Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

Leaving the building, Jiang Lili and Mr. Cheng got on the trolley and rode in silence, listening to the clanking bell. The sound seemed to conquer time and space, remaining constant in the midst of a world in constant flux. Likewise, the trolley tracks were like time tunnels that never moved no matter how many roads they traversed. The three o’clock sunshine had a familiar glow — it was difficult to say whether it belonged to the past, the present, or the future — for thousands of years it had remained unchanged, so it certainly was not going to be fazed by a few decades of human vicissitudes. They got off the trolley, crossed two intersections, and arrived at Peace Lane. There light and sound came in bits and pieces, jumbled together like fabric remnants haphazardly snipped off from the outside world. As they walked silently down the longtang, windows rattled and drops of water from the laundry hanging out overhead dripped down onto their necks.

Arriving at Wang Qiyao’s back door, Mr. Cheng reached into his pocket and took out a key. Focusing on that key, Jiang Lili’s eyes suddenly took on a piercing gleam, but when Mr. Cheng noticed her expression, she quickly looked away. Embarrassed, he wanted to explain, but Jiang Lili stepped briskly ahead of him and went inside. Upstairs, Wang Qiyao was awake but still resting in bed. Inside the darkened room, Wang Qiyao did not immediately recognize Jiang Lili. By the time she did, Jiang Lili was already standing in front of her, looking down at her. Their faces were close — almost touching — their eyes met and each held the other’s gaze. It was only for a split second, but all of the sights and sounds they had experienced during all those years apart seemed to pass through their eyes. Wang Qiyao sat up in bed and called out, “Jiang Lili!”

Jiang Lili caught sight of her protruding belly under the blanket and the piercing gleam returned. Wang Qiyao drew back instinctively, but this only emphasized her condition. Jiang Lili blushed; staggering backward, she took a seat on the sofa. She turned to face the window, but didn’t utter a word. The threesome had parted under awkward circumstances; they were united again under equally awkward circumstances — fate was not done collecting its debts, it seemed. The light on the curtains shifted, the noises filtering in through the window became quieter, more intermittent, and Jiang Lili announced she had to leave. They made no attempt to detain her, partly because they felt ashamed, but also afraid of being spurned. Mr. Cheng saw her out before going back upstairs. The two avoided eye contact — they both knew that Jiang Lili had gotten the wrong idea about their relationship, but were actually rather pleased with the misunderstanding.

That evening they sat across the table from one another, shelling walnuts. Shanghai opera came in erratic bursts from the radio next door. They were perfectly calm. No longer did they demand anything of life other than what they presently enjoyed. Perhaps it was not all that they wanted, but they had learned to be content with what they had. One cracked open the shells while the other removed the nuts; they ate all the broken pieces, saving the whole ones for later. That was one of the rare nights that Wang Qiyao didn’t feel drowsy and her back was not sore as it had been. Mr. Cheng brought her a pillow to lean against.

“When is the baby due?” he asked.

Wang Qiyao counted on her fingers. It was going to be sometime in the next ten days. Mr. Cheng couldn’t help feeling anxious; in the end, it was up to Wang Qiyao to put him at ease.

“Childbirth is the most natural thing in the world — just look at all the people out there walking the streets.”

“I’m worried that you might be alone when the baby comes and won’t have anyone to help you get to the hospital.”

“Childbirth doesn’t happen instantaneously,” Wang Qiyao explained. “The process takes at least half a day.”

Mr. Cheng was somewhat relieved at this, especially seeing how calm she looked.

After a pause, he mused, “I wonder whether it’s a boy or a girl.”

“I hope it is a boy,” she said.

“Why?”

“A woman has so little control over her fate. . ”

They fell silent. This was the first time they had discussed the unborn child, a taboo subject they had both tried to avoid. Now that they had broached this once-forbidden subject it felt like a hurdle had been overcome. A new intimacy arose between them and they suddenly felt closer. It was ten o’clock by the time they finished shelling all the walnuts. Wang Qiyao waited as Mr. Cheng descended the stairs; only after she heard the downstairs door close did she go around to make sure the doors and windows were locked. Then she washed and went to bed.

ONE DAY MR. CHENG went to Wang Qiyao’s after work to find her pale and flustered, lying down every so often and then getting up to pace around. She even knocked over a glass, which shattered on the floor, but didn’t bother to pick up the pieces. Mr. Cheng hurried out to call a pedicab, came back in to help her downstairs, and then rushed them off to the hospital. Having arrived at the hospital, she seemed to improve, and Mr. Cheng went out to get something for their dinner. By the time he got back, Wang Qiyao had already been taken into the delivery room. It was a baby girl. She was born at eight o’clock. They told Mr. Cheng that she had long arms and legs and a full head of black hair. This set him wondering, Just who does she look like? When, three days later, he brought mother and daughter home from the hospital, the threesome attracted quite a few curious stares down the longtang.

Mr. Cheng had fetched Wang Qiyao’s mother the day before, setting up a place for her on the sofa, and even going to the trouble of preparing a set of toiletries. Mrs. Wang was silent the whole time, but, as Mr. Cheng busied himself with the household chores, she blurted out, “If only you had been the child’s father. .”

Mr. Cheng trembled and almost lost hold of the things in his hands. He wanted to say something but his throat had closed up. By the time he was able to speak, he had forgotten what to say. So he simply pretended that he had not heard. When Wang Qiyao came home the next day, her mother had already prepared a pot of chicken broth and the customary bowl of soup with red jujube and longan, which was supposed to be so nourishing for new mothers. She handed the bowl to her daughter in silence. She did not bother to even look at her granddaughter; it was as if the child did not exist. Neighbors began to call on them, but they were only the most casual of acquaintances — the only contact they normally had with Wang Qiyao was waving hello as she went in and out of the longtang ; now they came out of curiosity. Each one went on about how much the baby looked like Wang Qiyao, all the while wondering who the father was.

Going into the kitchen to fetch the hot water Thermos, Mr. Cheng found Mrs. Wang standing in front of the window, looking out at the overcast sky and quietly wiping away the tears. Mr. Cheng had always thought her a calculating woman. Back when he used to call on Wang Qiyao, she would never even bother to greet him but always sent the maid down to talk to him at the door instead. Now, he sensed, she was much closer to him, perhaps more understanding and sympathetic even than her daughter.

He stood behind her for a moment before offering a timid attempt at consolation. “Don’t worry, Auntie. I’ll take care of her.”

With those words he could feel the tears welling up and hastened back into the room with the hot water thermos.

The next day Madame Yan, who had not visited for ages, came to see Wang Qiyao. She had long heard of the pregnancy from her servant Mama Zhang, who had seen Wang Qiyao coming and going with that protruding belly of hers; Wang Qiyao obviously wasn’t worried about the rumors her pregnancy might stir up. Kang Mingxun and Sasha had by this time long vanished from the scene, one hiding out at home while the other fled far away. Then, out of nowhere, appeared this Mr. Cheng, who suddenly started coming by at least three times a day. Although Madame Yan wasn’t exactly sure what had transpired, she wasn’t in the least bit taken off guard; in fact, she fancied herself one imbued with keen insights into the situation of women like Wang Qiyao. Still, she was intrigued by Mr. Cheng. She could tell from the fine quality of the old suit he wore that this Mr. Cheng had been a stylish man back in the old days. She took him to be some kind of playboy whom Wang Qiyao must have known back in her dance hall days. Madame Yan imagined all kinds of things about Mr. Cheng. She had run into him a few times in the alley: he was always on his way to Wang Qiyao’s with snacks like “stinky tofu,” and would always rush briskly past lest the food get cold. The grease from the tofu had already soaked the bottom of the bag and was about to drip through. Madame Yan was touched, even somewhat jealous of Wang Qiyao for having such a devoted friend.