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Authors: Wang Anyi

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The hustle-bustle on Peace Lane was both invasive and highly contagious. Wang Qiyao’s tranquility gradually gave way to frequent footfalls on the stairs, doors opening and shutting; her name was regularly hollered by people on the ground with upturned heads, their fervent voices carrying far and wide on quiet afternoons. Before long, the oleanders, planted haphazardly in makeshift planters formed from broken bricks on balconies, put forth their dazzling flowers. Nothing marvelous had happened to Wang Qiyao, but through careful cultivation her life had also sprouted countless little sprigs that held the promise of developing into something.
People at Peace Lane knew Wang Qiyao as a young widow. Several attempts were made to match her up with men, including a teacher who, though only thirty, was already bald. Arrangements were made for them to meet at a theater to watch a movie about victorious peasants—the kind of thing she detested—but she forced herself to sit through it. Whenever there was a lull in the show, she heard a faint whistling sound coming from the man as he breathed. Seeing this was the best she could do, she declined all further matchmaking efforts on her behalf. As she watched the smoky sky above Peace Lane, she often wondered if anything exciting would ever happen to her again. To charges of arrogance as well as to praise for being loyal to her late husband, she turned a deaf ear. She ignored all gossip and advice, remaining at once genial and distant. This was normal on Peace Lane, where friendships were circumscribed, there being untold numbers of large fish swimming around in the murky waters. Underneath all that conviviality, people were lonely, though often they did not know it themselves, merely muddling through from one day to the next. Wang Qiyao was rather muddleheaded about some things, while she couldn’t have been more clear-sighted about others; the former concerned issues of daily living, while the latter were reserved for her private thoughts. She was occupied with people and things during the day. At night, after she turned off the lights and the moonlight lit up the big flowers on the curtains, she could not help but slip into deep thought. There was a great deal of thinking going on around Peace Lane, but much of it, like sediment, had sunk to the bottom of people’s hearts, all the juice squeezed out of them, so that they had solidified and could no longer be stirred up. Wang Qiyao had not reached this stage. Her thoughts still had stems, leaves, and flowers, which glimmered in the dark night of Peace Lane.
A Frequent Guest
 
Among Wang Qiyao’s frequent visitors was one Madame Yan, who came quite regularly. She lived in a townhouse with a private entrance at the end of Peace Lane. She must have been thirty-six or thirty-seven years old, as her eldest son, an architecture student at Tongji University, was already nineteen. Her husband had owned a light bulb factory that, since 1949, was jointly operated with the state. He was now the deputy manager—a mere figurehead, according to Madame Yan. Madame Yan painted her eyebrows and wore lipstick even on days when she didn’t leave the house. She favored a short green Chinese jacket over a pair of Western-style pants made of cheviot wool. When they saw her coming, people stopped talking and turned to stare, but she acted as if they did not exist. Her children did not play with the other kids, and, since her husband was driven everywhere by a chauffeur, few people really knew what he looked like. There was a high turnover among their servants; in any case, they were not permitted to loiter when they went out for errands, so they, too, appeared aloof.
Every Monday and Thursday Madame Yan would come for a shot of imported vitamins to help her ward off colds. The first time she saw Wang Qiyao, she was taken aback. Her clothes, the way she ate, her every move and gesture, hinted of a splendid past. Madame Yan decided they could be friends. She had always felt Peace Lane was beneath her. Her husband, a frugal person, had bought the property at a good price. In response to her complaints, he had, in bed, promised many times to move them to a house with a garden. Now that their assets were controlled by the government, they felt lucky simply to be allowed to keep their house. Still, as long as she lived in Peace Lane, Madame Yan felt like a crane among chickens. No one there was her equal and, in her eyes, even the neighbors were no better than her servants. She was therefore delighted to see another woman similarly out of place moving into no. 39. Without seeking Wang Qiyao’s permission, she made herself a regular visitor.
Madame Yan usually showed up in the afternoon sometime after two o’clock, heralded by the fragrance of scented powder and her sandalwood fan. Most of Wang Qiyao’s patients came between three and four o’clock, so they had an hour to kill. Sitting across from each other in the lazy summer afternoon, they would stifle their yawns and chatter on without fully realizing what they were talking about, as cicadas droned in the parasol tree at the entrance to the
longtang
. Wang Qiyao would ladle out some of her chilled plum soup, which they sipped absentmindedly while exchanging gossip. Then, having thrown off their afternoon sluggishness and cooled off, they would perk up. Madame Yan did most of the talking while Wang Qiyao listened, but both were equally absorbed in the conversation. Madame Yan would go on and on, passing from stories about her parents to gossip about her in-laws; actually, all she wanted was to hear herself talk. As for Wang Qiyao, she listened with her heart and eventually made all business concerning the Yan family her own. When, once in a while, Madame Yan inquired about Wang Qiyao’s family, she always answered in the vaguest terms. She suspected Madame Yan didn’t believe most of what she said, but that was fine—she was free to speculate. Wang Qiyao would much rather that Madame Yan guessed the truth but left things discreetly unsaid; but Madame Yan, who had to some extent figured out the situation, insisted on asking questions pointblank. It was her way of testing Wang Qiyao’s sincerity. Wang Qiyao, for her part, wanted to be sincere, but there were some things that simply could not be spoken aloud. So they went around in circles, one chasing and the other evading, and before they knew it, a grudge had grown up between them. Fortunately, grudges are no impediment to friendships between women. The friendships of women are made of grudges: the deeper the grudge, the deeper the friendship. Sometimes they parted acrimoniously, but would resume their friendship the very next day with a deeper understanding of each other.
One day Madame Yan announced that she wanted to set Wang Qiyao up with someone, but Wang Qiyao declined with a good-humored laugh. When Madame Yan inquired into the reason, Wang Qiyao simply recounted the scene at the movie theater with the schoolteacher. Madame Yan laughed out loud but then continued with a straight face, “I’ll promise you three things about the guy I want to introduce you to. One, I’ll make sure he’s not a teacher; two, that he’s still got a head of hair; and three, that he doesn’t have asthma.”
They both collapsed in laughter, but that was the last time Madame Yan brought up the topic of matchmaking. They came to a tacit understanding that the subject would not be broached and they would simply let nature take its course. Both being still young and bright, their sensitivity had not yet been ground down by time, and they quickly understood how each other felt. Although there was a ten-year difference between them, Madame Yan acted a bit young for her age and Wang Qiyao was more mature, so they were well-suited. People like them, who become friends at mid-life, tend to keep part of themselves hidden away. Even Madame Yan, who usually wore her heart on her sleeve, retained certain secrets that she herself might not have understood. It was not necessary for them to know everything there was to know about each other—a little sympathy went a long way. And even though Madame Yan was not satisfied, she could bear it and still treat Wang Qiyao as a true friend.
What Madame Yan had was time on her hands. Her husband left early every morning and did not get home until late at night. Two of her children were grown, while the third was cared for by a nanny. She socialized with the wives of other industrialists and businessmen, but this hardly took up all her time. Dropping by to see Wang Qiyao became part of her daily routine; she sometimes even stayed for dinner, insisting that they simply eat what was already on hand rather than doing anything fancy. Consequently, they often had leftover rice, heated up again with just a dish of mud snails to go with it. Wang Qiyao’s near-ascetic lifestyle reminded Madame Yan of her own simple, quiet life before marriage, which seemed so long ago. If a patient came while they were talking, Madame Yan would help by bringing over a chair, getting the medicine out, and collecting the money. More than once the patient thought the well-dressed woman was Wang Qiyao’s younger sister, which caused her to blush with pleasure, as if she were a child being patted on the head by an adult. Afterward she would in a self-deprecating tone urge Wang Qiyao to get some new clothes and have her hair permed. She spoke eloquently about how a woman must treasure her youth and beauty, which would disappear before she knew it. This never failed to touch Wang Qiyao, who, at twenty-five, was indeed watching her youth slip by. Madame Yan’s outfits were always new and fashionable, but that was all she could do to hold on to the tail end of her youth. At times her appearance startled and touched Wang Qiyao. There was an innocence about her heavy makeup and also a certain world-weariness, blended together to create a desolate kind of beauty. Eventually, unable to withstand Madame Yan’s blandishments, Wang Qiyao went out and got herself a perm.
The smell of shampoo, lotion, and burning hair was intimately familiar to Wang Qiyao, as was the image of a woman sitting under the hair dryer, one hand holding a magazine, the other extended to be pampered by a manicurist. The routines of washing, cutting, rolling, perming, drying, and setting had long been imprinted on her mind. She felt like she had been there just the day before, surrounded by faces she knew. When the process was completed, the old Wang Qiyao emerged in the mirror—the intervening three years seemed to have been snipped off along with her split ends. Looking into the mirror, she noted Madame Yan’s face, on which was a mixture of astonishment and envy. As the stylist gave her hair a last-minute adjustment with a hand blower, the expression on Wang Qiyao’s face, turning slightly to avoid the hot air with just a soupçon of the spoiled child, belonged to yesteryear.
“I had no idea you were so pretty,” Madame Yan said candidly.
“I’m sure I won’t look as good as you when I get to be your age,” responded Wang Qiyao, also candidly.
Her comment was meant to be flattering, but as soon as the words left her mouth, she realized their inappropriateness. Yes, time is unforgiving and she had hit a sore spot. They both fell silent. In a gesture of contrition, Wang Qiyao took Madame Yan by the arm and they walked down Maoming Road together.
After a few steps, Madame Yan suddenly laughed. “Do you know what I like most about the Communist Party?” Caught by surprise, Wang Qiyao did not know quite what to say. “It’s the law against concubinage.”
Even though Wang Qiyao knew very well that Madame Yan was not referring to her, her heart skipped a beat and she loosened her grip. Madame Yan continued, “If it were not for the Party’s prohibition, our Mr. Yan would have taken on a concubine.”
“You’re being oversensitive,” said Wang Qiyao. “If Mr. Yan had been so inclined, he would already have done so. Why would he have waited so long?”
Madame Yan shook her head. “You do not know, Wang Qiyao. It almost happened. He had his eyes set on a taxi dancer over at the Paradise Club. But then came Liberation and he could not decide whether to go to Hong Kong or stay in Shanghai, and the matter was delayed.”
Wang Qiyao tried to recall how they had got onto this topic: was it because she had referred to their age difference? After walking silently for a while, she said comfortingly, “After all is said and done, a man’s relationship with his proper wife is the most steadfast.”
Madame Yan smiled and nodded. “It’s true that it is the most steadfast. But do you know what steadfastness means? Steadfastness means suffering. Only love means happiness. Steadfastness implies suffering together, love implies enjoying one another’s company together. Which would you choose?”
Wang Qiyao had to admit that there was a grain of truth in what she said, and was surprised that Madame Yan, pampered as she was, had not been spared from suffering. Madame Yan turned her face toward Wang Qiyao. “Don’t you think love is better? No one who has tasted it can ever let it go. What do we women live for anyway? Only for men!”
This time, Wang Qiyao had to disagree. She spoke with some asperity. “Me? I live for myself.”
Madame Yan patted the back of Wang Qiyao’s hand, which lay in the crook of her arm. “That’s even more tiring. A woman who lives for a man saves herself a great deal of trouble.”
Wang Qiyao fell silent. Walking in the speckled autumn sunlight, the two ladies became almost transparent to each other at that instant.
After getting her hair permed, Wang Qiyao seemed to have a renewed interest in life. Her good clothes came out of the bottom of the chest and were updated with minor alterations. One by one, she took out her tweezers, eyebrow pencil, and powder compact and laid them in front of her mirror, where she tarried longer and longer. The person in the mirror, an old friend as well as a new acquaintance, communicated with her. Madame Yan took Wang Qiyao’s changes as a challenge to herself. Of the two, Wang Qiyao knew more about makeup and was more self-assured. Her appearance was always understated. Madame Yan, on the other hand, tried rather too hard and tended to go overboard. Consciousness of Madame Yan’s efforts spurred Wang Qiyao on. With her brilliant sense of style, she achieved far superior effects, and Madame Yan, driven to tears, often went home to throw tantrums at her servants, deliberately mussing up her newly set hair in disgust. But as soon as she had quieted down, she would regroup to do battle anew. For many days running, Madame Yan would arrive at Wang Qiyao’s with the sole intention of showing off. Wang Qiyao conceded nothing and quietly trumped her with even more stunning touches. Madame Yan’s envy began to show. She remarked wryly what a shame it was that Wang Qiyao was all dressed up with nowhere to go. Wang Qiyao, knowing what lay behind the remark, pretended not to hear, and then upped the ante. Thus the two friends came to view each other as deadly rivals. They could very well have parted ways, but the contest persisted and they felt compelled to check each other out daily.
BOOK: Song of Everlasting Sorrow
6.71Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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