Once something happens, it tends to happen again. Gradually, Wang Qiyao became a mantra that Jiang Lili invoked all the time. Sometimes she was right — he was thinking of Wang Qiyao — but other times she was dead wrong. Mr. Cheng was unfailingly apologetic. After a while, Mr. Cheng himself became confused. Perhaps there was really no room for anyone else in his heart aside from Wang Qiyao. What might have faded away naturally over time became etched in stone. Mr. Cheng had indeed suffered grievously from his love for Wang Qiyao, but he had resigned himself to losing her. Now Jiang Lili practically taught him that he could still think freely of Wang Qiyao and let her presence remain with him day and night. Reclusive by nature, he would let his thoughts wander back to Wang Qiyao whenever he was alone. He resumed his interest in photography, taking pictures of scenery, objects, and architectural structures, but no human figures. That space he reserved for Wang Qiyao alone. He saw less and less of Jiang Lili.
Initially, Jiang Lili would not call him. When he finally came around to phone or visit, she would pretend to ignore him, even declining to see him, partly because she was still sore and partly because she was deploying the old stratagem of disarming the opponent while pretending to let him go. But when Mr. Cheng stopped calling altogether, Jiang Lili panicked. She started to call him. She felt better when she heard his voice, but that did not prevent her from remaining angry. Even when they did manage to get together, they seemed always to part unhappily. After a few instances of this, Mr. Cheng even started to decline some of her invitations to go out. They were thus back to square one — both were discouraged that their sincerity and efforts had come to naught. Jiang Lili, however, could not come to terms with this; she refused to believe that this was happening to her. Rebuffs from Mr. Cheng only provoked her to take further action, propelling her to call him again and again, until she was forced to acknowledge defeat.
In the end, she resumed her humble attitude: she simply had to see him, with no strings attached. This frightened Mr. Cheng, who went into hiding. His “fright” had little to do with Jiang Lili specifically, but with relationships between men and women in general. He had offered up his heart twice — albeit, it is true, each time in a slightly different fashion — the first time he invested his love and the second time his loyalty. Each time he gave himself wholeheartedly to the effort, but what did he receive in return? Nothing but suffering — suffering when he didn’t get the girl, and even more suffering when he did. He began to doubt if there could ever be happiness between man and woman, and gradually grew convinced that all attempts were futile.
Jiang Lili’s phone calls were going unanswered. Going to inquire after him at Mr. Cheng’s new workplace, she was told that he was on an extended leave for a trip to his hometown. They were not sure when he would be coming back. She went to his apartment on the Bund to see if she could track him down. She had a key — which she had hardly used, because Mr. Cheng usually came to her house. There was a desolate look to the place, with its noiseless elevator, few signs of human activity, and domed ceiling. The air was swirling with dust as she inserted the key into the keyhole. Inside, dust danced in the light shining through the cracks between the curtains. After her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw that a heavy layer of dust had settled on the floor, the camera, the tables, and the chairs, as well as on the cloth covering the light fixtures. Standing in the middle of the room, she grieved as she recalled how, not too long ago, it had been flooded with radiant light. The chairs and the steps in front of the backdrops were still there, looking cold and indifferent. Jiang Lili went into the dressing room and turned on the lamp on the vanity table, empty now except for dust. Staring at herself in the mirror, the only living being in the apartment, she saw a heartless, hollow shell. She wandered into the dark room, which had a light of unknown source. A string of negatives were dangling from a metal wire. Upon inspection, all were scenery shots, devoid of people. She went into his bedroom, where there were a bed, a dresser, and a rack for clothes and hats. One lone dusty shirt hung on the rack. Other than that, the room was in perfect order, like a man lacking expression or words. Jiang Lili thought she could hear dust descending from the ceiling. She realized that this time Mr. Cheng would not come back to her no matter how persistent she was. She had lost him for good.
As the relationship between Jiang Lili and Mr. Cheng went through its sea changes, virtually all that Wang Qiyao did was wait — wait for Director Li. Right after he put her up in the Alice Apartments, they had spent two weeks together. To Director Li, who usually crowded two days into one, this counted as a honeymoon. After this he showed up only sporadically, sometimes for a night, sometimes for a few hours during the day. Wang Qiyao never questioned him as to where he was or where he was going. She had no interest in, nor any understanding of, politics or business matters. Her apathy pleased Director Li, who saw it as an ignorance that came out of a woman’s self-awareness and pathos. He loved her even more and regretted that he could not spend more time with her.
During this period Director Li was like an arrow on a tightly drawn bow, ready to take off at any minute. Even in sleep he would abruptly sit up, ready to give or carry out an order. He was bedeviled by nightmares that made him struggle and cry out. Wang Qiyao could only hold him tight, whispering consoling words all the while, until he woke up in a sweat. He would then turn around and embrace her. Only then would his tense body ease up a bit. Some nights he could not sleep at all. He would sneak out into the living room to listen to a Mei Lanfang record. Even with Wang Qiyao he felt he had to put up a front; only Mei Lanfang could totally disarm him and let him relax. Only Mei Lanfang on the gramophone knew what he was thinking — and Mei Lanfang would never tell. Sometimes Wang Qiyao woke up in the morning to find him gone from her bed. She would find him asleep on the sofa, the tobacco in his pipe turned to ashes; only the record on the gramophone would still be moving, going round and round.
Director Li never told her when he might be back. Wang Qiyao stopped counting the days on the calendar. Time became a straight line, registering neither day nor night. Eating and sleeping, she had only one purpose, which was to wait for Director Li to show up. It was only after she met him that she began to realize just how immense the world really was. A person could disappear without a trace for weeks on end. She also realized how isolated one’s world could become. The chime of the trolley cars sounded so far away, as if it had nothing to do with her. She understood what separation meant, and what impermanence meant. Sometimes she said to herself, Director Li is sure to return the next time it rains. Then, when it rained, she would say, He’ll be sure to come when the sun comes out. She would flip coins trying to predict whether or not he would appear. She would look at the flower buds in the vase, saying to herself, Surely he will appear by the time the flowers have bloomed. Instead of counting the days, she counted how many times the outside light reached a certain point on the wall, playing on the idea that the Chinese word for “time” is made up of the characters for “light” and “shadow.”