On reaching her apartment, she pushed open the door and found everything exactly the way she had left it. It was only nine o’clock in the morning. She sat by the table, struck a match, ignited the alcohol burner, and placed the box of needles on it. Soon she heard the sound of water boiling. She glanced again at the clock. It was only ten past nine — time enough to return to the hospital. Wasn’t this what she had been working toward for the past few weeks? Were it not for her sudden caprice, her objective would have been achieved and she would have been on her way back in a pedicab. She listened to the ticktock of the clock, and realized that it would be too late if she didn’t leave immediately. As she blew out the burner, the alcohol fumes assaulted her face. Just at this moment someone knocked on the door, asking for an intravenous injection. She opened up the box of needles, but was so preoccupied with the thought of getting back to the hospital that she couldn’t locate a vein; each time she poked in the wrong spot, the patient cried out in pain. Forcing herself to calm down, she finally found a vein. As soon as the needle met blood, she was able to pull herself together; as the medicine slowly dripped into the vein, she began to relax.
The patient finally left, holding a wad of cotton to his arm. As Wang Qiyao picked up the used cotton balls and needles, however, her agitation gave way to unspeakable weariness and lassitude. She gave herself up to fate, assuming an attitude of complete resignation. Since there was nothing she could do, she might as well do nothing. Before she knew it, it was already lunchtime. She went into the kitchen and saw the pot of chicken soup she had made the previous night, cold now, a film of fat on the surface. She put the pot on the burner and made rice while she watched the raindrops pelting against the window panes. She told herself she would simply lay it all on poor Sasha: whether she decided to keep the baby or not, it would go down as having been his child. If Sasha was willing to help her, then let him help her all the way! As the aroma of the chicken soup reached her nose, a hope rose up in her — things would eventually work themselves out. It was a hope that spoke all at once of complete surrender and a willingness to put everything on the line.
At that very moment Sasha was sitting on a northbound train, smoking one cigarette after another. He had never met this aunt; in fact, he had only heard of her for the first time a few days ago. His own mother was a stranger to him, how much the more this aunt! Sasha was going to see her because he wanted to explore the possibility of moving to Russia. He was tired of his current lifestyle and wanted a new beginning. He figured that being a half-breed had at least this one advantage — one had a place to escape to. You could call it escape or, if you prefer, exile, but the point is that, whichever way you looked at it, he had the option of disappearing. . of leaving everything behind.
Mr. Cheng. . Again
Wang Qiyao ran into her old friend Mr. Cheng at a consignment store on Huaihai Road. Supplies of nonstaple foods were becoming increasingly tight that year; although quotas had not been reduced for staple products, it was evident that they were running low. To limit consumption, the government started issuing vouchers for an ever-expanding range of items. A black market quietly emerged, and food was sold at many times the official price to meet demands. Panic was in the air. People were worried about where their next meal was coming from. Being pregnant, Wang Qiyao had to eat enough for both herself and the baby, and was forced to resort to the black market. But the income from her practice, normally just enough to cover her monthly expenses, couldn’t buy two chickens on the black market.
Before their last parting, Director Li had left her several gold bars. She had kept them under lock and key all these years, saving them for an emergency. That time was now at hand. Late one evening Wang Qiyao took the mahogany box from the drawer and placed it on the table. As the light shone down on the wooden lid, the Spanish-style carvings evoked a splendor buried deep in the recesses of her memory. The box remained indifferent to her touch, as if separated from her by thousands and thousands of years. She sat looking at it for a long time, and then returned it to the drawer unopened. To touch the money now, even after all these years, was still premature. Who could tell what future hardships might be lying in wait? Better to take a few of the old outfits she no longer wore to the consignment shop before the roaches got to them. She hauled the chest out of the closet and, lifting its cover, was quite dazzled by its contents. The first item to meet her eyes was the pink cheongsam; the silk slipped from her hands like water and lay in a heap on the floor. She could hardly bear the sight of these garments; to her they were not mere clothes, but skin she had sloughed off over time, one layer after another, like the shells of a cicada. She grabbed a few fur pieces at random and closed the lid. Later, rummaging through the chest became a routine. The chest was opened and shut many times as she frequented the consignment shops and learned how they operated. One day, having received notice that some of her things had been sold, she went to the store to pick up the money. She was on her way out when someone called her name. Turning round, she saw Mr. Cheng.
For a moment, Wang Qiyao was so disoriented that she thought time was flowing backward. Mr. Cheng’s gray sideburns roused her from her reverie. “Mr. Cheng, is it really you?”
“Wang Qiyao? I. . I must be dreaming.”
Tears welled up in their eyes as all kinds of memories flooded into their minds; it was all too much to make sense of, and they both felt overwhelmed. Wang Qiyao smiled when she realized they were standing next to the counter for photography supplies.
“Are you still taking pictures?”
Mr. Cheng smiled in his turn. At the mention of photography, they had found an entry point into the chaotic past that had come rushing back to them.
“Is your photo studio still there?” Wang Qiyao asked.
“So you remember. .” At this moment, Mr. Cheng noticed that Wang Qiyao was pregnant, her face a little swollen — and a veil descended between her and the woman he had once known. When he had first seen her on the street, she appeared just as she had ever been; it was as if the past had reappeared. Now that they were standing face to face, he realized that everything had changed. When it came down to it, even time cannot stand up to scrutiny.
“How many years has it been?” he couldn’t help asking.
They counted on their fingers — twelve years. Thinking back to the last time they had seen each other — their good-bye — they fell silent. It was almost noon, and they were getting jostled by the crowd in the busy store. Wang Qiyao suggested they go outside, but it was worse in the street, and they kept being pushed to one side, until at last they found themselves beside an electric pole, where they finally began to get their bearings. But once again they were at a loss for words; they stared blankly at the array of notices posted on the pole. The sun was already emitting a spring warmth, and they felt hot in their winter padded jackets, as if their backs were pressed against a stove. After standing there awhile, Mr. Cheng offered to walk Wang Qiyao home, saying her husband must be waiting for her. Wang Qiyao said there was no such person.
“But we should be going anyway. . I’m sure that Mrs. Cheng must be worried sick about you,” she said.
Mr. Cheng blushed. “There is no ‘Mrs. Cheng’ and I suspect there never will be… at least not in this lifetime.”
“That’s too bad,” Wang Qiyao rejoined mildly. “What have women done to be deprived of this privilege?”