This time Wang Qiyao could not hide what happened even if she tried. The entire school now knew who she was — even girls from other high schools came to her campus in hopes of catching a glimpse of this Wang Qiyao. Wherever she went, people stopped to turn and stare. Schoolgirls were like that. It was if they didn’t believe their own eyes and had to have confirmation from others. All the girls who had never given a second thought to Wang Qiyao suddenly became convinced they had been wrong all along. Those who had always admired her, however, grew suddenly ambivalent, hell-bent on taking the opposite side. And so gossip and rumors proliferated, even one suggested that Wang Qiyao had a cousin who worked at Shanghai Life and it was he who had got her into the magazine. But whether it was admiring gazes or fabricated rumors, nothing seemed to get to Wang Qiyao, for in both experience and understanding of the world she surpassed them all. All these rumors and idle words were sheer nonsense to her. Although she was the target of their attention, she had very different things on her mind. Shanghai Life may have made her a celebrity on campus — suddenly she was known to every student and teacher — but she was left with the feeling that she could no longer find herself. The photo had ripped away her original face and thrust upon her a new identity that she did not want. It was no longer up to her to choose.
A Proper Young Lady of Shanghai
“A Proper Young Lady of Shanghai” was a title tailor-made for Wang Qiyao. She was not a celebrity of the screen or stage, nor a wellborn woman from an influential family, nor a femme fatale capable of bringing down an empire; but if she wanted to take her place on society’s stage she would need a designation. Her designation, “a proper young lady,” hinted at a harmonious society where everyone was in their proper place. It was not a prejudicial title — any girl had a right to lay claim to it — but Wang Qiyao had won it with overwhelming support. The floral pattern on her cheongsam became popular, and her short perm was all the rage. In her person, Wang Qiyao epitomized “a proper young lady of Shanghai.” The designation carried with it a commonplace sort of vanity, evoking the image of a fashionable girl savvy enough to know her proper place. Like the bearer of a philanthropic gift, she became the vehicle for everyone’s fantasy.
Shanghai in late 1945 was a city of wealth, colors, and stunning women. After the Japanese surrender, the revelry that took place every evening in its nightclubs seemed justified and appropriate. In actuality, of course, merry-making had nothing to do with the affairs of the world; it stemmed from people’s natural affinity for pleasure and delight. The fashions displayed in shop windows, the novellas serialized in newspapers, the neon lights, the film posters, the department store banners, and the flower baskets celebrating new company openings all brightly sang out that the city was beside itself with happiness. “A Proper Young Lady of Shanghai” was part of that music, music for ordinary women. It told everyone in the city that they would never be forgotten, that they were all on the road to glory. Shanghai was still a city capable of creating honor and glory; it was not ruled by any doctrine, and one could let the imagination run wild. The only fear was that the splendor and sumptuousness of the city were still not enough. Like a peasant sowing grain, the city planted all that was sumptuous and splendid — it was truly a city of ornate brocade. The title “A Proper Young Lady of Shanghai” made one think of “the moon rising above the city on the sea”—the sea is the sea of people and the moon lighting up the night sky is everybody’s moon.
And then an invitation arrived from a photo salon, asking Wang Qiyao to sit for a photo shoot. In the evening, after the salon closed up shop, Wang Qiyao’s mother had the maidservant accompany her daughter there in a pedicab. Off they went, a bag of clothing in hand. The photo salon was much fancier than Mr. Cheng’s studio; there were more lights, and different people were in charge of the lighting, changing the backdrops, and makeup. Three or four of them encircled Wang Qiyao as if she was the center of their universe. The stores downstairs had closed and all was quiet, as were the desolate streets outside — they were surrounded by silence, and the atmosphere in the photo salon took on an almost sacred quality. The noises of clappers warning people to be careful with their cooking fires, seeping in through the closely drawn curtain of the back window, seemed to be coming from another world. Wang Qiyao felt the intense warmth of the camera lights shining down on her body, almost toasting her skin. She felt like she could almost see the way her eyes must have been sparkling. Surrounding her was darkness, and she was the only soul in that world of darkness.
The picture of her later displayed in the window was even more glamorous because she was elegantly attired in evening dress. But this was a commonplace elegance; like a rented bridal gown, this pseudo-elegance — as long as everyone knew — was not meant to deceive. The splendor displayed in the shop window hinted at a dream ready to be fulfilled, a dream belonging to proper young ladies. It also hinted at a kind of striving, the strivings of proper young ladies. The Wang Qiyao who appeared on the inside front cover of Shanghai Life had been an everyday kind of proper young lady, while the Wang Qiyao who appeared in the shop window was a fantasy version of a proper young lady. Both were quite real. The latter captured your eyes, the former your heart; each had its proper place. The Wang Qiyao displayed in the shop window had taken the “good girl” side of her and buried it deep in her heart, replacing it with an expression of restraint on her face — and she seemed to stand taller than common people. Her face bore a detached coldness, but one knew there was an earnest warmth in her that yearned to be liked. This was the image of herself that Wang Qiyao most adored — it suited her taste perfectly and, moreover, provided her with confidence. After seeing it that first time, Wang Qiyao never walked past the shop window again; this is yet another example of her self-restraint. Displayed beneath that were the words, “Wang Qiyao, the Proper Young Lady of Shanghai.” From that point her fame spread like the wind.
But Wang Qiyao was still her old self. The night she went to the salon, she couldn’t get to sleep until quite late, yet she still arrived at school on time the next morning. During a PTA meeting, the school elected her to present flowers to returning alumni, but she gave up the honor to another classmate. When curious classmates tried to wheedle the details of the photo shoot out of her, she told the complete story, taking care not to exaggerate anything or make it sound at all mysterious or romantic. Her attitude was the same as it had ever been. She never rushed to finish first and never lagged behind — she always tried to steer a middle course. Gradually, her modest attitude helped to quell the jealous feelings brewing among her classmates.