by Anyi, Wang
After walking for a few minutes, Wu Peizhen paused in front of a mailbox and said, “Go on back. You don’t need to see me off.”
Wang Qiyao insisted on walking her a bit further, saying that she didn’t have any other errands to do anyway. The two of them stood there, neither one daring to face the other.
“I was originally going to drop the invitation right here in this mailbox,” Wu Peizhen finally said after a long pause. “In the end, however, I decided to deliver it myself.”
Wang Qiyao stared at the mailbox without uttering a word. After a long silence, they both began to cry. They didn’t know what they were crying for, or what there was that was even worth crying about, but deep down both were overcome by a sadness for what they had once had and what was now irretrievably lost.
It was ten o’clock and the early morning sun beamed down on them through the leaves of the parasol tree, like shards of crystal or slivers of quicksilver, as dry leaves brushed against their legs while those on the ground crinkled beneath their feet. With their handkerchiefs soaked in tears, they still couldn’t say what was wrong, all they knew was that they were profoundly sad. It was as if their girlhood, so carefree and pure, were gone forever, and from that point on their lives would become much more complicated. A sedan drove silently past. The sunlight reflected in the side of the shiny car was also like a ray of quicksilver. They went on crying a while longer before Wu Peizhen slowly turned and, with lowered head, wiped her tears and walked away. Wang Qiyao gazed at her retreating silhouette. Her tears gradually dried, but the blinding sun shone in her eyes, so that she could hardly keep them open. She knew her eyes were swollen and her face felt numb. Eventually, she turned around and began making her way back to the house.
The director had invited Wang Qiyao for dinner at the New Asia Restaurant. Figuring that Wu Peizhen would be there, Wang Qiyao intentionally did not tell Jiang Lili about the dinner, saying instead that she was going home to visit and pick up some odds and ends. But Wu Peizhen wasn’t there—only the director. When she arrived, the director greeted her as Yao Yao, which immediately made her think back to what had happened at the film studio—it all seemed like another world.
“Yao Yao is a big girl now! All grown up!”
His tone seemed to hint at the affection a big brother feels for a little sister, almost enough to bring tears to one’s eye. Wang Qiyao, however, fought them back and responded with a smile.
“Well, I may be all grown up, but you just keep getting younger.”
The director had never expected Wang Qiyao to respond in such a manner and was visibly taken aback.
After a long silence, Wang Qiyao continued, “And so, to what may I owe the pleasure of this meeting?”
The director denied having any special motive for arranging the dinner, but his lips betrayed his heart, and deep down he was uncertain how to proceed. He began to regret not thinking things through beforehand; Wang Qiyao was no longer the girl he used to know. At that moment, the waiter came with the menu. The director asked Wang Qiyao to order, she tried politely to refuse before finally ordering two dishes. Duck feet marinated in wine and Yangzhou shredded tofu were both mid-priced dishes that would neither break the host’s bank or make him lose face. Their table faced the window and the glass pane looked as if it was dyed by the color of the neon lights outside—it was like their own private fireworks display. Only a handful of the lights along the wall were lit, while the tables themselves were illuminated by candlelight. The shadows on their faces danced with the flickering of the candle as the two of them wondered just who it was sitting across the table—and what they were doing together. Since the director had already denied having any special reason for wanting to see her, he couldn’t very well change his story now. He had to settle for some small talk instead. Wang Qiyao didn’t believe that he had invited her for no reason. There must have been something—she just didn’t know what. Both were growing impatient as they chatted about all kinds of things. They talked about the past and the present, but when they finally got to “Miss Shanghai,” the conversation suddenly stopped.
The food arrived and the director mumbled a few polite words before digging in. Once he started eating, he seemed to forget the business at hand and paid attention only to what was on the table. At that moment, noticing a hole worn through the cuff of his suit and his overgrown fingernails, Wang Qiyao suddenly began to feel nauseous and put down her chopsticks. It was only after a goodly portion of the dishes had been eaten that the director started to loosen up and put on a casual demeanor. As a luster slowly lit up his face, he put down his chopsticks then, as if trying to start over from the beginning, he offered Wang Qiyao a cigarette. She declined but helped to light his. The gesture moved the director and a closer feeling of trust seemed to grow up between them.
“Yao Yao,” he said at last. “At your age you should still be in school. Why bother competing in that ‘Miss Shanghai’ pageant anyway?”
Wang Qiyao explained that it wasn’t her idea, that the waters were flowing in the right direction and she was merely riding along with the current, and in any case fate would determine the outcome.
The director continued. “You’re an educated girl, so you’ll have heard about women’s liberation. You should hang onto your ideals. After all, those other girls competing in the ‘Miss Shanghai’ pageant are nothing more than the playthings of rich officials and celebrities. Is that what you call ‘going with the flow?’”
“Well, I have a different opinion about that,” Wang Qiyao rejoined. “As far as I’m concerned, competing in the pageant is the very symbol of a woman’s liberation. The Miss Shanghai pageant confers social status on a woman. And your theory about all the girls being playthings for the rich doesn’t hold water either. After all, several daughters of rich officials are competing. You’re not telling me they would take advantage of their own daughters, are you?”
“You’re absolutely right,” the director went on. “The whole thing is precisely for those big shots’ daughters. The entire pageant is one big birthday present from those big shots directly to their daughters and mistresses, everyone else is there to make them look better—it’s a game within a game.”
Hearing these words, Wang Qiyao’s expression changed. She countered with a cold smile.
“Well, that’s not how I see things. At home, every girl is somebody’s daughter, but when she goes out into society she is a woman; what makes you think that they’re good enough to compete, but I’m not? And even if what you said is true, I couldn’t drop out of the race even if I wanted to. I’m going to see this out to the end. We’ll just have to wait and see who comes out on top.”
Seeing how his remarks had offended her and realizing that she had a point, the director didn’t know what else to say. He managed to hem and haw his way through a clichéd speech about equality of the sexes and female emancipation, his words sounding like lines straight out of a movie. He even spoke of how it was the responsibility of the young to keep their country’s fate within the horizon of their hopes and dreams.
“China today is facing an uncertain future, bullied by America and on the verge of a civil war.” His words had the high-minded, arty ring of leftist cinema.
Wang Qiyao decided to stop trying to refute him and simply let him say whatever he pleased. He went on and on and, when he finally paused, she stood up to leave. The director was caught completely off guard. He was about to say something, but Wang Qiyao beat him to the punch.
“Actually, director, you also played a role in my decision to compete in the ‘Miss Shanghai’ pageant. If you hadn’t introduced me to your friend Mr. Cheng, who took those photos for Shanghai Life, none of this would have happened. To tell you the truth, Mr. Cheng was the one who suggested I try out for the pageant in the first place.”
With that, Wang Qiyao unleashed a mocking smile. This smile provoked the director and he was suddenly struck by an inspiring thought. “Yao Yao—excuse me—Miss Wang, the ‘Miss Shang
hai’ crown is but a floating cloud. It may look enticing, but it will be gone before you know it. It is like mist passing before your eyes, it won’t last. You’d be better off trying to fetch water with a bamboo basket. It dazzles your eyes, but in a split second it will all disappear. In my years at the film studio, I’ve seen my share of glamour, but at the end of the day all that is left of the cloudburst and lightning is a strip of transparent, black-and-white celluloid with a backward image. Talk about emptiness; well, there is nothing emptier than that—that is what you’d call vanity . . .”
Wang Qiyao didn’t wait for him to finish. She turned away and walked out, leaving him talking to her retreating backside. There was a wedding banquet being held downstairs and the celebratory firecrackers drowned out his voice.
The director felt he had a historic mission to persuade Wang Qiyao to drop out of the pageant and criticize the “Miss Shanghai” beauty contest. In 1946 the film industry was among the more progressive groups in Shanghai. The revolution had already taken firm root in that circle. The director had read about theories of women’s liberation, progressive youth, and the elimination of decadence in books, but the latter part of his talk was based on personal experience. He had paid a price in suffering and love for these experiences, so his advice came straight from the heart. He watched Wang Qiyao walk off—not once did she turn to look back. The more truculent she grew, the more uncertain he realized her future was. But if he had wanted to help her, there was nothing he could have done.
Strings of celebratory firecrackers continued to sound as the neon light reflected in the window turned from red to orange and from green to blue. How raucous and colorful were those Shanghai nights.
Miss Third Place
The director’s words went right past Wang Qiyao’s ears. Since her meeting with Wu Peizhen she had had the feeling that she could never go back to the way things were. This realization only led her to pursue her ideal even more strenuously—there was no turning back now. She wanted to turn herself around overnight, and for this there was a price to be paid. It was unclear, however, what this would entail. Her future was uncertain, but Wang Qiyao’s heart was at ease. She was by nature the kind of person who puts action before words. But, owing to setbacks, she had become prone to melancholy when thinking of the past. This sadness was an encumbrance, needlessly adding to her burden; in the end, her instinct to move forward forced her to let that sadness go. Wang Qiyao seemed to fully expect to make it into the semifinals and then into the final round. Neither brought her much pleasure, as if she had bestowed these honors on herself. Because she no longer believed in miracles, the only faith she had left was in herself. Every girl who made it into the final round took it completely for granted. After round after round of competition, they had long erased any notion that it was “just luck that had gotten them this far.” Once they got past that, everything was on their own shoulders.
This is what sets Shanghai girls apart from other girls—they believe in the power of the individual and take the initiative into their own hands. Frankly speaking, once you have made it into the final round, you are already halfway there and already qualify as a semicelebrity. Several of Shanghai’s well-established clothing stores came knocking on Wang Qiyao’s door offering to sponsor her with complimentary tailor-made outfits. When the list of finalists was released, it was simultaneously announced that the final competition would take place in three parts: the first in traditional Chinese cheongsam, the second in Western dress, and the third in a bridal gown. In their bridal gowns all the contestants looked as if they were about to go down the aisle. Suddenly rumors started flying around that the girls were all kept women, and people even gossiped about the famous men each was involved with. In the days leading up to the final pageant, the Jiang family refused all visitors, with the exception of Mr. Cheng. He was their sole link with the outside world. With his help, they could sit in their living room and still know everything that was going on.
Wang Qiyao, Jiang Lili and her mother, and Mr. Cheng strategized about Wang Qiyao’s wardrobe in the final round. Mr. Cheng felt that whoever had decided to save the bridal dress competition for last was truly inspired.
“Most wedding gowns are relatively similar in design—the bridal photos displayed in salon windows all seem to be of the same person—bridal gowns are the ultimate emblems of purity and elegance. Let’s see who can capture the essence of a bride-to-be—real gold can stand the test of blazing fire.”
The three women listened spellbound to Mr. Cheng’s words. Women wear their clothes on the outside, but Mr. Cheng seemed to know what was going on inside their hearts—he understood them completely.
Mr. Cheng went on, “As for the wedding gown, although it’s hard to know where to begin, there are several crucial points. First, we have to take advantage of the power of contrast. The first two outfits should roll out the red carpet for the third. They should make the wedding dress stand out. Aren’t wedding gowns white? Well, we’ll start out by giving them brilliant colors. Aren’t wedding gowns simple and pure? Well, we’ll dazzle them with elaborate designs. Aren’t wedding gowns right out of fairy tales? Well, we’ll show them the way of the world. With the first two outfits we’ll put on quite a show—give them quite an eyeful—but then we will end with a quiet echo. This is where our second tactic comes into play. Wang Qiyao will wear the simplest and most completely unadorned wedding gown, of the commonest kind you always see in display windows. By going as simple as we can, we will heighten the contrast. This should produce the strongest effect. The only difficult part lies in deciding just how to make those first two outfits stand out—for that, I’m going to have to rely on you three ladies.”
But after all that, how could any of them dare say anything? As women, they all felt ashamed that they had to listen to a man’s advice on fashion—it was an utter dereliction of duty. Only Wang Qiyao had a few ideas she was willing to share. After hearing Mr. Cheng’s wonderful idea, she said, she had decided to wear crimson red and jade green to set off the white dress. Mr. Cheng knew right away that Wang Qiyao understood where he was going with his plan; they had some minor differences of opinion when it came to the specific colors, but that was all. He felt that, although crimson and jade were two of the most eye-catching colors, it all depended on how one wore them.
“Wang Qiyao’s beauty is not the kind that can be flaunted; it’s an understated beauty—the kind you come to admire only after taking it in slowly. Crimson and jade, however, are strong, decisive colors; they leave no room for gradual appreciation. The eye of man works hastily, and such strong colors could ruin Wang Qiyao chances—they will not only cover up her subtleties, but completely smother them. We want strong colors, but not that strong. What if we tone things down a bit and find colors that compliment Wang Qiyao’s strengths? Working with her natural endowments, we could use softer colors to attain an equally powerful effect. I suggest we go with pink: with Wang Qiyao’s charm this should create a delicate elegance. As for green, let’s go with a warm apple green. It may be a bit rustic, but it will blend well with Wang Qiyao’s purity to create a vivacious effect.”
By the time Mr. Cheng had finished, there was nothing more the three ladies could say; they didn’t dare add anything. And so, the color scheme for Wang Qiyao’s outfits was decided in this way.
Meanwhile, rumors were spreading all over the city that the judges had been bought off and the three finalists had already been decided. The winner was to be the daughter of some rich entrepreneur, second place was to be taken by the mistress of some government VIP, and the third runner-up was supposedly a social butterfly, famous throughout Shanghai. Although this was mere gossip, the rumored winners were so much older than the other contestants that a tabloid printed a satirical essay to accuse the judges of selecting a “Madame Shanghai” instead of a “Miss Shanghai.” Following this essay came another that ridiculed the pageant, insinuating that the satiric term “Madame Shanghai” meant that anyone with the right conn
ections could become a beauty queen. A third essay appeared to dispel the rumors: the future Miss Shanghai was to be decided by a fair vote, and no bribing or purchasing of votes was allowed. This was in turn refuted by a fourth article, asserting that nothing can be done in this society without money—including garnering votes. If nationalist officials and even anti-Japanese heroes could be bribed, what was going to stop someone from buying off the “Miss Shanghai” judges? This criticism was actually a potshot at the successful bribery by a high-ranking official from Chongqing. Back and forth went the papers and tabloids with their accusations and insinuations. The smell of gunpowder rose, creating quite a show on the eve of the final round; it also brought a new tension to the atmosphere surrounding the pageant.
Mr. Cheng’s visits to the Jiang home became even more frequent. He would arrive first thing in the morning and stay until late at night. They were on the eve of a major battle. Once they invited the seamstress in, she never left; she had all three meals with them and even stayed over at night. She was like an esteemed guest, but at the same time she also worked for them, supervising the tailors they had hired. Mr. Cheng was naturally the one in charge; Jiang Lili was another supervisor, as was her mother. Then there was Wang Qiyao, picking away at every little detail—every stitch had to be perfect for her. Deep down she felt rather bad about making a fuss over such minor details—Is this what life has come down to? The most infinitesimal matters, and yet she was expending every ounce of her heart and soul on them. She knew only too well that the seamstress’s handiwork was beyond criticism, yet she was set on finding fault with her. Seeing the seamstress caught in an awkward situation, Wang Qiyao not only felt worse about herself, but even started to feel bad for the seamstress. The embroidered flowers on the pink satin cheongsam, however, still managed to warm her heart. Those minute, closely spaced stitches were woven into her dreams, and the meticulously worked piping was sewn into them; just looking at them brought tears to her eyes. If things didn’t work out in the end, one couldn’t blame them. The apple green Western outfit had a much more natural feel than the cheongsam: its cashmere fabric seemed to absorb the light and let it sink in, where it stabilized her mind. The pure white wedding gown inspired a myriad emotions; there were a thousand words that it was yearning to say even as it remained tragically mute—although, as every one knows, ultimate understanding requires no words at all.
