Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

That was a difficult lunch to get through. None of them knew what they were eating, let alone what they were talking about or what the other people in the restaurant were doing. By the time they finally emerged from Nocturnal Shanghai, the streets were filled with passing cars and pedestrians and they became even more confused. Old Colour wasn’t quite sure how he had said good-bye to Zhang Yonghong, but they each went their separate way. He decided to call on some of his friends. He had been away from them for a long time, but Old Colour could still guess what they were up to on a Sunday afternoon like this and rode off in pursuit. Sure enough, he managed to track them down as they were on their way for a swim at some luxury hotel that had a heated pool. There were five or six in the group and he decided to tag along.

In the layer of mist that hovered above the water, all the objects and people on the other side of the pool shimmered like apparitions. The sounds also had an illusory quality as they echoed and bounced off the high ceiling. Old Colour swam laps; through his goggles he could see the blue water flowing past him like a current. The water felt good rolling off his body, serving as a measure for his strength and flexibility. He swam away from his friends into the deep end, where their cries of laughter seemed to be a world away. As he swam, all the filth inside him seemed to be cleansed away, and his mind cleared up. Afterward they took the open glass elevator downstairs; a few lights were already lit, sparkling in the waning light of dusk. Looking down on the city at that moment, one could feel the embracing warmth of Shanghai, as if the city was ready to forgive anything. The colors of sunset grew dim but the warmth lingered. He felt exhilarated and his spirit soared. As much as Old Colour was enamored with the world of forty years ago, he couldn’t escape the fact that his heart belonged to the present. By the time the elevator arrived on the ground floor, his excitement had calmed, leaving behind an intimate feeling that moved him. It was at that moment that he thought of Wang Qiyao; the image of her sitting alone in the corner suddenly appeared before his eyes. His heart twitched gently and he thought: It ’ s about time I brought things to a close.

The dinner hour had long passed by the time he arrived at Wang Qiyao’s. She got up to make tea when he came in. As she placed the teacup before him, the calm look on her face showed no trace of what had happened earlier. That made him feel somewhat at ease, even though he suspected that she was still angry. Just as he was trying to decide how to break the news, he saw Wang Qiyao walk over to her chest and unlock one of the drawers. She took out a small wooden engraved box and, turning back toward Old Colour, placed it on the table in front of him. He had seen this box before, he remembered the floral engravings, and he knew the story of its origin — he just didn’t understand why she was taking it out at this moment. After a pause, Wang Qiyao began to explain. She said that if she had learned one thing all these years, it was that she couldn’t rely on anything; but this —she motioned towards the wooden box — was the only exception. In all the dark, hopeless days, this had been her only source of consolation. But now, she said, she wanted to give it to him. She didn’t have much time left, she could see that. He wouldn’t have to worry, for she wouldn’t take up too much of his time; she just wanted him to be there for her, and it wouldn’t be for long. If he had never come into her life it would have been easier, but now that he had come, she felt that losing him would leave her with nothing. Her words gradually became incoherent and she started to speak more and more quickly. She was smiling, but a tear trickled down her cheek. She cried, not a sea of tears, just a single drop from her left eye, as if the rest of her tears had dried up. As she spoke, she pushed the wooden box toward Old Colour, who tried to push it away but, feeling her resistance, had no choice but to apply some force.

“You don’t want it? You probably don’t know what’s inside. . let me show you,” she said.

She was about to open the box when he reached over and held the lid down to prevent her from opening it. As their hands touched, he felt how cold she was. Taking her hands in his, he too began to weep, struck by the tragedy and wondering how things could have ended up like this. Wang Qiyao wrestled her hands free, determined to open the box, saying that he was sure to like what was inside and that once he saw it he would understand how reasonable her proposition was. She was willing, in all sincerity, to give him all she had — how could he refuse to give her just a few years? Wang Qiyao’s words were like a knife cutting through his heart. Old Colour couldn’t say a word — all he could offer were his tears. He should never have come back: he had not realized how pitiful Wang Qiyao had become. Forty years of romance and it all came down to this pathetic ending. He had missed the splendid climax and only caught the ending: how ill-fated was that? Finally he struggled free of her and got away. In one short day he had run away from her twice, each time more desperate than the last. His hands still carried traces of her icy skin — it left him with a premonition of death. He promised himself, Never again can I go back to that place!

Spring arrived without mercy, as did the spring rains. A warm humid haze encompassed the city and open umbrellas were the blooming flowers of this rainy season, as the pedestrians under the umbrellas scurried down the damp streets. Long Legs finally returned. He had been gone so long that the rumors about him had eventually died down. Zhang Yonghong had almost lost hope waiting for him; if it hadn’t been for Old Colour, who helped her pass the time, who knows how she would have got through those days of waiting. She had even considered turning her attention to Old Colour, but was sensitive enough to recognize the state of his emotions. She could tell that he was only spending time with her to help him get through a difficult phase in his own life. He never talked about it and she never asked, which he always appreciated. But just because he appreciated her understanding didn’t mean that he appreciated her in that way. She therefore nipped that idea in the bud.

One day Old Colour said he had a favor to ask of Zhang Yonghong. When she asked what, he placed two keys tied together on a string in her hand, saying all she had to do was give these keys to Wang Qiyao the next time she went to see her. Zhang Yonghong refrained from asking why he didn’t deliver them himself, knowing that they must have had some kind of falling out. She didn’t dare let her imagination run wild; the whole thing was way too complicated and she had her own problems to deal with. She took the keys and put them in her pocketbook. They had dinner together and parted ways after leaving the restaurant. On the way home Zhang Yonghong passed by Peace Lane and thought she would go in to drop off the keys; seeing that the lights were out in Wang Qiyao’s apartment, she decided to come back some other time. Over the next few days, she kept forgetting to go back. When she remembered, something else came up, so she decided to go the next day. But then the next day Long Legs made his quiet return.

Long Legs brought Zhang Yonghong a set of French cosmetics and a sleek woolen hat. The two went to Café Dream, where they sat at a candlelit table. Zhang Yonghong told him everything that had happened in his absence, but Long Legs had changed — he had little to say and seemed distracted. Although he was looking directly at Zhang Yonghong, he may as well have been gazing at her from the other side of the ocean: he had returned, but his spirit was still wandering. The candles flickered gently as they spoke in whispered tones; as they drank more wine, everything took on a surreal aspect, emerging and dissolving, running together into a rainbow of hazy brilliance. Long Legs, however, stood on the margins of this brilliance, in the darkest spot, and no matter how hard he looked he couldn’t see himself — he had disappeared. Café Dream was indeed a place where one could go to lose oneself.