Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

Pigeons, by contrast, never linger around the alleys; you will never find them perched on the balconies and windowsills or in the courtyards, trying to ingratiate themselves. They always rise high, the city rooftops at their feet. Flapping their wings as they soar through the sky, they carry with them an expression of disdain. Haughty, but they are not unfeeling — otherwise why would they brave the long flight home? They are humanity’s true friends, not the kind that stick around just to share the loot; their friendship is based on understanding, sympathy, compassion, and love. If you have seen that small red cloth tied to a bamboo stick fluttering in the wind at dusk — the beacon that brings the pigeons home — you would understand. The agreement implied in it is almost childlike. The pigeons have compassion enough for all the secrets they carry deep in their hearts, and their trustworthiness is equal to their compassion. Flocks of pigeons are the most sublime displays of comradeship in this city, and they also make for one of the most beautiful scenes in the Shanghai longtang . The rooftop coops people build to shelter them, just so they can see them off in the morning and welcome them back in the evening, represent the affection of the city’s inhabitants — a soft spot in this city’s heart.

Nothing in the city — its most obscure crimes and punishments, comedies and tragedies — can escape their eyes. When a flock of startled pigeons suddenly takes to the air and circles above the city, that is the moment crimes are being committed and punishments meted out, and comedies and tragedies are being enacted. At a hurried glance, they look like rain clouds forming abruptly in the sky, or spots in the sun. Ghastly scenes are being played out in the ravines of this concrete city. One sees them or not, as the case may be, but those scenes cannot escape the pigeons. The shock of these sights and sounds fills their eyes, which have a look of sadness too deep for tears. Under the sky, this concrete city, created from the maze of crisscrossing longtang, is like an abyss in which people struggle for survival like an army of ants. The dust, dancing through the air, becomes the lord of heaven and earth. Then there are those trivial sounds and noises that fill every corner of the city — they too are the lords of heaven and earth. Suddenly, a flock of pigeons slices through the air with their chill whistles, like the sound of splitting silk, the only wakeful sound in a drowsy universe nodding off to sleep.

Occasionally another group of flying objects will emerge from the city’s rooftops to keep the pigeons company — these are kites. They often get caught on the netlike electrical wires, sometimes breaking their wings from the impact, and end up dangling from the edges of the rooftops and electric poles, whence they stare helplessly at the flocks of pigeons. Kites are created in the image of pigeons, but in the end they cannot compare even with sparrows; even so, humanity invests them with all its naïve aspirations. The hands of children set them in flight, as do the hands of vagabonds, who are, after all, children who never grew up. String in hand, the children and vagabonds run with all their might, trying to send their kites up into the heavens. But, predictably, they meet an early demise on their way up. Only a sacred few actually make it up into the sky. What ecstasy when one finally weasels its way into a flock of pigeons and is able to soar with them!

On the day of the Tomb-Sweeping Festival, the tattered remains of kites whipped by wind and rain present the spectacle of a love suicide on the rooftops. Gradually they disintegrate into the dirt, giving sustenance to a few weak strands of green bristle grass. Sometimes, as kites are ascending, they will break free of their strings and slowly become a small black dot in the sky before disappearing. Theirs is a grand escape, backed by the resolution to die in a worthy cause.

Only pigeons are faithful to humans until death; they fly through the skies as if determined to bring comfort and solace to this city — this city like a dried-up ocean, where the buildings are ships stranded on a forest of coral reefs. How many people are suffering here! How could they simply abandon them and leave? In this godless city, pigeons are the closest thing to a god. But they are a god that no one believes in — they alone understand their sacred signs — all we know is that no matter how far away they may fly, they always brave the long flight home. Men seem to have an eternal soft spot for pigeons deep in their hearts, especially those people living in rooftop tingzijian , where pigeons bound for their own nests fly past their dormer windows. Although there are all kinds of temples and churches in this city, temples are temples, churches are churches — the people of this city belong to the alleys. Seen from above, people in the alleys look like little dots drifting on the billows; the pigeons’ whistles send their gentle warnings, day after day, night after night, eternally sounding out through the sky.

Presently, the sun sprays out over the unbroken expanse of rooftop tiles, bathing everything in golden light. The pigeons leave their nests, their wings showing white against the sky. The tall buildings resemble buoys floating on the ocean’s surface. The city becomes animated with movement and activity, building up into the quiet roar of the sea. The dust also begins to stir restlessly in a hazy cloud. Germs of events quickly brew into causes and conclusions; already intense feelings are running rampant. As densely packed windows and doors are opened and last night’s stale air rushes out and intermingles, the sunlight becomes turbid, the sky darkens, and the dance of the dust begins to slow. Something too tangled to unravel begins to grow in the air, choking off vitality and passion. The freshness of morning turns into a depressing gloom, inward excitement is quelled, but all those small beginnings keep on breeding all kinds of consequences — what you sow you shall reap. The sun in the sky traverses its usual path; light and shadow move slowly. All signs of stirring have settled, along with the dust, into their normal state, the way they do day after day, year after year. Every trace of romance has been silenced. The heavens hang high aloft and the clouds are pale as the last flock of pigeons disappears into the distance.

Wang Qiyao is the typical daughter of the Shanghai longtang . Every morning, when the back door squeaks open, that’s Wang Qiyao scurrying out with her book bag embroidered with flowers. In the afternoon, when the phonograph plays next door, that’s Wang Qiyao humming along with “Song of the Four Seasons.” Those girls rushing off to the theater, that’s a whole group of Wang Qiyaos going to see Vivien Leigh in Gone With the Wind . Running off to the photo studio is a pair of Wang Qiyaos, best friends on their way to have their portrait taken. Sitting in virtually every side room and tingzijian is a Wang Qiyao. In the dimly lit living room of every Wang Qiyao’s house there is almost always a set or two of mahogany furniture. The sun draws circles on the windowsill but refuses to come in. There is a three-mirrored vanity in her bedchamber. The powder of her rouge container always looks a bit damp and sticky in its jar, while the container of hair oil has dried up. The copper lock on her camphor chest shines from repeated opening and closing. Whether the radio is tuned to Suzhou pingtan storytelling, Shaoxing opera, or stock market updates, the reception is poor and the broadcast is always accompanied by a buzzing hiss. Wang Qiyao’s amah sometimes sleeps in the small triangular room under the stairs, which is just large enough for a bed. The amah has to do everything — her duties extend even to emptying out the dirty water after the mistress has washed her feet. The family orders the amah around as if they are trying to get every bit of their money’s worth out of her. Yet, busy as she is from morning until night, she still has time to go out and spread gossip about her employer — and carry on a clandestine affair with the neighbor’s chauffeur.