by Anyi, Wang
Presently, the sun sprays out over the unbroken expanse of rooftop tiles, bathing everything in golden light. The pigeons leave their nests, their wings showing white against the sky. The tall buildings resemble buoys floating on the ocean’s surface. The city becomes animated with movement and activity, building up into the quiet roar of the sea. The dust also begins to stir restlessly in a hazy cloud. Germs of events quickly brew into causes and conclusions; already intense feelings are running rampant. As densely packed windows and doors are opened and last night’s stale air rushes out and intermingles, the sunlight becomes turbid, the sky darkens, and the dance of the dust begins to slow. Something too tangled to unravel begins to grow in the air, choking off vitality and passion. The freshness of morning turns into a depressing gloom, inward excitement is quelled, but all those small beginnings keep on breeding all kinds of consequences—what you sow you shall reap. The sun in the sky traverses its usual path; light and shadow move slowly. All signs of stirring have settled, along with the dust, into their normal state, the way they do day after day, year after year. Every trace of romance has been silenced. The heavens hang high aloft and the clouds are pale as the last flock of pigeons disappears into the distance.
Wang Qiyao
Wang Qiyao is the typical daughter of the Shanghai longtang. Every morning, when the back door squeaks open, that’s Wang Qiyao scurrying out with her book bag embroidered with flowers. In the afternoon, when the phonograph plays next door, that’s Wang Qiyao humming along with “Song of the Four Seasons.” Those girls rushing off to the theater, that’s a whole group of Wang Qiyaos going to see Vivien Leigh in Gone With the Wind. Running off to the photo studio is a pair of Wang Qiyaos, best friends on their way to have their portrait taken. Sitting in virtually every side room and tingzijian is a Wang Qiyao. In the dimly lit living room of every Wang Qiyao’s house there is almost always a set or two of mahogany furniture. The sun draws circles on the windowsill but refuses to come in. There is a three-mirrored vanity in her bedchamber. The powder of her rouge container always looks a bit damp and sticky in its jar, while the container of hair oil has dried up. The copper lock on her camphor chest shines from repeated opening and closing. Whether the radio is tuned to Suzhou pingtan storytelling, Shaoxing opera, or stock market updates, the reception is poor and the broadcast is always accompanied by a buzzing hiss. Wang Qiyao’s amah sometimes sleeps in the small triangular room under the stairs, which is just large enough for a bed. The amah has to do everything—her duties extend even to emptying out the dirty water after the mistress has washed her feet. The family orders the amah around as if they are trying to get every bit of their money’s worth out of her. Yet, busy as she is from morning until night, she still has time to go out and spread gossip about her employer—and carry on a clandestine affair with the neighbor’s chauffeur.
Fathers of girls like Wang Qiyao always end up beaten into submission after years of being henpecked by their wives. This sets an example for Wang Qiyao of what it means to respect a woman. On these Shanghai mornings, that’s Wang Qiyao’s father sitting in the trolley car on his way to work; in the afternoons, that’s Wang Qiyao’s mother sitting in the rickshaw on her way to buy material for her new cheongsam. Every night, beneath the floor of Wang Qiyao’s apartment, mice scurry to and fro; in order to eliminate the mice, they bring home a cat, and so the apartment takes on a faint stench of cat piss. Wang Qiyao, usually the oldest child, has become her mother’s closest friend while still quite young. Mother and daughter have their clothes made by the same tailor and always go off together to call on friends and relatives. Girls like her always listen to their mothers’ complaints about the incorrigible nature of man—using their own fathers as object lessons.
Wang Qiyao is the typical girl in waiting. The girls that the interns working at Western-style shops ogle surreptitiously—they are all Wang Qiyaos. On the hot summer days when clothing is brought out to be aired, Wang Qiyao stares at her mother’s trousseau chest and fantasizes about her own dowry. In the display window of the photo studio, the lady in the floor-length wedding gown is Wang Qiyao just before her marriage. Wang Qiyaos are always stunningly beautiful. They wear indigo blue cheongsams that set off their figure and a bang of black hair shyly concealing their eyes, which seem nevertheless to speak. Wang Qiyaos always follow the mainstream, neither falling behind nor rushing ahead—they are modernity in numbers. They follow what is trendy the same way they would follow a recipe: with blind faith, never expressing opinions or asking questions. The fashion trends in Shanghai rely completely upon Wang Qiyaos. But they are incapable of setting things into motion—that is not their responsibility. They lack creativity, because they are in want of an independent personality; but they are diligent, honest, loyal, and devoted, always blindly following suit. Uncomplaining, they carry the spirit of the times on their backs—you could even say that they are this city’s proclamation. And whenever a star is born in this city, whether on the stage or on the screen, they all become ardent fans and admirers. They are the captive readers of romance novels serialized in the newspaper supplements. The intrepid among them write letters to authors and film stars, but all they are really hoping for is an autograph. In the world of fashion, they are the foundation.
There does not exist a single Wang Qiyao who isn’t sentimental, fashionably sentimental—the kind of sentimentalism that is acquired. Dried leaves are kept in the pages of their books, dead butterflies in their rouge boxes. They may cry, but even their tears follow the mainstream. Their sentimentality is acted out before it comes into existence, the display preceding the feelings. You cannot say that it is completely artificial, only that the order is backward—it is something real that has been artificially produced. Everything in this city has a copy, and everything has someone who leads the way. Wang Qiyao’s eyes are a bit dull, as if enshrouded in shadow—it is the shadow of sentimentalism. These Wang Qiyaos often appear sad, but this sadness makes them even more enchanting. When they eat, their appetite is no bigger than a cat’s, and when they walk they take feline steps. Their skin is so fair that it seems transparent; you can even see their pale blue veins. In summer every one of them gets sick from the heat; in winter they can never stay warm enough under their quilted blankets. They need to take traditional Chinese medicine to strengthen the vital fluids and nourish the blood—the smell of medicinal brew fills the air around them. Between the media and the stage, there are men working behind the scenes to create a fashion perfectly suited to Wang Qiyao, a fashion that moreover seems to anticipate Wang Qiyao’s every need and desire.
Between the Wang Qiyaos is a sisterly love, sometimes strong enough to last a lifetime. Whenever they get together, they regress back to the days before they were married. They are symbols to each other of that innocent period in their lives, living monuments or witnesses on whom to rely when recalling lost times. Many things in their lives are replaceable, but this sisterly love remains until death. Sisterly love is a strange thing indeed: it is not the kind of love that endures through thick and thin and inspires one to help a friend when she is down—it recognizes no attachments, no responsibilities. Rootless and unfettered, it offers no security. You cannot really say that these girls keep each other as confidantes—after all, just how many secrets do women store up in their hearts? Most often they are there to keep one another company, but not in any intimate way—they simply keep each other company on the way to and from school, sporting the same hairstyle, wearing identical shoes and socks, and walking hand-in-hand like lovers. If you should ever see a pair of young girls like this on the street, don’t ever mistake them for twins. It’s simply sisterly love—Wang Qiyao style.
They depend so much on each other, they treat each other with such exaggerated affection, and their expressions are so earnest that you can’t help but take their relationship seriously. But when they keep one another company, all they are doing is making loneliness lonelier and helplessness even more helpless, because neither is in a posi
tion to do anything for the other. Divested of utilitarian motives, their sisterly love is all the more pure. Every Wang Qiyao is accompanied by another; some are classmates, some neighbors, and others cousins. This relationship is one of the few social activities in their chaste, simple lives. They have too few opportunities for social interaction and so when an opportunity arises they cannot help putting everything they have into it—and the result is sisterly love. The Wang Qiyaos of the world all place great importance on friendship; beneath a facade that chases after the latest fashions there is devotion and sincerity—albeit a somewhat detached sincerity. When one Wang Qiyao walks down the aisle, another Wang Qiyao is her maid of honor; it is a way of paying tribute to her, a way of seeing her off into her new life. The expression on the face of the maid of honor shows that she is yielding the spotlight to the bride. Her dress is a shade less bright, the style is from last year, she intentionally applies less rouge to her face than usual—everything speaks of her willingness to lower her banner. This attitude of heroic self-sacrifice is sisterly love.
Behind every doorway in the Shanghai longtang a Wang Qiyao is studying, embroidering, whispering secrets to her sisters, or throwing a teary-eyed tantrum at her parents. The longtang neighborhoods of Shanghai are filled with a girlish spirit—the name of this spirit is Wang Qiyao. There is something elegant about this spirit, not haughty, in fact quite approachable, even adorable. It is modest and gentle, and, though a little affected, the affectation arises from an eagerness to please, which makes it welcome to most. Neither large-hearted nor high-minded—but then again it does not aspire to an epic (charm and sweetness are closer to what people want, anyhow)—it is a spirit that belongs to everyday life. It has the frame of mind, “I’ll return a favor with a favor, but I won’t take disrespect lightly.” This may be lacking in its vision, but it is always reasonable; it is a bit petty, perhaps, but pettiness is always more fun than moral rectitude. Such a spirit knows all about manipulation, which can also be fun—human nature needs a little embellishment. It cannot help but be vulgar, but in a way that has been rinsed clean by civilization. Its vanity rests upon a pragmatic foundation.
The moonbeam writes Wang Qiyao’s name on the longtang walls; the pink leaves of the oleander spell out Wang Qiyao as they fall to the ground; the lamplight behind the screened window also inscribes her name; now and again a soft voice whispers in Shanghai dialect with a Suzhou inflection, and what it utters is the name of Wang Qiyao. When the peddler of osmanthus porridge sounds his clapper to attract customers, he seems to be counting off the hours of the night for Wang Qiyao. The young writer in the third-floor tingzijian, having finished his take-out supper, is busy writing a modernist poem dedicated to Wang Qiyao. The dewdrops on the parasol tree are the traces of Wang Qiyao’s tears. By the time the maidservant slips out the back door to meet her lover, Wang Qiyao is lost somewhere faraway in her dream.
If there were no Wang Qiyao, the Shanghai longtang would lose all their passion. This passion seems to have been squeezed out from the fissures of everyday life, like the golden dandelions growing out of the cracks in the wall, sneaking out where you least expect them. But this passion also seems to dissolve and spread, like lichens creeping across the wall. It can sustain itself on nothing but wind and dew; this is what is meant by “A single spark can start a prairie fire.” However, the process involves tenacious struggle and inconsolable pain. It is because there is passion in the Shanghai longtang that there is also pain; as for the name of this pain, it too is called Wang Qiyao. Occasionally one finds in the Shanghai alleys a wall completely covered with a thick carpet of Boston ivy; the ivy, with its old, clinging tentacles, is emblematic of passions that have persisted through time. In persistence is inconsolable pain, on which are inscribed the records of time, the accumulated debris of time as it is pressed down and slowly suffocated. This is the everlasting sorrow of Wang Qiyao.
Chapter 2
The Film Studio
FOUR DECADES THE story spans, and it all began the day she went to the film studio. The day before, Wu Peizhen had agreed to take Wang Qiyao to have a look around the studio. Wu Peizhen was a rather careless girl. Under normal circumstances, she would have suffered from low self-esteem because of her homeliness, but because Peizhen came from a well-to-do family and people always doted on her, she had developed unaffected into an outgoing young lady. What would have been poor self-esteem was replaced by a kind of modesty—modesty ruled by a practical spirit. In her modesty, she tended to exaggerate other people’s strengths, place them on a pedestal, and offer them her devotion. Wang Qiyao never had to worry about Wu Peizhen being jealous of her—and she certainly had no reason to be jealous of Wu Peizhen. On the contrary, she even felt a bit bad for Wu Peizhen—because she was so ugly. This compassion predisposed Wang Qiyao to be generous, but naturally this generosity did not extend any further than Wu Peizhen.
Wu Peizhen’s carelessness was the function of an uncalculating mind. She appreciated Wang Qiyao’s magnanimity and tried even harder to please her as though repaying her kindness. Basking in each other’s company, they became the best of friends. But Wang Qiyao’s decision to befriend Wu Peizhen meant, in some way, that she was pushing a heavy load onto Wu Peizhen’s shoulders. Her beauty highlighted Wu Peizhen’s unattractive appearance; her meticulousness highlighted Wu Peizhen’s lack of care; her magnanimity highlighted Wu Peizhen’s indebtedness. It was a good thing that Wu Peizhen could take it; after all, the weight of everyday living did not rest as heavily on her. This was partly because she had plenty of psychic capital to draw on, but also because she simply did not mind. Things came easy to her and she was willing to bear more than her share. Thus an equilibrium of give-and-take was maintained between the two girls and they grew closer by the day.
Wu Peizhen had a cousin who did lighting at the film studio. Occasionally he would come over to see her. In that khaki uniform of his, with its copper buttons, he came across as a bit flashy. Wu Peizhen really could not have cared less about him; the only reason she kept him around was for Wang Qiyao. The film studio was the stuff of girls’ dreams—a place where romance is created, the kind that appears on the silver screen in movies that everyone knows as well as the off-screen type that one hears about in the enchanting gossip and rumors surrounding the lives of film stars. The former is fake but appears real; the latter is real but seems fake. To live in the world of the film studio is to lead a dual life. Girls like Wu Peizhen who had all of their needs taken care of seldom wallowed in dreams; moreover, as the only girl in a house full of boys, she grew up playing boys’ games and never learned the social skills and canniness most girls picked up. However, after making friends with Wang Qiyao, she became more thoughtful. She came to see the film studio as a gift that she could offer to Wang Qiyao. She arranged everything carefully, only informing Wang Qiyao after she had already set a date, and was surprised when Wang Qiyao greeted the news with apparent indifference, claiming a prior engagement. This compelled Wu Peizhen to try to change Wang Qiyao’s mind by exaggerating the glamour of the film studio, combining stories her cousin bragged about with others from her own imagination. Before long, it was more like Wang Qiyao was doing her a favor by going with her. By the time Wang Qiyao finally gave in and agreed to go some other time, Wu Peizhen was acting as if yet another gift that she herself had to be thankful for had been bestowed upon her, and she ecstatically scurried off to find her cousin to change the date.
Wang Qiyao did not, in fact, have any prior engagement, nor was she as reluctant as she appeared; this was simply the way she conducted herself—the more interested she was in something, the more she held back. This was her means of protecting herself—or then again, was it part of a strategy of disarming an antagonist by pretending to set her free? Whatever the reason behind her action, it was impenetrable to Wu Peizhen. On her way to her cousin’s place, she was consumed with gratitude for Wang Qiyao; all she could think about was how much face Wang Qiyao had given her by agreeing to the i
nvitation.
The cousin was the son of Wu Peizhen’s uncle on her mother’s side. This uncle was the black sheep of the family. He had driven a silk shop in Hangzhou into the ground and Wu Peizhen’s mother had dreaded his visits because all he ever wanted from her was money or grain. After she gave him some heavy doses of harsh words and turned him away empty-handed several times, he gradually stopped coming around and eventually broke off all relations. Then one day his son had showed up at her door wearing that khaki uniform with copper buttons and carrying two boxes of vegetarian dim sum as if they represented some kind of announcement. Ever since then he would come by once every two months or so and tell them stories about the film studio. Nobody in the house was interested in his stories—nobody, that is, except Wu Peizhen.
Wu Peizhen went to the address in Qijiabing in search of her cousin. All around were thatch-covered shacks surrounded by small unmarked trails that extended in different directions, making it virtually impossible to find one’s way. People stared at her. One glance told them that she was an outsider, but just as she was getting ready to ask directions they would immediately look away. She finally found her cousin’s place, only to discover that he was not home. The young man who shared the shack with her cousin asked her in. He was wearing a pair of glasses and a set of coarse cotton clothes. Wu Peizhen was a bit shy and waited outside. This naturally drew more curious gazes. It was not until dusk that her cousin finally staggered in with a greasy paper bag holding a pig’s head or some other cheap meat he had bought over at the butcher’s shop.