Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

“Well, if you feel that strongly about it,” replied Uncle Maomao, “perhaps I could produce a friend to fulfill the dearest wish of my fair cousin.”

“And if you don’t mind this place being small, we could have the game right here,” Wang Qiyao added.

“It’s not like we are having a dance party, so who cares if the room is a bit small?” Madame Yan chimed in, though she expressed worry over whether Uncle Maomao’s friend was trustworthy.

Uncle Maomao reassured her. “If he comes, he’ll be trustworthy enough.” It took a few minutes for the ladies to understand what he meant, and then the matter was settled. Madame Yan worried further that Mr. Yan might find out. Her husband, a cautious person, was not one who relished being involved in anything forbidden by the People’s Government, and she had kept her mahjong set without his knowledge. The other two assured her that as long as she didn’t tell, there wouldn’t be any problems.

Soup was served before the dishes were finally put away, the table wiped, the plate of melon seeds returned to the table, their teacups replenished, and Uncle Maomao’s fruit sliced up and served on a plate. As they had all eaten a little too much, the conversation lagged. They could hear the neighbor’s radio broadcasting Shanghai opera. The singing resembled everyday conversation, and the subject was the bitterness of not having the necessities of life, such as rice and salt — a far cry from Shaoxing opera, which always revolved around ill-starred lovers, or Peking opera, consumed by lofty ideas such as loyalty and patriotism.

“Your apartment is noisier than my house, but somehow one feels calm here. One feels restless at my house, even though it is quiet there,” Madame Yan observed.

Wang Qiyao responded that there was calmness and restlessness everywhere. Uncle Maomao glanced at her and then let his eyes wander round the room. It was quite elegant, but somehow hinted at a hidden sorrow. The old embroidered bedspread with its lotus-leaf border suggested broken dreams, as did the large blossoms on the curtains. The heavy walnut chest of drawers must have been kept in memory of one thing or another. There was an unbearable sadness to those faded cushions on the sofa; they signified time slipping by like water through one’s fingers. He was aroused from this reverie by Wang Qiyao, who was handing him a bowl of sweet dumplings. The dumplings, homemade from fermented rice, were as dainty as pearls and free from even a single speck of impurity.

At seven o’clock on the day agreed upon for their mahjong party, Madame Yan arrived first, the mahjong set swathed in a blanket and cradled like a baby in her arms. Having been caressed by countless fingers, the tiles were truly as smooth and cool as white jade and made a delicious clicking sound when they struck against each other. When Uncle Maomao arrived with his friend, however, Wang Qiyao and Madame Yan became subdued; this was not only because he was a stranger, but also because of the reason for his coming. As Uncle Maomao bantered with him, he surprised the ladies with his fluent Mandarin. He was introduced as Sasha, which they thought sounded like a girl’s name. He looked somewhat like a girl too, with his fair skin, shapely chin, slender build, and light-colored student-style spectacles. Sasha was his twenties, his hair had a blond tint, and his eyes were bluish. They wondered where he had come from, almost forgetting why they had invited him over. The two men talked about everything except mahjong, and the ladies went along with the conversation.

Suddenly, Sasha stopped in the middle of what he was saying and, flashing a seductive smile, asked, “Shall we start?”

His abruptness stunned them, especially Madame Yan, who blushed, speechless, as though the police were already knocking at the door to arrest them for gambling. Sasha spread a blanket out over the table and, in one swift motion, dumped the tiles noiselessly down on the soft surface. They quickly took their seats and were soon playing as if they had known the game all their lives. As she listened to the mahjong tiles clicking, Madame Yan was near tears. Time seemed to have reversed itself. The only jarring note in the familiar situation was the stranger.

Maybe it was Sasha, or maybe it was because they were too tense: the game did not bring them the anticipated happiness. They spoke in lowered voices and played with solemn faces, as if performing obligatory duties of some sort, and failed to arrive even at the joviality they had enjoyed at cards. Before long, Uncle Maomao, who constantly needed to mediate between Madame Yan and Sasha, began to feel bored. Sasha alone was having a good time, making little jokes that ran counter to the prevailing dreary mood. His overly correct Mandarin was a little alienating, and his jokes struck them as overbearing, although this was offset somewhat by his good manners. At the same time, his fine manners, combined with his youthful gentleness, made them feel deferential, as if he was the real host at the table.

Wang Qiyao was annoyed when she noticed Uncle Maomao fawning over Sasha. She became indignant on his behalf and wished the game was over so that the guests would all go home. She had planned on making a fruit soup for a midnight snack but now had second thoughts. As for Madame Yan, fear gripped her almost as soon as she sat down to play, and her heart was in her mouth the entire time lest a patient show up for an injection, or Mr. Yan come looking for her. With her attention wandering, she didn’t win even a single round. Uncle Maomao had come with the intention of pleasing his cousin, but once it became clear that this was not about to happen, he lost interest. Sasha was way ahead in the game and the chips piled high in front of him. He acted as if they were all there to play with him , not the other way around. Eventually they completed the minimum sixteen rounds, whereupon Madame Yan claimed she had to go home, otherwise her husband might lose his temper at her staying away so long. Uncle Maomao was only too happy to leave. Relieved, Wang Qiyao only perfunctorily pressed them to stay longer. Sasha was incredulous that the game ended so quickly. Fortunately, the radio next door announced eleven o’clock and everyone commented on how late it was.

“It’s so easy to forget the time when you’re playing mahjong,” sighed Madame Yan, who did feel a tinge of regret when the game was finally over. Soon after she left, Uncle Maomao and Sasha also said goodnight. Wang Qiyao listened to the rattling sounds of their bicycle chains as they receded into the night, until silence once again reigned over the longtang.

The next time they saw Uncle Maomao, the ladies scolded him for bringing such a strange fellow into their midst. He appeared so different from them and there was virtually no common language between them; could he possibly be trusted? Uncle Maomao explained that Sasha was his bridge partner, and a very close friend. He was the son of a high official, who had been sent from Yan’an to Russia, and the Russian woman he married there. Didn’t they know that Sasha was a Russian name? His father died during the War and his mother returned to Russia, so Sasha had been raised by his grandmother in Shanghai. Due to ill health, he had never taken the college entrance examinations and never left home. Not only did this account of Sasha’s background fail to reassure the ladies, it actually made them even more apprehensive about him. This was a source of amusement to Uncle Maomao, who assured them they had nothing to worry about, even though he didn’t bother explaining why. In spite of their wariness, Uncle Maomao brought Sasha back to visit. Gradually, the ladies grew intrigued by him and began to let their guard down. They felt that knowing him somehow expanded their horizons, and Sasha’s Mandarin became yet another interesting thing about him. Once they had got over their initial prejudice, he really began to grow on them. He was a lively, easygoing fellow, eager to make friends despite his air of superiority. In short, with his knowledge of the game and his impeccable manners, he was the perfect mahjong partner.