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

by Anyi, Wang

  On one such occasion when Wang Qiyao had lost her temper, Jiang Lili folded her arms and declared, “Wang Qiyao, I just don’t know what I can do to make you happy!”

  These words made Wang Qiyao think back to Wu Peizhen, and she was overcome with dismay. She couldn’t recall Wu Peizhen ever uttering such irritating things—but those words described perfectly what Peizhen had constantly tried to do. Wang Qiyao was standing just inches away from Jiang Lili, but she felt they were so distant that they might as well have been on opposite sides of the world.

  Although it was only recently that Wang Qiyao had sent in her headshot, rumors were already starting to spread. Wang Qiyao’s original idea was simply to send in her photo and then forget about the whole thing. She had no intention of making a big deal out of the pageant, but how could she remain indifferent in the light of the uproar Jiang Lili was creating? And then there was Mr. Cheng, who seemed intent on bringing the pageant up at least two or three times every day. Mr. Cheng knew a few people in the newspaper business—this was important not only because the Miss Shanghai beauty pageant was a hot topic in all the papers, but also because it was to be judged by representatives from the newspaper industry. Mr. Cheng’s newspaper buddies, however, were not terribly close with him, so that one could never count on the accuracy of his information. Wang Qiyao refused to let herself be swayed by rumors; Jiang Lili, on the other hand, found herself on a never-ending emotional roller coaster. On one occasion Mr. Cheng came to them with the news that the head of a certain major industry, who went by the name of the “king” of something-or-other, was entering his daughter in the pageant and had simultaneously decided to make a large donation to the Disaster Relief Committee. Hearing this, Jiang Lili wanted immediately to run off and start raising money in Wang Qiyao’s name to match his donation. On another occasion Mr. Cheng told them that a politician was going to sponsor a certain socialite for whom he was about to hold a huge reception at the Park Hotel, to which every celebrity in the city was invited. This set Jiang Lili off on a scheme to host her own reception. Wang Qiyao could not be unaffected by all of this. Even though she didn’t want to make a big deal about the whole thing, it was already much too late for that. She had trouble suppressing her excitement as, day in and day out, she waited for the results.

  Waiting for the results was like waiting for the dice to turn up in your favor—throwing them down harder doesn’t do any good. Fate decides everything. And so Jiang Lili decided to go to church to pray. The words she uttered to God were like a melodramatic essay worthy of publication. At first Wang Qiyao kept her impatience well hidden, but after Jiang Lili started bragging about her to the whole world, what patience she had left began to wear thin. Gradually, impatience became annoyance and Wang Qiyao took to ignoring Jiang Lili. Lili, however, interpreted this coldness as a sign that she hadn’t done enough and began to work even harder. This left Wang Qiyao at a complete loss. She knew that Jiang Lili was good to her, but she felt constrained, as if her personal freedom was being violated. The natural reaction was to stand up and resist. Being extra nice to someone can be a form of manipulation—kindness is an exercise of power in its own right. Meanwhile, though nothing had been formally declared, the entire city was already filling up with gossip; virtually everyone in Shanghai knew. Wang Qiyao only wished that there was a place where she could hide, where she didn’t have to see another soul. She wished she could be deaf so she wouldn’t have to be bothered by all those annoying questions. It was a good thing that by the time of the pageant they had both already graduated and didn’t have to worry about school anymore. Wang Qiyao couldn’t even imagine how she would have dealt with the stares if she had still been in school. Her relatives were already a handful. And so she had no choice but to spend most of her time at Jiang Lili’s house; no matter how much of an uproar Lili made, there was only one of her—outside there were hundreds. Later, Wang Qiyao decided to move in with the Jiang family.

  Actually, Lili had been wanting Wang Qiyao to move in with her for some time, but till now Wang Qiyao had always declined. When she finally agreed, Jiang Lili was so ecstatic that she made sure the room was all fixed up a full three days before Wang Qiyao was even scheduled to move in. Seeing how happy her daughter was, Lili’s mother was also full of energy, ordering the maid to do this and that to get the house ready for their honored guest. The only people living with Lili were her mother and a brother. Her father had moved his factory to the interior during the war and afterward never relocated back to Shanghai. He had, in fact, taken a second wife out there and rarely came home, not even for Chinese New Year. He only returned to Shanghai twice a year for his children’s birthdays—that was his way of showing fatherly love.

  Jiang Lili’s little brother was attending middle school, but he often played truant and did nothing but sit home and listen to the radio from morning till night, coming out of his room only for meals. Everyone in the family was a bit odd; even the maid had strange habits. Things were backwards in this family; the children did not have an ounce of respect for their mother, while she constantly fawned upon them. They counted every penny when it came to daily necessities, yet could throw away a hundred dollars at the drop of a hat. The mistress of the house seemed to have tired of being in charge and let the maid boss them around. After moving in, Wang Qiyao felt almost duty-bound to share the responsibilities of running the household—even though her status was half that of a retainer. She became the one to decide what they should have for dinner the following day; the one to ask when anyone in the house was looking for anything; and when the maid went through the daily accounts, it was always her job to make sure there were no mistakes. After Wang Qiyao moved in, the maid suddenly had someone keeping her in check. Her late night mahjong games in the servants’ quarters were at an end, she was no longer allowed to keep guests for dinner, and she had to ask for permission before going out and return in a timely fashion. She was also required to comb her hair and dress more neatly—no longer would she be allowed to go clanking and clacking around all day in those annoying wooden sandals. And so, as she overhauled the household, Wang Qiyao slowly took away the maid’s power, bit by bit, until she was the sole mistress of the house. By moving into Jiang Lili’s house, she had evened things up with Lili. She had improved the household, thus repaying Jiang Lili for being so good to her, but she had also wrested back some control over her own life. That way, the slate was wiped clean and they could be on an equal footing. It was during this time that Wang Qiyao received the news that she had qualified for the preliminary pageant.

  The pageant was swamped. It was as if all the gorgeous women in Shanghai had assembled in the room. Reporters from virtually every newspaper in the city scurried around, fighting to get their stories out first, while they feasted their eyes on the beauties that surrounded them. Their gazes were laced with desire, as were their articles. The entrance to the hotel where the pageant was being held was crowded with pedicabs and automobiles, along with a continuous flow of people coming and going. The girls came accompanied by their maidservants, sisters, or other family members, tailors, and hairdressers in tow. Shanghai girls were different from other girls. Like the men in their families, they too wanted to turn heads and make something of themselves. Moreover, they didn’t just talk about it, they took action. In some ways, they were even more aggressive and tenacious than their fathers and brothers, unafraid of losing or getting hurt. At least half of the splendor of Shanghai was built on their desire for fame and wealth; if not for this desire, more than half the stores in the city would have long gone under.

  Shanghai’s splendor is actually a kind of feminine grace; the scent carried by the wind is a woman’s perfume, and there are always more women’s clothes displayed in the store windows than men’s. The shadows of the French parasol trees seem to carry a womanly aura, as do the oleanders and lilacs in the courtyards—the most feminine of flowers. The humid breeze during the rainy season is a woman’s little temper tantrum, the murmurin
g sound of Shanghainese is custom-made for women’s most intimate gossip. The city is like one big goddess, wearing clothes plumed with rainbows, scattering silver and gold across the sky. The colored clouds are the sleeves of her gown.

  On that day, more important than the rest, on that special festival celebrating pretty girls, the sun rose especially for them, shining down on them as they left their homes across the city. Every last rose or carnation in the shops was bought up by well-wishers to congratulate the girls. Their bodies were wrapped in the most fashionable clothes, their faces displayed the highest artistry of makeup, and the most stylish hairdos adorned their heads. It was a massive fashion show and they were all models, each and every one a rare beauty—the cream of the crop. Looked at separately, each seemed destined to take the crown; put side by side, each appeared prettier than the last; once the competition began, their collective beauty marshaled up a force capable of toppling mountains and overturning the sea. They were the pith and marrow of this city—its spirit. Normally their beauty was spread evenly throughout the city, diffused in the air; but on the day of the pageant their essence was concentrated into what was the most gorgeous portrait Shanghai had ever painted of itself.

  A feeling of relief came over Wang Qiyao when she was selected for the preliminary pageant; she could finally face all those people who had been supporting her, and, most of all, she could face herself. But she was a little surprised when she made it into the second round of competition. Only then did she begin to take the pageant seriously; up until that point she had simply been trying to make Jiang Lili and Mr. Cheng happy. Taking the pageant lightly was her way of building a protective shell around herself—behind that shell reposed her dignity. Wang Qiyao’s self-esteem had been injured by Jiang Lili and Mr. Cheng’s diligence; the sole course of action she took to protect herself was to assume a thoroughly ambivalent attitude about the whole affair. Thinking back, Wang Qiyao realized that those had indeed been difficult days to get through. When all was said and done, the hope and hard work of Jiang Lili and Mr. Cheng rested entirely on Wang Qiyao’s shoulders. Success or failure depended not on them but on her. In a way, they were making Wang Qiyao’s decision for her; forcing their own dreams and desires onto her. Had Wang Qiyao taken things seriously, she surely would have ended up angry and perhaps even terminated her friendship with them. It was her ambivalence that saved their relationship. But everything turned out all right once Wang Qiyao made it into the second round. Everyone was happy—including Jiang Lili and Mr. Cheng.

  Wang Qiyao and Jiang Lili began to reappear at a new series of parties, each of which one seemed to resemble a press conference where the questions never ceased. Wang Qiyao never failed to answer the questions put to her. Jiang Lili, on the other hand, was extremely reserved and refused to answer certain questions. About this time Mr. Cheng did another photo shoot for Wang Qiyao. He borrowed a friend’s photo studio and shot a series of close-ups and headshots. He wanted people to remember her face. Afterward he got a buddy of his who was with the press to pull some strings and the photo was printed in a corner of the page of one of the Shanghai newspapers. It wasn’t a big newspaper, but the photo ran alongside an article about the Miss Shanghai pageant—so it was basically free publicity for Wang Qiyao.

  Events were now unfolding so quickly that Wang Qiyao began to get scared. Her progress was too smooth—there must be some booby traps lying ahead. She had always believed that fortune comes and goes in cycles—nothing good lasts forever. But about this time Wang Qiyao first started entertaining some rather extravagant hopes. She had naturally high aspirations, but having come to terms with the limitations imposed by her environment, she developed a habit of splashing cold water on her hopes. The world is full of opportunities, she knew, but often the harder you try the less you end up with. So she decided instead simply to hold on tight to the little bit she already had. At least it was something and, who knew, perhaps if she didn’t think about it things would start going her way. Sometimes the less you try the more you end up with. As it was, things really were going her way, and even if she didn’t want to think about it, she really had no other choice. The days became even more difficult to get through. Her earlier difficulties sprang from trying to protect herself and keep people at bay, but now she wanted in. As the semifinals approached, Wang Qiyao started to look thin and fatigued.

  Her bedroom, adjacent to the downstairs parlor, had been converted from a study expressly for her. It had a window overlooking the garden, where the moonlight flickered under the night sky. Sometimes she thought to herself, even the moon here is different. The moon back home was a small courtyard moon, stained by the smell of kitchen smoke and lampblack; the moon here might as well have come from a scene in a novel, its light shining on flowers and rambling plants. When she couldn’t sleep at night Wang Qiyao would get up and gaze through the sheer drapes out her window. She listened to the nameless sounds of the still night, so unlike the night sounds back home, which all had a name. Back home she could always tell whose baby was crying or which mother was berating her child; she could identify the sounds of rats racing beneath the floor, or the sound of a toilet flushing. Here only one sound had an identity. The lord of all sounds—and that was the sound of the bell tower ringing. It overrides all other sounds and voices, which form a bed of echoes reverberating through the night. The echoes are the finest strokes of a huge painting that constitutes the deep thought of the night. This sound has a buoyancy that lifts you up and knocks you around as if you were riding on a bed of waves. When people have floated on the waves long enough, they feel hollow inside and out, thoroughly saturated by the night.

  The nights here have a corrosive power; they eat away at people’s true feelings, replacing them with illusions. The nights here are clear and limpid. And unlike the nights outside her window back home, filled with muck and impurities, the nights here shine on people, making each and every strand of their hair distinct. If you reach out your hand, the color of the night slips between your fingers, and not even a sieve can sift out a single particle. The night fills the sky, pressing down on the rooftops, but the buildings never feel its weight, because actually it is as light as the wings of a cicada. There is only one thing in the night that has form, and that is shadows cast by moonlight. They stand out in delicate strokes against the invisible color of the night; they are the flesh and skin of the night. The night penetrates through ten thousand things; there is no crevice it does not creep into, and in then end the ten thousand things turn shapeless and colorless. The night is a solvent; it breaks down the structure of objects and replaces them with empty form. The nights here are magical; they confuse the senses, turning everything upside down.

  The list of contenders who made it into the semifinals was printed in all the newspapers. Although the final victor had yet to be chosen, Wang Qiyao was already basking in the attention. Everyone knew that she was staying with Jiang Lili, and their house was a revolving door for visitors. Even their most distant acquaintances suddenly felt compelled to stop by and ask endless questions. Wang Qiyao became a source of glory for the Jiang family. Jiang Lili and her mother spent all their time greeting the never-ending stream of visitors and serving them tea and snacks. Busy as they were, they couldn’t have been happier—except for Jiang Lili’s little brother, who locked himself in his room, listening to whatever ramblings or songs came in over the radio. Every day the three women would get up, first thing in the morning, dress, make themselves up, and sit in the parlor, waiting for the doorbell to ring. Sitting there, waiting to welcome their guests, they were like soldiers ready for battle. Things were coming to a head, they realized, and there was no room to overlook even the minutest detail. On one occasion Wang Qiyao was interviewed by a reporter for the evening edition of a local newspaper. His article described Wang Qiyao and Jiang Lili as being as close as sisters, and thanks to the Jiang family’s notoriety in the business world this helped to inflate Wang Qiyao’s reputation.

  Jiang L
ili’s mother had long since come to think of Wang Qiyao as dearer than her own daughter. Her daughter was always rebelling against her, whereas Wang Qiyao was the complete opposite and heeded her every whim. She even went so far as to write to her husband in Chongqing to pressure him to donate money to the Disaster Relief Committee so as to throw some additional support in Wang Qiyao’s corner. Normally, Jiang Lili and her mother had nothing to occupy them; now they were not only busy but had a common objective. United by this common goal, they suddenly found themselves getting along quite well.

  Although there were still a few days until the pageant, they all had their own secret hunches about the outcome. Some of the candidates were clearly going to end up at the bottom, while for others making it into the final round was a mere formality. Then there was the group of girls who fell somewhere in the middle—they weren’t at the bottom, but neither were they assured of making it into the final round. These girls still had a fighting chance—Wang Qiyao was one of them. Actually, they were the ones who carried the burden of the competition, and throughout the pageant were the ones to stand fast amid the rushing currents—it was they who were the true Miss Shanghais. Throughout the drama of the pageant, these were the divas who met all the challenges. It was a question of survival of the fittest. In the end, whoever was able to break out in front deserved to be the true Miss Shanghai.

  Among the visitors who came to the Jiang house at this time was one person Wang Qiyao had not expected to see—Wu Peizhen. Wang Qiyao opened the door and, seeing who it was, instantly lost her composure. Wu Peizhen was also flustered; she looked away and didn’t know what to do with her hands. At a loss what to say, the two stood awkwardly facing each other, until Wu Peizhen removed an envelope from her pocket and handed it to Wang Qiyao. Wang Qiyao looked over it but didn’t seem to take it in, except that it was some kind of invitation from the director over at the film studio. Wu Peizhen said that she needed to know whether Wang Qiyao would be able to make it. Wang Qiyao didn’t have a chance to think it over properly but agreed nonetheless. Without so much as a goodbye, Wu Peizhen turned and took her leave. Wang Qiyao followed her outside. Wu Peizhen gradually slowed down so that Wang Qiyao could catch up with her, and they walked side by side down the longtang.