“Why don’t you just trade me in for Zhang Yonghong!” Weiwei would occasionally say to her mother.
However, the nature of Wang Qiyao’s relationship with Zhang Yonghong was not at all that of mother and daughter; it was a relationship between two women who overcame the barriers of time and experience to form a strong bond.
Of the two, one had a heart that would never grow old and the other was born with an innate understanding; their hearts were both ageless—they were the hearts of true women. No matter how much their bodies might change, their hearts would always be the same, carrying with them an intimate self-understanding and a sense of longing. Don’t belittle the fact that they put their hearts into a few articles of clothing. Do you know what clothing is? To them clothing is life itself. You might accuse them of vanity, but if they were not supported by an inner strength, they would not be able to sustain the external beauty. They know their destiny better than anyone else; they know that they will never have a share of the world’s larger glory; all they can do is fight for their moment in the limelight, when they adorn the world’s larger glory. They don’t entertain illusions and extravagant dreams, but that isn’t to say that they are not ambitious; you would be hard pressed to find anyone as conscientious and meticulous. When they examine a skirt, they take in every seam and every stitch. They are extremely demanding when it comes to the color and texture of the fabric. Their carefree appearance belies their intense attention to detail; this is what you would call “seamless perfection.” When they start thinking about a new outfit, their hearts fill with pleasure and they take swift action. They go down to the fabric shop to pick out material and lining, making sure that the buttons match. The first fitting is the moment of truth, and not even the minutest error escapes their discerning eyes. Upon completion, as they stand before the mirror to survey their new outfit, taking notice of every thread and stitch, they cannot help but feel a spell of melancholy, wondering who they have gone through all this trouble for. It is during those moments of emptiness that they need each other most.
Each in her distinctive outfit, the two of them would stroll down the bustling Huaihai Road, Zhang Yonghong’s arm locked in Wang Qiyao’s. There was a unshakable aura of desolation in the sight of them walking side-by-side—the desolation that holds sway at dusk and again at dawn, when only a single ray of faint light shows against a world enshrouded in darkness. One of them was reaching her end with no future left to speak of. The other had a future, but there was no guarantee that her future would be any better than the one that was just ending; everything was hazy. If it weren’t for the difference in age, they could truly have passed for sisters.
But they never shared the kinds of things close friends talk about; their intimate exchanges all consisted of conversations about clothing and fashion. It was only after one particular incident that their relationship began to change. On that day, Zhang Yonghong had just left Wang Qiyao’s and was already at the edge of the
longtang
neighborhood when she suddenly remembered that she owed Wang Qiyao two
yuan
and went back to repay her. Stepping in, she saw that the teacup she had been drinking from had already been put aside, with a piece of paper placed inside it, clearly in imitation of the practice used by restaurants and teahouses of putting a strip of red paper in the cups of customers suffering from infectious diseases to remind employees to take extra care in disinfecting these items. Zhang Yonghong didn’t say anything. She repaid Wang Qiyao and left. The following week she did not call on Wang Qiyao. When Weiwei came home from school that Saturday, she asked her mother why Zhang Yonghong wasn’t coming over. Wang Qiyao said she didn’t know, but privately she had already guessed. Weiwei went to look for Zhang Yonghong, but her sister stuck her head out the window to say that she was working overtime. Weiwei ended up spending that weekend with some of her other girlfriends.
Two days later Zhang Yonghong suddenly reappeared. Without saying a word, she placed a medical report on the table before Wang Qiyao. Written in the sloppy hand of the doctor was the result of her examination, stating that there was no evidence of viral infection or tuberculosis in the lungs. Wang Qiyao turned red from embarrassment and hesitated for a moment before regaining her composure.
“Zhang Yonghong, you have raced ahead of me,” Wang Qiyao said. “I’ve been wanting to take you for an exam for a long time! Now I can finally stop worrying. But even though you do not have tuberculosis, I still think you may have too much internal heat in your lungs. How about I take you to see a herbal doctor in a few days?”
Zhang Yonghong was taken aback at first, but she soon turned away and started to cry.
At her age, Zhang Yonghong’s favorite conversation topic was, naturally, boys. She didn’t have a boyfriend, and whenever she talked about boys who liked her, it was with an air of ridicule. Wang Qiyao knew that girls like Zhang Yonghong were prone to making the mistake of being too picky. They think that, just because they are pretty, wear nice clothes, and are pursued by a few boys, they can have their pick of anyone they want. They flaunt this attitude, not realizing that most boys are not terribly patient and quickly retreat when things do not look promising. If there is a persistent one among them, he always seems to be the least desirable of the lot. In the end, girls who know themselves not to be a prize catch tend to fare better. Harboring no illusions about their situation, they manage to seize opportunities as they arise. Wang Qiyao felt it her responsibility to share this truth with Zhang Yonghong; deep down she also wanted to put a damper on her arrogance.
Nobody really has endless time to fritter away,
she thought.
But that was not how Zhang Yonghong saw things. She remained unconvinced and thought Wang Qiyao had underestimated her. And so the next time she shared her boy stories with Wang Qiyao, she embellished them a bit, even including several boys who didn’t in fact qualify as suitors to boost her story, and in the end wound up believing these lies herself. As she told the stories, they all seemed true to her. This naturally did not escape Wang Qiyao, who worried lest Zhang Yonghong be misled by her own fantasies. Seeing that Zhang Yonghong did not heed her advice, Wang Qiyao would sometimes deliberately refrain from concealing her disbelief. Infuriated, Zhang Yonghong would grow even more intent on proving that she was telling the truth, which only made her lies more transparent. The interesting thing was that when she was not talking about boys, Zhang Yonghong never stretched a single truth, but whenever her favorite topic came up she couldn’t help letting a few lies slip in. She was always cordial when they discussed other things, but once the conversation turned to boys, a rift would immediately open up and they would grow testy with each other. Of the two, Wang Qiyao exercised more self-restraint and was much more composed, while Zhang Yonghong was always ready to be at daggers drawn. She was young, after all, and it was only because she couldn’t see Wang Qiyao’s weak spots that she was so tenacious. And then one day, in order to prove that everything she had been saying was true, she brought over a boyfriend.
Weiwei was home when Zhang Yonghong came over with her boyfriend; when she saw him, Weiwei became spunky and garrulous. Wang Qiyao gritted her teeth, silently cursing Weiwei for not behaving with more dignity. She tried to throw meaningful glances, but Weiwei took no notice and continued chatting up a storm. Zhang Yonghong sat silently off to one side, looking magnanimous. Indeed, the boy wasn’t half bad; he had a nice clear complexion and was very well-mannered, and this was enough to vex the mother even more. However, the boy was so likeable and had so many interesting things to say that Wang Qiyao burst out laughing as he went back and forth with Weiwei as if performing a crosstalk comedy routine. As she went into the kitchen to prepare some hot snacks for the kids, her ears ringing with their laughter, Wang Qiyao lightened up.
They are young people after all, what do they know of
“
yours” and
“
mine
”
? They
’
re just having fun,
she told herself.
This is a good thing. Adults shouldn
’
t rain on their parade.
After they finished the snacks, Wang Qiyao sent them off to the movies and sat alone in the quiet room, watching the spring afternoon sun as it moved across the western wall. She recalled many such afternoons in her life. The light with which she is so familiar has shone for hundreds and thousands of years, and it will always be there. People, on the other hand, can never escape the trap of time. She followed the light, watching it until it disappeared and the room gradually grew dark. There was no sign of Weiwei—
Who knows where she might be having fun. It seems to be an unwritten rule on Sunday evenings that nothing ever gets started on time, a special time when nothing is set in stone.
It was the hour people normally cook dinner and yet it was particularly quiet. Soon the lights would come on, one by one, and night would arrive; and all those people out for a good time would have even less reason to return home.
Wang Qiyao didn’t wait up for Weiwei. She woke up in the night to find a light on; Weiwei was getting her things together to go back to school the next morning.
At least she hasn
’
t completely forgotten about school,
thought Wang Qiyao as she closed her eyes. In her half-sleeping state, she could hear the pigeons on the neighbor’s balcony cooing in their dreams. Before long the light went out and Weiwei, too, had gone to bed.
The next time Zhang Yonghong came over, Wang Qiyao made a point of complimenting her on her boyfriend, not expecting her to state the disclaimer, “He’s not my boyfriend, just a friend who’s fun to hang out with.”
Having been rudely brushed aside, Wang Qiyao couldn’t finish what she had intended to say. After a brief pause, she went on with a smile, “Just don’t spend all your time having fun . . . or you might regret it.”
“Don’t worry,” replied Zhang Yonghong. “Having fun is how we are supposed to spend our time.”
“And you think you can take all the sweet time your heart desires?” asked Wang Qiyao. “It all flashes by in an instant. No matter how much fun you may be having, there always comes a day when you suddenly have to look back and reflect on what you have done.”
“So what? If I have to look back, I’ll look back,” Zhang Yonghong responded coolly.
Neither was in the best of spirits when they parted. Zhang Yonghong brought her boyfriend over again the following visit—only this time it was a different boy. This one was darker, a bit taller, and not as outgoing. Stiff as a ramrod, he sat in silence as Zhang Yonghong chatted and giggled; he couldn’t have been more different from the last one. Wang Qiyao knew that she was “just having fun” and didn’t take the trouble to make them any snacks; Zhang Yonghong and her boyfriend left before dinner.
The following day, Zhang Yonghong came by to tell her that this one was a “real boyfriend,” although they were still in their trial period. Wang Qiyao took her words with a grain of salt. But the next time Zhang Yonghong brought the same boy along, and the two soon became frequent quests. Although this boy wasn’t as agreeable as the first one, he was quite capable. He knew how to fix everything, from faucets and toilets to light switches and the belt on the sewing machine; all problems mechanical and electrical were solved instantly. Moreover, he seemed to be devoted to Zhang Yonghong. Whenever Weiwei was home, the three of them would go out to eat at one of the new Western restaurants, and he would always foot the bill. But then one day Zhang Yonghong suddenly announced that she was breaking up with him. The reason she gave was quite strange; she said that he had athlete’s foot . . . and that it had spread between his fingers. After the breakup, the boy came to Wang Qiyao with a mixture of shame and anger and ended up sobbing. He wasn’t the only one who felt bad, for even Wang Qiyao felt she had been led along.
“From now on, don’t bring your friends around,” Wang Qiyao told Zhang Yonghong, “I don’t have time for them.”
That was indeed the last time Zhang Yonghong brought her boyfriends over. But occasionally she would get up in the middle of a conversation, saying that she had to go because someone was waiting for her. Before she even finished her sentence, one could hear the sound of a bicycle bell ringing outside the window. Unable to hold back her curiosity, Wang Qiyao would rush over to the staircase window and look down as soon as Zhang Yonghong had gone down the stairs. She saw her leaving the
longtang
slowly on the back of a bicycle. Although she couldn’t quite make out the boy on the bicycle, she could tell it was someone new. She heard from Weiwei that Zhang Yonghong had gone through several more new boyfriends.
Zhang Yonghong changed boyfriends faster than most people change light bulbs. She had different sources to draw upon when looking for a new boyfriend: people from the same work unit, middle-school classmates, and neighbors who lived on the same street. One was even a customer of the gas company she met when she went out to read his meter. It is hard to say how much she liked them. There was actually only one reason she agreed to go out with any of them—that was because
they
liked her. Having men around who liked her bolstered her up; to that end she felt the more, the merrier. Aside from thus adding to her glory, she had no use for them, and felt she was better off relying on herself. She set herself off from the crowd by her stylish dress and surrounded herself with servile boys only too willing to obey her every wish; jealous gazes followed her everywhere. This was the portrait she had composed for herself; even if it was off by a few strokes, it was still hers. She was unusually good at catching admiring gazes and, with a few deft maneuvers, could turn that admiration into attachment. But this was as far as that would go, and she would move right on to the next one. Her superb ability to chew boys up and spit them out—without any fear of running out of new candidates—rivaled that of any army recruiter. The boys fell into a trap that had a beginning but no end; what they were left with were memories of a transient beauty that could not be erased. Being young and impressionable, most of them went on believing for the rest of their lives that women were complicated and mysterious creatures. And what of Zhang Yonghong? Boyfriends drifted past her like scenes from a revolving sideshow; she was content with a taste of the subject at hand but didn’t let herself be drawn too deeply into the joys and sorrows of the experience. Gradually her heart grew numb and could no longer feel any real excitement, as if she had grown a protective shell around herself. So, although on the surface she looked animated, underneath, she was as calm as still water.