Song of Everlasting Sorrow (40 page)

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Authors: Wang Anyi

BOOK: Song of Everlasting Sorrow
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They would sit by the table, silently watching the blue flame of the alcohol burner with a mix of joy and sadness. From time to time, people with infants needing shots would come knocking. Wang Qiyao would hold the child sprawled on her lap, with the parent standing by to keep it still, while Kang Mingxun, with a foolish smile on his face, dangled a toy to distract it from crying. Each time they conjured a touching scene that was both comical and tender, in this way retrieving what other people carelessly tossed away. They spent countless hours picking edible
malantou
by the stream, gently placing the large leaves in one pile and the young ones in another pile—the care they took was emblematic of the warmth they invested in these fragments of love. Though their efforts did not add up to much, still they were honest efforts. For two people who habitually weighed every move from the standpoint of self-interest, an affair that ran contrary to their interests offered a momentary respite and a lesson in true love.
The days passed, with no hint of when the “future” might arrive. It only seemed more distant with every step they took, so that it felt as if they would never get there. This interlude lasted a long time and, if it weren’t for what then happened, they would have thought they could go on like that forever, always pushing the future far, far away, into a dark corner where it would never be seen and not bother them. What happened, however, was a signpost of the future—Wang Qiyao became pregnant.
At first they refused to believe it was true. After it was confirmed, they felt utterly helpless. Afraid to discuss the matter at home lest the neighbors overhear them, they put on gauze masks and went for a walk in the park, where they kept looking over their shoulders apprehensively. The winter trees were bare, a thin layer of ice had formed on the lake, the grass had withered, and the sun shone weakly from behind the clouds. Walking in circles on the grass, they saw no escape from their predicament. The skin lay taut on their faces and their hair was parched from the dry air; they felt they had come to the end of their road. As soon as they left the park behind, they went their separate ways, keeping their eyes straight ahead. The raucous noises of the city hung over them like rain clouds, and they soon lost sight of each other.
The next day they resumed their conversation at a park further away, where the scenery was equally bleak and there were few visitors, and the sparrows hopping on the yellow grass seemed to be the only signs of life. The light of the sun as it shifted gradually through the bare trees reminded them that they could not afford to procrastinate. Their hearts were crushed with anxiety. Still, no solution presented itself, and they fell to bickering. Wang Qiyao, suffering from morning sickness, was cantankerous from the start. Kang Mingxun, who had to stifle his own agitation to soothe her with words he did not mean, felt his situation becoming insupportably awkward. He soon reached his breaking point and exploded in anger. They feuded as they walked down a cement-paved lane, at first in smothered whispers, but soon forgot themselves and raised their voices. Under the empty winter sky, however, their shouts were as feeble as whispers, blown away in the wind. Flocks of birds rose like grains of sand wafted aloft. The two were desperate but not nearly desperate enough—they still clung to the hope that some miracle would befall them. They shared a powerful urge to survive, like weeds sprouting between cracks in the pavement—abusing each other was proof that they had not completely given in and were struggling still. Both had lost weight; they looked pale, and Wang Qiyao’s face was all broken out.
After this initial period of agony, they fell into a stupor during which they stopped going to the park and ceased all discussion. Wang Qiyao would sit under her comforter with a hot water bottle to keep her warm, while Kang Mingxun sat on the sofa wrapped in a woolen blanket. They resembled brooding hens, yearning wistfully for the danger to hatch into something else. When the sunlight reached the wall opposite the sofa, Kang Mingxun would use his hands to make shadows of animal figures—a goose, a dog, a rabbit, a mouse—as Wang Qiyao watched from her bed. By the time the light moved away, the show was over and it would be dusk.
Kang Mingxun now did the cooking. He had never touched a frying pan before, but he turned out to be a superb chef. He found he could push his anxieties aside by focusing on culinary techniques. With Wang Qiyao’s flowery apron around his waist and a pair of protective sleeves over his shirt, he brought the meal to Wang Qiyao’s bedside, his hair mussed up, his forehead oily and perspiring, his eyes aglow with excitement. Tears rolled down her cheeks and into her bowl as she ate. Kang Mingxun watched helplessly on one side, looking very much like a waiter on duty. Soon he too became teary. They could no longer put it off: a decision had to be made. Wang Qiyao said she was going to get herself examined at a hospital the following day. Kang Mingxun offered to go with her, but she declined. She had no way out, she said, but there was no reason why he should be dragged down along with her; this was the direction her life had been taking, whereas Kang Mingxun had other duties to fulfill.
She caressed his hair and, smiling through her tears, said, “While the mountain remains, we shan’t lack firewood.”
She realized at this moment that she truly loved this man and was willing to do anything for him.
“Who will you say is the father?” Kang Mingxun asked.
Wang Qiyao conceded that this was a sticky point. Even if she did not say, others would guess. As discreet as they had been, they were together a great deal, and Kang Mingxun would be the prime suspect. Even if it escaped other people’s notice, Madame Yan would certainly know. But then an idea suddenly came to her. She thought of someone else . . . Sasha.
Sasha
 
Sasha was a half-breed child of the revolution—a product of the Comintern. He was by right one of the city’s new masters, but his heart had no home here. Everywhere he went, he was treated like a foreigner, which always left him confused about who he really was. This city had many people of mixed blood, born largely of fortuitous circumstances—they were the accidents of history. Their half-breed faces betrayed their uncertain fate, a fate that capriciously brings people together and tears them apart. These people spoke in hybrid languages and all looked a bit eccentric, the result perhaps of warring bloodlines, or perhaps of conflicting lifestyles. Their unconventional and rambunctious behavior, charming while they were children, became disagreeable in adulthood. Their unusual appearance made them stand out in the crowd, marking them as loners. One turned upon them the eyes of impudent curiosity. They, for their own part, saw themselves as temporary residents of the city, and that feeling of transience often hung on for a lifetime. They seldom made long-term plans, living one day at a time and never saving for the future. What was there for them to save anyway? Their possessions were not theirs to keep. Some half-breeds disappeared inexplicably without a trace; others put down roots and learned the local dialect; a few joined the underworld and led a life in the streets, in this way helping to lend an air of dark mystery to the city.
Sasha’s cockiness in proclaiming himself an heir of the revolution was merely a pose—he needed to compensate for his vulnerability and his inner sense of vacuity—it was a laughable attempt to embolden himself. With neither mother nor father, nor any livelihood, he buzzed around all day long like a headless fly, an ingratiating smile on his face, constantly seeking acceptance. Yet he resented the role that fate had assigned him, and was ever on the lookout for opportunities to get even. He was at bottom amoral and unprincipled, always taking the easy way out for himself, which sometimes worked out to the convenience of others.
Wang Qiyao thought he was the perfect candidate. She would have been racked with guilt doing this to anyone else, but had no such qualms when it came to Sasha. This was a role he had been born to play.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said to Kang Mingxun.
But when he inquired about this, she refused to say more. He was not to worry about it—she would handle everything. Kang Mingxun was disquieted. He had some inkling of what she was up to; he was hesitant to ask but also felt he ought to press her for an explanation. Fortunately, Wang Qiyao was adamant about not revealing her plan, instead simply instructing him not to come around anymore. They embraced as usual when he said good-bye, but on this occasion he felt his heart being torn to shreds and could not let her go. Her body was connected to his very heart and soul, and so could never be separated from him. He wept till he ran out of tears, his throat went hoarse, and he lost his voice. Emerging at last into the street, he was annoyed that his bicycle refused to budge, until he realized he had forgotten to undo the lock. He got on his bike and rode down the street, swerving left and right; it took some time before it dawned on him that the blurry haze of lights shining into his eyes as he moved was headlights, and that he was going the wrong way against the traffic. He experienced what the dying felt in their last moments on earth—while his body still clung to life, his soul had already departed.
Over the ensuing days he wandered repeatedly back to Peace Lane, without knowing what he was searching for—the place was noisy, as usual, with people and cars coming and going. He asked himself if it was possible that Wang Qiyao really lived there and saw at the entrance to the lane, as if for the first time, her sign advertising injections and inoculations—somehow he couldn’t quite figure out how the name on the sign related to himself. Spring Festival was approaching and the streets were crowded with people busy purchasing things for the New Year, but he was no more concerned with these things than with a fire blazing on the other side of the river. For several days on end he visited Peace Lane twice a day—morning and night—but he never ran into Wang Qiyao, nor anyone from Madame Yan’s household. Not once did he see a single familiar face: it was as if Wang Qiyao was a drop of water that had disappeared into the ocean. Wandering back and forth, he was consumed by a feeling of emptiness. He promised himself that he would not come back, but sure enough, the next day, back he came. This went on until one afternoon, around three o’clock, he saw Sasha. Bag in hand, Sasha walked at a hurried pace into the lane. Trying to look casual, Kang Mingxun strolled in and out of several stores across the street, all the while peering at the entrance to the lane. It was only after the streetlights came on and there was still no sign of Sasha that he wearily climbed onto his bike and slowly rode away, to return no more.
Sasha had always regarded Wang Qiyao as one of the many women who were fond of him. He knew he had a pretty face that women liked. Their affection for him was always mixed with the tenderness and solicitude shown by a mother toward her child. Over time Sasha grew even more gentle and sensitive, as if he had been born to fulfill their fantasy. He loved women the way children love the parents who nurture them. He loved their generosity and honesty, their simplicity and credulity. They never failed to repay a kindness. Women, how insubstantial they are! Incredibly, they value, above all else, tender feelings. Sasha did not own a thing—in this sense he was a true member of the dispossessed proletariat—yet he had an endless abundance of tender feelings, as much as anybody might care to have. His memories of his Russian mother were hazy, and he had no sisters. His sole experience with the opposite sex was with these older women, who loved him more than they loved themselves. What they asked of him was tenderness, in return for which they showered him with their beneficence. In their arms, Sasha was an adorable little kitten, gentle beyond imagination. He could also be peevish at times—provoked by their suffocating adoration—on occasion he might even scratch them with his claws, but even then he did it gently.
Sasha took to women as a fish takes to water. However, he was, after all, a man with an encompassing worldview, harboring many desires, some of which lay beyond his reach, although this did not prevent him from setting his sights on them. Sasha was always awkward and ineffectual around other men. With them, neither his pretty face nor his status as heir of the Comintern counted for much. His attitude toward men was one of diffidence and fear. He was always too tense in their company, and they came to look down on his hypersensitivity. Sasha was a threat to none, but jealous and resentful of all. On this point women’s adoration was no help at all. In fact, they only exacerbated his self-loathing. He came to believe that the only reason he hung around with them was that he was good for nothing else. Consequently, Sasha was at heart a misogynist—to him women were mirrors reflecting his own ineptitude. Sometimes he would look for an opportunity to retaliate, but his little acts of revenge were gentle, nothing to raise the alarm. His feelings for Wang Qiyao were, however, somewhat different and had as much to do with Kang Mingxun as with her. Sasha had no doubt that if it had not been for Kang Mingxun, Wang Qiyao would have fallen in love with him. Now that the two had fallen out, as he sensed, he grew excited rather than upset, because it meant that he was now on equal footing with Kang Mingxun.
One might suppose that Sasha was deserving of pity, but Sasha himself had no idea of what he was getting into. Taking Wang Qiyao’s sudden affection and Kang Mingxun’s retreat as a mark of his victory, his vanity was greatly flattered. As a trophy won, Wang Qiyao took on additional importance to him. When he noticed that she was lethargic and listless in her appetite, he had his Russian friends make bread for her. He willingly played the part of her assistant, making cotton balls and sterilizing needles. This aroused some guilty feelings on Wang Qiyao’s part, but remorse immediately gave way to the image of Kang Mingxun, her apron around his waist, protective sleeves on his arms, his forehead oily and perspiring, trying so hard to please her. Her resolve stiffened—she could not afford to turn back, she could only move forward.

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