Read Song of Everlasting Sorrow Online
Authors: Wang Anyi
Song of Everlasting Sorrow (5 page)
Nothing in the city—its most obscure crimes and punishments, comedies and tragedies—can escape their eyes. When a flock of startled pigeons suddenly takes to the air and circles above the city, that is the moment crimes are being committed and punishments meted out, and comedies and tragedies are being enacted. At a hurried glance, they look like rain clouds forming abruptly in the sky, or spots in the sun. Ghastly scenes are being played out in the ravines of this concrete city. One sees them or not, as the case may be, but those scenes cannot escape the pigeons. The shock of these sights and sounds fills their eyes, which have a look of sadness too deep for tears. Under the sky, this concrete city, created from the maze of crisscrossing
longtang,
is like an abyss in which people struggle for survival like an army of ants. The dust, dancing through the air, becomes the lord of heaven and earth. Then there are those trivial sounds and noises that fill every corner of the city—they too are the lords of heaven and earth. Suddenly, a flock of pigeons slices through the air with their chill whistles, like the sound of splitting silk, the only wakeful sound in a drowsy universe nodding off to sleep.
longtang,
is like an abyss in which people struggle for survival like an army of ants. The dust, dancing through the air, becomes the lord of heaven and earth. Then there are those trivial sounds and noises that fill every corner of the city—they too are the lords of heaven and earth. Suddenly, a flock of pigeons slices through the air with their chill whistles, like the sound of splitting silk, the only wakeful sound in a drowsy universe nodding off to sleep.
Occasionally another group of flying objects will emerge from the city’s rooftops to keep the pigeons company—these are kites. They often get caught on the netlike electrical wires, sometimes breaking their wings from the impact, and end up dangling from the edges of the rooftops and electric poles, whence they stare helplessly at the flocks of pigeons. Kites are created in the image of pigeons, but in the end they cannot compare even with sparrows; even so, humanity invests them with all its naïve aspirations. The hands of children set them in flight, as do the hands of vagabonds, who are, after all, children who never grew up. String in hand, the children and vagabonds run with all their might, trying to send their kites up into the heavens. But, predictably, they meet an early demise on their way up. Only a sacred few actually make it up into the sky. What ecstasy when one finally weasels its way into a flock of pigeons and is able to soar with them!
On the day of the Tomb-Sweeping Festival, the tattered remains of kites whipped by wind and rain present the spectacle of a love suicide on the rooftops. Gradually they disintegrate into the dirt, giving sustenance to a few weak strands of green bristle grass. Sometimes, as kites are ascending, they will break free of their strings and slowly become a small black dot in the sky before disappearing. Theirs is a grand escape, backed by the resolution to die in a worthy cause.
Only pigeons are faithful to humans until death; they fly through the skies as if determined to bring comfort and solace to this city—this city like a dried-up ocean, where the buildings are ships stranded on a forest of coral reefs. How many people are suffering here! How could they simply abandon them and leave? In this godless city, pigeons are the closest thing to a god. But they are a god that no one believes in—they alone understand their sacred signs—all we know is that no matter how far away they may fly, they always brave the long flight home. Men seem to have an eternal soft spot for pigeons deep in their hearts, especially those people living in rooftop
tingzijian
, where pigeons bound for their own nests fly past their dormer windows. Although there are all kinds of temples and churches in this city, temples are temples, churches are churches—the people of this city belong to the alleys. Seen from above, people in the alleys look like little dots drifting on the billows; the pigeons’ whistles send their gentle warnings, day after day, night after night, eternally sounding out through the sky.
tingzijian
, where pigeons bound for their own nests fly past their dormer windows. Although there are all kinds of temples and churches in this city, temples are temples, churches are churches—the people of this city belong to the alleys. Seen from above, people in the alleys look like little dots drifting on the billows; the pigeons’ whistles send their gentle warnings, day after day, night after night, eternally sounding out through the sky.
Presently, the sun sprays out over the unbroken expanse of rooftop tiles, bathing everything in golden light. The pigeons leave their nests, their wings showing white against the sky. The tall buildings resemble buoys floating on the ocean’s surface. The city becomes animated with movement and activity, building up into the quiet roar of the sea. The dust also begins to stir restlessly in a hazy cloud. Germs of events quickly brew into causes and conclusions; already intense feelings are running rampant. As densely packed windows and doors are opened and last night’s stale air rushes out and intermingles, the sunlight becomes turbid, the sky darkens, and the dance of the dust begins to slow. Something too tangled to unravel begins to grow in the air, choking off vitality and passion. The freshness of morning turns into a depressing gloom, inward excitement is quelled, but all those small beginnings keep on breeding all kinds of consequences—what you sow you shall reap. The sun in the sky traverses its usual path; light and shadow move slowly. All signs of stirring have settled, along with the dust, into their normal state, the way they do day after day, year after year. Every trace of romance has been silenced. The heavens hang high aloft and the clouds are pale as the last flock of pigeons disappears into the distance.
Wang QiyaoWang Qiyao is the typical daughter of the Shanghai
longtang
. Every morning, when the back door squeaks open, that’s Wang Qiyao scurrying out with her book bag embroidered with flowers. In the afternoon, when the phonograph plays next door, that’s Wang Qiyao humming along with “Song of the Four Seasons.” Those girls rushing off to the theater, that’s a whole group of Wang Qiyaos going to see Vivien Leigh in
Gone With the Wind
. Running off to the photo studio is a pair of Wang Qiyaos, best friends on their way to have their portrait taken. Sitting in virtually every side room and
tingzijian
is a Wang Qiyao. In the dimly lit living room of every Wang Qiyao’s house there is almost always a set or two of mahogany furniture. The sun draws circles on the windowsill but refuses to come in. There is a three-mirrored vanity in her bedchamber. The powder of her rouge container always looks a bit damp and sticky in its jar, while the container of hair oil has dried up. The copper lock on her camphor chest shines from repeated opening and closing. Whether the radio is tuned to Suzhou
pingtan
storytelling, Shaoxing opera, or stock market updates, the reception is poor and the broadcast is always accompanied by a buzzing hiss. Wang Qiyao’s
amah
sometimes sleeps in the small triangular room under the stairs, which is just large enough for a bed. The
amah
has to do everything—her duties extend even to emptying out the dirty water after the mistress has washed her feet. The family orders the
amah
around as if they are trying to get every bit of their money’s worth out of her. Yet, busy as she is from morning until night, she still has time to go out and spread gossip about her employer—and carry on a clandestine affair with the neighbor’s chauffeur.
longtang
. Every morning, when the back door squeaks open, that’s Wang Qiyao scurrying out with her book bag embroidered with flowers. In the afternoon, when the phonograph plays next door, that’s Wang Qiyao humming along with “Song of the Four Seasons.” Those girls rushing off to the theater, that’s a whole group of Wang Qiyaos going to see Vivien Leigh in
Gone With the Wind
. Running off to the photo studio is a pair of Wang Qiyaos, best friends on their way to have their portrait taken. Sitting in virtually every side room and
tingzijian
is a Wang Qiyao. In the dimly lit living room of every Wang Qiyao’s house there is almost always a set or two of mahogany furniture. The sun draws circles on the windowsill but refuses to come in. There is a three-mirrored vanity in her bedchamber. The powder of her rouge container always looks a bit damp and sticky in its jar, while the container of hair oil has dried up. The copper lock on her camphor chest shines from repeated opening and closing. Whether the radio is tuned to Suzhou
pingtan
storytelling, Shaoxing opera, or stock market updates, the reception is poor and the broadcast is always accompanied by a buzzing hiss. Wang Qiyao’s
amah
sometimes sleeps in the small triangular room under the stairs, which is just large enough for a bed. The
amah
has to do everything—her duties extend even to emptying out the dirty water after the mistress has washed her feet. The family orders the
amah
around as if they are trying to get every bit of their money’s worth out of her. Yet, busy as she is from morning until night, she still has time to go out and spread gossip about her employer—and carry on a clandestine affair with the neighbor’s chauffeur.
Fathers of girls like Wang Qiyao always end up beaten into submission after years of being henpecked by their wives. This sets an example for Wang Qiyao of what it means to respect a woman. On these Shanghai mornings, that’s Wang Qiyao’s father sitting in the trolley car on his way to work; in the afternoons, that’s Wang Qiyao’s mother sitting in the rickshaw on her way to buy material for her new
cheongsam
. Every night, beneath the floor of Wang Qiyao’s apartment, mice scurry to and fro; in order to eliminate the mice, they bring home a cat, and so the apartment takes on a faint stench of cat piss. Wang Qiyao, usually the oldest child, has become her mother’s closest friend while still quite young. Mother and daughter have their clothes made by the same tailor and always go off together to call on friends and relatives. Girls like her always listen to their mothers’ complaints about the incorrigible nature of man—using their own fathers as object lessons.
cheongsam
. Every night, beneath the floor of Wang Qiyao’s apartment, mice scurry to and fro; in order to eliminate the mice, they bring home a cat, and so the apartment takes on a faint stench of cat piss. Wang Qiyao, usually the oldest child, has become her mother’s closest friend while still quite young. Mother and daughter have their clothes made by the same tailor and always go off together to call on friends and relatives. Girls like her always listen to their mothers’ complaints about the incorrigible nature of man—using their own fathers as object lessons.
Wang Qiyao is the typical girl in waiting. The girls that the interns working at Western-style shops ogle surreptitiously—they are all Wang Qiyaos. On the hot summer days when clothing is brought out to be aired, Wang Qiyao stares at her mother’s trousseau chest and fantasizes about her own dowry. In the display window of the photo studio, the lady in the floor-length wedding gown is Wang Qiyao just before her marriage. Wang Qiyaos are always stunningly beautiful. They wear indigo blue
cheongsams
that set off their figure and a bang of black hair shyly concealing their eyes, which seem nevertheless to speak. Wang Qiyaos always follow the mainstream, neither falling behind nor rushing ahead—they are modernity in numbers. They follow what is trendy the same way they would follow a recipe: with blind faith, never expressing opinions or asking questions. The fashion trends in Shanghai rely completely upon Wang Qiyaos. But they are incapable of setting things into motion—that is not their responsibility. They lack creativity, because they are in want of an independent personality; but they are diligent, honest, loyal, and devoted, always blindly following suit. Uncomplaining, they carry the spirit of the times on their backs—you could even say that they are this city’s proclamation. And whenever a star is born in this city, whether on the stage or on the screen, they all become ardent fans and admirers. They are the captive readers of romance novels serialized in the newspaper supplements. The intrepid among them write letters to authors and film stars, but all they are really hoping for is an autograph. In the world of fashion, they are the foundation.
cheongsams
that set off their figure and a bang of black hair shyly concealing their eyes, which seem nevertheless to speak. Wang Qiyaos always follow the mainstream, neither falling behind nor rushing ahead—they are modernity in numbers. They follow what is trendy the same way they would follow a recipe: with blind faith, never expressing opinions or asking questions. The fashion trends in Shanghai rely completely upon Wang Qiyaos. But they are incapable of setting things into motion—that is not their responsibility. They lack creativity, because they are in want of an independent personality; but they are diligent, honest, loyal, and devoted, always blindly following suit. Uncomplaining, they carry the spirit of the times on their backs—you could even say that they are this city’s proclamation. And whenever a star is born in this city, whether on the stage or on the screen, they all become ardent fans and admirers. They are the captive readers of romance novels serialized in the newspaper supplements. The intrepid among them write letters to authors and film stars, but all they are really hoping for is an autograph. In the world of fashion, they are the foundation.
There does not exist a single Wang Qiyao who isn’t sentimental, fashionably sentimental—the kind of sentimentalism that is acquired. Dried leaves are kept in the pages of their books, dead butterflies in their rouge boxes. They may cry, but even their tears follow the mainstream. Their sentimentality is acted out before it comes into existence, the display preceding the feelings. You cannot say that it is completely artificial, only that the order is backward—it is something real that has been artificially produced. Everything in this city has a copy, and everything has someone who leads the way. Wang Qiyao’s eyes are a bit dull, as if enshrouded in shadow—it is the shadow of sentimentalism. These Wang Qiyaos often appear sad, but this sadness makes them even more enchanting. When they eat, their appetite is no bigger than a cat’s, and when they walk they take feline steps. Their skin is so fair that it seems transparent; you can even see their pale blue veins. In summer every one of them gets sick from the heat; in winter they can never stay warm enough under their quilted blankets. They need to take traditional Chinese medicine to strengthen the vital fluids and nourish the blood—the smell of medicinal brew fills the air around them. Between the media and the stage, there are men working behind the scenes to create a fashion perfectly suited to Wang Qiyao, a fashion that moreover seems to anticipate Wang Qiyao’s every need and desire.
Between the Wang Qiyaos is a sisterly love, sometimes strong enough to last a lifetime. Whenever they get together, they regress back to the days before they were married. They are symbols to each other of that innocent period in their lives, living monuments or witnesses on whom to rely when recalling lost times. Many things in their lives are replaceable, but this sisterly love remains until death. Sisterly love is a strange thing indeed: it is not the kind of love that endures through thick and thin and inspires one to help a friend when she is down—it recognizes no attachments, no responsibilities. Rootless and unfettered, it offers no security. You cannot really say that these girls keep each other as confidantes—after all, just how many secrets do women store up in their hearts? Most often they are there to keep one another company, but not in any intimate way—they simply keep each other company on the way to and from school, sporting the same hairstyle, wearing identical shoes and socks, and walking hand-in-hand like lovers. If you should ever see a pair of young girls like this on the street, don’t ever mistake them for twins. It’s simply sisterly love—Wang Qiyao style.
They depend so much on each other, they treat each other with such exaggerated affection, and their expressions are so earnest that you can’t help but take their relationship seriously. But when they keep one another company, all they are doing is making loneliness lonelier and helplessness even more helpless, because neither is in a position to do anything for the other. Divested of utilitarian motives, their sisterly love is all the more pure. Every Wang Qiyao is accompanied by another; some are classmates, some neighbors, and others cousins. This relationship is one of the few social activities in their chaste, simple lives. They have too few opportunities for social interaction and so when an opportunity arises they cannot help putting everything they have into it—and the result is sisterly love. The Wang Qiyaos of the world all place great importance on friendship; beneath a facade that chases after the latest fashions there is devotion and sincerity—albeit a somewhat detached sincerity. When one Wang Qiyao walks down the aisle, another Wang Qiyao is her maid of honor; it is a way of paying tribute to her, a way of seeing her off into her new life. The expression on the face of the maid of honor shows that she is yielding the spotlight to the bride. Her dress is a shade less bright, the style is from last year, she intentionally applies less rouge to her face than usual—everything speaks of her willingness to lower her banner. This attitude of heroic self-sacrifice is sisterly love.
Behind every doorway in the Shanghai
longtang
a Wang Qiyao is studying, embroidering, whispering secrets to her sisters, or throwing a teary-eyed tantrum at her parents. The
longtang
neighborhoods of Shanghai are filled with a girlish spirit—the name of this spirit is Wang Qiyao. There is something elegant about this spirit, not haughty, in fact quite approachable, even adorable. It is modest and gentle, and, though a little affected, the affectation arises from an eagerness to please, which makes it welcome to most. Neither large-hearted nor high-minded—but then again it does not aspire to an epic (charm and sweetness are closer to what people want, anyhow)—it is a spirit that belongs to everyday life. It has the frame of mind, “I’ll return a favor with a favor, but I won’t take disrespect lightly.” This may be lacking in its vision, but it is always reasonable; it is a bit petty, perhaps, but pettiness is always more fun than moral rectitude. Such a spirit knows all about manipulation, which can also be fun—human nature needs a little embellishment. It cannot help but be vulgar, but in a way that has been rinsed clean by civilization. Its vanity rests upon a pragmatic foundation.
longtang
a Wang Qiyao is studying, embroidering, whispering secrets to her sisters, or throwing a teary-eyed tantrum at her parents. The
longtang
neighborhoods of Shanghai are filled with a girlish spirit—the name of this spirit is Wang Qiyao. There is something elegant about this spirit, not haughty, in fact quite approachable, even adorable. It is modest and gentle, and, though a little affected, the affectation arises from an eagerness to please, which makes it welcome to most. Neither large-hearted nor high-minded—but then again it does not aspire to an epic (charm and sweetness are closer to what people want, anyhow)—it is a spirit that belongs to everyday life. It has the frame of mind, “I’ll return a favor with a favor, but I won’t take disrespect lightly.” This may be lacking in its vision, but it is always reasonable; it is a bit petty, perhaps, but pettiness is always more fun than moral rectitude. Such a spirit knows all about manipulation, which can also be fun—human nature needs a little embellishment. It cannot help but be vulgar, but in a way that has been rinsed clean by civilization. Its vanity rests upon a pragmatic foundation.
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