Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

“Just like pulling a tooth,” she added teasingly.

But Sasha would not hear of it. Wang Qiyao lied to him, saying that her mother would go with her. Although he doubted that she would actually ask her mother, he turned a blind eye and pretended to believe her. Before he left, he forced her to accept ten yuan to buy something nutritious after the operation. Wang Qiyao took the money but later sneaked twenty back into his pocket. She heard the sound of his footsteps going down the stairs and out the back door, gradually growing ever more distant. She sat transfixed, her mind emptied of all thoughts, as the colors of dusk slowly slipped in through the window, engulfing her like a cloud of dark mist.

That was a night of utter stillness. Everything seemed to be the way it was before — no Sasha, no Kang Mingxun, not even Madame Yan. Wang Qiyao took in even the minutest sounds of Peace Lane: footsteps on loose floorboards, doors being shut, parents hollering at their children, even the whoosh of running faucets. Her gaze settled on the potted oleander plant on the balcony opposite, bathed in cold moonlight. She could almost see the gentle hand that tended the plant. In contrast, the sound of water rushing down the pipes had a preemptory air, as though lodging a protest on behalf of Peace Lane. Even though the patch of sky above Peace Lane was narrow and crooked, it remained, far, far away. On clear nights the silhouettes of the buildings stood against the sky like a paper cutout. The buildings might conceal the moon and stars, but they could not prevent their light from shining through, nor could they block out the warmth and cold. Good: it meant that the seasons were still on schedule and people’s lives went on as usual.

Wang Qiyao opened a packet of longan fruit and started shelling them. No patients came on that tranquil night; only the old man from around the corner came around, warning people to mind their kitchen fires, a well-intentioned message coming from an experienced voice. Wang Qiyao had filled a bowl with succulent longan meat, leaving the shells in a heap on the table. The large flowers on the window curtains, somewhat faded, were still distinct. The mice soon kicked off their nocturnal activities, squeaking merrily along. Cockroaches, masters of the night, began scurrying about out of human sight, coming on shift even as people went off to bed. A myriad insects were astir, drawing the sparrows’ attention.

The following day was humid and warm, with a drizzling rain. Wang Qiyao took an umbrella with her. On her way out she looked back at her apartment, wondering if she would be back in time for lunch. When she got downstairs, the unrelenting rain was creating eddies alongside the curb. The seat in the pedicab that she hailed at the entrance to the lane was damp, even though it was shielded by oilcloth curtains hanging down from the canopy. She felt chilly as little raindrops came through and splashed on her face. Through the slits in the curtains she could see the stark branches of parasol trees brushing against the gray sky. She thought of Kang Mingxun — the father of the child she was carrying. It was at this moment that she realized that the “problem” growing in her belly was a child — but that child would soon be gone. Her back broke out in a cold sweat and her heart was racing. In her confusion, she suddenly began to wonder what it was that dictated that this child be removed from the world. Her face was now drenched; the raindrops were deafening as they titter-tattered down on the canopy. I will be left with nothing — not even my baby .

Without her realizing, tears ran down her cheeks. Her knees were knocking together. Never in her life had she felt so anxious. One of the most important decisions in her life would be settled in an instant. Her eyes became fixed on a minuscule hole in the oilcloth: the material was about to tear, but for now it was still held together by a thin web of filaments, through which light leaked in. What could this hole mean ? she wondered. Looking through where the oilcloth curtains met the canopy, she saw another slash of the vast gray sky. She was thirty years old, with nothing to show for all that time; she wondered what there would be to look forward to in the next thirty years. This was real despair, but lurking in the depths of this despair was a glimmer of hope.

The pedicab had stopped outside the main hospital entrance. Shivering behind its curtains, the palms of her hands covered in sweat, she gazed blankly at the throng of people coming and going; she seemed to be standing at the edge of a cliff. The rain came down harder; everyone put up an umbrella. Lifting the curtains, the pedicab driver peered at her with curious eyes. This mute gesture of impatience goaded her to decisive action. Her mind was still muddled, and the driver, his face awash with rainwater and sweat, seemed to be looking at her from far away. She heard herself saying, “I forgot something. Take me home.”

Down came the curtain. The pedicab turned around and moved forward with the wind behind it. The rain no longer blew in her face and her mind cleared up. Sasha, you were right , she said to herself. Going it alone is never a good thing.

On reaching her apartment, she pushed open the door and found everything exactly the way she had left it. It was only nine o’clock in the morning. She sat by the table, struck a match, ignited the alcohol burner, and placed the box of needles on it. Soon she heard the sound of water boiling. She glanced again at the clock. It was only ten past nine — time enough to return to the hospital. Wasn’t this what she had been working toward for the past few weeks? Were it not for her sudden caprice, her objective would have been achieved and she would have been on her way back in a pedicab. She listened to the ticktock of the clock, and realized that it would be too late if she didn’t leave immediately. As she blew out the burner, the alcohol fumes assaulted her face. Just at this moment someone knocked on the door, asking for an intravenous injection. She opened up the box of needles, but was so preoccupied with the thought of getting back to the hospital that she couldn’t locate a vein; each time she poked in the wrong spot, the patient cried out in pain. Forcing herself to calm down, she finally found a vein. As soon as the needle met blood, she was able to pull herself together; as the medicine slowly dripped into the vein, she began to relax.

The patient finally left, holding a wad of cotton to his arm. As Wang Qiyao picked up the used cotton balls and needles, however, her agitation gave way to unspeakable weariness and lassitude. She gave herself up to fate, assuming an attitude of complete resignation. Since there was nothing she could do, she might as well do nothing. Before she knew it, it was already lunchtime. She went into the kitchen and saw the pot of chicken soup she had made the previous night, cold now, a film of fat on the surface. She put the pot on the burner and made rice while she watched the raindrops pelting against the window panes. She told herself she would simply lay it all on poor Sasha: whether she decided to keep the baby or not, it would go down as having been his child. If Sasha was willing to help her, then let him help her all the way! As the aroma of the chicken soup reached her nose, a hope rose up in her — things would eventually work themselves out. It was a hope that spoke all at once of complete surrender and a willingness to put everything on the line.

At that very moment Sasha was sitting on a northbound train, smoking one cigarette after another. He had never met this aunt; in fact, he had only heard of her for the first time a few days ago. His own mother was a stranger to him, how much the more this aunt! Sasha was going to see her because he wanted to explore the possibility of moving to Russia. He was tired of his current lifestyle and wanted a new beginning. He figured that being a half-breed had at least this one advantage — one had a place to escape to. You could call it escape or, if you prefer, exile, but the point is that, whichever way you looked at it, he had the option of disappearing. . of leaving everything behind.