36: Chapter 36 Interview

The exclusive interview with Time Magazine was conducted on April 1st. Since it was April Fools' Day, Chen Mo thought it was a joke at first.

Chen Mo adjusted his collar in the mirror, cramming at the last minute, his mind racing to anticipate potential questions.

The reporter was named Elizabeth, in her forties, with brown hair and wearing thin-framed glasses. She had interviewed three presidents and countless Nobel Prize winners.

She had worked at Time Magazine for nineteen years. It was said that she never did homework before an interview because she felt that "going into an interview with a blank slate allows one to capture the most authentic things."

But on the day she interviewed Chen Mo, she had a notebook full of dense notes spread out in front of her, which made Chen Mo feel a bit foolish.

Elizabeth smiled, closed her notebook, and said solemnly: "Chen Mo, first of all, thank you for accepting this exclusive interview with Time Magazine. Before we begin, I must say that although today is April Fools' Day, I assure you that not a single question is a joke."

Chen Mo leaned back on the sofa, twirling a pen in his hand, and said: "Please, go ahead."

"In the past two months, you have caused the Mercedes-Benz servers to crash three times, Cartier to transfer stock globally, and Dior perfume to sell out. The internet has even given you a new nickname—Chenductor, Chen plus Conductor."

"It means that with a wave of your baton, transactions worth tens of millions of dollars are completed. Do you like this title?"

Chen Mo frowned in thought, then said: "That's an interesting way to put it, but I'm certain I'm not one."

"But it's very fitting, isn't it? In the concert hall, you conduct a chorus of tens of thousands; in the mall, you conduct the wallets of consumers. This level of crowd control makes even Wall Street analysts feel afraid. They call you 'the walking GDP'."

Elizabeth's sharp eyes stared at him, trying to see the essence behind his micro-expressions.

Chen Mo smiled and said: "That's a bit of an exaggeration. While it sounds cool, the truth is I'm just sharing good things."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow: "Can you elaborate on that?"

Chen Mo squinted, pondering: "I suppose I'm the person responsible for stepping on the gas pedal for the GDP."

Elizabeth paused, then smiled: "Stepping on the gas? That's an interesting way to put it."

Chen Mo looked innocent: "Think about it, Mercedes-Benz cars selling well means the quality is good; perfume selling fast means the scent is good. I'm just the test driver responsible for flooring the gas pedal. As for where the money flows, that's a matter of the flow, not the gas pedal."

"That's a logic I haven't heard before," Elizabeth said helplessly. "Many people say you've accomplished in a few months what others couldn't do in years. What do you think?"

"I'm just sitting here watching."

Chen Mo said: "That's not accurate. As everyone knows, I debuted in China once. Three years ago, I took many detours to get here; it hasn't been smooth sailing."

Chen Mo answered all the questions honestly, including those he had never mentioned in public, stories he felt might sound like playing the victim.

When Elizabeth closed her interview notebook, she took off her glasses, wiped them for a long time with a cloth, and then said something that wasn't on the interview outline.

"I've interviewed many people. When most people tell their stories, you catch a trace of performance at some point. Not intentional acting, but an instinctive beautification when people recall themselves."

She put her glasses back on, looked into Chen Mo's eyes, and said: "You didn't. That's very rare."

A week later, the cover story of Time Magazine was published. On the cover was Chen Mo's profile—

Under the twilight streetlights of Los Angeles, he was wearing a custom Dior T-shirt, with an Alberto Santos-Dumont on his left wrist.

The cover headline was only one line: "The Chinese Kid Who Owns 2015".

There were several paragraphs in the article that were repeatedly quoted by global media.

Regarding the skepticism about being a "hollow porcelain doll," Chen Mo's answer was: ["A porcelain doll is just a container. Some people stare at the container and think it's too smooth, too perfect, so they think it's empty inside. But they forget that the purpose of a container is to hold things."]

["In fact, it holds a lot: the star dreams of a fifteen-year-old, the impulsive signing at sixteen, the helplessness of three wasted years, the pain of being suppressed and squeezed out, the guilt and self-blame for the family losing money, and the support from The Cooper Home..."]

["These things, they can't see, so they think there's nothing."]

At the end of the article, Elizabeth wrote a paragraph of her own—

["The day I interviewed Chen Mo, it rained in Los Angeles. After the interview, he held an umbrella to see me to my car. I sat in the car, rolled down the window, and asked him the last question, 'Do you feel happy now?'"]

["He stood in the rain, holding the umbrella in his left hand, his right hand in his hoodie pocket. He thought for a few seconds, then said, 'I don't know, but I feel my value, and that's enough.'"]

["Then he turned and walked back. The rain slid down the edge of his umbrella and fell to the ground without a sound. That scene was very much like a movie. I just felt that, talent is sometimes truly cruel."]

This exclusive interview sparked a huge reaction both at home and abroad.

The overseas edition of the People's Daily reprinted the full text in translation, changing the title to "Chen Mo: Music is a Container."

CCTV News Channel covered the interview for nearly three minutes during the evening slot.

The anchor smiled at the end and said: "He represents a new image of Chinese youth: confident, professional, and poised. We look forward to his return home."

On Qingming Festival, there were no direct flights from Los Angeles to Changsha; one had to transfer in Shanghai.

Chen Mo only brought one carry-on suitcase, which held gifts for his parents. He hadn't been able to return for the New Year, so Chen Mo decided to make up for it during the Qingming Festival holiday.

For Chen Jianguo, it was a cashmere coat; for his mother, a pair of pearl earrings, the same brand Taylor wore.

Daniel booked the ticket for him, business class, window seat.

Sitting next to him was a young man with glasses, blond, thin and tall, who started writing code on his laptop as soon as he got on the plane.

Halfway through the flight, the programmer suddenly turned his head and stared at him for five seconds.

"You are Chen Mo."

"I am."

The programmer's expression went through a complex process of changes: from shock to confirmation, from confirmation to excitement, from excitement to forcing himself to calm down.

Finally, it settled into a tense state of "I am a rational adult, I will not scream."

He tremblingly reached out his hand and said: "My name is Anda. I work in AI in Silicon Valley. I've listened to all your songs. The day 'Flowers' was released, I looped it for an entire afternoon."

"And then worked overtime for a whole night," he paused, "but I think it was worth it."

Chen Mo shook his hand; Anda's palm was a bit damp.

"Are you going back to China for the holiday?"

"Yes, what about you?"

"I'm going to Shanghai to see my girlfriend," Anda said, his eyes brightening at this sentence. "She's studying for her master's at the University of Southern California, and her parents want to meet me."

"It seems like good news is coming for you," Chen Mo smiled.

Anda showed a silly grin that didn't fit his high-intellect status, scratched his head, and said: "I hope her parents like me."

"Sincerity is the most important thing," Chen Mo comforted him.

When the plane landed at Changsha Huanghua Airport, it was 4:30 PM.

Spring in Changsha was completely different from Los Angeles; the sky was lead-gray, and the air held a moist chill, as if covered by a layer of transparent plastic film.

Chen Mo hailed a taxi. The driver was a middle-aged man in his forties. He looked at him in the rearview mirror, then looked again. By the third time, he couldn't hold it in anymore.

"Young man, you look a bit like that... that singer, called Chen..."

"Chen Mo, right?"

"Yes, yes, yes, Chen Mo! My wife likes him quite a bit; she plays his songs in the car every day. That thing 'Flowers', I don't understand English, but the tune is quite nice."

The driver looked at him again in the rearview mirror, as if comparing him to a fugitive.

The driver chattered: "We Chinese people can really make a name for ourselves in the US. It's truly amazing. The news even said he's also—from Changsha!"

"You look just like him~" the driver uncle looked at the phone screen on the mount, which was exactly a photo of Chen Mo. "His eyes are very distinctive."

Chen Mo took off his mask and said: "I am."

The driver's steering wheel wobbled, and the car swayed along with it. He steadied the wheel, was silent for a moment, and then looked at him again in the rearview mirror.

This time it wasn't identification, it was confirmation. After confirming, he turned up the radio volume a little bit.

The radio was playing "Flowers".

"My wife argued with me last month, saying I don't understand romance and never bought her flowers on Valentine's Day."

The driver's eyes were looking at the road ahead, his voice very flat, a typical old-school Chinese man's personality.

"That day she kept listening to this song, so I rushed to the flower shop and bought a huge bouquet of roses. She scolded me for wasting money, but she was clearly happy as could be while scolding me."

He turned the car into a small alley in the old city and said: "Don't mind me talking too much. You're a capable person, don't forget your roots."

Chen Mo's old house was in the Kaifu District of Changsha, a 1990s family apartment building. It had been renovated, but it was still old.

Chen Jianguo had made a lot of money after going into business, renovated the house in his hometown, and bought a big house for his sister, but he hadn't moved out and still lived here.

Chen Jianguo was a particularly stubborn person. He was afraid that if he had money, his son would go bad. He had always felt that playing pop music was for loafers, so he wanted to raise Chen Mo in poverty, but he never expected that Chen Mo would still go and run headfirst into a brick wall.

The stair railing had been polished shiny by decades of hands. He dragged his suitcase up to the fourth floor and stood at the door of his home.

The door opened.

Mother Chen, Li Xiuying, stood at the door, wearing a jujube-red cotton vest.

She looked at Chen Mo, Chen Mo looked at her, and then his eyes welled up.

"You've lost weight."

Chen Mo said: "Mom, I'm home."