Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

There was still no news from Deuce, but then legends tend to have quiet beginnings. Wang Qiyao had no doubt that he was in Shanghai. With him there, the city felt warmer. She could no longer stifle her discontent, and even before she decided to leave, Wu Bridge was already waving goodbye. Every tree, every blade of grass, every brick and stone turned themselves into mist-shrouded memories in her mind. The weeping willows, dancing under sun, under moon, were transformed into dream scenes. She began to notice boats passing swiftly under the bridge arches, and boatmen singing Kunshan melodies. After winter and spring had sped past, by the time the lotus started to seed, Wang Qiyao was on her way to Suzhou in a boat, as on both sides the walls of houses changed to stone cliffs, dappled with age-old water marks and lichens. The town stretched away from her like a scroll unfolding. The realities and illusions of Wu Bridge, its reasons and sentiments, its creatures of flesh and of the spirit — all were blended into the boatmen’s Kunshan songs and the rumbling sounds of ancient rice mills.

As the boat emerged from Wu Bridge and swung out into the open water, Wang Qiyao found herself in a broad landscape. Waterfowl made black dots in the air. From the fields onshore came the sound of drum rolls and gongs clanging to scare the sparrows away. On the river, the water was as bright as a mirror, reflecting a cloudless blue sky. Countless boats were under sail, as if racing against each other. Wang Qiyao felt a thrill of excitement. Even before arriving at Suzhou, she could already smell the gardenias. Suzhou: a city always associated with Shanghai. Suzhou: Shanghai’s memory and dream. The sweet, sticky Suzhou dialect, which can make hate sound like love, is made expressly for romantic conversations in Shanghai. Suzhou gardens, transported to Shanghai, contrive to preserve a measure of leisurely ease in the large city. Having arrived at Suzhou, one is halfway to Shanghai.

Wang Qiyao took the train from Suzhou to Shanghai. The boat had seemed slow to her, but even the train was not fast enough. Outside, the night was completely dark except for an occasional light, gleaming firefly-like. Her heart settled down. Shanghai lies just behind the heavy stage curtain that is the dark night. As soon as the train passes through the tunnel, the curtain will rise and Shanghai will be revealed. The first sign of Shanghai — the illuminated water treatment plant in Zhabei — brought tears to her eyes. Soon the lights came crowding in on the train window like moths against a lamp, but the train heedlessly hurled itself forward, rattling along loudly. Past events overflowed the banks of her memory like a melting river in spring, but she realized the past was gone. As the shadows of people she had known floated across the window, her face was streaked with tears. Suddenly, the train whistle blew, its blast splitting the night like a piece of silk. Brilliant lights flooded in, and the phantoms disappeared. The train entered the station.

SHANGHAI MUST HAVE at least a hundred Peace Lanes, some occupying a large area connecting two major streets, others connected to other longtang , forming a vast network of twisted, dirty lanes where one can easily get lost. As confusing as they may be to outsiders, each has developed a distinct identity simply through having survived for so many years. Under moonlight, these blocks of crumbling wood and brick look positively serene, like something out of a painting executed with minute brushstrokes; they too hold memories and aspirations. The ringing bells make their evening rounds, reminding residents to watch their cooking fires, evincing a trace of warmth and goodwill from those who live there. Mornings, however, begin with night-soil carts, clattering in to collect waste for fertilizer, and the raspy noises of brushes scrubbing out commodes. Amid the smoke of coal burners, laundry soaked overnight is taken out to be hung, banner-like, on bamboo poles. Every action, every gesture comes across to the onlooker as a boastful swagger or perhaps an exaggerated fit of pique; why, the collective provocation would be enough to darken the rising sun.

Each Peace Lane has a few residents who are as old as the neighborhood. Being history’s witnesses, they observe newcomers with knowing eyes. Some are not averse to mingling with newcomers, and this creates an impression of continuity. But on the whole they like to keep to themselves, adding an air of mystery to the neighborhood.

Wang Qiyao moved into the third floor of 39 Peace Lane. Different batches of tenants had left their plants on the balcony. Most had withered, but a few nameless ones had sprouted new leaves. Insects swam in the stagnant liquid of moldy jars in the kitchen, yet among them was a bottle of perfectly good peanut oil. On the wall behind the door somebody had written, “Buy birthday present on January 10,” and a child had scrawled “Wang Gensheng eats shit.” One could only speculate about the birthday celebrant and the object of the child’s resentment. Rubbish lay, piled up at haphazard — one could make nothing coherent out of all this. Having put her things down among other people’s debris, Wang Qiyao decided to make the place her own by hanging up her curtains. The room did seem different with the curtains. However, with no shade over the light bulb, the objects in the room simply looked naked rather than illuminated.

Outside it was a typical evening in May. The warm breeze carried with it whiffs of grease and swill, which was the basic odor of Shanghai, although the typical Shanghainese was so steeped in it he scarcely noticed. Later in the night would come the scent of rice gruel flavored with osmanthus blossoms. The smells were familiar, the curtains were familiar, and the evening outside was familiar, but Wang Qiyao felt strange. She needed to reattach herself to life here; fortunately for her, the lines where attachments could be made were clearly marked on the fabric. Wang Qiyao was grateful to the large flowers on the curtains, which, no matter where they were placed, remained in full bloom, faithfully retaining the glory of bygone days. The floor and the window frames emitted the odiferous warmth of decaying wood. Scurrying mice conveyed their greetings. Soon, bells reminding people to watch their cooking fires began ringing.

Wang Qiyao underwent three months of training as a nurse in order to be certified to give injections. She hung out a sign advertising injections outside the entrance to her apartment on Peace Lane. Similar signs could be seen along the entrances of other longtang —following those signs inside, one could find Wang Qiyaos of all different shapes and sizes eking out a living. They all woke up early, put on clean clothes, and straightened up their rooms. Then they ignited the alcohol burner to disinfect a box of needles. The sun, reflected from the rooftops across the alley, left rectangles of light on the wooden floor. After switching off the burner, they reached for a book to read while they waited for patients. The patients tended to come in batches, morning and afternoon, but there might be one or two in the evening. Once in a while, when someone requested a house call, they hurried off in white cap and surgical mask. Lugging a straw bag containing the needles and medicinal cotton, they looked very much like professional nurses as they scurried down the street.

Wang Qiyao always wore a simple cheongsam . In the 1950s these were becoming rare on the streets of Shanghai, a symbol of nostalgia as well as style, at once old-fashioned and modern. When she crossed the streets on house calls, she was often struck by a sense of déjà vu — the places were familiar, only the roles were changed. One day she called on a patient in a dark apartment where the waxed floor reflected her shoes and stockings, and was led into the bedroom. There, under a green silk blanket, a young woman lay. Wang Qiyao had the curious sensation that the woman was herself. Having administered the shot, she put her things away and left, but her heart seemed to tarry in that apartment. She could almost hear the woman complaining to the maid that the shrimps from the market were too small and not fresh enough — didn’t she know the master would be home for dinner that night? At times she stared into the blue flames of the alcohol burner and saw a resplendent world in which people sang and danced for all eternity. Once in a while she caught a late movie, one of the ones that started at eight, when street lamps were reflected on the face of the silent streets. Only the theater lobby would be bustling, as though time had stood still. She only went to old movies: Zhou Xuan in Street Angel , Bai Yang in Crossroads , and others. Although they had no connection to her present situation, they were familiar and they spoke to her. She subscribed to an evening newspaper to fill the hours of dusk. She read every word in the newspaper, making sense perhaps of half the reports. By the time she finished it, the water would be boiling and it would be dinner time.