There is another name for such places: “society girl apartments.” Being a “society girl” is a profession unique to Shanghai, halfway between wife and prostitute. This profession, which dispenses with titles, does not operate according to rules; only what actually takes place matters. It is a livelihood that bears some resemblance to being a free-roaming nomad, who goes from pasture to pasture, seeking shelter in tents. The apartments are the girls’ tents, which they make as beautiful as they can. The girls themselves are beautiful, even elegant; their elegance is in a class of its own, judged by its own standards. Having relinquished the roles of wife and mother, they metamorphose into femininity itself. It would not be excessive to declare that their beauty is an asset to the city, the pride of Shanghai. We must express our gratitude to the people who nurture them, for they have performed an aesthetic service for mankind.
These women spend their entire lives trying to display their beauty for a brief season, like flowers that blossom only once every hundred years. What a splendid sight when these flowers bloom! They have made themselves beauty’s emissaries — beauty is glorious, even if the glory is as fleeting as passing clouds, gorgeous dusk clouds that enfold the entire earth. Nothing belongs to them, but they do not mind being clouds. Brief as their time is, they enjoy it up there, looking down on earth. So what if time is transitory, so what if it is illusory, so what if the clouds should transform into ivy, to crawl through the cracks and walls to wait for the next century?
Farewell to Alice
Wang Qiyao moved into the Alice Apartments in the spring of 1948. This was a year of great turmoil and unrest, with China embroiled in a civil war the outcome of which was still poised in the balance. The world within Alice Apartments, however, remained as sumptuous and cozy as ever. Nineteen-year-old Wang Qiyao had settled down and found a home of her own, but when she moved in, she did not let anyone know except her family.
When Mr. Cheng called, he was told that she had left for Suzhou to stay with her maternal grandmother, and they were not certain when she might be back. Mr. Cheng then took a trip to Suzhou, at a time when the gardenias were in full bloom. He thought he caught a glimpse of Wang Qiyao in every doorway by a gardenia tree. He even found teacups no bigger than a fingernail for sale, and all the little girls who played with those miniature tea sets looked just like Wang Qiyao as a child. Wang Qiyao had left her imprint on all the cobblestones, but there was no sight of her. He arrived in Suzhou with a sinking feeling, and with that same sinking feeling he left. On the night train back to Shanghai, his heart was as dark as the scenery outside, and tears rolled down his face. He could not understand why he should be so dejected, yet sadness took firm hold of him.
After his return, he abandoned his search for Wang Qiyao; he also abandoned photography. Every morning and night he walked blindly past his photo studio, and went straight out the door or into his bedroom. There were too many things he would rather ignore. At twentynine, he was single and had no thought of marriage. He did not care about his career, and having given up his hobby as well, he seemed to have stopped caring altogether. He roamed the streets of Shanghai with a fedora on his head and a walking stick in his hand, looking like a character in a classical European painting. His despair was part genuine, part performance — for the benefit of himself as well as for others. There was a measure of satisfaction and hope in his acting.
In the days that Mr. Cheng was looking for Wang Qiyao, someone else was looking for Mr. Cheng. This was Jiang Lili. She too ran into one setback after another, but she never gave up. She first went to the Western firm where Mr. Cheng had been employed. They told her he had quit but suggested she try another firm where he might have gone. To the second firm she went, and was told there was no such person. When she returned to the first place to try to learn Mr. Cheng’s home address, the secretary decided it was better not to give it out, especially seeing how anxious Jiang Lili was. Stumped, Jiang Lili’s only remaining option seemed to be to go to Wang Qiyao for help, even though she knew this was not a smart move. To her dismay, Wang Qiyao had also disappeared. This set her wondering if the two had gone off together. But it seemed unlikely, there being no wedding news from either. It was from Wu Peizhen that she eventually got hold of Mr. Cheng’s address. During their meeting, Wang Qiyao’s name never crossed the lips of either, but she was on both their minds. Even though Jiang Lili and Wu Peizhen had been classmates for years, they had rarely spoken. Wang Qiyao, a scar on the heart of each, was the only connection between them. Jiang Lili hurried to the address once she had it in hand.
Taking the elevator to the top floor, she found his apartment door shut. No one answered the doorbell. She decided to wait for him, leaning against the banister of the staircase, where she could look out the hall window. The water of the Huangpu River at dusk ran dark crimson. A steamboat blew its whistle. She felt adrift. When will he be back? How long has it been since she saw him? How did he behave the last time? What was he like the first time they were together? She was caught in a myriad emotions. Red clouds formed on the horizon and slowly turned black. Pigeons went flying separately, each to its own destination. The light in the building had turned on automatically, but still there was no sign of Mr. Cheng. Jiang Lili’s legs had become sore and she felt chilled, though not hungry. The elevator made quiet but distinct sounds as it went up and down, but never rose to the top floor. There was a great deal of activity for a while, as people came home from work, but the elevator never came up. Jiang Lili spread her handkerchief at the top of the stairs and sat down. She firmly believed that, sooner or later, Mr. Cheng would come home — she would see him. Outside the misty night shone with lights; inside the building was enshrouded by a tomblike solemnity. One realized that people lived here only when, occasionally, a door flew open, voices were heard, and the smells of dinner came floating up. Jiang Lili hunched over on the cold marble step and wrapped her arms around herself, determined to ignore the passage of time. It was then that she heard the elevator rising to the top floor and saw Mr. Cheng step out. For a few seconds she could not believe her own eyes and failed to recognize him. He had always been slim, but now he was a bag of bones, a hanger for clothes and hat, supported by a walking stick. She felt sorry for him without venturing to guess why he was so gaunt.
Tears streaming down her cheeks, she called out to him. “Mr. Cheng!”
Mr. Cheng was confused and took a moment to recognize her. When he did, past events rushed back in torrents.
Mr. Cheng and Jiang Lili had not seen each other for some time. Each was nursing a wounded heart and felt an instant empathy with the other. After all, in the vast sea of people drifting through this crowded city, the two of them shared something. The reunion was bittersweet. Now they were ready to write a sequel to an interrupted story, even though each had a different version in mind. Mr. Cheng opened the door, turned on the light, and led Jiang Lili inside. It was her first time in the studio, and she was amazed, even though the place had fallen into neglect. She walked around, touching this and that, until her hands were covered with dust. Watching her, Mr. Cheng pulled himself together. He went to lift up the cloth covering the lighting equipment. This sent dust flying all around.