Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

“You and my mom sure have a lot to say to each other!” Weiwei said as soon as they got to the end of the longtang.

“What’s wrong with that?” asked Xiao Lin.

“Everything! It’s all wrong!” declared Weiwei.

Seeing how unreasonable she was, Xiao Lin turned and walked off, pushing his bicycle. The two of them parted in rancor.

Then just like that the day of the exam arrived. The afternoon after the exam, Xiao Lin went straight from the test site to Weiwei’s apartment instead of going home. Wang Qiyao brought him a bowl of green bean and lily soup to help him cool off from the summer heat before rushing out to call Weiwei on the public phone to tell her to come home from work early. Xiao Lin had lost a lot of weight in the days leading up to the exam, but he was in high spirits. Asked how he had done, he responded with a perfunctory okay, but she sensed that he was waiting for Weiwei to get home so he could tell her all the details. Rather than asking him more questions, she handed him some newspapers to read. Before long, Weiwei returned, kicking off her high-heeled shoes and complaining how hot it was outside — looking as if she was the one who had just taken the exam. Xiao Lin was waiting for her to question him, but she didn’t. Instead she wondered aloud what movie they were going to see, complaining that they hadn’t been to the movies in ages. She went on to describe the latest style sweeping the streets, saying how she’d be out of fashion if she didn’t catch up.

At this point, Wang Qiyao could no longer stand the discomfiture and started to question Xiao Lin on behalf of Weiwei — what was the exam like and how he did. Xiao Lin gave them the details in an even tone, but his enthusiasm and excitement still came through. He grew particularly animated when he started in on the foreign language portion of the exam — this touched on only about a third of what he had mastered, and he breezed right through. Weiwei got excited as she listened to him and clamored for a celebration at Red House. Wang Qiyao chided: “Xiao Lin hasn’t even had a chance to go home yet. His whole family is waiting! What’s more, it’s not as if he’s gotten accepted anywhere yet. Stop trying to fleece him!”

Xiao Lin, however, said it was all right. He could telephone home and, as to whether or not he would get accepted, that was out of his hands now. He had done his best and the rest was heaven’s will. He spoke with nonchalance, but it was backed up by a strong confidence. Wang Qiyao decided to let them go ahead. As they were heading out the door, Xiao Lin suddenly turned around: “Auntie Wang, why don’t you come with us!”

Wang Qiyao naturally declined, but Xiao Lin insisted. Weiwei, however, was impatient to get going, which made the situation rather uncomfortable.

“Okay then. .” Wang Qiyao finally agreed. “But it’s my treat! It’ll be my way of congratulating Xiao Lin for his hard work!”

She sent them on ahead and told them she would meet them at the restaurant. By the time she had changed clothes, grabbed her purse, and made it over to Red House, it was already seven o’clock. Twilight during the summer always seems to last forever; the sun had already set, yet its glow was still rippling through the streets. A thousand years may pass, but sunsets like those never change, allowing us to forget the passage of time. Maoming Road is also a place that defies time; the plane trees lining the street on both sides meet in embrace and form a canopy overhead. Although the French-style edifices have seen many difficult days, they are basically unchanged. Farther down the road, the theater at the corner has the forlorn air that pervades after the curtain has fallen and the crowds are gone. Nevertheless, it still has enough glamour to call up its former splendor. Maoming Road is truly the eternal heart of Shanghai — even the sky above has Shanghai written all over it. Wang Qiyao caught sight of Red House behind a row of green trees and thought what an upbeat name it was, enabling people to feel ever-youthful. At that moment the streetlights lit up, emitting a yellow glow that set off the night scene, against a sky veiled by a layer of thin mist.

Wang Qiyao could distinguish Xiao Lin and Weiwei through the glass door of the restaurant. Under the light of a lamp, their heads were almost touching as they bent down to read the menus. Unconsciously, Wang Qiyao hesitated for a moment and thought to herself: How could all those decades have passed by in the blink of an eye like that? She pushed open the door and went inside.

When she got to their table, the first thing Weiwei said to her was, “And I thought you weren’t going to show up!”

Her tone clearly indicated that she would much rather that her mother did not.

Wang Qiyao pretended not to notice and replied, “I promised to take you two out — how could I not show up?”

Weiwei ordered. She picked out the most expensive dishes, partly to show off to Xiao Lin, but also to wring out her mother. Initially Wang Qiyao was ready to go along with this, but, seeing how her daughter completely disrespected her, she decided to assert her authority by canceling some of the dishes Weiwei had ordered and replace them with others that were just as tasty but less expensive. Weiwei tried to argue, but Wang Qiyao retorted, “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that something is good just because it is pricy. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Oxtail soup is highly acclaimed, but it is best eaten in France where oxen are raised especially for their meat; we don’t have anything like the quality of that meat here. You’d be better off ordering French onion soup, which tends to be much more authentic.”

This barrage left Weiwei speechless. She lowered her head and didn’t open her mouth again for the rest of the dinner. Xiao Lin, however, appreciated the knowledge and experience evident in Wang Qiyao’s words, which he attributed to the “old days.” He asked a string of questions, which Wang Qiyao was only too happy to answer, patiently explaining everything she knew.

In the blink of an eye the table was covered with large and small dishes, the white china giving off a soft glow under the lights. Their eyes grew moist from the steam rising from the food. Outside the sky had turned completely dark and the streetlights shone like stars; under them the people and cars passed noiselessly by. The trees swayed gently in the evening wind, projecting their dreamlike shadows toward them. This corner could be said to be the most romantic spot in Shanghai: shatter that romance and you will still find its broken shards here. For a while Wang Qiyao did not speak. She sat staring out the window as if she was searching for someone or something she knew. But all she saw was the reflection of the three of them in the glass, moving like characters in a silent film. By the time she turned back around, the sound and color had returned. They may not have been aware of it, but the couple sitting before her was a match made in heaven. Wang Qiyao sat in silence, barely moving her fork or knife. She couldn’t drive away the oppressive feeling that her world had returned, but she was now only an observer.

THE WOMAN SITTING in the corner at the dance, content in her loneliness — that is Wang Qiyao. Keeping an eye on a pile of jackets and purses, a charitable smile lighting up her face, she watched the dancers on the floor. She seemed to be saying: You ’ re doing the steps all wrong, but it ’ s okay . Each night she too would take to the floor every so often; her partners were always young men and women. Once you got close to her on the dance floor you would hear her whispering instructions to her partner, and only then did it become clear that she was the one teaching them. You wouldn’t have enough experience to rate her dancing skills, but her calm and assured manner was evident. Maintaining her poise like that in a roomful of young people wasn’t easy. At every dance there would always be at least one or two people her own age who were there to turn back the clock. They brought back the air of gallant gentlemen and proper ladies from thirty or forty years before; although they weren’t the most eye-catching ones present, they embodied authenticity. When they got out on the floor, they always looked solemn; the movements they made were exact. Seeing them for the first time, you might think that dancing was work for them and that they approached the floor with a sense of duty. But closer scrutiny would reveal that they were dancing joyously. Their joy did not overflow in the way of young people; it was more like water coursing steadily down an irrigation ditch — quietly, without calling attention to itself, yet full of stamina.