by Anyi, Wang
These articles of clothing would venture out into the world with her, companions to her loneliness. Her intimacy with them is that of skin pressed against skin, heart against heart, but in the final analysis nothing and no one would be able to help her. She had only herself. This sadness too she could keep only to herself. During the last days leading up to the pageant finals, having to stay in the Jiang house felt like an insult, and the rumors printed in the papers felt even more of an insult. The kindness with which Mr. Cheng and the Jiangs treated her was insult heaped upon insult. All of this hurt she kept inside; outside she looked the same as ever and no one could tell that anything was wrong. Everyone was filled with anxiety as they busied themselves with their various tasks. The house could not but take on a somewhat chaotic aura, but Wang Qiyao somehow maintained her composure amid this chaos. And in spite of it all, with each hour, with each passing minute, amid the tabloid polemics, her pink and green outfits, and the hurt she carried around inside her, the pageant finals came closer.
The voting method was quite romantic. In front of the stage was a row of flower baskets, each labeled with one of the contestant’s names. The judges cast their votes by placing a carnation in the basket of the woman of their choice. White and red carnations filled the lobby of the theater, selling at a hundred dollars a stem, the proceeds to be donated to flood refugees in Henan. Every carnation in Shanghai seemed to have been gathered up into the lobby of the New Heavenly Garden Theater to make a carnation gala. White and red were the colors of romance, and their fragrance was even more intoxicating. That night even the stars in the sky seemed to transform into carnations, spreading romance all around. And oh, how the lights shone! They were incredible, the way they spoke with their brilliance. People became delirious. The parasol trees beneath the lights also had a great deal to say, but they kept quiet. The traffic surged in a continuous flow with the excitement of a cheerleading squad that didn’t let up.
This city has more energy than it knows what to do with. It understands neither sorrow nor the affairs of man—all it desires is to taste the full palate of worldly pleasures. Outside New Heavenly Garden, mist rose under the entrance lights. Mist had also risen amid the carnations in the antechamber, merging into a layer of clouds. The flashes of the cameras were lightning amid these clouds, unleashing an instant romantic downpour. One after another, the contestants’ cars arrived. Emerging from their automobiles was their first opportunity to strike a pose and show themselves off. There was too much splendor for the eye to behold, and the evening had its first high point amid a fanfare of wild cries and cheers. The contestants were showered with strings of sparkling confetti, surrounding them in a flurry of chaos and colors—a fleeting glimpse of beauty, then the girls all disappeared inside. The people at the entrance to the New Heavenly Garden were volunteer walk-ins, their only purpose to make the atmosphere more exhilarating. A long line of people waiting to buy carnations formed in the lobby. Although each flower had been cut at the stem, they seemed to continue growing. No matter how many were sold, there were still countless baskets of them. In the blink of an eye, everyone had a stem in hand—the antechamber had transformed into a soirée for carnations, where they gathered joyfully in all their delicate finery. How truly marvelous! The scent of the carnations would linger as they lay in slumber for the next forty years.
Music and dance accompanied the final round. The contestants’ three-part appearances came interwoven with song, dance, and arias from Peking opera; each time they approached the stage the girls were preceded by stirring music, but once they had appeared everything seemed to stop and the audience held their breath. All eyes were on the girls. There was no room for mistakes. After each song, dance, and opera performance, a new queen was born and everyone felt that she was leading the way for the queen of queens. As for her whose fate was to be decided momentarily, what glory lay in store! The flower baskets in front of the stage gradually filled up with carnations. One after another, the flowers were placed inside, carefully and sincerely.
The carnations in the baskets could not know that they were serving to highlight the beauty of Wang Qiyao. The red and white carnations were there to anchor her pink and apple green outfits, otherwise those colors, too light, might flutter away. Amid the sea of red and white carnations, Wang Qiyao stood out, a pistil emerging from the flowers, lovely beyond words. She did not steal the attention from other girls on stage: it wasn’t her style to be hostile. Instead, she slowly won the audience over. Bit by bit, as if gathering her crop at harvest time, she drew you in with her sweetness—it was as if she wanted to have a heart-to-heart with you but needed to ask your approval first. The flowers in her basket did not arrive in cascades, but they kept coming. As if by a spring trickling on without end, her basket was filled up. Wang Qiyao may not have been the most gorgeous or the most bewitching woman on stage, but she was the most popular. The three-part fashion show seemed to have been designed expressly for her. They allowed people time to get to know her and let her leave her imprint in their hearts. Each appearance on stage was more magnificent than the last; by the final round Wang Qiyao had won back the hope that she might take home the crown.
When she came out on stage for the last time in her white wedding gown, the white carnations seemed to fade into the background while the red jumped out, leaping directly on to the white gauze of her gown. Before Wang Qiyao had had a chance to become the beauty queen, she was already the queen of carnations. Hers was the most simple and common wedding dress, a step back from the razzle-dazzle of the elaborate and intricate gowns worn by the other contestants. The others were modeling wedding dresses—only she was a bride. The stage was piled up with satin, brocade, crepe, chiffon, and organza. One person only was made of flesh and blood—and that was Wang Qiyao. Charming, but with a hint of bashfulness, she even had a touch of that mild resentment that often afflicts young brides. This was the final round. Everything was coming to a head—all of her effort, all of her hopes—the result of all her ambition and hard work was to be decided. With the splendor of the moment came the pain of loss—tomorrow she would see the withered flowers carried away down the flowing rapids. Wearing that wedding dress, Wang Qiyao felt truly herself; both she and the dress embodied the sentiment that this was going to be the last time. Along with this feeling came joy, sorrow, and a slight hint of being wronged. The dress had been specially designed for Wang Qiyao and it seemed to understand just what she was going through. A tragic feeling built up inside her as she wore that wedding gown.
Reluctant to leave the stage, she slowly turned to bid farewell and in that moment she was not simply beautiful—she was real. The flowers were now falling like raindrops into her basket, but Wang Qiyao didn’t have time to look; before her eyes all was a confusing blur. She felt alone and helpless, like a prisoner awaiting execution. She wanted so badly to give her all, but she didn’t know where to direct her effort—it was just her and her dress, together until the end. She wanted to cry for her uncertain future. She thought back to the film studio, to the moment when the director yelled “Camera.” It was all the same, down to her outfit. Back then she had been wearing a red wedding dress; this time it was a white one. Was this some kind of omen? Perhaps one always came out empty-handed after putting on a wedding dress—perhaps a wedding dress is actually a gown of mourning!
Wang Qiyao had already lost half her hope. Tears clouded her eyes. At this final moment, there seemed to be a downpour of carnations in the theater, and it was difficult to make out who was voting for whom. Some of the judges even seemed to be throwing their flowers in the wrong baskets. The climax was at hand. What followed would be either victory or defeat: a few would be exultant, all others would face disappointment. The girls stood stock still as a sinking feeling descended upon them. The rain of carnations ceased, the music stopped, as did their hearts. Now was the moment when they would be awakened from their dreams.
How quiet indeed that moment was. One could even hear the clapper of a st
reet peddler selling porridge flavored with osmanthus blossoms—a shadow of the everyday world creeping into this peculiar place. The collective spirit began to hang low. A handful of silk-like petals danced in the stage lights, and their lack of direction left everyone with a feeling of sorrow. The faint chime of the clock was the work of the hand of fate reaching out to remind them all—no party lasts forever. There was utmost quiet. One could hear the rustling of the contestants’ gowns—it was the muffled cries of their hearts. In this city that never sleeps, this was the calmest moment and the most serene place—all the quiet in Shanghai seemed to gather here. Forced to cease their activities and forbidden to make a sound, in this one moment the whole world dwelt in silence. The carnations in the antechamber and the flower baskets—all were in full bloom, yet they too were silent. From high above, the entire stage could be seen bathed in light, while the audience remained shrouded in darkness like a bottomless abyss. Never had the city been so agitated, nor had it ever witnessed such quiet. But suddenly this quiet was coming to an end and it seemed a new disturbance was brewing. The hearts leapt into the throat; the string was about to snap.
Thunderous applause broke out. The house lights came on, illuminating even the audience. The queen had been announced, with a radiant crown of gold placed on her head. Her beauty was overpowering; in a hairnet woven with shimmering beads, she looked truly regal, unquestionably one of a kind. The gold crown could only be worn by her, for it belonged to no other. Even her flower basket seemed to be larger than the rest, as if it had anticipated extra votes—indeed, in the end it was so crammed with carnations that they hung over the sides. The first runner-up had an irrepressibly coquettish air; the silver crown suited her perfectly. There were more white carnations than red in her basket, as if she had been destined to win the silver crown. She bred desire as she shot forth flirtatious glances, this sensual woman who concentrated in her person the passion of the ages—a rare beauty indeed.
The applause thundered on as the lights turned even brighter, illuminating even the furthest corners of the theater. The show was at an end, and people were about to leave. Wang Qiyao sensed that tonight belonged to other people and that tomorrow morning also belonged to them. It was at that moment that she felt a hand leading her to the center of the stage, and a flower crown was placed upon her head. Her ears buzzed with the sound of applause, and she couldn’t even hear the announcement. The gold crown and the silver crown dazzled her eyes and she couldn’t see a thing. Stupefied, she was led over to the side of the queen. She composed herself enough to look at her basket and saw it almost overflowing with an equal number of red and white carnations. There, before her eyes, lay the fruit of her efforts.
Wang Qiyao was second runner-up in the beauty pageant; “Miss Third Place,” they called her. The title seemed to be custom-made for her. Her beauty and seductiveness, too understated, were not enough to make her the queen, but perfect for Miss Third Place. It was necessary to have a Miss Third Place. She was especially cut out to meet this intrinsic need, to play the supporting role: she symbolized the solid core underneath the resplendent surface, in no way inferior to the others and in fact truly representative of the quiet majority. In this city of romance, girls like her are the most elementary ingredient. The streets of Shanghai are crawling with girls who could have been Miss Third Place. Girls who come in first and second are always busy going to fancy parties and taking care of their various “foreign affairs.” We never see them—except when they are trotted out on important occasions. They are a regular part of every grand affair. Girls like Miss Third Place, however, are a part of everyday scenes. They are familiar to our eyes, and their cheongsams never fail to warm our hearts. Miss Third Place therefore best expresses the will of the people. The beauty queen and the first runner-up are both idols, representing our ideals and beliefs. But Miss Third Place is connected to our everyday lives: she is a figure that reminds us of concepts like marriage, life, and family.
Chapter 3
Mr. Cheng
MR. CHENG HAD STUDIED railway engineering, but his true love was photography. During the day he was on the staff of a Western firm, while at night he took photos and developed them at his home studio. His favorite subject was women—in his eyes the female form was the most elegant composition in the world. He had studied women and believed that a woman’s best years were between the ages of sixteen and twenty-three, when delicacy and maturity were equally alluring. He spent his entire salary on his hobby; it was a good thing that he did not have any other hobbies, or a girlfriend. He had never been in love. His love lay under the lens beneath the mercury-vapor lights, always upside down. His love was in the darkroom being developed, bathed in crimson light, floating to the top of the water like a lotus made of paper. Perhaps after gazing at so many women through the lens of his beloved camera, he could not help but assign them a secondary status. Mr. Cheng gave little thought to things like marriage. His parents in Hangzhou would sometimes bring the issue up in their letters, but he paid them no heed. All his energy and emotions were devoted to photography. Merely to touch the equipment brought him happiness. He felt as if each item in his studio could speak to him and understand his joy and pain.
In the 1940s photography was still a modern hobby, which naturally made Mr. Cheng a modern youth. At twenty-six, however, he was already an old youth. When he was a bit younger he had indeed been fascinated by all the modern playthings. Whatever was fashionable in Shanghai, he was sure to give it a whirl. He had been enraptured in turn by the gramophone, tennis, and Hollywood movies, and just like all modern youths, he was fickle in his interests, always tiring of the old and moving on to the new. But once he fell in love with photography, he pledged his steadfast devotion, to the abandonment of everything else. He had first been attracted to photography because of its modern appeal, but once he was hooked, he no longer pursued what was in fashion. Photography enraptured him the same way some people fall head-over-heels in love. Suddenly he realized that his entire past had been squandered in aimless desires and pointless distractions. Yet, though much precious time and money had been wasted, Mr. Cheng congratulated himself for having discovered all this in good time.
Since his discovery of photography, he no longer qualified as a young man in pursuit of the modern; gradually he had gotten too old for that. Surface novelties could not move him any more. What he needed now was true love. No longer did his heart wander as it had in his youth. He felt a hollowness that needed to be filled with something, and that something was true love. From the outside, Mr. Cheng still looked very modern, with his slick hair parted down the middle, gold-rimmed glasses, three-piece suit, shining leather shoes, fluent English, and knowledge of all the Hollywood stars, but his heart was no longer modern. This was something that those modern girls who pursued him did not know—and this was also the reason they always went away empty-handed.
Mr. Cheng certainly had his share of admirers. He was at the suitable age for marriage and the object of attention for numerous romantic young ladies and their parents. He had a proper job and earned a respectable salary, not to mention a very interesting hobby. Poor girls! Little did they know, as they sat before the camera casting suggestive glances, that they were directing these at a cold, unfeeling machine. It was not that Mr. Cheng didn’t pick up on all this; he was simply not interested. In his eyes, the girls who visited his photo studio were not real. Their every pout and smile was for the camera; none of it had anything to do with him. It was not that he did not admire their beauty; it simply did not affect him.
At twenty-six there were already some things to which he was impervious; he was quite different from the reckless seventeen- or eighteen-year-old boys who chase after their desires without the slightest regret or worry about what might happen tomorrow. A twenty-six-year-old heart has already begun to grow a shell; the shell may have some cracks and fissures, but by the age of thirty-six any remaining fissures would have been sealed. Who could still squeeze her way into a cra
ck in Mr. Cheng’s heart? Finally, a candidate appeared, and her name was Wang Qiyao. On that Sunday morning when Wang Qiyao first walked into his studio, she didn’t immediately grab his attention—the lighting had filled the room with a soft darkness. Perhaps it was just this lack of any immediately striking quality that led Mr. Cheng to let his guard down. It was as if she had quietly stolen in on him.
Mr. Cheng was not terribly excited at first. He thought that Wang Qiyao was just like all the other girls you see on the street and it was hard for him to get inspired. But after each photo he seemed to discover something new about her. With each shot there was something more to explore, and so he took shot after shot, completely enchanted by what he saw. Even when he was finally finished, he still felt as if there was so much more to capture on film. Actually, that something was the lingering impression she left. Mr. Cheng suddenly began to feel disappointed by his camera. All it could capture was the “here and now”; it was helpless when it came to capturing that “lingering impression.” He began to realize his inadequacy in the face of beauty. So there is a kind of beauty that can travel through the air, he thought. How limited the art of photography is! After Wang Qiyao left, he couldn’t help but open the door to take a last glance at her as she stepped into the elevator. Seeing her figure behind the elevator’s closed steel gate was like beholding the luminous moon obscured by a layer of cloud.
