Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

Wang Qiyao took her time as she carefully changed back into the outfit she had came in and meticulously folded up the others. Her mind was clear and gave no thought to the pictures that had just been taken — she looked at this simply as something destined to come to naught. As she gathered up her things, she couldn’t help but admire the wonderful view from the apartment. The window, at the corner of the building situated right at the intersection of the Bund and that straight narrow road, was so high up you could see six blocks into the distance. She stepped out of the dressing room, said goodbye to Mr. Cheng before going out the door, and walked down the hall to the elevator. At the press of a button, the elevator silently ascended from the ground floor. As she stepped into the elevator, Wang Qiyao noticed Mr. Cheng standing outside his door, watching her.

The photo later selected for the inside front cover of Shanghai Life was of Wang Qiyao wearing one of her casual cheongsams with a flowered pattern. She was sitting on a stone stool beside a stone table, her face turned slightly to one side, in a “listening pose,” as if chatting with someone outside the camera’s frame. Behind her was a traditional-style oval window and the shadows of flowers and tendrils — instantly recognizable as a painted cardboard backdrop. Although the photo was supposed to be an outdoor scene, the lighting was all artificial. Her pose was also patently artificial. In most respects it was a rather mediocre photo, the kind that can be seen hanging in the shop window of virtually every photo studio, a bit tacky; and, though the subject was pretty, she was not a stunning beauty. But there was something about that photo that made its way into people’s hearts. There is really only one way to describe the Wang Qiyao in that picture: she was a “good girl.” Hers was the look of a girl who alters herself to please other people, men as well as women. “Good girl” was written all over her face, in her posture; even the tiny, delicate flowers on her cheongsam reached out to you in friendliness. The background scene was fake, as was the lighting, even her pose — everything in the photo was contrived — but precisely because everything around her was fake, the person became real. She was not part of some conspiracy, she was merely playing out her part like a good girl; all of her cards were on the table. What you saw was what you got.

The girl in the picture was not beautiful, but she was pretty. Beauty is something that inspires awe; it implies rejection and has the power to hurt. Prettiness, on the other hand, is a warm, sincere quality, and even hints at a kind of intimate understanding. Looking at her photo brought a feeling of true comfort and closeness, as though one could call her by name. Movie stars and models may indeed be enchantingly beautiful — but, after all, what do any of them have to do with you? They have their lives and you have yours. Wang Qiyao reached down into the bottom of your heart. The lighting in the picture also had a kind of minute intimacy that seemed to bring the image of Wang Qiyao to life. Images of people seemed to be reflected in her eyes and the pleats in her cheongsam appeared to move. It was more like the kind of picture one sees pasted in a family album than the kind seen hanging in a glass frame to be admired. It would not have been found in advertisements for Soir de Paris perfume or Longines wristwatches, but would have been perfect to promote MSG or laundry detergent. Down-to-earth, with no trace of extravagance, it had a touch of resplendence of a commonplace variety; and it had a touch of sweetness, as in the faint sweetness of porridge flavored with osmanthus blossoms. It was not particularly eye-catching and it was far from unforgettable. Yet though the image failed to linger in your mind, you were bound to remember liking it the next time you laid eyes on it. It was the kind of photo you could never get sick of, yet by no means something you could not do without. In short, it was proper, comme il faut, and calming; just looking at it made one feel good. The editors over at Shanghai Life could not have exercised more wisdom than when they decided to run the photo as their inside cover spread. The photo and the name of the magazine were a match made in heaven, the photo acting like a footnote to the name. After all, what was Shanghai Life but fashion, food, and being attentive to all the details of the everyday? The image of Wang Qiyao seemed to capture the essence of all of this; the editors couldn’t have chosen a more suitable photograph.

For her part, Wang Qiyao did not understand why they chose that photo over all the others, in which she was gazing straight into the camera. She was even a bit confused as to when exactly that photo had been taken. It must have been when she was not paying attention. She did not like the version of herself she saw in the picture, looking provincial and much too prim — completely different from the way she imagined herself to be. It left her disappointed and a little hurt. Seeing her picture in print should have made her happy, but instead she was left feeling depressed. She wondered why she always failed under scrutiny. First her disappointing screen test, and now this: nothing seemed to work out according to plan. She hid her copy of Shanghai Life under her pillow — she didn’t even want to look at it, and was overcome with dejection for having made an utter fool of herself. She was now confused as to who she really was, and this drove her to desperation. Sitting back down before the mirror, she tried to get a new perspective on herself. She thought of that photo as something that had stripped her of her identity, so that she needed to start all over and remake herself. Just what was that thing called a “ camera ” anyway? Was there another life inside its lens? Thinking about this made Wang Qiyao even more disconsolate. That Shanghai Life should have run her picture brought her little happiness — and that little was mixed with an array of complicated emotions, as if she had not been tormented enough already.

This time Wang Qiyao could not hide what happened even if she tried. The entire school now knew who she was — even girls from other high schools came to her campus in hopes of catching a glimpse of this Wang Qiyao. Wherever she went, people stopped to turn and stare. Schoolgirls were like that. It was if they didn’t believe their own eyes and had to have confirmation from others. All the girls who had never given a second thought to Wang Qiyao suddenly became convinced they had been wrong all along. Those who had always admired her, however, grew suddenly ambivalent, hell-bent on taking the opposite side. And so gossip and rumors proliferated, even one suggested that Wang Qiyao had a cousin who worked at Shanghai Life and it was he who had got her into the magazine. But whether it was admiring gazes or fabricated rumors, nothing seemed to get to Wang Qiyao, for in both experience and understanding of the world she surpassed them all. All these rumors and idle words were sheer nonsense to her. Although she was the target of their attention, she had very different things on her mind. Shanghai Life may have made her a celebrity on campus — suddenly she was known to every student and teacher — but she was left with the feeling that she could no longer find herself. The photo had ripped away her original face and thrust upon her a new identity that she did not want. It was no longer up to her to choose.

“A Proper Young Lady of Shanghai” was a title tailor-made for Wang Qiyao. She was not a celebrity of the screen or stage, nor a wellborn woman from an influential family, nor a femme fatale capable of bringing down an empire; but if she wanted to take her place on society’s stage she would need a designation. Her designation, “a proper young lady,” hinted at a harmonious society where everyone was in their proper place. It was not a prejudicial title — any girl had a right to lay claim to it — but Wang Qiyao had won it with overwhelming support. The floral pattern on her cheongsam became popular, and her short perm was all the rage. In her person, Wang Qiyao epitomized “a proper young lady of Shanghai.” The designation carried with it a commonplace sort of vanity, evoking the image of a fashionable girl savvy enough to know her proper place. Like the bearer of a philanthropic gift, she became the vehicle for everyone’s fantasy.