Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

One day Madame Yan came dressed in a short satin jacket with piping to see Wang Qiyao, who, in a white jacket similar to that worn by physicians, was giving an injection to a patient. She had a large mask on, and only her eyes, firmly fixed on the patient, were exposed. Madame Yan sensed defeat even before she knew what was underneath the white jacket and slumped into a chair. When the patient left, Wang Qiyao was startled to find Madame Yan sobbing in a corner of the room. She went over and supported her by the shoulder. Before she had a chance to ask, Madame Yan said Mr. Yan had been in a pet that morning, but refused to tell her what was wrong. She carried on about how life was no longer worth living and began to cry. Wang Qiyao said she should stop being so paranoid. There are always ups and downs in a marriage, and she of all people should know better. Madame Yan wiped her tears and continued on to say that she did not know what had happened, but lately she couldn’t even coax a smile out of Mr. Yan, no matter how hard she tried.

“Why don’t you try ignoring him, then? Let him figure out how to make you smile,” Wang Qiyao suggested.

This finally produced a grin on Madame Yan’s face. Wang Qiyao dragged her to the vanity table to recomb her hair, and showed her some of her makeup tricks. The unspoken words behind their words were how they really communicated, and from that day on they were able to resume their intimacy.

By now Madame Yan had veritably worn down the threshold on Wang Qiyao’s front stoop, but Wang Qiyao had yet to step inside Madame Yan’s home. It was not for want of trying on the part of Madame Yan. Every time she extended an invitation, Wang Qiyao would always say that she was expecting patients.

One day, Madame Yan asked half-jokingly, “You’re not afraid Mr. Yan might eat you up, are you?”

Blushing deeply, Wang Qiyao persisted in declining. But the remark was enough to make her feel that she was not reciprocating Madame Yan’s goodwill properly. She insisted that Madame Yan stay for lunch and consulted her on what to do with several dresses at the bottom of her chest. After lunch, sensing she had got the upper hand, Madame Yan again pressed the invitation, which Wang Qiyao finally accepted after some hesitation.

It was around two o’clock when they locked the door and windows and made their way downstairs. Few people were up and about in the longtang. As the sunlight streamed onto the pavement, the silence was interrupted only by the music of children’s voices from the elementary school next door. Feeling a bit solemn, they did not speak as they made their way toward the back door of the townhouse. Madame Yan called out, “Mama Zhang!” whereupon the door opened and they entered.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness indoors, Wang Qiyao saw they were in a hallway, on one side of which a window with sheer curtains faced out onto the longtang. The formal dining room at the end of the hallway was dominated by an oblong oak table, surrounded leather upholstered chairs; over it hung an old-fashioned chandelier with light bulbs in the shape of candles. This room was also shaded by sheer curtains, the heavy fringed drapery layered over them now parted and pinned up to the window frame. Across the waxed floor, at the other end of the dining room, a narrow flight of stairs gleaming with brown paint led them upstairs. From the landing, also shaded by sheer curtains, Madame Yan pushed in a door and they entered a room divided down the middle by a portiere. On the far side of the drapes stood an oversized bed with a shirred green satin bedspread reaching to the floor; a light with a green lampshade hung over the bed. On this side of the drapes, a host of floral patterns played over the decor. The armchair cushions were embroidered with flowers, as was the tablecloth covering the round table, which was littered with nail clippers and cotton balls stained with nail polish. A pink glass lampshade hung over the round table. Under the window, shaded with sheer curtains and heavy drapery, was a long European-style sofa upholstered in red and green, with cloud-like patterns engraved in its legs and back. Had she not seen it herself, Wang Qiyao would never have guessed such a luxurious place lay hidden in Peace Lane.

As soon as Madame Yan had sat Wang Qiyao down on the sofa, Mama Zhang brought in tea. Tiny chrysanthemums floated on the green tea, served in fine china cups with gold trim. The light filtering through the curtains was bright enough to see by, but the curtains subdued the hubbub rising up from outside. Wang Qiyao felt as if she had fallen into a fog, uncertain of where she was. Her host pulled out a piece of dark red fabric from the armoire and held it against Wang Qiyao’s body, saying she wanted to have a fall coat made for her. She dragged Wang Qiyao in front of the mirror to see how it would look. Looking into the mirror, Wang Qiyao saw reflected a tobacco pipe lying on the chest next to the bed and with a flash thought she was back in Alice Apartments. Everything here was reminiscent of Alice Apartments. She had known all along what she would see here — what memories it would stir up — that was the reason she had resisted coming.

From that day on, in addition to Madame Yan’s regular visits to Wang Qiyao, Wang Qiyao would also occasionally call on Madame Yan. If patients showed up while she was out, Wang Qiyao would have her downstairs neighbors tell them to find her at the house at the end of the longtang. Not long after this, Madame Yan’s second-oldest child came down with the measles. He ran a high fever for days and broke out in a rash that covered his whole body. As Madame Yan had never had the measles and was in danger of being infected, she could not take care of the child and asked Wang Qiyao for help. People coming for shots were told to go directly to the Yan house. Mr. Yan was never home in the daytime and in any case was not the type that minded, so the two ladies made his bedroom into a clinic, setting up the alcohol burner on the round table for sterilizing needles. One of the children’s rooms on the third floor became the infirmary. Every hour or so, Wang Qiyao went up to check on the patient; the rest of the time they whiled away by chatting. Mama Zhang served them lunch and afternoon snacks. The Yan boy’s bout of measles had turned into a long holiday for the ladies.

During this period, friends and relatives of the Yan family came by with fruits and delicacies, but they did not go up to see the boy, staying just a few minutes in the parlor downstairs. One of the visitors, a cousin of Madame Yan’s several times removed, was known to the children and the rest of the household as Uncle Maomao. After graduating from college in Peking, Uncle Maomao had been assigned a job in the remote province of Gansu, where he naturally had no desire of going, so he came back to Shanghai and lived off his father’s savings. His father used to own a factory many times larger than that of Mr. Yan. He had received a lump sum in compensation after the government took it over, whereupon he retired with his two wives and three children to live in a house with a garden on the west side of Shanghai. Uncle Maomao was his father’s only son, but the child of the concubine. Although pampered as a boy, he had sensed the peculiarity of his situation very early on and this taught him always to calibrate his behavior so as to keep on everyone’s good side. Now, as a grown man freeloading at home, he made himself useful. Should any of the women need anything — his sisters or either one of his mothers — he made it his business to get it for them. If they wanted someone to accompany them to the hospital or the beauty salon, or to buy fabric for clothes, all they had to do was say the word. He freely offered advice on a variety of topics. He also cheerfully volunteered to discharge bothersome social duties, of which paying occasional visits to the Yan family was one.