Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

Deuce had the same feeling. Wang Qiyao was like a mirror to him. Only when he sat in front of her did he understand himself. He started to come by every other day and stayed chatting until the moon rose in the sky. Sometimes, when the weather was warm, they walked the streets together. Lights shone out from under the canopies of boats in the canals and from houses along the canals, and the water sparkled with moving threads of light. Their hearts were both clear and serene.

“Hey, Sis, is the moon in Shanghai the same as this?” asked Deuce.

“It looks different,” replied Wang Qiyao, “but it’s actually the same.”

“Actually, there are two moons,” retorted Deuce. “One is the moon, and the other is its shadow.”

“I didn’t know you were a poet!” Wang Qiyao laughed.

She thought of Jiang Lili, who seemed now to be a person from a previous life. She thought that poetry, an affectation for Jiang Lili, came naturally to Deuce. Deuce demurred, “You are the poet, not me.”

Wang Qiyao refrained from laughing aloud and said, “How could I be a poet? I can’t recite a single line of classical poetry, or even modern poetry, for that matter.”

“Poetry is not about any which lines,” Deuce replied in earnest. “Some people think that if you cut sentences to roughly the same lengths and arrange them in lines, that’s poetry. Others think that poetry is written by linking sentimental words. To them poetry is about striking a pose.”

Wang Qiyao felt the latter was a perfect description of Jiang Lili’s poetic style.

“Actually, poems are pictures drawn with words,” said Deuce. “Take these examples: ‘ The moon over the land of Qin and the House of Han shines its beams upon the Radiant Palace Lady. ’ That’s like a painting! ‘ We called her a thousand times before she came out, still holding the pipa half concealing her face. ’ That’s another one! Or how about, ‘ Her jade face is streaked with lonely tears, raindrops glistening on pear blossoms in the spring. ’ Isn’t that a painting? ‘ Behold the slender peach tree, its flowers shimmering!’ They are all word pictures, aren’t they?”

Wang Qiyao’s listened intently. She had not cared much for poetry, but this pricked her interest. Deuce, however, stopped talking.

“Tell me more!” She urged him.

“I have already proved my point.”

“What point is that?”

“I’ve proved that you are indeed a poet.”

At first Wang Qiyao didn’t understand what he meant, then blushed as she figured it out.

Deuce could not understand it. Why, after being jubilant for a few days, had he become even more morose? Something was gnawing at him. Before, his depression had been diffused; now, it had a focus. Before, he didn’t know what he wanted; now he knew, but what he wanted was impossible. Why would he want the impossible? Isn’t that the same as lifting a rock to smash your own foot? This Shanghai woman that he called “Sis” was like the multicolored clouds at sunset — she could disappear at any moment without a trace. She was, in truth, a legend. He wanted to add a few lines to the legend, but even before he’d got his writing brush ready, she was liable to be off creating another legend. How distinct she was from the rest of Wu Bridge! — as enigmatic as Wu Bridge was transparent. At his age, however, men prefer enigmas over the truth. After all, once you have arrived at the truth, what’s left to wish for? This explains Deuce’s despair and Wang Qiyao’s allure.

Deuce developed a daily routine of going in to chat with Wang Qiyao while she did her needlework in the back room of the pickle shop; but the closer he got, the more distant she seemed to be. And the more distant she seemed, the harder he strove after her. It was as if she was moving farther and farther away, until all that was left was an indistinct silhouette.

Deuce would occasionally think back to that evening they discussed poetry under the moonlight. The verses he’d recited still rang in his ears and at that moment Wang Qiyao seemed to grow closer. The old familiar verses had come tumbling out of his mouth, but he had since been bothered by their contexts. They felt more like Deuce’s own spontaneous creations, inspired by the moment, rather than what they really were — the words of the ancients. Gradually he began to remember the source of each verse, and this made him uncomfortable. “ The moon over the land of Qin and the House of Han shines its beams upon the Radiant Palace Lady ” comes from a poem by Li Bo about the beauty Wang Zhaojun, who was sent off by a Han dynasty emperor to marry a barbarian chieftain. This line seemed to suit Wang Qiyao’s present situation as her native moon shone down on her in a distant land. The line preceding this one reads, “ Once on the road to Jade Pass, never from the end of the earth shall she return. ” Was that a sign that Wang Qiyao would stay, never to return to Shanghai? Deuce became excited at this, but then thought perhaps the poem did not quite fit the situation, because Wang Qiyao had not left the country. On the other hand, maybe it did fit after all, because in the poem the Qin dynasty was supplanted by the Han, and China had also just undergone a major change of regime. Then and now, the moon of yesteryear shines on today’s people. It follows — in poetic logic — that, as time passes and does not return, neither would she. That the moon of a bygone Shanghai shone on Wang Qiyao — the idea pierced Deuce’s heart. “ We called her a thousand times before she came out, still holding the pipa half concealing her face .” This comes from Bo Juyi’s “The Pipa Player,” a poignant poem about a woman, once beautiful and much sought after, now reduced to singing for a living aboard a boat. “ Her jade face is streaked with lonely tears, raindrops glistening on pear blossoms in the spring .” That is from an even sadder poem, also by Bo Juyi, called “The Song of Everlasting Sorrow.” The woman is the favorite concubine of a Tang emperor, who is forced to kill her to appease his mutinous army. Deuce couldn’t help but grow heavyhearted. He wondered why all the famous beauties named in classical poetry came to a tragic end. It is said that beautiful women lead tragic lives. Is that their inescapable fate? It seems that only in the Book of Songs do we have a depiction of feminine beauty ending in happiness and celebration: “ Behold the slender peach tree, its flowers shimmering! ” But even these lines take on a portentous note, as they follow a series of tragic images. With his heart weighed down, Deuce wondered, Could this really be a sign? He could see the air of misfortune surrounding Wang Qiyao. Ah, but how exquisite she is! Deuce found himself irresistibly drawn to her.

Deuce’s feelings for Wang Qiyao were not only love, but a worshipful adoration. To him, Wang Qiyao was not a person, but a spirit that infused the surrounding air with mystery. Her presence overcame him with visions of loveliness — however transitory — and he felt himself vaporized into something akin to smoke or rain. Wu Bridge, with its extreme quiet, its long nights, dense and serpentine waterways, crowded house eaves. . was hospitable to illusions. Wang Qiyao was illusion incarnate when she, shimmering with the splendor of the big city, walked on the stone slab streets. One could almost hear dance music echoing in her footsteps. Deuce was suddenly convinced: this woman from Shanghai had been sent to seduce him. The riskier the situation was, the stronger the seduction became. Deuce saw himself the martyr to a hopeless religion. He sought not the eternal, but the ephemeral; the pleasure of the moment, that was all he cared for. He was bewitched.