by Anyi, Wang
1976 was a year of epochal change; the impact it had on Weiwei lay all within the realm of the aesthetics of living. The return of classic movies was one area, of high-heeled shoes another, and of perms yet another. It was only natural that Wang Qiyao too should get a perm. Maybe the hairdresser’s skills were rusty, or maybe she just wasn’t used to curly hair after so many decades of seeing only straight hair, but when she reached home, Wang Qiyao was extremely upset. Her new perm looked like a chicken’s nest, sloppy and unkempt, and it made her look old. No matter how she combed it, she just couldn’t get it right. She scolded herself for having gone and the beauty salon for advertising something they obviously couldn’t deliver.
It was right around that time that Weiwei and her classmate went to have the tips of their pigtails and their bangs permed. Their new haircuts were quite sharp and they looked cute. Weiwei came home in high spirits, never expecting that her mother would say she looked like a Suzhou maid from the old days. But her mother’s comments didn’t bother Weiwei too much. She knew that her mother had been in a bad mood ever since the perm turned out badly. She not only let her mother speak her mind without talking back, but even tried to help Wang Qiyao roll and set her hair. Standing behind her mother in the mirror, Weiwei saw that she now had the upper hand. Wang Qiyao, recalling that the Buddhists had referred to hair as the “strands of vexation,” went back to the beauty salon a few days later to have her hair cut especially short, which made her look smashing in a completely new way. Leaving the beauty salon, she noticed the deep blue sky and the glowing red sun, and felt the gentle wind caressing her face. Weiwei took one look at her mother and realized that by comparison she really did look like a Suzhou maid. She couldn’t help but feel cranky. This time it was Wang Qiyao’s turn to help fix her hair. But deep down Weiwei held on to her belief that all her mother’s words of advice were just ploys to make her look bad. She went against everything that Wang Qiyao said. Eventually Wang Qiyao lost her temper and walked off, leaving Weiwei to gaze at herself in the mirror alone; before long she began to cry. After a scene like that, at least three days of mutual avoidance would pass before mother and daughter spoke to each other again.
The following year the clothing industry began to prosper and numerous new designs began to crop up on the streets. Old timers could see the root of these new designs in old pre-liberation outfits. Wang Qiyao mourned the clothes in her chest that she had sold or allowed to deteriorate because she thought she could never wear them again. Weiwei listened patiently as her mother went on and on, describing the style and material of each item and where she had first worn it. She thought back to all those times when her mother hung those outfits out to sun, and realized that her mother’s good days were in the past, while her own were reaching out to her. She rushed forward to answer the call of the new world. She and her classmates nearly wore out the doormats of all the clothing stores and tailor shops in Shanghai. They spent more time talking about fashion than they did on studying. They watched foreign films over and over again as if they were fashion albums. Coming from a world where consumers had no choices, they were overwhelmed by the rich, colorful world they were entering.
A small minority instinctively found their direction and strutted out onto the front lines of fashion, and so took on the role of leaders. But average girls like Weiwei couldn’t avoid a few wrong turns and had to pay their dues. Had Weiwei been willing to listen to her mother’s advice, she would have probably been able to get on the right track a bit quicker. But she was determined always to be different from her mother. When her mother said “east,” she would say “west.” She worked hard at keeping up with the trends but invariably failed. Every so often she would come sulking to Wang Qiyao for more money to have new outfits made. When the finished products turned out to be different from what she had hoped, she would go sulking again to her mother. As she watched with resentment how her mother, simply by combining different items from the chest, easily took her place at the head of the crowd, Weiwei paid dearly in money and feeling, struggling every step of the way.
But hard work will eventually pay off, and just a year later Weiwei began to get the gist of this fashion thing. You needed only look at her to know what the hottest fashion on the street was. And once she caught up, Weiwei lightened up quite a bit. She developed the power to differentiate between the false starts and the genuine trends that she needed to keep up with in order not to fall behind. Looking back on the year before, she was relieved to have emerged from that state of confusion. One should not look down on this eagerness to be trendy—it belongs to the heart that is common to all. Day after day, night after night, it is this desire that holds up and sustain this city’s prosperity. This common heart, being pure and clear, is best able to take stock of the changing times. Like the evergreen, it is eternal.
After her high school graduation Weiwei didn’t go on to sell wool sweaters, but rather enrolled in an institute of hygiene; it was situated in the suburbs of Shanghai, so she came home only once a week. There were many more girls than boys at the institute, and when a bunch of girls get together, competition becomes inevitable. Everyone was vying to buy nicer shoes and clothing. Every Saturday, when she came home, Weiwei would hit the streets to catch up on the latest styles, as if making up for her time away from Huaihai Road. Wang Qiyao had long since retired the sign advertising inoculation shots and only took on some light knitting jobs at the factory. There used to be a shortage of people to handle this kind of work, but once the educated youths came back from the countryside at the end of the Cultural Revolution there wasn’t enough work to go around. Of course, that meant less money.
To cover Weiwei’s clothing expenses and occasionally buy something new for herself, Wang Qiyao had had to dip into Director Li’s legacy. She would wait until Weiwei was not around before taking one of the gold bars down to the Bank of China on the Bund and exchange it for cash. She sighed to herself, Even when I was starving I never touched that money. How ironic that I should turn to it now that we don’t have to worry about bare necessities anymore. She was aware that once she cashed in the first gold bar, it would be hard to stop; like losing your teeth, once one has dropped out, you know the rest will follow. This left her with a feeling of emptiness. But all the stores on the street were reaching out to her; even if she could make it through today, would she be able to resist tomorrow? The world in Wang Qiyao’s eyes was not the new world that Weiwei saw but an old one in which there was a chance for her to relive her dreams. So much gaiety that she thought was lost had suddenly returned! Her happiness exceeded that of Weiwei because she knew better than Weiwei the price and meaning of that happiness.
Wang Qiyao had always kept the story of the gold bars from Weiwei. Just think of all the clothes Weiwei would have demanded if she had known her mother’s secret! So whenever Weiwei asked for money, Wang Qiyao would remain tightfisted. At those moments Weiwei would think of her father—how many more outfits she would be able to get if she had had a father’s income to help support her. Otherwise she never really felt she needed a father. Ever since she was little, Wang Qiyao had told Weiwei that her father was dead. That’s what she told others as well. By the time Weiwei was old enough to ask questions, there were virtually no male visitors frequenting their home; female visitors were scarce as well, with the exception of Madame Yan from down the street at 74 Peace Lane. There was Grandma too, but they visited her no more than once a year.
All this meant that Weiwei’s life was quite simple. She looked mature for her age, but inwardly she was still a child. She didn’t understand anything besides fashion. But you can’t blame her, because there was no one there to teach her those other things. In this she stood out as an exception to the other girls on Huaihai Road, who tended to be quite ambitious. Most families living in the central district of Huaihai Road belong to the middle of the economic spectrum. Exposed to the greatest opulence Shanghai had to offer, it was only natural for the girls to feel the sting of inequality
, and they were prepared to do whatever it took to get what they felt entitled to. Heading west, the shops thinned out; here the quiet streets were lined with luxury apartments and Western-style houses—another world altogether. This is where the true masters of Huaihai Road lived, and that was where all those young girls from central Huaihai Road dreamed they would one day live. Weiwei never figured this out. She had a one-track mind—to hit her mother up for more money. Occasionally, when Wang Qiyao complained about how tough things were, Weiwei would cry about her family circumstances. But before long all of that would be forgotten and she’d be back for more money. Whenever her begging paid off, she was so ecstatic that she never even thought to ask where the money came from. As long as Wang Qiyao didn’t volunteer the information, Weiwei would never know about the gold bars.
Now when the time came to sun their clothes, Weiwei would have her own pile—from the wool cape draped over her when she was still being breastfed to the trendy bell-bottom pants she had worn the previous year—these were like the cast-off shells of a molting cicada. For Shanghai women old clothes are the shells they shed during their metamorphoses. Their age is shown through their clothing; but the heart lying beneath the garments sometimes forgets to grow up. Wang Qiyao examined her clothing carefully for signs of mildew. Most of her outfits were still in fairly good shape—she had only stopped wearing them because they had gone out of style. But she knew that before long they would be back in fashion again. That is the law of fashion, which is based on the principle of cycles. Over decades of experience, she had learned that no matter how much fashion changes, some principles remain constant; every outfit has one collar and two sleeves, and no amount of creativity can make it end up with two collars and three sleeves. There are only so many designs, and their rotation is what defines fashion. Only sometimes a cycle drags on too long; Wang Qiyao was more than willing to wait it out, until the arrival of the next cycle, but she was getting older and knew all too well that time waits for no one.
She thought of that pink satin cheongsam: how thousands on thousands of hearts had been used up in the making of that dress, and how she had been the very incarnation of beauty when she wore it. For so many years it had languished at the bottom of the chest as she waited for the day to wear it again—that day was fast approaching, but how could she possibly wear it? She was much too old. Just thinking about such matters brought tears to her eyes. Time is hardest on a woman. Days pass, one by one, unnoticed, never to return. How could they have so quickly turned into ten years, twenty years? Airing out the clothes often made her sad; each outfit was a shadow from the past. As her clothes showed holes left by moths, started to fall apart, or became mildewed, she knew that the past was growing more and more distant.
Wang Qiyao let Weiwei try on her pink cheongsam once. To recreate her own youth, she even helped her daughter put her hair up. But when Weiwei stood before her wearing her dress, Wang Qiyao felt bewildered. What she saw was not herself, but Weiwei all grown up. Weiwei was much bigger and taller, and the cheongsam was tight on her and a bit short. The fabric had begun to yellow and had lost its luster; anyone could tell that it was old just by glancing at it. It just didn’t look right on Weiwei, who paced back and forth in front of the mirror, giggling until she doubled over. The old cheongsam had not made her into a proper young Shanghai lady. Instead it set off her unrestrained youthful gaiety, which literally was bursting through the seams. Weiwei clowned around in front of the mirror until, having gotten her kicks, she took off the cheongsam. Instead of putting it back into the chest, Wang Qiyao simply threw it aside. She caught sight of it several times after that while cleaning, but always pretended not to see it. And gradually, over time, it was forgotten.
Weiwei’s Era
From Wang Qiyao’s perspective, Weiwei had a warped view of Shanghai. The electric trolleys that were the true heart of the city are now gone. You can no longer hear their clanking sounds against the hum of the city as they rumble down their tracks. The tracks themselves have long been pulled up; more than two decades have passed since the nanmu wood slabs paving Nanjing Road were pried out and replaced with cement. Along the Huangpu River, the stone walls on the Georgian buildings have all turned black, their windows masked by a layer of gray dirt. The river water has grown murkier and more polluted, and the sound of the breakwater seems to grow fainter by the year. And let’s not even mention the Suzhou River, whose stench you can smell blocks away—scooped up, the water can probably be used directly for fertilizer.
The Shanghai longtang have grown gray; there are cracks in the streets and along the walls, the alley lamps have been smashed by mischievous children, the gutters are clogged, and foul water trickles down the streets. Even the leaves of the sweet-scented oleanders are coated with grime. Green bristle grass covers the courtyard walls and creeps out between the bricks in the ground; watermelon seeds scattered about in previous years have sprouted....
But all of this is secondary to the changes that have taken place in the heart of those dwellings. Let’s begin with the high-rise apartment buildings. With armies of people rushing up and down the stairs, the edges of the marble steps have all been worn down—decades of footsteps approximate the force of water dripping upon rock. Once saying that even the marble is worn, we need not mention the wooden staircases in the longtang houses. In the large buildings the coffers on the vaulted ceilings are usually broken, if not worse; they would have been better off without those Roman-style floral carvings, whose sole purpose seems to be to collect dust and cobwebs. The elevator, with its rusty cable and its mechanism in disrepair, emits loud groans every time it goes up or down. Never touch the stair rail unless you want several decades of accumulated dust on your hands. If you climb up to the roof, you will see that the iron shell of the water tank has gone rusty. The felt covering on the asphalt is tattered and pitted with holes from the battering rain. The wind raging on the rooftop terrace whips up dirt and sand. Who knows the origin of the abandoned items randomly strewn about? Holding on to the railing as you walk past these objects, you look down to see that the bricks and tiles of every balcony and rooftop in the city are damaged. Should you peer into some of the dormer windows, you would see that the wood panels inside have been eaten away by termites.
The Western-style garden homes are the most intriguing of all. Even before entering you can tell how drastically things have changed. There are more clotheslines in the courtyard than at a laundry facility. Kitchen stoves are set up in the flowerbeds. Lovely large, semicircular terraces have been cut in half and made over into kitchens. If you should then venture inside, you would find yourself in a labyrinth. If it happens to be nighttime, you will be plunged into darkness, and your ears will be assaulted by the cacophony of woks cooking, water boiling, children crying, and radios playing. Every time you step forward or to the side you run into a wall. The smells of cooking oil seep out from the cracks between the walls. You can’t even reach out to feel your way along the walls unless you want to get your hands all greasy. The place is completely transformed. The most luxuriant of yesteryear is today the most cramped, the most exquisite architectural designs no longer bear mentioning.
At least the longtang houses are subject to some restraints and so have succeeded in retaining their basic appearance. But once you look inside, you realize everything is different there too. Every hallway and staircase is piled up with junk no one ever uses anymore, but asking people to throw these things away would be like asking them to part with their own flesh. These old knickknacks have taken on a life of their own. They proliferate and sprawl out all over the floor before gradually making their way toward the ceiling. Some get stuck there, while others hang dangerously, threatening to fall down and hit you on the head. One glance and you know how many months and years have passed. The floors are buckling and the planks are ready to give way; the toilet is almost always leaking, unless it is clogged; the electrical wires are exposed in a tangled mess; the door bearings have been stripped off their t
racks and resist being moved; the windows, if made of wood, are crooked—either they do not close properly, or, if they do, it’s impossible to get them back open. These are all damages inflicted by time. However, the innermost heart of the longtang is actually more aged and worn than its appearance. It is only through sheer patience and self-control that it holds itself together, otherwise it would simply explode. It seems to understand that nothing good would come of exploding.
Aside from its being chaotic and timeworn, what troubled Wang Qiyao about this era of Weiwei and her friends was its vulgarity. The streets are suddenly flooded with people spouting profanities and spitting everywhere. On Sunday the deafening noise and the surging crowds inundating the shopping districts are terrifying. You feel afraid that if you made one wrong move, you would be drowned in this ocean of humanity. With bicycles and cars zigzagging every which way, it is frightening to cross the street, each step is a challenge. All the elegance of old Shanghai seems to have been wiped out by a violent storm. Everything has become a challenge—taking a bus, going shopping, getting a shower, having one’s hair cut—all involve doing battle with the crowds. The arguments and fights that break out on the streets make the environment even more unsettling. Only a few quiet streets remain in the whole city, but even when you are strolling there under the shade of the trees, quietude seems elusive.
Food served in Western-style restaurants has also deteriorated. The plates and cups are all chipped, stained and crusted with bits of caked-on food, and seem not to have been washed in twenty years. The chef’s apron, spattered with grease, likewise looks as if it has not been washed for at least twenty years. The cream was made the day before and the potato salad is already spoiled. At the tables, the old leather seats have been replaced by manmade material, and fresh flowers with plastic ones. Secret recipes for Western-style pastries are disclosed, and suddenly you can buy them everywhere, but none are authentic. Chinese restaurants rely on lard and MSG to season their dishes—the flavor is strong enough to take the hair off your eyebrows. Eateries jack up their prices for giving out hot washcloths, and even more for service with a smile. The vegetable-and-lard fried rice at Ronghua House is either watery or burnt; the soup dumplings at the Qiao Family Restaurant either leak or else are short of stuffing. The varieties of mooncakes sold during Mid-Autumn Festival have expanded many times over, but if you were to break open one of the most standard variety, you would find that no one has even bothered to remove the shells from the beans before making the paste filling.
