Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

“How come no one’s talking?”

“Why don’t you say something then?”

Wang Qiyao chortled again. When they asked her what was so funny she didn’t answer. It was only after they pressed her that she responded, “Seeing the three of you reminds me of something. .”

But when they asked what it was, she blew it off, saying it had nothing to do with them. This felt as if she was intentionally trying to push their buttons, and her guests insisted on an answer. Only after much pressing did Wang Qiyao finally burst out, “I was just wondering what kind of future lies in store for the three of you!”

They were all taken aback. After a pause, Zhang Yonghong asked, “And what about your future? You don’t know what will happen to you either. . ”

“What future do I have?” asked Wang Qiyao. “For me the future is now!”

Everyone said that she was just being modest, but Wang Qiyao laughed it off and continued, “Everything is crystal clear today, but who knows what tomorrow will bring.”

Baffled, the others looked at each other and began to feel a bit awkward, especially Old Colour. He felt that he had been lumped in with Zhang Yonghong and Long Legs, which made him feel like a third wheel; he wondered what kind of fish Wang Qiyao was trying to catch by stirring up the water like that. He sensed that she was directing her words at him, that it was an inquisition of some sort, as if she were trying to test him. Feeling exceedingly uncomfortable, he tried to change the subject, but Wang Qiyao wouldn’t hear of it, and continued to talk about how unpredictable fate was: if the mountain doesn’t shift, then the water will, and when the water doesn’t, people will. Zhang Yonghong and Long Legs were befuddled by all this, but Old Colour was growing impatient and had just about had all he could take.

He laughed sarcastically. “If I understand you correctly, the two of them are heading for a breakup, and Zhang Yonghong and I will eventually start dating, is that it?”

Putting everything so bluntly made them all laugh. Wang Qiyao didn’t try to defend herself at first, simply saying that he had misunderstood her.

“But you were referring to the three of us, so what other combination could there possibly be?”

Wang Qiyao was speechless and simply smiled. Long Legs was smiling too, but deep down he was angry — not at Wang Qiyao, but at Old Colour, whom he felt had taken a cheap shot. Zhang Yonghong accused Old Colour of being crazy, but an odd quiver passed over her heart.

Laughing, Wang Qiyao nodded at Old Colour. “You’ve got a sharp tongue — you win this time. . ”

A few days after their hotpot dinner, Old Colour dropped by Wang Qiyao’s again; he went straight upstairs, where he found the door ajar and Wang Qiyao sitting on the sofa with a blanket over her legs as she knit a wool top. He tapped on the open door and stepped inside. But Wang Qiyao didn’t even look up — she went on knitting as if no one was there. Old Colour knew that she was upset at him, but pretended not to notice and paced slowly around the apartment. He was wearing a tunic suit with a white silk scarf carelessly flung around his neck, with both hands in his pockets — the very image of an idealistic May Fourth youth. After pacing around the apartment for a while, his eyes fell on the checkered pattern of sunlight coming through the window and realized that winter was approaching. Suddenly he heard Wang Qiyao’s cold voice behind him, accusing him of disturbing her peace with all his pacing back and forth. Old Colour sat down on a chair and looked out at a sparrow pecking at tidbits on the windowsill; the bird was obscured by the window frame and he could only see half its head. Soon Wang Qiyao announced that she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t intend to cook, so she wouldn’t have anything to offer him.

“You think I came here to eat?” he sneered.

Only then did she raise her head. “What did you come here for then?”

“What do you think I came here for?”

Wang Qiyao withdrew her gaze and went back to knitting, trying to ignore him.

Old Colour was getting angry. He sat sulking with his hands still in his pockets. His posture indicated that he felt aggrieved, but he was unable to speak up for himself to get the justice he felt was owed to him. A bit later Wang Qiyao got up from the sofa, made a pot of tea, and set a cup out on the table in front of him.

“What’s there to be angry about?” she asked as she turned around and went back into the kitchen to make lunch.

Now it was Old Colour’s turn to ignore her. He sat in his chair silently stewing in anger. He couldn’t figure out how he could have let Wang Qiyao come out with the upper hand again. It was times like this that the advantages of life experience really showed. That kind of experience takes time to build up; no amount of cleverness is a match for time. The difference of a day or two, or even a year or two, might not matter much, but several decades did.

Lunch that afternoon was much more elaborate than usual. Wang Qiyao swallowed her irritation and was extremely attentive to Old Colour, casually telling him all kinds of interesting stories she had never shared with him before. Old Colour gradually cooled down, till he almost forgot that he had been upset — but then Wang Qiyao brought it up again.

“You really think those things I said the other night over dinner just came out of nowhere? As if I had nothing better to do?”

Old Colour stopped eating, uncertain of what she was trying to say.

“I was thinking back to many years ago, on a day like this one, when it was cold and bleak outside and there were four people sitting around a hotpot. One of the women was just an onlooker, but you would not believe what happened between those two men and that other woman.”

Wang Qiyao paused for a moment before continuing. “That woman was me.”

Old Colour put down his chopsticks and glanced up at Wang Qiyao. She had an indifferent expression, as if she were talking about someone else. What happened between her, Uncle Maomao, and Sasha some twenty years earlier seemed so alien, it didn’t even feel like a part of her anymore. She didn’t know if the details had faded with time or she had blocked them out, but she had trouble remembering the sequence of how things had happened. Her nonchalant air only made the tragedy more shocking. This was the first time that Old Colour had heard Wang Qiyao talk about her past; up till then she had described only the settings, but the participants were elusive, disappearing and reappearing like phantoms. But now those phantoms had come to life. They were real people; ironically, this knowledge only made Old Colour feel more perplexed, lost in a massive cloud of mist. Wang Qiyao’s face was like a reflection in water — it seemed to ripple and sway. He realized that he was crying, partly out of sympathy and partly because he was deeply moved.

“Even I’m not crying,” protested Wang Qiyao, “so what are you crying for?”

“I don’t know…” he murmured as he put his head down on the table.

From that point on, Wang Qiyao began to reveal her secret life over the past several decades to him. They spent the next few days together, Wang Qiyao telling her buried stories, Old Colour silently listening. The stories were accompanied by cigarettes and the room became enveloped in thick smoke. Their faces grew hazy, their voices too. It was a story that began forty years ago, about a life filled with splendor and turmoil — where would one trace the beginnings of such a story? Although it was a tragedy, it was a tragedy laced with grandeur and elegance — how was such a story going to end? Wang Qiyao’s voice grew quiet, and all was silent, only the cigarette smoke thickened and dissipated freely in the air. Then the sound of someone clapping thrice softly broke the silence — it was Wang Qiyao. Taken aback, Old Colour immediately looked over to see her smiling at him through the smoke.