Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

The pageant was swamped. It was as if all the gorgeous women in Shanghai had assembled in the room. Reporters from virtually every newspaper in the city scurried around, fighting to get their stories out first, while they feasted their eyes on the beauties that surrounded them. Their gazes were laced with desire, as were their articles. The entrance to the hotel where the pageant was being held was crowded with pedicabs and automobiles, along with a continuous flow of people coming and going. The girls came accompanied by their maidservants, sisters, or other family members, tailors, and hairdressers in tow. Shanghai girls were different from other girls. Like the men in their families, they too wanted to turn heads and make something of themselves. Moreover, they didn’t just talk about it, they took action. In some ways, they were even more aggressive and tenacious than their fathers and brothers, unafraid of losing or getting hurt. At least half of the splendor of Shanghai was built on their desire for fame and wealth; if not for this desire, more than half the stores in the city would have long gone under.

Shanghai’s splendor is actually a kind of feminine grace; the scent carried by the wind is a woman’s perfume, and there are always more women’s clothes displayed in the store windows than men’s. The shadows of the French parasol trees seem to carry a womanly aura, as do the oleanders and lilacs in the courtyards — the most feminine of flowers. The humid breeze during the rainy season is a woman’s little temper tantrum, the murmuring sound of Shanghainese is custom-made for women’s most intimate gossip. The city is like one big goddess, wearing clothes plumed with rainbows, scattering silver and gold across the sky. The colored clouds are the sleeves of her gown.

On that day, more important than the rest, on that special festival celebrating pretty girls, the sun rose especially for them, shining down on them as they left their homes across the city. Every last rose or carnation in the shops was bought up by well-wishers to congratulate the girls. Their bodies were wrapped in the most fashionable clothes, their faces displayed the highest artistry of makeup, and the most stylish hairdos adorned their heads. It was a massive fashion show and they were all models, each and every one a rare beauty — the cream of the crop. Looked at separately, each seemed destined to take the crown; put side by side, each appeared prettier than the last; once the competition began, their collective beauty marshaled up a force capable of toppling mountains and overturning the sea. They were the pith and marrow of this city — its spirit. Normally their beauty was spread evenly throughout the city, diffused in the air; but on the day of the pageant their essence was concentrated into what was the most gorgeous portrait Shanghai had ever painted of itself.

A feeling of relief came over Wang Qiyao when she was selected for the preliminary pageant; she could finally face all those people who had been supporting her, and, most of all, she could face herself. But she was a little surprised when she made it into the second round of competition. Only then did she begin to take the pageant seriously; up until that point she had simply been trying to make Jiang Lili and Mr. Cheng happy. Taking the pageant lightly was her way of building a protective shell around herself — behind that shell reposed her dignity. Wang Qiyao’s self-esteem had been injured by Jiang Lili and Mr. Cheng’s diligence; the sole course of action she took to protect herself was to assume a thoroughly ambivalent attitude about the whole affair. Thinking back, Wang Qiyao realized that those had indeed been difficult days to get through. When all was said and done, the hope and hard work of Jiang Lili and Mr. Cheng rested entirely on Wang Qiyao’s shoulders. Success or failure depended not on them but on her. In a way, they were making Wang Qiyao’s decision for her; forcing their own dreams and desires onto her. Had Wang Qiyao taken things seriously, she surely would have ended up angry and perhaps even terminated her friendship with them. It was her ambivalence that saved their relationship. But everything turned out all right once Wang Qiyao made it into the second round. Everyone was happy — including Jiang Lili and Mr. Cheng.

Wang Qiyao and Jiang Lili began to reappear at a new series of parties, each of which one seemed to resemble a press conference where the questions never ceased. Wang Qiyao never failed to answer the questions put to her. Jiang Lili, on the other hand, was extremely reserved and refused to answer certain questions. About this time Mr. Cheng did another photo shoot for Wang Qiyao. He borrowed a friend’s photo studio and shot a series of close-ups and headshots. He wanted people to remember her face. Afterward he got a buddy of his who was with the press to pull some strings and the photo was printed in a corner of the page of one of the Shanghai newspapers. It wasn’t a big newspaper, but the photo ran alongside an article about the Miss Shanghai pageant — so it was basically free publicity for Wang Qiyao.

Events were now unfolding so quickly that Wang Qiyao began to get scared. Her progress was too smooth — there must be some booby traps lying ahead. She had always believed that fortune comes and goes in cycles — nothing good lasts forever. But about this time Wang Qiyao first started entertaining some rather extravagant hopes. She had naturally high aspirations, but having come to terms with the limitations imposed by her environment, she developed a habit of splashing cold water on her hopes. The world is full of opportunities, she knew, but often the harder you try the less you end up with. So she decided instead simply to hold on tight to the little bit she already had. At least it was something and, who knew, perhaps if she didn’t think about it things would start going her way. Sometimes the less you try the more you end up with. As it was, things really were going her way, and even if she didn’t want to think about it, she really had no other choice. The days became even more difficult to get through. Her earlier difficulties sprang from trying to protect herself and keep people at bay, but now she wanted in. As the semifinals approached, Wang Qiyao started to look thin and fatigued.

Her bedroom, adjacent to the downstairs parlor, had been converted from a study expressly for her. It had a window overlooking the garden, where the moonlight flickered under the night sky. Sometimes she thought to herself, even the moon here is different . The moon back home was a small courtyard moon, stained by the smell of kitchen smoke and lampblack; the moon here might as well have come from a scene in a novel, its light shining on flowers and rambling plants. When she couldn’t sleep at night Wang Qiyao would get up and gaze through the sheer drapes out her window. She listened to the nameless sounds of the still night, so unlike the night sounds back home, which all had a name. Back home she could always tell whose baby was crying or which mother was berating her child; she could identify the sounds of rats racing beneath the floor, or the sound of a toilet flushing. Here only one sound had an identity. The lord of all sounds — and that was the sound of the bell tower ringing. It overrides all other sounds and voices, which form a bed of echoes reverberating through the night. The echoes are the finest strokes of a huge painting that constitutes the deep thought of the night. This sound has a buoyancy that lifts you up and knocks you around as if you were riding on a bed of waves. When people have floated on the waves long enough, they feel hollow inside and out, thoroughly saturated by the night.

The nights here have a corrosive power; they eat away at people’s true feelings, replacing them with illusions. The nights here are clear and limpid. And unlike the nights outside her window back home, filled with muck and impurities, the nights here shine on people, making each and every strand of their hair distinct. If you reach out your hand, the color of the night slips between your fingers, and not even a sieve can sift out a single particle. The night fills the sky, pressing down on the rooftops, but the buildings never feel its weight, because actually it is as light as the wings of a cicada. There is only one thing in the night that has form, and that is shadows cast by moonlight. They stand out in delicate strokes against the invisible color of the night; they are the flesh and skin of the night. The night penetrates through ten thousand things; there is no crevice it does not creep into, and in then end the ten thousand things turn shapeless and colorless. The night is a solvent; it breaks down the structure of objects and replaces them with empty form. The nights here are magical; they confuse the senses, turning everything upside down.