by Anyi, Wang
How long had it been since he had been to the record store? He didn’t even listen to the records he already had at home, which had all grown dusty. And on nights that he insisted on returning to his tingzijian, he would usually stay up, unable to rest. Outside the dormer window was the open empty sky; he felt if he gazed at it long enough, his heart would fall into it. At moments like this, the nightmares would return with a vengeance to his fully conscious mind; they were particularly vivid at this time and too much for him to handle alone. He couldn’t do it by himself—he had no choice but to go to Wang Qiyao. But that only created a new nightmare. Knowing that he would be restless no matter what, he became resigned to his predicament. One morning, instead of creeping away from Wang Qiyao’s bed right away, he decided to lie there watching the room slowly grow brighter. He glanced at Wang Qiyao with her head resting on the pillow, and she looked back at him. They smiled at each other.
“What should we have for breakfast?” Wang Qiyao asked, as if they were an old married couple.
Without answering, he reached over Wang Qiyao’s body for the pack of cigarettes on the headboard. Wang Qiyao handed it to him, taking one for herself; the way they lit up was also like an old couple. By that time the first rays of sunlight had come into the room, but stopped on one side of the window frame. There was a note of weariness and desolation in the thin mist shrouding the morning sunlight. As if the day was almost over before it had even begun.
“What time do you have to be at work?” Wang Qiyao asked.
He said that he wasn’t working—he was on winter vacation. It dawned on Wang Qiyao that Spring Festival was right around the corner, but she hadn’t done a thing to prepare for it.
“How are you going to spend your vacation this year?” she asked.
“Just like always,” he responded.
“I really don’t know how you usually spend it. Why don’t you tell me?”
He could hear the petulance in her words but decided not to play along.
Wang Qiyao got the message. Putting on a smile, she said, “What about inviting Zhang Yonghong and her boyfriend over right after the New Year?”
He agreed. They lay there smoking and didn’t say anything further. The sun had already bathed the curtains in a crimson glow and filled the room with light, in which the cigarette smoke shimmered and danced. They stayed in bed until noon. Wang Qiyao fixed them a simple bowl of noodles and asked him to help with the spring cleaning. They hung the comforter out in the sun, soaked the sheets in detergent, and pulled the drawers out of the chest to dust them. The work gave them a sense of exhilaration. The dark atmosphere of the previous day and night was swept entirely away and their mood brightened. When they were done sweeping and dusting, Wang Qiyao went back to scrub the bedsheets that had been soaking. She sent Old Colour off to take a shower, asking him to pick up some smoked meats for the New Year dinner on his way back. It was already early evening by the time he got back with the groceries. Although it was late, the apartment was bright, clean, and freshly aired, and dinner was ready on the table. Wang Qiyao was sitting on the sofa knitting a sweater and watching the television.
“Dinner’s ready!” she said as he walked in.
That night was exceptionally peaceful. Old Colour even thought to himself: Isn’t this what everyone aspires to in life? He regaled Wang Qiyao with stories of his childhood, how he hit his head trying to climb over a wall, how he tried to trap a chicken but it ended up eating the bait and getting away, and all kinds of other trifling tales. Wang Qiyao listened quietly with a pleasant smile on her face. But his stories grew increasingly broken and rambling, against which the television sounded like an off-screen commentary. They were startled when an impatient devil in their neighborhood couldn’t wait to set off the first firecracker in celebration of the coming New Year. The bang scared them half to death—it too was like an off-screen sound effect. That was a night that could almost be called sweet and cozy; the nightmares had retreated and insomnia had released its grip. They fell into a deep slumber, undisturbed by fitful sleep-talk. The room was silent, with the exception of the sound of their gentle breathing. The nights of struggle had finally disappeared, leaving a peaceful evening on Peace Lane.
In this atmosphere of peace Spring Festival arrived. This was the Lunar New Year of 1986, an auspicious holiday, and all around were hopeful signs of change. You could tell from the firecrackers going off on New Year’s Eve, the explosions rising and falling with no signs of letting up. When the clock struck midnight, the entire city was filled with the sound of firecrackers and the sky turned red. Shredded remnants of firecracker paper rained down like a riotous collection of flower petals, transforming the streets into crimson highways; this too was a harbinger of good fortune. Had there ever before been so spectacular a New Year celebration? The joyous explosions seemed to declare the coming of a new world.
Just as the firecrackers sending off the old year had died down, more explosions erupted to greet the new. Breaking through the morning fog, the first firecracker of the day reverberated through the sky like a cock crowing at daybreak; this was the sound of a new era being unveiled. It was answered by a chorus of explosions near and far. They weren’t as earthshaking as the night before, but they spread with growing density, not dense like porridge but like a string of large and small pearls being dropped into a jade bowl with crisp ringing sounds—almost like choral music. The music has a polyphonic quality, like a fugue that gradually shifts without the listener even realizing it. Everyone sings in counterpoint, one group harmonizing with the melodies of another. They are actually singing a canon, one wave following the last. Such is the great chorus of the city, with voices chiming in from every crevice and corner. When one gets tired, another takes over, and the music never stops. Listening to that chorus, one realizes that in this city strength lies in unity.
As Wang Qiyao had suggested, Zhang Yonghong and Long Legs came over for dinner on the second day of the New Year. Contrary to their usual routine, Old Colour decided to try his hand in the kitchen. He strapped on Wang Qiyao’s apron and oversleeves and started preparing the day before. Wang Qiyao, playing his assistant, teased him, “Look who is doing the grunt work for you!”
“Only the best are qualified to work for me !” he rejoined.
Wang Qiyao nodded, laughing. “Look who’s talking! If you keep flaunting it, you’ll end up flat on your behind!”
“Don’t worry, if I do, I’m sure someone will pick me up.”
“Who?” Wang Qiyao demanded. “I’ll tell you who . . . YOU!”
They worked the whole of that evening and all through the next morning; it was only around two o’clock on the afternoon of the dinner that things started coming together. Wang Qiyao was quite surprised at how well things were turning out. When she asked Old Colour where he had learned to cook, he just smiled. When she pestered him further, he said that he had learned on his own. In the middle of this conversation, the other two showed up. As always, Long Legs came bearing all manner of gifts, even a bouquet of roses. Although Wang Qiyao chided him for bringing such expensive flowers, she was really quite pleased, thinking this a good omen. One glance at the dishes on the table and Zhang Yonghong immediately knew something was different. She asked if they had hired a new chef. Wang Qiyao shot out her lips in the direction of Old Colour, who smiled but wouldn’t admit to anything.
“Wow! This must have been one expensive chef!” Zhang Yonghong exclaimed.
“Not in the least . . .” Old Colour modestly replied.
Wang Qiyao and Old Colour busied themselves with a few last preparations, and the four of them soon sat down to eat. It was still a bit early for dinner, but things tended to get chaotic around the New Year and they didn’t mind eating early.
Once they had all sat down, Zhang Yonghong and Long Legs toasted the host and the chef before everyone exchanged new year wishes. Next it was Old Colour’s turn to introduce the dishes to them; as he prefaced each with an elaborate preamble, Zha
ng Yonghong was prompted to taunt him, but he didn’t bother to argue—he knew the food would speak for itself. Although visibly impressed, she refused to concede, and this provoked him to take her to task, and so they parried back and forth. Not only were both extremely intelligent, but each had learned a thing or two from Wang Qiyao about how to get a point across; their playful exchanges elicited cries of approval as the other two watched with pleasure. Inspired by their audience, they pushed their performance up another notch and set upon each other with redoubled energy. After who knows how many rounds, there still seemed no end to their resources. Gradually, however, the enthusiasm of the audience flagged, which showed in their lagging applause and waning laughter. Zhang Yonghong and Old Colour eventually had to bring an end to their show even though they could easily have gone on.
This exchange gave each of them a taste of how clever the other could be, which left both exhilarated and wanting another chance to compete. Even as they tried to scale back to a more polite tone, they couldn’t help seasoning their remarks with playful sarcasm. Every time one opened his mouth, out came a provocation, to which the other would respond by taking up the challenge. Over the course of the meal, there were at least two or three times when their exchanges were so brilliant that they seemed perfectly matched. Both relished the excitement of the battle and neither was anxious to declare victory as they reveled in the sheer delight of performance. Wang Qiyao had to call a halt. “Okay, time for a break. You two can pick up again after we have some fruit.”
It was only then that the two snapped out of it and realized they had been ignoring Wang Qiyao and Long Legs. Long Legs appeared especially out of sorts, pacing around the room with a dejected look on his face. Wang Qiyao maintained a smiling composure as she handed out plates of fruit, avoiding Old Colour’s eye as she handed him his portion. Although she politely replied whenever he spoke to her, she made a point of looking away, as if there was something more pressing on her mind. He knew she was upset, but that didn’t seem to spoil his mood; in fact, it seemed to put him in even higher spirits. He eagerly challenged Zhang Yonghong to another round of combat, looking happy and animated, clever in the extreme. But Wang Qiyao refused to look at him. She concentrated on the knitting in her lap, but the smile never left her face. Long Legs, however, had lost patience and was clamoring to leave. When they finally looked at the time, it was already eleven o’clock. Zhang Yonghong got up to leave.
“I’ll leave with you . . .” Old Colour said, and headed out the door with Zhang Yonghong and Long Legs.
One could hear the sounds of their footsteps going down the staircase before everything fell silent. Wang Qiyao walked over to the kitchen and was getting ready to wash the dishes when she heard the rattling of their bicycles as they pushed them through the back entrance under the window. Someone said he couldn’t find the key to his bicycle lock. It was only after a search that the key was found, and she heard a sharp click as the lock snapped open and they all rode away. Wang Qiyao looked at the sink full of dishes and was at a momentary loss as to where to begin. After staring a while at the dirty pile, she turned off the light and went into her bedroom.
After Old Colour parted with the others outside, he rode around the block before making his way back to Wang Qiyao’s place. There was hardly anyone out and only a single public bus rumbled down the deserted streets. He could hear the hissing sound of his bicycle chain going around; the excitement that had kept him going all evening began to quell. He was quite the child who, having had his share of pranks, wanted to go home now. Having got his kicks for the evening, he was feeling exceptionally relaxed. He admired the dark silhouettes of the buildings on the streets and the shadowy outline of the parasol tree branches. Various scattered thoughts raced through his mind as, gradually, he found himself approaching the longtang that he knew oh, so well.
Old Colour saw there was a single light on down the alley of the longtang . A stray cat scurried by in front of his bicycle, its paws making a soft sound on the cement. He silently parked his bicycle outside the back entrance to Wang Qiyao’s building; after feeling for his key, he unlocked the door. When he got upstairs, he took out the other key to unlock the apartment door, but it wouldn’t open. He put his ear up against the door, but all he heard was a deathly silence—Wang Qiyao had bolted the door. He paused for a moment before tiptoeing back downstairs and scurrying out through the back door. Though he had been locked out, he wasn’t in the least bit upset. It’s not my fault! he thought as he rode out of the longtang . As he peddled out of Peace Lane, his shadow suddenly appeared on the ground beneath his feet and for some reason this made him ecstatic. Taking one foot off the pedal, he straightened his back and looked up to the sky—what a quiet night it was! He pedaled home, riding like the wind, and from far off he had already caught sight of his dormer window extending out from the rooftop. He could almost hear the sound of jazz music playing, the saxophone echoing in his ears.
He didn’t leave his apartment for the next two days. For the third and fourth day of the New Year, Old Colour sat in his third-floor tingzijian listening to jazz records. Everything seemed to be back the way it had been a few months earlier. The phonograph needle made a scratchy sound as it went over the grooves on the record—that was the sound of it welcoming him back, pleasantly surprised that he was suddenly paying it attention again. He carefully went through his collection, using a fine brush to dust off all his records. He ate all his meals at home: the taste of his mother’s cooking was another reunion. His parents expressed their joy that he was back home with a childlike bashfulness; when father and son sat across from each other at the dinner table, they avoided one another’s gaze. The fact that no friends came to visit him during those days showed just how long it had been since he had last spent time at home. He lay on his mattress, staring up at the triangular ceiling, and felt at ease. The peace he felt was not the kind that comes after everything has been resolved; it was tinged with anticipation, but he didn’t yet know what it was that he was waiting for.
Outside the window, children were still occasionally setting off firecrackers and he could hear the neighbors exchanging formalities with the visitors who were coming and going. That was what the New Year was all about! Family’s family, after all, and visitors are visitors. He spent the fifth and sixth days of the New Year at home as well; his parents went back to work, the firecrackers grew less frequent, the longtang became more peaceful, and things got back to normal. Because everyday life had been sorted out by the holidays, they were better able to take hold of their emotions, to let bygones be bygones and start afresh. The seventh day of the New Year fell on a Sunday and the festive spirit of the holiday enjoyed a momentary revival, inspiring a few ripples of excitement. Old Colour decided to go out and rode his bicycle unhurriedly down the streets. Some of the shops were open, but some were still closed for the holiday. Between the paving stones were burnt-out remnants of firecrackers still waiting to be swept away, and a burst balloon that hadn’t quite made it to heaven was hanging on a tree branch. As he approached Peace Lane, Old Colour noticed the sun shining on the building that stood at its entrance; on the cement slab bearing the inscription of the year the building had been completed, the numbers were worn and appeared dispirited. The gray and dilapidated entrance too had a dispirited air. Old Colour’s bicycle glided past the entrance to Peace Lane without going in; he wanted to test himself to see just how stubborn and unreasonable he could be. He rode faster, swaying slightly as he went—he no longer looked like Old Colour, but rather a modern youth surging forward with an indomitable will.
A few days later the schools were back in session and he went back to work. He had a full schedule and would leave early and not return home until late. He went to bed early every night and slept peacefully. Spring had begun to adorn the dark roof tiles outside his dormer window. The wild grass that sprang up from between the tiles was nameless, but it grew thick. The sunlight was warmish and had a moist feel. Even the songs of birds
sounded richer, as if they had endless things to say. Waking up in the morning, he would wonder, What good things are going to happen today? Even people who are wise to the ways of the world can’t help being infected by this strange hope. That was the benefit of spring: everyone looks on the bright side of things and feels more lighthearted.
That Sunday, he finally went to Wang Qiyao’s apartment. As he entered the back alley, he suddenly began to feel lost, and even asked himself, What kind of place is this? Had he even been there before? But his bicycle seemed to know the way and he rode right up to Wang Qiyao’s building. He left his bicycle outside the back door and went straight up the stairs. Her door was closed. He knocked but no one answered. He took out his key, but before he could get it into the keyhole, the door opened. The curtains were all pulled shut, but the noon sun had managed to creep in, filling the room with a hazy glare that mingled with the cigarette smoke in the air. Wang Qiyao had got up and put on her nightgown before opening the door, but once she had let him in, she went back to bed.
“Are you sick?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. He approached, intending to console her, but as soon as he saw the stains on her pillow from her hair dye, his heart sank. There was a stale odor lingering from the previous day, which also brought his spirits down.
“It’s stuffy in here,” he said as he went to open a window. The glare of the sun blinded him as he pulled the curtain back.
“We should start preparing lunch . . .” he said, trying to put on a cheerful air.