58: Chapter 58 Tom Hiddleston's Invitation

In June, night falls late in Paris.

Cartier's private dinner was held in an 18th-century building on the east side of Place Vendôme. The entrance looked unassuming, but stepping inside revealed a hidden world of splendor.

The high, vaulted ceiling was painted with faded mythological murals, and a crystal chandelier hung from the center, its thousands of crystals refracting the light into tiny, shimmering spots scattered across the parquet floor.

The long dining table was covered with a snow-white tablecloth, and the candlesticks—a bespoke Cartier design—featured platinum bases inlaid with fine diamonds, catching the candlelight to cast tiny rainbows.

Isabelle stood at the entrance greeting guests. Her chestnut short hair was impeccably styled, and she had swapped her black turtleneck for a deep blue velvet gown, wearing a Tank watch on her wrist.

Seeing Chen Mo enter, she walked up to him and greeted him with a kiss on both cheeks.

"Tonight is hosted by Cartier for you—'Time with Chen Mo,' not 'Chen Mo with Cartier.' You are the subject."

She glanced toward the back of the hall, seemingly proud of her own discernment.

"There aren't many people here, just over thirty, but I handpicked every single one."

Chen Mo followed her gaze.

By the window, Tom Hiddleston was holding a glass of champagne, chatting with an elderly silver-haired gentleman.

Tom Hiddleston was leaner in person than on screen, wearing a navy blue suit without a tie, with fine lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes when he smiled.

Standing beside him was Emma Watson, wearing a white satin gown with her hair swept up high, revealing her slender neck.

She was listening to a middle-aged man in round-rimmed glasses, nodding occasionally while her finger traced unconscious circles along the rim of her champagne glass.

Further in, Robert Pattinson leaned against the arm of a sofa; his hair was much longer than when he played Cedric, and his beard was unshaven.

Next to him was Léa, wearing a dark green velvet suit with nothing underneath, the neckline plunging down to her chest.

In the corner, Pharrell Williams, wearing his signature fedora and a floral shirt, was whispering to Hans Zimmer.

They were all recognized as Hollywood's top celebrities.

Isabelle gently touched Chen Mo's elbow.

"They all came for you. Tom Hiddleston was filming in London yesterday and flew in this afternoon. Hans Zimmer was originally recording a score in Berlin, but when he heard Cartier was hosting a dinner for you, he changed his flight."

"Watson is even more extreme; she was attending a UN Women conference in New York this morning and was on a plane by noon."

Chen Mo turned to look at Isabelle and said sincerely, "Isabelle, thank you. I mean it."

Isabelle looked at him, her eyes showing a flicker of novelty at hearing these words.

"When Cartier signed me, Jean-Luc said something. He said, 'Time will choose the worthy.' I thought then that it was a heavy statement, and I had to be worthy of it."

"Tonight, you invited over thirty worthy people into this room and placed my name in the position of the subject. You didn't make me stand in their shadows; you made the shadows turn toward me."

Isabelle was silent for a moment, then reached out and tapped gently on the dial of the Santos watch on his wrist.

"You've worn this watch for over half a year and have never taken it off. When Jean-Luc gave it to you, he said, 'Alberto Santos-Dumont needs someone who can master time in the heavens.' Now you are in Paris, on the ground, in the moonlight of Place Vendôme."

"Time hasn't stopped, and neither have you. That is what Cartier wants." She pulled her hand back, the cuff of her deep blue velvet gown brushing against his wrist. "Go on in; they're waiting for you."

Isabelle spoke with that distinct Left Bank of the Seine River flavor, and combined with her expression, it was like she was reciting poetry.

Chen Mo walked into the hall.

Pharrell was the first to see him. He raised his whiskey glass and waved it at him, the brim of his fedora casting a small shadow under the lights.

"Mo, 'Closer.' I told you that half-song you performed at Coachella would be a hit. You didn't make me wait too long."

"Pharrell, that guitar syncopation you used in 'Get Lucky'—I transcribed it. It wasn't on the beat, and it wasn't off the beat. It was in a space between the two."

"Later, when I wrote the drum beat for 'Closer,' I put the kick drum on the off-beat, the snare on the downbeat, and the bass in between the two. That 'in-between' I learned from you."

Pharrell put down his whiskey glass, stood up, and reached out for a fist bump.

"You heard it. I recorded that syncopation for an entire afternoon. The producer said it was good enough, but I said no, it was still missing something. That missing piece was exactly the 'in-between' you're talking about."

He picked up his whiskey glass again and raised it in a toast. "Next time I record, you have to come."

Hans turned around, the light from the crystal chandelier reflecting off his bald head. He sized Chen Mo up for a few seconds and then reached out his hand.

"In the final bridge of 'Closer,' that high piano note—you made your ring finger hesitate by a sixteenth of a beat. I listened to it seven times in Berlin. By the seventh time, I turned off the lights, leaving only the indicator lights on the monitor speakers."

"That hesitation became even clearer. You let the piano speak for you. That design is brilliant!"

"I've heard the pipe organ you used in 'Interstellar.' You recorded the pipe organ in a church, letting the reverberation of the stone walls speak for you about the insignificance of humanity in the face of the universe."

Chen Mo finished speaking with professional insight, then raised an eyebrow. "You are more ingenious than I am when it comes to film scoring."

Hans Zimmer's bald head was a bit dazzling because his scalp moved when he laughed.

"The reverb time for that pipe organ segment was 6.7 seconds. The church's stone walls bounced the sound for 6.7 seconds before it faded into silence. Nolan asked me why 6.7 seconds, and I said because the feeling of human insignificance in the face of the universe lasts about 6.7 seconds."

He picked up his whiskey glass, raised it toward Chen Mo, looking much more sincere, and said, "The hesitation in 'Closer' lasted a sixteenth of a beat—much shorter than 6.7 seconds, but the meaning is the same."

Tom Hiddleston walked over from the window, holding the same glass of champagne he hadn't changed since the start.

The way he walked was exactly like when he played Loki—his steps weren't large, but each one landed on some invisible rhythm.

"Chen Mo, my agent received an email last week; Marvel is looking for a collaborator for the score of 'Thor 3.' He asked if I had any recommendations, and I gave them your name."

"You turned the sound of a refrigerator compressor into strings. That sense of coldness is the same temperature as when Asgard is destroyed. I knew you'd be able to write it."

"'Thor 3'—Asgard is destroyed?" Chen Mo knew it, but he still frowned in surprise.

Tom Hiddleston smiled, a smile exactly like Loki's—the corner of his mouth tilted to one side, and the light in his eyes moved before his lips.

"I didn't say anything."

Chen Mo looked into his eyes and raised an eyebrow. "If Asgard is destroyed, the score shouldn't be grandiose. Destruction is never grandiose; destruction should be like a fire slowly burning out."

Tom Hiddleston put down his champagne glass, took a business card from his inner suit pocket, and placed it on the table in front of Chen Mo.

"This is my private number. I'll mention your name to Marvel again. Not because we are friends, but because when Asgard is destroyed, it needs you."

Tom Hiddleston clinked glasses with Chen Mo when he said the last sentence and added, "We're friends now, right?"

"Of course."

Léa walked over from the side, the dark green velvet suit fitting her like a second skin.

Her English carried a French accent, the ends of her sentences slightly lifting.

"Chen Mo, when 'L'Autre Rive' was topping the charts in France, I was filming in Paris. Every day when we finished, the crew's van was playing that song. The driver asked me, 'Has this Chinese person lived in Paris for a long time?'"

"I said I didn't know, and he said, 'He must have lived here, because the light on the Seine River at night—someone who hasn't lived here couldn't write that.'"

"I have. I stayed in Paris for a few days when filming a Dior commercial at the Palace of Versailles and during Fashion Week. One night, walking back to the hotel from the Pont des Arts, the river surface cut the light into fragments. It was unbelievably beautiful."

Léa looked at him and asked, "That song—did you cry when you wrote it?"

"No, not while writing it. But I cried after I finished recording it."

Léa placed her champagne glass on a passing waiter's tray and extended her right hand.

Her hand was cooler than expected.

"The French thank you. Not because you wrote about Paris, but because you wrote about 'the outside.' Everyone has their own 'outside.'"

Emma was the last to come over. She stood in front of Chen Mo, her white satin gown reflecting a soft glow in the candlelight, the champagne in her hand barely touched.

"I'm working on a gender equality initiative at UN Women this year, and I need a theme song. Not something with a grand narrative, but something quiet, like—"

She deliberated over her words, glowing, because she was doing what she wanted to do.

"The kind of quiet when someone sits by the window, looking at the street outside, deciding to step out today. Your music has that kind of quiet. I had 'Flowers' on loop for the whole of February. It's not shouting slogans; it's saying, 'I can.'"

"'Flowers' is about someone finally no longer waiting for others to bring them flowers."

"I know. That's exactly what I want to use. Gender equality isn't about shouting; it's about one woman after another sitting by the window, deciding to walk out on their own."

Chen Mo swirled his glass, his eyes deep and tinged with a hint of melancholy, and said, "But that song also has its regrets."