Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

They would sit by the table, silently watching the blue flame of the alcohol burner with a mix of joy and sadness. From time to time, people with infants needing shots would come knocking. Wang Qiyao would hold the child sprawled on her lap, with the parent standing by to keep it still, while Kang Mingxun, with a foolish smile on his face, dangled a toy to distract it from crying. Each time they conjured a touching scene that was both comical and tender, in this way retrieving what other people carelessly tossed away. They spent countless hours picking edible malantou by the stream, gently placing the large leaves in one pile and the young ones in another pile — the care they took was emblematic of the warmth they invested in these fragments of love. Though their efforts did not add up to much, still they were honest efforts. For two people who habitually weighed every move from the standpoint of self-interest, an affair that ran contrary to their interests offered a momentary respite and a lesson in true love.

The days passed, with no hint of when the “future” might arrive. It only seemed more distant with every step they took, so that it felt as if they would never get there. This interlude lasted a long time and, if it weren’t for what then happened, they would have thought they could go on like that forever, always pushing the future far, far away, into a dark corner where it would never be seen and not bother them. What happened, however, was a signpost of the future — Wang Qiyao became pregnant.

At first they refused to believe it was true. After it was confirmed, they felt utterly helpless. Afraid to discuss the matter at home lest the neighbors overhear them, they put on gauze masks and went for a walk in the park, where they kept looking over their shoulders apprehensively. The winter trees were bare, a thin layer of ice had formed on the lake, the grass had withered, and the sun shone weakly from behind the clouds. Walking in circles on the grass, they saw no escape from their predicament. The skin lay taut on their faces and their hair was parched from the dry air; they felt they had come to the end of their road. As soon as they left the park behind, they went their separate ways, keeping their eyes straight ahead. The raucous noises of the city hung over them like rain clouds, and they soon lost sight of each other.

The next day they resumed their conversation at a park further away, where the scenery was equally bleak and there were few visitors, and the sparrows hopping on the yellow grass seemed to be the only signs of life. The light of the sun as it shifted gradually through the bare trees reminded them that they could not afford to procrastinate. Their hearts were crushed with anxiety. Still, no solution presented itself, and they fell to bickering. Wang Qiyao, suffering from morning sickness, was cantankerous from the start. Kang Mingxun, who had to stifle his own agitation to soothe her with words he did not mean, felt his situation becoming insupportably awkward. He soon reached his breaking point and exploded in anger. They feuded as they walked down a cement-paved lane, at first in smothered whispers, but soon forgot themselves and raised their voices. Under the empty winter sky, however, their shouts were as feeble as whispers, blown away in the wind. Flocks of birds rose like grains of sand wafted aloft. The two were desperate but not nearly desperate enough — they still clung to the hope that some miracle would befall them. They shared a powerful urge to survive, like weeds sprouting between cracks in the pavement — abusing each other was proof that they had not completely given in and were struggling still. Both had lost weight; they looked pale, and Wang Qiyao’s face was all broken out.

After this initial period of agony, they fell into a stupor during which they stopped going to the park and ceased all discussion. Wang Qiyao would sit under her comforter with a hot water bottle to keep her warm, while Kang Mingxun sat on the sofa wrapped in a woolen blanket. They resembled brooding hens, yearning wistfully for the danger to hatch into something else. When the sunlight reached the wall opposite the sofa, Kang Mingxun would use his hands to make shadows of animal figures — a goose, a dog, a rabbit, a mouse — as Wang Qiyao watched from her bed. By the time the light moved away, the show was over and it would be dusk.

Kang Mingxun now did the cooking. He had never touched a frying pan before, but he turned out to be a superb chef. He found he could push his anxieties aside by focusing on culinary techniques. With Wang Qiyao’s flowery apron around his waist and a pair of protective sleeves over his shirt, he brought the meal to Wang Qiyao’s bedside, his hair mussed up, his forehead oily and perspiring, his eyes aglow with excitement. Tears rolled down her cheeks and into her bowl as she ate. Kang Mingxun watched helplessly on one side, looking very much like a waiter on duty. Soon he too became teary. They could no longer put it off: a decision had to be made. Wang Qiyao said she was going to get herself examined at a hospital the following day. Kang Mingxun offered to go with her, but she declined. She had no way out, she said, but there was no reason why he should be dragged down along with her; this was the direction her life had been taking, whereas Kang Mingxun had other duties to fulfill.

She caressed his hair and, smiling through her tears, said, “While the mountain remains, we shan’t lack firewood.”

She realized at this moment that she truly loved this man and was willing to do anything for him.

“Who will you say is the father?” Kang Mingxun asked.

Wang Qiyao conceded that this was a sticky point. Even if she did not say, others would guess. As discreet as they had been, they were together a great deal, and Kang Mingxun would be the prime suspect. Even if it escaped other people’s notice, Madame Yan would certainly know. But then an idea suddenly came to her. She thought of someone else. . Sasha.

Sasha was a half-breed child of the revolution — a product of the Comintern. He was by right one of the city’s new masters, but his heart had no home here. Everywhere he went, he was treated like a foreigner, which always left him confused about who he really was. This city had many people of mixed blood, born largely of fortuitous circumstances — they were the accidents of history. Their half-breed faces betrayed their uncertain fate, a fate that capriciously brings people together and tears them apart. These people spoke in hybrid languages and all looked a bit eccentric, the result perhaps of warring bloodlines, or perhaps of conflicting lifestyles. Their unconventional and rambunctious behavior, charming while they were children, became disagreeable in adulthood. Their unusual appearance made them stand out in the crowd, marking them as loners. One turned upon them the eyes of impudent curiosity. They, for their own part, saw themselves as temporary residents of the city, and that feeling of transience often hung on for a lifetime. They seldom made long-term plans, living one day at a time and never saving for the future. What was there for them to save anyway? Their possessions were not theirs to keep. Some half-breeds disappeared inexplicably without a trace; others put down roots and learned the local dialect; a few joined the underworld and led a life in the streets, in this way helping to lend an air of dark mystery to the city.

Sasha’s cockiness in proclaiming himself an heir of the revolution was merely a pose — he needed to compensate for his vulnerability and his inner sense of vacuity — it was a laughable attempt to embolden himself. With neither mother nor father, nor any livelihood, he buzzed around all day long like a headless fly, an ingratiating smile on his face, constantly seeking acceptance. Yet he resented the role that fate had assigned him, and was ever on the lookout for opportunities to get even. He was at bottom amoral and unprincipled, always taking the easy way out for himself, which sometimes worked out to the convenience of others.