Traces of Love

Although it was just November, they had lighted a fire at home, just a small brazier with red-hot charcoal ensconced in snow-white ashes. The coal had been a tree. Then the tree died, yet now, in the glowing fire, its body had come alive again alive, but soon to turn into ashes. The first time life was green, the second time, a dark reel. The brazier smelled of coal. A red date fell into it and started burning, giving out the fragrance of the sweet congee served every year on the eighth of the twelfth month. The coal's minute explosions made a sizzling noise, like grated ice.
They did have a marriage certificate. It was framed and hung on the wall. The upper corners of the picture frame had two rosy-winged cherubs draped with flowing golden sashes; the lower part was a painting in Chinese ink depicting a pool of pale blue water on which two colourful ducks were resting. In the middle was neatly written in clerical script:
Mi Raozheng, native of Wuwei in Anhui Province, age 59, born 9-11 p.m., 25 February 1885.
Chunyu Dunfeng, native of Wuxi in Jiangsu Province, age 36, born 3-5 p.m., 9 Apri11908.
Dunfeng stood under the picture frame, one knee on the sofa, trying to catch the light as she counted the stitches in her knitting. Mi Raozheng walked over to get his overcoat, saying awkwardly, `I'm going out for a while.' But Dunfeng kept her head down and kept on counting, her lips moving silently. Mi Raozheng started to put on his coat, walked over to her, and smiled somewhat helplessly. After a while, Dunfeng looked up and said, 'Huh?' She looked down at her knitting again; it was grey, and stippled with tiny knobs of white fluff that looked as if they were caught in its threads.
'I'll be back in a while,' said Mr Mi. He found it difficult to put this into words. He couldn't have said 'going there'; the 'here' and 'there' was just too much. Perhaps 'going to Little Shadu Road'* then--------but that would be saying he had one home here, and another home on Little Shadu Road. He used to refer to his other wife as 'her', until Dunfeng objected, saying, 'But no one speaks like that!' After that, on the rare occasion when he referred to her, he used headless sentences.
He said no 'Quite ill. I've got to go and have a look.' 'Go on,' said Dunfeng aconically.
Something in her voice made Mr Mi feel that he couldn't just go. He put his hands on the window-sill and looked out, mumbling to himself, 'I wonder if it's going to rain?'
Dunfeng looked slightly impatient. She wound the wool up, stuffed her knitting into the floral bag, and made to go out. But as soon as she opened the door, Mr Mi stopped her, trying to explain, 'I don't mean . . . . All these years now . . . . Really quite ill, and no one there to look after things. I can't possibly . . .
This irritated Dunfeng. She said, 'Is there any need to say all this? What'd people think if they heard you?'
Amah Zhang was doing the washing in the bathroom, with the door half open. Amah Zhang had been with his family for a long time and knew everything. She could have thought that Dunfeng was preventing him from going back to see his sick wife. Scandalous!
Dunfeng stood at the door and called out: `Zhang!' She then gave her these instructions: 'Neither of us will be home for dinner tonight, there's no need to keep the two vegetarian dishes. Put the beancurd on the balcony to keep it cold, and put some ashes on the brazier to keep the fire in, all right?'
She had a different voice when she talked to the servants--a low-pitched, elderly and ill-tempered voice, but also somewhat saccharine, like a madame's. Her chinless chin was pointing upwards, her round face hanging down with its soft fullness, her eyelids half shut. Her classic aquiline nose was also pointing upward, showing two small noble nostrils. Dunfeng came from an extremely well established family -one of the oldest merchant families of Shanghai. She was wedded at sixteen, widowed at twenty-three, and only married Mr Mi after over a decade's widowhood. She had a happy life now but she never went overboard; after all, she was a woman of experience. She touched her hair: it was lifted high in the front, supported by cotton wool underneath, and combed into a horizontal chignon at the back, as neat and orderly as her mind. She gathered her handbag and her carrier bag, and put on her coat. Wrapped in layers of clothes, her white, fleshy body was like a big, solid rice dumpling wrapped in bamboo leaves. Her cheongsam was elegantly cut, not too tight, but for some reason it looked stuffed, as though the lining was woven with thin wires.
Mr Mi walked over to her, asking, 'Are you going out, too?'
'I'm off to my aunt's. It doesn't look as though you'll be back for dinner, anyway, so why bother with the cooking? The two dishes for dinner have been prepared with you in mind a hot pot and gelatin fish-they're not to my taste.'
Mr Mi returned to the sitting-room and stood in front of a desk. There was a stack of stele rubbings With sandalwood covers; he straightened it somewhat. A pale green jade box containing red seal ink, a crackle glazed brush-holder, a water jar, a brass spoon everything was cold to the touch. On a cloudy day this home looked particularly clean and tidy.
While he was still fidgeting with things on the desk, Dunfeng came out again. He could only bend slightly forward at the waist because of the stiff coat he had on, and also because of his paunch which had grown with the years. 'Why, you're still here,' said Dunfeng with minimal interest. He smiled and said nothing. She picked up her handbag and carrier bag, and walked out the door; he followed. She pretended not to notice and crossed the road quickly, yet she worried that he'd be puffing behind her to catch up. Though she was angry with him, she did not want him to look like an old man, so she had waited till some cars were coming before she crossed over, thus creating some delay.
She had walked for quite a distance before she noticed that it was raining. Just a drizzle really, more like a chill in the air than rain. Worried that the fur collar of her coat would get wet, Dunfeng wanted to take off the coat, but her hands were not free.
Mr Mi relieved her of her handbag, carrier bag and floral knitting bag, saying, 'Want to take off your coat?' He then continued, 'Don't catch cold. Let's get a pedicab.'
It was only after he had waved down a two-seater pedicab that Dunfeng said, 'You're not going my way.'
'I'm coming with you,' said Mr Mi.
Dunfeng turned her head around in the fluffy black fur collar to cast him a half-smiling glance. She had been brought up by an old concubine of her father's, and had lived in the midst of the concubines of her husbands' family, and so had unwittingly developed a brothel-style kind of charm.
Their pedicab turned smoothly into a road in a residential area. On one side there was a small lot: black gravel and brownish grass, and a dark brown house with faded blue venetian blinds standing quietly in the rain. For some reason it looked distinctly foreign. Mr Mi was reminded of the days when he studied abroad. He looked back at the house. A black dog was sitting on the gravel, small curly cars, wet curly fur, body leaning forward attentively, listening or watching for something. Mr Mi recalled that the old gramophones had a clog as a logo; the gramophone played dance tunes, the body heat and scent of Western women rose up from the round collars of their dresses. He also recalled that among his first-born's toys was a green glass dog, about an inch tall, sitting just like the black dog, with red glass beads for eyes. At the thought of the translucent green glass dog, his teeth smarted. Perhaps he had once pretended to chew on it, teasing his child; perhaps he had tried to prevent the child from putting it in his mouth, and out of concern his own teeth could feel the smart he no longer remembered. His first child was born overseas. His wife was a classmate, Cantonese. In those days there were few Chinese women students overseas, so shortly after he met her they fell in love and got married. His wife had always been neurotic, and later her temper became even more violent, so much so that all her children rowed with her. Fortunately they were now studying in central China, and things had quietened down considerably. He had seldom been with her these last few years. Even the old days when they were in love seemed to have been muddled through in a hurry; all he could remember were the fights, there were no happy memories to treasure. And yet it was the youthful pain, the anxious years which had truly touched his heart. Even now, as he recalled them, winter and the ash-like rain entered his eyes. He felt a prickling sensation in his nose.
Mr Mi collected himself. He poked his gold-rimmed spectacles higher with his fingers, and shifted slightly in his shirt. It was cold outside, which made the covered pedicab feel particularly warm and clean. This drizzling weather was like a big brown dog, hairy, wet, sniffling up at you with its black icy nose. Dunfeng got down from the pedicab to buy some sugar-roasted chestnuts. She handed them to him while she looked in her handbag for the money. The paper bag in his hands was piping hot, and the heat blurred his thoughts. He could feel her shoulders through her layers of clothes, through the shoulder pads on his coat, and those on hers. This was his woman now gentle, superior, and quite a beauty a couple of years ago. This time he had not tumbled into marriage; he had made enquiries and plans to make sure that in his old age he would have a bit of peace and a pretty companion to make up for past unhappiness. Yet . . . . He smiled and handed her the small bag of chestnuts. She took out two, shelled and ate them. Her face looked red against the black road surface and the brown trees: a face like a flat surface; even her eyes and eyebrows did not have depth, as if they had been painted on the face. And so she looked made up even when she was not wearing any. Mr Mi smiled at her. With the woman of his past, it was rows and fights. With her, sometimes he had to say 'I'm sorry', sometimes 'thank you'. But that was all: thank you, I'm sorry.
Dunfeng threw away the nutshells, wiped her hands together, and put her gloves back on. She felt at peace sitting next to her man. Someone on the street had lifted his gown and was peeing against the wall didn't he mind the cold? The pedicab went past the post office. Across from the post office there was a house, an old, grey, Western-style house where a macaw was usually hung out on the balcony squawking miserably. Every time she went past this place she was reminded of the home of that husband of hers. She had meant to point the bird out to Mr Mi, but since they were having a tiff she decided not to. She looked up to see the old, grayish-white bird pacing to and fro on its perch; it did not squawk that day. There were two pots of withered red chrysanthemums on the balcony railings, and an amah was bending over to shut the french windows.
The path from the home of that husband to Mr Mi had been a tortuous one. Dunfeng was a woman who put a lot into relationships, a virtuous woman. Even her heartless tailor took advantage of her by pawning the clothes she had had made, causing her much grief, so one can imagine what her marriage had been like. She put the chestnuts into her carrier bag; the paper bag was made of newspaper. She recalled having seen a sheet of newspaper from the North-east a couple of days ago it had been wrapped around some stuff and on it there had been an ad for a film called 'The Trials of Marriage'. She had thought of herself at once. About her marriage, she had given one version to one person and a different version to another, so much so that now even she herself wasn't very clear as to what had actually happened. She would just smile and sigh: 'Oh-it's such a long story' Even when it had all been settled, one of her brothers-in-law, who had then become a ruffian, had tried to blackmail her, threatening to tell Mr Mi that her husband had died of syphilis. It was a lie, of course, but was there a young man in that family who had not had 606 injections?' Finally it was her aunt who had acted on her behalf and offered some money to hush up the whole thing. She came from a very big family, but except for this aunt's family, she seldom saw any of her relatives. Her brothers were all the old concubine's children. Mr Mi had not met them at all as his original wife was still living, and it would have been difficult to decide on a proper form of address between them. As for Dunfeng, she did not know how to behave to them: if she were to show off her good fortune, they might want to borrow money from her; if she were to tell them her grievances, they might laugh at her. The relatives who had acted as matchmakers were always telling her how much they had done for her. Mrs Yang, her cousin's wife, was particularly irritating with her idiotic boasting. Mrs Yang was the daughter-in-law of Dunfeng's aunt, and this aunt and her son were about the only people Dunfeng felt she could talk to. In fact if she had not been so terribly bored, she would not have paid such frequent visits to the Yangs.
The Yangs lived in an upper-middle class town house off a small alley. Mrs Yang was at the mahjong table in the dining-room. Winter days were short, and the lights had been turned on at 3 p.m. The mahjong table had a leather surface trimmed with metal borders it had quite a long history. The Yangs had
always been a progressive family. When Mrs Yang's father-in-law was head of the family, his children were sent to new-style schools and made to study English. When Mrs Yang's husband had just returned from abroad, he was a real radical. He forced his wife, who had just given birth, to eat fruit and sleep with the windows open; his mother-in-law was not amused. At his encouragement, Mrs Yang became a lively mistress of the house; her sitting-room had the feel of a salon. Like a French hostess, she received gifts of flowers and chocolates, which were most flattering to her self-esteem. A good number of men came to tell her how unreasonable their wives were; Mr Mi had been one of them. Since he received little consolation at home, he was fond of spending time with other people's wives-just talking and joking with them was enough to make him happy. Because of this, Mrs Yang had always thought that she had given Mr Mi to Dunfeng.
Under the lamp, Mrs Yang's oblong face shone with delight. Two stripes of rouge spread from her eyes down to her jaws a face all red and white, and all laughter. Her smiling eyes were squeezed narrow, and some loose hair was hanging over them. Though she was not going out, she had an old imitation caracul coat draped over her shoulders. She shrugged her shoulders, grabbing the lapels at her chest to hold the coat in place, and reached for Dunfeng's hand with her spare hand, saying, all smiles, 'Hey, Coz and Mr Mi. It's been a long time. How have you been?'
When she greeted Mr Mi she did not look directly at him, as if to avoid suspicion. She held affectionately onto Dunfeng's hand and asked again, in a hushed voice, 'How are you?', all the while examining her from top to toe with irrepressible fondness, as though the woman Dunfeng were entirely her creation. Dunfeng hated her for it.
'Is Cousin home?' she asked.
'When has he ever come home so early?' Mrs Yang sighed. 'You have no idea, Coz. How can one still call this a family?'
Dunfeng smiled and said, 'You're really something. Married all these years, and you're still like newly-weds, fighting all the time.'
It was here at the Yangs' that Dunfeng met Mr Mi for the first time. On that day too, their host and hostess quarrelled in a fashionably foreign manner, like lovers. Mr Mi looked on and felt jealous, though he had no right to be. Because of that he made conversation to Dunfeng, hoping to make Mrs Yang jealous, and then he took Dunfeng home in his car. That was how it had all started . . . . If it was indeed true that such a minor incident had started it all, Dunfeng would not have admitted it anyway her pride would have been hurt. But to say that Mrs Yang was completely out of the picture was not quite the truth either; Dunfeng believed that her jealousy was never without cause.
She still remembered playing mahjong at the metal-rimmed leather table that night. She couldn't afford to lose, but she had to pretend to be easy about it. Now that money was not a problem, she could show herself to be a little miserly, but as a poor relative then she had had to take care that she was generous. Now she had money, but the Yangs, like most families in these difficult times, were going downhill. Though Mrs Yang still had her mahjong parties, the players were different now, mostly young men of questionable background. Dunfeng was rather disgusted with them. The one in a black suit wasn't even wearing a waistcoat. He was seated behind Mrs Yang and just now had said to her, 'Auntie Yang, I'm going to make a phone call. If I get some soap would you like some?' Mrs Yang did not reply. Her coat had slid off her shoulders, and he stroked her back lightly with a finger. She did not seem to feel the tickle, or anything at all. When he turned round to spit, she took a mahjong tile and drew a line right down his back, saying, 'A line has to be drawn between men and women, OK?' Everyone laughed. Mrs Yang had always had a quick tongue. But Dunfeng thought that, while such behaviour among gentlemen and ladies would no doubt have been considered bold and witty, in the present company it was just cheap.
In the next room someone was playing a flute. To hide her embarrassment, Dunfeng walked over to the door to take a look, and saw Mrs Yang's daughter Yue sitting at the desk with a score in her hands, softly singing a tune from a Chinese opera, accompanied by someone sitting next to her.
'Is Yue learning Peking opera?' Dunfeng asked Mrs Yang. 'It sounds very melodious,' said Mr Mi.
'The two of us will soon be performing together_ in "Selling
a Horse". She'll be the male lead, and I the female,' Mrs Yang replied with delight.
'You're still as active as ever, Mrs Yang,' said Mr Mi.
'Oh, I'm merely there for a laugh, but these kids at the Peking Opera Association are real enthusiasts. There's Wang Shuting's daughter, and two of Gu Baosheng's sons. I would not have let Yue join if there were any riff-raff there.'
Someone at the mahjong table asked, 'Auntie, the names of your children all have the word "Hua" in them, how come the eldest young lady is called Yue?'
Mrs Yang smiled and said, 'That's because she was born on the Moon Festival Yue is the moon.'
Dunfeng remembered all her relatives' birthdays; the poorer she was, the more eager she had been to observe the social niceties so that people would not say things behind her back. She interjected, 'But I remember Yue's birthday is in April!'
Mrs Yang giggled, pulled her coat up and hid her neck in it. Then she walked up close to Dunfeng, looking at her with hazy eyes, and said in a low voice, confidentially, 'She was born in April all right, but her little person was first made on the Moon Festival.'
Everyone heard that, and they were in a riot: 'Oh Auntie Yang "Auntie !' Dunfeng was embarrassed; for the sake of her family's reputation she couldn't let Mr Mi listen to any more of this. She said quickly, 'I'll go up to see the old lady,' nodded to Mrs Yang and walked away Mrs Yang acknowledged in kind, saying, 'You two go first, I'll be coming in a minute.'
Dunfeng walked up the stairs ahead of Mr Mi. She turned round to look him in the eye and gave him a wry smile. She had wanted to say to him, 'And you thought she was something precious!' Mr Mi was smiling in a reserved manner as before. Mrs Yang's children appeared on the staircase landing, called out: 'Auntie,' and went their own way.
Old Mrs Yang was very particular about cleanliness, and the children did not dare to go into her room often. This time they had not followed Dunfeng in either. There was a green metal desk in the room, a matching chair, a matching filing cabinet, a fridge and a phone. Because of the Yangs' progressive tradition, even the old lady was fond of new, foreign things. Yet her room was dark, with all the windows shut, and the air made one feel that it was still an old lady's room. Though she had given up opium-smoking, the opium couch was still there. The old lady was lying on the floral quilted padding, reading the papers. The slits of her padded gown revealed a pair of pinkish-purple woollen pants, tied around her ankles with tapes to make them snug. She sat up to talk to them, pulling at the legs of her pants and apologizing with a smile. 'Just look at me! This year the cold weather has come early. I had thought I'd have a pair of quilted pants made, but trousers now cost as much as a gown, so I just have to make do for the moment.'
'We have a charcoal brazier at our place, but it won't do when it gets really cold,' said Mr Mi.
'He's telling me to have a fur-lined gown made. Actually I have two old ones, men's. I wonder if they could be made over,' said Dunfeng.
'That would be best. These old furs are much better quality than what you get now.'
'I'm afraid they may be too small,' said Dunfeng.
`Men's coats are always big, so you should have quite enough material,' said the old lady.
'The ones I have are very narrow at the waist.'
Old Mrs Yang smiled and said, `So they're yours? I remember you used to dress up as a man. The way you wore a peaked cap, trailing a thick long plait, made you look like an actor.'
`No, they're not my own clothes,' said Dunfeng. Her white, rounded face showed not a trace of embarrassment, and she was smiling serenely, as if it was only right that she should have had an eventful past.
Her late husband was a slight young man. Old Mrs Yang knew it was his clothes she was talking about; so did Mr Mi, and he was none too happy about it. He stood up, clasped his hands behind his back, and turned to look at the calligraphy on the wall. Seeing a little girl peeping at them at the doorway, he walked over and bent down to play with her. The old lady asked the girl, 'Why don't you say hello? Don't you recognize our guest? Now who is he?' But the girl remained shy
And how else would she address him but as `Mr Mi'? Mr Mi thought to himself. But the old lady persisted, and now even Dunfeng joined in, saying, 'Say hello, and you'll get chestnuts to cat.'
Irritated by this, Mr Mi interrupted her: 'Let's have the chestnuts.' Dunfeng took a few out from her carrier bag, and the old lady said, 'That's quite enough, quite enough.'
'Aren't you having any, Mrs Yang?' asked Mr Mi.
Dunfeng replied quickly, 'Auntie doesn't eat snacks as far as I remember.'
Mr Mi still tried to persuade her to take some, which embarrassed old Mrs Yang somewhat. She said, 'Please don't stand on ceremony; I really do not eat them.' There were some chestnut shells on the tea table, and the old lady pulled a newspaper over them.
Dunfeng sighed, saying, 'Now even peanuts and chestnuts are priced individually!'
'And the quality gets worse as the price gets higher. They call them sugar-roasted chestnuts, but I doubt whether they use any sugar in the roasting. That's why this year's chestnuts are not sweet at all.' Dunfeng didn't notice the old lady's inconsistency
'Have you collected your sugar ration yet?' asked Mr Mi.
`No, I didn't see it in the papers today. In fact that's why we have a newspaper delivered every day-to get information about the sugar and rice rations. If I don't take care of these things, no one else in this family will. Well, I never thought that I'd see such times as this in my old age. Perhaps I should go to a fortune-teller and see what the year has in store for me.'
Dunfeng smiled and said, 'Auntie, I was just going to tell you: the other day the two of us went out together and had our fortunes told on the street.'
'Was the man any good?' asked the old lady.
'We were doing it for fun. He only charged fifty dollars.'
'That's very reasonable. What did he say?' asked the old lady.
'Well, he said . . . Dunfeng glanced at Mr Mi and then continued: 'He said that the two of us will have all our wishes fulfilled, and that he will live for another twelve years.'
She spoke with delight, as though it was an unexpected bonus. To Mr Mi, however, the twelve years sounded rather eerie; he shivered all over. Old Mrs Yang, being of a similar age, felt the same way. She thought that Dunfeng should have been more careful about what she said, and so she interrupted by asking, 'That Iron-mouth Zhang you used to go to, I've heard he's become extremely popular.'
'You can't possibly go to him now. Even with a prior appointment you won't be able to get near him,' replied Dunfeng, waving her hand to emphasize her point.
'These days I seldom hear you mention fortune-tellers. As the saying goes: The poor go for fortune-telling, the rich make offerings to the gods,' said old Mrs Yang, and she started laughing.
Dunfeng was not pleased by what she said, but she was not
paying much attention, for she was watching Mr Mi. Mr Mi had returned to his seat, and had looked at the clock as he walked past the mantelpiece. A rather old-fashioned clock with a rectangular red leather case, a gilded face and very slender hands that susurrated; one couldn't tell the time very clearly. Dunfeng knew that he was worrying about his sick wife again.
Old Mrs Yang turned to Mr Mi and asked, 'Are there fortune-tellers abroad?'
'Yes,' replied Mr Mi. 'Some use dates of birth, some use crystal balls, and some use playing cards.'
Dunfeng waved her hand dismissively again and said, 'I've been to foreign fortune-tellers. They're no good! Went to a very famous one, a woman. It was back when my late one was quarrelling with me every single day. That she could tell; she said I didn't get along with my husband. I asked her, "What am I to do about it?" She said to me, "Bring him here, and I'll talk to him." What a joke! I don't know how many people at home had talked to him, and it didn't make the slightest difference, so what good would she have done? I said to her, "I'm afraid I can't do it. He won't do what I say because he doesn't like mc." And then she said, "You can bring one of his friends here." Now isn't that ridiculous! What would be the use of bringing his friend? She just wanted more business! And so I never went back.'
Dunfeng went on and on about her late husband. Old Mrs Yang could see that Mr Mi felt extremely uneasy about it: he sat there with his legs crossed, his hands clasped over his belly, his lips pursed in an awkward smile. Mrs Yang interrupted Dunfeng again, saying, 'You mentioned that you wanted a new cook. Our cook Old Wang meant to recommend someone to you. But now he himself has left; he's dealing in merchandise now'
'It's hard to find help these days,' said Mr Mi.
'Auntie, I don't think you have enough hands now, do you?' asked Dunfeng.
The old lady looked towards the doorway to make sure that no one was there, and then said in a low voice, 'You may not know this, but I'd much rather have a couple less servants around. They'd just be standing behind the mahjong table at the beck and call of your cousin's wife anyway. These days I just ask the alley watchman to do the heavy work, like cutting our firewood; I'd rather give him extra money to do it. just today your cousin's wife found out somehow that we've been giving him money, and she immediately told him to go out and buy cigarettes further, as if he were her servant. Now don't you think. . . ?'
Dunfeng couldn't help laughing. She asked, 'Does she still provide snacks and meals for her mahjong parties?'
'How can we afford it?' replied old Mrs Yang. 'Everyone has to go home at dinner time, that's why her present group are all people who live in this alley. The only good thing about them is they're easy to get rid of.'
Old Mrs Yang took out a few antique pieces to show to Mr Mi, asking him for an estimate-she was going to sell them. Among these was a big centre-piece painting; the old lady held onto the upper end, and Mr Mi to the lower end, and they stood looking at it. Dunfeng sat herself down on a low stool next to the opium couch, wrapping her fleshy arms around her fleshy knees. She felt that she was a child again, a child protected by the grown-ups, very contented. The world was changing: her auntie had to sell things to make ends meet; her cousin's wife continued flirting and playing mahjong in straitened circumstances she might have kept up the front of a rich lady, but the truth was saddening. Dunfeng herself was the only lucky one. The risk she had taken with this marriage had paid off. She was now back in the hands of a reliable man, feeling as if she had always been there.
As he looked at the painting, Mr Mi said, 'This is a genuine He Shisun, I'm quite sure of that. But there are a lot of He Shisuns around these days . . .
The old lady looked at Mr Mi and thought to herself: 'He has a high status in the brokerage, he's well educated in Chinese and Western learning, he's polite, and so considerate-and Dunfeng managed to marry him! Dunfeng isn't that young, and yet she doesn't seem to have any tact. The way she talks is so hurtful to him, and he just takes it! The times have certainly changed; these days men bow to such behaviour. In the old days she'd never have got away with it. But it's not as if Dunfeng has never suffered at the hands of men, why is she so ungrateful? Mr Mi must be about sixty, exactly my age. Why should I have such a rotten lot and be burdened with a family? a daughter-in-law who behaves outrageously, and a son so infuriated by her that he doesn't come home much. Everything has fallen on my shoulders. If I could be like Dunfeng, living quietly with my man in a house of our own just the two of us! I'm an old woman now all I want is to be free from such cares and worries, nothing else really. . .
She rolled up the painting, saying, 'I have made an appointment with a dealer tomorrow. Now that you have looked at these things, Mr Mi, I feel at ease.'
Though she spoke casually, her voice conveyed a gentle trust which was very moving. Mr Mi had not received much kindness from women throughout his life, and so he could feel what little kindness there was very keenly. He smiled and said, 'We must invite you to have dinner with us some time, Mrs Yang. I have a few collectibles at home which you might find interesting.'
'I don't dare go out in such cold weather,' said the old lady.
'It's only a short trip by pedicab. When we get a cook, I'll come and fetch you, Auntie.'
The old lady made the appropriate reply while thinking to herself: It's only right that you pay for the pedicab. If I were to go myself, I'd have to have someone keep me company, and you'd have one more person to feed, so it comes out even.
Dunfeng was saying, 'The pedicab is in fact only good for two women sitting together. Two men in a pedicab somehow look rather stupid; and a man and a woman somehow look embarrassing.'
The old lady laughed and said, 'It's certainly awkward for strangers to sit together like (hat, but with you and Mr Mi, what's there to be embarrassed about?'
'I just can't get used to it,' replied Dunfeng. She thought of herself as a remarkable beauty; as for Mr Mi, except for his glasses, everything about him looked like a baby, small-eyed and small-nosed, as if it couldn't make up its mind whether to cry or not. Under his suit, his back was straight, just like a well wrapped up baby stiff as a board. Dunfeng cast a quick glance at Mr Mi and turned her head. His head and his face were completely smooth-very neat, exactly like a big steamed bun made from No. 3 rationed flour, sitting very solemnly on the collar of his shirt. However knavish her first husband had been, his appearance had never made her feel ashamed of him, ashamed to admit that this was her husband. He died when he was only twenty-five: a long narrow face, well-defined eyes and eyebrows. When he smiled his eyes were wicked!
Mr Mi reached for the papers, and the old lady handed them over to him, asking, for lack of anything to say, 'Have you been to the cinema lately? There's "Six Chapters of a Floating Life". My granddaughters have seen it and they all say it's very good. There's an old-fashioned wedding, quite interesting.'
Dunfeng shook her head, saying, 'I've seen it. Completely unrealistic. It wasn't anything like that when we got married in the old days.'
'I suppose customs differ,' said the old lady.
'They can't possibly differ so much!' said Dunfeng.
The old lady stole a glance at Mr Mi who looked bored. He took up the newspaper, glanced at the page from top to bottom, folded it in half, and as he did so glanced at the clock. Dunfeng said coldly, 'It's getting late. If you want to go, go on.'
Mr Mi smiled and said, 'I'm in no hurry. I'll wait for you.'
Dunfeng was silent. However, he still looked at the clock every so often, and then she glanced at him, and he glanced at her. The old lady was puzzled: there's definitely something to all this. She knew that as a good hostess she should find an excuse to leave the room so that they could say whatever there was to say, but she was too lazy to make the move. Anyway, it serves them right! They're together all day long and have all the opportunity in the world to say whatever they can't say in front of others. Why wait till they're in someone else's home to put on such a show?
Since the topic was the cinema, Mr Mi began to talk about foreign operas, foreign plays, and Balinese dancing. Old Mrs Yang marvelled: 'You've been to so many different places, Mr Mi!'
Mr Mi went on to talk about the temples in Cambodia, where the floors were laid with silver bricks two inches thick, and the statue of Buddha was plated with gold, and the sashes decorated with rubies and sapphires. Dunfeng eyed him with disdain, hating him for worrying about his wife, hating him for not being handsome enough to share a pedicab with her.
'That was the old days. It's impossible to travel any more,' said Mr Mi.
`It'll be easy enough for you to go again when the war is over,' said the old lady.
Mr Mi smiled and said, `Dunfeng has made it a condition that the next time I travel abroad, I must take her along.'
'She'll be delighted!'
Dunfeng heaved a sigh and said, 'Well, who knows what the future will bring? If both of us live to see the day . . . .' She, too, sensed vaguely that this was very hurtful. This was serious, and she was at a loss what to do, so she continued, 'I mean, we don't know who is going to die first. .' To cover up her blunder she laughed drily.
For a while no one spoke, then Mr Mi stood up, reached for his hat and said smilingly that he was leaving. The old lady asked him to stay a little longer, but Dunfeng said, 'He has to pay a visit somewhere else, so it's better that he goes first.'
After Mr Mi had left, the old lady asked Dunfeng, 'Where is he going?'
Dunfeng sat down on the opium couch, close to the old lady, and whispered, 'The old woman is ill, he's got to see how she is.' 'Oh? What's she suffering from?' asked the old lady.
'The doctor couldn't decide whether it's bronchitis or not. Just lately he's been going there every day' replied Dunfeng. Her cheeks looked puffed up with displeasure. Her hands were on her knees one hand was clenched in a fist, gently hammering one knee; the other was massaging the other knee, up and down, up and down. She was the very picture of sorrow and forbearance.
The old lady smiled and said, 'Why, you should let him go if he wants to. You know very well that he cares about you.'
Dunfeng answered quickly, 'Of course I let him go. First of all, I'm not the jealous type. Besides, I don't have any feelings for him.'
'You're only saying that out of anger,' said the old lady smilingly.
Dunfeng's gaze froze upon the old lady. Her face was all fleshy and powdery, and the only hard thing about it was her eyes. They looked hollow, as if she had rolled them upwards. But she was saying with a smile, 'You know very well how things stand with me. l' or me, it's just a way of getting a living'
'But still, you're now husband and wife . . . .' said the old lady with a smile.
Dunfeng became agitated. She said, 'I don't hold anything back from you, Auntie. If I had wanted a man, I would not have married Mr Mi.' Her face flushed, she moved even closer to old Mrs Yang and said in a low, laughing voice, 'In fact we seldom do it, maybe once every few months.' Having said this she stared at the other woman, still smiling.
The old lady did not have a suitable reply to this, so she smiled back at her. Dunfeng guessed what the old lady had in mind, and continued before she could say anything, 'I know you're going to say that there's more to a marriage than that, but with someone like Mr Mi, it's difficult to have feelings for him.'
'He really treats you well, and as far as I can see, you don't treat him badly either.'
'Well, even if it's for completely selfish reasons I have to take care of him: what to wear, what to eat. . . . I have to make sure that he gets fed properly so he'll live a couple of years more.' Having made such a good joke, she started laughing at it herself.
'Fortunately Mr Mi seems very fit; he doesn't look sixty,' said the old lady.
'Just now when I told you about the fortune-teller on the street—I only told you half of it because he was here. The man said he had a high standing in the business world, and that he would have more than one wife. He also said his wife will die this year.'
'Oh? So she won't be recovering from this illness,' said the old lady.
'Well, I asked the fortune-teller whether I was going to die, and he said it wouldn't be me. He said things would just get better and better for me.'
'I suppose that woman might as well call it quits,' said the old lady.
Dunfeng looked down at her knees as she went on hammering and massaging them. She said with a quiet smile, 'I'd think so.'
An amah came in to say that someone from the boiler room had come to deliver the bath water. The old lady complained, 'I asked for it this morning, and it isn't delivered until now! I have a guest here.'
Dunfeng said immediately, 'Don't think of me as a guest, Auntie. Go and have your bath. I'll just sit here for a while.'
An old labourer carried two buckets of water into the room, splashing water on the floor. The old lady went with him to the bathroom and told him to pour the water into the tub, warning him to be careful not to let his carrying pole dirty her towels.
Dunfeng sat alone in the room, and suddenly everything turned quiet. The neighbour's telephone started ringing. In the silence it seemed to be ringing right in her ear: `R-i-n-g! R-i-n-g!' over and over again, but no one picked it up. It was like having so much to say but no way to say it; the agitation, the entreaty and the urgency were most dramatic. For no obvious reason Dunfeng was shaken by it. She recalled how unsettled Mr Mi had looked in the last couple of days. She did not understand his concern; she did not want to. Dunfeng stood up and, with her arms crossed in front of her chest, stared defensively at the wall. `R-i-n-g! R-i-n-g!' The phone kept on ringing, and gradually it sounded very sad. It seemed that even this house she was in was empty.
Old Mrs Yang marched the labourer back into the room. Dunfeng turned around and said, 'You can hear the telephone next door very clearly'
'These houses aren't built properly. The walls are too thin,' said the old lady.
Old Mrs Yang had to pay for the water. There was a stack of banknotes on the mantelpiece, and she gave the man an extra ten dollars as a tip. The labourer wiped the icicles off his whiskers, thanked her and left. The old lady sighed, 'Who'd thank you for a ten dollar tip these days? This old labourer is a saintly old gent.' Dunfeng laughed along with the old lady.
Old Mrs Yang went into the bathroom. Not long afterwards, Mrs Yang came upstairs and asked as soon as she walked in: 'Is the old lady having her bath?'
Dunfeng nodded. Mrs Yang said, 'I've hung a scarlet sweater on the bathroom door. I better take it out. The steam in the bathroom will probably fade it.'
She tried to open the bathroom door. Dunfeng said, 'It's probably locked.'
Mrs Yang sat down on the opium couch and pulled her fake caracul coat tighter round her shoulders. Since there was no man around, she had put away all her liveliness.
'How many rounds did you play? How come the game has broken up so early?' asked Dunfeng.
'A couple of them have some business to attend to and had to leave early'
Dunfeng looked at her and said with a smile, 'You really know how to take it easy. That's a good Way to pass the time.'
'Everyone disapproves of me, I know. But the money that changes hands on a mahjong table is negligible--how much can I lose? Now if you look at your cousin, he doesn't come home after work these days, and wherever he spends his time, even if he just sits there he has to pay! And now everyone says it's my fault, that I've made it impossible for him to come home! This family is now completely dependent on the old lady for everything.' Mrs Yang leaned forward a bit, then continued in a lower voice, 'The situation being what it is, do you think the old lady's mumbling about saving a penny here and there will do us much good? A good few small businessmen living in this alley have made it big. If they were to tip us off in one of their deals, or let us have a small share of it, that'd make all the difference!'
'So you must have made quite a killing,' Dunfeng said.
Mrs Yang leaned back, supporting herself with her arms stretched to the back, and said sarcastically, 'If we want a share we've got to lay out the money, and money is none of my business here. If I were to take over the management of the household I'm sure she'd pick a big row But as it is, she complains that I don't do anything.'
All of a sudden she jumped up, pointed to the office desk, chair and filing cabinet, and said with hatred in her voice, 'Just look at this, and this! She monopolizes everything! Look, even the telephone and the fridge I don't care about these things or else ..
Dunfeng realized that the walls were thin. Afraid that the conversation could be overheard in the bathroom, she dared not follow up on the topic, but tried to change the subject, saying, 'The man who was playing the flute downstairs for Yue, who's he?'
'He's also a member of the Opera Association. Yue just keeps to herself too much. Actually her classmates are all on more friendly terms with me, and I try to keep on their good side. When my younger ones have problems with their school work, I just ask them to help out---that saves hiring a tutor. And sometimes they run errands for me. We don't have enough servants here, you know, so that helps. But sometimes they cause me unexpected trouble as well.' She was sitting on the edge of the bed, with her elbows on her knees. Her face was almost buried in her coat and she sniffed at it deeply. Then she said nonchalantly, 'I keep joking with myself seems that my share of romance is far from over!'
She waited quietly for Dunfeng to question her. When nothing happened she cast a glance at Dunfeng. Sometime in the past Dunfeng had been interested in Mrs Yang's encounters, but now her circumstances were different. She was married, and as a married woman she looked at extra-marital relationships with a critical eye. No matter how many lovers Mrs Yang had, they could neither marry her nor take care of her financially. Dunfeng put on a solemn expression. To show that only Yue's marriage prospects were worthy of discussion, she asked, 'Does Yue have a friend?'
'I never interfere as far as she's concerned. If I come up with anything, her granny and her father are both sure to object.'
'The man I saw just now, I don't think he's much good,' said Dunfeng.
'You mean the one playing the flute? There's nothing going on there,' replied Mrs Yang.
Yet Dunfeng was a woman with a 'marriage complex'. To her, every man was a possibility until it was proved beyond any doubt that the possibility did not exist. She therefore persisted, 'I don't think he's much good. What do you think?'
Mrs Yang lost her patience. With her chin cupped in her hands, she stamped her foot on the floor and said, 'There's nothing in it!'
'It's true that I only saw him briefly . . . . He seems to be the slippery type,' said Dunfeng.
Mrs Yang smiled and said, 'I know the kind of man you like. Looks don't matter that much, but he has to be reliable, gentle and considerate, like Mr Mi.'
Dunfeng was silent, but her face slowly flushed red.
Mrs Yang stretched out her snowy fragrant hand to take hold of Dunfeng's hand. She said with a smile, 'You look so well these days . . . . A life like yours can probably be said to be ideal!'
Were Dunfeng to admit to being happy in front of Mrs Yang, she would also be admitting to owing her a favour. That was why she had to complain more bitterly than ever. She said, 'You'd never realize what I have to put up with!'
'What's the matter?' asked Mrs Yang.
Dunfeng bowed her head. Her hands were on her knees—one hand was clenched in a fist, gently hammering one knee; the other was massaging the other knee, up and down. Hammering and massaging, she was the very picture of concentration. Her cheeks were puffed out childishly. She said, 'The old woman's ill. The fortune-teller said that his wife will die this year. Didn't you see how disgustingly unsettled he looked?'
With half of her face buried in her coat, Mrs Yang observed Dunfeng with narrowed, judgemental eyes. She thought: 'Now that she's a concubine she certainly behaves like one! All this "old woman" stuff. Next she'll be calling Mr Mi "the old man"!'
Mrs Yang laughed and said, 'Wouldn't it be nice if she died?'
Dunfeng was not pleased with her teasing tone of voice. She replied, 'I don't want her to die. She's no obstacle as far as I'm concerned!'
'That's true. If I were you I wouldn't care about names and titles. The important thing is to get your hands on the money,' said Mrs Yang.
Dunfeng sighed, saying, 'I suppose everyone thinks that I've made a fortune out of him! Well, of course I know that he'll do well by me in his will, but if he doesn't bring it up, I can't very well mention it either. . .
Mrs Yang opened her eyes wide, working herself up on Dunfeng's behalf: 'Why, you should ask him!'
'If I do that, won't he have doubts about me?'
For a moment Mrs Yang looked stumped, then she said, 'Don't be foolish! Money does pass through your hands, so you can accumulate your own nest-egg bit by bit.'
'I don't know how it can be done,' answered Dunfeng. 'Times are different now. Men are always talking about the price of rice and coal; everyone knows what things cost. Though Mr Mi is still with the brokerage in name, he has effectively retired.
His outlay is immense the upkeep of the children who are all
away from home is considerable it makes sense for us to watch
our expenses. And yet at home all the servants have been with him a long time, and they carry on with their old ways. Like last time when Amah Zhang went back to her home village for a visit, there was no end to it! First she said, "Mrs Mi, I would like a few dollars so I could buy some material to give away as presents." Then when she came back she brought chickens, eggs, whole-meal noodles, sticky dumplings We couldn't possibly just accept her gifts. Someday we'll be broke because of this! Every time she wanted something she just thrusts her Face in front of me and says "Mrs Mi this, Mrs Mi that". As for Mr Mi, he just encourages them. No matter what it is, he says, "Go and ask the Mrs!" I suppose he means well, letting me do the servants the favours . . .
Mrs Yang stole a glance at Dunfeng, listening to her repetition of 'Mrs Mi' with a smile. She thought: A veritable concubine!
Old Mrs Yang emerged from the bathroom after her bath and told an old amah to go and scrub the tub. She asked, 'How come there is this smell of steam? Are you ironing?'
Without waiting for the amah's reply she went out to have a look. Sure enough the ironing-board was standing on the staircase landing. The old lady was furious, saying, 'Who told you to do the ironing? Am I the only one to be affected if the fuse blows from overloading? I don't want to be grumbling all day long, but times have changed!'
Amid this bustle Mr Mi arrived. Dunfeng was sitting in the room. Through the open door she could see Mr Mi walking up the stairs, and she was pleased. But she pretended to be surprised, asking, 'Hey, how come you're back?'
Mr Mi smiled and said, 'I was on my way home, so I thought I'd come and pick you up.'
Mrs Yang came out of the bathroom carrying her sweater. Her hands were thrust into the sleeves of the scarlet sweater which she flapped about, hitting Dunfeng a couple of times with them. She laughed and said, 'Just look at how nice Mr Mi is, how considerate! Coming to take you home in this rain.'
Mr Mi brushed his overcoat and said with a smile, 'It's stopped raining now'
`Do stay for a while longer. You hardly come by these days,' said Mrs Yang.
Mr Mi took off his overcoat and sat down. Mrs Yang glanced at him sideways, smiled, and said very slowly: 'And how are you, Mr Mi?'
Mr Mi replied with a cautious smile, 'I'm fine. And you, Mrs Yang?'
Mrs Yang sighed and answered with a 'Fine'; the sigh went on endlessly.
Dunfeng listened to all this, disgusted with Mrs Yang's pretence, and also angry with Mr Mi for speaking so cautiously, as if afraid that she would make too much out of this. She thought: Frankly, she'll not be interested in an old man like you whatever the case! Do you really think she has her eye on you?
But even now anger gnawed at her whenever Mrs Yang's name was mentioned, partly because there was no new target for her jealousy-she did not feel too strongly about 'the old woman'. Now that she, Mrs Yang and Mr Mi were sitting in a gradually darkening room, she again dug out the skeletal remains of their unformed triangular love affair and relived its memories. She had triumphed. Though it wasn't much of a victory, it counted nonetheless. With faked nonchalance she picked up a cup of tea-a cup of cold tea in the cold house of her relatives. There was a trace of lip rouge on the rim of the cup; she turned it around, only to see another red half-moon stain. She frowned. Her expensive lipsticks certainly did not run, so it must have been that the Yangs didn't wash their cups properly. Who knows who had drunk from it! She turned the cup round again to find a clean spot, but she did not really mean to drink the tea.
Seeing that Mr Mi had come back, the old lady wanted to make sure that Mrs Yang would not have a chance to chat him up, so she quickly sent the amah away and came back into the room. Mrs Yang saw through this and smiled with disgust. She sniffed, and then stood up saying casually, 'I'll tell them to get some snacks.'
She turned to walk away, wearing her coat like a shawl, under which her shapely legs criss-crossed as they made their way delicately out. The old lady was afraid that she would use this opportunity to indulge in buying unnecessary snacks, so she followed her and called out, 'Some baked sweet potatoes will do; they've just come into season.'
'Auntie, there's no need to fuss, we're not hungry,' said Dunfeng. But the old lady ignored her protest.
The old lady and her daughter-in-law stood on the landing instructing the servant to go out for sweet potatoes. Then they started complaining quietly. The old lady said, `Dunfeng used to be so careful about things like this. She used to be embarrassed about dining at someone's house more than once, and sometimes she would bring some snacks along herself. Now that she doesn't have to be concerned about such things, she thinks that we don't have to count the pennies either
Mrs Yang laughed and said, 'That's rich people for you. If they don't skimp, they're not the rich.'
Dunfeng sat alone with Mr Mi in the room; for some reason both of them felt slightly embarrassed. Though Dunfeng pulled a long face, she could feel that her eyes were smiling like the new moon.
Mr Mi asked with a smile, 'Well? When do we go home?'
'We wouldn't have anything to eat at home. I told the amah we wouldn't be back for dinner,' Dunfeng replied. Unable to suppress her smile, she asked, 'How come you're back here so quickly? You must have rushed there and back.'
Before Mr Mi could reply, the two Mrs Yangs returned to the room. They chatted as they ate the baked sweet potatoes. There were two left, and old Mrs Yang told the servant to summon the youngest child so that she could have them while they were still warm. The little girl came in, shouting, 'Granny, look! There's a rainbow in the sky'
Old Mrs Yang opened one of the french windows and everyone walked out onto the balcony. Dunfeng stuck her hands into her sleeves, shivered, and said, 'Now that it's cleared up, it's going to be even colder. I wonder what the temperature is.'
She walked to the mantelpiece to look at the thermometer. It was in the shape of a green glass tower, something she had known well since she was a young girl. The sun was shining on it and a green patch of light was reflected onto the sofa. The sun had indeed come out.
Dunfeng picked up the thermometer. Suddenly the neighbour's telephone started ringing again: `R-i-n-g! R-i-n-g!' She listened attentively. Someone actually picked up the phone--she was relieved. It was an amah's loud voice, an impatient 'Hello?' which cut off the hesitant pleading at the other end of the line. What followed was a stream of blah-blah- blah; she couldn't tell what was being said. Dunfeng stood there in a trance. When she turned around to look at the balcony, she saw Mr Mi's back. His half-bald head merged into his fat neck. Behind him, a short, straight section of a rainbow hung in the azure sky red, yellow, violet and orange. The sun was shining on the balcony. Sunlight on the concrete railings a heavy
golden sheen—momentary, and late in the day.
Mr Mi looked up at the rainbow, thinking of his dying wife. With her death, most of his life would be over, too. The sorrow and anger he had felt when they were living together were forgotten, completely forgotten. Mr Mi looked at the rainbow. His love for the world was no longer love, it became compassion.
Dunfeng put on her overcoat and took Mr Mi's scarf out to the balcony, saying, 'You'd better put it on. It's getting cold.' As she said so, she looked at her aunt and her cousin's wife and smiled apologetically, intimating: It's all for the money, of course. For my own sake I have to take good care of him. We all know what it's about Mr Mi wrapped the scarf round his neck and said with a smile, 'We really should go. Thank you for the tea and snacks.'
They said goodbye and walked out to the alley. Under the sheltered walkway someone had set a small stove on a patch of dry pavement. It was smoking and crackling like something alive. In the empty alley one could easily have mistaken it for a dog, or even a child.
They walked out of the alley onto the road. There were few pedestrians and it felt like early morning. Most of the buildings in this area had pale yellow walls, now black and mouldy because of the damp. Parasol trees lined the road, their yellow leaves looking exactly like flowers blossoming in the spring. Against the dark-grey walls, the small yellow trees looked particularly brilliant. The leaves at the top waved in the wind and then took off, drawing an arc in the air before overtaking the two of them. Even after the leaves touched ground they drifted a long way off.
In this world, all relationships are frayed and patched up. Still, on their way home Dunfeng and Mr Mi loved each other. Walking on the fallen leaves that so much resembled fallen petals, Dunfeng reminded herself to tell him about the macaw when they walked past the post office.

Translated by Eva Hung

 

Now Xikang Road in Shanghai. The road first came into being in 1899. Locals still refer to it as Xiaoshadu Road.
A widely advertised anti-syphilis drug.