Authors: Wang Anyi

Song of Everlasting Sorrow (34 page)

BOOK: Song of Everlasting Sorrow

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“It’s so easy to forget the time when you’re playing mahjong,” sighed Madame Yan, who did feel a tinge of regret when the game was finally over. Soon after she left, Uncle Maomao and Sasha also said goodnight. Wang Qiyao listened to the rattling sounds of their bicycle chains as they receded into the night, until silence once again reigned over the
longtang.

The next time they saw Uncle Maomao, the ladies scolded him for bringing such a strange fellow into their midst. He appeared so different from them and there was virtually no common language between them; could he possibly be trusted? Uncle Maomao explained that Sasha was his bridge partner, and a very close friend. He was the son of a high official, who had been sent from Yan’an to Russia, and the Russian woman he married there. Didn’t they know that Sasha was a Russian name? His father died during the War and his mother returned to Russia, so Sasha had been raised by his grandmother in Shanghai. Due to ill health, he had never taken the college entrance examinations and never left home. Not only did this account of Sasha’s background fail to reassure the ladies, it actually made them even more apprehensive about him. This was a source of amusement to Uncle Maomao, who assured them they had nothing to worry about, even though he didn’t bother explaining why. In spite of their wariness, Uncle Maomao brought Sasha back to visit. Gradually, the ladies grew intrigued by him and began to let their guard down. They felt that knowing him somehow expanded their horizons, and Sasha’s Mandarin became yet another interesting thing about him. Once they had got over their initial prejudice, he really began to grow on them. He was a lively, easygoing fellow, eager to make friends despite his air of superiority. In short, with his knowledge of the game and his impeccable manners, he was the perfect mahjong partner.

Afternoon Tea

Eventually Sasha wound up not only coming to play mahjong at night, but he even joined them in the afternoons when they weren’t playing. Their gathering place shifted from the Yan townhouse to Wang Qiyao’s place, partly for the convenience of her patients and partly because everyone felt more comfortable there. The sumptuousness of the Yan household made them self-conscious; even Madame Yan preferred Wang Qiyao’s place to her own. They came to expect Sasha and would ask after him if he failed to appear.

The four had plenty to do to amuse themselves even when they weren’t playing mahjong. The blue flame burning all day on the alcohol burner seemed like a dancing spirit. Wang Qiyao always had some simple but scrumptious refreshments for them—whether Western cakes or Chinese dumplings—unless Madame Yan had left instructions ahead of time for Mama Zhang to buy something from Qiaojiazha or Wangjiasha. Uncle Maomao was put in charge of tea and coffee. This became a way of life. Initially, refreshments were prepared for the gatherings, but now they gathered for the refreshments. Sasha always came empty-handed and left with his belly full, but the others didn’t seem to mind. However, one day when he did not show up, the others, assuming that he had been detained at the last minute, started in on the tea and conversation without him. At dusk, just as they were getting ready to wrap it up for the night, they heard footsteps coming from the stairway. Sasha appeared, panting and covered with sweat. He had a bundle wrapped in newspaper, which he opened up to reveal a large loaf of round bread with a crispy crust, still hot and aromatic, obviously fresh out of the oven. Still out of breath, Sasha explained that he had had a Russian friend bake this loaf of Russian bread for them, hoping it would be ready for their afternoon tea, but the process had turned out to be more complicated than they thought. He was like a little boy in his naïve enthusiasm and they were deeply moved. From that day on they looked on him as one of their own, and afternoon tea became a routine that took place at least once or twice a week.

Wang Qiyao straightened up her apartment on these occasions. She would put away the feminine articles that she had always had on the table and set out some snacks, such as hawthorn slices or dried mangoes. Before the guests arrived, she laid the table with the gold- trimmed cups and saucers that she had bought especially for these gatherings. The refreshments for the next gathering were a matter of collective discussion, but since it was always held at her place, more often than not she ended up being the provider. She didn’t mind the extra expense, but she did appreciate the dried longans, red dates, and lotus plumules that Uncle Maomao frequently brought along in addition to the tea and coffee for which he was responsible. Wang Qiyao was pleasantly surprised that he had noticed how much energy she put into their gatherings, and was moved by his thoughtfulness. Sasha, on the other hand, did not seem to feel the need to contribute anything more than that one loaf of bread.

After a while, Madame Yan got tired of sending Mama Zhang out to buy refreshments and suggested that they share the food bill equally. Wang Qiyao, however, would not hear of it, saying that this would turn their casual get-togethers into something much too formal. Uncle Maomao came up with a better idea: that they keep track of their mahjong winnings and put them in a common pool for refreshments. This had the added benefit of making the games more exciting. Madame Yan and Sasha were in favor, and Wang Qiyao did not resist, lest Uncle Maomao’s good intentions go to waste. So it was settled. From then on a few dollars were handed over to Wang Qiyao after every mahjong game. Wang Qiyao took her responsibility seriously, carefully marking down in a notebook the dates of proceeds and expenses and where the money went—not that she thought anybody would check the accounts, but more for her own peace of mind. Now officially in charge, she tried hard to think of new delights to serve her friends. When she ran out of ideas, she would consult Uncle Maomao, who not only happily offered opinions, but volunteered to make the purchases. Madame Yan and Sasha had only to bring their mouths to eat, drink, and talk.

Some time after Sasha had presented the loaf of bread, he brought the Russian woman who had baked it to meet them. She came in a checked woolen coat and short boots trimmed with fur. Her hair was combed back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Tall and stately, with blue eyes and fair skin, she looked like a movie star stepping out from the screen. In the presence of this dazzling prodigy, Wang Qiyao’s apartment appeared small and dark, and Sasha, around whose shoulders she had draped her arm, looked like he could be her son. As Sasha looked at her, his eyes took on a salacious gleam that resembled a cat’s. She gazed back at him in fascination. Sasha helped her off with her coat, revealing, under a tight sweater, breasts that stood out like two small mountains. It was only after she and Sasha sat down close together, side by side, that they noticed the pores on her face and the wrinkles and blemishes on her neck. She spoke Mandarin with a heavy accent, using expressions that they found hilarious. Every time they laughed at something she said, Sasha’s eyes would scan their faces with a complacent expression. She addressed Wang Qiyao and Madame Yan alike as “young lady,” which made the two women blush and giggle. Her appetite was huge: she drank cup after cup of tea with sugar, ate bowl after bowl of osmanthus-flavored red bean porridge, and helped herself to large quantities of sesame candies and mandarin orange cookies from the table.

The pores on her face reddened, her eyes began to shine, and she became loquacious, putting on droll expressions that made them laugh even more. The more they laughed, the more she exerted herself, till everyone was almost on the point of hysteria. When, finally, she decided to entertain them with a dance, they were in positive transports of glee. Crashing into the table and chairs, she shimmied toward Sasha, who had been clapping to keep time, and embraced him passionately as if they were alone. It was all the others could do to avert their eyes as they tittered. Come nightfall, she was still glued to her chair, picking at the crumbs of sesame candies from the plate and licking her fingertips with a famished glint in her eyes, and seemed to have no intention of leaving. Sasha had the good sense to take her home. As they tottered down stairs, hugging each other, her raucous laughter could be heard reverberating throughout the
longtang.
Behind her she left an apartment in disarray, spilled tea and food stains on the tablecloth, and three people sitting in a stupor on the sofa, too exhausted even to turn on the light.

This, however, was not their typical tea party. Mostly they talked quietly as the afternoon sun shifted and the light grew softer. When they were not talking, they would look at each other meaningfully, as if they had a great deal more to say. Wang Qiyao did not bother to make dinner after the guests departed, instead just heating up whatever leftovers were on the table. Her apartment appeared especially quiet and empty after these gatherings, and she felt more restless than usual. At such times everything seemed pointless and she could not summon enough energy to do anything. Sleepless, her mind would be filled with countless things, and even the moonlight was irritating. She wished that someone would show up for an injection. Sometimes she would rise from bed and light the alcohol burner, just for the sake of having something to do; at other times she would try some needlework but then quickly lose interest, oblivious even when the ball of yarn rolled beneath the sofa. She might pick up the evening newspapers and blankly read through them without really taking anything in; or perhaps she would sit before the mirror brushing her hair, not knowing who the person staring back at her was. Her thoughts, incoherent, seemed to come from nowhere. She flipped a coin on the table, forgetting what she wanted to predict and which side she favored; playing solitaire, she forgot which cards should be moved onto which.

In the
longtang
they had done away with the routine of sounding a clapper to remind people to put out their kitchen fires and substituted a bell, which rang much colder in the peaceful night. Hearing that bell, Wang Qiyao realized she would have to live with loneliness until the next afternoon tea. The gaiety of their afternoon tea parties did not seem to make up for the loneliness she suffered afterward. She started to go to the late show at the theater. Late-night movies were the only semblance of a night life that remained in the city, flickering embers of the city that used to never sleep. However, half of the seats in the theater would be empty, and the silent streets she passed on her way home were always deserted. The shadows of parasol trees, the tired faces of people waiting for the trolley, the sound of the bell as the trolley rolled to a stop, the streetlamps and neon lights, all spoke of the lateness of the hour. But even in the dead of night, a feeble light was struggling through, like a hidden current that can be felt only by those intent on sensing it.

Now it behooved Uncle Maomao to consult with Wang Qiyao on refreshments the day before the afternoon tea parties, so that he could make the necessary purchases. Sometimes their discussion lasted late into the afternoon, and Wang Qiyao would ask him to stay for dinner, inviting Madame Yan to join them. After a while, Madame Yan would come on her own accord and Sasha, too, would arrive for the occasion. Thus, dinners preceding afternoon teas became routine, and they had to raise the ante at the mahjong games to cover the extra expense. In fact, the mahjong games became indispensable. That was fine for every one except Sasha, who frequently made excuses for not showing up. They understood his problem but no one wanted to speak of it. Wang Qiyao began to notice that sometimes, during a game, Uncle Maomao would refrain from declaring victory even when he drew the tile he had clearly been waiting for, instead throwing the game so that Sasha could take the winnings. She developed a new contempt for Sasha and a new admiration for Uncle Maomao for the discreet attempts to help him.

One day, when Wang Qiyao happened to draw a tile that she knew Uncle Maomao had been waiting for, she put it up for grabs at the center of the table, glancing briefly at Uncle Maomao. After a momentary hesitation, Uncle Maomao took it and announced that he had won big. Wang Qiyao was inordinately pleased that she had guessed right and, moreover, that he had let her do him a favor. To her dismay, Sasha pushed over her entire hand for all to see, exclaiming, “How could you give up a tile that you could have used yourself, just so that he could win?”

Hurriedly shuffling the tiles, Wang Qiyao said that she had sacrificed the match in hopes of drawing a new tile that would give her a perfect hand. Inwardly, she was fuming,
Sasha, you have no idea how many times you won at the expense of others!

Madame Yan, however, was offended. “Everyone here should follow the rules of the game! No playing favorites!”

This embarrassed Wang Qiyao even more, and she reiterated her regret at having relinquished a match in vain. This failed to placate Sasha and Madame Yan, and they stopped the game as soon as the round was over. The next time Uncle Maomao came over to discuss refreshments, Wang Qiyao complained, “Sasha may be a man, but he’s pettier than most women.”

“I feel sorry for him,” replied Uncle Maomao. “The guy’s unemployed but bent on having a good time. The government allowance he gets for being the son of a martyr is barely enough for him to play billiards.”

“I am not upset about the money,” said Wang Qiyao. “It’s about playing fair. I didn’t want anyone to chip in for the refreshments; they don’t amount to much anyway.”

Uncle Maomao laughed. “Why should you make such a big deal about it then? Let me apologize to you on behalf of Sasha.”

“Sasha’s not the only one who should apologize,” said Wang Qiyao.

“I apologize for my cousin’s behavior as well,” Uncle Maomao declared soothingly.

BOOK: Song of Everlasting Sorrow

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