Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

“I’ll leave with you. .” Old Colour said, and headed out the door with Zhang Yonghong and Long Legs.

One could hear the sounds of their footsteps going down the staircase before everything fell silent. Wang Qiyao walked over to the kitchen and was getting ready to wash the dishes when she heard the rattling of their bicycles as they pushed them through the back entrance under the window. Someone said he couldn’t find the key to his bicycle lock. It was only after a search that the key was found, and she heard a sharp click as the lock snapped open and they all rode away. Wang Qiyao looked at the sink full of dishes and was at a momentary loss as to where to begin. After staring a while at the dirty pile, she turned off the light and went into her bedroom.

After Old Colour parted with the others outside, he rode around the block before making his way back to Wang Qiyao’s place. There was hardly anyone out and only a single public bus rumbled down the deserted streets. He could hear the hissing sound of his bicycle chain going around; the excitement that had kept him going all evening began to quell. He was quite the child who, having had his share of pranks, wanted to go home now. Having got his kicks for the evening, he was feeling exceptionally relaxed. He admired the dark silhouettes of the buildings on the streets and the shadowy outline of the parasol tree branches. Various scattered thoughts raced through his mind as, gradually, he found himself approaching the longtang that he knew oh, so well.

Old Colour saw there was a single light on down the alley of the longtang . A stray cat scurried by in front of his bicycle, its paws making a soft sound on the cement. He silently parked his bicycle outside the back entrance to Wang Qiyao’s building; after feeling for his key, he unlocked the door. When he got upstairs, he took out the other key to unlock the apartment door, but it wouldn’t open. He put his ear up against the door, but all he heard was a deathly silence — Wang Qiyao had bolted the door. He paused for a moment before tiptoeing back downstairs and scurrying out through the back door. Though he had been locked out, he wasn’t in the least bit upset. It’s not my fault! he thought as he rode out of the longtang . As he peddled out of Peace Lane, his shadow suddenly appeared on the ground beneath his feet and for some reason this made him ecstatic. Taking one foot off the pedal, he straightened his back and looked up to the sky — what a quiet night it was! He pedaled home, riding like the wind, and from far off he had already caught sight of his dormer window extending out from the rooftop. He could almost hear the sound of jazz music playing, the saxophone echoing in his ears.

He didn’t leave his apartment for the next two days. For the third and fourth day of the New Year, Old Colour sat in his third-floor tingzijian listening to jazz records. Everything seemed to be back the way it had been a few months earlier. The phonograph needle made a scratchy sound as it went over the grooves on the record — that was the sound of it welcoming him back, pleasantly surprised that he was suddenly paying it attention again. He carefully went through his collection, using a fine brush to dust off all his records. He ate all his meals at home: the taste of his mother’s cooking was another reunion. His parents expressed their joy that he was back home with a childlike bashfulness; when father and son sat across from each other at the dinner table, they avoided one another’s gaze. The fact that no friends came to visit him during those days showed just how long it had been since he had last spent time at home. He lay on his mattress, staring up at the triangular ceiling, and felt at ease. The peace he felt was not the kind that comes after everything has been resolved; it was tinged with anticipation, but he didn’t yet know what it was that he was waiting for.

Outside the window, children were still occasionally setting off firecrackers and he could hear the neighbors exchanging formalities with the visitors who were coming and going. That was what the New Year was all about! Family’s family, after all, and visitors are visitors. He spent the fifth and sixth days of the New Year at home as well; his parents went back to work, the firecrackers grew less frequent, the longtang became more peaceful, and things got back to normal. Because everyday life had been sorted out by the holidays, they were better able to take hold of their emotions, to let bygones be bygones and start afresh. The seventh day of the New Year fell on a Sunday and the festive spirit of the holiday enjoyed a momentary revival, inspiring a few ripples of excitement. Old Colour decided to go out and rode his bicycle unhurriedly down the streets. Some of the shops were open, but some were still closed for the holiday. Between the paving stones were burnt-out remnants of firecrackers still waiting to be swept away, and a burst balloon that hadn’t quite made it to heaven was hanging on a tree branch. As he approached Peace Lane, Old Colour noticed the sun shining on the building that stood at its entrance; on the cement slab bearing the inscription of the year the building had been completed, the numbers were worn and appeared dispirited. The gray and dilapidated entrance too had a dispirited air. Old Colour’s bicycle glided past the entrance to Peace Lane without going in; he wanted to test himself to see just how stubborn and unreasonable he could be. He rode faster, swaying slightly as he went — he no longer looked like Old Colour, but rather a modern youth surging forward with an indomitable will.

A few days later the schools were back in session and he went back to work. He had a full schedule and would leave early and not return home until late. He went to bed early every night and slept peacefully. Spring had begun to adorn the dark roof tiles outside his dormer window. The wild grass that sprang up from between the tiles was nameless, but it grew thick. The sunlight was warmish and had a moist feel. Even the songs of birds sounded richer, as if they had endless things to say. Waking up in the morning, he would wonder, What good things are going to happen today? Even people who are wise to the ways of the world can’t help being infected by this strange hope. That was the benefit of spring: everyone looks on the bright side of things and feels more lighthearted.

That Sunday, he finally went to Wang Qiyao’s apartment. As he entered the back alley, he suddenly began to feel lost, and even asked himself, What kind of place is this? Had he even been there before? But his bicycle seemed to know the way and he rode right up to Wang Qiyao’s building. He left his bicycle outside the back door and went straight up the stairs. Her door was closed. He knocked but no one answered. He took out his key, but before he could get it into the keyhole, the door opened. The curtains were all pulled shut, but the noon sun had managed to creep in, filling the room with a hazy glare that mingled with the cigarette smoke in the air. Wang Qiyao had got up and put on her nightgown before opening the door, but once she had let him in, she went back to bed.

“Are you sick?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. He approached, intending to console her, but as soon as he saw the stains on her pillow from her hair dye, his heart sank. There was a stale odor lingering from the previous day, which also brought his spirits down.

“It’s stuffy in here,” he said as he went to open a window. The glare of the sun blinded him as he pulled the curtain back.

“We should start preparing lunch. .” he said, trying to put on a cheerful air.

He had not expected his words to find an echo in Wang Qiyao, who said quietly, “You’ve always talked about taking me out for a meal. . well, how about today?”