Let’s now look into the
longtang
windows to see what is happening inside Peace Lane. In the quarter built right over the entrance lives the family of the old man who used to sweep the streets in the
longtang
. A Shandong native, he passed away year before last and his funeral portrait is hanging on the wall. At the table beneath his portrait his grandson is doing homework; he is supposed to write each Chinese character twenty times over, but he is so drowsy that nothing can pry his eyes back open. Downstairs, in the apartment with the lean-to shed, the dinner party is still going on. They have not had that much to drink, just a quart of Shaoxing wine, but they are taking their time, savoring each and every drop. Going deeper into the neighborhood, we look through a kitchen window and see two women whispering in hushed tones, their eyes making dramatic gestures—it is a mother and daughter exchanging nasty words about the new daughter-in-law. Following the street number signs hanging over the doors, we arrive at the next household, where the front room is filled with people playing mahjong—one can hear the clacking of the tiles as the players shuffle them and their voices calling out different hands. The players look as if they belong to the same family, but their grim expressions show they are playing for real stakes. The couple next door is in the middle of an argument, exchanging insults and curses. It’s clear they can no longer stand each other—not even one more night; so back and forth they go on a violent seesaw. The lights are out in the next apartment over: maybe the people are asleep, or maybe they have yet to come home. At 18 Peace Lane, the retired tailor, now working on his own, is busy cutting fabric as his wife carefully threads a needle; the television is on, but they are both too preoccupied to watch.
That’s right. Although each family was busy with their own affairs, there was one thing that they all had in common—television. Whether they were playing mahjong, drinking, arguing, or reading, the television was always on. It didn’t matter whether or not they were watching or even listening, they just liked to have it on. Most of them kept it on the same channel, usually one of those with endless miniseries that dominated the evening’s activities. Finally, we reach Wang Qiyao’s window. Perhaps you expected it to be lonely on the inside, but it is surprisingly packed with people, some sitting on the sofa, some in chairs, and even a few on the floor, while others stood or leaned up against the wall, and the whole room was filled with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. They were having a party and oh, how exciting it was!
Once again Wang Qiyao’s apartment had come alive with people, mostly young friends of hers. Pretty, refined, bright, and fashionable: just seeing them there was enough to make one light up with joy. They appeared in Peace Lane like a flock of golden phoenixes alighting in a nest of grass. Staring at them as they disappeared into Wang Qiyao’s apartment, the neighbors marveled at her ability to bring together the best and brightest of Shanghai’s fashionable elite. Everyone forgot how old she was, just as they had forgotten how old Peace Lane was. They even forgot about her daughter, taking her for a single woman who had never borne a child. If there is such a thing as an evergreen tree, she was one, untouched by the seasons. And now she had a new set of carefree young friends; they made themselves at home in her apartment, which became a palace of youth. Sometimes even Wang Qiyao herself wondered if time had stopped and everything was still as it had been forty years before. It was easy to get carried away, to focus on the pleasure at hand and leave reality behind.
The visitors to Wang Qiyao’s apartment were actually people we run into every day—we just didn’t make the connection. If you went to Market 16, for instance, you would surely recognize one or two of the dockworkers bringing in the crabs. Or you would discover that one of the guys selling crickets in the small local market looked awfully familiar. The scalpers outside the movie theater, the hustlers trying to purchase bonds on the stock exchange . . . they came from every profession and you could see traces of their activity everywhere. They spent their free time at Wang Qiyao’s apartment, drinking coffee and eating the exquisite dim sum she had prepared—they couldn’t have wished for a nicer place. They would always bring along their friends; Wang Qiyao didn’t even know all of their names and then there were others whom she knew only by their nicknames, and still others whom she never even got a good look at. There were too many in this mixed crowd, and she couldn’t give everyone equal attention. Her salons were beginning to gain a degree of notoriety in Shanghai; people from all over the city came to see what all the fuss was about and as a result spread the word even farther.
But Wang Qiyao’s regular visitors were still that same trio of old friends—Old Colour was one, and Zhang Yonghong and Long Legs were the other two. They had grown closer and would often go out together for tea or dinner while on other nights they would all go out dancing or to the movies. In the winter Wang Qiyao would set up a hotpot in her apartment and they would sit around eating and telling stories; time would fly by and the sky would gradually darken, but that hotpot only got hotter. Suddenly Wang Qiyao was struck by a feeling of déjà vu: all of this had happened before, only the faces had changed, and a feeling of sadness would hit her. Then, as a fresh piece of charcoal beneath the pot burst into flames, a crimson glow illuminated Wang Qiyao’s face. The light accentuated the wrinkles on her face. It was only for a split second, but Old Colour saw everything. Shock was followed by anguish.
She’s an old woman. . .
. They ate until they were stuffed, at which point they all fell silent. Even Zhang Yonghong and Long Legs quieted down, each consumed by their own thoughts, which carried them far away. It was quite some time before Wang Qiyao suddenly let out a gentle chuckle, and the others were startled to find how dark it had got. Wang Qiyao rose to turn on the light and added more water to the hotpot.
“How come no one’s talking?”
“Why don’t
you
say something then?”
Wang Qiyao chortled again. When they asked her what was so funny she didn’t answer. It was only after they pressed her that she responded, “Seeing the three of you reminds me of something . . .”
But when they asked what it was, she blew it off, saying it had nothing to do with them. This felt as if she was intentionally trying to push their buttons, and her guests insisted on an answer. Only after much pressing did Wang Qiyao finally burst out, “I was just wondering what kind of future lies in store for the three of you!”
They were all taken aback. After a pause, Zhang Yonghong asked, “And what about
your
future? You don’t know what will happen to you either. . . .”
“What future do I have?” asked Wang Qiyao. “For me the future is now!”
Everyone said that she was just being modest, but Wang Qiyao laughed it off and continued, “Everything is crystal clear today, but who knows what tomorrow will bring.”
Baffled, the others looked at each other and began to feel a bit awkward, especially Old Colour. He felt that he had been lumped in with Zhang Yonghong and Long Legs, which made him feel like a third wheel; he wondered what kind of fish Wang Qiyao was trying to catch by stirring up the water like that. He sensed that she was directing her words at him, that it was an inquisition of some sort, as if she were trying to test him. Feeling exceedingly uncomfortable, he tried to change the subject, but Wang Qiyao wouldn’t hear of it, and continued to talk about how unpredictable fate was: if the mountain doesn’t shift, then the water will, and when the water doesn’t, people will. Zhang Yonghong and Long Legs were befuddled by all this, but Old Colour was growing impatient and had just about had all he could take.
He laughed sarcastically. “If I understand you correctly, the two of them are heading for a breakup, and Zhang Yonghong and I will eventually start dating, is that it?”
Putting everything so bluntly made them all laugh. Wang Qiyao didn’t try to defend herself at first, simply saying that he had misunderstood her.
“But you were referring to the three of us, so what other combination could there possibly be?”
Wang Qiyao was speechless and simply smiled. Long Legs was smiling too, but deep down he was angry—not at Wang Qiyao, but at Old Colour, whom he felt had taken a cheap shot. Zhang Yonghong accused Old Colour of being crazy, but an odd quiver passed over her heart.
Laughing, Wang Qiyao nodded at Old Colour. “You’ve got a sharp tongue—you win this time. . . .”
A few days after their hotpot dinner, Old Colour dropped by Wang Qiyao’s again; he went straight upstairs, where he found the door ajar and Wang Qiyao sitting on the sofa with a blanket over her legs as she knit a wool top. He tapped on the open door and stepped inside. But Wang Qiyao didn’t even look up—she went on knitting as if no one was there. Old Colour knew that she was upset at him, but pretended not to notice and paced slowly around the apartment. He was wearing a tunic suit with a white silk scarf carelessly flung around his neck, with both hands in his pockets—the very image of an idealistic May Fourth youth. After pacing around the apartment for a while, his eyes fell on the checkered pattern of sunlight coming through the window and realized that winter was approaching. Suddenly he heard Wang Qiyao’s cold voice behind him, accusing him of disturbing her peace with all his pacing back and forth. Old Colour sat down on a chair and looked out at a sparrow pecking at tidbits on the windowsill; the bird was obscured by the window frame and he could only see half its head. Soon Wang Qiyao announced that she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t intend to cook, so she wouldn’t have anything to offer him.
“You think I came here to eat?” he sneered.
Only then did she raise her head. “What did you come here for then?”
“What do you think I came here for?”
Wang Qiyao withdrew her gaze and went back to knitting, trying to ignore him.
Old Colour was getting angry. He sat sulking with his hands still in his pockets. His posture indicated that he felt aggrieved, but he was unable to speak up for himself to get the justice he felt was owed to him. A bit later Wang Qiyao got up from the sofa, made a pot of tea, and set a cup out on the table in front of him.
“What’s there to be angry about?” she asked as she turned around and went back into the kitchen to make lunch.
Now it was Old Colour’s turn to ignore her. He sat in his chair silently stewing in anger. He couldn’t figure out how he could have let Wang Qiyao come out with the upper hand again. It was times like this that the advantages of life experience really showed. That kind of experience takes time to build up; no amount of cleverness is a match for time. The difference of a day or two, or even a year or two, might not matter much, but several decades did.
Lunch that afternoon was much more elaborate than usual. Wang Qiyao swallowed her irritation and was extremely attentive to Old Colour, casually telling him all kinds of interesting stories she had never shared with him before. Old Colour gradually cooled down, till he almost forgot that he had been upset—but then Wang Qiyao brought it up again.
“You really think those things I said the other night over dinner just came out of nowhere? As if I had nothing better to do?”
Old Colour stopped eating, uncertain of what she was trying to say.
“I was thinking back to many years ago, on a day like this one, when it was cold and bleak outside and there were four people sitting around a hotpot. One of the women was just an onlooker, but you would not believe what happened between those two men and that other woman.”
Wang Qiyao paused for a moment before continuing. “That woman was me.”
Old Colour put down his chopsticks and glanced up at Wang Qiyao. She had an indifferent expression, as if she were talking about someone else. What happened between her, Uncle Maomao, and Sasha some twenty years earlier seemed so alien, it didn’t even feel like a part of her anymore. She didn’t know if the details had faded with time or she had blocked them out, but she had trouble remembering the sequence of how things had happened. Her nonchalant air only made the tragedy more shocking. This was the first time that Old Colour had heard Wang Qiyao talk about her past; up till then she had described only the settings, but the participants were elusive, disappearing and reappearing like phantoms. But now those phantoms had come to life. They were real people; ironically, this knowledge only made Old Colour feel more perplexed, lost in a massive cloud of mist. Wang Qiyao’s face was like a reflection in water—it seemed to ripple and sway. He realized that he was crying, partly out of sympathy and partly because he was deeply moved.
“Even
I’m
not crying,” protested Wang Qiyao, “so what are you crying for?”
“I don’t know ...” he murmured as he put his head down on the table.
From that point on, Wang Qiyao began to reveal her secret life over the past several decades to him. They spent the next few days together, Wang Qiyao telling her buried stories, Old Colour silently listening. The stories were accompanied by cigarettes and the room became enveloped in thick smoke. Their faces grew hazy, their voices too. It was a story that began forty years ago, about a life filled with splendor and turmoil—where would one trace the beginnings of such a story? Although it was a tragedy, it was a tragedy laced with grandeur and elegance—how was such a story going to end? Wang Qiyao’s voice grew quiet, and all was silent, only the cigarette smoke thickened and dissipated freely in the air. Then the sound of someone clapping thrice softly broke the silence—it was Wang Qiyao. Taken aback, Old Colour immediately looked over to see her smiling at him through the smoke.