The Song of Everlasting Sorrow: A Novel of Shanghai (Weatherhead Books on Asia)

by Anyi, Wang

  For her part, Wang Qiyao did not understand why they chose that photo over all the others, in which she was gazing straight into the camera. She was even a bit confused as to when exactly that photo had been taken. It must have been when she was not paying attention. She did not like the version of herself she saw in the picture, looking provincial and much too prim—completely different from the way she imagined herself to be. It left her disappointed and a little hurt. Seeing her picture in print should have made her happy, but instead she was left feeling depressed. She wondered why she always failed under scrutiny. First her disappointing screen test, and now this: nothing seemed to work out according to plan. She hid her copy of Shanghai Life under her pillow—she didn’t even want to look at it, and was overcome with dejection for having made an utter fool of herself. She was now confused as to who she really was, and this drove her to desperation. Sitting back down before the mirror, she tried to get a new perspective on herself. She thought of that photo as something that had stripped her of her identity, so that she needed to start all over and remake herself. Just what was that thing called a “camera” anyway? Was there another life inside its lens? Thinking about this made Wang Qiyao even more disconsolate. That Shanghai Life should have run her picture brought her little happiness—and that little was mixed with an array of complicated emotions, as if she had not been tormented enough already.

  This time Wang Qiyao could not hide what happened even if she tried. The entire school now knew who she was—even girls from other high schools came to her campus in hopes of catching a glimpse of this Wang Qiyao. Wherever she went, people stopped to turn and stare. Schoolgirls were like that. It was if they didn’t believe their own eyes and had to have confirmation from others. All the girls who had never given a second thought to Wang Qiyao suddenly became convinced they had been wrong all along. Those who had always admired her, however, grew suddenly ambivalent, hell-bent on taking the opposite side. And so gossip and rumors proliferated, even one suggested that Wang Qiyao had a cousin who worked at Shanghai Life and it was he who had got her into the magazine. But whether it was admiring gazes or fabricated rumors, nothing seemed to get to Wang Qiyao, for in both experience and understanding of the world she surpassed them all. All these rumors and idle words were sheer nonsense to her. Although she was the target of their attention, she had very different things on her mind. Shanghai Life may have made her a celebrity on campus—suddenly she was known to every student and teacher—but she was left with the feeling that she could no longer find herself. The photo had ripped away her original face and thrust upon her a new identity that she did not want. It was no longer up to her to choose.

  A Proper Young Lady of Shanghai

  “A Proper Young Lady of Shanghai” was a title tailor-made for Wang Qiyao. She was not a celebrity of the screen or stage, nor a wellborn woman from an influential family, nor a femme fatale capable of bringing down an empire; but if she wanted to take her place on society’s stage she would need a designation. Her designation, “a proper young lady,” hinted at a harmonious society where everyone was in their proper place. It was not a prejudicial title—any girl had a right to lay claim to it—but Wang Qiyao had won it with overwhelming support. The floral pattern on her cheongsam became popular, and her short perm was all the rage. In her person, Wang Qiyao epitomized “a proper young lady of Shanghai.” The designation carried with it a commonplace sort of vanity, evoking the image of a fashionable girl savvy enough to know her proper place. Like the bearer of a philanthropic gift, she became the vehicle for everyone’s fantasy.

  Shanghai in late 1945 was a city of wealth, colors, and stunning women. After the Japanese surrender, the revelry that took place every evening in its nightclubs seemed justified and appropriate. In actuality, of course, merry-making had nothing to do with the affairs of the world; it stemmed from people’s natural affinity for pleasure and delight. The fashions displayed in shop windows, the novellas serialized in newspapers, the neon lights, the film posters, the department store banners, and the flower baskets celebrating new company openings all brightly sang out that the city was beside itself with happiness. “A Proper Young Lady of Shanghai” was part of that music, music for ordinary women. It told everyone in the city that they would never be forgotten, that they were all on the road to glory. Shanghai was still a city capable of creating honor and glory; it was not ruled by any doctrine, and one could let the imagination run wild. The only fear was that the splendor and sumptuousness of the city were still not enough. Like a peasant sowing grain, the city planted all that was sumptuous and splendid—it was truly a city of ornate brocade. The title “A Proper Young Lady of Shanghai” made one think of “the moon rising above the city on the sea”—the sea is the sea of people and the moon lighting up the night sky is everybody’s moon.

  And then an invitation arrived from a photo salon, asking Wang Qiyao to sit for a photo shoot. In the evening, after the salon closed up shop, Wang Qiyao’s mother had the maidservant accompany her daughter there in a pedicab. Off they went, a bag of clothing in hand. The photo salon was much fancier than Mr. Cheng’s studio; there were more lights, and different people were in charge of the lighting, changing the backdrops, and makeup. Three or four of them encircled Wang Qiyao as if she was the center of their universe. The stores downstairs had closed and all was quiet, as were the desolate streets outside—they were surrounded by silence, and the atmosphere in the photo salon took on an almost sacred quality. The noises of clappers warning people to be careful with their cooking fires, seeping in through the closely drawn curtain of the back window, seemed to be coming from another world. Wang Qiyao felt the intense warmth of the camera lights shining down on her body, almost toasting her skin. She felt like she could almost see the way her eyes must have been sparkling. Surrounding her was darkness, and she was the only soul in that world of darkness.

  The picture of her later displayed in the window was even more glamorous because she was elegantly attired in evening dress. But this was a commonplace elegance; like a rented bridal gown, this pseudo-elegance—as long as everyone knew—was not meant to deceive. The splendor displayed in the shop window hinted at a dream ready to be fulfilled, a dream belonging to proper young ladies. It also hinted at a kind of striving, the strivings of proper young ladies. The Wang Qiyao who appeared on the inside front cover of Shanghai Life had been an everyday kind of proper young lady, while the Wang Qiyao who appeared in the shop window was a fantasy version of a proper young lady. Both were quite real. The latter captured your eyes, the former your heart; each had its proper place. The Wang Qiyao displayed in the shop window had taken the “good girl” side of her and buried it deep in her heart, replacing it with an expression of restraint on her face—and she seemed to stand taller than common people. Her face bore a detached coldness, but one knew there was an earnest warmth in her that yearned to be liked. This was the image of herself that Wang Qiyao most adored—it suited her taste perfectly and, moreover, provided her with confidence. After seeing it that first time, Wang Qiyao never walked past the shop window again; this is yet another example of her self-restraint. Displayed beneath that were the words, “Wang Qiyao, the Proper Young Lady of Shanghai.” From that point her fame spread like the wind.

  But Wang Qiyao was still her old self. The night she went to the salon, she couldn’t get to sleep until quite late, yet she still arrived at school on time the next morning. During a PTA meeting, the school elected her to present flowers to returning alumni, but she gave up the honor to another classmate. When curious classmates tried to wheedle the details of the photo shoot out of her, she told the complete story, taking care not to exaggerate anything or make it sound at all mysterious or romantic. Her attitude was the same as it had ever been. She never rushed to finish first and never lagged behind—she always tried to steer a middle course. Gradually, her modest attitude helped to quell the jealous feelings brewing among her classmates.

  But, though she behaved no dif
ferently from before, changes were taking place inside her. In the past Wang Qiyao had always felt a slight irritation about having to abide by the rules and be a good girl, but now she could accept her role without rancor. With success came poise. And because she had already had a taste of success, she was more than willing to step aside so that others could have their chance. That glamorous night at the photo salon, where everything seemed to revolve around her, was enough to illuminate many a dull and tedious day. With her portrait on display in the salon window, even her silence was articulate. Something about Wang Qiyao caused her to rise above the other girls—had made her, indeed, into the exemplar of proper young ladies. Quiet and reserved, she used to behave like this against her will, but now her reticence was held up by hope. But, both before and after, the same patience was always at work.

  Patience—indeed, that certain “something” about Wang Qiyao was patience. Patience is a quality that holds fast no matter what setbacks may await; whether you face gains or losses, it always comes in handy. For someone as delicate and soft as Wang Qiyao, what weapon more formidable than patience? Whatever the outcome, be it success or failure, one cannot go wrong with patience; it is the last to go to the wall. Quiet and poise are the attributes of a proper young lady, and Wang Qiyao behaved exactly in the same way as before. One thing from the past was missing though, her friendship with Wu Peizhen. They had become even more distant than strangers. Strangers have no reason to avoid one another, but these two did. Wu Peizhen even went out of her way to avoid walking past the window that displayed Wang Qiyao’s photo—she didn’t want to lay eyes on a picture of her. Both were riddled by an unspeakable vexation, but thinking about each other only seemed to leave them more depressed.

  In no time, however, several classmates lined up to take Wu Peizhen’s place; some came knocking on her door to walk her to school, while others asked her out to the movies after class. Wang Qiyao kept them all at arm’s length—neither too close nor too far. After several attempts, they lost interest and gave up. Then one day Wang Qiyao discovered a letter hidden in the pages of her textbook. It was an invitation. Besides a card, there was a letter written in the flowery language popular among young schoolgirls. The letter declared the writer’s affection for Wang Qiyao, while the card invited her to a birthday party; both were signed by Jiang Lili. Jiang Lili had never had any real contact with Wang Qiyao, nor did she ever seem to have any close friends. Her family owned a factory and she was one of the wealthiest girls in her class. In school she was an average performer; she loved to read novels secretly in class, so much so that she ended up nearsighted. With her Coke-bottle glasses, she appeared even less approachable. Jiang Lili’s homework essays were always brimming with luxuriant and gaudy language that seemed to come directly out of one of her favorite tragic romances.

  Wang Qiyao accepted the invitation, primarily because she was unwilling to disappoint Jiang Lili but also out of simple curiosity. This curiosity was divided in two halves—she was curious about Jiang Lili and equally curious about the party. All kinds of rumors spread around school about parties at Jiang Lili’s house. She never invited people over, and this created an air of mystery. In the past, no matter how curious she might have been, Wang Qiyao’s response would have been to refuse the invitation—she would never give herself over to the excitement of others. But now she didn’t seem to care—moreover, who knows? Maybe the others would end up giving their excitement over to her.

  Wang Qiyao decided that she would go, but when she went to tell Jiang Lili, the latter seemed to go out of her way to avoid her. As soon as the bell rang, Lili rushed out of the classroom, leaving her textbook open on her desk, obviously as a receptacle for a reply from Wang Qiyao. Jiang Lili was behaving like a person so overwhelmed with emotions that she could hardly bring herself to speak, but Wang Qiyao was determined not to humor her: she had never liked playing those artful games, and the content of those types of letters always made her skin crawl. When Jiang Lili returned to the classroom to discover that her textbook was empty, a look of disappointment swept over her face. Wang Qiyao was secretly pleased. As soon as the bell rang, Jiang Lili rushed out of the classroom without looking back. Wang Qiyao ran after her, calling out her name, whereupon Jiang Lili’s face turned red: she was obviously very embarrassed, yet also very determined, a combination that showed her hurt. She had never expected Wang Qiyao to come right out and thank her for the invitation, let alone say that she would be sure to attend. Jiang Lili blushed even more hotly as teardrops welled up in her eyes, thick misty tears. The following day, Wang Qiyao discovered yet another note in her textbook. It was written on a piece of light blue stationery, the kind with flowery patterns printed in the corners, in language that was like poetry. The letter extolled the beauty of the moon the night before. Wang Qiyao couldn’t help but feel a bit sick.

  A few days later, the day of the birthday party, Wang Qiyao prepared a pair of hair ornaments to bring as a present. She put on a light wool checkered autumn jacket over a white cheongsam and, as a finishing touch, tied a red ribbon in her hair. She didn’t leave home until eight o’clock and only planned on staying a few minutes when she got there. A few days earlier, as the party was approaching, Wang Qiyao felt suddenly unsure of herself and her future. She didn’t know Jiang Lili very well; everything would have been fine if only she had Wu Peizhen to accompany her there. But Wu Peizhen was like someone from another lifetime. Just thinking of her filled Wang Qiyao with melancholy. She sat in her bedroom waiting for the clock to strike eight, by which time the longtang were shrouded in a lonely silence. The few night echoes stole through: the drip-drip sound of well water, the chiming of the clock, and evening songs being transmitted over the radio. The silence of the night accentuated people’s loneliness and exhaustion; the day was over but there was still much to do.

  At eight o’clock she went out the door; the electric lamp in the alley projected no light, only the colors of night. The other streetlights were also too weak to drive away the darkness surging out of the longtang. Neon lights were clouds floating in the night sky and people were but lamplit shadows. Jiang Lili’s family lived on a broad longtang just off a quiet and secluded main street. The alley was lined on both sides with two-storey apartment buildings with gardens and garages. Here too it was dark and quiet, but darkness and quietude of another breed. The window curtains were all shut at Jiang Lili’s house, but the slivers of light that peeped through made it more alive than the neighboring buildings. Wang Qiyao thought that she would be the only one late, but as she approached the building a car drove past her, stopping outside Jiang Lili’s front door. The main entrance had been left open, as if to welcome the arriving guests.

  Wang Qiyao walked inside and hung her coat up on the coatrack in the foyer, holding on to her gloves and the present she had brought. There were not a lot of people in the living room and they all seemed to be wrapped up in their own conversations. Fresh fruit and appetizers were laid out on an elongated serving table. In the center of the table was an empty spot reserved for the cake, which hadn’t yet arrived. Jiang Lili sat alone in the corner playing the piano. She was wearing one of her usual outfits and had a look of indifference on her face—it might as well have been someone else’s birthday. But the moment she laid eyes on Wang Qiyao, her face lit up with a brilliant smile. She got up from the piano bench and walked over to Wang Qiyao, taking her by the hand. Wang Qiyao couldn’t help heaving a sigh of relief. Jiang Lili was the one person she knew at the party, the one bit of familiarity and closeness, and so she in turn extended her hand. Jiang Lili pulled Wang Qiyao out of the living room, up the stairs, and into her bedroom.

  Everything in the room was pink—from the curtains and comforter to the satin drapes adorning the dressing table mirror—but this only succeeded in making Jiang Lili appear even more conservative and old-fashioned. She seemed set on making a mess of her room. The desk and bed were covered with books, their covers torn and spattered with ink; the cups were covered
with brown tea stains; her phonograph records were cracked and scratched; and her wardrobe, all in black and gray, was strewn all over the room. Wang Qiyao had originally planned on complimenting Jiang Lili on her room, but seeing this, she couldn’t get the words out. The room looked as if it had suffered some terrible injustice and was holding in a bellyful of discontent. Jiang Lili led Wang Qiyao inside and sat down on the corner of her bed, staring into the latter’s eyes for the longest time without uttering a word. Wang Qiyao didn’t know how to react; the entire situation seemed so very strange and awkward.

  Suddenly a hubbub broke out downstairs. They were probably about to bring out the cake. More people seemed to have arrived and waves of celebratory cries and laughter rang out. Wang Qiyao was about to suggest that they go back downstairs when she discovered that Jiang Lili was crying, the tears flowing past her glasses and down her cheeks.

  “What’s wrong, Jiang Lili?” she asked. “Today’s your birthday, your big day! What’s there to be so upset about?”

  At this Jiang Lili began to cry even more violently and her tears came streaming down. “You don’t understand.” she muttered as she shook her head. “Wang Qiyao, you just don’t understand.”

  “Then tell me,” Wang Qiyao replied. “Just what don’t I understand?”

  But Jiang Lili wouldn’t explain—she simply went on weeping and shaking her head. She acted a bit like a little girl trying to win sympathy. Wang Qiyao was beginning to grow tired of this behavior, but she managed to put up with it and suggested that they go back downstairs to rejoin the party. Jiang Lili, however, refused even more stubbornly. Finally, Wang Qiyao got up to go down by herself. Halfway down the stairs, she heard footsteps behind her and turned to see a teary-eyed Jiang Lili following her down. In her heart, Wang Qiyao thought the whole thing ridiculous, even annoying; she was also a bit moved—but this last emotion was a bit forced.