The Song of Everlasting Sorrow: A Novel of Shanghai (Weatherhead Books on Asia)

by Anyi, Wang

  Mr. Cheng’s regular visits to Wang Qiyao’s apartment never became much of a subject of gossip around Peace Lane. The neighbors had long taken note of the way Kang Mingxun and Sasha came and went, as well as the fact that Wang Qiyao’s protruding belly was growing more noticeable by the day. Peace Lane was, in reality, quite open-minded and sophisticated. Wang Qiyao had long been relegated to the category of “one of those women,” and that was enough to satisfy the curiosity of the people who lived there. Every street in Shanghai like Peace Lane had at least one of those women. They used to all be concentrated in the Alice Apartments, but had had to disperse due to changing circumstances.

  When couples who lived on Peace Lane got into squabbles over everyday things, one could often hear the wife protest, “I might just as well go off and live like that woman Wang Qiyao over in no. 39!”

  Whereupon the husband would sneer: “Really? Have you got what it takes?”

  That would always shut the wife up.

  But sometimes it would be the husband who would instigate things. “Take a look at yourself in the mirror! And then go look at Wang Qiyao in no. 39!”

  “Can you afford someone like her?” the wife would retort. “If you can, I’ll gladly step into the role!”

  That would be enough to silence the husband. It was thus evident that in their hearts Wang Qiyao was viewed by her neighbors not with contempt, but with a smidgen of envy. Once Mr. Cheng began coming around, the aroma of food wafting out of Wang Qiyao’s kitchen had become most enticing. People would exclaim as they inhaled, “They are having meat again over at Wang Qiyao’s.”

  Wang Qiyao went to bed early each night, but Mr. Cheng would still be at the table going over their food expenses and planning their meals for the following day. Even though they had just eaten dinner, they would already be going over all the mouth-watering details of what they would have the next morning for breakfast. They talked into the night, as cats in heat began to yowl and Wang Qiyao to nod off. Mr. Cheng would get up from his chair to make sure that all the windows were locked before closing the curtains, tidying up, and turning off the lights.... Then he would exit quietly, setting the spring lock and carefully closing the door behind him.

  Mr. Cheng never spent the night at Wang Qiyao’s. The idea had crossed Wang Qiyao’s mind, but she never discussed it with him, afraid Mr. Cheng might be put off by the fact that she was pregnant with another man’s baby. But deep down she had already decided that if ever Mr. Cheng broached the question, she certainly would not rebuff him—not because she loved or desired him, but out of gratitude. Twelve years ago she had designated him as her last resort, someone she could always count on. She did not know then how rare and valuable this “last resort” would turn out to be. Her sights had been set on the future, and she never thought she would need to step back. Though not exactly in full retreat at present, she could no longer talk of advancing and was in fact close to having to make use of this “last resort.” These days, spending mornings and evenings together with him, she discovered that Mr. Cheng had barely changed—but she was now a different person. It would have been easier on her if he had changed a bit. It was precisely because he had not changed that she felt guilty—as if she had somehow betrayed him by returning to him a fallen woman, while his integrity had remained intact. With this sense of guilt came a new reticence. She believed she had forfeited all her rights, leaving only gratitude in their place. But Mr. Cheng never broached the question, and no matter how late it was, he always went home. There were several occasions when, half-asleep, she sensed him hovering by her bedside. Her heart palpitated, and she thought that he might stay. But after a few minutes, he would always leave. Each time she heard the door closing softly, she would be struck with a combination of disappointment and relief.

  Now and then their conversations turned to old friends such as Jiang Lili. Mr. Cheng still had some news about Jiang Lili these days from that film director friend of his. At the mention of the director, Wang Qiyao was transported to another world, and scenes from her confused past emerged out of the recesses of her memory.

  “How does the director know Jiang Lili?” she asked.

  Mr. Cheng explained that in an effort to locate him, Jiang Lili had contacted Wu Peizhen, who had put her in touch with the director. Wu Peizhen, of course, was another name that brought back a torrent of memories. Mr. Cheng said the director now held a deputy position at the Department of Film—none of them had known it at the time, but he had been a long-standing Communist Party member. It was under his influence that Jiang Lili had joined the revolution. When Shanghai was being liberated, Mr. Cheng had personally witnessed Jiang Lili waving her baton at the head of a parade of girls beating on drums as they marched past. He could scarcely recognize her in that military uniform. She still had glasses, her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and she was wearing a leather belt. She could have stayed in college and received her diploma in another two years, but she had decided instead to work in a yarn factory as a common laborer. Being educated and exuding revolutionary zeal, she was singled out to serve as a union officer and before long was married to the factory’s military representative. Her husband was a native of Shandong province and had originally come south to Shanghai with the troops. They now lived in a new commune in Dayangpu with their three children.

  On hearing the story, Wang Qiyao exclaimed, “Even in my wildest dreams I would have never imagined that Jiang Lili would one day become a cadre! Isn’t that wonderful!”

  Mr. Cheng agreed that it was wonderful, even though neither really believed their own words; the story simply sounded too much like a legend—something just didn’t ring true.

  After a pause, Wang Qiyao went back to the previous topic. “So, the director was a Communist all along! Back when I ran for Miss Shanghai, he took me out to dinner and tried to persuade me to withdraw. I wonder if he was following orders from above? Who knows, maybe if I had listened to him, it would have been me joining the revolution instead of Jiang Lili!”

  They both laughed.

  Wang Qiyao and Mr. Cheng considered paying a visit to Jiang Lili, but they wavered, uncertain whether—under the circumstances—they were still fit to be her friends. Like most Shanghai residents who had lived through such sweeping historical changes, they regarded the Communist Party as unapproachable, and saw themselves as people left over from a previous era. Moreover, living in the heart of society, caught up in the swirl of everyday life, they barely had a chance to develop a coherent opinion of themselves, let alone grand concepts like “the nation” or “political power.” They are not to be faulted for their narrow frame of reference, because a large city is like a huge machine that turns according to the principles dictated by its own structure; only its tiniest components have a human texture, and it is these tiny components that people hold onto, otherwise they would fall into the vacuum of abstraction. The residents of Shanghai hewed to the little things of life, which left them stranded on the margins when it came to politics. If you told them that the Communist government belongs to the people, they would still keep their distance, due to modesty as well an overweening pride—deep down they still believed that they were the true masters of the city. Wang Qiyao and Mr. Cheng were all too conscious of the fact that they did not belong to the same class of people as Jiang Lili. The only reason they came up with the crazy idea of paying her a visit was because of their former entanglement. If not for that, they would have never even dreamed of calling on someone like her.

  Wang Qiyao’s reunion with Mr. Cheng was also a reunion with her past. When she reflected back on her youth, revisiting past experiences, she wondered whether it had all been a dream. Who can really tell the past from the present? As she grew heavier and her feet swelled up, she gave in to laziness and ended up sitting around most of the day. Her mind would wander as she sat knitting a wool outfit for the baby with material taken from an old sweater. The yarn came in different lengths, and she had to connect them as she knitted. Progress
was painfully slow. Every day, Mr. Cheng would be overwhelmed with work at the office and chores around the house, and it was only after dinner, around eight o’clock, that he would finally get a chance to sit down. By then Wang Qiyao would be so exhausted that she could barely keep her eyes open or get a complete sentence out of her mouth without slurring the words. Mr. Cheng, watching from the other end of the sofa, was infected by her lethargy and they would nod off together until the evening chill snapped them out of their slumber. Mr. Cheng might awaken with a shiver but Wang Qiyao would remain still. She would wait for him to make her bed and help her get in, whereupon she would get half undressed and burrow under the covers. As always, Mr. Cheng would go on to make sure all the doors and windows were locked before he turned off the lights and quietly closed the door behind him.

  They had been wondering whether to call on Jiang Lili and had still not made up their minds, when she took them by surprise by unexpectedly turning up on Mr. Cheng’s doorstep. Since his reunion with Wang Qiyao, Mr. Cheng was hardly ever at his apartment, except when he went back late at night to go to sleep. There is no telling how many times she must have gone there looking for him before she finally caught him at the elevator. Failing to find him upstairs this time, she was waiting for the elevator to take her back down, when it arrived and out stepped Mr. Cheng. Standing there, face to face, they recognized one another, but there was something about each of them that the other did not recognize. It seemed only natural that they should feel as if their world had completely changed, even though at one level everything seemed just as it was before. Jiang Lili was in a Lenin suit; her khaki pants were a bit baggy around the knees and too short around the ankles. Her leather shoes were covered with dust. Her glasses, also dusty, seemed thicker than before, so that one had to peer through several concentric circles to find her small eyes, and look even deeper into her eyes to find a glimmer of recognition.

  “What a coincidence!” Mr. Cheng exclaimed.

  “What do you mean? You might think it’s a coincidence, but not me!”

  Thus brusquely checked, Mr. Cheng did not know how to go on.

  “You’re not home in the morning, not in the evening . . . you don’t even come home in the afternoon for lunch!”

  Mr. Cheng apologized as he opened the door for her, even though deep down he wanted to tell her, “Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” It was a Sunday afternoon and, having helped Wang Qiyao settle down for her nap, he had decided to go home to take a shower and pick up some fresh clothes—he had never dreamed that he would run into Jiang Lili. Jiang Lili stepped inside; as she stood in the dust-laden sunlight, her face showed not even the hint of a smile. Her eyes were full of reproach. Mr. Cheng felt uncomfortable and his heart pounded. He was looking for something to say that might break up the tension, but what came out instead was, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  This infuriated Jiang Lili. “You think the only reason came by is because I have some official business with you?”

  Mr. Cheng turned red. He contrived a smile and excused himself to make tea. But the hot water Thermos was empty, the glasses were dirty, and the lid of the tea can had rusted shut. Following him into the kitchen, where she watched as he boiled water and washed the glasses, she observed, “This place looks like a chicken coop!”

  With that, she turned and went back into the living room. When Mr. Cheng emerged from the kitchen, she was standing there lost in thought. The heavy drapes in the photo studio had been pulled back and the room looked empty and abandoned, with the lamps, platform, and cardboard backdrops all pushed into the corner. Watching her from behind, he did not have the nerve to disturb her, so he withdrew to the kitchen and hovered around the stove, as the kettle whistled louder and louder until the hot steam popped open the lid.

  When Mr. Cheng returned with the tea, Jiang Lili was pacing back and forth, with hands clasped behind her back like a man. He placed the tea on the shaky round table that normally served as a prop.

  Sitting across from her, Mr. Cheng asked, “How’s your husband?”

  Jiang Lili frowned. “Who do you mean? Old Zhang?”

  This was how Mr. Cheng found out her husband’s surname. He deemed it unwise to pursue this line of inquiry and instead asked about her children.

  She frowned again. “Always causing a ruckus, that’s all they know how to do! What else is there to ask about?”

  He considered asking about her work but thought it was not his place to pry into official affairs, so he stifled his words. He truly had nothing else to say, but Jiang Lili would not permit him to remain silent for long. “After all these years, isn’t there anything else you want to know?”

  At that point Mr. Cheng finally realized that she was simply intent on being unreasonable; he decided to be a bit more brazen and put everything on the line.

  “Well, since I keep asking the wrong questions, why don’t you go ahead and ask me something?”

  “Who said you’re always asking the wrong questions?” Jiang Lili warmed up a bit; the cold look on her face had obviously been just a show.

  This strengthened Mr. Cheng’s resolve to remain taciturn. They had come to an impasse. All Jiang Lili could do now was lower her head and sip her tea. The melodious sounds of a steamship whistling from afar contrasted with the stillness in the room, where a genial warmth was gradually emerging. They were both thinking of the past, which was still heartwarming, despite its unpleasant aspects. It may be true that life goes forward, but it can also be said that life is a series of retreats. As one gets older, one is more willing to make accommodations and less likely to mind things.

  “I see not much has changed for you—still here in the same old apartment,” Jiang Lili observed.

  Mr. Cheng lowered his head and responded sheepishly, “I am a man of few desires.”

  Jiang Lili laughed disdainfully. “How could you make such a claim? You have very definite desires.”

  Mr. Cheng didn’t have the courage to answer.

  It was only after a long silence that Jiang Lili asked, “Where does Wang Qiyao live?”

  Mr. Cheng was startled. “You’re looking for her?”

  “If you don’t know, just say so,” she said impatiently.

  “I know where you can find her,” Mr. Cheng hastened to reply.

  “Where?” Jiang Lili sprang to her feet, as if about to rush out immediately to find Wang Qiyao.

  Mr. Cheng also stood up. “I was just getting ready to go over there myself. I’ll take you to see her.... We were actually just talking about you the other day.”

  Invigorated by this turn of events, he forgot the clothes he had come home to pick up and made straight for the door. In the doorway he turned around to discover she had not budged. She was standing there staring at him. Even at a distance he could see the sadness in her eyes. He had the sensation of having stepped back in time to when they were all young. The two stared at each other, each coming to terms with the other’s feelings, before walking out the door.

  It turned out that Jiang Lili was completing the paperwork for admission to the Communist Party. One of the forms required someone to certify the high school listed on the applicant’s résumé—Jiang Lili immediately thought of Wang Qiyao. Wang Qiyao seemed so far away in her past, she almost doubted if the memories of her were real. For more than ten years now, Jiang Lili had been leading a radically different life. She had redirected her passion toward accepting everything that she had once found repugnant. Where she had been impulsive and self-indulgent, she was now self-critical and disciplined. Her ardor left everyone else straggling far behind. She took everything to the brink—and then some. To make up for her bad political background, she was determined always to go against what her heart truly desired—the more she abhorred something, the more she insisted on doing it. Marrying Old Zhang was one example, choosing to work at the cotton mill in Yangshupu another. As time went by, the old Jiang Lili grew increasingly distant; it was as if she was playacting, and her w
hole life was the play.

  Her application for admission to the party was deemed problematic. The authorities conceded that she was a revolutionary—but not in the way they hoped. The reports she wrote nearly every six months overflowed with confessional passion—the feverish prose was a bit too melodramatic even for the party. In 1960 the disease of zealotry was spreading fast—most of those accused of it were petty bourgeoisie. In truth, it is difficult to pinpoint just where the disease originated; each class had its own disease, and most people couldn’t even figure out where they themselves stood.

  Leaving the building, Jiang Lili and Mr. Cheng got on the trolley and rode in silence, listening to the clanking bell. The sound seemed to conquer time and space, remaining constant in the midst of a world in constant flux. Likewise, the trolley tracks were like time tunnels that never moved no matter how many roads they traversed. The three o’clock sunshine had a familiar glow—it was difficult to say whether it belonged to the past, the present, or the future—for thousands of years it had remained unchanged, so it certainly was not going to be fazed by a few decades of human vicissitudes. They got off the trolley, crossed two intersections, and arrived at Peace Lane. There light and sound came in bits and pieces, jumbled together like fabric remnants haphazardly snipped off from the outside world. As they walked silently down the longtang, windows rattled and drops of water from the laundry hanging out overhead dripped down onto their necks.