Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

She was the single white peony amid a sea of violet and crimson. Hers was the only unaccompanied vocal piece in a long program of orchestrated medleys. She was a haven of silence in the midst of bombastic debates and ramblings. Wang Qiyao brought something new to those parties — a creative something that carried with it the resolution to persevere — while at the same time she maintained enough perspective to see things as they were. At every party she attended she always felt as if she had to depend on herself for everything. Everyone else seemed to stand in the host’s position, coming and going as they pleased while, as the only guest, in her comings and goings she was always controlled by others. She also realized that Jiang Lili was her only true friend at these parties; wherever they went, they went hand in hand. Jiang Lili actually despised parties, but was willing to make this sacrifice in order to be with Wang Qiyao. The two became party regulars. The few times they didn’t show, everyone asked about them, so that their names wound up circulating all around the parlor. Being occasionally absent from the parties was also a part of Wang Qiyao’s philosophy of “less is more”—a rather extreme part at that.

The party — what the Shanghainese call paitui —is the very life of the Shanghai night. Neon lights and dance halls form the outer shell of this sleepless city, but its soul is the party. Parties lie at the innermost core of the city, behind quiet shady boulevards in the parlors of Western-style residences; the pleasure they impart is wrapped in people’s hearts. The lights at these parties are always dim, casting shadows that whisper the language of the heart. But this language of the heart speaks with a European accent, in classical and romantic styles. And the life of the Shanghai party is always the proper young lady; she is the center. Myriad passions play out in silence; romance lies deep under the skin. Forty years hence, no one will remember these passions and this romance; in fact, no one will be able even to imagine what it had been like. The passion and romance of that era was a dynasty; splendid and glorious, it was a heavenly kingdom. The Shanghai skies mourn; they bemoan the loss of that passion and romance. The Shanghai wind tantalizes, and the waters surrounding her are a washed-out carmine.

Wang Qiyao is one little piece of that passion and romance, not the part that rivets all eyes and becomes the center of attention, but the part that serves as ballast for the heart. She is the heart of hearts, always holding fast and never letting anything out. Supposing there was no Wang Qiyao, the parties would become nothing but hollow, heartless affairs, perfunctory displays of splendor. She was the most meaningful part of this passion and romance. She was that desire that lurks in the soul; if not for this desire, there would be no reason for passion and romance. As a result, passion and romance have found their roots, coloring Shanghai with that thing called mood. The mood casts a magic on every place and every thing, causing them to speak words more gorgeous than song.

Wang Qiyao strolled into the Shanghai night. The night scene was set against the dim lamps of longtang alleys as well as the lights shining on the cloth backdrops of photo salons. No longer was this night an out-of-context photograph — it now had a story behind it; no longer still, it moved. Its movement was not the movement of the camera at the film studio, for the camera’s movement told someone else’s story. The movement of the night belonged to Wang Qiyao herself. Win or lose, she seemed to be in control of her own destiny — but not entirely. That belongs to the great sky beyond the stars, looming over the Shanghai nightline and enveloping the entire city. Turning white by day and black by night, transforming with the passage of the seasons, this corner of the sky is obscured by buildings and city lights, which serve as its camouflage, yet it withstands thunder and lightning and all the chaos of the world, eternally and boundlessly stretched out overhead.

The peaceful atmosphere of 1946 arrived only after what seemed an eternity of chaos. Suddenly all one seemed to hear was good news; anything negative merely set the stage for good news to follow. Shanghai was an optimistic city that always looked on the bright side, in its eyes even bad news had its good side. It was also a city of pleasure that found it difficult to get through the day unless it could find something to make it happy. When torrential floods hit Henan province and people all over China were donating to the disaster relief effort, Shanghai offered its passion and romance — holding a Miss Shanghai beauty pageant to raise money for the flood victims.

The news of the pageant spread quicker than wildfire and, in the flash of an eye, everyone in the city knew about it. “Shanghai” was already a virtual synonym for modernity, but “Miss Shanghai” captured even better the modern cosmopolitanism of the city — after all, what could be more modern than a beauty queen? It stirred up the feelings of the people, for who in this city did not worship modernity? Here even the sound of ticking clocks seemed to echo the footsteps of modernity. People paid more attention to the election of their beauty queen than the election of their new mayor; after all, what did the mayor have to do with them? Miss Shanghai, however, was a feast for the eyes and everyone got a share. The newspaper that printed the first news of the pageant sold out within an hour of hitting the stands, but there was no time to print more copies, as other papers were immediately reprinting the contents of the article in special edition extras. The news spread along the trolley lines all over the city.

How romantic the whole affair was! It was a scene directly out of a dream, but suddenly that dream was coming true. No one could sit still, and hearts pounded like thunderous drums, dancing to the rhythm of the three step. Even the city lights seemed to grow dizzy with excitement, twinkling and flickering. What besides “Miss Shanghai” could possibly be closer to this city’s heart? The heart of Shanghai was like a naive child, shamelessly savoring her own pleasure. Each and every citizen wanted to have their vote, selflessly offering their opinions on the new image of beauty.

The first person to suggest that Wang Qiyao enter the pageant was the photographer Mr. Cheng. After their first session, Mr. Cheng had done two outdoor photo shoots with Wang Qiyao, who seemed to get better each time: always calm and collected, she didn’t so much as bat an eye. It was as if she could read Mr. Cheng’s mind and knew exactly what he wanted. Wang Qiyao’s beauty was the kind that grows slowly over time; it never diminished, only increased. In Mr. Cheng’s eyes, Wang Qiyao was a goddess, incomparable, unrivaled. Convinced that the “Miss Shanghai” pageant was being held especially for her, he earnestly suggested that Wang Qiyao try out for it — there couldn’t have been a more perfect beauty queen. Mr. Cheng was not the only reason Wang Qiyao signed up. She didn’t have nearly as much confidence in herself as Mr. Cheng had. Moreover, he wasn’t the one who would be auditioning for the pageant. There was no way Mr. Cheng could understand the heart-rending vicissitudes she had been through. She wasn’t about to do anything without properly thinking it through. But Mr. Cheng’s suggestion did set her thinking. Over time, the endless parties she was going to had begun to blur together; she felt she was wandering aimlessly back and forth, not getting anywhere. Thus Mr. Cheng’s suggestion ignited a spark in her heart — even if it was only a dull flash of light.

Then one night, at the wedding reception of one of Jiang Lili’s distant cousins, Jiang Lili suddenly announced Mr. Cheng’s suggestion to all the guests. A wedding is the last place for such an announcement to be made — it was as if Jiang Lili was intentionally trying to steal the spotlight from the bride and groom. Everyone’s gaze immediately fell upon Wang Qiyao, who, although angry, couldn’t very well show it. But the announcement of Wang Qiyao’s beauty queen bid seemed to be a good omen. Even if the big red lanterns decorating the hall had not been intended for her, the jubilant atmosphere no longer belonged solely to the bride and groom. The newlyweds were a propitious sign, as were the lucky day, the wine in their cups, and the carnation on the bride’s breast. Even the streetlights outside were radiant and glowing, and so were the gorgeous images of the billboard beauties; everything was lit up in a mood that was ready for pleasure. Wang Qiyao didn’t place too much blame on Jiang Lili for what she did, in fact, some part of her was even thankful. Perhaps it was all fate? she thought. Who could know? And so she grabbed the opportunity and never looked back.