by Anyi, Wang
Wang Qiyao knew one of these “Old Colours.” He was twenty-six years old, so calling him an “Old Colour” was a bit ironic, a way of emphasizing his youth. A gym teacher at a local middle school, he normally dressed in sweatpants, and his hair looked like the bristle end of a scrub brush. He had a dark complexion from years of working outdoors. At school he kept to himself and never fraternized with his colleagues. Who would have guessed that he was an accomplished flamenco guitar player with a collection of more than a hundred jazz records? This “Old Colour” lived in a traditional longtang in Hongkou, with parents who were honest, hardworking government employees and watched what they spent; his sister had left home to get married. He himself occupied the third-floor tingzijian: his palmwood cot lay on the floor along with his record player. As soon as he entered his room, he would take off his shoes and, sitting on the bare floor, enter into his own little universe. Outside his dormer window was a slanted portion of the roof. Occasionally, during the summer, he would climb out the window with a backpack, spread a mat out over the roof tiles, and, tying himself to the windowsill with a rope around his waist, spend the evening lying outside. Looking up, he would see a sprinkling of stars suspended in the deep blue sky above. He could faintly make out the rumbling sounds of the machinery from a factory in the distance, and the smoke from the factory’s smokestack billowed white against the sky. The scattered sounds of the night seemed to have sunk down to earth, while he himself had dissolved into the air, empty of thoughts and desires.
Old Colour was still without a girlfriend. Although he got on quite well with some of the girls in his regular circle of friends, things had never developed past the point of ordinary friendship. As there was nothing further he needed, he had no particular aspirations and was content just to have a job. However, he recognized that he had only himself to rely on, and this made him approach things with a positive attitude. And, though he lacked long-term goals, he did have some short-term plans. This meant that, while never vexed by major problems, he was struck by the occasional fit of inexplicable depression. For these depressions he found an antidote in his collection of old jazz records from the twenties. The sound of the saxophone, mixed with the hissing sound of the needle against the vinyl, gave him a feeling of an almost palpable intimacy. Old Colour was a bit old-fashioned: nothing new suited his taste, because to him it lacked substance and smacked of the nouveau riche; but then neither was he a fan of things that were too old, which would have felt antiquated and dismal. A hundred years was just about enough. He longed for a time back when, like the sprinkling of stars in the night sky, only the elite prospered—for a European-style house on a smooth cobblestone road, and the spiraling sounds of the phonograph twisting their way up through an otherwise perfect silence. This was, when all was said and done, what all those old jazz records stood for.
His young friends were all modern individuals at the cutting edge of fashion, quite the opposite of Old Colour. When Shanghai inaugurated its first tennis court, his friends were the first customers standing in line; when a certain luxury hotel opened up a bowling alley, they were the first to try it out. All of them were college classmates of Old Colour from the phys-ed department; they prided themselves on their athletic spirit and prowess, which happened to be right in tune with worldwide fashion. Just look at the most popular brand names of the day—Nike and Puma—you could see that they were all athletic apparel, whereas brands like Pierre Cardin had long been on the way down. This cohort would appear on the streets on motorcycles, a girl seated at the back with her hair streaming down from her helmet, and you could feel the rush of wind as they flew past. They were the wildest ones on the dance floor at the discos. They always managed to get hold of a foreigner or two to give their gatherings an international flavor—which, incidentally, gained them entry into all kinds of exclusive places where only international guests were welcome.
Among them, Old Colour was always the quiet one: he never really contributed to the group. When everyone else was having a great time, he would be off standing in one corner as if he did not count. He seemed a bit lonely, but it was precisely such loneliness that provided this fashionable, happy-go-lucky crowd with a certain substance. So it actually wouldn’t have been the same if he hadn’t been there. As for himself, he needed a modern backdrop to set himself off from everyone else; had he been thrown into the sea of people unattached, his old-fashioned style would have been completely drowned out. Because his style appeared outdated on the surface, people had a hard time identifying it for what it was; but it really stood out against a super-modern background, like an antique placed on a velvet mat. Without the mat, someone would probably have thrown the piece away, thinking it was junk. Therefore Old Colour had to run with that crowd, lonely as he may have been. If he had left, he would have lost even the distinction of being lonely—he would have simply disappeared among the teeming masses.
Old Colour’s parents always thought of him as a responsible son; he didn’t drink or smoke, had a steady job and a healthy hobby, and never got mixed up with the wrong sort of girl. They themselves had been fairly conservative in their youth; going to the movies once a week was their sole entertainment. There was a period when his mother became obsessed with collecting movie pamphlets, but during the Cultural Revolution she took it upon herself to burn her entire collection; later the movie theaters stopped putting them out. Once his parents bought a television set, they stopped going to the movies altogether. Every night they would turn on the television after dinner and watch until eleven o’clock. With this television set, their golden years seemed perfect. The music their son played up in the tingzijian had a familiar sound, which tended to confirm their opinions that he was steady. The fact that he was taciturn also put them at ease. Even when they had dinner together at the same table, the entire meal would pass with barely a few words. When it came down to it, they were all strangers to each other, but seeing each other, day in, day out, they didn’t think much about their state, as if this was how it was supposed to be. But they were, in truth, decent people; their thoughts and actions were always in line and, whether it be spiritual or material, just a little bit of space was enough for them.
Crammed in under the rooftops of the Shanghai longtang were countless people living out their frugal lives just like that. On occasion you might feel that it is rather noisy—as soon as the windows were opened, your ears would be assaulted by all kinds of sounds. But don’t be offended: what you hear are the accumulated sounds of the activities of prudent people over their lifetime; at least the noise shows that they are lively. And Old Colour certainly wasn’t the only one stargazing from the rooftop on those summer nights; the hearts of all these people are restless and unsure of where to go—and so up they go to the rooftops. There everything is wide open; even the knowing pigeons are bedded down for the evening, leaving the sky empty of their flight. All the noise and clatter remain below, but they have floated to the top and it feels good to drift for a while. In these longtang with the dormer windows, the songs of the heart have quite a distinctive sound, and the dormer windows are the throats through which the songs are forced out.
Old Colour finds true understanding in the neighborhoods on the west side of Shanghai, and he likes to wander there along the tree-lined streets. Even the canopies of the trees there have a history, having filtered out the sunlight for a century. Maoming Road passes from a roaring hubbub on one end to quietude on the other, both of which have the vintage of years. Old Colour loved traversing this area, where he had the feeling that time had been turned back. Examining the trolley tracks on the street, he tried to imagine what it was like when the cars were still running; he could picture two rows of wooden benches facing each other inside the trolley, just like the ones he had seen in old silent films. There seemed to be writing on the brick and stonework of the old hotels; as he patiently read them, the words recounted trials and tribulations from the past. The areas on the east side of the city also understood Old Colour. Ev
ery major street there leads to the river. Though the scene is less refined, it has a sharpness about it. The silent film being played here is more like a sweeping epic, the action coming on like a hurricane. Time has stopped for the seagulls soaring across the sky, as it has for the pigeons.
That’s what he, too, wanted—for time to stop. That’s not too much to ask, is it? He didn’t ask for an eternity, only the last fifty years. His request was restrained, like the sunrise in the city, which does not come up over the sea or the horizon, but from the rooftops—its beginning and the end curtailed. In fact, the city is still a child and doesn’t have many days to look back upon. But a child like Old Colour was already an old man, who, bypassing experience, went straight to reminiscence. All of his deepest thoughts were dialogues with the past. At least the clock in the Customs House was still ringing, in a world where everything else seemed to have vanished like clouds and mist, and the sound he heard was the very sound heard decades ago. As Old Colour walked down the street, the wind blowing against his face was a draft squeezed through the space between two buildings. He may have looked calm on the surface, but his heart was vibrant, almost dancing with joy. He loved the sunset over Shanghai; the streets at dusk were like a faded oil painting, a perfect match for the mood of the city.
One day a friend of his told Old Colour about a party someone was having. All kinds of people were supposed to be coming, including a former Miss Shanghai from the old days. He hopped onto the back of his friend’s motorcycle, and they headed west to the new residential area near the airport. The man lived on the thirteenth floor of a building that he was managing for the owner, a relative of his who was living overseas. He didn’t normally live there, but every few days he would invite friends over for a fun-filled afternoon or evening. Gradually, his parties started to gain some notoriety: word traveled fast, as one guest brought ten friends and each of them brought along others—but he didn’t mind, everyone was welcome. As the numbers started to build up, it was inevitable that some questionable individuals would weasel their way in, and sometimes unpleasant things, such as thefts, would happen. But with so many people, the probability of someone extraordinary showing up was also quite high. Occasionally, real celebrities would appear, such as movie stars, the first violin from a famous orchestra, and reporters, as well as the children and grandchildren of powerful Communist and Nationalist leaders. This friend’s parties were like small political meetings, where old stories and the latest gossip were passed around the living room, the whole place abuzz with excitement.
In this new district, all you saw when you opened the windows was a forest of buildings. Some of the windows were lit up while others remained dark; the sky was unobstructed, but this made the stars seem more distant. Below, the cars speeding down the straight broad roads looked like a chain of pearls. Not far off there would always be a construction site, where the lights blazed through the night and the noise of pile-drivers, hammering away in rhythm, filled the entire space below the heavens. The air is choked with particles of chalky cement and the wind is especially strong as it whips between the buildings. The lights over in the hotel district look a little lonely due to the heights of the buildings around it, but theirs is a resplendent loneliness that pierces the heart with rapture. This was indeed a brand-new district that greeted everything with an open heart, quite unlike the downtown area, whose convoluted feelings are more difficult to grasp. Arriving in the new district, one has the feeling that one has left the city behind. The style of the streets and buildings—built at right angles in a logical manner—is so unlike downtown, which seems to have been laid out by squeezing the emotions out from the heart.
Under the sky of the new district, the joyful laughter coming from the thirteenth floor of this joint-venture construction suddenly dissipates and the music fades away. But how much does that bit of happiness really matter in this new district? Playing out behind the honeycomb-like windows of those tall buildings is a fresh new form of happiness. In hotels so new that they have yet to acquire their four or five stars, there are buffets, dances, and receptions every night, as well as brazen games of passion that offered no excuses as they announced themselves to the world with “do not disturb” signs. With people of all races and colors taking part, it feels like a party of universal jubilation. This is especially so around Christmas time: as soon as the Christmas carols break out, you are hard pressed to discern whether you are in China or abroad. When you first arrive here, the place seems to lack a heart because it is so carefree—but that is because it hasn’t yet had time to build up a reservoir of recollections; its mind is blank and has not begun to feel the need to call on its memory. Such is the spiritual state of the entire district. The laughter and gaiety coming from the thirteenth floor form but a drop in the ocean. The only one who seems a bit annoyed is the elevator attendant, as people come rushing in and out of the elevator, in couples or crowds, holding wine and flowers—mostly strangers, in all shapes, sizes, and colors.
More than a dozen groups of guests had already arrived by the time Old Colour got to the party. The door had been left half-open and the room was filled with people moving about. No one paid the newcomers much attention as they came in; the stereo was blaring loud music. A few people sat around watching a television miniseries in the first room, which led out to the balcony. The door to the balcony was ajar and the wind was agitating the curtains. In a corner of this room sat a woman with fair skin, wearing light makeup, in a pinkish-purple suit made of raw silk. She was leaning forward slightly toward the television screen with her arms crossed. The curtain brushed against her skirt from time to time, but this didn’t seem to distract her. Only when the screen suddenly lit up did her drooping eyelids show, giving away her age. But the stamp of age passes in a flickering instant: she carefully wrapped hers up and tucked it away inside her bones. The years had tiptoed around her, careful not to leave too many traces, but in the end they couldn’t help leaving a few. This was Wang Qiyao in 1985.
Around this time the opulence of 1946 was revived in a few essays reminiscing about old Shanghai, and the name Wang Qiyao suddenly came into the spotlight again. One or two nosy reporters even went so far as to investigate what had happened to Wang Qiyao in the years following the pageant; several articles were published in the back pages of the newspapers but failed to generate much interest, and the whole thing eventually died down. A lot of time had indeed gone by. No matter how glamorous a woman has been, once she has entered the black hole of time, she is lucky to generate even a few flickers of light. The aura surrounding the beauty pageant, no less than Wang Qiyao herself, had also faded after forty years, and it only served to date her by revealing her age. It was like the old clothes at the bottom of her chest: though many were still in good shape, wearing them only made her look older, because they were from the wrong era.
The only one who seemed to be moved by any of this history was Zhang Yonghong. She didn’t believe the story initially, but once she had accepted it she had an endless array of questions for Wang Qiyao. Wang Qiyao, for her part, resisted answering them at first, but once she began to open up, she had an endless series of revelations for Zhang Yonghong to uncover. There were many things that Wang Qiyao thought she had completely forgotten, but as soon as she got started, all of those tiny bits and fragments of detail came together to make a flowing river of memories. The stories she told were those of a woman who had stood in the limelight; but wasn’t that the goal of all those girls on Huaihai Road trying to outdress one another? Wave after wave of fashion that came and went—weren’t they all vying for their moment in the spotlight? Zhang Yonghong, who understood the magnitude of the splendor Wang Qiyao was describing, exclaimed, “I’m so envious!”
Zhang Yonghong introduced Wang Qiyao to all of her boyfriends and invited her to all kinds of parties. These were mostly parties for young people, and, knowing her own place, Wang Qiyao would usually sit off to one side. Nevertheless, her elegance would still add a touch of distinct
ion to the party. Barring the occasional glance, people didn’t pay her any attention, but everyone was aware that there was a “Miss Shanghai” in their presence. On occasion there might even be a few people eagerly awaiting her arrival, not realizing that she had been sitting in the corner all along—she sat there alone until the music stopped and the show was over. Wang Qiyao was always well dressed and elegant; she was never awkward and never got in the way. She was an ornament, a painting on the wall to adorn the living room. The painting was done in somber hues, with a dark yellow base; it had true distinction, and even though the colors were faded, its value had appreciated. Everything else was simply transient flashes of light and shadow.
It was under these circumstances that Old Colour first met Wang Qiyao. Could that be the “Miss Shanghai” everyone was talking about? he wondered. Just as he was about to walk away, he saw Wang Qiyao look up and scan the room before lowering her head again. The look in her eyes had a hint of panic, but she was not at all looking for sympathy or forgiveness. It was then that Old Colour realized how callous he had been. He thought, The Miss Shanghai pageant was nearly forty years ago. His vision grew blurry as he stared at Wang Qiyao, as if his eyes couldn’t focus properly, and through that hazy vision he saw an image of her from more than three decades ago. Gradually the image became clearer, taking on depth and new details. But none of those details looked real; they floated on the surface, piercing Old Colour’s heart. He came face to face with a cruel reality—the corrosive power of time.
