by Anyi, Wang
The noise of things stirring in the night deep in those winding alleys was the sound of people living out their modest lives. Their steps are smaller than the movement of the second hand on a clock, but with each forward movement they still make a slight squeaking sound; and though they are lighter than a feather, they still leave behind their footprints, which are always moving steadily forward. The sounds of their songs and tears are barely audible, because they keep their emotions pent up inside. It is only when you lift your eyes to the mist enveloping the sky above the longtang that you discover their sorrow and their sweetness.
1965 was a good year for the city. Its stability and prosperity provided solid resources and a stage against which people could live out their dreams of having a comfortable life. Currents of happiness and warmth flowed through the city skies, nothing ostentatious, just a simple, healthy urge for enjoyment manifesting itself. With the coming of spring, bright colors once again lit up the street scenes, nurturing a vanity that was entirely wholesome. Although it was concealed, one could still sense the pulsating feeling of being alive flowing through the streets. At night the city lights were far from brilliant, but each one had its place, highlighting the people, places, and things of the city—no light was wasted on spurious glamour. It was as if the entire city had been baptized, regaining an air of normality in the process. That is what the heart of the city was like in 1965, once all the dust had settled.
Mr. Cheng started using his photo studio again and spent his holidays there. When he turned the studio lights back on, his heart felt easy; he was like a wandering son who had finally come home. He began to regain interest in what had always been his specialty—portrait shots. It started when some of the neighborhood beauty salons asked him to take photographs of different hairstyles that they could use as samples to show their customers. His reputation soon spread, and a new wave of beautiful young girls began frequenting his studio. He was forty-three years old—an old man in the eyes of these young models. A grave and conservative man, Mr. Cheng was not one to fall in love easily—such romantic feelings as he had harbored had mostly been thwarted by a woman named Wang Qiyao, and there was not an ounce of romance left in his heart. In his eyes, those beautiful young models might as well have been made of wood or clay; for Mr. Cheng, their sole value was as objects of admiration.
It was hard to say if this was owing to his age and experience or to the living hell Wang Qiyao had put him through—but he found himself even more capable when it came to capturing the true beauty of each model. Consequently, he was often able to find beauty in the mundane and so produced exceptional results. He was not one to accept assignments lightly, but once he did, he poured all his effort into producing the most exquisite images. Every photo that came out of his studio was a masterpiece. Each night he would sit alone in his darkroom, where the only source of light was the glow of a single red lamp—everything else was swallowed up by the darkness, himself included. The only things that really existed in this world were the stunning images that emerged from the fixer solution; but these were like cicada shells, empty on the inside. He would focus his energy on finding the most balanced relationship between darkness and light in each composition, and as he completed each task he would heave a soft sigh of relief. Ignoring the cup of coffee, now cold, that he had meant to drink, he would switch off the red lamp, feeling his way out of the darkroom into his bedroom. After climbing into bed, he would light a cigar—his latest indulgence, a gift bestowed on him by the prosperity of 1965. The smoke from the cigar worked like a sedative and before long Mr. Cheng would be asleep.
This was the year that things seemed to be getting back on the right track. The unproductive upheavals of the intervening years seemed to have passed, evaporating like a cloud of mist; it was as if the previous years had been a dream. Because of all the buildings, the Shanghai sky was always divided up into narrow slits through which light and rain would seep in. The Shanghai streets were bustling like always. People who did not live there would probably have noticed signs that the city had aged: the layers of ivy climbing the gables to bathe in the sunlight, the flow of the Suzhou River growing more sluggish as the water became choked with accumulated garbage, even the sliver of sky that hovered over the city growing darker as a result of the carbon dioxide being constantly spewed into the air. Every spring the new leaves on the plane trees seemed to be less shiny and healthy than the previous year. However, the city’s inhabitants had no way of seeing this, because they too were aging along with their environment. They were surrounded by these things whenever they had their eyes open . . . and whenever they had them closed.
On a few occasions Mr. Cheng completely lost track of time while working in his darkroom. Time seemed to have concealed itself in the stillness of the night, and yet the stillness of the night is when time is most active. It wasn’t until he heard the sound of the milk truck making its morning delivery in the back alley that Mr. Cheng snapped out of it and realized that he had spent the whole night working. He did not feel in the least bit exhausted. After developing the last photograph, he pulled open the heavy drapes covering the window in the darkroom and saw the dawn creeping up over the Huangpu River—this was a scene that had always been dear to him, but it was something he had nearly forgotten. He choked up a bit as he thought about how long it had been since he had laid his eyes on this familiar vista, knowing full well that it had always been there, waiting for him to come back to it. At that moment a flock of pigeons suddenly took to the air from the small crevices on the side of the building on which they were perched. Is this the same flock of pigeons from years ago? Have they too been waiting for me? he wondered.
Over time Mr. Cheng lost touch with most of his friends. He even stopped keeping in contact with Wang Qiyao and Jiang Lili. Living in those penthouse apartments of Shanghai were a lot of reclusive men like Mr. Cheng. The details of their daily lives were a mystery—their pasts, an even greater mystery. They always moved about alone. Their apartments were like giant shells: who knows what kind of exotic creatures inhabited them. 1965 was a good year for those individuals who hid in their shells. That was a time when society was relatively free, even though many things were secretly playing out beyond the eyes of man. Only the pigeons that flew overhead knew.
Then came one night when Mr. Cheng couldn’t help being irritated by the ringing of the doorbell. He had no photo shoots scheduled; who dared to show up unannounced, he wondered. As he made his way to the door, he thought about how he should turn them away. Though a bit eccentric, Mr. Cheng was a mild-mannered man and quite refined by nature. But he immediately realized upon opening the door that he didn’t need to turn anybody away—standing at his door was Wang Qiyao. He never dreamed that Wang Qiyao would show up at his apartment. In fact, he had not thought about her for a long time. He was taken completely off guard, but was also quite pleased and very calm. The storm of emotion that had once consumed him had given way and all that was left were memories of a heart-warming past. He invited Wang Qiyao inside and made her tea. It was only then that he noticed that she was quite worked up about something. She gripped the tea cup tightly in her hand without seeming to realize how hot it was.
“Jiang Lili is dying. . . .” Those were the first words out of her mouth.
Mr. Cheng was taken aback.
“. . . she has a malignant tumor,” she added hastily.
At that time cancer was not yet common and people did not know much about it. In fact, no one back then even used the word “cancer” instead referring to people who had such conditions as having a “malignant tumor.” The thing had a frightening reputation, and although many people had heard of it, no one ever imagined it would strike them or someone close to them. But once it did, it was enough to break one with terror. Jiang Lili had actually been suffering from a liver disease for quite some time, only no one knew it. Because she had always looked pale, was a notoriously picky eater, and had a short temper, no one really noticed when her health started
to deteriorate. Even Jiang Lili herself ignored the symptoms at first. Growing up in a well-to-do family, she always enjoyed the best food, which gave her a good constitution and a strong immune system, which over time lessened her sensitivity to illness. She realized that she didn’t have much of an appetite, was easily exhausted, and felt some discomfort around her liver, but it was nothing she couldn’t tolerate and she just wrote her symptoms off as a minor ailment. Then one day she suddenly found that she could not get out of bed; she was too weak even to lift up a piece of paper, and her husband, Old Zhang, carried her off to the hospital on his back.
The diagnosis was swift. They held her for observation over three days, during which time they kept her on an intravenous glucose drip, before Old Zhang was allowed to carry her back home. As Jiang Lili clung to her husband’s back, she could smell the strong scent of Old Zhang’s hair oil and a feeling of warmth filled her heart. She pressed her face against her husband’s neck and wanted to tell him something, but couldn’t find the words. The tenderness she felt was so unusual that she felt it was ominous. All Old Zhang could think of doing was to call in his family from Shandong province so that they could help out. One could not ask for more genuine and generous folks, but for some reason Jiang Lili always felt alienated around them. Filled with sadness and compassion, they would sit outside her bedroom, whispering from time to time. They resembled mourners at a funeral, and the atmosphere in the apartment became stifling. Jiang Lili felt suffocated by this air of bereavement and her tiny bit of tenderness evaporated, as did her will to resist the disease. There she lay, surrounded by a cast of strange faces carrying on in strange rural accents who crept in whenever someone opened the door. Several times she got so annoyed that she broke down and screamed at them, accusing them of trying to hasten her death. Her husband’s family received these outbursts with understanding, taking them simply as the ravings of a sick person going through terrible suffering.
Wang Qiyao didn’t know that Jiang Lili was sick. Before taking ill, Jiang Lili had been in charge of running a socialist education program in the suburb of Chuansha and came home only four days a month. It had been quite some time since she and Wang Qiyao had seen each other. But then one day Wang Qiyao walked past Jiang Lili’s longtang and ran into her mother-in-law, who was on her way out to buy noodles. Wang Qiyao went up to greet her; although the old lady couldn’t remember ever having met her, she was friendly, and liked being close to people, and moreover had been having such a difficult time with her daughter-in-law, that once she got started talking, there was no stopping her. Wang Qiyao was utterly flabbergasted by the news of Jiang Lili’s illness and the color immediately drained from her face. Instead of comforting old Mrs. Zhang, who was in tears, Wang Qiyao headed straight down the longtang toward Jiang Lili’s apartment.
She walked past the silent crowd outside the bedroom, pushed open the door, and went into see Jiang Lili. The curtains were drawn and Jiang Lili was sitting up in bed leaning against a pillow, reading Life in a Branch of the Communist Party. When she saw Wang Qiyao she smiled. That was an expression Wang Qiyao was not accustomed to seeing on Jiang Lili’s face, whose brow was usually knit in anger. There was something pitiful about her smile at that moment; it was as if she was looking for forgiveness. The sight was enough to move Wang Qiyao to tears. She sat down on the side of the bed, her heart quivering; it was hard to believe the toll this disease had taken on her friend in so short a time. The truth about her illness had been kept from Jiang Lili, who was told she had hepatitis. Afraid that Wang Qiyao would have reservations about being so close to her, she explained that it was a chronic form of hepatitis and assured her that it was not contagious—that was why she didn’t need to be placed in isolation. She inquired after Wang Qiyao’s daughter and asked her to bring the little girl to visit sometime, repeating once more that she was not contagious. Wang Qiyao was too grief-stricken to speak; she could see that Jiang Lili was drained by talking, and soon excused herself. Meandering aimlessly down the sunny streets, she bought several things she did really did not need and didn’t get home until around lunchtime. Not feeling hungry herself, she warmed up some leftovers for her daughter and sat down to knit a winter hat. Her mind gradually settled as she knitted; once she had calmed down, her first thought was to go see Mr. Cheng.
That night Mr. Cheng saw Wang Qiyao all the way downstairs when she left. They strolled along the Bund for a while; inside they were both deeply troubled but they kept their conversation away from what was bothering them. A few aquatic birds were flying low over the river and they heard the faint sound of a ferry’s whistle sounding as it made its way to Pudong on the other shore. With their backs to the water, they couldn’t help gazing up at the grand fortress-like buildings created by the British during the days of the treaty ports. The overweening style of the architecture could be traced back to the Roman empire; it was designed to look down over everything, impressing viewers with an air of tyrannical power. Fortunately, behind these magnificent buildings was an expanse of narrow streets and alleys that led to the longtang houses, whose spirit was democratic. The Huangpu River too stood as a symbol of democracy. The ocean breeze, coming in through the mouth of the Suzhou River, tries to blow inland, but is thwarted by the tall buildings along the Bund, which turn it back, causing it to increase in intensity. It is a good thing that the surface of the river is wide enough for the wind to spread out so that the opposing currents do not collide too violently; the consequence, however, is that the wind constantly rages around the Bund at all hours of the day and night.
“How’s your daughter?” Mr. Cheng inquired.
“She’s fine,” said Wang Qiyao.
But then she suddenly implored: “If something should happen to me one day, I would like you to take care of her.”
Mr. Cheng found himself smiling. “Jiang Lili is the one with the incurable disease, so why are you seeking a guardian for your child?”
The mere thought of Jiang Lili made their hearts heavy. After a few minutes, Wang Qiyao said, “It’s better to make arrangements now rather than later.”
“And what if I refuse?” asked Mr. Cheng.
“It’s not your place to refuse; I’ve already chosen you.”
There was a solemn despair in her tone that prevented her words from sounding flippant. Mr. Cheng turned to face the river, which glimmered faintly in the dark. He recalled how the three of them, Jiang Lili, Wang Qiyao, and himself, had gone together to the Cathay Theater to see a movie. How many years ago was that? How could it be possible that we are already approaching the end of the story? But the end is nothing like what they had imagined. It seemed as if nothing had been truly resolved, and yet everything was resolved.
Wang Qiyao and Mr. Cheng also discussed whether they should try to persuade Jiang Lili to move back to her mother’s house, where she could have some peace and quiet and would be able to eat better. They didn’t know that the day before their visit, Jiang Lili’s mother had visited her and was nearly driven out of the house by her daughter. By that time, Jiang Lili’s father was back in Shanghai and had divorced Jiang Lili’s mother, who got the house and a share of his assets. He and his mistress from Chongqing were renting a house on Yuyuan Road. Jiang Lili’s brother, who had never married and had no friends, still locked himself in his room every day after work listening to music. He was still at home, living like a stranger under the same roof with his mother; they often went for days without even seeing one another. The woman servant was Mrs. Jiang’s only company, but she too viewed Mrs. Jiang with contempt; with her own active social life, even she had little time to spend with her mistress.
Their little house came to feel like a huge lonely place. All of the flowers and plants in the courtyard had withered and died, leaving behind broken branches and rotten leaves. Eventually even those dead plants gave way to garbage and dirt, making the courtyard appear even more desolate. It was a good thing that Mrs. Jiang was not a sensitive person who took special notice of her s
urroundings, otherwise she would have suffered more. She only wondered why time hung so heavily on her hands. Her immediate reaction when she first heard about Jiang Lili’s illness was to shut herself up at home and cry her heart out. For simpleminded women like her, incapable of seeking understanding, crying was an effective way to relieve anxiety. Tears gave her a measure of consolation, and usually elicited a positive response. Once her tears had dried, she would find new hope and feel much better. Wiping her face, she changed into going-out clothes, but as soon as she got to the door she started to feel apprehensive about her outfit. She was afraid that her nice clothes might offend her daughter and son-in-law’s good Communist beliefs. She went back inside to change into a plainer outfit before setting out again.
All the way to her daughter’s house she was weighed down by heavy thoughts. She disliked visiting her daughter and had been there only a couple of times. During each visit her three grandsons had looked at her as if she was a monster. Her daughter never treated her with respect; she didn’t even bother to open the door for her when she arrived or to see her off when she left, and couldn’t seem to open her mouth without saying something hurtful. The only one who had some manners was her son-in-law, a genial man, but him she regarded with disdain. She had difficulty understanding his Shandong accent and could not abide the smell of onion and garlic always on his breath. She treated him with indifference; he, for his part, not being in the habit of ingratiating himself, had simply put up with her giving him the cold shoulder.
