Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

One night, many years ago, two men from the provinces had knocked on her door hoping to find a doctor for the patient they were carrying on a stretcher. That sharp, insistent rapping in the stillness of the night rang in her ears — at the time she didn’t know if that knock was the bearer of good news or bad. Wang Qiyao’s hearing had grown keen at this moment and she could hear everything that went on in the longtang . There was nobody knocking now, the entire longtang was deathly silent, and one could even hear the thump when a cat jumped down from a wall. Wang Qiyao took in all of these minute sounds and carefully analyzed them. This was a little game she played with herself on quiet nights to pass the time. That night Wang Qiyao ended up staying awake almost the entire night; she did doze off a few times, but it was a light sleep and the slightest sound was enough to startle her awake. Worried that the same thing might happen the following night, she forced herself to stay awake until late; but she couldn’t fight off her exhaustion and the moment she crawled under the covers she was out like a light.

She suddenly woke up to a knock on the window. Once fully awake, she heard it again — it sounded like someone throwing pebbles against the window. She got up and went over to pull the curtain back, only to discover the empty moonlit alley of the longtang. She stood there a moment and was about to close the curtain again when someone suddenly emerged from the shadows, stepping out into the moonlight, and looked up at her. They gazed at each other for a long while before Wang Qiyao turned to put on a jacket and went downstairs. The back door opened and the man scurried inside; no words were exchanged as they walked one behind the other up the stairs.

No lights were on inside, but the moonlight was there. They both stood facing it in order to avoid looking at each other. One sat down on the bed while the other stood, arms folded.

“You came back?” she, standing, asked after a long silence.

He, sitting, lowered his head.

“What were you running from? Don’t tell me you were afraid that I’d come after you?” This was followed by a cold laugh.

Wang Qiyao walked over to the sofa and lit a cigarette. Her moonlit face was ashen, her hair was disheveled, and the smoke rose into the air, once again obscuring her. Without speaking, he took off his clothes and crawled into bed, covering his head with the blanket. Still smoking her cigarette, she turned to face the window. The moonlight picked out her profile, which in the haze of the smoke appeared like the silhouette of a creature from another world. She was uncertain about the hour, which must have been late, as there was not a sound, not even from a stray cat. Finishing her cigarette at last, Wang Qiyao put out the butt in the ashtray before coming back to bed. This was a quiet night: everything was carried out in silence. There were no tears, no moans, even their breath seemed to be stifled. Eventually the moon moved west and the room grew dark; lying in bed, the two of them seemed to sink down to the very bottom of the earth, completely silent and still. No one could have predicted what ended up happening on that dark silent night. This is what is known as a dark secret, a secret that must not be seen, spoken of, or even thought of — nothing whatsoever can be done about it. There was but one source of noise on that silent night — the pigeons on the rooftop, who were making disturbing sounds all night as if their nests had been invaded.

At nine the next morning, on one of the few sunny days they had seen all winter, Old Colour rode his bicycle down the street. Could I be dreaming? he asked himself. Everything around him seemed bright and alive, making his nightmares from the night before seem insubstantial, and this terrified him. He couldn’t remember how everything had started or how it had ended. He was drawn to crowded places, as if they could bolster his confidence. He also liked the daylight and felt relaxed when he saw the sun rising. What he feared most were those moments just before dusk; he would be seized by a sudden panic and unable to sit still. He would often line up various meetings and things to do just before that time, but after dinner, around seven or eight o’clock, just before all the evening activities were about to start, he would feel compelled to get on his bike and ride toward Wang Qiyao’s apartment — it was as if the demons from his nightmares were beckoning him.

How long had it been since he had been to the record store? He didn’t even listen to the records he already had at home, which had all grown dusty. And on nights that he insisted on returning to his tingzijian , he would usually stay up, unable to rest. Outside the dormer window was the open empty sky; he felt if he gazed at it long enough, his heart would fall into it. At moments like this, the nightmares would return with a vengeance to his fully conscious mind; they were particularly vivid at this time and too much for him to handle alone. He couldn’t do it by himself — he had no choice but to go to Wang Qiyao. But that only created a new nightmare. Knowing that he would be restless no matter what, he became resigned to his predicament. One morning, instead of creeping away from Wang Qiyao’s bed right away, he decided to lie there watching the room slowly grow brighter. He glanced at Wang Qiyao with her head resting on the pillow, and she looked back at him. They smiled at each other.

“What should we have for breakfast?” Wang Qiyao asked, as if they were an old married couple.

Without answering, he reached over Wang Qiyao’s body for the pack of cigarettes on the headboard. Wang Qiyao handed it to him, taking one for herself; the way they lit up was also like an old couple. By that time the first rays of sunlight had come into the room, but stopped on one side of the window frame. There was a note of weariness and desolation in the thin mist shrouding the morning sunlight. As if the day was almost over before it had even begun.

“What time do you have to be at work?” Wang Qiyao asked.

He said that he wasn’t working — he was on winter vacation. It dawned on Wang Qiyao that Spring Festival was right around the corner, but she hadn’t done a thing to prepare for it.

“How are you going to spend your vacation this year?” she asked.

“Just like always,” he responded.

“I really don’t know how you usually spend it. Why don’t you tell me?”

He could hear the petulance in her words but decided not to play along.

Wang Qiyao got the message. Putting on a smile, she said, “What about inviting Zhang Yonghong and her boyfriend over right after the New Year?”

He agreed. They lay there smoking and didn’t say anything further. The sun had already bathed the curtains in a crimson glow and filled the room with light, in which the cigarette smoke shimmered and danced. They stayed in bed until noon. Wang Qiyao fixed them a simple bowl of noodles and asked him to help with the spring cleaning. They hung the comforter out in the sun, soaked the sheets in detergent, and pulled the drawers out of the chest to dust them. The work gave them a sense of exhilaration. The dark atmosphere of the previous day and night was swept entirely away and their mood brightened. When they were done sweeping and dusting, Wang Qiyao went back to scrub the bedsheets that had been soaking. She sent Old Colour off to take a shower, asking him to pick up some smoked meats for the New Year dinner on his way back. It was already early evening by the time he got back with the groceries. Although it was late, the apartment was bright, clean, and freshly aired, and dinner was ready on the table. Wang Qiyao was sitting on the sofa knitting a sweater and watching the television.