Every grain of rice eaten at Wu Bridge has been winnowed, hulled, polished, washed, and strained in baskets. Every piece of firewood used in cooking the rice has been split into small pieces and placed under the sun to dry. If the firewood, used one piece at a time, is not completely burned, it is set aside as charcoal for the brazier to give warmth in the winter. The stone slab roads of Wu Bridge are covered with the imprints of naked soles; the sides of the canals are crowded with women beating laundry. People live their lives in measured drops at Wu Bridge, neither frittering away their time nor wasting anything. Nor are they greedy. They spend what they earn carefully and make sure there is something left for their heirs. Everything at Wu Bridge — the roads, the bridges, the houses, the pickled vegetables in the pantries, the jars of wine buried in the ground — has been accumulated day by day, generation by generation. You can see this in any early morning scene. Along with the cooking smoke are the enticing smells of sun-dried vegetables and boiling rice, as well as the aroma of rice wine. In this place one reaps what one sows — what can be more satisfying than a beautiful place where the virtuous get their just deserts?
As dawn breaks over Wu Bridge, a rooster opens the chorus of morning cries. Another day has begun, a day of spring flowers and autumn harvests, all clear signs that nothing here ever changes. Never mind the unruly changes going on in the world outside, Wu Bridge remains true to itself. It understands that the multipatterned kaleidoscope of the outside world is only an extension of good, simple living. When the great and the overweening plummet from their heights, Wu Bridge is there to accommodate them. When everything else turns dismal, it remains unchanged. It is the base and the core. It is time itself. Like an hourglass, it renders the flow of time visible. The other shore and the passage there are all contained within.
Water is the reason places like Wu Bridge can exist. The waterways of Jiangnan are like branches on a tree, extending out one from the other, multiplying a hundred times over. Wu Bridge is surrounded by waterways, but it is not isolated, like an island in the sea; it is rather a quiet enclave in a noisy world. The sea is cold, vast, and boundless, whereas these canals and waterways wind through people’s lives. The sea is a place without hope: what happens there is dictated by fate. But canals open up a way out of those places that are without hope; setting up a visible truth to stand against fate, they are easygoing and come-at-able. Compared to islands, places like Wu Bridge are more knowing, more prosaic, more willing to compromise. We can believe in them without sacrificing our earthly happiness, a crude happiness far removed from any splendor. This is a happiness that does not require the accompaniment of elegant music, but grows out of the pleasures of everyday living. Wu Bridge hovers, marvelously poised, between the philistine world and the realm of enlightenment. It is hard to tell to which side the balance is tilted. Places like these are here to put a crimp in society’s vanity, but also to alleviate its sense of hopelessness, maintaining a delicate equilibrium. Once or twice in our lives, we arrive by some miracle at a place like Wu Bridge, where we can recompose ourselves.
Underneath its serene exterior, Wu Bridge has a strong urge to make its presence felt, just as, under its blanket of smoke and mist, the chickens crow and the dogs bark — what you sow there surely shall you reap. How close to the heart Wu Bridge lies! It caresses all the scars we carry around inside, giving reason to our actions, explanations for our fortunes. It understands that everything boils down to two words that drive us alclass="underline" to live.
All the outsiders who come to Wu Bridge seem to arrive in a miserable condition. Dejected and dismayed, most of them come not of their own volition, but because they have no other choice. Even before learning its name, they start complaining — what a backwater the place is. They either stay indoors, sulking petulantly, or swagger about town, looking down on everything. But whether arrogant or crestfallen, they show themselves to be shallow and boorish. It takes them some time to discover that there is more to Wu Bridge than meets the eye, and when they do, they are only too grateful. The folks at Wu Bridge take their haughty attitude with a stoic resignation. This is a form of compassion, like an adult forgiving the unruly behavior of a child. They view outsiders as part of the scenery: year after year, month after month, there are always one or two meandering down the streets. These are the victims of the incessant combat playing out there. The locals are never shocked or surprised when they encounter these strangers from the cities; their presence in Wu Bridge couldn’t be more natural. The locals seem not to understand them, but actually they understand better than anyone. Folks here know that the bright, colorful clothes the outsiders come wearing are but clouds at sunset, and the hearts inside those fancy clothes are flickering lights ready to fade out at any moment. When outsiders arrive in boats, after a long journey through mazy waterways, they feel they have landed on the outer edge of the known world, a world that they hate and love and that they refuse to let go. Blinded by bitterness, they know not what lies in wait.
Wu Bridge is our mother’s mother. But, being once removed, we see her as a stranger. Also, a generation of mixed blood flows between us, so, in the absence of resemblance, she is more distant to us than a stranger. Be that as it may, this is where we all come from. The bridges of Wu Bridge all lead us back to our maternal grandmother — our source — which is why we keep coming back here from the twists and turns of life’s journey. Every one of those strangers from the city has his or her own Wu Bridge. Wu Bridge is the closest of our ancestors; ordinary people like us can simply reach out and touch her. She is not the kind of ancestor we think of when we see the ceremonial banners flying on Grave-sweeping Day in the spring; rather, what brings her to mind are the sweet cakes served that day, made of glutinous rice flour dyed with green herbs and shaped by hand. We associate her with steady, quiet effort, with the comforts of food and clothing. She calls out to us from the aroma of dried meat on New Year’s Day, and from the warmth of charcoal hand-braziers; she summons us to shoulder the hoe to work in the fields, to cast our nets into the sea. It is her voice we hear calling as we stroll over a bridge, ride in a boat, hurry along on a road, or leap over a ditch. Her calls reverberate through body and soul — you can’t hide from them and you can’t escape them. Her calls echo in heated wine jugs, in roasting chestnuts, in jasmine blossoms in June, and in the October osmanthus. Her calls enshroud, building inexorably layer upon layer, besieging those outsiders until they are forced to acknowledge her.
Throughout the Jiangnan region, where waterways spread out like nets, places such as Wu Bridge are scattered about, like nests in trees to shelter lost souls. The outsiders come and go like the tide. Their cycle of departure and return mirrors the ebb and flow of affairs in the world outside. Wu Bridge is where they come to recuperate, but as soon as they are rested they leave again. For this we may blame the gentle and accommodating ways of Wu Bridge, which never cures them of their sickness, only the symptoms. Nevertheless, to all the broken-hearted and teary-eyed arriving on its shores in boats with thatched canopies, Wu Bridge offers solace.