Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

If Zhang Yonghong had gone to the hospital to be examined, it is very possible that she would have been diagnosed as well. Her skin was unusually fair, almost transparent, taking on a red glow every afternoon at around two or three o’clock. She was as beautiful as a plum blossom. Since childhood she had never had much to eat and thus learned to suppress her appetite, eventually developing severe anorexia. She ate like a bird; meat and fish made her especially nauseous. To pay for the clothes she wore, she took on all kinds of odd jobs, including taking apart discarded fabric to extract the thread, walking school children to school, and supervising their homework until their parents get home. She was never short of cash, but even so never spent money on buying herself food.

The first time Weiwei brought Zhang Yonghong home with her, Wang Qiyao could immediately tell what was wrong with her. At first she prohibited Weiwei from spending time with her, fearing contagion. But Weiwei was never one to listen to her mother’s advice; Wang Qiyao was just wasting her breath. Moreover, Zhang Yonghong looked so gorgeous that tuberculosis only enhanced her elegance, covering up the ugly stamp a life of poverty had left on her. She also touched Wang Qiyao in a way that made her feel sympathetic toward the girl; Zhang Yonghong reminded her of all those old stories about beautiful young maidens fated to live short and difficult lives. Zhang Yonghong’s elegant style of dressing also won Wang Qiyao’s approval. The same fashions that on Weiwei appeared humdrum took on a new look when Zhang Yonghong tried them on. Eventually Wang Qiyao stopped interfering with their friendship; but she never invited Zhang Yonghong to stay for dinner and, naturally, didn’t have to worry about Weiwei eating over at her friend’s house.

Wang Qiyao left a deep impression on Zhang Yonghong. When she asked Weiwei what her mother did for a living, Weiwei didn’t know what to say. Asked about her mother’s age, Weiwei was certain that, like everyone else, Zhang Yonghong would say how she could pass for her older sister. She was surprised to hear Zhang Yonghong remark, “Look at the cotton overall your mother is wearing. It’s actually a men’s overall with vented sides and the front buttons on the opposite side — that’s so hip!”

Weiwei wasn’t as offended by her comments as she normally would have been; in fact, she was a bit pleased. She had felt indebted to Zhang Yonghong for her kindness but had always regretted that she had nothing to give in return. Seeing Zhang Yonghong’s respect and admiration for her mother made Weiwei feel a bit better. Even though she knew her mother did not want her to bring her friend home, her qualms were outweighed by her eagerness to repay Zhang Yonghong’s kindness. And so Weiwei invited her friend over almost every other day. Zhang Yonghong was happy to accept every invitation, never missing out on a chance to get closer to Wang Qiyao. As they learned more about each other, they both secretly wished they had met earlier; for they really saw eye to eye on almost everything — one look and each knew what the other was thinking. As Weiwei sat beside them listening to their conversation, she was often dumbfounded.

“You know, Auntie Wang,” Zhang Yonghong said on one occasion, “when it comes to fashion, you’re the real thing. We’re all fakes compared to you.”

“What do I know about fashion?” Wang Qiyao laughed. “All I know is how to recycle the old and try to make it new again.”

“That’s right!” exclaimed Zhang Yonghong. “Your fashion sense comes from recycling the old.”

Wang Qiyao nodded. “Actually, that’s what all fashion is — recycling the old and making it new.”

“All you guys do is repeat yourselves,” laughed Weiwei. “You sound like you are playing a word game!”

Because of her adoration for Zhang Yonghong, Weiwei gained a new respect for her mother. She even eased up a bit and ceased to be so hostile.

Zhang Yonghong’s aesthetic sense was untrained. Everything she knew she had picked up on the streets, and the fact that she was able to distinguish herself was proof of her talent. But she was still young and had not experienced many fashion cycles. Gifted as she was, she still had her limitations. She was able to avoid falling behind but could never see past the current trend, and was not capable of developing her own distinctive style. Wang Qiyao opened up a new world for her. It had never dawned on Zhang Yonghong that, prior to her own time, Shanghai fashion had already known a glorious age. Like most young people, she thought history began with her generation, but unlike Weiwei, she wasn’t thickheaded and moreover Wang Qiyao had won her over with her discriminating taste — truly she was a living portrait of the fairy-tale resplendence of bygone years.

Zhang Yonghong was exceedingly thankful that Wang Qiyao had come into her life and gladly became a disciple at her feet. Wang Qiyao also felt lucky to have Zhang Yonghong in her life. It had been years since she was able to talk freely to someone, and best of all, on a subject dear to her heart — clothes. Wang Qiyao could recall at will decades of fashion, all of which came back to her without bidding. One might call fashion the product of vanity, but one must never underestimate it, for it carries with it the spirit of the age. Were it able to speak, it would speak volumes. As Wang Qiyao described in detail all the changes that had taken place over the past several decades, images of beauty passed before Zhang Yonghong’s eyes, and she was humbled to think of all that she had missed out on. It dawned on her that the fashions of her era were only a continuation of what had gone before. There was so much she had to catch up on.

Weiwei was also present for these discussions, but she heard all this unmoved. She still preferred the fashions of her generation: as far as she was concerned, the things her mother described might as well be costumes in an old opera, preposterous and laughable. She conceded defeat only when, with a shift in fashion, some of the old styles came back before her eyes. She was the kind of person who wouldn’t weep until she actually saw the coffin — she didn’t use her brain. All that seemed to matter was the present: for Weiwei, neither the past nor future had any meaning.

Shanghai fashion in the early eighties had an air of dogged determination. It strutted boldly forward, keeping one eye on the past and the other on the future. Having undergone an era of distortion and suppression, its mind was now liberated, but it really didn’t know where to go! And so it felt its way as it went along. The street scenes at this time were oddly exaggerated and a little out of control, but the painstaking care and hard work behind them were plain to see; and those who understood what had gone into their making were quite moved. Under Wang Qiyao’s influence, Zhang Yonghong began to break away from the mainstream. At a casual glance, she looked as if she was falling behind, but closer scrutiny revealed that she was already far ahead, leaving the mainstream in the dust. But girls with real vision like Zhang Yonghong were few and far between; even her good friend Weiwei had a hard time understanding her, and so she began to feel estranged. Her rivals congratulated themselves, supposing her to have stepped out of the race, leaving the stage to them. If anything, they should have felt sad, because they had lost their leader. Without Zhang Yonghong, each new fashion cycle now fizzled out in mediocrity. Fashion is a good thing in its own way, but when the elite abandons it, it inevitably descends into banality. Zhang Yonghong became a solitary figure, with Wang Qiyao her sole confidante. Sometimes, even when Weiwei wasn’t home, she would drop by to chat with Wang Qiyao; if Weiwei happened to return in the middle of their conversation, the two of them would glance up at her as if she was an intruder. After graduation, Weiwei went on to nursing school but Zhang Yonghong, having come from a poor family, had to take a job as a meter reader at the gas company. That enabled her to visit Wang Qiyao more frequently; she would stop by almost every day, and in Weiwei’s absence the two of them became even closer.