Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

Madame Yan and Uncle Maomao thought that Wang Qiyao was through with this topic; when she brought it up again they were uncertain how to react. The broth in the pot was drying up and seemed to have difficulty coming to a boil. Wang Qiyao laughed derisively at herself for being foolish as she sipped more soup. The sky darkened a bit more as if it too had lowered its voice to listen to people speaking their hearts. Uncle Maomao told the ladies about a card game called “bluff.” Each player takes a turn setting a card face down on the table, naming the card as he does so. He may be bluffing or telling the truth. Anyone who thinks he is bluffing is free to turn the card over to verify his claim. If the card is what it is claimed to be, the person calling the bluff has to take the card in; if not, the player discarding the card has to take it back, while the person who has successfully called the bluff gets to discard one of his own cards. Uncle Maomao said that even though the game is called “bluff,” the winner is not always the person who bluffs. As Wang Qiyao and Madame Yan looked uncomprehendingly at him, he explained, “A player who does not bluff may take a little longer to discard all his cards, but he eventually does, as long as he keeps playing. One other thing: he shouldn’t call someone else’s bluff either, because that would expose him to the risk of having to take their cards in. He should simply let other people do all the bluffing and the calling while he discards his own cards one by one.”

The ladies still looked at him in perplexity, but Wang Qiyao suddenly got it. “You were talking about the game, but what you really meant is much bigger than that, isn’t it?”

Uncle Maomao smiled at her.

“If you are talking about life, then the strategy you advocate is much too passive,” argued Madame Yan. “None of your card games is as good as mahjong. In mahjong you need luck as well as strategy to deal with the thirteen concealed tiles in your hand. In mahjong, luck always gives you the opportunity to win but also limits your chances of winning. What you have to do is have your tiles all lined up, waiting for that missing piece, like an admiral with his ships lined up ready for the wind to turn. This is how life should be conducted.”

As soon as Madame Yan started to talk about mahjong, the glory of her past victories flooded her mind and her spirit rose. There were the times when she had won by a hair’s breadth, and others when her luck turned just as she had given up all hope. She reiterated that no Western card games could possibly be more exciting than mahjong. Compared to mahjong, durak and “bluff” were all mere child’s play — they all boiled down to simple competitions to see who holds the higher card; it was all simple arithmetic, really. “In mahjong, the value of any given tile depends completely on the situation, just like in real life. How do people compete in real life? By comparing their ages? By comparing who has more physical strength? No! You’re both smart, so do I need to go on?”

At this point Madame Yan was bristling with resentment, intent on venting her own unhappiness. The broth in the hotpot had evaporated, but she insisted on having some more. Uncle Maomao refuted her, saying there was more to card games than she thought. For instance, in “bluff”—which he had oversimplified in his explanation — a player may believe that the other person is bluffing but still pretend to go along, because he himself wants to let go of a lower card. Thus one person may conspire with another in a bluff.

Madame Yan curled her lip in contempt. “That doesn’t make sense. In mahjong there is nothing that doesn’t make sense.”

Uncle Maomao was piqued. “If mahjong is so interesting, why isn’t there an international competition for mahjong?”

Seeing that the cousins were truly angry with each other, Wang Qiyao was both bemused and annoyed. She jumped in to try to smooth things over. “May I invite the two of you over to my home the day after tomorrow? Though I can’t offer you eight-treasure duck, I can make a good home-cooked meal. What do you say?”

On the day of the dinner, Wang Qiyao went home and started to cook. By then Madame Yan’s son had recovered from the measles: his fever was gone, the rash had disappeared, and he was already back to his old mischievous ways. Wang Qiyao bought a chicken, saving the breast meat to be sliced and stir-fried. She used half of the rest to make soup, and chopped the other half into bite-sized pieces to be parboiled and served cold with sauce as an appetizer. Completing the four cold dishes were sautéed shrimp, pickled egg, and marinated wheat-bran dough; the four hot dishes consisted of stir-fried chicken, carp with scallion, shredded celery with dried tofu, and scrambled egg with shellfish. This was simple fare, making with no pretence of competing with the delicacies served at the Yan household; yet, presented together, the dishes were elaborate enough to show her respect for her guests.

The two guests arrived at dusk. This being his first visit, Uncle Maomao had taken care to bring along some fruit. Wang Qiyao thrilled to the sound of their footsteps on the stairs. It was, after all, her first occasion as hostess in this place — not counting, of course, the many times that Madame Yan had invited herself to dinner. On the freshly laid tablecloth was placed a plate of watermelon seeds that Wang Qiyao had roasted. She herself was in a festive mood, her flushed face beaded with a thick layer of sweat. When she drew the curtains and turned on the light, they noticed the large flower patterns. Wang Qiyao sat them down; as she served them tea, there was a faint trace of tears in the corners of her eyes. She returned to the kitchen — to the pots and pans that, after languishing so long in a state of quiet neglect, were finally bubbling to life — and tears rolled down her cheeks. With chicken broth humming on one burner, she ignited the other to heat up the frying pan, where the oil sizzled raucously. The chattering voices of her guests were immensely satisfying to her, even though it was not a big party.

Dinner was served with half a bottle of rice wine, lending additional warmth to the room. The guests gave high marks to the food, which, though not sumptuous, was just right for intimate friends. Each dish seemed to seek out and gratify their gastronomical desires in unexpected ways, conveying the cook’s thoughtfulness and eagerness to please.

“Ah, all we’re missing now is a fourth person!” Madame Yan couldn’t help sighing, which caused the other two to chuckle. She ran her eyes over the room and, at the risk of being mocked further, pressed on, “Actually, how would anybody find out if we were to play mahjong? With the curtains drawn and a blanket on the table to muffle the noise of the tiles, who could possibly find out?”

Her excitement mounted as she told them about a set of mahjong as lovely as jade that she had hidden away — she couldn’t wait to put it to work. But both Wang Qiyao and Uncle Maomao said that they didn’t know how to play.

“Mahjong is the easiest game in the world to learn, simpler than bridge or even durak , for that matter!”

“And how is that possible?” Uncle Maomao asked mockingly. “After all, you said that card games are all nothing but child’s play.”

Madame Yan laughed, but ignored his remark and simply started explaining the rules governing mahjong. She explained how the four players sit facing east, west, north, and south. Frustrated again by the fact that they were missing their fourth, she became despondent. The others tried teasing her but were unable to snap her out of her foul mood.

At long last she said, “I feel awfully sorry for you. You’ve never had a chance to play mahjong.”