Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

Now when the time came to sun their clothes, Weiwei would have her own pile — from the wool cape draped over her when she was still being breastfed to the trendy bell-bottom pants she had worn the previous year — these were like the cast-off shells of a molting cicada. For Shanghai women old clothes are the shells they shed during their metamorphoses. Their age is shown through their clothing; but the heart lying beneath the garments sometimes forgets to grow up. Wang Qiyao examined her clothing carefully for signs of mildew. Most of her outfits were still in fairly good shape — she had only stopped wearing them because they had gone out of style. But she knew that before long they would be back in fashion again. That is the law of fashion, which is based on the principle of cycles. Over decades of experience, she had learned that no matter how much fashion changes, some principles remain constant; every outfit has one collar and two sleeves, and no amount of creativity can make it end up with two collars and three sleeves. There are only so many designs, and their rotation is what defines fashion. Only sometimes a cycle drags on too long; Wang Qiyao was more than willing to wait it out, until the arrival of the next cycle, but she was getting older and knew all too well that time waits for no one.

She thought of that pink satin cheongsam : how thousands on thousands of hearts had been used up in the making of that dress, and how she had been the very incarnation of beauty when she wore it. For so many years it had languished at the bottom of the chest as she waited for the day to wear it again — that day was fast approaching, but how could she possibly wear it? She was much too old. Just thinking about such matters brought tears to her eyes. Time is hardest on a woman. Days pass, one by one, unnoticed, never to return. How could they have so quickly turned into ten years, twenty years? Airing out the clothes often made her sad; each outfit was a shadow from the past. As her clothes showed holes left by moths, started to fall apart, or became mildewed, she knew that the past was growing more and more distant.

Wang Qiyao let Weiwei try on her pink cheongsam once. To recreate her own youth, she even helped her daughter put her hair up. But when Weiwei stood before her wearing her dress, Wang Qiyao felt bewildered. What she saw was not herself, but Weiwei all grown up. Weiwei was much bigger and taller, and the cheongsam was tight on her and a bit short. The fabric had begun to yellow and had lost its luster; anyone could tell that it was old just by glancing at it. It just didn’t look right on Weiwei, who paced back and forth in front of the mirror, giggling until she doubled over. The old cheongsam had not made her into a proper young Shanghai lady. Instead it set off her unrestrained youthful gaiety, which literally was bursting through the seams. Weiwei clowned around in front of the mirror until, having gotten her kicks, she took off the cheongsam . Instead of putting it back into the chest, Wang Qiyao simply threw it aside. She caught sight of it several times after that while cleaning, but always pretended not to see it. And gradually, over time, it was forgotten.

From Wang Qiyao’s perspective, Weiwei had a warped view of Shanghai. The electric trolleys that were the true heart of the city are now gone. You can no longer hear their clanking sounds against the hum of the city as they rumble down their tracks. The tracks themselves have long been pulled up; more than two decades have passed since the nanmu wood slabs paving Nanjing Road were pried out and replaced with cement. Along the Huangpu River, the stone walls on the Georgian buildings have all turned black, their windows masked by a layer of gray dirt. The river water has grown murkier and more polluted, and the sound of the breakwater seems to grow fainter by the year. And let’s not even mention the Suzhou River, whose stench you can smell blocks away — scooped up, the water can probably be used directly for fertilizer.

The Shanghai longtang have grown gray; there are cracks in the streets and along the walls, the alley lamps have been smashed by mischievous children, the gutters are clogged, and foul water trickles down the streets. Even the leaves of the sweet-scented oleanders are coated with grime. Green bristle grass covers the courtyard walls and creeps out between the bricks in the ground; watermelon seeds scattered about in previous years have sprouted….

But all of this is secondary to the changes that have taken place in the heart of those dwellings. Let’s begin with the high-rise apartment buildings. With armies of people rushing up and down the stairs, the edges of the marble steps have all been worn down — decades of footsteps approximate the force of water dripping upon rock. Once saying that even the marble is worn, we need not mention the wooden staircases in the longtang houses. In the large buildings the coffers on the vaulted ceilings are usually broken, if not worse; they would have been better off without those Roman-style floral carvings, whose sole purpose seems to be to collect dust and cobwebs. The elevator, with its rusty cable and its mechanism in disrepair, emits loud groans every time it goes up or down. Never touch the stair rail unless you want several decades of accumulated dust on your hands. If you climb up to the roof, you will see that the iron shell of the water tank has gone rusty. The felt covering on the asphalt is tattered and pitted with holes from the battering rain. The wind raging on the rooftop terrace whips up dirt and sand. Who knows the origin of the abandoned items randomly strewn about? Holding on to the railing as you walk past these objects, you look down to see that the bricks and tiles of every balcony and rooftop in the city are damaged. Should you peer into some of the dormer windows, you would see that the wood panels inside have been eaten away by termites.

The Western-style garden homes are the most intriguing of all. Even before entering you can tell how drastically things have changed. There are more clotheslines in the courtyard than at a laundry facility. Kitchen stoves are set up in the flowerbeds. Lovely large, semicircular terraces have been cut in half and made over into kitchens. If you should then venture inside, you would find yourself in a labyrinth. If it happens to be nighttime, you will be plunged into darkness, and your ears will be assaulted by the cacophony of woks cooking, water boiling, children crying, and radios playing. Every time you step forward or to the side you run into a wall. The smells of cooking oil seep out from the cracks between the walls. You can’t even reach out to feel your way along the walls unless you want to get your hands all greasy. The place is completely transformed. The most luxuriant of yesteryear is today the most cramped, the most exquisite architectural designs no longer bear mentioning.

At least the longtang houses are subject to some restraints and so have succeeded in retaining their basic appearance. But once you look inside, you realize everything is different there too. Every hallway and staircase is piled up with junk no one ever uses anymore, but asking people to throw these things away would be like asking them to part with their own flesh. These old knickknacks have taken on a life of their own. They proliferate and sprawl out all over the floor before gradually making their way toward the ceiling. Some get stuck there, while others hang dangerously, threatening to fall down and hit you on the head. One glance and you know how many months and years have passed. The floors are buckling and the planks are ready to give way; the toilet is almost always leaking, unless it is clogged; the electrical wires are exposed in a tangled mess; the door bearings have been stripped off their tracks and resist being moved; the windows, if made of wood, are crooked — either they do not close properly, or, if they do, it’s impossible to get them back open. These are all damages inflicted by time. However, the innermost heart of the longtang is actually more aged and worn than its appearance. It is only through sheer patience and self-control that it holds itself together, otherwise it would simply explode. It seems to understand that nothing good would come of exploding.