by Anyi, Wang
Table of Contents
Title Page
Acknowledgments
Part I
Chapter 1
Gossip
The Young Lady’s Bedchamber
Pigeons
Wang Qiyao
Chapter 2
The Film Studio
Camera
The Photograph
A Proper Young Lady of Shanghai
Miss Shanghai
Miss Third Place
Chapter 3
Mr. Cheng
Director Li
Chapter 4
Alice Apartments
Farewell to Alice
Part II
Chapter 1
Wu Bridge
Grandma
Deuce
Deuce’s Heart
Shanghai
Chapter 2
Peace Lane
A Frequent Guest
Mahjong Partners
Afternoon Tea
Evening Chats Around the Stove
Chapter 3
Kang Mingxun
Sasha
Mr. Cheng . . . Again
Chapter 4
Childbirth
An Old Friend Flew Off on a Yellow Crane
All That Remains Is the Tower Whence It Flew
Part III
Chapter 1
Weiwei
Weiwei’s Era
Weiwei’s Girlfriend
Weiwei’s Boyfriend
Chapter 2
The Dance
Vacation
Christmas
The Wedding
Off to America
Chapter 3
Old Colour
Long Legs
Chapter 4
Misfortunes from Within
From the Blue Sky Down to the Yellow Springs
Afterword
Copyright Page
Weatherhead Books on Asia
WEATHERHEAD EAST ASIAN INSTITUTE,
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
Literature
David Der-wei Wang, Editor
Ye Zhaoyan, Nanjing 1937: A Love Story, translated by Michael Berry (2003)
Oda Makoto, The Breaking Jewel, translated by Donald Keene (2003)
Han Shaogong, A Dictionary of Maqiao, translated by Julia Lovell (2003)
Takahashi Takako, Lonely Woman, translated by Maryellen Toman Mori (2004)
Chen Ran, A Private Life, translated by John Howard-Gibbon (2004)
Eileen Chang, Written on Water, translated by Andrew F. Jones (2004)
Writing Women in Modern China: The Revolutionary Years, 1936–1976, edited by Amy D. Dooling (2005)
Han Bangqing, The Sing-song Girls of Shanghai, first translated by Eileen Chang, revised and edited by Eva Hung (2005)
Loud Sparrows: Contemporary Chinese Short-Shorts, translated and edited by Aili Mu, Julie Chiu, Howard Goldblatt (2006)
Hiratsuka Raichō, In the Beginning, Woman Was the Sun, translated by Teruko Craig (2006)
Zhu Wen, I Love Dollars and Other Stories of China, translated by Julia Lovell (2007)
Kim Sowol, Azaleas: A Book of Poems, translated by David McCann (2007)
History, Society, and Culture
Carol Gluck, Editor
Takeuchi Yoshimi, What Is Modernity? Writings of Takeuchi Yoshimi, translated with an introduction by Richard Calichman (2005)
Richard Calichman, Contemporary Japanese Thought (2005)
Yasuda et al., Overcoming Modernity, translated by Richard Calichman (2008)
Translators’ Notes and Acknowledgments
THIS TRANSLATION IS based on the original version of the novel published in 1995 by the Zuojia chubanshe in Beijing. The translation is unabridged; however, there are a series of stylistic variances from the original. Chief among those are the length of paragraphs and sentences, and the presentation of direct dialogue. Long extended paragraphs and run-on sentences, both of which read fine in the Chinese original, have in many sections been broken up into shorter structures in this translation. As a challenge to herself and the reader, Wang Anyi intentionally refrained from using quotation marks and paragraph breaks to signal direct dialogue in the original, instead opting to embed dialogue directly into longer narrative sections. For the purpose of readability in English, the translators have added quotation marks and paragraph breaks in sections where direct dialogue appears (marked by the use of first-person pronouns). Other dialogue sections that use third-person pronouns have been left in their original form, embedded within longer paragraphs. Italics (which are not commonly used in Chinese text) have also been added as a stylistic device to indicate internal thought.
Thanks go first and foremost to Wang Anyi for her patience and support. The power and beauty of her literary world inspired us, and we thank her for entrusting us with this important work. David Der-wei Wang has been a staunch supporter of this translation project from its inception six years ago. We thank him for his kindness and for his willingness as series editor to include this book in the Weatherhead Books on Asia series. Thanks to Jennifer Crewe of Columbia University Press for seeing this project through. We would also like to thank the two anonymous readers, who provided valuable comments on an earlier version of the text. We appreciate the support provided by the University of California, Santa Barbara as well as the Weatherhead Foundation and the Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation, which helped make the publication of this volume possible. Special thanks go to our copy editor, Alice Cheang. We feel blessed to have had the opportunity to work with a true wordsmith, whose style, sense of literature, and encyclopedic knowledge have sharpened the literary vision of the text. The editorial support of Kerri Sullivan and Leslie Kriesel has also been extremely helpful. Finally, we thank Ron Egan, Suk-Young Kim, and our families for their forbearance and accommodation during the long period we were immersed in this project.
—M. B. and S. C. E.
Part I
Chapter 1
Longtang
LOOKED DOWN UPON from the highest point in the city, Shanghai’s longtang—her vast neighborhoods inside enclosed alleys—are a magnificent sight. The longtang are the backdrop of this city. Streets and buildings emerge around them in a series of dots and lines, like the subtle brushstrokes that bring life to the empty expanses of white paper in a traditional Chinese landscape painting. As day turns into night and the city lights up, these dots and lines begin to glimmer. However, underneath the glitter lies an immense blanket of darkness—these are the longtang of Shanghai.
The darkness looks almost to be a series of furious waves that threaten to wash away the glowing dots and lines. It has volume, whereas all those lines and dots float on the surface—they are there only to differentiate the areas of this dark mass, like punctuation marks whose job it is to break up an essay into sentences and paragraphs. The darkness is like an abyss—even a mountain falling in would be swallowed whole and sink silently to the bottom. Countless reefs lurk beneath this swelling ocean of darkness, where one false move could capsize a ship. The darkness buoys up Shanghai’s handful of illuminated lines and dots, supporting them decade after decade. Against this decades-old backdrop of darkness, the Paris of the Orient unfolds her splendor.
Today, everything looks worn out, exposing bit by bit what lies underneath. One strand at a time, the first rays of the morning sun shine through just as, one by one, the city lights go out. Everything begins from a cover of light fog, through which a horizontal ray of light crafts an outline as if drawing it out with a fine brush. First to appear are the dorm
er windows protruding from the rooftop tingzijian of those traditional longtang buildings, showing themselves off with a certain self-conscious delicacy; the wooden shutters are carefully delineated, the handmade rooftop tiles are arranged with precision, even the potted roses on the windowsills have been cared for painstakingly.
Next to emerge are the balconies; here articles of clothing hung out to dry the night before cling motionless like a scene out of a painting. The cement on the balustrade peels away to reveal the rusty red bricks beneath—this too looks as if painted in a picture, each brushstroke appearing clear and distinct. After that come the cracked gable walls, lined with traces of green moss that look cold and clammy to the touch. The first rays of light shining on the gable walls create a stunning picture, a gorgeous portrait, bearing just a hint of desolation, fresh and new yet not without a past.
At this moment the cement pavement of the longtang is still enveloped in fog, which lingers thick in the back alleys. But on the iron-railed balconies of the newer longtang apartments the sunlight is already striking the glass panes on the French doors, which refract the light. This stroke is a relatively sharp one, and seems to pull back the curtain that separates day from night. The sunlight finally drives away the fog, washing everything in its path with a palette of strong color. The moss turns out to be not green but a dark raven hue, the wooden window frames start to blacken, and the iron railing on the balcony becomes a rusted yellow. One can see blades of green grass growing from between the cracks in the gables, and the white pigeons turn gray as they soar up into the sky.
Shanghai’s longtang come in many different forms, each with colors and sounds of its own. Unable to decide on any one appearance, they remain fickle, sometimes looking like this, sometimes looking like that. Actually, despite their constant fluctuations, they always remain the same—the shape may shift but the spirit is unchanged. Back and forth they go, but in the end it’s the same old story, like an army of a thousand united by a single goal. Those longtang that have entryways with stone gates emanate an aura of power. They have inherited the style of Shanghai’s glorious old mansions. Sporting the facade of an official residence, they make it a point to have a grandiose entrance and high surrounding walls. But, upon entering, one discovers that the courtyard is modest and the reception area narrow—two or three steps and you are already at the wooden staircase across the room. The staircase is not curved, but leads straight up into the bedroom, where a window overlooking the street hints at romantic ardor.
The trendy longtang neighborhoods in the eastern district of Shanghai have done away with such haughty airs. They greet you with low wrought-iron gates of floral design. For them a small window overlooking a side street is not enough; they all have to have walk-out balconies, the better to enjoy the street scenery. Fragrant oleanders reach out over the courtyard walls, as if no longer able to contain their springtime passion. Deep down, however, those inside still have their guard up: the back doors are bolted shut with spring locks of German manufacture, the windows on the ground floor all have steel bars, the low front gates of wrought iron are crowned with ornamented spikes, and walls protect the courtyard on all sides. One may enter at will, but escape seems virtually impossible.
On the western side of the city, the apartment-style longtang take an even stricter approach to security. These structures are built in clusters, with doors that look as if not even an army of ten thousand could force their way inside. The walls are soundproof so that people living even in close quarters cannot hear one another, and the buildings are widely spaced so that neighbors can avoid one another. This is security of a democratic sort—trans-Atlantic style—to ensure and protect individual freedom. Here people can do whatever their hearts desire, and there is no one to stop them.
The longtang in the slums are open-air. The makeshift roofs leak in the rain, the thin plywood walls fail to keep out the wind, and the doors and windows never seem to close properly. Apartment structures are built virtually on top of one another, cheek by jowl, breathing down upon each other’s necks. Their lights are like tiny glowing peas, not very bright, but dense as a pot of pea porridge. Like a great river, these longtang have innumerable tributaries, and their countless branches resemble those of a tall tree. Crisscrossing, they form a giant web. On the surface they appear entirely exposed, but in reality they conceal a complex inner soul that remains mysterious, unfathomable.
As dusk approaches, flocks of pigeons hover about the Shanghai skyline in search of their nests. The rooftop ridges rise and fall, extending into the distance; viewed from the side, they form an endless mountain range, and from the front, a series of vertical summits. Viewed from the highest peak, they merge into one boundless vista that looks the same from all directions. Like water flowing aimlessly, they seem to creep into every crevice and crack, but upon closer inspection they fall into an orderly pattern. At once dense and wide-ranging, they resemble rye fields where the farmers, having scattered their seeds, are now harvesting a rich crop. Then again, they are a little like a pristine forest, living and dying according to its own cycle. Altogether they make for a scene of the utmost beauty and splendor.
The longtang of Shanghai exude a sensuality like the intimacy of flesh on flesh—cool and warm, tangible and knowable, a little self-centered. The grease-stained rear kitchen window is where the amah gossips. Beside the window is the back door; from this the eldest daughter goes out to school and holds her secret rendezvous with her boyfriend. The front door, reserved for distinguished guests, opens only on important occasions. On each side of the door hang couplets announcing marriages, funerals, and other family events. The door seems always to be in a state of uncontrollable, even garrulous, excitement. Echoes of secret whispers linger around the flat roof, the balcony, and the windows. At night, the sounds of rapping on the doors rise and fall in the darkness.
To return to the highest point in the city and look down on it from another angle: clothes hanging out to dry on the cluttered bamboo poles hint at the private lives and loves that lie hidden beneath. In the garden, potted balsams, ghost flowers, scallions, and garlic also breathe the faint air of a secret affair. The empty pigeon cage up on the roof is an empty heart. Broken roof tiles lying in disarray are symbols of the body and soul. Some of the gullylike alleys are lined with cement, others with cobblestone. The cement alleys make you feel cut off, while the cobblestone alleys give the sensation of a fleshy hand. Footsteps sound different in these two types of longtang. In the former the sound is crisp and bright, but in the latter it is something that you absorb and keep inside. The former is a collection of polite pleasantries, the latter of words spoken from the bottom of one’s heart. Neither is like an official document; both belong to the necessary language of the everyday.
The back alleys of Shanghai try even harder to work their way into people’s hearts. The pavement is covered with a layer of cracks. Gutters overflow; floating in the discolored water are fish scales and rotten vegetable leaves, as well as the greasy lampblack from the stovetop. It is dirty and grimy, impure, here. Here the most private secrets are exposed, and not always in the most conventional fashion. Because of this a pall hangs over these back alleys. The sunlight does not shine through until three o’clock in the afternoon and before long the sun begins to set in the west. But this little bit of sunlight envelops the back alleys in a blanket of warm color. The walls turn a brilliant yellow, highlighting the unevenness of the rough whetstone and giving it the texture of coarse sand. The windows also turn a golden yellow, but they are scratched and stained. By now the sun has been shining down for a long time and is beginning to show signs of fatigue. Summoning up the last vestiges of radiance from the depths, the lingering rays of sunlight flicker with a sticky thickness of built-up residue, rather dirty. As twilight encroaches, flocks of pigeons soar overhead, dust motes drift, and stray cats wander in and out of sight. This is a feeling that, having penetrated the flesh, goes beyond closeness. One begins to weary of it. It breeds a secret
fear, but hidden within that fear is an excitement that gnaws down to the bone.
What moves you about the longtang of Shanghai stems from the most mundane scenes: not the surging rush of clouds and rain, but something steadily accumulated over time. It is the excitement of cooking smoke and human vitality. Something is flowing through the longtang that is unpredictable yet entirely rational, small, not large, and trivial—but then even a castle can be made out of sand. It has nothing to do with things like “history,” not even “unofficial history”: we can only call it gossip.
Gossip is yet another landscape in the Shanghai longtang—you can almost see it as it sneaks out through the rear windows and the back doors. What emerges from the front doors and balconies is a bit more proper—but it is still gossip. These rumors may not necessarily qualify as history, but they carry with them the shadows of time. There is order in their progression, which follows the law of preordained consequences. These rumors cling to the skin and stick to the flesh; they are not cold or stiff, like a pile of musty old books. Though marred by untruths, these are falsehoods that have feeling.
