33: Chapter 33 Advertising Shooting

The morning light outside the window shone in through the glass, and after countless reflections off the mirrors, it turned the entire space into a golden sea of light.

Chen Mo stood at the end of the Hall of Mirrors, seventeen mirrors reflecting his figure simultaneously—

A colorful Dior black suit, a white shirt with one button undone at the collar, revealing a small patch of skin above his collarbone.

The light hit from the side, casting a faint shadow beneath his cheekbones.

He began to walk.

The Hall of Mirrors was very quiet, quiet enough to hear the sound of his leather shoes stepping on the parquet floor—one step, two steps, three steps...

His expression did not change, but the lighting did.

It hit from behind, from the side, from the front.

With every step, the light and shadow on his face shifted, like a gemstone being illuminated from different angles.

Pierre stood behind the monitor, his arms crossed over his chest.

He watched as Chen Mo's face on the screen was gilded layer by layer by the golden light of the Hall of Mirrors, and suddenly he whispered something in French.

The assistant beside him didn't hear clearly and asked what he had said.

Pierre did not repeat it.

In fact, what he said was— "This is the light I want."

The shoot lasted for four hours.

When the final take was finished, Pierre walked up to Chen Mo and extended his hand.

The two of them shook hands.

Pierre held the handshake for about two seconds longer than a normal business handshake.

"Those few steps you took," he said, "I have been shooting commercials at the Palace of Versailles for over a decade and have seen countless models walk that path, but you are the first one who, just by walking casually, made it seem like you belonged there."

Chen Mo took off his suit jacket, draped it over his arm, and said, "Perhaps it's because I walked it countless times in my dreams last night."

Pierre smiled, patted Chen Mo on the shoulder, and said, "The 28th, the commercial will be released globally. You must watch it."

The next day, the Cartier shoot took place at Place Vendôme in Paris.

To be honest, Chen Mo hadn't rested; he had spent the afternoon at the hotel focused on writing songs, having only had a cup of coffee.

The meeting place was on the third floor of the Cartier flagship store in Paris, in a private salon facing the square.

Outside the window was the bronze column of Place Vendôme, with Napoleon standing atop it, shrouded in the thin mist of a Parisian winter, like a faded historical specimen.

The light in the salon was much softer than at the Palace of Versailles, thanks to the amber wallpaper and dark brown leather sofas.

Chen Mo noticed that the fire in the fireplace was actually burning, so he picked up his phone and took a picture.

The air was filled with the scent of woody fragrance mixed with old book paper, looking every bit like the study of an old aristocrat.

The creative director of Cartier was named Isabelle, a French woman in her forties with short chestnut hair, wearing a black turtleneck sweater and a Tank Française on her wrist.

She didn't walk around him like Pierre had; she simply had him sit on the sofa next to the fireplace and then sat down opposite him.

"This Alberto Santos-Dumont you're wearing," she said, looking at his left wrist, "did Jean-Luc give it to you?"

"Yes."

"He has good taste," Isabelle said. "The Alberto Santos-Dumont is the oldest watch from Cartier, made in 1904. Do you know why it is called the Alberto Santos-Dumont?"

"I do."

"Then you should also know that it was born because a man needed to master time in the sky."

Isabelle leaned back against the sofa, the firelight from the fireplace dancing on her face.

"Today's shooting theme is called 'Time on the Ground.' You walk on the streets of Paris with the watch on your wrist. You don't need to pose, you don't need to look at the camera—just walk, and the watch will walk with you."

She spoke slowly, looking into Chen Mo's eyes as she spoke to ensure he understood.

"One hundred and ten years ago, Alberto Santos-Dumont needed a watch in the sky. Today, you need a watch on the ground, and time is time wherever it is."

The streets of Paris in winter were gray-blue, the cobblestone pavement polished shiny by centuries of coming and going, and the streetlights were of the old-fashioned gas lamp style, with a thin layer of frost hanging on the lampposts.

Chen Mo wore a black coat with a dark gray cashmere scarf, and the Alberto Santos-Dumont on his left wrist shimmered with a warm, gentle metallic luster under the gray daylight.

He walked under the arcade on the east side of Place Vendôme.

The photographer had him walk through the arcade, from one end to the other, without looking at the camera or striking any poses, just walking as he normally would.

His leather shoes stepped on the cobblestones, and the sound was reflected back by the dome of the arcade, carrying a slight echo.

Isabelle stood behind the monitor, and she noticed something—

When Chen Mo walked, his left hand hung naturally, and the Alberto Santos-Dumont on his wrist traced a short arc in the air with the swing of his arm.

The second hand was ticking away.

It didn't look like a deliberate display; rather, it looked like the watch had merged perfectly with him.

Isabelle said, "Damn it, what a talent."

After the shoot ended, Isabelle walked him to the door.

The twilight at Place Vendôme was turning from gray-blue to deep purple, the streetlights had turned on, and the gas lamp-style shades emitted a warm yellow light.

She looked at the Alberto Santos-Dumont on his left wrist and said, "February 14th."

There was no time to rest; Chen Mo and Daniel boarded a plane back to the United States.

"The Mercedes-Benz shoot is in the Palm Springs desert. We have to be there by 10:00 AM tomorrow."

Daniel hauled the luggage, panting.

Chen Mo patted his spare tire and said, "You can't get any fatter. You used to be two sizes thinner than this."

Daniel muttered, "Work is too busy, I just want to eat a little."

Chen Mo pinched his cheek and said, "How come I don't eat?"

Daniel rolled his eyes and said, "I've never seen a fat Alain Delon."

Flying from Paris to Palm Springs, the temperature difference was about thirty degrees. When Chen Mo got off the plane, the heat wave hit him like a tidal wave.

He was still wearing his Canada Goose, which almost cooked him alive, so he quickly ripped it off and threw it to Daniel.

The sky was bleached by the sun, and everything on the ground was baked into a uniform ochre color—

Sand, rocks, distant mountain ridges, nearby shrubs—all were ochre.

The shooting location was in an open desert on the outskirts of Palm Springs, with the customized CLA parked right in the middle of the desert road.

The silver-gray car body was blinding in the scorching sun, like a metallic meteorite abandoned on the sand.

Chen Mo was really afraid that the sun would damage the car; he would be heartbroken if it did.

The custom paint on the car body, transitioning from silver-gray to glacier blue, appeared almost transparent under the desert sun.

The creative director for Mercedes-Benz was still Thomas, that German man with silver hair combed meticulously.

He stood next to the CLA, holding a bottle of mineral water in his hand, his suit jacket off, but his tie still tied.

This was the last bit of decency for a German.

"We'll shoot two segments today. The first segment: you drive the car. The road is straight; drive from this end to that end. You don't need to go fast, but you must be steady. The camera will shoot from the ground up—the desert, the road, the car, you—layer by layer upward."

He handed the mineral water to his assistant and crossed his hands in front of him.

"The second segment: you stand next to the car and look into the distance. You don't need to do anything, just stand there, but you must look very far."

"How far?"

"Further than the end of the desert."

The first segment of shooting began.

Chen Mo sat in the driver's seat and closed the door, shutting out the heat wave outside, leaving only coolness inside the cabin.

He placed his hands on the steering wheel and started the engine; the sound was very soft, with only a faint hum.

The CLA's steering wheel was a size smaller than that of a regular sedan, with a tighter grip.

He pressed the accelerator, and the CLA glided out onto the desert road.

Thomas stood behind the monitor, watching the CLA on the screen get closer and closer, close enough to see Chen Mo's eyes behind the windshield.

"This take is good," Thomas said.

The photographer was about to turn off the camera when Thomas suddenly raised his hand.

"Wait a moment."

He pointed at the monitor screen, the image frozen at the moment the CLA was closest—

Behind the windshield, on Chen Mo's left wrist, the white dial of the Cartier Alberto Santos-Dumont reflected a faint glimmer in the desert sun.

"This light, keep it."

The second segment was shot before sunset.

Chen Mo stood next to the CLA, facing the end of the desert.

The sun was setting behind him, stretching his shadow long, overlapping with the shadow of the CLA on the ground.

The distant mountain ridges were dyed a deep ochre-red by the setting sun, and the sky transitioned from ochre-red to purple, and from purple to deep blue.

He looked into the distance.

Thomas did not say "Action"; he just stood behind the monitor, watching Chen Mo stand there.

The desert wind blew over, ruffling his hair a little, but he didn't brush it back.

His expression did not change at all, but his eyes were looking—truly looking—in the direction of the east.

By the time the shoot ended, it was already dark. Night in the desert comes quickly; as soon as the sun sets, the temperature drops by more than ten degrees.

Thomas walked up to Chen Mo and handed him a Mercedes-Benz team jacket.

"The 28th," he said, "remember to watch."