurried forward to light it for him.

“Watch your words,” the newcomer snapped. “Song Hongying may be ruthless, but soon he’ll be the richest billionaire alive. He’ll do anything to protect his reputation.”

“You mean that case,” the first man said.

“Yes,” the newcomer answered. “He ordered Li Wen’s water poisoned. The scandal of Li Wen’s downfall became the biggest story. Sometimes tearing down a star brings more profit than lifting one up.”

Wen froze, unable to believe his ears. The darkest secret he had uncovered was his very own.

He quivered, a chill climbing up his spine. He knew that even if he begged the men to testify, they would refuse – not because he was a nobody, but because no one would risk their careers and life for him. He went again and again to the newspapers or TV stations, pleading for someone to hear him, but every attempt ended in failure. No one listened to his story, and no one believed a single word he said. To shield his important documents from the rain that seeped through the cracks of his room, he wrapped them carefully in layer upon layer of plastic. Inside were copies of all his contracts with Phoenix, along with papers that proved his identity – evidence of who he once was. Another stack contained his medical records, documenting the damage to his throat. He still clung to the belief that one day he would reclaim his voice and his justice.

In silence, he just left and returned to his rented room. It stood among the cluster of bungalows – a slum forgotten and ignored in Beijing. The monthly rent for this five-square-meter space was five hundred yuan, the price of twenty-five McDonald’s hamburgers, nineteen Peking roast ducks, or sixteen cups of Starbucks coffee. Even that modest rent pressed on him so heavily. These houses were like boxes with roofs patched with metal sheets. In summers, when rain pelted down, the drumming noise kept him wide awake. In winters, gusts rattled the flimsy roof, failing to hold a trace of warmth. Wen layered himself in jackets, yet still trembled through the long nights. Life was so harsh, but he never thought of ending it.

One night, when Wen took break from his work and wandered through the streets. His steps led him to a luxurious five-star hotel. As he lingered near the entrance, a security guard marched towards him and snapped, “Don’t loiter here.” Humiliated, Wen pressed on, striding past a fountain just as a car whooshing by. Two men in black suits came out, placing a wheelchair by the door. They carefully lifted an elderly man into it.

A young man stepped out of the car and said, “Mr. Song, Dr. Wang is waiting for you.” Wen felt this old man looked familiar, and his surname was also Song. His eyes caught the bold words printed on the folder the young man carried: Phoenix Entertainment Co.

Rages flared inside Wen. He marched toward the old man, but the two burly security guards reacted instantly, blocking the way and each guard seizing one of his arms. Wen struggled, screaming, as they lifted him off his feet and carried him away.

Song gestured to the guards to stop and allowed Wen to approach. Sitting in the wheelchair, Song looked pale and frail.

“My days are numbered,” Song said softly. “I’m not afraid to tell you the truth. You’re a puppet. We both are – each with our own puppet masters.”

Song, supported by the young man, had already passed through the revolving door while Wen drifted in his thoughts. His days of struggle – like crawling through a damp, dark tunnel – were dismissed so lightly, as though they meant nothing.

On his way home, Wen noticed several workers dismantling a massive billboard advertising a mobile phone brand. The star on the board was Fei. Wen approached, but the workers simply replied that they were following orders. Along the way, he realized it wasn’t just one billboard – every advertisement featuring Fei was being torn down. He felt certain that Fei had struck an iceberg. Later that afternoon, a headline flashed across his phone, “Popstar Fei’s contract was terminated due to mental breakdown.”

***

In the following month, Fei vanished. There were no concerts, no appearances. Winter returned – trees stood bare, and the winds were sharp. In the early mornings, frost bit into every inch of skin. After a long day scrubbing washrooms, Wen’s throat grew sore, itchy and stinging. Each swallow felt like a blade slicing through his throat. By nightfall, a fever consumed his body. He tried to climb out of bed, but collapsed and fainted on the floor. When he awoke, he was lying in a hospital bed. A neighbor had saved him. The doctor explained that his throat inflammation had worsened from inhaling too much detergent odor. He broke down in tears.

He stayed in a ward shared by three patients, and the loud snore of one kept him wide awake. Fragments of his life flashed back as he stared at the shadows of leaves flickering across the wall. He could no longer tell whether being a singer had been a dream or reality. Just as he was about to drift into sleep, a voice whispered beside his ear.

“Hi, I’m Fei. Do you still remember me?”

At first, Wen was startled, then joy flickered across his face. “I thought you were gone. All the billboards were gone.”

“I was gone for a while,” Fei murmured. “I fled from a psychiatric hospital.”

“Ah…” Wen lowered his voice. “This is not the right place to talk.” Wen dressed quickly and together they sneaked out of the ward. Finally, they sat on the curb outside the hospital, with two beers in their hands.

“Remember that day I threw up?” Fei asked.

“Yes, I can never forget.” Wen replied. “But when I saw the billboards were dismantled, I knew…”

“Yes,” Fei said. “That night the boss asked me to sleep with him, but I refused.”

Wen said nothing. He only took another sip of beer, though his throat burned with every swallow. It didn’t matter anymore.