Weiwei’s Era
From Wang Qiyao’s perspective, Weiwei had a warped view of Shanghai. The electric trolleys that were the true heart of the city are now gone. You can no longer hear their clanking sounds against the hum of the city as they rumble down their tracks. The tracks themselves have long been pulled up; more than two decades have passed since the
nanmu
wood slabs paving Nanjing Road were pried out and replaced with cement. Along the Huangpu River, the stone walls on the Georgian buildings have all turned black, their windows masked by a layer of gray dirt. The river water has grown murkier and more polluted, and the sound of the breakwater seems to grow fainter by the year. And let’s not even mention the Suzhou River, whose stench you can smell blocks away—scooped up, the water can probably be used directly for fertilizer.
The Shanghai
longtang
have grown gray; there are cracks in the streets and along the walls, the alley lamps have been smashed by mischievous children, the gutters are clogged, and foul water trickles down the streets. Even the leaves of the sweet-scented oleanders are coated with grime. Green bristle grass covers the courtyard walls and creeps out between the bricks in the ground; watermelon seeds scattered about in previous years have sprouted....
But all of this is secondary to the changes that have taken place in the heart of those dwellings. Let’s begin with the high-rise apartment buildings. With armies of people rushing up and down the stairs, the edges of the marble steps have all been worn down—decades of footsteps approximate the force of water dripping upon rock. Once saying that even the marble is worn, we need not mention the wooden staircases in the
longtang
houses. In the large buildings the coffers on the vaulted ceilings are usually broken, if not worse; they would have been better off without those Roman-style floral carvings, whose sole purpose seems to be to collect dust and cobwebs. The elevator, with its rusty cable and its mechanism in disrepair, emits loud groans every time it goes up or down. Never touch the stair rail unless you want several decades of accumulated dust on your hands. If you climb up to the roof, you will see that the iron shell of the water tank has gone rusty. The felt covering on the asphalt is tattered and pitted with holes from the battering rain. The wind raging on the rooftop terrace whips up dirt and sand. Who knows the origin of the abandoned items randomly strewn about? Holding on to the railing as you walk past these objects, you look down to see that the bricks and tiles of every balcony and rooftop in the city are damaged. Should you peer into some of the dormer windows, you would see that the wood panels inside have been eaten away by termites.
The Western-style garden homes are the most intriguing of all. Even before entering you can tell how drastically things have changed. There are more clotheslines in the courtyard than at a laundry facility. Kitchen stoves are set up in the flowerbeds. Lovely large, semicircular terraces have been cut in half and made over into kitchens. If you should then venture inside, you would find yourself in a labyrinth. If it happens to be nighttime, you will be plunged into darkness, and your ears will be assaulted by the cacophony of woks cooking, water boiling, children crying, and radios playing. Every time you step forward or to the side you run into a wall. The smells of cooking oil seep out from the cracks between the walls. You can’t even reach out to feel your way along the walls unless you want to get your hands all greasy. The place is completely transformed. The most luxuriant of yesteryear is today the most cramped, the most exquisite architectural designs no longer bear mentioning.
At least the
longtang
houses are subject to some restraints and so have succeeded in retaining their basic appearance. But once you look inside, you realize everything is different there too. Every hallway and staircase is piled up with junk no one ever uses anymore, but asking people to throw these things away would be like asking them to part with their own flesh. These old knickknacks have taken on a life of their own. They proliferate and sprawl out all over the floor before gradually making their way toward the ceiling. Some get stuck there, while others hang dangerously, threatening to fall down and hit you on the head. One glance and you know how many months and years have passed. The floors are buckling and the planks are ready to give way; the toilet is almost always leaking, unless it is clogged; the electrical wires are exposed in a tangled mess; the door bearings have been stripped off their tracks and resist being moved; the windows, if made of wood, are crooked—either they do not close properly, or, if they do, it’s impossible to get them back open. These are all damages inflicted by time. However, the innermost heart of the
longtang
is actually more aged and worn than its appearance. It is only through sheer patience and self-control that it holds itself together, otherwise it would simply explode. It seems to understand that nothing good would come of exploding.
Aside from its being chaotic and timeworn, what troubled Wang Qiyao about this era of Weiwei and her friends was its vulgarity. The streets are suddenly flooded with people spouting profanities and spitting everywhere. On Sunday the deafening noise and the surging crowds inundating the shopping districts are terrifying. You feel afraid that if you made one wrong move, you would be drowned in this ocean of humanity. With bicycles and cars zigzagging every which way, it is frightening to cross the street, each step is a challenge. All the elegance of old Shanghai seems to have been wiped out by a violent storm. Everything has become a challenge—taking a bus, going shopping, getting a shower, having one’s hair cut—all involve doing battle with the crowds. The arguments and fights that break out on the streets make the environment even more unsettling. Only a few quiet streets remain in the whole city, but even when you are strolling there under the shade of the trees, quietude seems elusive.
Food served in Western-style restaurants has also deteriorated. The plates and cups are all chipped, stained and crusted with bits of caked-on food, and seem not to have been washed in twenty years. The chef’s apron, spattered with grease, likewise looks as if it has not been washed for at least twenty years. The cream was made the day before and the potato salad is already spoiled. At the tables, the old leather seats have been replaced by manmade material, and fresh flowers with plastic ones. Secret recipes for Western-style pastries are disclosed, and suddenly you can buy them everywhere, but none are authentic. Chinese restaurants rely on lard and MSG to season their dishes—the flavor is strong enough to take the hair off your eyebrows. Eateries jack up their prices for giving out hot washcloths, and even more for service with a smile. The vegetable-and-lard fried rice at Ronghua House is either watery or burnt; the soup dumplings at the Qiao Family Restaurant either leak or else are short of stuffing. The varieties of mooncakes sold during Mid-Autumn Festival have expanded many times over, but if you were to break open one of the most standard variety, you would find that no one has even bothered to remove the shells from the beans before making the paste filling.
The shoulders and back on Western-style suits no longer drape properly; neckties are worn all over the streets, but the fabric from which they are made is mediocre and even the facing is third rate. Young girls wear their hair long, and it is disheveled for lack of proper care. The heels of their shoes have been jacked up in defiance of the principles of physics, so nine out of ten heels are crooked and the girls wobble around perilously as if walking on stilts. Nothing could escape the prevailing crudeness and mediocrity in the general rush to produce instant results. Looking back, Wang Qiyao felt that people were much better off during the Cultural Revolution, when they had to wear the same blue cloth jackets rather than these outlandish outfits that did not fit them. At least back then they had the elegance of simplicity.
One could barely stand to look at the street scenes of Shanghai, which, having been suppressed, now erupted in a fiery ball of noise and clamor. They say that everything has returned to its former condition. But what comes back is not what was once there but something else. You can make out only the faintest outline of what it used to be. The neon lights are flashing again, but the night has changed; the old store signs are back up, but the stores are not what they once were; the street names have been changed back, but the pedestrians on those streets bear no resemblance to the people who once walked there.
Even so, Weiwei had a deep fondness for her era. After all, who doesn’t like the era in which they live? It is not a matter of choice; even if you don’t like it, you’d better learn to, because once it is gone, there is nothing left. Weiwei was not exposed to any radical ideas—her every move was in pace with the times. Virtually everyone in Shanghai was in step with the era, sometimes even driving it on. The tide was overpowering. Who could tell what kinds of crazy things Weiwei would have done if she didn’t have Wang Qiyao to pick on from time to time? As she walked along the crowded streets, her heart swelled with joy for having been born during this glorious time. When she saw her own blurry image reflected in the storefront windows, that was the shape of modernity. She was always in a good mood because she was able to project all of her unhappiness onto her mother. If she was upset at home, the moment she stepped out the door she would be all smiles. The streets were hers and she had the right to say anything she wanted. What she hated seeing most were provincial people from outside Shanghai; she always gave them dirty looks. As far as she was concerned, being one of those people must have been the cruelest fate one could endure. So besides the satisfaction she got from being born to her generation, she was also very proud of her city. Her lips bubbled over with all the latest hip expressions; when she spoke like that at home Wang Qiyao could not understand a word of what she said, but the vulgarity disgusted her. Out in the streets Weiwei was always full of spunk. Anyone who might happen to step on her foot was in for a scene—and heaven forbid if that person happened to be from out-of-town. Most people don’t dare mess with girls her age—cocky, supercilious, sarcastic, and full of themselves. But if they were to cross paths with a few hooligans looking for trouble, that would be another story. That is why they always traveled in groups of four or five. And if one of them happened to have a boyfriend, their haughtiness would know no bounds—what you would call “fearing nothing and no one.”
Weiwei and the other girls of her generation who own the streets of Shanghai have one quality never displayed by previous generations—gluttony. Looking carefully, you will see that, virtually without exception, they are always chewing on something with a look of pleasure etched on their faces. Their lips and teeth are abnormally nimble, adept at separating sunflower seeds from their shells. Their sensitive tongues can discriminate an endless palette of flavors. Their strong stomachs are able to handle a variety of snacks in addition to the usual three meals a day. Actually, girls from past generations were gluttons too, they just had better sense than to show it; but not anymore. This generation’s gluttony actually endears them to us—they are almost cute. In the movie theaters those noises of mice nibbling in the night are today’s modern girls munching away. They don’t pretend to have good manners, for theirs is a bold new attitude. If you can leave your ego aside and put up with their unforthcoming demeanor, you will be able to make friends with them before long, and then you will have someone with whom to exchange all of your thoughts about modernity.
Another characteristic of these modern girls is their propensity for making a scene. Wherever they go, they like to announce their presence with nonstop chattering, like a nestful of magpies. Most of them have clear, high-pitched voices and take special pleasure in laughing out loud. They don’t like to reveal their deepest thoughts at home, saving that for when they are out in the open, and half of what they say ends up being overheard by someone else. Their agile mouths are good not only for eating, but also for talking. Even those gossipy old
amahs
are no match for them, munching away in between their chitchat. One marvels how their tongues can keep up with all that talking and eating. But most of what they say is of little consequence; scarcely a word of all their prattle remains when they are done. But the girls of today have simple, sincere hearts; with the obstinacy of peasants, they set their sights on the road to modernity, and nothing will stop them.
Ballroom-dance parties began to come back into fashion. In the early days of the comeback, the scene at these dances was enough to move anyone. The participants were so shy and yet full of perseverance, their determination to dance waging valiant battle against their fear of making fools of themselves. Sometimes, even after several sets had been played, no one worked up the courage to get up and dance. Everyone sat against the wall in a circle, staring at the empty dance floor with a mixture of solemnity and excitement. As soon as someone started to dance, everyone tittered, giggling to conceal their envy. Back then dance parties were almost exclusively organized by government work units. People who wanted to dance a lot would have to have very good social connections, so as to organize their own parties. They could then bring one of the new cassette players that had just become available to an empty site and hold the dance there. Dancing was the sole purpose of these parties. No one went there with ulterior motives—you could tell by the way they danced. The fashion in the late seventies and early eighties wore its heart on its sleeve.
Weiwei’s Girlfriend
Weiwei had several classmates she was quite close to; they were all great shopping companions. Whenever something new appeared on Huaihai Road, they would quickly pass the news on to one another. They would help and encourage each other, never letting anyone fall behind the latest trend. It was only natural that there should nevertheless be some competition between them, and jealousy was inevitable. But this never got in the way of their friendship; in fact, it actually inspired them to keep forging ahead.