Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

Underneath its serene exterior, Wu Bridge has a strong urge to make its presence felt, just as, under its blanket of smoke and mist, the chickens crow and the dogs bark — what you sow there surely shall you reap. How close to the heart Wu Bridge lies! It caresses all the scars we carry around inside, giving reason to our actions, explanations for our fortunes. It understands that everything boils down to two words that drive us all: to live.

All the outsiders who come to Wu Bridge seem to arrive in a miserable condition. Dejected and dismayed, most of them come not of their own volition, but because they have no other choice. Even before learning its name, they start complaining — what a backwater the place is. They either stay indoors, sulking petulantly, or swagger about town, looking down on everything. But whether arrogant or crestfallen, they show themselves to be shallow and boorish. It takes them some time to discover that there is more to Wu Bridge than meets the eye, and when they do, they are only too grateful. The folks at Wu Bridge take their haughty attitude with a stoic resignation. This is a form of compassion, like an adult forgiving the unruly behavior of a child. They view outsiders as part of the scenery: year after year, month after month, there are always one or two meandering down the streets. These are the victims of the incessant combat playing out there. The locals are never shocked or surprised when they encounter these strangers from the cities; their presence in Wu Bridge couldn’t be more natural. The locals seem not to understand them, but actually they understand better than anyone. Folks here know that the bright, colorful clothes the outsiders come wearing are but clouds at sunset, and the hearts inside those fancy clothes are flickering lights ready to fade out at any moment. When outsiders arrive in boats, after a long journey through mazy waterways, they feel they have landed on the outer edge of the known world, a world that they hate and love and that they refuse to let go. Blinded by bitterness, they know not what lies in wait.

Wu Bridge is our mother’s mother. But, being once removed, we see her as a stranger. Also, a generation of mixed blood flows between us, so, in the absence of resemblance, she is more distant to us than a stranger. Be that as it may, this is where we all come from. The bridges of Wu Bridge all lead us back to our maternal grandmother — our source — which is why we keep coming back here from the twists and turns of life’s journey. Every one of those strangers from the city has his or her own Wu Bridge. Wu Bridge is the closest of our ancestors; ordinary people like us can simply reach out and touch her. She is not the kind of ancestor we think of when we see the ceremonial banners flying on Grave-sweeping Day in the spring; rather, what brings her to mind are the sweet cakes served that day, made of glutinous rice flour dyed with green herbs and shaped by hand. We associate her with steady, quiet effort, with the comforts of food and clothing. She calls out to us from the aroma of dried meat on New Year’s Day, and from the warmth of charcoal hand-braziers; she summons us to shoulder the hoe to work in the fields, to cast our nets into the sea. It is her voice we hear calling as we stroll over a bridge, ride in a boat, hurry along on a road, or leap over a ditch. Her calls reverberate through body and soul — you can’t hide from them and you can’t escape them. Her calls echo in heated wine jugs, in roasting chestnuts, in jasmine blossoms in June, and in the October osmanthus. Her calls enshroud, building inexorably layer upon layer, besieging those outsiders until they are forced to acknowledge her.

Throughout the Jiangnan region, where waterways spread out like nets, places such as Wu Bridge are scattered about, like nests in trees to shelter lost souls. The outsiders come and go like the tide. Their cycle of departure and return mirrors the ebb and flow of affairs in the world outside. Wu Bridge is where they come to recuperate, but as soon as they are rested they leave again. For this we may blame the gentle and accommodating ways of Wu Bridge, which never cures them of their sickness, only the symptoms. Nevertheless, to all the broken-hearted and teary-eyed arriving on its shores in boats with thatched canopies, Wu Bridge offers solace.

As you approach Wu Bridge by boat below a drizzling sky, going under the arch of one bridge after another, you feel as if you have passed through many imposing gates. You will see hundreds of willow trees, their thin, long leaves swaying like bead curtains in the wind. Through the bead curtains, you see houses built right to the water’s edge, their halfimmersed stone steps covered with velvety green lichen. Bamboo poles, draped with baskets and colorful laundry, stick out from the windows. Galleries lined with stores hang above the water, the columns supporting them overgrown with lichens, and the menu tablets outside the wineshops look as ancient as the columns. It is not at all unusual, along the way, to come across a wedding boat or two, distinguished by a large red paper cutout of the character “happiness” pinned on its thatched canopy. The boat, festooned with red and green satin ribbons, is loaded with the bridal trousseau. The bride weeps, but those are tears of happiness that she is shedding. On either side of the water are yellow cabbages and green rice seedlings: white butterflies flit among them, a brilliant display of color.

At last you have arrived in Wu Bridge.

Wu Bridge was the ancestral home of Wang Qiyao’s maternal grandmother. Grandma hired a boat and they left Suzhou in the morning, arriving at Wu Bridge by the afternoon. Wang Qiyao sat under the canopy, wearing a blue twill jacket trimmed with camel hair, a cashmere scarf wrapped around her head; her arms were crisscrossed in front of her, as she kept her hands tucked inside her sleeves. Sitting across from her outside the canopy, Grandma was hugging a brazier for warmth and smoking a cigarette. She too had been a beauty in her time. On her wedding day she had traveled this very same canal on her way to Suzhou, and a light spring drizzle had been falling as she arrived in Suzhou, which was abuzz with rumors of her beauty. It was Grave-sweeping Day and the haze that shimmered through the surrounding scenery had mirrored the haze in her heart. Now, after all these decades, everything was crystal clear.

Looking at Wang Qiyao, Grandma felt as if she could see her granddaughter forty years hence. The poor child had set off on a crooked beginning that would not be easy to straighten out. It was all because she was too pretty. In truth, beauty is deceptive, not because it deceives others, but because it deceives oneself. It would be much better for a woman not to be conscious of her beauty. If only she could be kept in the dark for a few years, by then the danger would have passed. Unfortunately, people in a place like Shanghai are always vying to lavish compliments on pretty girls and tell them how beautiful they are. They seduce you into believing that everything is wonderful, that the good times will never end. They take you with them into this dreamland; but people do not easily give up their dreams, even after circumstances have changed. Grandma pities Wang Qiyao for having been so early, so rudely awakened. It would have been nice to have been allowed to dream on for a few more years. Well, she will just have to take things one step at a time. The advantage of an early awakening is that she still has youth on her side. However, starting out now is not the same as starting out then. One has scars, like a cracked egg. It will be a continuation rather than a fresh start.

The old boatman comes from Kunshan, and he is singing a melancholy song from his hometown. Listening to that Kunshan melody at this moment only makes one feel more desolate than ever. The sun gives off a pallid glow. Only the brazier emits some heat to dispel the cold, but its fumes induce a slight headache. Grandma realizes that it will take some time for Wang Qiyao to come around; like someone who has fallen from a great height, she’ll be dazed for a while. Grandma had never herself been to Shanghai but what she had heard was already quite enough. It was a world that cried out with its siren’s wail to all who entered. Once stirred, the heart can never regain its calm. The child may look deadened now, but once the pain and hurt abate she will raise her head again. This is what is so dangerous about Shanghai, a place riddled with sin. Yet in good times, Shanghai can be a heaven on earth where twenty years of gaiety are crammed into a single day. Grandma cannot possibly imagine what that means; the most gaiety she’s ever known was seeing gardenias and jasmines blooming together, their fragrance a sea of pure white dotted here and there by red balsam flowers. She understood the old adage, “A drop of water will not stir someone who has survived the bitter sea.” She knew that this child was in for a difficult journey, and this wasn’t even the worst of it. That was still to come.