Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

Wang Qiyao always waited until Jiang Lili was at the end of her rope before intervening. Once Wang Qiyao took over, the child would quiet down in an instant.

“Didn’t you learn anything after giving birth to those three boys of yours?” Wang Qiyao teased.

“I may have given birth to them, but this is the first time I’ve actually held a baby in my arms.”

Wang Qiyao’s heart went out to her. “Here, take her as your daughter!”

But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she started to worry that she might have offended Jiang Lili, so she quickly added, “I’m just afraid that she hasn’t the good fortune to be raised by someone who would be as good to her as you.”

But Jiang Lili wasn’t in the least bit offended. “Actually, if we were Christian I could be her godmother. . ”

“And Mr. Cheng could be her godfather. .” Wang Qiyao blurted out.

The blood rushed to Jiang Lili’s face. Wang Qiyao thought she had offended her at last, but to her surprise the redness gradually faded from Jiang Lili’s face and she suddenly smiled. Then, in a tone that was both sardonic and somewhat melancholy, she asked, “And what if Mr. Cheng really wants to be this baby’s father?”

Now it was Wang Qiyao’s turn to blush. It took quite a while before she said, “She’d really be fortunate if that were the case!”

Together they gazed at the baby in silence. Having just been fed, the child blinked her eyes with a look of contentment; her serene gaze had the power to make so many uncomfortable situations feel completely natural.

One warm, sunny spring day Jiang Lili managed to drag Mr. Cheng over to take a picture of them with the baby. They all felt as if they had gone back in time; the presence of the child was the only thing that spoilt the illusion. They took the baby for a stroll in the park; all three were in high spirits and kept commenting on how beautiful the scenery was. Under the brilliant sun, the trees, flowers, and grass seemed too weak to withstand such praises, expressing an air of helpless struggle despite the care that had been bestowed on them. Only the sight of children waddling on the grass was enough to rally the spirit, their tender footsteps making up for the dry withering grass. An array of toys spread out on the grass got the children excited. Wang Qiyao put her daughter down on the grass; under the watchful eyes of the three adults, she stumbled and picked herself up.

Kang Mingxun and Wang Qiyao continued to see each other intermittently. Now that the problem of the child was resolved, there didn’t seem to be any reason they should stay away from each other. However, the passion they once had was nothing in comparison to what it used to be. Sitting side by side, they no longer set each other aquiver, and even when they slept together it was more out of habit than anything else, a matter of routine. They were like a pair of old buddies who knew everything about the other, but at the end of the day they had their own separate lives. So, when she heard that Kang Mingxun was seeing other women, Wang Qiyao did not feel terribly hurt; she only teased him a bit. Seeing that she didn’t seem to mind, he didn’t feel it necessary to break things off. In fact, he took his time dating all kinds of different women, thoroughly enjoying his freedom. Although he was always going out, he never found a steady girlfriend and in the end wound up dating less. Finally his relationship with Wang Qiyao began to feel almost stable; it lacked the passion they had once shared, but now they could even be said to be a steady couple.

If it were not for the child, Kang Mingxun would probably have come more frequently, but she made him uncomfortable. She raised too many disturbing memories. Once she started talking, she would call him “Uncle Maomao,” which startled him. In her gaze he detected a desire to exact something out of him, and this filled him with panic and a certain disgust. Wang Qiyao sensed all of this and, to avoid those awkward encounters, would send the child outside to play or to one of the neighbors whenever Kang Mingxun came to visit.

Jiang Lili’s visits also made Kang Mingxun uncomfortable. The first time he saw her she was wearing a blue khaki uniform and a pair of shabby pigskin shoes — like those worn by high school students — under a pair of baggy pants. He would have sworn that she had come from the police department to check their residence permits. He was even more surprised when she opened her mouth — half the words that tumbled out were political phrases lifted straight from the newspaper. He had heard Wang Qiyao mention Jiang Lili and knew about her family background, but the woman before him did not conform to the description at all; he couldn’t figure out which side of her was real and which was merely a show. The way she looked at him was also intimidating. Since she usually came by in the evenings and on Sundays, he tried to avoid her by staying away at those times. This also resulted in his having less time with Wang Qiyao. Nevertheless, the infrequency of his visits did not really affect their relationship, which, like themselves, had simply settled.

And so time gradually slipped by. Had it not been for their daughter, who was growing up, they would never even have noticed the years slipping by. In addition to giving injections, Wang Qiyao now took on occasional side jobs knitting sweaters for the neighborhood factory. Only once did she tap into the gold bars that were still stowed away in her chest drawer, and that was when her daughter had the measles. She had asked Kang Mingxun to exchange one gold bar for cash, but by the time the money arrived, she found she no longer needed it, due to an unexpected order for sweaters. Working day and night to finish the order on time and pay for her daughter’s medicine and treatment, she nearly collapsed, but the idea that she had left the money from the gold bar intact was an added source of comfort. Ever since she had realized that her chances for marriage were bleak, those gold bars were the only thing that gave her a true sense of security.

Deep in the night she would often think of Director Li, but, try as she might, she could no longer picture him. Parts of his face — his eyes and his nose — remained distinct in her mind, but she simply could not put the pieces together. It was as if her mental image of him had been shattered along with his body in that plane crash. The nights she had shared with him had also grown hazy — even her first time, when she had suffered such pain, was obscured by the repetitive lovemaking that came later. When she thought about the last time she saw Director Li and how they had said good-bye, it felt like a nightmare, now long buried beneath the reality that had taken its place. Her later experiences were like layers upon layers of bricks that had been built up over the years, forming a wall that sealed her off from the past. She knew the past was still there but no longer felt it. The only thing left that she could see, that she could touch, was the mahogany box with its Spanish-style floral carvings. That was the only thing that set her mind at ease. Wang Qiyao couldn’t help but think back in sadness that her relationship with Director Li was probably the closest thing to a real marriage she would ever know. It had not been a formal marriage, nor was it an “eternal love,” but at least emotion had been answered with real emotion.

Time ticked by in slow and meticulous detail. Living under the rooftops of Shanghai, one needed to be careful and attentive. It was as if one might not survive unless one concentrated one’s whole soul on the most concrete and down-to-earth details. One couldn’t get by simply looking at the big picture — it was the details that mattered. Beneath the meticulous care was a stubborn tenacity: not the kind of tenacity that impels one to brave a storm, but the kind that enables one to get through the long Jiangnan rainy season. Outside the drizzle went on interminably while inside all was damp as mold silently crept along the floor and walls. The small flame used alternately to heat pots of soup or a small caldron of medicinal broth was dry and warm, the only thing holding out against the dampness of the room. But even the flame held fast to the principle of frugality: there were limits to heat and warmth, which need to be used sparingly, broken up and shared out equally among modest people to achieve their modest objectives and live out their modest lives.