Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

Madame Yan, touched by the story, nodded with a sigh.

“I suppose you believe the old saying, ‘When the moon is full, it begins to wane, when water reaches the brim, it begins to spill’?” remarked Uncle Maomao.

At this Wang Qiyao rejoined, “All the saying means is that each individual has a certain amount of happiness he is entitled to, and that amount is predestined and different for each individual.”

Uncle Maomao did not contradict her, and they continued to play. He had a story of his own to share with them. An old friend of his father’s had died more than a decade earlier. The moment he died, the clock on the wall stopped ticking. It was an old clock hanging high up on the wall and the family did not get around to fixing it for almost ten years. Then about six months ago, his wife passed on from some illness, and at her death the clock started to work again. It had not stopped since. They were quiet after this story. The sun had shifted to the west and the house darkened, but through the sheer curtains they could see the window across the street still bathed in brilliant sunlight. A shadow of foreboding crept into their midst. At this moment Mama Zhang came upstairs to announce that the lotus plumule soup was ready. When she asked if she should go out to pick up the crab dumplings, Madame Yan, suddenly realizing the time, hurried her off. She was instructed to take a pedicab home, not the crowded bus, where she might spill some of the juice. Wang Qiyao lit up the alcohol burner in preparation for the child’s next injection. The flickering blue flame instantly filled the room with the color of dusk.

The afternoon had not been as merry as the previous one, but it had nevertheless touched them individually. The hot juicy dumplings Mama Zhang brought back were consumed with relish, along with a fresh pot of tea. They played another round of durak until Madame Yan said regretfully, “The days are getting shorter, forcing us to quit just as the fun is starting. What if Uncle Maomao comes again tomorrow before lunch? I shall ask Mama Zhang to roast an eight-treasure duck, which she usually cooks only on New Year’s Day. It’s her specialty.”

“My mother sampled the eight-treasure duck here a few years ago,” said Uncle Maomao. “She liked it so much that she sent our family chef over to learn the dish from Mama Zhang. Aren’t we lucky to have the real thing!”

“That’s right, it has been four or five years,” said Madame Yan. “We used to visit each other much more often. Nowadays we hardly see you. When you showed up the other day, I was shocked — you’ve grown up so fast!” Turning to Wang Qiyao, she went on, “You can’t imagine what he was like as a little boy. Even in his short pants, he always wore a Western suit jacket and long white socks, and had his hair parted in the middle. He always looked like a ring bearer at a wedding.”

“You mean to say that you now find me disagreeable?” Uncle Maomao asked.

“You are not at all disagreeable…” answered Madame Yan, a little despondently. “But your outfit certainly is!”

Uncle Maomao was wearing a well-pressed blue khaki “liberation suit.” His shoes were shiny, with slightly pointed tips. His longish hair was combed to one side, in the style of college students, exposing his clear forehead. He presented himself with style and with a studious air calculated not to call too much attention to himself. But Wang Qiyao felt herself growing excited as she imagined what he might look like in a Western suit. Madame Yan made a few more emotional remarks, sighing heavily, before the three parted.

The next day was cold with a slight drizzle. They all put on heavier clothes, and a hotpot was brought in at lunchtime. The coal fire burned bright and over it they boiled a broth with green spinach and thin snowwhite noodles. Crackling sparks occasionally shot out from the fire. With the window shades pulled halfway down and the lamp turned on, the room was filled with warmth and cheerful intimacy. It was the kind of moment one wanted to hold onto before it slipped away forever, the kind of setting in which one was apt to offer and accept comfort. The sound of raindrops pattering on the window was the weather speaking its heart, the broth in the pot was boiling with the fire’s innermost thoughts, the heavy drapery in the window and the pink lamp were silently speaking their hearts. Wang Qiyao bit into a bone as she was eating a piece of fish; she removed it with her chopsticks and the bone landed on the table upright. Madame Yan insisted that she make a wish on it. Wang Qiyao said she didn’t have anything to wish for, but neither Madame Yan nor Uncle Maomao would believe her.

“Well, suit yourself if you don’t want to believe me. But I’m telling you there is nothing to wish for,” insisted Wang Qiyao.

“You might be able to keep it from me, but it won’t be so easy with Uncle Maomao — after all, he knows how to read fortunes,” said Madame Yan.

“Not only can I read fortunes,” Uncle Maomao jumped in, “I also know how to predict the future based on analyzing Chinese characters! If you don’t believe me, write down a character and I’ll show you.”

When Wang Qiyao refused to write one down, Madame Yan spoke up, “Okay, then, I’ll give you one for her.”

Madame Yan looked around and, noticing that the sky outside was overcast and rainy, blurted out, “How about tian, or sky.”

Uncle Maomao dipped one of his chopsticks in the soup and drew the character in question on the table, . He then extended the vertical line upward, producing the character for “husband,” .

“I’ve got it,” Uncle Maomao declared. “There is a wealthy husband in Miss Wang’s life.”

Madame Yan clapped her hands in approval, but Wang Qiyao interrupted, “Hold on a minute. It was Madame Yan who chose that character, so if anyone has a wealthy husband, it’s Madame Yan. If I have to give my own character, it would be di, or ‘earth.’ ”

“Okay, then ‘earth’ it is!” announced Uncle Maomao as he wrote on the table with his chopstick.

Then he broke the character down into its components, inscribing its right side on the table, before adding the radical for “man” beside it, thereby producing the character for “he,” .

“It’s a ‘he’!” he exclaimed, “which also means that you will have a wealthy husband.”

Wang Qiyao pointed to the other component of the character for earth, , “Look, doesn’t this show that ‘he’ is already in the ground?”

She had spoken carelessly and as soon as her words slipped her heart skipped a beat. She forced a smile to cover up her embarrassment.

Both Madame Yan and Uncle Maomao felt her comment was inauspicious, but seeing how uneasy Wang Qiyao looked, neither dared say anything more. Madame Yan got up to summon Mama Zhang to add more water to the hotpot and make the fire hotter. Uncle Maomao took the opportunity to change the topic by complimenting Mama Zhang’s eight-treasure duck. It was only after the hotpot started to boil again and sparks shot out from the fire that Wang Qiyao finally pulled herself together.

As they enjoyed the broth and the eight-treasure duck, Wang Qiyao said casually, “Speaking of wishes, who can say how many wishes there are in this world! In Suzhou there is a temple with a wishing pond where people toss in copper coins. My Grandma told me the monks live on those copper coins, but one wonders just how many of those people’s wishes are fulfilled.”