Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

When couples who lived on Peace Lane got into squabbles over everyday things, one could often hear the wife protest, “I might just as well go off and live like that woman Wang Qiyao over in no. 39!”

Whereupon the husband would sneer: “Really? Have you got what it takes?”

That would always shut the wife up.

But sometimes it would be the husband who would instigate things. “Take a look at yourself in the mirror! And then go look at Wang Qiyao in no. 39!”

“Can you afford someone like her?” the wife would retort. “If you can, I’ll gladly step into the role!”

That would be enough to silence the husband. It was thus evident that in their hearts Wang Qiyao was viewed by her neighbors not with contempt, but with a smidgen of envy. Once Mr. Cheng began coming around, the aroma of food wafting out of Wang Qiyao’s kitchen had become most enticing. People would exclaim as they inhaled, “They are having meat again over at Wang Qiyao’s.”

Wang Qiyao went to bed early each night, but Mr. Cheng would still be at the table going over their food expenses and planning their meals for the following day. Even though they had just eaten dinner, they would already be going over all the mouth-watering details of what they would have the next morning for breakfast. They talked into the night, as cats in heat began to yowl and Wang Qiyao to nod off. Mr. Cheng would get up from his chair to make sure that all the windows were locked before closing the curtains, tidying up, and turning off the lights…. Then he would exit quietly, setting the spring lock and carefully closing the door behind him.

Mr. Cheng never spent the night at Wang Qiyao’s. The idea had crossed Wang Qiyao’s mind, but she never discussed it with him, afraid Mr. Cheng might be put off by the fact that she was pregnant with another man’s baby. But deep down she had already decided that if ever Mr. Cheng broached the question, she certainly would not rebuff him — not because she loved or desired him, but out of gratitude. Twelve years ago she had designated him as her last resort, someone she could always count on. She did not know then how rare and valuable this “last resort” would turn out to be. Her sights had been set on the future, and she never thought she would need to step back. Though not exactly in full retreat at present, she could no longer talk of advancing and was in fact close to having to make use of this “last resort.” These days, spending mornings and evenings together with him, she discovered that Mr. Cheng had barely changed — but she was now a different person. It would have been easier on her if he had changed a bit. It was precisely because he had not changed that she felt guilty — as if she had somehow betrayed him by returning to him a fallen woman, while his integrity had remained intact. With this sense of guilt came a new reticence. She believed she had forfeited all her rights, leaving only gratitude in their place. But Mr. Cheng never broached the question, and no matter how late it was, he always went home. There were several occasions when, half-asleep, she sensed him hovering by her bedside. Her heart palpitated, and she thought that he might stay. But after a few minutes, he would always leave. Each time she heard the door closing softly, she would be struck with a combination of disappointment and relief.

Now and then their conversations turned to old friends such as Jiang Lili. Mr. Cheng still had some news about Jiang Lili these days from that film director friend of his. At the mention of the director, Wang Qiyao was transported to another world, and scenes from her confused past emerged out of the recesses of her memory.

“How does the director know Jiang Lili?” she asked.

Mr. Cheng explained that in an effort to locate him, Jiang Lili had contacted Wu Peizhen, who had put her in touch with the director. Wu Peizhen, of course, was another name that brought back a torrent of memories. Mr. Cheng said the director now held a deputy position at the Department of Film — none of them had known it at the time, but he had been a long-standing Communist Party member. It was under his influence that Jiang Lili had joined the revolution. When Shanghai was being liberated, Mr. Cheng had personally witnessed Jiang Lili waving her baton at the head of a parade of girls beating on drums as they marched past. He could scarcely recognize her in that military uniform. She still had glasses, her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and she was wearing a leather belt. She could have stayed in college and received her diploma in another two years, but she had decided instead to work in a yarn factory as a common laborer. Being educated and exuding revolutionary zeal, she was singled out to serve as a union officer and before long was married to the factory’s military representative. Her husband was a native of Shandong province and had originally come south to Shanghai with the troops. They now lived in a new commune in Dayangpu with their three children.

On hearing the story, Wang Qiyao exclaimed, “Even in my wildest dreams I would have never imagined that Jiang Lili would one day become a cadre! Isn’t that wonderful!”

Mr. Cheng agreed that it was wonderful, even though neither really believed their own words; the story simply sounded too much like a legend — something just didn’t ring true.

After a pause, Wang Qiyao went back to the previous topic. “So, the director was a Communist all along! Back when I ran for Miss Shanghai, he took me out to dinner and tried to persuade me to withdraw. I wonder if he was following orders from above? Who knows, maybe if I had listened to him, it would have been me joining the revolution instead of Jiang Lili!”

They both laughed.

Wang Qiyao and Mr. Cheng considered paying a visit to Jiang Lili, but they wavered, uncertain whether — under the circumstances — they were still fit to be her friends. Like most Shanghai residents who had lived through such sweeping historical changes, they regarded the Communist Party as unapproachable, and saw themselves as people left over from a previous era. Moreover, living in the heart of society, caught up in the swirl of everyday life, they barely had a chance to develop a coherent opinion of themselves, let alone grand concepts like “the nation” or “political power.” They are not to be faulted for their narrow frame of reference, because a large city is like a huge machine that turns according to the principles dictated by its own structure; only its tiniest components have a human texture, and it is these tiny components that people hold onto, otherwise they would fall into the vacuum of abstraction. The residents of Shanghai hewed to the little things of life, which left them stranded on the margins when it came to politics. If you told them that the Communist government belongs to the people, they would still keep their distance, due to modesty as well an overweening pride — deep down they still believed that they were the true masters of the city. Wang Qiyao and Mr. Cheng were all too conscious of the fact that they did not belong to the same class of people as Jiang Lili. The only reason they came up with the crazy idea of paying her a visit was because of their former entanglement. If not for that, they would have never even dreamed of calling on someone like her.

Wang Qiyao’s reunion with Mr. Cheng was also a reunion with her past. When she reflected back on her youth, revisiting past experiences, she wondered whether it had all been a dream. Who can really tell the past from the present ? As she grew heavier and her feet swelled up, she gave in to laziness and ended up sitting around most of the day. Her mind would wander as she sat knitting a wool outfit for the baby with material taken from an old sweater. The yarn came in different lengths, and she had to connect them as she knitted. Progress was painfully slow. Every day, Mr. Cheng would be overwhelmed with work at the office and chores around the house, and it was only after dinner, around eight o’clock, that he would finally get a chance to sit down. By then Wang Qiyao would be so exhausted that she could barely keep her eyes open or get a complete sentence out of her mouth without slurring the words. Mr. Cheng, watching from the other end of the sofa, was infected by her lethargy and they would nod off together until the evening chill snapped them out of their slumber. Mr. Cheng might awaken with a shiver but Wang Qiyao would remain still. She would wait for him to make her bed and help her get in, whereupon she would get half undressed and burrow under the covers. As always, Mr. Cheng would go on to make sure all the doors and windows were locked before he turned off the lights and quietly closed the door behind him.