Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

“Dinner’s ready!” she said as he walked in.

That night was exceptionally peaceful. Old Colour even thought to himself: Isn ’ t this what everyone aspires to in life? He regaled Wang Qiyao with stories of his childhood, how he hit his head trying to climb over a wall, how he tried to trap a chicken but it ended up eating the bait and getting away, and all kinds of other trifling tales. Wang Qiyao listened quietly with a pleasant smile on her face. But his stories grew increasingly broken and rambling, against which the television sounded like an off-screen commentary. They were startled when an impatient devil in their neighborhood couldn’t wait to set off the first firecracker in celebration of the coming New Year. The bang scared them half to death — it too was like an off-screen sound effect. That was a night that could almost be called sweet and cozy; the nightmares had retreated and insomnia had released its grip. They fell into a deep slumber, undisturbed by fitful sleep-talk. The room was silent, with the exception of the sound of their gentle breathing. The nights of struggle had finally disappeared, leaving a peaceful evening on Peace Lane.

In this atmosphere of peace Spring Festival arrived. This was the Lunar New Year of 1986, an auspicious holiday, and all around were hopeful signs of change. You could tell from the firecrackers going off on New Year’s Eve, the explosions rising and falling with no signs of letting up. When the clock struck midnight, the entire city was filled with the sound of firecrackers and the sky turned red. Shredded remnants of firecracker paper rained down like a riotous collection of flower petals, transforming the streets into crimson highways; this too was a harbinger of good fortune. Had there ever before been so spectacular a New Year celebration? The joyous explosions seemed to declare the coming of a new world.

Just as the firecrackers sending off the old year had died down, more explosions erupted to greet the new. Breaking through the morning fog, the first firecracker of the day reverberated through the sky like a cock crowing at daybreak; this was the sound of a new era being unveiled. It was answered by a chorus of explosions near and far. They weren’t as earthshaking as the night before, but they spread with growing density, not dense like porridge but like a string of large and small pearls being dropped into a jade bowl with crisp ringing sounds — almost like choral music. The music has a polyphonic quality, like a fugue that gradually shifts without the listener even realizing it. Everyone sings in counterpoint, one group harmonizing with the melodies of another. They are actually singing a canon, one wave following the last. Such is the great chorus of the city, with voices chiming in from every crevice and corner. When one gets tired, another takes over, and the music never stops. Listening to that chorus, one realizes that in this city strength lies in unity.

As Wang Qiyao had suggested, Zhang Yonghong and Long Legs came over for dinner on the second day of the New Year. Contrary to their usual routine, Old Colour decided to try his hand in the kitchen. He strapped on Wang Qiyao’s apron and oversleeves and started preparing the day before. Wang Qiyao, playing his assistant, teased him, “Look who is doing the grunt work for you!”

“Only the best are qualified to work for me!” he rejoined.

Wang Qiyao nodded, laughing. “Look who’s talking! If you keep flaunting it, you’ll end up flat on your behind!”

“Don’t worry, if I do, I’m sure someone will pick me up.”

“Who?” Wang Qiyao demanded. “I’ll tell you who. . YOU!”

They worked the whole of that evening and all through the next morning; it was only around two o’clock on the afternoon of the dinner that things started coming together. Wang Qiyao was quite surprised at how well things were turning out. When she asked Old Colour where he had learned to cook, he just smiled. When she pestered him further, he said that he had learned on his own. In the middle of this conversation, the other two showed up. As always, Long Legs came bearing all manner of gifts, even a bouquet of roses. Although Wang Qiyao chided him for bringing such expensive flowers, she was really quite pleased, thinking this a good omen. One glance at the dishes on the table and Zhang Yonghong immediately knew something was different. She asked if they had hired a new chef. Wang Qiyao shot out her lips in the direction of Old Colour, who smiled but wouldn’t admit to anything.

“Wow! This must have been one expensive chef!” Zhang Yonghong exclaimed.

“Not in the least. .” Old Colour modestly replied.

Wang Qiyao and Old Colour busied themselves with a few last preparations, and the four of them soon sat down to eat. It was still a bit early for dinner, but things tended to get chaotic around the New Year and they didn’t mind eating early.

Once they had all sat down, Zhang Yonghong and Long Legs toasted the host and the chef before everyone exchanged new year wishes. Next it was Old Colour’s turn to introduce the dishes to them; as he prefaced each with an elaborate preamble, Zhang Yonghong was prompted to taunt him, but he didn’t bother to argue — he knew the food would speak for itself. Although visibly impressed, she refused to concede, and this provoked him to take her to task, and so they parried back and forth. Not only were both extremely intelligent, but each had learned a thing or two from Wang Qiyao about how to get a point across; their playful exchanges elicited cries of approval as the other two watched with pleasure. Inspired by their audience, they pushed their performance up another notch and set upon each other with redoubled energy. After who knows how many rounds, there still seemed no end to their resources. Gradually, however, the enthusiasm of the audience flagged, which showed in their lagging applause and waning laughter. Zhang Yonghong and Old Colour eventually had to bring an end to their show even though they could easily have gone on.

This exchange gave each of them a taste of how clever the other could be, which left both exhilarated and wanting another chance to compete. Even as they tried to scale back to a more polite tone, they couldn’t help seasoning their remarks with playful sarcasm. Every time one opened his mouth, out came a provocation, to which the other would respond by taking up the challenge. Over the course of the meal, there were at least two or three times when their exchanges were so brilliant that they seemed perfectly matched. Both relished the excitement of the battle and neither was anxious to declare victory as they reveled in the sheer delight of performance. Wang Qiyao had to call a halt. “Okay, time for a break. You two can pick up again after we have some fruit.”

It was only then that the two snapped out of it and realized they had been ignoring Wang Qiyao and Long Legs. Long Legs appeared especially out of sorts, pacing around the room with a dejected look on his face. Wang Qiyao maintained a smiling composure as she handed out plates of fruit, avoiding Old Colour’s eye as she handed him his portion. Although she politely replied whenever he spoke to her, she made a point of looking away, as if there was something more pressing on her mind. He knew she was upset, but that didn’t seem to spoil his mood; in fact, it seemed to put him in even higher spirits. He eagerly challenged Zhang Yonghong to another round of combat, looking happy and animated, clever in the extreme. But Wang Qiyao refused to look at him. She concentrated on the knitting in her lap, but the smile never left her face. Long Legs, however, had lost patience and was clamoring to leave. When they finally looked at the time, it was already eleven o’clock. Zhang Yonghong got up to leave.