Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

Ballroom-dance parties began to come back into fashion. In the early days of the comeback, the scene at these dances was enough to move anyone. The participants were so shy and yet full of perseverance, their determination to dance waging valiant battle against their fear of making fools of themselves. Sometimes, even after several sets had been played, no one worked up the courage to get up and dance. Everyone sat against the wall in a circle, staring at the empty dance floor with a mixture of solemnity and excitement. As soon as someone started to dance, everyone tittered, giggling to conceal their envy. Back then dance parties were almost exclusively organized by government work units. People who wanted to dance a lot would have to have very good social connections, so as to organize their own parties. They could then bring one of the new cassette players that had just become available to an empty site and hold the dance there. Dancing was the sole purpose of these parties. No one went there with ulterior motives — you could tell by the way they danced. The fashion in the late seventies and early eighties wore its heart on its sleeve.

Weiwei had several classmates she was quite close to; they were all great shopping companions. Whenever something new appeared on Huaihai Road, they would quickly pass the news on to one another. They would help and encourage each other, never letting anyone fall behind the latest trend. It was only natural that there should nevertheless be some competition between them, and jealousy was inevitable. But this never got in the way of their friendship; in fact, it actually inspired them to keep forging ahead.

Although they seemed to know nothing except how to follow the latest fashion, this is not to say they didn’t have any original ideas. After a long period, during which they merely imitated what they saw, they gradually developed a perspective on fashion that was all their own. This was what they discussed when they were together — how else would you explain all they had to talk about? Actually, if you were to transcribe their conversations, you would have the materials for a handbook on how to predict fashion trends. Such a record would also reflect the simple dialectical thought process of these girls. In predicting the next craze, they usually applied the principle of “go against the trend.” If, for example, black is what’s in, then white will be next; when length is in fashion, short will soon follow; the pattern is to go from one extreme to another. “Extreme” could also be used to describe the spirit of their style. In order to capture the public’s attention, fashion needs to wave a flamboyant flag and sport a unique spirit. But this is where contradiction arises — how can one be unique and remain in the mainstream? Their discussions were quite profound; had they kept at it, they might have ended up philosophers.

Out of all of Weiwei’s girlfriends, the one she adored the most was her middle school classmate Zhang Yonghong. Zhang Yonghong stood out among Weiwei’s friends and can be said to have reached a distinguished place in fashion. Her fashion instincts were simply uncanny: you couldn’t deny that she had a born sense of beauty. Zhang Yonghong had the ability to take style as far as it could go; surrounded by a thousand other fashionable young girls, she would still be able to set the trend. She did not go counter to fashion, but took a complementary approach that pushed the current style to its pinnacle. It was a good thing that the streets of Shanghai had a girl like Zhang Yonghong to keep them up-to-date, because most people have a tendency to distort fashion, twisting it until it is almost unrecognizable. Zhang Yonghong couldn’t avoid inspiring jealousy. Everyone thought she was stealing the show, but they had to concede that she deserved the limelight. They tried to stay on good terms with her because simply being in her company was a learning experience. Zhang Yonghong was aware of all this, which made her arrogant. She took no thought for anyone but herself, with the exception, that is, of Weiwei, whom she was willing to accommodate. She occasionally even went so far as to fawn on Weiwei, but the way she did it carried a touch of condescension.

Actually, it is all quite simple. Even the proudest people are afraid of loneliness, and everyone needs a companion. Zhang Yonghong had decided on Weiwei. Although her decision wasn’t the product of conscious deliberation, gut feelings have their own internal logic. Weiwei’s simple heart and nonthreatening nature made her the perfect companion for Zhang Yonghong. Seeing how well Zhang Yonghong treated her, Weiwei was overwhelmed by gratitude. She couldn’t have been more ecstatic, because, deep down, she was insecure. She had only one enemy in the world — her mother. Everyone else was her friend and she went out of her way to please them, most of all Zhang Yonghong, who was so exceptional. Whenever she was around Zhang Yonghong, Weiwei felt a bit like the jackal strutting next to the lion. If Zhang Yonghong stood out from the crowd, she did too.

It is difficult to imagine what kind of family a fashion queen like Zhang Yonghong could have come from; that in itself was the most astonishing miracle ever to befall the central district of Huaihai Road. On either side of the bustling Huaihai Road are many narrow streets. Some, such as Sinan Road, were quite nice, covered by a canopy of trees, an island of tranquility amid the chaos. There you would find small buildings whose doors seemed invariably to be closed, as if they were showcases with no tenants. Inside, people lived lives that the common imagination could never have conceived. By comparison, even the splendor and excitement of Huaihai Road appeared a matter of bluster, being the splendor of ordinary people — all show and no substance.

Understanding this, you might be better prepared for what you saw in the smaller streets. The classic street of this type was Chengdu Road, a thoroughfare running north to south, rather than east to west, as did virtually every major road in the city, so that it ran at right angles through many prestigious streets! Even so, it wasn’t affected by the flashiness that surrounded it. Chengdu Road was a bastion of everyday living. Life there was stable and solid as a rock. Take one whiff of the smells there and all will become apparent. The odor from the food market was a potent mixture of fish, raw meat, rotting vegetables, and tofu products fermenting on wooden shelves, as well as the smell left behind by the bamboo broom that swept the street. The houses alongside the street were constructed from thin wooden planks and the second-floor windows were so low you could almost reach up to them from the ground. The gutters were corroded, rusted black by the rain. The ground floors were occupied by small shops, which locals called “tobacco shops,” selling odds and ends.

Once you left Chengdu Road and ventured into the longtang neighborhoods, things got worse. Those alleys were crooked and winding, many still paved with cobblestones, and most of the homes were makeshift shacks. You would never guess that tumbledown shacks like those existed in the heart of the city. By Weiwei’s time most of these had been torn down to make way for new concrete structures, which made the area even more chaotic, and the longtang alleys even narrower, barely leaving room for the pedestrian to turn around. Who could have guessed that the glamour of Huaihai Road was built on a way of life that had its feet so firmly planted on the ground?

Between Huaihai Road and Changle Road, tucked into the folds of the long and winding Chengdu Road, there was a small door opening onto the street. The door was usually left ajar, but seldom did anyone take notice. That is because not only was the door very small, but it was extremely dark inside. If you happened to stand outside the doorway for a moment, you would immediately be assaulted by a strange odor. The identifiable part of that strange odor was Glauber’s salt, but there was another, more mysterious smell — the breath of tuberculosis. The door was like a black hole, there was no rear window, and the front window was blocked by a discolored floral curtain that only allowed a hazy light to penetrate inside. If you were to turn on a light, you would discover that the room couldn’t possibly have been any smaller than it was. Piled up all around were old leather shoes and the tools of a tanner. The shoemaker sitting in the middle of the room was Zhang Yonghong’s father. Facing the door was a steep, narrow staircase without a railing that went directly up to the second floor. Although we call it the second floor, it was actually an attic; the center of the room was the only place where you could stand erect without bumping your head on the ceiling. Lying in the attic were two sick people — Zhang Yonghong’s mother was one, and the other was her older sister. They were both victims of tuberculosis.