Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

Eventually Sasha wound up not only coming to play mahjong at night, but he even joined them in the afternoons when they weren’t playing. Their gathering place shifted from the Yan townhouse to Wang Qiyao’s place, partly for the convenience of her patients and partly because everyone felt more comfortable there. The sumptuousness of the Yan household made them self-conscious; even Madame Yan preferred Wang Qiyao’s place to her own. They came to expect Sasha and would ask after him if he failed to appear.

The four had plenty to do to amuse themselves even when they weren’t playing mahjong. The blue flame burning all day on the alcohol burner seemed like a dancing spirit. Wang Qiyao always had some simple but scrumptious refreshments for them — whether Western cakes or Chinese dumplings — unless Madame Yan had left instructions ahead of time for Mama Zhang to buy something from Qiaojiazha or Wangjiasha. Uncle Maomao was put in charge of tea and coffee. This became a way of life. Initially, refreshments were prepared for the gatherings, but now they gathered for the refreshments. Sasha always came empty-handed and left with his belly full, but the others didn’t seem to mind. However, one day when he did not show up, the others, assuming that he had been detained at the last minute, started in on the tea and conversation without him. At dusk, just as they were getting ready to wrap it up for the night, they heard footsteps coming from the stairway. Sasha appeared, panting and covered with sweat. He had a bundle wrapped in newspaper, which he opened up to reveal a large loaf of round bread with a crispy crust, still hot and aromatic, obviously fresh out of the oven. Still out of breath, Sasha explained that he had had a Russian friend bake this loaf of Russian bread for them, hoping it would be ready for their afternoon tea, but the process had turned out to be more complicated than they thought. He was like a little boy in his naïve enthusiasm and they were deeply moved. From that day on they looked on him as one of their own, and afternoon tea became a routine that took place at least once or twice a week.

Wang Qiyao straightened up her apartment on these occasions. She would put away the feminine articles that she had always had on the table and set out some snacks, such as hawthorn slices or dried mangoes. Before the guests arrived, she laid the table with the gold- trimmed cups and saucers that she had bought especially for these gatherings. The refreshments for the next gathering were a matter of collective discussion, but since it was always held at her place, more often than not she ended up being the provider. She didn’t mind the extra expense, but she did appreciate the dried longans, red dates, and lotus plumules that Uncle Maomao frequently brought along in addition to the tea and coffee for which he was responsible. Wang Qiyao was pleasantly surprised that he had noticed how much energy she put into their gatherings, and was moved by his thoughtfulness. Sasha, on the other hand, did not seem to feel the need to contribute anything more than that one loaf of bread.

After a while, Madame Yan got tired of sending Mama Zhang out to buy refreshments and suggested that they share the food bill equally. Wang Qiyao, however, would not hear of it, saying that this would turn their casual get-togethers into something much too formal. Uncle Maomao came up with a better idea: that they keep track of their mahjong winnings and put them in a common pool for refreshments. This had the added benefit of making the games more exciting. Madame Yan and Sasha were in favor, and Wang Qiyao did not resist, lest Uncle Maomao’s good intentions go to waste. So it was settled. From then on a few dollars were handed over to Wang Qiyao after every mahjong game. Wang Qiyao took her responsibility seriously, carefully marking down in a notebook the dates of proceeds and expenses and where the money went — not that she thought anybody would check the accounts, but more for her own peace of mind. Now officially in charge, she tried hard to think of new delights to serve her friends. When she ran out of ideas, she would consult Uncle Maomao, who not only happily offered opinions, but volunteered to make the purchases. Madame Yan and Sasha had only to bring their mouths to eat, drink, and talk.

Some time after Sasha had presented the loaf of bread, he brought the Russian woman who had baked it to meet them. She came in a checked woolen coat and short boots trimmed with fur. Her hair was combed back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Tall and stately, with blue eyes and fair skin, she looked like a movie star stepping out from the screen. In the presence of this dazzling prodigy, Wang Qiyao’s apartment appeared small and dark, and Sasha, around whose shoulders she had draped her arm, looked like he could be her son. As Sasha looked at her, his eyes took on a salacious gleam that resembled a cat’s. She gazed back at him in fascination. Sasha helped her off with her coat, revealing, under a tight sweater, breasts that stood out like two small mountains. It was only after she and Sasha sat down close together, side by side, that they noticed the pores on her face and the wrinkles and blemishes on her neck. She spoke Mandarin with a heavy accent, using expressions that they found hilarious. Every time they laughed at something she said, Sasha’s eyes would scan their faces with a complacent expression. She addressed Wang Qiyao and Madame Yan alike as “young lady,” which made the two women blush and giggle. Her appetite was huge: she drank cup after cup of tea with sugar, ate bowl after bowl of osmanthus-flavored red bean porridge, and helped herself to large quantities of sesame candies and mandarin orange cookies from the table.

The pores on her face reddened, her eyes began to shine, and she became loquacious, putting on droll expressions that made them laugh even more. The more they laughed, the more she exerted herself, till everyone was almost on the point of hysteria. When, finally, she decided to entertain them with a dance, they were in positive transports of glee. Crashing into the table and chairs, she shimmied toward Sasha, who had been clapping to keep time, and embraced him passionately as if they were alone. It was all the others could do to avert their eyes as they tittered. Come nightfall, she was still glued to her chair, picking at the crumbs of sesame candies from the plate and licking her fingertips with a famished glint in her eyes, and seemed to have no intention of leaving. Sasha had the good sense to take her home. As they tottered down stairs, hugging each other, her raucous laughter could be heard reverberating throughout the longtang. Behind her she left an apartment in disarray, spilled tea and food stains on the tablecloth, and three people sitting in a stupor on the sofa, too exhausted even to turn on the light.

This, however, was not their typical tea party. Mostly they talked quietly as the afternoon sun shifted and the light grew softer. When they were not talking, they would look at each other meaningfully, as if they had a great deal more to say. Wang Qiyao did not bother to make dinner after the guests departed, instead just heating up whatever leftovers were on the table. Her apartment appeared especially quiet and empty after these gatherings, and she felt more restless than usual. At such times everything seemed pointless and she could not summon enough energy to do anything. Sleepless, her mind would be filled with countless things, and even the moonlight was irritating. She wished that someone would show up for an injection. Sometimes she would rise from bed and light the alcohol burner, just for the sake of having something to do; at other times she would try some needlework but then quickly lose interest, oblivious even when the ball of yarn rolled beneath the sofa. She might pick up the evening newspapers and blankly read through them without really taking anything in; or perhaps she would sit before the mirror brushing her hair, not knowing who the person staring back at her was. Her thoughts, incoherent, seemed to come from nowhere. She flipped a coin on the table, forgetting what she wanted to predict and which side she favored; playing solitaire, she forgot which cards should be moved onto which.