by Anyi, Wang
The shoulders and back on Western-style suits no longer drape properly; neckties are worn all over the streets, but the fabric from which they are made is mediocre and even the facing is third rate. Young girls wear their hair long, and it is disheveled for lack of proper care. The heels of their shoes have been jacked up in defiance of the principles of physics, so nine out of ten heels are crooked and the girls wobble around perilously as if walking on stilts. Nothing could escape the prevailing crudeness and mediocrity in the general rush to produce instant results. Looking back, Wang Qiyao felt that people were much better off during the Cultural Revolution, when they had to wear the same blue cloth jackets rather than these outlandish outfits that did not fit them. At least back then they had the elegance of simplicity.
One could barely stand to look at the street scenes of Shanghai, which, having been suppressed, now erupted in a fiery ball of noise and clamor. They say that everything has returned to its former condition. But what comes back is not what was once there but something else. You can make out only the faintest outline of what it used to be. The neon lights are flashing again, but the night has changed; the old store signs are back up, but the stores are not what they once were; the street names have been changed back, but the pedestrians on those streets bear no resemblance to the people who once walked there.
Even so, Weiwei had a deep fondness for her era. After all, who doesn’t like the era in which they live? It is not a matter of choice; even if you don’t like it, you’d better learn to, because once it is gone, there is nothing left. Weiwei was not exposed to any radical ideas—her every move was in pace with the times. Virtually everyone in Shanghai was in step with the era, sometimes even driving it on. The tide was overpowering. Who could tell what kinds of crazy things Weiwei would have done if she didn’t have Wang Qiyao to pick on from time to time? As she walked along the crowded streets, her heart swelled with joy for having been born during this glorious time. When she saw her own blurry image reflected in the storefront windows, that was the shape of modernity. She was always in a good mood because she was able to project all of her unhappiness onto her mother. If she was upset at home, the moment she stepped out the door she would be all smiles. The streets were hers and she had the right to say anything she wanted. What she hated seeing most were provincial people from outside Shanghai; she always gave them dirty looks. As far as she was concerned, being one of those people must have been the cruelest fate one could endure. So besides the satisfaction she got from being born to her generation, she was also very proud of her city. Her lips bubbled over with all the latest hip expressions; when she spoke like that at home Wang Qiyao could not understand a word of what she said, but the vulgarity disgusted her. Out in the streets Weiwei was always full of spunk. Anyone who might happen to step on her foot was in for a scene—and heaven forbid if that person happened to be from out-of-town. Most people don’t dare mess with girls her age—cocky, supercilious, sarcastic, and full of themselves. But if they were to cross paths with a few hooligans looking for trouble, that would be another story. That is why they always traveled in groups of four or five. And if one of them happened to have a boyfriend, their haughtiness would know no bounds—what you would call “fearing nothing and no one.”
Weiwei and the other girls of her generation who own the streets of Shanghai have one quality never displayed by previous generations—gluttony. Looking carefully, you will see that, virtually without exception, they are always chewing on something with a look of pleasure etched on their faces. Their lips and teeth are abnormally nimble, adept at separating sunflower seeds from their shells. Their sensitive tongues can discriminate an endless palette of flavors. Their strong stomachs are able to handle a variety of snacks in addition to the usual three meals a day. Actually, girls from past generations were gluttons too, they just had better sense than to show it; but not anymore. This generation’s gluttony actually endears them to us—they are almost cute. In the movie theaters those noises of mice nibbling in the night are today’s modern girls munching away. They don’t pretend to have good manners, for theirs is a bold new attitude. If you can leave your ego aside and put up with their unforthcoming demeanor, you will be able to make friends with them before long, and then you will have someone with whom to exchange all of your thoughts about modernity.
Another characteristic of these modern girls is their propensity for making a scene. Wherever they go, they like to announce their presence with nonstop chattering, like a nestful of magpies. Most of them have clear, high-pitched voices and take special pleasure in laughing out loud. They don’t like to reveal their deepest thoughts at home, saving that for when they are out in the open, and half of what they say ends up being overheard by someone else. Their agile mouths are good not only for eating, but also for talking. Even those gossipy old amahs are no match for them, munching away in between their chitchat. One marvels how their tongues can keep up with all that talking and eating. But most of what they say is of little consequence; scarcely a word of all their prattle remains when they are done. But the girls of today have simple, sincere hearts; with the obstinacy of peasants, they set their sights on the road to modernity, and nothing will stop them.
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’s Girlfriend
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 Yon
ghong. 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.
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 outw
eighed 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.”