Song of Everlasting Sorrow (45 page)

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Authors: Wang Anyi

BOOK: Song of Everlasting Sorrow
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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 whole 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.
Arriving at Wang Qiyao’s back door, Mr. Cheng reached into his pocket and took out a key. Focusing on that key, Jiang Lili’s eyes suddenly took on a piercing gleam, but when Mr. Cheng noticed her expression, she quickly looked away. Embarrassed, he wanted to explain, but Jiang Lili stepped briskly ahead of him and went inside. Upstairs, Wang Qiyao was awake but still resting in bed. Inside the darkened room, Wang Qiyao did not immediately recognize Jiang Lili. By the time she did, Jiang Lili was already standing in front of her, looking down at her. Their faces were close—almost touching—their eyes met and each held the other’s gaze. It was only for a split second, but all of the sights and sounds they had experienced during all those years apart seemed to pass through their eyes. Wang Qiyao sat up in bed and called out, “Jiang Lili!”
Jiang Lili caught sight of her protruding belly under the blanket and the piercing gleam returned. Wang Qiyao drew back instinctively, but this only emphasized her condition. Jiang Lili blushed; staggering backward, she took a seat on the sofa. She turned to face the window, but didn’t utter a word. The threesome had parted under awkward circumstances; they were united again under equally awkward circumstances—fate was not done collecting its debts, it seemed. The light on the curtains shifted, the noises filtering in through the window became quieter, more intermittent, and Jiang Lili announced she had to leave. They made no attempt to detain her, partly because they felt ashamed, but also afraid of being spurned. Mr. Cheng saw her out before going back upstairs. The two avoided eye contact—they both knew that Jiang Lili had gotten the wrong idea about their relationship, but were actually rather pleased with the misunderstanding.
That evening they sat across the table from one another, shelling walnuts. Shanghai opera came in erratic bursts from the radio next door. They were perfectly calm. No longer did they demand anything of life other than what they presently enjoyed. Perhaps it was not all that they wanted, but they had learned to be content with what they had. One cracked open the shells while the other removed the nuts; they ate all the broken pieces, saving the whole ones for later. That was one of the rare nights that Wang Qiyao didn’t feel drowsy and her back was not sore as it had been. Mr. Cheng brought her a pillow to lean against.
“When is the baby due?” he asked.
Wang Qiyao counted on her fingers. It was going to be sometime in the next ten days. Mr. Cheng couldn’t help feeling anxious; in the end, it was up to Wang Qiyao to put
him
at ease.
“Childbirth is the most natural thing in the world—just look at all the people out there walking the streets.”
“I’m worried that you might be alone when the baby comes and won’t have anyone to help you get to the hospital.”
“Childbirth doesn’t happen instantaneously,” Wang Qiyao explained. “The process takes at least half a day.”
Mr. Cheng was somewhat relieved at this, especially seeing how calm she looked.
After a pause, he mused, “I wonder whether it’s a boy or a girl.”
“I hope it is a boy,” she said.
“Why?”
“A woman has so little control over her fate. . . .”
They fell silent. This was the first time they had discussed the unborn child, a taboo subject they had both tried to avoid. Now that they had broached this once-forbidden subject it felt like a hurdle had been overcome. A new intimacy arose between them and they suddenly felt closer. It was ten o’clock by the time they finished shelling all the walnuts. Wang Qiyao waited as Mr. Cheng descended the stairs; only after she heard the downstairs door close did she go around to make sure the doors and windows were locked. Then she washed and went to bed.
Chapter 4
 
Childbirth
 
ONE DAY MR. CHENG went to Wang Qiyao’s after work to find her pale and flustered, lying down every so often and then getting up to pace around. She even knocked over a glass, which shattered on the floor, but didn’t bother to pick up the pieces. Mr. Cheng hurried out to call a pedicab, came back in to help her downstairs, and then rushed them off to the hospital. Having arrived at the hospital, she seemed to improve, and Mr. Cheng went out to get something for their dinner. By the time he got back, Wang Qiyao had already been taken into the delivery room. It was a baby girl. She was born at eight o’clock. They told Mr. Cheng that she had long arms and legs and a full head of black hair. This set him wondering,
Just who does she look like?
When, three days later, he brought mother and daughter home from the hospital, the threesome attracted quite a few curious stares down the
longtang.
Mr. Cheng had fetched Wang Qiyao’s mother the day before, setting up a place for her on the sofa, and even going to the trouble of preparing a set of toiletries. Mrs. Wang was silent the whole time, but, as Mr. Cheng busied himself with the household chores, she blurted out, “If only you had been the child’s father . . .”
Mr. Cheng trembled and almost lost hold of the things in his hands. He wanted to say something but his throat had closed up. By the time he was able to speak, he had forgotten what to say. So he simply pretended that he had not heard. When Wang Qiyao came home the next day, her mother had already prepared a pot of chicken broth and the customary bowl of soup with red jujube and longan, which was supposed to be so nourishing for new mothers. She handed the bowl to her daughter in silence. She did not bother to even look at her granddaughter; it was as if the child did not exist. Neighbors began to call on them, but they were only the most casual of acquaintances—the only contact they normally had with Wang Qiyao was waving hello as she went in and out of the
longtang
; now they came out of curiosity. Each one went on about how much the baby looked like Wang Qiyao, all the while wondering who the father was.
Going into the kitchen to fetch the hot water Thermos, Mr. Cheng found Mrs. Wang standing in front of the window, looking out at the overcast sky and quietly wiping away the tears. Mr. Cheng had always thought her a calculating woman. Back when he used to call on Wang Qiyao, she would never even bother to greet him but always sent the maid down to talk to him at the door instead. Now, he sensed, she was much closer to him, perhaps more understanding and sympathetic even than her daughter.
He stood behind her for a moment before offering a timid attempt at consolation. “Don’t worry, Auntie. I’ll take care of her.”
With those words he could feel the tears welling up and hastened back into the room with the hot water thermos.
The next day Madame Yan, who had not visited for ages, came to see Wang Qiyao. She had long heard of the pregnancy from her servant Mama Zhang, who had seen Wang Qiyao coming and going with that protruding belly of hers; Wang Qiyao obviously wasn’t worried about the rumors her pregnancy might stir up. Kang Mingxun and Sasha had by this time long vanished from the scene, one hiding out at home while the other fled far away. Then, out of nowhere, appeared this Mr. Cheng, who suddenly started coming by at least three times a day. Although Madame Yan wasn’t exactly sure what had transpired, she wasn’t in the least bit taken off guard; in fact, she fancied herself one imbued with keen insights into the situation of women like Wang Qiyao. Still, she was intrigued by Mr. Cheng. She could tell from the fine quality of the old suit he wore that this Mr. Cheng had been a stylish man back in the old days. She took him to be some kind of playboy whom Wang Qiyao must have known back in her dance hall days. Madame Yan imagined all kinds of things about Mr. Cheng. She had run into him a few times in the alley: he was always on his way to Wang Qiyao’s with snacks like “stinky tofu,” and would always rush briskly past lest the food get cold. The grease from the tofu had already soaked the bottom of the bag and was about to drip through. Madame Yan was touched, even somewhat jealous of Wang Qiyao for having such a devoted friend.
Hearing that Wang Qiyao had given birth, she was moved to sympathy; being a woman, she could relate to how difficult things must have been for Wang Qiyao, and decided to go over to see how she was. Mrs. Wang, sensing that Madame Yan was a cut above the others, felt favored by the visit and tried to make herself pleasant. She even brewed some tea and sat down with Madame Yan.
With Mr. Cheng away at work, these three women of different generations compared notes about the hardships of childbirth. Wang Qiyao mostly just sat and listened, as if the shady circumstances surrounding the father of her child prevented her from claiming her share of the glory. Her mother and Madame Yan, on the other hand, vividly recalled every detail from earlier decades. When Mrs. Wang started to speak about how hard it was giving birth to Wang Qiyao, the irony of the present situation was not lost on her and her eyes reddened. She quickly found an excuse to scurry off into the kitchen, leaving the other two in an awkward silence. The baby had just been fed and was deep in sleep, her outline barely visible in the candle light. Wang Qiyao had been looking down as she picked her fingernails, but she abruptly raised her head and laughed. It was a tragic laugh that affected even Madame Yan.
“Madame Yan, I really appreciate you coming to see me . . . especially after all that’s happened. I was worried you would look down on me,” Wang Qiyao said.
“Oh, cut it out, Wang Qiyao!” replied Madame Yan. “Nobody is looking down on you! I’m calling on Kang Mingxun in a few days and I’m going to see to it that he comes to see you.”
At the mention of his name, Wang Qiyao turned away. It was only after a long silence that she replied, “That’s right, it’s been ages since I’ve seen him.”
Madame Yan grew suspicious, but was forced to keep her thoughts to herself; instead she casually suggested that they all get together again. “It’s a pity that Sasha’s no longer around. He must be off in Siberia eating his Russian bread! But that’s okay, you can bring along that new friend of yours and we’ll have a foursome for our mahjong games.”
She took the opportunity to ask Wang Qiyao the gentleman’s name, his age, where he was from, and where he worked, all of which Wang Qiyao responded to matter-of-factly.

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