Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

One day they fell to teasing Sasha again by telling him they had a girl they wanted to introduce him to. Sasha said he would have nobody — except Madame Yan’s daughter.

Madame Yan said she was too young, but he insisted that he would be willing to wait, even if it meant waiting until he was old and gray.

“You’ll have to address me as your mother-in-law then,” Madame Yan joked.

“It would be an honor to have you as my mother-in-law,” he retorted.

The others found this uproariously funny. The broth had spilled out of the clay pot, making a sizzling sound; the dumplings and meatballs were swirling in the broth as if they too were having the time of their lives. Then, suddenly turning serious, Sasha announced, “Now it’s my turn to fix someone up.”

When everyone asked who, he responded by pointing at Uncle Maomao. Laughing, the ladies asked Sasha who the intended partner was, but in their hearts they were a little uneasy, because they never knew what would come out of his mouth. When Sasha demurred, they mocked him.

“You’re going to be mad at me. .” he warned.

The others became agitated, even as the smiles remained on their faces and they continued to press him.

“You promise not to wring me out for what I say?” Sasha asked.

The smiles instantly froze on the faces of the three. They knew exactly what he was going to say.

“Of course we will,” said Wang Qiyao. “We don’t expect ivory to come out of a dog’s maw.”

“Miss Wang must already know who I have in mind,” observed Sasha, “otherwise she would not be so upset.”

Wang Qiyao was not prepared to be caught like this. Her face turned a bright red, and she could no longer take it lightly. She said, with some asperity, “Every time you open your mouth the most deplorable things come out. You must be looking for a tongue-lashing.”

“And what if what I say isn’t so bad?” Sasha challenged.

Feeling trapped, Wang Qiyao put down the porcelain ladle she was holding a bit too hard, and its handle broke in two on the edge of the clay pot. Now, no matter how much Sasha abased himself and how hard Uncle Maomao tried to control the damage, the amiable mood was shattered. They sat around uncomfortably and everyone went home before dark. The snow was melting on the ground, and muddy water ran between untidy mounds. Wang Qiyao accompanied her guests downstairs, but there was a forced joviality in their good-byes.

The day after next, Madame Yan had a private conversation with Uncle Maomao.

“It was silly of Wang Qiyao to make such a big deal out of Sasha’s jokes, making everyone uncomfortable,” she said.

Uncle Maomao, in an attempt to play the matter down, said, “She wasn’t really that upset; the ladle broke accidentally.”

“I am not referring to the ladle,” said Madame Yan. “Sasha was simply making a joke, I thought, but she took it too seriously.”

Having said this, she glared at her cousin. Clearly discomfited, Uncle Maomao feigned a smile. “You’re making too much of this. There’s really nothing to it.”

But Madame Yan retorted, “You’re a smart person and you know very well what I meant. This is the last time I’m going to say anything on the subject. With time heavy on our hands, it is fine to amuse ourselves with each other’s company — but don’t you get any ideas.”

Uncle Maomao gave a little laugh. “What kind of ideas could I possibly have in my situation?”

“Humph!” sniffed Madame Yan. “Well, perhaps you don’t, but there’s no telling just what’s going through her mind. .”

Uncle Maomao felt Madame Yan was not being fair to Wang Qiyao, but he was in no position to defend her, so he simply kept quiet. Seeing him fall silent, Madame Yan took it as a sign that he had accepted her advice.

She relaxed somewhat and said, “I’m responsible for you when you’re over here with me. How could I face your parents if something should happen?”

“I’m a grown man,” insisted Uncle Maomao. “What could possibly happen?”

Madame Yan jabbed his forehead with her fingertip. “If anything does, it will be too late!”

With that, they headed over to Wang Qiyao’s apartment. Sasha was already there, warming his white, slender hands over the stove as Wang Qiyao filled the Thermos with hot water. The four chatted casually as if nothing had happened. Particles of dust swirled in the air, illuminated by the column of light coming in from the window. Madame Yan and Uncle Maomao sat themselves down by the stove and the unpleasantness of the previous day was forgotten.

As the Lunar New Year approached, Wang Qiyao set a pair of millstones next to the stove for grinding glutinous rice. Sasha carefully ladled out the rice, swollen with an overnight soaking, into the mill along with an equal amount of water; Uncle Maomao turned the mill to grind the mixture. Meanwhile, Wang Qiyao pounded sesame seeds in the adjacent mortar. Madame Yan, in her capacity as supervisor of the entire operation, didn’t lift a finger. The aroma of sesame seeds was so tempting that they wished they could just munch on them. Sasha felt a keen sense of the happiness that comes from devoting meticulous care to the details of living. Granted that this happiness, the product of restricting one’s vision to one’s immediate surroundings, is akin to that of the proverbial frog at the bottom of a well, it is nevertheless a way of stretching one’s life out. Moved by this, Sasha, growing solemn, sought enlightenment from the ladies on various fine points of culinary art. They explained things to him patiently, as if he were a naughty child who has decided to reform himself, promising to make New Year’s cakes, deep-fried spring rolls, walnut cookies, and pine nut candies for him. Sasha wondered to himself whether there were enough days before the New Year to prepare all that food, and said aloud, sighing, “How true it is that ‘Each grain of rice comes with hard work’!”

“That’s only half the work,” Madame Yan chortled. “The other half goes into making clothing! But I don’t believe you would know anything about that.”

Once the subject of clothing was broached, Madame Yan and Wang Qiyao immediately launched into an excited discussion about fabrics and tailoring, conjuring up dancing images of gorgeous finery. Sasha was so taken with their exchange that he forgot what he was supposed to be doing, and Uncle Maomao was so dazzled that he didn’t even notice that he was grinding an empty millstone. What the ladies discussed was an entire world meticulously woven of needles and thread; how much care must go into creating a single magnificent outfit to adorn one’s body.

Madame Yan exclaimed, with infinite emotion in her voice, “Nothing is more important for a person than the clothes they wear; these demonstrate better than anything else a person’s spirit and taste.”

“What about food, then?” Sasha asked.

Madame Yan shook her head. “Food ends up on the inside, so it’s not as important as face, which is what announces you to the world. You rely on it for respect and credibility. One must, of course, live for oneself, but think about how dull life would be if there weren’t others to show off to every once in a while!”

At this, she grew sad and her voice dropped. Infected by her sadness, they labored on, but their buoyant enthusiasm had died. The noises they made now sounded hollow, the sesame seeds smelled pungent and greasy, and the paste from the stone mill started to look unappetizing; coal stains showed on the walls, and the air felt dry and dusty. Suddenly everything was musty, tainted, squalid; even the fire in the stove seemed drab.

Soon, however, the squalor was shrouded in darkness, which slipped through the window into the room like a thin but tepid liquid flowing over everything, enveloping space and objects, voices and breath, in a hazy membrane. Only the fire in the stove flared up to warm them with a sudden intensity. At this moment, all desires converged into a longing to nuzzle up to each other; nothing else seemed to matter. The firmament itself might collapse, the earth swallow them up, but what of that? Tomorrow ceased to matter and so did yesterday. As they stir-fried chestnuts in sugar, breathing in the delicious aroma, they exchanged heart-felt words, words carrying the warmth of what was deep inside, albeit only about the most superficial matters. Then, putting an iron pan on the stove, they roasted watermelon seeds, mixing in a few gingko nuts; the nuts gave off a bittersweet scent, a sharp scent compounded of many nameless odors, suggestive of some kind of rebuke, which they conveniently ignored. Putting aside all differences, they luxuriated in their tenderness and affection for each other; what else could they do besides be affectionate? Outside, it was cold and dark, and this only heightened the warmth within. They wished the snow would stay forever, because its melting would be a signal to extinguish the fire burning within their hearts.