Song of Everlasting Sorrow (67 page)

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Authors: Wang Anyi

BOOK: Song of Everlasting Sorrow
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He laughed for a while before continuing, “I’m afraid that I even saw you once in my previous life. You were a student at a middle school, wearing a
cheongsam
and carrying a bookbag with a lotus-leaf shaped border . . .”
“And so you followed me, right?” She picked up where he left off, “and said, ‘Miss, would you like to see a movie? Vivien Leigh is in it.’ . . .”
With that, both of them keeled over in laughter.
That was the beginning.
From that point on, they often began their conversations that way, taking roles in a Hollywood-type movie. Naturally, love, which was the requisite theme, had to be part of the story. And so the two carried on rather recklessly, one fuelled by recollection, the other by aspiration, both fully immersed in their respective roles. From time to time they would forget it was mere playacting and take their fantasy as real. They even injected real feelings into the scenarios and grew melancholic as they ad-libbed. That’s when Wang Qiyao would have to put a stop to it: “All right already! Stop carrying on as if this was real!”
“I wish it were real,” declared Old Colour.
These words were followed by a long silence. They both felt a bit awkward and only then realized how far things had gone. He was after all still quite young and wasn’t always capable of finding the proper words for the occasion. He tried to explain by adding, “I really love the whole atmosphere of that time.”
Wang Qiyao didn’t respond immediately. It was only after a brief pause that she replied, “Oh yeah, the atmosphere back then was great! A pity that the people involved are now so old that their teeth are falling out!”
Old Colour realized that he had said something wrong, but he couldn’t find the words to explain himself any better and his face turned red in frustration. Wang Qiyao extended her hand to caress his hair.
“Such a child!”
He felt a lump in his throat and dared not look up. He couldn’t get rid of the feeling that he had been misunderstood, yet didn’t know how to express himself. Nor could he say for sure what exactly he had done wrong. As Wang Qiyao ran her hands through his hair he could sense the hurt this woman felt and her understanding. A well of compassion opened up in his heart, which brought them closer together.
They sat down next to each other and tried to avoid the previous topic of conversation by talking about some trivial things. Although the conversation wasn’t as animated as before, neither of them was uncomfortable, as they felt something existed between them that transcended the occasional silences. It was those made-up stories from old Shanghai—the kind that linger, clinging to the heart. That night Old Colour invited Wang Qiyao out to dinner again; she wanted to accept, but she didn’t. She thought,
Just what is this? He’s forty years too late!
She smiled. “There’s no need for that. You usually eat better food at home than you do in some of those restaurants.”
Sensing that she was heading off in a different direction, Old Colour decided not to press the issue. From that point on, he would call on Wang Qiyao every three days or so. He would usually stay for a meal, and her apartment eventually became almost like a second home to him. Sometimes Zhang Yonghong would come over and wind up joining them for dinner. Other times she brought Long Legs along with her, but they wouldn’t necessarily stay for dinner, often just sitting and chatting for a while before leaving Wang Qiyao and Old Colour to have dinner alone. At such times the atmosphere would grow very still, as if signifying something. By tacit agreement, they avoided parties, which they found unwieldy because it was difficult to talk. Spending time at home may have been a bit too quiet, but there was a solidity to the quietness; they spoke when they had something to say, and kept silent when they didn’t. It was a setting more appropriate to two people who knew each other well, whereas parties were designed to make strangers feel more comfortable with each other.
Whenever Wang Qiyao tried out a new dish she would ask Old Colour, “How does this measure up to your mother’s cooking?”
Once, when she said this, Old Colour replied, “I never compare you to my mother.”
Asked why, he responded, “Because you are ageless.”
Wang Qiyao didn’t know what to say. After a pause she asked, “How can someone be ageless?”
Old Colour persisted, “You know what I mean.”
“You’re right, I know exactly what you mean . . .” said Wang Qiyao. “But I don’t agree with you.”
“You don’t have to agree with me,” Old Colour responded, before lowering his head in dejected silence.
Wang Qiyao paid him no heed, but deep down she was laughing wryly, thinking that this fellow really didn’t know when to quit. She wasn’t sure if she liked that feeling or not. She stood in front of the stove waiting for a pot of water to boil as she stared at the scenery outside the window. Dusk was falling and the last rays of the sun seemed reluctant to leave. This was a scene she had been looking at for years; it had been etched into her heart. She knew that feeling so well that it was clear at every moment what the next moment would bring.
Wang Qiyao went back into the room and put the freshly brewed tea on the table. Seeing the gloomy look on his face, she said, “Now don’t go making a big deal out of nothing! Everything is fine, so why spoil it?”
He turned away with a peevish look.
Wang Qiyao continued, “You’re a nice boy who is really smart and polite and I really like you. But I don’t like boys who let their minds run wild thinking about crazy things!”
“Who are you calling a boy?” he shouted as he jerked his head up. “Stop calling me a boy—as if I was just a child!”
“What a temper!” said Wang Qiyao, as she got up to walk away.
But Old Colour called her back. “Where do you think you’re going? What are you trying to run away from? If you have something to say, then say it!”
“You want me to talk to you? About what?”
He pushed things even further. “You are the one being unreasonable. You’re always running away!”
Wang Qiyao laughed. Turning around, she sat back down. “So let’s hear what
you
have to say. Go on!”
He pressed on with his accusations. “You don’t even have the guts to look reality in the face!”
She nodded her head in agreement, signaling for him to continue, but he didn’t know what else to say.
Wang Qiyao snorted. “And here I was, thinking you had some great truth to set me straight on!”
Those words really set him off. Ready to explode, he opened his mouth but nothing came out . . . ; he pressed his head into Wang Qiyao’s bosom, wrapping his arms around her waist. Wang Qiyao was shocked but didn’t dare to reveal her surprise. She didn’t push him away or get mad; instead she raised her arm and began to gently caress his hair, whispering consoling words. He refused to raise his head, however, and after a while Wang Qiyao ran out of reassuring things to say and had to stop. The two of them sat in silence.
Dusk slowly crept in, covering everything with a veil of darkness, but leaving the delicate outlines still visible; all was still. They, too, remained motionless. There was no future for them to look forward to; they could only remain stationary, eking out the moment as long as they possibly could. All they had was silence; what was there to say when they would probably only end up arguing as before? In truth, they were just blindly letting off steam, but they could have just as well have been speaking different languages, like an ox trying to reason with a horse. In the end, both were left more confused than ever. Eventually they calmed down and things seemed finally to be getting back on track. But time was slipping by and they couldn’t just keep carrying on like that until old age! It was only after it was completely dark and they could barely make each other out that their silhouettes could be seen rising and separating. Only then was the light turned on in the last window to light up on Peace Lane that night.
After that evening, both of them seemed to forget what had transpired; they put it aside and never mentioned it again. However, Wang Qiyao stopped asking Old Colour things that might upset him, such as “How do I compare to your mother?” which under the circumstances would have taken on a provocative overtone. They also stopped talking about how old they were and whether or not she was “ageless”—all these became taboo subjects. The results of that day’s confrontation seemed to be a loss, as they now had fewer topics they could discuss; but that loss was actually a way of purging the impurities in their relationship, like pruning away dead branches. After that, their relationship became purer and simpler; they might not have always had things to say, but sometimes silence is better than speech. There were also times when they talked nonstop—always about important things, such as Wang Qiyao’s reminiscences of the past. Her stories were so splendid that they made everything happening in the present pale in comparison. But the splendor was all linked with heartbreaking losses, like a ceremonial robe bathed in neon light.
Wang Qiyao showed him a forty-year-old hand-carved box from Spain; she let him examine the floral engravings on the outside, but wouldn’t open it up, as if the contents were not meant for his eyes. The designs on the box and even the style of the lock were all quite dated; it was a useful prop to help him get into the forty-year-old role he was trying to play. To a certain degree, he even viewed Wang Qiyao as an old Hollywood star, but he never looked at himself as her male counterpart. He was more like an adoring fan, the kind that thinks what they see on screen is real. He loved those old movies from that era—he couldn’t get enough of them. And though all he did was watch, it was often enough to make him forget where he was.
Emerging from Wang Qiyao’s stories and coming back down to reality, Old Colour felt the same feeling of letdown he had at the end of a movie. Although what was being recounted wasn’t his own experience, he was so consumed by the story that it seemed to affect him even more than her. That’s because she had to use part of her energy to cope with the changes in her life and keep herself together. The next time he lay on the rooftop outside his dormer window and stared up at the sky, images began to appear before him. One after another, they rolled over the horizon formed by the rooftops. Oh, how this city resembles a sunken ship! That telephone pole is like a mast jutting up from the bottom, still hanging on to a bit of tattered sail—the sail is actually the remains of a child’s kite that got caught in the wires. Old Colour was so sad he could almost have wept. The clouds suspended over the ship’s hull were the bearers of illusions and mirages.
The distant sound of the pile-driver reached his ears, echoing throughout the sky; that pile-driver seemed to be driving this city down to the bottom. He could feel the roof shaking, and the tiles beneath him made a rattling sound from the vibrations. Not even jazz could console him anymore; his records were all dusty and the needle on the record player had lost its point, producing a hoarse sound that only deepened his sorrow. Before he knew it, he fell asleep. When he awoke the stars had come out to disperse his illusions, but the pile-driver was hammering away even more fiercely, its sound rising and falling like a great choir. This choir was a new all-night program in the city. The sounds would only die off as the dew formed with the coming of dawn. He instinctively drew back; as he opened his eyes, a flock of pigeons flapped past overhead.
Where am I?
he wondered. He watched the pigeons with a dazed stare as they receded, to become spots on the horizon, and imagined himself one of them. The sun rose, its light shining down on the roof tiles. It was time to get up.
“Do you ever feel that this city has aged?” he asked Wang Qiyao.
She laughed. “Is there anything that doesn’t age?” She went on after a pause, “Look at me, I’m evidence of that! What right do I have to expect other things not to age too?”
He looked at Wang Qiyao and his heart was seized with pain. No matter how young she appeared, she still could not conceal her puffy eyelids and those delicate wrinkles.
How could time be so heartless?
he thought, and pity welled up inside him. He raised his hand to caress Wang Qiyao’s hair like an older friend offering consolation. Wang Qiyao laughed and tried to push his hand away, but he resisted and firmly took hold of her hand: “You always look down on me.”
Using her free hand to smooth down his hair, she replied, “I never do . . .”
“You do!” He held his ground.
But so did she. “I never once looked down on you.”
“It actually has nothing to do with age,” he added.
Wang Qiyao thought for a moment before responding, “That depends. . . .”
“On what?
Wang Qiyao didn’t answer and it was only after he pressed her that she finally said, “On the timing.”
The archness of her reply drew laughter from both of them; he was still holding on to her hand. And though the whole scene was rather silly, even pointless, underneath lay something very serious. What that something was it was difficult to say, and to attempt to find out would only cause more pain. Who ever saw a courtship like this? Was that any way to flirt? With more than a quarter of a century between them, the timing was completely off, and so was the rhythm. If it hadn’t been for that mysterious something, the whole thing would have been disgusting. They held hands for a while but stopped short of anything else. It was a good thing that they were both patient; but more than patience, they didn’t seem to have any real objective, so what was the point of rushing? And so they eventually let go of each other’s hands and let everything go back to the way it was before. Even though one of them might still say something absurd from time to time, they found their way to deal with it and went on just as before.

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