Song of Everlasting Sorrow (63 page)

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Authors: Wang Anyi

BOOK: Song of Everlasting Sorrow
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Off to America
 
Weiwei was married. She took all her clothing away with her, leaving the dresser half empty, and also the chest. Twenty-three years Wang Qiyao had spent raising Weiwei, and now her daughter was gone—and all she had left was her gray hair. Her skin and figure still looked young; it was only recently that she had begun to dye her hair. If it hadn’t been for the fact that she had an adult daughter, no one would have guessed her age. She also used her daughter to remind herself about her own age, or else she would have never believed how old she was either. Dyed hair is even darker and shinier than natural hair, so it made her look even younger. Wang Qiyao gazed at herself in the mirror, a bit disoriented, wondering just what era she was living in.
Once Weiwei was gone, there were days when Wang Qiyao ate only a single meal. Sometimes she would go to sleep in the afternoon and not wake up until the same time the following day, when she would finally get up at one or two o’clock in the afternoon. The sun would be exactly where she had left it the previous day. But all this changed on Sunday, because that was when Weiwei and Xiao Lin came to visit. They would arrive in the morning and leave after dinner—it was only then that Wang Qiyao’s life regained a semblance of normalcy. But the very next day everything would start to slip away again; the power of her daily routine was obviously far from enough. But at least she had Sundays to add some rhythm to her disorganized days; otherwise her entire life would have dissolved into chaos.
Now that they were married, Weiwei and Xiao Lin became guests. Wang Qiyao would ply them with food and liquor, making full-course dinners; when the evening was done, they would go home, leaving her with a pile of dirty plates and bowls. As she stood by the sink washing the dishes, she would heave a sigh of relief that the day was finally over. Once she was finished straightening up, she would turn on the television, take out a pack of cigarettes from the drawer, and light up. Sitting down, her elbow leaning on the table, she inhaled, slowly and deeply. The smoke clouded her vision, and her heart was clouded too. One cigarette was enough. After putting the pack of cigarettes away, she needed to sit for a while longer, listening to all the sounds of the changing seasons coming from outside. The sounds crept in from between the cracks in the concrete, and one had to be extremely quiet to hear them. They were but whispers of sounds, enmeshed in smoke and mist. Who understood time better than Wang Qiyao? She may have passed her days in a muddled haze, but that was only because she wanted to. When the window curtains moved gently, you might say that what you saw was the wind, but what Wang Qiyao saw was time. When small holes appeared in the wooden floor and staircase, you might say that what you saw was the work of termites, but what Wang Qiyao saw was time. Sunday nights, Wang Qiyao was never in a hurry to get to bed. It wasn’t that she wanted to hold vigil over the lonely night: she was floating on time.
There was no reason to keep track of the days. The winter clothes came off and then out came the spring clothes, which before long began to feel heavy. Xiao Lin got his visa and would be leaving for America in August, just in time for the fall semester. In the days leading up to his departure, their schedule was quite erratic. For a while Xiao Lin and Weiwei ceased their Sunday visits, and then there was a period during which they came over almost every day. The reason they visited so often was to get Wang Qiyao’s advice about what Xiao Lin should take for the trip. The impression they had of America was that it was one big nonstop party; how could he not bring along a few nice outfits? At the mention of clothing, Wang Qiyao would spring to life. She took Xiao Lin to Baromon to have a suit made, giving him tips about the proper way to wear a suit along the way. Wang Qiyao grew animated when she talked about clothing. What are clothes? she would say. Clothing is like a diploma, providing conclusive proof as to what is inside so that it won’t get buried. Xiao Lin found her ideas about clothing interesting and amusing.
“Don’t laugh,” Wang Qiyao warned him. “I’m not exaggerating one bit. At the very least, for a woman, clothing is her diploma—and it’s a much more important diploma than any earned in school!”
Xiao Lin laughed and turned to Weiwei. “Do you have a diploma?”
Wang Qiyao made a wry face. “Weiwei’s diploma is the kind anyone can get from a few years in school. What I’m talking about is something you have to work on all your life. Don’t bother asking Weiwei about that—she’s too spoiled to understand. Go ask Zhang Yonghong.”
“Zhang Yonghong may have a ‘diploma,’” replied Weiwei. “But even now she still can’t find a ‘job’!”
Those were harsh words, the kind spoken only by one who is blinded by her own happiness. Even someone as resilient as Wang Qiyao felt the sting.
“You don’t need to worry about Zhang Yonghong,” she retorted just as they were arriving at Baromon. “She’s stronger than you!”
They started by looking at fabrics and then moved on to pick out a style. Another clash seemed inevitable. Weiwei was leaning toward the double-breasted jacket with wide lapels that was the latest thing. Wang Qiyao, on the other hand, insisted that he go with a more traditional style, which she felt would be more appropriate. If he went with the more conventional suit she suggested, he would be able to wear it on virtually any occasion, whereas the more modish style was only good for the moment and would quickly go out of fashion; moreover, just because it was popular in Shanghai didn’t mean it was popular in America. Although Weiwei didn’t have a convincing argument, she still stubbornly insisted on her choice. With her natural aversion to anything old-fashioned, she was always drawn to the newest and latest fashion; also, because she lacked vision and couldn’t see what was coming in the future, all she knew was to follow the current trend and so she always looked at things out of context. Weiwei grew quarrelsome and was on the verge of yelling at her mother.
“Let Xiao Lin decide for himself!” Wang Qiyao had no choice but to declare.
Xiao Lin followed Wang Qiyao’s advice.
Weiwei was so angry that she turned and headed for the door. Xiao Lin chased after her, leaving Wang Qiyao alone. It was awkward for her to stay in the store, but equally embarrassing to follow them outside, so she stood there for a while before deciding simply to go home. She got on a public bus, thinking how pathetic it was that the three of them had gone out together and now she was going home alone. The bustling excitement on Nanjing Road seemed to be mocking her. It was almost noon by the time she finally arrived home. The other two didn’t return until much later that afternoon. They pranced in, giggling and carrying a bunch of shopping bags, all the unhappiness of the morning long forgotten. Wang Qiyao didn’t even bother asking about what had transpired with the suit. She pretended not to care, although she did notice Xiao Lin wink at her when Weiwei wasn’t looking—that was his way of trying to smooth things over. Wang Qiyao felt misunderstood.
Why should I care about what kind of suit you get anyway?
she thought.
For Xiao Lin’s upcoming trip, nothing but the best would do, as if anything less would be an embarrassment to the Americans. He didn’t take any of his old clothing; everything he packed was brand-new. He cared for quantity as much as quality, buying everything by the dozen, as if he were preparing for a long career in the remote countryside, where nothing could be purchased, rather than going to study abroad. However, it was indeed a rare opportunity to go to America. Everyone thought it must be a wonderful place, although no one really knew what made it so wonderful. All Xiao Lin could do was prepare as best he could. It was a bit like preparing a trousseau—something tangible you could do against a bewildering future; whether or not it would ever come in useful was another matter altogether. As those two humongous suitcases gradually filled up, Xiao Lin began to feel more at ease.
One day Weiwei came over alone and insisted on helping her mother with all sorts of chores, even hand washing the two articles of clothing Wang Qiyao had been soaking in the basin. Wang Qiyao knew that Weiwei had a favor to ask and was pretty certain it had to do with borrowing money. Weiwei was behaving the same way she used to when she wanted her mother to buy her new clothes. But this time she was even more solicitous than usual and a bit more hesitant about saying what she actually wanted. She had already left the nest, and going back to her mother for handouts now was a bit out of line. Wang Qiyao couldn’t help sighing as she wondered what would happen to Weiwei after Xiao Lin left—it was uncertain when the newlyweds could reunite and in the meantime she would have to live with her in-laws. Technically, they were her family now, but she really had very little in common with them and Wang Qiyao dared not speculate on what might be in store for her daughter. When Weiwei came back inside from hanging out the wet clothes, she saw some money lying on the table.
“Take it and buy Xiao Lin a new pair of shoes,” said Wang Qiyao. “Think of it as a gift from me.”
Weiwei didn’t touch the money. “We’ve already bought him shoes for every season. He doesn’t need any more.”
Wang Qiyao could tell that she wanted more. She added, “If not shoes, then something else. But that’s all I’ve got right now. Take it as my way of congratulating him.”
Weiwei still didn’t touch the money. She lowered her head. Wang Qiyao’s spirits sank; she walked away without saying anything. She had not expected Weiwei to break the silence by telling her that she had heard about someone who had gone to America with nothing but a gold locket. When he got to America he sold it; with the help of that money, he managed to get through those first few months and finally got on his feet. Wang Qiyao grew anxious as she listened to the story.
What is she trying to say?
And then she remembered the day she asked Xiao Lin to exchange a gold bar for her at the bank. Her heart skipped a beat and she turned red.
“Never in my life have I failed to do my duty by you. . .” Her voice trembled.
Weiwei raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Who ever said you failed us? We’re just asking to borrow it. We’ll pay you back, I promise!”
Wang Qiyao was almost in tears. “Weiwei, you must have been blind to marry a man like that!”
Weiwei started to lose her temper. “Xiao Lin doesn’t know anything about this. I came here to discuss this with you on my own. Actually, I have a few rings, but they are only fourteen carat gold. They were only expensive because of the craftsmanship, but I wouldn’t get much if I tried to sell them. Buyers only care about the quality of the gold. How about this—I’ll leave these with you and you give me just one of your nicer ones?”
It was only then that Wang Qiyao realized that Weiwei was after the antique ring with inlaid stones that Director Li had given her back when they first met, the one that he had let her pick out at the famous Lucky Phoenix Jewelers. It would have been her wedding ring had they married. Instead it was a mere memento that at best commemorated a vanished world and the vicissitudes of a difficult life. She might as well give it to her! Wang Qiyao paused for a moment before unlocking her desk drawer.
As she handed the ring over to Weiwei, Wang Qiyao only said, “No good will ever come to you if you treat men too well.”
Weiwei ignored her, took the ring, and left.
Prior to his departure Xiao Lin hosted a farewell banquet at the Jinjiang Hotel. He booked four tables for his friends and relatives—it was an even grander occasion than their wedding reception. Wang Qiyao looked at the way Weiwei radiated happiness and wondered how she could possibly be happy when she was merely being used as a tool to help Xiao Lin go abroad. She sat amid the Lins and their friends and, though no one paid her much attention, she kept a smile on her face. Xiao Lin and Weiwei made the rounds, toasting all the tables; when they reached Wang Qiyao’s table, she felt like laughing. Instead, tears began to trickle down her cheeks, making everyone feel a bit awkward. Her tears eventually gave way to a strange depression that seemed to come from nowhere—she just felt the whole thing was pointless. The merriment around her appeared to be edged with grief, as if everyone was in mourning for unknown causes and the smiles on their faces were forced through tears.
The table where Xiao Lin’s young friends were sitting was the most convivial of the lot and the noise they made was deafening, but Wang Qiyao felt their laughter was but the extremity of sorrow and that all that their faces showed was grief. A boy at the next table knocked over a glass belonging to one of the adults, spilling red wine—to Wang Qiyao the stain on the tablecloth was the color of blood. She could barely make it through the banquet—her heart ached, though she couldn’t figure out why, nor could she find a release from the pain. The banquet felt like the last supper; everything seemed to be coming to an end. This kind of despair comes on suddenly, in a torrent, and for some reason seems especially to favor grand occasions as its setting. The more magnificent the occasion, the more overwhelming the grief that attends it. Over at the next table, she could hear Xiao Lin and Weiwei singing a song. Their gleeful voices nearly shattered her last line of defense, but the ensuing rowdiness held down her grief. By the time everyone got up to say good-bye, Wang Qiyao could barely speak—she could only bow her head to the guests. It was a good thing that hardly anyone there knew her and she was simply brushed aside. Walking past the clusters of people saying their good-byes, she went home by herself.
This unexpected assault of misplaced emotion was followed by a long string of quiet, peaceful days. Xiao Lin left. Weiwei began to visit home more frequently again, and sometimes, when Zhang Yonghong was there too, it almost felt like the old days. Laying out a piece of new fabric on the table, they would discuss it endlessly before they set about cutting out the pattern.

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