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

by Anyi, Wang

  When Long Legs made his return, it was with a new, completely refurbished appearance. He was in high spirits, smiling from ear to ear, had a sharp new haircut, and was wearing fresh clothes, and his wallet was stuffed with cash—even his posture was better than it had been in years. He wanted to invite everyone out for barbeque at the Beer Garden, the new restaurant that had just opened in the Jinjiang Hotel. It was an early autumn night. The candles on the tables flickered in the wind, as did the flames in the barbeque pit, the wine inside the glasses had a shiny luster, and the faint smoke from the pit faded into the breeze. Tears almost came to Long Legs’ eyes as he thought: Am I dreaming? The canvas canopy above them was like a sail, billowing up from time to time, as if carrying them off to some warm place far, far away. That was how an evening in Shanghai ought to be—all other occasions were the dregs of this one. Such a sudden departure followed by a dramatic return surely meant adding an exciting new chapter to his family myth. On nights like this, in a place as beautiful as a crystal palace, people tended to believe whatever they were told—adults too need a place to exercise their imagination. A few insects nibbled gently on people’s feet on the lawn, all around them was Western-style architecture, the leaves of French parasol trees hung down over them, and melodious music played. But all of this was only secondary: what was most important was inside their hearts—what they were feeling in their hearts! They didn’t seem to be people at all, but celestial beings. But the words deep inside Long Legs’ heart didn’t form complete sentences, his song was out of tune; his knees were knocking gently and his fingers tapping against his leg could not keep time. What’s intoxication? This was intoxication. It had only been a few days, but Long Legs had already experienced two different lives.

  Long Legs hadn’t come by in several days and Wang Qiyao was almost certain he was a fraud; but when he showed up at last, she was confused again. Long Legs didn’t bother explaining where he had been; instead he carelessly put down a bag of gifts on which DUTY FREE was printed in both Chinese and English. Wang Qiyao wondered where he had been, but instead of inquiring about that, asked him why he hadn’t brought Zhang Yonghong along. Even before she had finished her question, Zhang Yonghong came up the stairs—she had been out in the longtang making a phone call. As it turned out, Old Colour was there too, and the four of them sat down to chat. After his brief absence, Long Legs looked around Wang Qiyao’s apartment and felt quite moved: It hasn’t changed one bit. He felt as if he had been gone an eternity, but all the people and things here were still the same; it was as if they had all been awaiting his return and he felt a warmth surging into his heart.

  In order to get his life back, Long Legs had become a swindler. Two nights earlier, in a longtang off Lujiazui Road in Pudong, he was exchanging money with a client when he secretly replaced a stack of ten twentydollar bills with one dollar bills. There was nothing new about this type of scam, but for Long Legs it was the first time: a shameful blemish on his record as a currency trader. On the ferry from Pudong back to Puxi, Long Legs gazed up at the moon veiled in clouds and his heart sank. If he hadn’t had nowhere else to turn, he would have never gone down that path. Part of Long Legs’ good-natured disposition was his purity, but now that purity had been tarnished and his heart ached silently. At that moment he looked out across the water and saw the lights and majestic architecture of Shanghai on the opposite shore. The buildings were like a mountain range rising before his eyes, gilded by the lights of the city. The night was calling out to him and oh, how it captivated his soul!

  Chapter 4

  Misfortunes from Within

  AGAINST THE CLAMOR of the city, who could hear the prayers being uttered in Peace Lane? Who would notice people whose dearest wish in life is not to be praised for merit but only to avoid making mistakes? Here a lean-to shed has been added on to the terrace and the courtyard roofed over to make a kitchen. If you were to look down upon the rooftops of the city, you would find them in utter disarray, worn and dilapidated, structures built on top of structures, taking up every bit of free space. This was especially true of the older longtang, like Peace Lane—it’s a miracle that they haven’t collapsed yet. About a third of the tiles were broken, patched over in places with bits of felt, the wooden frames on the doors and windows were blackened and rotting, with everything in view a uniform ash gray.

  But though it was falling apart on the outside, the spirit of the place remained; its inner voice, though stifled, was still audible. But amid all the noises of this city, just what did this voice amount to? There was never a moment of peace and quiet in the city; the day had its sounds, as did the night, and between them they drowned that voice out. But it was still there—it couldn’t be silenced because it was the foundation upon which the hubbub and commotion fed; without it all of those noises would have been nothing but an empty echo. But what did this voice say? Two words: to live. No matter how loud the noise became, no matter what a rumpus it made, or how long it carried on, it could never find those two words. Those two little words weighed a ton, so they sank, and sank—all the way down, to the very bottom; only immaterial things like smoke and mist could float up to the surface. It was impossible to listen to this voice without crying. The prayers whispered in Peace Lane went on day and night, like an ever-burning alter lamp, but they weren’t burning on oil: inch by inch, they were burning thoughts. In contrast, the chaotic noises echoing in the city’s air were nothing but the scraps and leftovers of life, which is why they could be so liberally strewn about. The prayers concealed throughout those thousands of Shanghai longtang rang out louder and clearer than all the church bells in Europe: they created a rumbling thunder that seemed to emerge from the earth itself, the sound of mountains crumbling. A shame we had no way of participating in this ourselves, but just looking at the abyss they created was enough to make the heart grow cold. See what they have done to this place! It is hard to say whether this was a form of construction or destruction, but whatever it was, it was massive.

  What Peace Lane prayed for was peace itself. You could hear it even from the bell that was rung every night to warn people to mind their kitchen fires. Peace is not something ordinary, but Peace Lane had an ordinary heart and its prayers were quite humble as well; these modest requests, however, were not easily granted. No major disaster had befallen Peace Lane in many years, but little things kept coming up, such as someone falling off the balcony while bringing in their laundry, another getting electrocuted when he turned off a light switch with a wet hand, pressure cooker explosions, rat poison accidentally ingested. If all these, who died wrongful deaths, had cried out, their howls would have been deafening. So how could one not pray for peace and security?

  In the early evening, when the lights came on, you could see in all the windows the watchful eyes of frightened people looking out for signs of trouble. But whenever something bad did happen, no one ever saw it coming. This was where Peace Lane had gone numb and where it displayed its pragmatism. The residents were never prepared for the closest dangers. Yes, they understood the dangers of fire and electricity, but beyond that they had no imagination. And so if you were to see the people of Peace Lane praying, they would be like idiots reciting a book from memory, chanting with their lips but not their minds, repeating the same incantations over and over again. Meanwhile the flowerpot sitting on the windowsill was just an inch away from falling down, but no one ever bothered to move it; the termites had already done their work on the floors, but no one ever seemed to care; illegal structures kept being added one on top of the other, causing the foundation to sink, yet another one was about to be built. During the typhoon season, when Peace Lane shook and rattled and it appeared as if the entire neighborhood was going to pieces, people curled up in their rooms, complacently enjoying the cool breeze brought by the storm. What people in Peace Lane prayed for was to be able to live in a fool’s paradise—they would rather turn a blind eye and never ask questions. The pigeon whistles sounding in the morning sang of peace, annou
ncing the good but never the bad; but even if they had, would that have made a difference? You might be able to escape it in the first round, but would you escape in the second? Put that way, those prayers must imply an acceptance, a sort of Daoist resignation to reality. For want of anything else to pray for, night after night they pray for peace, but that was just wishful thinking.

  The wind whistles across the street and down the alleys, picking up handfuls of dead leaves along the way. Sunlight, also in handfuls, seemed reluctant to leave the long, winding longtang behind. Summer was gone, autumn waning. The houses at the end of longtang had their doors and windows all tightly shut. The sweet-scented oleander shed its petals; stories that never got a chance to be told were swallowed back down and kept quiet. This was the moment when the Shanghai longtang showed their solemn side; their solemnity carried weight and from it you could feel the pressure of time. This longtang had already built up its own history and history always shows a stern face, making the longtang put its frivolous side away. How unruly it used to be!—Seductive eyes peeking out of every corner, one false step and you would be ensnared.

  But now the story seems to be coming to an end. Even those who attempt brazen acts with a smiling façade are met with sober, straight faces: the time for equivocation was over. The tide was receding and the rocks would soon be exposed. Counting on one’s fingers, one finds that the Shanghai longtang have quite a few years on them—a few more and they’ll be treading on thin ice. Going up again to the highest point in the city and looking down, one sees that the crisscrossing longtang neighborhoods are already beginning to look desolate. If these had been large imposing building, that desolation might be mitigated by their grand proportions. But longtang buildings all have low walls and narrow courtyards, filled with ordinary people carrying out their mundane tasks: could places like these be thought of as desolate? Desolation takes on a comical aspect in such places, and that only makes the people living there all the more dejected. Putting it in harsher terms: the whole place bore a certain resemblance to a heap of rubble. With the leaves falling in early winter, all we see are broken bricks and shattered tiles. Like an aging beauty who retains her alluring profile, it can no longer bear scrutiny. Should you insist on searching for a trace of her former charm—after all, not everything is erased—you would have to look for it in the turn of the alley. Left here, right there, as if glancing coquettishly from side to side, but the eyes that are so flirtatious are also getting on in years, they have lost their luster and are incapable of grabbing hold of your attention. Soon, sleet began to come down—that was the frigid past accumulated over generations—turning to water before it even hit the ground.

  Let’s now look into the longtang windows to see what is happening inside Peace Lane. In the quarter built right over the entrance lives the family of the old man who used to sweep the streets in the longtang. A Shandong native, he passed away year before last and his funeral portrait is hanging on the wall. At the table beneath his portrait his grandson is doing homework; he is supposed to write each Chinese character twenty times over, but he is so drowsy that nothing can pry his eyes back open. Downstairs, in the apartment with the lean-to shed, the dinner party is still going on. They have not had that much to drink, just a quart of Shaoxing wine, but they are taking their time, savoring each and every drop. Going deeper into the neighborhood, we look through a kitchen window and see two women whispering in hushed tones, their eyes making dramatic gestures—it is a mother and daughter exchanging nasty words about the new daughter-in-law. Following the street number signs hanging over the doors, we arrive at the next household, where the front room is filled with people playing mahjong—one can hear the clacking of the tiles as the players shuffle them and their voices calling out different hands. The players look as if they belong to the same family, but their grim expressions show they are playing for real stakes. The couple next door is in the middle of an argument, exchanging insults and curses. It’s clear they can no longer stand each other—not even one more night; so back and forth they go on a violent seesaw. The lights are out in the next apartment over: maybe the people are asleep, or maybe they have yet to come home. At 18 Peace Lane, the retired tailor, now working on his own, is busy cutting fabric as his wife carefully threads a needle; the television is on, but they are both too preoccupied to watch.

  That’s right. Although each family was busy with their own affairs, there was one thing that they all had in common—television. Whether they were playing mahjong, drinking, arguing, or reading, the television was always on. It didn’t matter whether or not they were watching or even listening, they just liked to have it on. Most of them kept it on the same channel, usually one of those with endless miniseries that dominated the evening’s activities. Finally, we reach Wang Qiyao’s window. Perhaps you expected it to be lonely on the inside, but it is surprisingly packed with people, some sitting on the sofa, some in chairs, and even a few on the floor, while others stood or leaned up against the wall, and the whole room was filled with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. They were having a party and oh, how exciting it was!

  Once again Wang Qiyao’s apartment had come alive with people, mostly young friends of hers. Pretty, refined, bright, and fashionable: just seeing them there was enough to make one light up with joy. They appeared in Peace Lane like a flock of golden phoenixes alighting in a nest of grass. Staring at them as they disappeared into Wang Qiyao’s apartment, the neighbors marveled at her ability to bring together the best and brightest of Shanghai’s fashionable elite. Everyone forgot how old she was, just as they had forgotten how old Peace Lane was. They even forgot about her daughter, taking her for a single woman who had never borne a child. If there is such a thing as an evergreen tree, she was one, untouched by the seasons. And now she had a new set of carefree young friends; they made themselves at home in her apartment, which became a palace of youth. Sometimes even Wang Qiyao herself wondered if time had stopped and everything was still as it had been forty years before. It was easy to get carried away, to focus on the pleasure at hand and leave reality behind.

  The visitors to Wang Qiyao’s apartment were actually people we run into every day—we just didn’t make the connection. If you went to Market 16, for instance, you would surely recognize one or two of the dockworkers bringing in the crabs. Or you would discover that one of the guys selling crickets in the small local market looked awfully familiar. The scalpers outside the movie theater, the hustlers trying to purchase bonds on the stock exchange . . . they came from every profession and you could see traces of their activity everywhere. They spent their free time at Wang Qiyao’s apartment, drinking coffee and eating the exquisite dim sum she had prepared—they couldn’t have wished for a nicer place. They would always bring along their friends; Wang Qiyao didn’t even know all of their names and then there were others whom she knew only by their nicknames, and still others whom she never even got a good look at. There were too many in this mixed crowd, and she couldn’t give everyone equal attention. Her salons were beginning to gain a degree of notoriety in Shanghai; people from all over the city came to see what all the fuss was about and as a result spread the word even farther.

  But Wang Qiyao’s regular visitors were still that same trio of old friends—Old Colour was one, and Zhang Yonghong and Long Legs were the other two. They had grown closer and would often go out together for tea or dinner while on other nights they would all go out dancing or to the movies. In the winter Wang Qiyao would set up a hotpot in her apartment and they would sit around eating and telling stories; time would fly by and the sky would gradually darken, but that hotpot only got hotter. Suddenly Wang Qiyao was struck by a feeling of déjà vu: all of this had happened before, only the faces had changed, and a feeling of sadness would hit her. Then, as a fresh piece of charcoal beneath the pot burst into flames, a crimson glow illuminated Wang Qiyao’s face. The light accentuated the wrinkles on her face. It was only for a split second, but Old Colour saw everything. Shock was followed
by anguish. She’s an old woman. . . . They ate until they were stuffed, at which point they all fell silent. Even Zhang Yonghong and Long Legs quieted down, each consumed by their own thoughts, which carried them far away. It was quite some time before Wang Qiyao suddenly let out a gentle chuckle, and the others were startled to find how dark it had got. Wang Qiyao rose to turn on the light and added more water to the hotpot.

  “How come no one’s talking?”

  “Why don’t you say something then?”

  Wang Qiyao chortled again. When they asked her what was so funny she didn’t answer. It was only after they pressed her that she responded, “Seeing the three of you reminds me of something . . .”

  But when they asked what it was, she blew it off, saying it had nothing to do with them. This felt as if she was intentionally trying to push their buttons, and her guests insisted on an answer. Only after much pressing did Wang Qiyao finally burst out, “I was just wondering what kind of future lies in store for the three of you!”

  They were all taken aback. After a pause, Zhang Yonghong asked, “And what about your future? You don’t know what will happen to you either. . . .”

  “What future do I have?” asked Wang Qiyao. “For me the future is now!”