Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

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.

“You can’t blame me!” he said on one occasion.

“I don’t!” she replied.

“But deep down you do! You blame me for coming into your life too late,” he argued.

Wang Qiyao laughed and responded, only after a pause, “Should we start practicing for the next life?”

“What for?”

“Haven’t you heard? It takes a hundred years of self-cultivation if you want to be on the same boat, and a thousand years if you want to share the same pillow.”

As soon as she said “pillow,” they both felt a tremor of the heart and fell immediately silent. Wang Qiyao started to turn red, aware that she had spoken out of turn and injected something prurient into the conversation. When she saw him sitting there in silence with his head hanging low, she thought he was upset and was so embarrassed she started to cry. To prevent him from seeing her tears, she quickly turned around and walked into the kitchen, where she stood for a few moments, putting away various odds and ends in a state of abstraction. By the time she came back he was gone. There was a note on the table: Together in this life — who needs a next life? Reading those words actually calmed her down a bit; it was, in a way, ridiculous, and she wondered: What is he thinking? Can he be serious? She took the note and crumpled it into a ball. The incident eventually passed, and, in its wake, so did several equally tense moments. But fear lingered every time she thought about their clashes. She was living on the razor’s edge; she knew she couldn’t take one false step, but she didn’t know how to get off. It was like walking a tightrope — and it was exciting. But you can’t stay up on the tightrope too long or you’ll lose your footing. Whenever they were alone together, the atmosphere would grow tense, and they both seemed to have their daggers drawn.