Chapter Seventy-Nine: Arrival in Taiwan

This was Yan Xu’s first time flying since this new era began, and moreover, it was the first time in his life he’d ever flown first class. The exorbitant ticket price was far beyond what his modest salary as an assistant director could have afforded in the past.

Though the flight was only an hour and forty minutes, Yan Xu—who no longer needed to count pennies—couldn’t resist indulging a little, especially with a beautiful woman by his side.

For this trip to Taiwan, Yan Xu wasn’t the only one promoting the film; one of the actresses, Vivian Chow, was also part of the publicity team. Of course, her purpose wasn’t limited to promoting the movie—she was also there for her album.

Vivian Chow’s album sales in Hong Kong had already exceeded triple platinum and were now headed toward quadruple platinum, meaning her album had sold over 150,000 copies and was on the verge of reaching 200,000. Such numbers might not be impressive elsewhere, but in the small market of Hong Kong, they were extraordinary—especially for a newcomer.

This time, Vivian Chow brought the special Mandarin edition of her album, “Girl with Wings,” hoping that the Mandarin track would help her break into the Taiwanese market.

With Mainland China’s market still closed, Taiwan represented an important battleground for Hong Kong singers. If one could establish a foothold there, selling tens of thousands—sometimes over a hundred thousand—albums was easily within reach. Some top artists could even see their sales in Taiwan soar to a million.

Because of the disparity in sales volumes, Taiwan’s criteria for gold and platinum records were stricter: gold required 50,000 copies, and platinum wasn’t achieved until 100,000.

First class seats were exceptionally spacious, allowing one to stretch comfortably. Yet Yan Xu and Vivian Chow were nestled intimately together, wishing they could share a single seat.

Although their passionate kiss had been interrupted by Vivian’s mother, that moment had shattered the barrier between them; especially for Vivian, who was experiencing her first love. Love lowers the intelligence of all young women, but first love even more so. She only wanted to be by Yan Xu’s side, satisfied by his gentle caresses and kisses.

Being able to cuddle so closely was one of Yan Xu’s reasons for choosing first class. Both were public figures—Vivian was a star in Hong Kong, even if she wasn’t well-known elsewhere. Even with oversized sunglasses, she would likely be recognized in the crowded economy cabin, making such intimate moments impossible.

“We’re almost there.” As the cabin announcement signaled their impending arrival, Yan Xu kissed Vivian’s forehead and gently loosened his arms from around her.

They were about to land. This trip to Taiwan wasn’t just the two of them; members from Battle Film Company and Dragon Clan Records were also accompanying them, especially Vivian’s agent and nanny. Of course, unlike Yan Xu and Vivian, they didn’t enjoy the privilege of first class and were seated in economy.

Yan Xu and Vivian’s relationship was still secret. Apart from the close-knit group of Brother Jiu and the Luk Koon Ting couple, no one else knew. Though some company staff could sense something from their private gestures, neither had ever admitted anything publicly, leaving others to speculate quietly and not dare gossip.

Of course, in public, the two were very restrained; apart from the occasional meaningful glance, there were no displays of affection—none of the previous intimacy.

A group of them, dragging their luggage, emerged from the airport corridor. There were no enthusiastic fans, no crowds of admirers.

Yan Xu’s fame was still mostly confined to Hong Kong, and information didn’t travel quickly in this era. Computers existed, but to Yan Xu they were cumbersome things, good for little more than playing simple games.

“Are you Mr. Yan and Miss Chow?” At the exit, several burly men stood holding signs. When Yan Xu and his party appeared, a man in his thirties stepped forward, his face beaming, speaking Cantonese with a not-quite-standard Taiwanese accent.

“Hello, I’m Yan Xu,” Yan Xu replied, extending his hand as he sized up the man.

A floral shirt, baggy shorts, wooden clogs, several buttons left undone to reveal dark skin and a thick gold chain. With his movements, a tattoo glimpsed beneath the shirt. This man and the others behind him were clearly underworld figures. Taiwan’s gangs were no longer just fighting for turf—they had moved into politics and business, with myriad enterprises and legislators. The lines between legal and illegal had blurred.

Taiwan’s film industry was deeply entangled with the gangs, sometimes even more so than Hong Kong. Some cinemas were controlled by gangs, who used guns and drugs to coerce famous artists into performing for them.

In Yan Xu’s memory, Taiwan’s last male star—known as the “Taiwanese Chaplin,” Xu Bu Liao—would die this July at only thirty-four, after years of forced drug use and extreme overwork.

Battle Film Company was affiliated with the Yan clan, which originated from the 15K gang, closely allied with Taiwan’s Bamboo Union. After the infamous Jiangnan case last year, the Bamboo Union’s leader Chen Chi-li was imprisoned, many bosses arrested, and others fled Taiwan, their territories swept clean. Official membership dropped from over 7,000 in 1984, with some turf taken over by the Five Seas Gang. Yet, with over a dozen corporate-style branches, Bamboo Union remained the strongest gang in northern Taiwan.

Battle Film’s northern Taiwan distribution was handled by Bamboo Union, while the south relied on local bosses. This trip was no exception, and most of the publicity events would take place in northern Taiwan.

“Welcome to Taipei, Mr. Yan,” the man said, gripping Yan Xu’s hand with both of his. “I’m Ah Chan from Darong Film Company. Our boss had an urgent matter, so I’ve been sent to meet you.”

Film companies in Taiwan involving gang figures produced not only local films but also imported copies from other regions. These so-called local films lacked deep meaning and differed from the art films popular in Taiwan. Their sole aim was profit, often on a small budget—even less than some minor Hong Kong companies. Driven by limited funds and maximum profit, this spawned the prosperity of Taiwan’s real-fight movies, which had left Yan Xu deeply shocked; their intensity rivaled even Japan’s infamous island films.