Shanghai
Wang Qiyao had not thought of Shanghai until Deuce brought it up. All the nights she had spent there, in that city that never sleeps, suddenly flooded back into her mind, but how distant it all felt! In the morning, as she combed her hair, she saw Shanghai in the mirror, but Shanghai had aged, with tiny wrinkles around its eyes. When she walked by the river, she saw a reflection of Shanghai, but it was a faded Shanghai. Every time she tore a page from the calendar, she felt how Shanghai had grown older, and the thought pained her. The days and nights of Shanghai were filled with feelings as magnificent and volatile as the clouds in the sky above Wu Bridge. Amazing and unforgettable Shanghai! Its splendor blazed out radiantly even after all had turned to dust and ashes and creepers. It was just as well if one had never gone to Shanghai; all who had been there were caught forever under its spell.
The image of Deuce under sail, bound for Shanghai, fixed itself in her mind. Wang Qiyao shook her head at Deuce’s absurdity in thus acting on a jest. But was it a jest—or a prognostication? It could very well have been a pronouncement. Even a young man such as Deuce in Wu Bridge gets to go to Shanghai—why should she, Wang Qiyao, born and raised in Shanghai, stay away? There was no reason she should settle here, with her heart torn in two, always yearning for Shanghai—a city like a tormenting lover who refused to go away. There was no news from Deuce, no letters for her, nor—according to the bean curd delivery man—any for his family. Wang Qiyao was now certain that he had gone to Shanghai. She sighed as she wondered how he could possibly find his footing in that teeming city. What a rash move that was! But he had gone to create his own legend. She missed him immensely. When she opened the window and saw the moonlight on the ground by the water, she saw the shadow of a faded Shanghai, under the same moon, far away.
Wu Bridge was not totally cut off from Shanghai. The colorful label on Dragon Cure-all Medicinal Ointment came from Shanghai, calendars featuring pretty girls had been produced in Shanghai, the dry goods stores sold Little Sisters cologne and Old Knife cigarettes from Shanghai. Some people from Wu Bridge hummed arias from Shanghai opera. All these little things provoked Wang Qiyao, calling out to her everywhere she went. They scraped at her painful scar, but this was a wound to which she had willingly submitted. Now that the impact of the shock had worn off, she began to view the events leading up to it as inevitable, a kind of baptismal fire. She felt Shanghai pulling at her, but in a way different from what Deuce had felt. He had experienced the pull in an abstract way; to Wang Qiyao, the pull took on a concrete form. She detected hints of Shanghai oleander in the fragrance of jasmine blossom. The sparkling water of Wu Bridge made her recall the night lights of Shanghai. Zhou Xuan cooing “Song of the Four Seasons” on the radio was her homeward summons. When people addressed her as Shanghai Lady, as they often did, she felt they were implying that she did not belong there. Her
cheongsams
were getting old, and new ones had to be made in Shanghai. Her shoes were out of shape from over-wearing, her sweaters had holes, the skin on her hands and feet was cracking. Her entire being felt ravaged and torn; even if she didn’t want to, she knew it was time to go home.
There was still no news from Deuce, but then legends tend to have quiet beginnings. Wang Qiyao had no doubt that he was in Shanghai. With him there, the city felt warmer. She could no longer stifle her discontent, and even before she decided to leave, Wu Bridge was already waving goodbye. Every tree, every blade of grass, every brick and stone turned themselves into mist-shrouded memories in her mind. The weeping willows, dancing under sun, under moon, were transformed into dream scenes. She began to notice boats passing swiftly under the bridge arches, and boatmen singing Kunshan melodies. After winter and spring had sped past, by the time the lotus started to seed, Wang Qiyao was on her way to Suzhou in a boat, as on both sides the walls of houses changed to stone cliffs, dappled with age-old water marks and lichens. The town stretched away from her like a scroll unfolding. The realities and illusions of Wu Bridge, its reasons and sentiments, its creatures of flesh and of the spirit—all were blended into the boatmen’s Kunshan songs and the rumbling sounds of ancient rice mills.
As the boat emerged from Wu Bridge and swung out into the open water, Wang Qiyao found herself in a broad landscape. Waterfowl made black dots in the air. From the fields onshore came the sound of drum rolls and gongs clanging to scare the sparrows away. On the river, the water was as bright as a mirror, reflecting a cloudless blue sky. Countless boats were under sail, as if racing against each other. Wang Qiyao felt a thrill of excitement. Even before arriving at Suzhou, she could already smell the gardenias. Suzhou: a city always associated with Shanghai. Suzhou: Shanghai’s memory and dream. The sweet, sticky Suzhou dialect, which can make hate sound like love, is made expressly for romantic conversations in Shanghai. Suzhou gardens, transported to Shanghai, contrive to preserve a measure of leisurely ease in the large city. Having arrived at Suzhou, one is halfway to Shanghai.
Wang Qiyao took the train from Suzhou to Shanghai. The boat had seemed slow to her, but even the train was not fast enough. Outside, the night was completely dark except for an occasional light, gleaming firefly-like. Her heart settled down. Shanghai lies just behind the heavy stage curtain that is the dark night. As soon as the train passes through the tunnel, the curtain will rise and Shanghai will be revealed. The first sign of Shanghai—the illuminated water treatment plant in Zhabei—brought tears to her eyes. Soon the lights came crowding in on the train window like moths against a lamp, but the train heedlessly hurled itself forward, rattling along loudly. Past events overflowed the banks of her memory like a melting river in spring, but she realized the past was gone. As the shadows of people she had known floated across the window, her face was streaked with tears. Suddenly, the train whistle blew, its blast splitting the night like a piece of silk. Brilliant lights flooded in, and the phantoms disappeared. The train entered the station.
Chapter 2
Peace Lane
SHANGHAI MUST HAVE at least a hundred Peace Lanes, some occupying a large area connecting two major streets, others connected to other
longtang
, forming a vast network of twisted, dirty lanes where one can easily get lost. As confusing as they may be to outsiders, each has developed a distinct identity simply through having survived for so many years. Under moonlight, these blocks of crumbling wood and brick look positively serene, like something out of a painting executed with minute brushstrokes; they too hold memories and aspirations. The ringing bells make their evening rounds, reminding residents to watch their cooking fires, evincing a trace of warmth and goodwill from those who live there. Mornings, however, begin with night-soil carts, clattering in to collect waste for fertilizer, and the raspy noises of brushes scrubbing out commodes. Amid the smoke of coal burners, laundry soaked overnight is taken out to be hung, banner-like, on bamboo poles. Every action, every gesture comes across to the onlooker as a boastful swagger or perhaps an exaggerated fit of pique; why, the collective provocation would be enough to darken the rising sun.
Each Peace Lane has a few residents who are as old as the neighborhood. Being history’s witnesses, they observe newcomers with knowing eyes. Some are not averse to mingling with newcomers, and this creates an impression of continuity. But on the whole they like to keep to themselves, adding an air of mystery to the neighborhood.
Wang Qiyao moved into the third floor of 39 Peace Lane. Different batches of tenants had left their plants on the balcony. Most had withered, but a few nameless ones had sprouted new leaves. Insects swam in the stagnant liquid of moldy jars in the kitchen, yet among them was a bottle of perfectly good peanut oil. On the wall behind the door somebody had written, “Buy birthday present on January 10,” and a child had scrawled “Wang Gensheng eats shit.” One could only speculate about the birthday celebrant and the object of the child’s resentment. Rubbish lay, piled up at haphazard—one could make nothing coherent out of all this. Having put her things down among other people’s debris, Wang Qiyao decided to make the place her own by hanging up her curtains. The room did seem different with the curtains. However, with no shade over the light bulb, the objects in the room simply looked naked rather than illuminated.
Outside it was a typical evening in May. The warm breeze carried with it whiffs of grease and swill, which was the basic odor of Shanghai, although the typical Shanghainese was so steeped in it he scarcely noticed. Later in the night would come the scent of rice gruel flavored with osmanthus blossoms. The smells were familiar, the curtains were familiar, and the evening outside was familiar, but Wang Qiyao felt strange. She needed to reattach herself to life here; fortunately for her, the lines where attachments could be made were clearly marked on the fabric. Wang Qiyao was grateful to the large flowers on the curtains, which, no matter where they were placed, remained in full bloom, faithfully retaining the glory of bygone days. The floor and the window frames emitted the odiferous warmth of decaying wood. Scurrying mice conveyed their greetings. Soon, bells reminding people to watch their cooking fires began ringing.
Wang Qiyao underwent three months of training as a nurse in order to be certified to give injections. She hung out a sign advertising injections outside the entrance to her apartment on Peace Lane. Similar signs could be seen along the entrances of other
longtang
—following those signs inside, one could find Wang Qiyaos of all different shapes and sizes eking out a living. They all woke up early, put on clean clothes, and straightened up their rooms. Then they ignited the alcohol burner to disinfect a box of needles. The sun, reflected from the rooftops across the alley, left rectangles of light on the wooden floor. After switching off the burner, they reached for a book to read while they waited for patients. The patients tended to come in batches, morning and afternoon, but there might be one or two in the evening. Once in a while, when someone requested a house call, they hurried off in white cap and surgical mask. Lugging a straw bag containing the needles and medicinal cotton, they looked very much like professional nurses as they scurried down the street.
Wang Qiyao always wore a simple
cheongsam
. In the 1950s these were becoming rare on the streets of Shanghai, a symbol of nostalgia as well as style, at once old-fashioned and modern. When she crossed the streets on house calls, she was often struck by a sense of déjà vu—the places were familiar, only the roles were changed. One day she called on a patient in a dark apartment where the waxed floor reflected her shoes and stockings, and was led into the bedroom. There, under a green silk blanket, a young woman lay. Wang Qiyao had the curious sensation that the woman was herself. Having administered the shot, she put her things away and left, but her heart seemed to tarry in that apartment. She could almost hear the woman complaining to the maid that the shrimps from the market were too small and not fresh enough—didn’t she know the master would be home for dinner that night? At times she stared into the blue flames of the alcohol burner and saw a resplendent world in which people sang and danced for all eternity. Once in a while she caught a late movie, one of the ones that started at eight, when street lamps were reflected on the face of the silent streets. Only the theater lobby would be bustling, as though time had stood still. She only went to old movies: Zhou Xuan in
Street Angel
, Bai Yang in
Crossroads
, and others. Although they had no connection to her present situation, they were familiar and they spoke to her. She subscribed to an evening newspaper to fill the hours of dusk. She read every word in the newspaper, making sense perhaps of half the reports. By the time she finished it, the water would be boiling and it would be dinner time.
There was an exciting element of unpredictability to her work. Hearing footsteps on the staircase at night, she would speculate,
Who could it be?
She was unusually vivacious on these occasions and often talked a bit too much, asking this or that as she reignited the alcohol burner to sterilize the needle. If the patient was a child, she would put out all her charm. She would feel sad after the patient left. Pondering over the recent commotion, she would forget to put things away, and then discover that the pot had boiled dry. Such interruptions in her tranquil routine gave rise to a vague feeling of anticipation. Something was fomenting, she felt, from which something might just develop. Once, awakened in the middle of the night by urgent and frightened calls for help at the door, she threw a jacket over her nightgown and rushed downstairs, her heart pounding, to find two men from the provinces carrying someone on a stretcher. The person was critically ill. They had mistaken her for a doctor. After giving them directions to the nearest hospital, she went back upstairs but could not sleep a wink. All kinds of odd things happened in the night in this city. Under the lamp at the entrance to the
longtang,
the shingle advertising “Injection Nurse Wang Qiyao” looked as if it was waiting patiently to be noticed. The passing cars and the windswept fallen leaves hinted at concealed activities in the dark night.
People came to Wang Qiyao in an unending parade. Those who stopped coming were quickly replaced by others. She would speculate about her patients’ professions and backgrounds and was pleased to find most of her guesses correct as, with a few casual remarks, she pried the facts out of them. Her best sources were nannies accompanying little charges—these eagerly volunteered all kinds of unflattering information about their employers. A number of patients had nothing wrong with them, but came for routine health-enhancing shots, such as placenta fluid. They became so comfortable with her that they would drop by to gossip. Thus, without going out of her house, Wang Qiyao learned a great deal about the neighborhood. This hodgepodge of activity was enough to fill up half her day. Sometimes she was so busy she could hardly keep up with all the goings-on.