Song of Everlasting Sorrow (33 page)

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Authors: Wang Anyi

BOOK: Song of Everlasting Sorrow
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As they enjoyed the broth and the eight-treasure duck, Wang Qiyao said casually, “Speaking of wishes, who can say how many wishes there are in this world! In Suzhou there is a temple with a wishing pond where people toss in copper coins. My Grandma told me the monks live on those copper coins, but one wonders just how many of those people’s wishes are fulfilled.”
Madame Yan and Uncle Maomao thought that Wang Qiyao was through with this topic; when she brought it up again they were uncertain how to react. The broth in the pot was drying up and seemed to have difficulty coming to a boil. Wang Qiyao laughed derisively at herself for being foolish as she sipped more soup. The sky darkened a bit more as if it too had lowered its voice to listen to people speaking their hearts. Uncle Maomao told the ladies about a card game called “bluff.” Each player takes a turn setting a card face down on the table, naming the card as he does so. He may be bluffing or telling the truth. Anyone who thinks he is bluffing is free to turn the card over to verify his claim. If the card is what it is claimed to be, the person calling the bluff has to take the card in; if not, the player discarding the card has to take it back, while the person who has successfully called the bluff gets to discard one of his own cards. Uncle Maomao said that even though the game is called “bluff,” the winner is not always the person who bluffs. As Wang Qiyao and Madame Yan looked uncomprehendingly at him, he explained, “A player who does not bluff may take a little longer to discard all his cards, but he eventually does, as long as he keeps playing. One other thing: he shouldn’t call someone else’s bluff either, because that would expose him to the risk of having to take their cards in. He should simply let other people do all the bluffing and the calling while he discards his own cards one by one.”
The ladies still looked at him in perplexity, but Wang Qiyao suddenly got it. “You were talking about the game, but what you really meant is much bigger than that, isn’t it?”
Uncle Maomao smiled at her.
“If you are talking about life, then the strategy you advocate is much too passive,” argued Madame Yan. “None of your card games is as good as mahjong. In mahjong you need luck as well as strategy to deal with the thirteen concealed tiles in your hand. In mahjong, luck always gives you the opportunity to win but also limits your chances of winning. What you have to do is have your tiles all lined up, waiting for that missing piece, like an admiral with his ships lined up ready for the wind to turn. This is how life should be conducted.”
As soon as Madame Yan started to talk about mahjong, the glory of her past victories flooded her mind and her spirit rose. There were the times when she had won by a hair’s breadth, and others when her luck turned just as she had given up all hope. She reiterated that no Western card games could possibly be more exciting than mahjong. Compared to mahjong,
durak
and “bluff” were all mere child’s play—they all boiled down to simple competitions to see who holds the higher card; it was all simple arithmetic, really. “In mahjong, the value of any given tile depends completely on the situation, just like in real life. How do people compete in real life? By comparing their ages? By comparing who has more physical strength? No! You’re both smart, so do I need to go on?”
At this point Madame Yan was bristling with resentment, intent on venting her own unhappiness. The broth in the hotpot had evaporated, but she insisted on having some more. Uncle Maomao refuted her, saying there was more to card games than she thought. For instance, in “bluff”—which he had oversimplified in his explanation—a player may believe that the other person is bluffing but still pretend to go along, because he himself wants to let go of a lower card. Thus one person may conspire with another in a bluff.
Madame Yan curled her lip in contempt. “That doesn’t make sense. In mahjong there is nothing that doesn’t make sense.”
Uncle Maomao was piqued. “If mahjong is so interesting, why isn’t there an international competition for mahjong?”
Seeing that the cousins were truly angry with each other, Wang Qiyao was both bemused and annoyed. She jumped in to try to smooth things over. “May I invite the two of you over to my home the day after tomorrow? Though I can’t offer you eight-treasure duck, I can make a good home-cooked meal. What do you say?”
On the day of the dinner, Wang Qiyao went home and started to cook. By then Madame Yan’s son had recovered from the measles: his fever was gone, the rash had disappeared, and he was already back to his old mischievous ways. Wang Qiyao bought a chicken, saving the breast meat to be sliced and stir-fried. She used half of the rest to make soup, and chopped the other half into bite-sized pieces to be parboiled and served cold with sauce as an appetizer. Completing the four cold dishes were sautéed shrimp, pickled egg, and marinated wheat-bran dough; the four hot dishes consisted of stir-fried chicken, carp with scallion, shredded celery with dried tofu, and scrambled egg with shellfish. This was simple fare, making with no pretence of competing with the delicacies served at the Yan household; yet, presented together, the dishes were elaborate enough to show her respect for her guests.
The two guests arrived at dusk. This being his first visit, Uncle Maomao had taken care to bring along some fruit. Wang Qiyao thrilled to the sound of their footsteps on the stairs. It was, after all, her first occasion as hostess in this place—not counting, of course, the many times that Madame Yan had invited herself to dinner. On the freshly laid tablecloth was placed a plate of watermelon seeds that Wang Qiyao had roasted. She herself was in a festive mood, her flushed face beaded with a thick layer of sweat. When she drew the curtains and turned on the light, they noticed the large flower patterns. Wang Qiyao sat them down; as she served them tea, there was a faint trace of tears in the corners of her eyes. She returned to the kitchen—to the pots and pans that, after languishing so long in a state of quiet neglect, were finally bubbling to life—and tears rolled down her cheeks. With chicken broth humming on one burner, she ignited the other to heat up the frying pan, where the oil sizzled raucously. The chattering voices of her guests were immensely satisfying to her, even though it was not a big party.
Dinner was served with half a bottle of rice wine, lending additional warmth to the room. The guests gave high marks to the food, which, though not sumptuous, was just right for intimate friends. Each dish seemed to seek out and gratify their gastronomical desires in unexpected ways, conveying the cook’s thoughtfulness and eagerness to please.
“Ah, all we’re missing now is a fourth person!” Madame Yan couldn’t help sighing, which caused the other two to chuckle. She ran her eyes over the room and, at the risk of being mocked further, pressed on, “Actually, how would anybody find out if we were to play mahjong? With the curtains drawn and a blanket on the table to muffle the noise of the tiles, who could possibly find out?”
Her excitement mounted as she told them about a set of mahjong as lovely as jade that she had hidden away—she couldn’t wait to put it to work. But both Wang Qiyao and Uncle Maomao said that they didn’t know how to play.
“Mahjong is the easiest game in the world to learn, simpler than bridge or even
durak
, for that matter!”
“And how is that possible?” Uncle Maomao asked mockingly. “After all, you said that card games are all nothing but child’s play.”
Madame Yan laughed, but ignored his remark and simply started explaining the rules governing mahjong. She explained how the four players sit facing east, west, north, and south. Frustrated again by the fact that they were missing their fourth, she became despondent. The others tried teasing her but were unable to snap her out of her foul mood.
At long last she said, “I feel awfully sorry for you. You’ve never had a chance to play mahjong.”
“Well, if you feel that strongly about it,” replied Uncle Maomao, “perhaps I could produce a friend to fulfill the dearest wish of my fair cousin.”
“And if you don’t mind this place being small, we could have the game right here,” Wang Qiyao added.
“It’s not like we are having a dance party, so who cares if the room is a bit small?” Madame Yan chimed in, though she expressed worry over whether Uncle Maomao’s friend was trustworthy.
Uncle Maomao reassured her. “If he comes, he’ll be trustworthy enough.” It took a few minutes for the ladies to understand what he meant, and then the matter was settled. Madame Yan worried further that Mr. Yan might find out. Her husband, a cautious person, was not one who relished being involved in anything forbidden by the People’s Government, and she had kept her mahjong set without his knowledge. The other two assured her that as long as she didn’t tell, there wouldn’t be any problems.
Soup was served before the dishes were finally put away, the table wiped, the plate of melon seeds returned to the table, their teacups replenished, and Uncle Maomao’s fruit sliced up and served on a plate. As they had all eaten a little too much, the conversation lagged. They could hear the neighbor’s radio broadcasting Shanghai opera. The singing resembled everyday conversation, and the subject was the bitterness of not having the necessities of life, such as rice and salt—a far cry from Shaoxing opera, which always revolved around ill-starred lovers, or Peking opera, consumed by lofty ideas such as loyalty and patriotism.
“Your apartment is noisier than my house, but somehow one feels calm here. One feels restless at my house, even though it is quiet there,” Madame Yan observed.
Wang Qiyao responded that there was calmness and restlessness everywhere. Uncle Maomao glanced at her and then let his eyes wander round the room. It was quite elegant, but somehow hinted at a hidden sorrow. The old embroidered bedspread with its lotus-leaf border suggested broken dreams, as did the large blossoms on the curtains. The heavy walnut chest of drawers must have been kept in memory of one thing or another. There was an unbearable sadness to those faded cushions on the sofa; they signified time slipping by like water through one’s fingers. He was aroused from this reverie by Wang Qiyao, who was handing him a bowl of sweet dumplings. The dumplings, homemade from fermented rice, were as dainty as pearls and free from even a single speck of impurity.
At seven o’clock on the day agreed upon for their mahjong party, Madame Yan arrived first, the mahjong set swathed in a blanket and cradled like a baby in her arms. Having been caressed by countless fingers, the tiles were truly as smooth and cool as white jade and made a delicious clicking sound when they struck against each other. When Uncle Maomao arrived with his friend, however, Wang Qiyao and Madame Yan became subdued; this was not only because he was a stranger, but also because of the reason for his coming. As Uncle Maomao bantered with him, he surprised the ladies with his fluent Mandarin. He was introduced as Sasha, which they thought sounded like a girl’s name. He looked somewhat like a girl too, with his fair skin, shapely chin, slender build, and light-colored student-style spectacles. Sasha was his twenties, his hair had a blond tint, and his eyes were bluish. They wondered where he had come from, almost forgetting why they had invited him over. The two men talked about everything except mahjong, and the ladies went along with the conversation.
Suddenly, Sasha stopped in the middle of what he was saying and, flashing a seductive smile, asked, “Shall we start?”
His abruptness stunned them, especially Madame Yan, who blushed, speechless, as though the police were already knocking at the door to arrest them for gambling. Sasha spread a blanket out over the table and, in one swift motion, dumped the tiles noiselessly down on the soft surface. They quickly took their seats and were soon playing as if they had known the game all their lives. As she listened to the mahjong tiles clicking, Madame Yan was near tears. Time seemed to have reversed itself. The only jarring note in the familiar situation was the stranger.
Maybe it was Sasha, or maybe it was because they were too tense: the game did not bring them the anticipated happiness. They spoke in lowered voices and played with solemn faces, as if performing obligatory duties of some sort, and failed to arrive even at the joviality they had enjoyed at cards. Before long, Uncle Maomao, who constantly needed to mediate between Madame Yan and Sasha, began to feel bored. Sasha alone was having a good time, making little jokes that ran counter to the prevailing dreary mood. His overly correct Mandarin was a little alienating, and his jokes struck them as overbearing, although this was offset somewhat by his good manners. At the same time, his fine manners, combined with his youthful gentleness, made them feel deferential, as if he was the real host at the table.
Wang Qiyao was annoyed when she noticed Uncle Maomao fawning over Sasha. She became indignant on his behalf and wished the game was over so that the guests would all go home. She had planned on making a fruit soup for a midnight snack but now had second thoughts. As for Madame Yan, fear gripped her almost as soon as she sat down to play, and her heart was in her mouth the entire time lest a patient show up for an injection, or Mr. Yan come looking for her. With her attention wandering, she didn’t win even a single round. Uncle Maomao had come with the intention of pleasing his cousin, but once it became clear that this was not about to happen, he lost interest. Sasha was way ahead in the game and the chips piled high in front of him. He acted as if they were all there to play with
him
, not the other way around. Eventually they completed the minimum sixteen rounds, whereupon Madame Yan claimed she had to go home, otherwise her husband might lose his temper at her staying away so long. Uncle Maomao was only too happy to leave. Relieved, Wang Qiyao only perfunctorily pressed them to stay longer. Sasha was incredulous that the game ended so quickly. Fortunately, the radio next door announced eleven o’clock and everyone commented on how late it was.

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