“I have already proved my point.”
“What point is that?”
“I’ve proved that you are indeed a poet.”
At first Wang Qiyao didn’t understand what he meant, then blushed as she figured it out.
Deuce’s Heart
Deuce could not understand it. Why, after being jubilant for a few days, had he become even more morose? Something was gnawing at him. Before, his depression had been diffused; now, it had a focus. Before, he didn’t know what he wanted; now he knew, but what he wanted was impossible. Why would he want the impossible? Isn’t that the same as lifting a rock to smash your own foot? This Shanghai woman that he called “Sis” was like the multicolored clouds at sunset — she could disappear at any moment without a trace. She was, in truth, a legend. He wanted to add a few lines to the legend, but even before he’d got his writing brush ready, she was liable to be off creating another legend. How distinct she was from the rest of Wu Bridge! — as enigmatic as Wu Bridge was transparent. At his age, however, men prefer enigmas over the truth. After all, once you have arrived at the truth, what’s left to wish for? This explains Deuce’s despair and Wang Qiyao’s allure.
Deuce developed a daily routine of going in to chat with Wang Qiyao while she did her needlework in the back room of the pickle shop; but the closer he got, the more distant she seemed to be. And the more distant she seemed, the harder he strove after her. It was as if she was moving farther and farther away, until all that was left was an indistinct silhouette.
Deuce would occasionally think back to that evening they discussed poetry under the moonlight. The verses he’d recited still rang in his ears and at that moment Wang Qiyao seemed to grow closer. The old familiar verses had come tumbling out of his mouth, but he had since been bothered by their contexts. They felt more like Deuce’s own spontaneous creations, inspired by the moment, rather than what they really were — the words of the ancients. Gradually he began to remember the source of each verse, and this made him uncomfortable. “The moon over the land of Qin and the House of Han shines its beams upon the Radiant Palace Lady” comes from a poem by Li Bo about the beauty Wang Zhaojun, who was sent off by a Han dynasty emperor to marry a barbarian chieftain. This line seemed to suit Wang Qiyao’s present situation as her native moon shone down on her in a distant land. The line preceding this one reads, “Once on the road to Jade Pass, never from the end of the earth shall she return.” Was that a sign that Wang Qiyao would stay, never to return to Shanghai? Deuce became excited at this, but then thought perhaps the poem did not quite fit the situation, because Wang Qiyao had not left the country. On the other hand, maybe it did fit after all, because in the poem the Qin dynasty was supplanted by the Han, and China had also just undergone a major change of regime. Then and now, the moon of yesteryear shines on today’s people. It follows — in poetic logic — that, as time passes and does not return, neither would she. That the moon of a bygone Shanghai shone on Wang Qiyao — the idea pierced Deuce’s heart. “We called her a thousand times before she came out, still holding the pipa half concealing her face.” This comes from Bo Juyi’s “The Pipa Player,” a poignant poem about a woman, once beautiful and much sought after, now reduced to singing for a living aboard a boat. “Her jade face is streaked with lonely tears, raindrops glistening on pear blossoms in the spring.” That is from an even sadder poem, also by Bo Juyi, called “The Song of Everlasting Sorrow.” The woman is the favorite concubine of a Tang emperor, who is forced to kill her to appease his mutinous army. Deuce couldn’t help but grow heavyhearted. He wondered why all the famous beauties named in classical poetry came to a tragic end. It is said that beautiful women lead tragic lives. Is that their inescapable fate? It seems that only in the Book of Songs do we have a depiction of feminine beauty ending in happiness and celebration: “Behold the slender peach tree, its flowers shimmering!” But even these lines take on a portentous note, as they follow a series of tragic images. With his heart weighed down, Deuce wondered, Could this really be a sign? He could see the air of misfortune surrounding Wang Qiyao. Ah, but how exquisite she is! Deuce found himself irresistibly drawn to her.
Deuce’s feelings for Wang Qiyao were not only love, but a worshipful adoration. To him, Wang Qiyao was not a person, but a spirit that infused the surrounding air with mystery. Her presence overcame him with visions of loveliness — however transitory — and he felt himself vaporized into something akin to smoke or rain. Wu Bridge, with its extreme quiet, its long nights, dense and serpentine waterways, crowded house eaves. . was hospitable to illusions. Wang Qiyao was illusion incarnate when she, shimmering with the splendor of the big city, walked on the stone slab streets. One could almost hear dance music echoing in her footsteps. Deuce was suddenly convinced: this woman from Shanghai had been sent to seduce him. The riskier the situation was, the stronger the seduction became. Deuce saw himself the martyr to a hopeless religion. He sought not the eternal, but the ephemeral; the pleasure of the moment, that was all he cared for. He was bewitched.
Wang Qiyao took Deuce’s affection as mere puppy love. She had grossly simplified the situation, but this was what saved the young man. Their relationship could only go on if seen in such unsophisticated terms. As a matter of fact, his love was pure; he wanted nothing in return — it was enough that he be allowed to love her. When Wang Qiyao went shopping for food, Deuce carried her basket. When the sun came out and she decided to wash her hair outside, Deuce poured water on her head to rinse off the soap. When she shucked peas, he held a bowl to catch them. When she did needlework, he grabbed the needle to thread it for her.
Wang Qiyao watched with pleasure as he crossed his eyes trying to thread the needle. It was a simple, spontaneous pleasure, completely uncalculated. She could not help reaching out to touch him on the head. His hair was soft, cool, and smooth. She ran her finger along the ridge of his nose below his glasses and it too felt cool to the touch, like that of a little dog. Deuce’s eyes moistened with agitation.
“Would you come with me to Shanghai?” she asked.
“I’d love to!” he replied.
“And how do you propose to support your ‘Sis’?” she pushed him.
“I’ll work.”
She laughed, a little startled. Then: “The money you earn will scarcely be enough to buy me hair lotion.”
Deuce was taken aback. “You underestimate me,” he protested.
Wang Qiyao tugged at his dainty earlobe. “I’m teasing you. I don’t even know whether I can return to Shanghai.”
“I’ll take you back on my boat!” Deuce proposed with a look of utter seriousness on his face.
Wang Qiyao laughed. “Can you really?”
“All rivers lead to the sea,” Deuce responded smartly. “What would stop me from taking you back?”
Wang Qiyao fell silent.
A faint light lit up Deuce’s cloudy heart. Confident that he had a rough sense of the terrain, he asked himself what he should do, and decided that it was time to take action. The forsythia had proclaimed the arrival of spring with tiny yellowish flowers on its sparse branches. Deuce thought that he, too, had waited out the winter, and, as he walked along the river watching the boats set out, a plan formed in his mind. Thanks to Wu Bridge’s water, he knew what to do. Inspired by a muddled courage, he resolved to move toward the hazy light shining in his future — there is, in truth, no courage except muddled courage. He stopped his daily visits to Wang Qiyao, but, curiously enough, this made her more real to him. She had been absorbed into his plan, and this, to him, was a momentous parting. He was filled with sorrow at the impending separation, but into the sorrow joy came as well, because he knew that somehow this would lead to an eventual reunion. In his heart he sang a song of intermingled joy and sorrow, the song of a child. If people could have seen him wandering around Wu Bridge by moonlight, they would have been deeply moved by his eyes, in which faith and resolve were transmuted to a limpid tenderness.