Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

Wang Qiyao took Deuce’s affection as mere puppy love. She had grossly simplified the situation, but this was what saved the young man. Their relationship could only go on if seen in such unsophisticated terms. As a matter of fact, his love was pure; he wanted nothing in return — it was enough that he be allowed to love her. When Wang Qiyao went shopping for food, Deuce carried her basket. When the sun came out and she decided to wash her hair outside, Deuce poured water on her head to rinse off the soap. When she shucked peas, he held a bowl to catch them. When she did needlework, he grabbed the needle to thread it for her.

Wang Qiyao watched with pleasure as he crossed his eyes trying to thread the needle. It was a simple, spontaneous pleasure, completely uncalculated. She could not help reaching out to touch him on the head. His hair was soft, cool, and smooth. She ran her finger along the ridge of his nose below his glasses and it too felt cool to the touch, like that of a little dog. Deuce’s eyes moistened with agitation.

“Would you come with me to Shanghai?” she asked.

“I’d love to!” he replied.

“And how do you propose to support your ‘Sis’?” she pushed him.

“I’ll work.”

She laughed, a little startled. Then: “The money you earn will scarcely be enough to buy me hair lotion.”

Deuce was taken aback. “You underestimate me,” he protested.

Wang Qiyao tugged at his dainty earlobe. “I’m teasing you. I don’t even know whether I can return to Shanghai.”

“I’ll take you back on my boat!” Deuce proposed with a look of utter seriousness on his face.

Wang Qiyao laughed. “Can you really?”

“All rivers lead to the sea,” Deuce responded smartly. “What would stop me from taking you back?”

Wang Qiyao fell silent.

A faint light lit up Deuce’s cloudy heart. Confident that he had a rough sense of the terrain, he asked himself what he should do, and decided that it was time to take action. The forsythia had proclaimed the arrival of spring with tiny yellowish flowers on its sparse branches. Deuce thought that he, too, had waited out the winter, and, as he walked along the river watching the boats set out, a plan formed in his mind. Thanks to Wu Bridge’s water, he knew what to do. Inspired by a muddled courage, he resolved to move toward the hazy light shining in his future — there is, in truth, no courage except muddled courage. He stopped his daily visits to Wang Qiyao, but, curiously enough, this made her more real to him. She had been absorbed into his plan, and this, to him, was a momentous parting. He was filled with sorrow at the impending separation, but into the sorrow joy came as well, because he knew that somehow this would lead to an eventual reunion. In his heart he sang a song of intermingled joy and sorrow, the song of a child. If people could have seen him wandering around Wu Bridge by moonlight, they would have been deeply moved by his eyes, in which faith and resolve were transmuted to a limpid tenderness.

Wang Qiyao was wondering what had become of Deuce when she heard him knocking at the door. There he was, with his canvas athletic shoes newly brushed with shoe powder, his scarf freshly washed and ironed. Behind his glasses his eyes were glistening.

“Sis, I’ve come to see you…” said Deuce.

“You haven’t been coming around. . Did you forget about me?” asked Wang Qiyao.

“I’d forget everyone in the world before forgetting you,” replied Deuce.

“When men get married, they forget even their own mothers; and I am neither kith nor kin to you,” said Wang Qiyao.

“A promise is a promise,” Deuce assured her, “. . the only thing I fear is that one day we’ll meet face to face on the streets of Shanghai and you won’t even recognize me.”

“And what difference does it make whether I recognize you or not?” Wang Qiyao retorted with a laugh.

Clearly hurt, Deuce lowered his gaze and said softly, “You’re right. . I don’t know why I ever expected you to remember me.”

Wang Qiyao was about to say something to mollify him when he stepped back outside and said, “Goodbye, Sis!”

With that, he turned around and left, his shoes silently carried him away on the stone slabs. His retreating silhouette immediately blended into the Wu Bridge night and he disappeared. Wang Qiyao had more to say and thought about catching up with him, but, deciding it could wait till the morrow, she shut the door.

The nights of Wu Bridge were quiet, so quiet. One could hear the dew fall. Wang Qiyao waited for Deuce the following day, but he never showed. She waited again the next day, but still no sign of him. Then, four days after his last visit, she heard from the bean curd delivery man that Deuce had left town. He had gone to Nanjing to get into a teaching college. Wang Qiyao thought back to the night of his last visit, mulling over everything he had said, and every sentence seemed to take on a new meaning. She was certain that Deuce had gone not to Nanjing, but to Shanghai. She also sensed that he had gone there for her; he was there in Shanghai waiting for her! However, Shanghai was an ocean of people, even if she were to go back there, would Deuce be able to find her?

Wang Qiyao had not thought of Shanghai until Deuce brought it up. All the nights she had spent there, in that city that never sleeps, suddenly flooded back into her mind, but how distant it all felt! In the morning, as she combed her hair, she saw Shanghai in the mirror, but Shanghai had aged, with tiny wrinkles around its eyes. When she walked by the river, she saw a reflection of Shanghai, but it was a faded Shanghai. Every time she tore a page from the calendar, she felt how Shanghai had grown older, and the thought pained her. The days and nights of Shanghai were filled with feelings as magnificent and volatile as the clouds in the sky above Wu Bridge. Amazing and unforgettable Shanghai! Its splendor blazed out radiantly even after all had turned to dust and ashes and creepers. It was just as well if one had never gone to Shanghai; all who had been there were caught forever under its spell.

The image of Deuce under sail, bound for Shanghai, fixed itself in her mind. Wang Qiyao shook her head at Deuce’s absurdity in thus acting on a jest. But was it a jest — or a prognostication? It could very well have been a pronouncement. Even a young man such as Deuce in Wu Bridge gets to go to Shanghai — why should she, Wang Qiyao, born and raised in Shanghai, stay away? There was no reason she should settle here, with her heart torn in two, always yearning for Shanghai — a city like a tormenting lover who refused to go away. There was no news from Deuce, no letters for her, nor — according to the bean curd delivery man — any for his family. Wang Qiyao was now certain that he had gone to Shanghai. She sighed as she wondered how he could possibly find his footing in that teeming city. What a rash move that was! But he had gone to create his own legend. She missed him immensely. When she opened the window and saw the moonlight on the ground by the water, she saw the shadow of a faded Shanghai, under the same moon, far away.

Wu Bridge was not totally cut off from Shanghai. The colorful label on Dragon Cure-all Medicinal Ointment came from Shanghai, calendars featuring pretty girls had been produced in Shanghai, the dry goods stores sold Little Sisters cologne and Old Knife cigarettes from Shanghai. Some people from Wu Bridge hummed arias from Shanghai opera. All these little things provoked Wang Qiyao, calling out to her everywhere she went. They scraped at her painful scar, but this was a wound to which she had willingly submitted. Now that the impact of the shock had worn off, she began to view the events leading up to it as inevitable, a kind of baptismal fire. She felt Shanghai pulling at her, but in a way different from what Deuce had felt. He had experienced the pull in an abstract way; to Wang Qiyao, the pull took on a concrete form. She detected hints of Shanghai oleander in the fragrance of jasmine blossom. The sparkling water of Wu Bridge made her recall the night lights of Shanghai. Zhou Xuan cooing “Song of the Four Seasons” on the radio was her homeward summons. When people addressed her as Shanghai Lady, as they often did, she felt they were implying that she did not belong there. Her cheongsams were getting old, and new ones had to be made in Shanghai. Her shoes were out of shape from over-wearing, her sweaters had holes, the skin on her hands and feet was cracking. Her entire being felt ravaged and torn; even if she didn’t want to, she knew it was time to go home.