by Anyi, Wang
Because Xiao Lin was slated to leave, they had a short-term perspective when it came to some of the wedding preparations. Their bridal chamber was set up in a small west-facing room in his parents’ apartment, and none of their furniture was new. But marriage always makes people happy; no matter how often this old ceremony is repeated, it never loses its flair. Whatever time Xiao Lin didn’t spend cramming English he spent with Weiwei—shopping, eating out in Western restaurants, or going to the movies. Knowing that marriage was right around the corner, they couldn’t help crossing the line once in a while, but that was okay. Just how far could they really go standing in dark doorways or in the corner of the public park at night?
They also spent some of their time together at Wang Qiyao’s place. They would talk about America and it was as if their hearts had already flown there. Wang Qiyao, too, was a fan of America—the America she liked was the one she had seen in Hollywood movies. But, fond as she was of the America on the silver screen, she knew that it was all make-believe; her America was a place within sight but far beyond reach. Xiao Lin and Weiwei, however, took their America for real and they had all kinds of plans to carry out there. Wang Qiyao couldn’t get a word in as they talked about their American dreams, but their America was boring to her—it didn’t even come close to her Hollywood movies.
One day Xiao Lin came over while Weiwei was still out.
“Come on in,” Wang Qiyao said. “Weiwei should be back right after lunch.”
Xiao Lin picked up the evening newspaper from the previous day. Wang Qiyao, who went on knitting a sweater, asked where the wedding reception was going to be held and whether he had booked the room. Xiao Lin said that his mother was just about to inquire about how many tables Wang Qiyao’s family wanted for the reception. Wang Qiyao figured that, even if she invited people from her mother’s side of the family, they might not come. Besides them, no one else really mattered, except Madame Yan. Although they didn’t always see eye to eye, they had never fallen out of touch all these years and could be said to be lifelong intimates. She told Xiao Lin that she wouldn’t even need a whole table; it would just be herself and Madame Yan.
“Of course we’ll invite Madame Yan,” Xiao Lin replied. “But she’s only a friend. Aren’t there relatives you’ll be inviting?”
Wang Qiyao was silent for quite a while before responding. “Weiwei’s my only relative . . . and now I’m giving her to you.”
As those words left her lips, they were both moved.
“In the future, you’ll come to live with us,” said Xiao Lin.
Wang Qiyao stood up. Putting down the cashmere, she cried, “That won’t do! What about your parents?”
With that, she ran out to the kitchen. Xiao Lin became a bit depressed, as if his impending happiness was suddenly shrouded by a melancholic shadow. He realized at that moment that all the old furnishings he had admired in her apartment—everything from the chest to the vanity mirror—carried that same shadow. “Old” was not the right word; it was “melancholic sadness.” He didn’t sense it when Weiwei was around, because she was the flighty sort that likes to be free and easy with life. But “melancholic sadness” reaches out to grasp at the vanishing years. This was yet another difference between mother and daughter—Weiwei didn’t stop until she had used everything up, whereas Wang Qiyao made it a point to take stock carefully as she went along, and couldn’t let go even after it was all used up. But what good did that do? It’s not within our control anyway, so why make life more difficult by refusing to let go?
The wedding day finally arrived. In the morning the young couple went to Wangkai Photo Studio for their wedding portrait, accompanied by Wang Qiyao. The gown and tuxedo, rented out by the studio, had already adorned countless couples. Pins were used to adjust the same dress—cut to the largest possible size—to fit virtually any client, and the time they spent adjusting all those pins for Weiwei was no less than it would have taken to tailor make a brand-new one. But that white dress retained a virginal look; it may not have fit properly, but it still looked perfect. Weiwei became extremely quiet as Wang Qiyao made the adjustments. The train heaped up on the floor over her feet like a pile of snow. However, Wang Qiyao’s fingers could feel the dampness of the gown and she had trouble getting the pins to work right because they had become dull from overuse. Before long her palms became sweaty and beads of perspiration appeared on her forehead; she grew dizzy and momentarily forgot that the woman in the gown was her daughter. Raising her head, she saw in the mirror a princess, beautiful and proud. The top of the mirror reflected the glow of an electric lamp, the window had been covered by a heavy curtain, and there was a hairbrush with tangled strands of hair caught in it sitting on the dressing table. A curious air of mystery reigned in the studio’s dressing room with its arsenal of little-known tricks, such as those two rows of closely spaced safety pins just below the armpit and others hidden in the folds of the skirt. The hair, too, had been manipulated, as the bobby pins littering the floor attested. Her wedding gown now near perfect, the veil flowing down over her face like a gentle waterfall, Weiwei could almost pass for a fairy descended from heaven.
As the studio lights turned on, Wang Qiyao sat in a dark corner and became almost invisible. The lights shone onto another world only a few feet away from her, but it could just as well have been at the other end of the universe. It suddenly occurred to Wang Qiyao that she never should have come. She had ended up an onlooker at a spectacle that she didn’t want to see. She knew quite well that photo studios were all dens of deception, yet she had still walked right into their trap—after so many decades, she still hadn’t learned her lesson. Her heart rose and sank as the studio lights turned on and off. Those lights were the most familiar sight in the world to her, yet at that moment they felt so far away. She could clearly see the photographer’s lips moving but couldn’t hear a word he said, nor could she hear the voices of the young couple. When they were finished, they stepped away so that another couple could begin their shoot. As Wang Qiyao helped Weiwei out of the gown, a pile of pins dropped to the floor, emitting an odd clinking sound. Then, in taking off the dress, Weiwei accidentally smeared lipstick onto the white crape, adding another stroke to the history of the gown, which, piled up on the floor, looked like the empty shell of a giant cicada.
It was already afternoon by the time they left the studio and went to the eleventh floor of the Park Hotel for lunch. All three were worn out from the photo shoot and no one spoke much. Outside the window, there wasn’t a single cloud in the boundless sky, but, looking down, they could see an unbroken expanse of rooftops and the noises of the city assaulted their ears. The sky above and the city below were of two different worlds and each went about its own business, as did the Huangpu River, which was constantly flowing, never an end to its moving current. Who is to say who holds the truth?
They spent the afternoon at Wang Qiyao’s apartment, where Xiao Lin had followed them. As it was only the second day of the New Year, firecrackers were still going off intermittently in the longtang. The second day of the New Year is traditionally a time for calling on friends and relatives, so Peace Lane was bustling with the rituals of receiving guests and seeing them off. After things quieted down, the apartment took on a lonesome air. Weiwei and Xiao Lin sat in silence, physically and psychologically drained by several days of nonstop hard work and excitement. Now that the ceremony was almost upon them, they both found themselves instinctively pulling back a bit. They sat at the table eating melon seeds; before they knew it, the table was filled with a pile of shells and their lips were stained black. The sunlight projected a checkered pattern on the floor, and the young couple looked a bit pale and couldn’t think of any better way to pass the time than sitting around eating more watermelon seeds. Wang Qiyao tried to make small talk, but neither of them responded.
Going into the kitchen to boil some water, she noticed that light of the sinking sun was showing through the north window; yet another day had slipped by, like al
l the rest. The sunlight on the north window had indeed completed its day’s journey and, with its acquired wisdom, shone on her with understanding and compassion. A sparrow looking for food landed on the windowsill and took a few pecks before flying away. Wang Qiyao opened the window and placed a few grains of leftover rice there so that the bird would have something to eat when it came back the following day. Returning from the kitchen, she was surprised to see the young couple fast asleep in separate beds. Seeing how late it was, she quickly woke them up and hurried them to get ready. Before long, the taxi they had reserved pulled up in the back alley and beeped its horn.
Even as they got into the taxi, their faces looked numb with exhaustion. This day felt like the longest day in their lives, and they had little confidence that they could see things through to the end. All three felt daunted by the grand occasion ahead. The young couple had stage fright: the curtain was about to rise on a show that would come only once in their lives, and they realized that they were not fully prepared. At a complete loss, they could hardly remember the script. Wang Qiyao too was struck with stage fright; she was as yet unprepared for her role of spectator. The prior scenes had been full of surprises, and now the final and most dazzling act was about to be performed before her eyes. At the entrance to the hotel they could see lights flooding the ground, just waiting for the couple to bask in their radiance. As the taxi pulled over to the curb, a few pedestrians stopped to look as the bride and groom stepped onto the stage. Wang Qiyao got out of the car first and stood off to one side, waiting for the couple to step out. Taking Xiao Lin’s arm, she guided Weiwei’s hand to grab hold of it before giving them a gentle nudge from behind. As they approached the entrance, shoulder to shoulder, their retreating silhouette was indeed the image of a perfect couple!
Off to America
Weiwei was married. She took all her clothing away with her, leaving the dresser half empty, and also the chest. Twenty-three years Wang Qiyao had spent raising Weiwei, and now her daughter was gone—and all she had left was her gray hair. Her skin and figure still looked young; it was only recently that she had begun to dye her hair. If it hadn’t been for the fact that she had an adult daughter, no one would have guessed her age. She also used her daughter to remind herself about her own age, or else she would have never believed how old she was either. Dyed hair is even darker and shinier than natural hair, so it made her look even younger. Wang Qiyao gazed at herself in the mirror, a bit disoriented, wondering just what era she was living in.
Once Weiwei was gone, there were days when Wang Qiyao ate only a single meal. Sometimes she would go to sleep in the afternoon and not wake up until the same time the following day, when she would finally get up at one or two o’clock in the afternoon. The sun would be exactly where she had left it the previous day. But all this changed on Sunday, because that was when Weiwei and Xiao Lin came to visit. They would arrive in the morning and leave after dinner—it was only then that Wang Qiyao’s life regained a semblance of normalcy. But the very next day everything would start to slip away again; the power of her daily routine was obviously far from enough. But at least she had Sundays to add some rhythm to her disorganized days; otherwise her entire life would have dissolved into chaos.
Now that they were married, Weiwei and Xiao Lin became guests. Wang Qiyao would ply them with food and liquor, making full-course dinners; when the evening was done, they would go home, leaving her with a pile of dirty plates and bowls. As she stood by the sink washing the dishes, she would heave a sigh of relief that the day was finally over. Once she was finished straightening up, she would turn on the television, take out a pack of cigarettes from the drawer, and light up. Sitting down, her elbow leaning on the table, she inhaled, slowly and deeply. The smoke clouded her vision, and her heart was clouded too. One cigarette was enough. After putting the pack of cigarettes away, she needed to sit for a while longer, listening to all the sounds of the changing seasons coming from outside. The sounds crept in from between the cracks in the concrete, and one had to be extremely quiet to hear them. They were but whispers of sounds, enmeshed in smoke and mist. Who understood time better than Wang Qiyao? She may have passed her days in a muddled haze, but that was only because she wanted to. When the window curtains moved gently, you might say that what you saw was the wind, but what Wang Qiyao saw was time. When small holes appeared in the wooden floor and staircase, you might say that what you saw was the work of termites, but what Wang Qiyao saw was time. Sunday nights, Wang Qiyao was never in a hurry to get to bed. It wasn’t that she wanted to hold vigil over the lonely night: she was floating on time.
There was no reason to keep track of the days. The winter clothes came off and then out came the spring clothes, which before long began to feel heavy. Xiao Lin got his visa and would be leaving for America in August, just in time for the fall semester. In the days leading up to his departure, their schedule was quite erratic. For a while Xiao Lin and Weiwei ceased their Sunday visits, and then there was a period during which they came over almost every day. The reason they visited so often was to get Wang Qiyao’s advice about what Xiao Lin should take for the trip. The impression they had of America was that it was one big nonstop party; how could he not bring along a few nice outfits? At the mention of clothing, Wang Qiyao would spring to life. She took Xiao Lin to Baromon to have a suit made, giving him tips about the proper way to wear a suit along the way. Wang Qiyao grew animated when she talked about clothing. What are clothes? she would say. Clothing is like a diploma, providing conclusive proof as to what is inside so that it won’t get buried. Xiao Lin found her ideas about clothing interesting and amusing.
“Don’t laugh,” Wang Qiyao warned him. “I’m not exaggerating one bit. At the very least, for a woman, clothing is her diploma—and it’s a much more important diploma than any earned in school!”
Xiao Lin laughed and turned to Weiwei. “Do you have a diploma?”
Wang Qiyao made a wry face. “Weiwei’s diploma is the kind anyone can get from a few years in school. What I’m talking about is something you have to work on all your life. Don’t bother asking Weiwei about that—she’s too spoiled to understand. Go ask Zhang Yonghong.”
“Zhang Yonghong may have a ‘diploma,’” replied Weiwei. “But even now she still can’t find a ‘job’!”
Those were harsh words, the kind spoken only by one who is blinded by her own happiness. Even someone as resilient as Wang Qiyao felt the sting.
“You don’t need to worry about Zhang Yonghong,” she retorted just as they were arriving at Baromon. “She’s stronger than you!”
They started by looking at fabrics and then moved on to pick out a style. Another clash seemed inevitable. Weiwei was leaning toward the double-breasted jacket with wide lapels that was the latest thing. Wang Qiyao, on the other hand, insisted that he go with a more traditional style, which she felt would be more appropriate. If he went with the more conventional suit she suggested, he would be able to wear it on virtually any occasion, whereas the more modish style was only good for the moment and would quickly go out of fashion; moreover, just because it was popular in Shanghai didn’t mean it was popular in America. Although Weiwei didn’t have a convincing argument, she still stubbornly insisted on her choice. With her natural aversion to anything old-fashioned, she was always drawn to the newest and latest fashion; also, because she lacked vision and couldn’t see what was coming in the future, all she knew was to follow the current trend and so she always looked at things out of context. Weiwei grew quarrelsome and was on the verge of yelling at her mother.
“Let Xiao Lin decide for himself!” Wang Qiyao had no choice but to declare.
Xiao Lin followed Wang Qiyao’s advice.
Weiwei was so angry that she turned and headed for the door. Xiao Lin chased after her, leaving Wang Qiyao alone. It was awkward for her to stay in the store, but equally embarrassing to follow them outside, so she stood there for a while before deciding simply to go home. She got on a public bus, thinking h
ow pathetic it was that the three of them had gone out together and now she was going home alone. The bustling excitement on Nanjing Road seemed to be mocking her. It was almost noon by the time she finally arrived home. The other two didn’t return until much later that afternoon. They pranced in, giggling and carrying a bunch of shopping bags, all the unhappiness of the morning long forgotten. Wang Qiyao didn’t even bother asking about what had transpired with the suit. She pretended not to care, although she did notice Xiao Lin wink at her when Weiwei wasn’t looking—that was his way of trying to smooth things over. Wang Qiyao felt misunderstood. Why should I care about what kind of suit you get anyway? she thought.
For Xiao Lin’s upcoming trip, nothing but the best would do, as if anything less would be an embarrassment to the Americans. He didn’t take any of his old clothing; everything he packed was brand-new. He cared for quantity as much as quality, buying everything by the dozen, as if he were preparing for a long career in the remote countryside, where nothing could be purchased, rather than going to study abroad. However, it was indeed a rare opportunity to go to America. Everyone thought it must be a wonderful place, although no one really knew what made it so wonderful. All Xiao Lin could do was prepare as best he could. It was a bit like preparing a trousseau—something tangible you could do against a bewildering future; whether or not it would ever come in useful was another matter altogether. As those two humongous suitcases gradually filled up, Xiao Lin began to feel more at ease.
