by Anyi, Wang
He had not expected his words to find an echo in Wang Qiyao, who said quietly, “You’ve always talked about taking me out for a meal . . . well, how about today?”
Those words were the equivalent of calling out “checkmate.” Both of them understood the significance of eating out together like that, but one of them had always refused to go. Times have changed, and the tables have turned; she, who had once refused, wished to go, while he, who had been so aggressive, now refused. He stood with his face toward the curtains for a moment before turning around and walking out.
From the Blue Sky Down to the Yellow Springs
As we have mentioned before, Long Legs was a god of the night, never returning to his lair until past midnight. One evening, after wrapping up his nightlife early but not feeling like going home, he decided to ride past Peace Lane and somehow found himself going in. Seeing the light on in Wang Qiyao’s window, he figured there must be people up there having a grand old time, and rode over toward the back alley with eager excitement. At that moment he saw someone getting off his bicycle outside the back door of her building. It was Old Colour. Long Legs was about to call out to him when he saw Old Colour unlock the door and head straight upstairs, quietly closing the door behind him. How could he have a key to Wang Qiyao’s building? Long Legs may have been naïve, but he wasn’t stupid; he knew better than to knock on the door, and instead turned around and rode out of the back alley. As he passed by the front on his way out, he looked up again at the window and saw that the light had already been turned off.
Looking down at his watch, Long Legs saw that it was midnight. There was not a single light on in Peace Lane and the apartment buildings threw a jagged silhouette against the curtain of darkness. It was a strange night. There was something mysterious about that night, even to someone as deeply embroiled in the city’s nightlife as Long Legs; it made him feel oppressed and somewhat perturbed. Strange demons seemed to have taken over the narrow night sky between the buildings, and the night air rang out with premonitions. Long Legs was suddenly struck by how distant and strange this city really was to him. In these streets, empty of cars and pedestrians, the traffic lights at the intersections changed from red to green to red again, as if controlled by some alien force. When an occasional pedestrian chanced on another, they were fearful and couldn’t wait to get away. The night was a massive net and Long Legs felt like a fish trapped inside it; no matter how hard he swam, he couldn’t escape. It was like something from a nightmare. But Long Legs was a man without a memory: every morning he would awaken and everything from the night before would disappear like clouds and mist. By the following evening he would be just as lovable and friendly as ever; it felt good to be together with his friends and even the neon lights were all practiced in singing and dancing.
However, that was back before the Spring Festival. On the second day of the Lunar New Year, when he was at Wang Qiyao’s apartment watching Old Colour and Zhang Yonghong parrying with each other, the incident he had witnessed never even crossed his mind. That New Year was a tough time for Long Legs; the day after the dinner, he disappeared. Everyone thought that he had gone to Hong Kong to see his cousin—Zhang Yonghong was expecting him to bring back the most fashionable outfits for her. But what was really up with Long Legs? Bundled up in a factory-issue cotton overcoat, his hands drawn back inside his sleeves, he was, in fact, braving the cold in the passenger seat of a three-wheel pedicab on his way to an aquatic products supplier at Hongze Lake. The cars on the highway were all trying to overtake each other; their glaring headlights, swinging this way and that, shone harshly on the night traveler curled up in the back of the pedicab. Blaring in his ears were the sounds of truck engines mixed with the sharp blasts of horns; occasionally they passed by pedicabs broken down by the side of the road, the occupants standing next to their vehicles with a blank look on their faces.
That was indeed another world. Between unbounded heaven and the limitless earth, human beings crawled like small insects, and could be crushed by a single step. When one finds himself in such circumstances, it is easy to act out of desperation. The aquatic products business was exceedingly risky and uncertain, but Long Legs went ahead and threw in his last bit of money. In doing so, he effectively burned all of his bridges—there was no turning back now. If he failed, how could he ever go back to Shanghai to face his friends? How could he face Zhang Yonghong?
At this very time, the story about his trip to Hong Kong was spreading all over Shanghai. You know what happens once people start talking—everyone tells their friends, their friends tell their friends, and before you know it the story gets blown completely out of proportion. People started to say that Long Legs was never coming back: his cousin was sponsoring him to emigrate. Others said that he had gone away to claim his inheritance and that even if he did come back, he wouldn’t be the same person. Zhang Yonghong began to grow anxious and silently counted the days since his departure. She couldn’t help but feel uneasy when she thought about how old she was; she was already well past marrying age. For the past year or so she had set her sights on this one man—he was her sole candidate. The more she worried about her future, the more she missed Long Legs. With no news from him, and the rumors flying all around, she could no longer sit still. She decided to visit Wang Qiyao to try to take her mind off the matter. Just as she was about to open the back door to Wang Qiyao’s building, Old Colour stepped out.
“Wang Qiyao’s not home?” she asked.
Instead of answering, he asked whether she had time to get a bite to eat. Zhang Yonghong figured she might as well find distraction at the restaurant and went along with him. They didn’t go far, just over to Nocturnal Shanghai in the adjacent longtang, where they found a quiet and secluded table in a corner. Zhang Yonghong thought that Old Colour would ask after Long Legs and was wondering what she should say, but to her surprise he never even broached the subject. Deep down her gratitude was mixed with a feeling of being cheated, as if he had let her get off easy in a game of chess. His magnanimity, however, only made her all the more determined to bring up Long Legs. She said that he had been incredibly busy since arriving in Hong Kong and had only had time to send one postcard.
“Has Long Legs gone to Hong Kong?” Old Colour asked.
It was only then that she realized Old Colour hadn’t even heard about the trip. She cursed herself for assuming too much and felt a bit awkward. Old Colour, however, took no notice, and simply asked her what they should order. As they were talking, someone wove past the other tables toward them and stopped in front of them. They looked up and saw Wang Qiyao. Her hair was freshly washed and neatly done up in a tight bun. She was wearing light makeup and had on a light green cotton jacket, and looked exceptionally youthful.
“What a coincidence!” she chirped brightly, “running into you two here!”
Although Zhang Yonghong didn’t understand all that was going on, she sensed that something was wrong. Her heart pounded. Old Colour was barely able to maintain his composure; the color drained from his face and only after a pause did he manage to say, “Please have a seat.”
“That’s okay, I wouldn’t want to disturb the two of you.”
With that she sat down at a small table for one by the window in the opposite corner. As she sat down she turned to them and smiled. And so the three of them sat at two different tables; soon other customers came in and started filling up the restaurant, blocking their view of each other. But it was no use: they had eyes for only one thing—even with all the people there, not a single gesture or movement at the other table across the room escaped their eyes.
That was a difficult lunch to get through. None of them knew what they were eating, let alone what they were talking about or what the other people in the restaurant were doing. By the time they finally emerged from Nocturnal Shanghai, the streets were filled with passing cars and pedestrians and they became even more confused. Old Colour wasn’t quite sure how he had said good-bye to Zhang Yonghong, but they each went
their separate way. He decided to call on some of his friends. He had been away from them for a long time, but Old Colour could still guess what they were up to on a Sunday afternoon like this and rode off in pursuit. Sure enough, he managed to track them down as they were on their way for a swim at some luxury hotel that had a heated pool. There were five or six in the group and he decided to tag along.
In the layer of mist that hovered above the water, all the objects and people on the other side of the pool shimmered like apparitions. The sounds also had an illusory quality as they echoed and bounced off the high ceiling. Old Colour swam laps; through his goggles he could see the blue water flowing past him like a current. The water felt good rolling off his body, serving as a measure for his strength and flexibility. He swam away from his friends into the deep end, where their cries of laughter seemed to be a world away. As he swam, all the filth inside him seemed to be cleansed away, and his mind cleared up. Afterward they took the open glass elevator downstairs; a few lights were already lit, sparkling in the waning light of dusk. Looking down on the city at that moment, one could feel the embracing warmth of Shanghai, as if the city was ready to forgive anything. The colors of sunset grew dim but the warmth lingered. He felt exhilarated and his spirit soared. As much as Old Colour was enamored with the world of forty years ago, he couldn’t escape the fact that his heart belonged to the present. By the time the elevator arrived on the ground floor, his excitement had calmed, leaving behind an intimate feeling that moved him. It was at that moment that he thought of Wang Qiyao; the image of her sitting alone in the corner suddenly appeared before his eyes. His heart twitched gently and he thought: It’s about time I brought things to a close.
The dinner hour had long passed by the time he arrived at Wang Qiyao’s. She got up to make tea when he came in. As she placed the teacup before him, the calm look on her face showed no trace of what had happened earlier. That made him feel somewhat at ease, even though he suspected that she was still angry. Just as he was trying to decide how to break the news, he saw Wang Qiyao walk over to her chest and unlock one of the drawers. She took out a small wooden engraved box and, turning back toward Old Colour, placed it on the table in front of him. He had seen this box before, he remembered the floral engravings, and he knew the story of its origin—he just didn’t understand why she was taking it out at this moment. After a pause, Wang Qiyao began to explain. She said that if she had learned one thing all these years, it was that she couldn’t rely on anything; but this—she motioned towards the wooden box—was the only exception. In all the dark, hopeless days, this had been her only source of consolation. But now, she said, she wanted to give it to him. She didn’t have much time left, she could see that. He wouldn’t have to worry, for she wouldn’t take up too much of his time; she just wanted him to be there for her, and it wouldn’t be for long. If he had never come into her life it would have been easier, but now that he had come, she felt that losing him would leave her with nothing. Her words gradually became incoherent and she started to speak more and more quickly. She was smiling, but a tear trickled down her cheek. She cried, not a sea of tears, just a single drop from her left eye, as if the rest of her tears had dried up. As she spoke, she pushed the wooden box toward Old Colour, who tried to push it away but, feeling her resistance, had no choice but to apply some force.
“You don’t want it? You probably don’t know what’s inside . . . let me show you,” she said.
She was about to open the box when he reached over and held the lid down to prevent her from opening it. As their hands touched, he felt how cold she was. Taking her hands in his, he too began to weep, struck by the tragedy and wondering how things could have ended up like this. Wang Qiyao wrestled her hands free, determined to open the box, saying that he was sure to like what was inside and that once he saw it he would understand how reasonable her proposition was. She was willing, in all sincerity, to give him all she had—how could he refuse to give her just a few years? Wang Qiyao’s words were like a knife cutting through his heart. Old Colour couldn’t say a word—all he could offer were his tears. He should never have come back: he had not realized how pitiful Wang Qiyao had become. Forty years of romance and it all came down to this pathetic ending. He had missed the splendid climax and only caught the ending: how ill-fated was that? Finally he struggled free of her and got away. In one short day he had run away from her twice, each time more desperate than the last. His hands still carried traces of her icy skin—it left him with a premonition of death. He promised himself, Never again can I go back to that place!
Spring arrived without mercy, as did the spring rains. A warm humid haze encompassed the city and open umbrellas were the blooming flowers of this rainy season, as the pedestrians under the umbrellas scurried down the damp streets. Long Legs finally returned. He had been gone so long that the rumors about him had eventually died down. Zhang Yonghong had almost lost hope waiting for him; if it hadn’t been for Old Colour, who helped her pass the time, who knows how she would have got through those days of waiting. She had even considered turning her attention to Old Colour, but was sensitive enough to recognize the state of his emotions. She could tell that he was only spending time with her to help him get through a difficult phase in his own life. He never talked about it and she never asked, which he always appreciated. But just because he appreciated her understanding didn’t mean that he appreciated her in that way. She therefore nipped that idea in the bud.
One day Old Colour said he had a favor to ask of Zhang Yonghong. When she asked what, he placed two keys tied together on a string in her hand, saying all she had to do was give these keys to Wang Qiyao the next time she went to see her. Zhang Yonghong refrained from asking why he didn’t deliver them himself, knowing that they must have had some kind of falling out. She didn’t dare let her imagination run wild; the whole thing was way too complicated and she had her own problems to deal with. She took the keys and put them in her pocketbook. They had dinner together and parted ways after leaving the restaurant. On the way home Zhang Yonghong passed by Peace Lane and thought she would go in to drop off the keys; seeing that the lights were out in Wang Qiyao’s apartment, she decided to come back some other time. Over the next few days, she kept forgetting to go back. When she remembered, something else came up, so she decided to go the next day. But then the next day Long Legs made his quiet return.
Long Legs brought Zhang Yonghong a set of French cosmetics and a sleek woolen hat. The two went to Café Dream, where they sat at a candlelit table. Zhang Yonghong told him everything that had happened in his absence, but Long Legs had changed—he had little to say and seemed distracted. Although he was looking directly at Zhang Yonghong, he may as well have been gazing at her from the other side of the ocean: he had returned, but his spirit was still wandering. The candles flickered gently as they spoke in whispered tones; as they drank more wine, everything took on a surreal aspect, emerging and dissolving, running together into a rainbow of hazy brilliance. Long Legs, however, stood on the margins of this brilliance, in the darkest spot, and no matter how hard he looked he couldn’t see himself—he had disappeared. Café Dream was indeed a place where one could go to lose oneself.
Slowly, Long Legs lightened up and started talking about his adventures in Hong Kong. He was struck by a bolt of inspiration and Hong Kong suddenly appeared before his eyes—he could see it all so clearly! He told Zhang Yonghong all the amazing things he had done since he left. A brilliant prospect lay ahead of him—he even broached the subject of marriage. He said that they should get married in either Bangkok or San Francisco, where his father’s mansions would be the perfect place for a ceremony. Zhang Yonghong was infected by his excitement; tears of happiness glimmered in her eyes. Although they were both practical minded, they couldn’t fight the dreamlike atmosphere of the café. The candle on the table floated in a small dish of water, never sinking, and seemed to be burning for all eternity. The melted wax stuck firmly together, feeding the flame of their fanta
sies.
Who knows how much wine the newly reunited lovers consumed that night? After they paid the bill and were getting up to leave, Zhang Yonghong suddenly remembered the keys and took them out of her pocketbook.
“Isn’t it strange?” she said with a laugh. “Old Colour asked me to give these keys to Wang Qiyao—as if he couldn’t do it himself!”
Long Legs took the keys and examined them. Suddenly something lit up inside him and he sobered up instantly.
“I don’t want to go back to her apartment either,” said Zhang Yonghong. “Who’s to know how she’d react . . . .”
She went on to tell Long Legs about what had happened that day at Nocturnal Shanghai. Long Legs wasn’t really paying attention to her story; his whole attention was focused on examining those keys.
“Why don’t you return them for me?” Zhang Yonghong suggested.
He consented and put the keys in his pocket as they left Café Dream. After seeing Zhang Yonghong home, he rode alone down the streets and somehow found himself heading in the direction of Wang Qiyao’s apartment. As he rode into the longtang, he seemed to see the shadow of Old Colour standing there in the darkness, slipping in through the back door. He rode over to the door and, putting one foot down on the ground to steady the bike, took out the keys and selected one to try in the lock. The lock turned easily. He rotated it back to its original position and pulled it back out. At this moment he noticed that there was still light, even on that starless, moonless night—it was bright enough for him to make out the cracks and the grain on the wooden door. The city was never completely dark: think how many lights burned throughout the night, and how many people stay awake even during its darkest hours! There you will find the sources of this light. Long Legs held the key in the palm of his hand and rode out of the longtang. The lights were out in Wang Qiyao’s apartment.
