Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

Mornings always go by quickly. Time moved briskly beyond the thick curtains, while inside the lights shone bright. Neither of them felt hungry. It was as if they never wanted that session to end. They chatted incessantly; there were so many things that, looking back, seemed terribly entertaining. They started out with shared experiences before moving on to take turns telling stories about themselves. One would talk and the other would listen; gradually they both became spellbound and forgot about taking photos. They sat on the small steps in front of the backdrop, one slightly higher than the other. The lamps were out now, but some natural light crept in from beyond the curtains. Mr. Cheng told her how, when he was in Changsha studying railway engineering, he heard about the Japanese bombing of Jiabei and rushed back to Shanghai to join his family. The journey was long and arduous, and he had never imagined that by the time he finally arrived his entire family would already have moved on to Hangzhou. He thought about following them to Hangzhou, but the situation in Shanghai had stabilized, and so he decided to stay. Thus began what would eventually turn into eight years in Shanghai, eight lonely years — that is, until he met Wang Qiyao.

Wang Qiyao told him about her grandmother in Suzhou, the gardenia in front of her house, and her consummate skills in making sticky longlegged rice dumplings. Her grandmother often went to pray and burn incense at the temple on East Hill, where one could find miniature wooden tea sets engraved by hand at the fair; the teacups were no bigger than a finger nail and only held a drop of water. The last time Wang Qiyao had gone to visit her in Suzhou was the year before she met Mr. Cheng.

The novelty of the situation carried them along and their conversation went all over the place — no topic was off-limits. Time stood still and they stopped worrying about consequences; all they cared about was this moment of happiness. Mr. Cheng eventually went on to describe to Wang Qiyao his very first impression of her. Although these words had a confessional side, neither looked at it that way; he simply spoke from his heart and she listened with hers, with a hint of playfulness between them.

“If I had a sister. . and were able to choose what she was like,” said Mr. Cheng. “I would pick someone just like you.”

Wang Qiyao replied by saying that if she had an uncle, she wished he could be just like Mr. Cheng. This exchange was nothing more than a playful means of connecting and neither of them took it much to heart. It was just that they felt free to say whatever was on their minds. And then the two of them stood up. . they were so close. Their eyes sparkled; their glances met for a split second before breaking apart.

Mr. Cheng pulled the curtain open and the sun came streaming in, bringing with it floating stars of dust dancing in light so bright they could barely keep their eyes open. Gazing out the window at the river, they saw foreign ships at anchor, their colorful flags blowing in the wind. The people below were like ants, moving around in groups, breaking up and regrouping, but everything seemed orchestrated and their movements had a definite beginning and end. The Huangpu River rolled briskly on down toward the sea, disappearing at each end on the horizon so that all they witnessed was one moment of the river passing by. As the two leaned against the window, the bell at the Customs House rang out twice — it was already afternoon! They had spent an entire morning baring their souls to one another with little thought for what might be gained or lost. These unhurried interludes that usually lead nowhere — rather extravagant in this fast-paced world — often turn out to be the most precious and unforgettable moments in our toilsome lives.

By the next day Mr. Cheng had already got all of the photos developed. Although not every shot came out well, they were unlike any photos he had ever produced. Taken as they talked and joked together, the photos captured something very rare. In some of the photos Wang Qiyao seemed to be caught in mid-sentence, in others she appeared to be listening; but the exchanges were heartfelt and personal — not intended for other ears. These were photos meant for private enjoyment, never to be displayed to the public. Together they looked over them in a coffee house, chuckling over each image. The scene from the day before was fresh in their minds.

“Look at you here!” Mr. Cheng exclaimed.

Wang Qiyao laughed, “Oh my, how could I possibly look like that?”

Thinking back, they pieced together what had been going on when a particular shot was taken. “Oh, so that’s what happened!”

Each photo had a set of circumstances surrounding it, broken, illogical, little events that didn’t seem to add up to a story — but then again, who knows for sure? Once Wang Qiyao had gotten through the whole stack, Mr. Cheng had her turn them over to see what was written on the other side. He had inscribed the back of each photo with a poem. Some were classical poems, others were in the modern vernacular, but the majority were original pieces written by Mr. Cheng. They described Wang Qiyao’s spirit and appearance and expressed the feelings of Mr. Cheng for her. Wang Qiyao was touched, but she masked her emotion with a joke. “This is more Jiang Lili’s style,” she quipped.

At the mention of Jiang Lili’s name, they both grew uncomfortable and fell silent.

After a pause, Mr. Cheng asked, “You don’t plan on staying on at the Jiang house, do you?”

Mr. Cheng was probing her intentions for his own purpose, but the question hit a sore spot. Wang Qiyao’s expression changed and she responded with a sardonic smile, “My family calls every day begging me to come home, but Jiang Lili simply won’t let me go. She keeps saying that her home is my home. She might not see it, but I realize what’s going on. Just what am I staying in their house like that for? Their maidservant? A little country girl hired to keep the mistress company for life? I’m just waiting for the right opportunity to move out without making Jiang Lili feel bad.”

Seeing how upset she was, Mr. Cheng blamed himself for not being considerate enough of Wang Qiyao’s feelings, but he had no way to take back what he had just said. Wang Qiyao, for her part, seeing Mr. Cheng’s uneasiness, realized that she had overreacted and softened up a bit. The two chatted on about some innocuous topics before saying goodbye.

As things turned out, the opportunity for Wang Qiyao to move out of the Jiang household presented itself just a few days later. Unfortunately, the way things came about left everyone upset. One night Jiang Lili went into Wang Qiyao’s room looking for a book she had lent her. Jiang Lili didn’t find the book, but beside Wang Qiyao’s pillow she saw the photos — and the poems Mr. Cheng had inscribed on them. Jiang Lili had been blind to Mr. Cheng’s intentions vis-à-vis Wang Qiyao even though they had been right there before her eyes all this time, but the photos forced her to come face-to-face with reality. A suspicion she had long suppressed and buried deep in her heart was suddenly yanked out into the open — all at once the water subsided and the rocks were exposed. This revelation utterly destroyed Jiang Lili’s love, as it destroyed her friendship. Jiang Lili had worn her heart on her sleeve in both of these relationships. She had willingly devoted so much of herself to both of them. Never had she imagined that this would be how things would come to an end.

A request for Wang Qiyao’s presence at a grand opening arrived the day Wang Qiyao moved out of the Jiang house. Wang Qiyao had already stepped into the pedicab when the Jiang’s amah rushed over with the envelope. Wang Qiyao noticed the unmistakable look of joy on the old Cantonese woman’s face and knew that she was only too happy to see her go. She wondered how she could have earned the enmity of someone she barely even knew. Why would the amah hate her for no apparent reason?