Mr. Cheng and Wang Qiyao were reunited over food. Their aim, however, was not pleasure in eating, but eating to fill one’s belly, unlike afternoon tea and midnight snacks with Madame Yan, whose purpose had been chiefly to pass the time. It did not take the two of them long to figure out that there was economy in joining forces, as well as moral support. Consequently, they had at least one meal together every day. Mr. Cheng handed the bulk of his salary over to Wang Qiyao for board, leaving himself just enough for a regular haircut and lunch at the office. He would come to Wang Qiyao’s place right after work, and they would cook together, chopping vegetables and washing rice. On Sundays Mr. Cheng would come before lunch for Wang Qiyao’s food vouchers, and then get in line at the stores and purchase what he could — sometimes it was several dozen kilos of sweet potatoes, at other times, several kilos of rice noodles. He carefully hauled the items home, and the whole way back he would ponder all the different recipes they might use them in.
His suits were getting old, the lining torn, and the cuffs frayed. He was also balding around the temples. The rims of his gold-rimmed glasses had lost their luster. But even though his attire was old and somewhat faded, Mr. Cheng was always very neat. His face too was bright and animated, not at all jaded and worn like most men his age. This caused him to stand out in a crowd; he looked like an actor right out of an old 1940s movie. By 1960 there were still a handful of men like him floating around the streets of Shanghai. Their exceptional looks were a living memorial of the past, and they always drew curious looks from the children. He was not like Kang Mingxun, who, though old-fashioned at heart, put on a Mao jacket in an effort to keep up with the times. Mr. Cheng was stubborn, and remained obstinately loyal to the old pre-Liberation fashions. A man like him never did learn how to carry a load of sweet potatoes with grace — the tin bucket kept bumping against his kneecaps, forcing him to switch it from one hand to the other. When he switched hands, he would take the opportunity to catch his breath and enjoy the scenery along the street. The parasol trees were starting to bud, casting shadows underneath. His heart very calm, he would ask himself: Can this be real?
Mr. Cheng’s regular visits to Wang Qiyao’s apartment never became much of a subject of gossip around Peace Lane. The neighbors had long taken note of the way Kang Mingxun and Sasha came and went, as well as the fact that Wang Qiyao’s protruding belly was growing more noticeable by the day. Peace Lane was, in reality, quite open-minded and sophisticated. Wang Qiyao had long been relegated to the category of “one of those women,” and that was enough to satisfy the curiosity of the people who lived there. Every street in Shanghai like Peace Lane had at least one of those women. They used to all be concentrated in the Alice Apartments, but had had to disperse due to changing circumstances.
When couples who lived on Peace Lane got into squabbles over everyday things, one could often hear the wife protest, “I might just as well go off and live like that woman Wang Qiyao over in no. 39!”
Whereupon the husband would sneer: “Really? Have you got what it takes?”
That would always shut the wife up.
But sometimes it would be the husband who would instigate things. “Take a look at yourself in the mirror! And then go look at Wang Qiyao in no. 39!”
“Can you afford someone like her?” the wife would retort. “If you can, I’ll gladly step into the role!”
That would be enough to silence the husband. It was thus evident that in their hearts Wang Qiyao was viewed by her neighbors not with contempt, but with a smidgen of envy. Once Mr. Cheng began coming around, the aroma of food wafting out of Wang Qiyao’s kitchen had become most enticing. People would exclaim as they inhaled, “They are having meat again over at Wang Qiyao’s.”
Wang Qiyao went to bed early each night, but Mr. Cheng would still be at the table going over their food expenses and planning their meals for the following day. Even though they had just eaten dinner, they would already be going over all the mouth-watering details of what they would have the next morning for breakfast. They talked into the night, as cats in heat began to yowl and Wang Qiyao to nod off. Mr. Cheng would get up from his chair to make sure that all the windows were locked before closing the curtains, tidying up, and turning off the lights…. Then he would exit quietly, setting the spring lock and carefully closing the door behind him.
Mr. Cheng never spent the night at Wang Qiyao’s. The idea had crossed Wang Qiyao’s mind, but she never discussed it with him, afraid Mr. Cheng might be put off by the fact that she was pregnant with another man’s baby. But deep down she had already decided that if ever Mr. Cheng broached the question, she certainly would not rebuff him — not because she loved or desired him, but out of gratitude. Twelve years ago she had designated him as her last resort, someone she could always count on. She did not know then how rare and valuable this “last resort” would turn out to be. Her sights had been set on the future, and she never thought she would need to step back. Though not exactly in full retreat at present, she could no longer talk of advancing and was in fact close to having to make use of this “last resort.” These days, spending mornings and evenings together with him, she discovered that Mr. Cheng had barely changed — but she was now a different person. It would have been easier on her if he had changed a bit. It was precisely because he had not changed that she felt guilty — as if she had somehow betrayed him by returning to him a fallen woman, while his integrity had remained intact. With this sense of guilt came a new reticence. She believed she had forfeited all her rights, leaving only gratitude in their place. But Mr. Cheng never broached the question, and no matter how late it was, he always went home. There were several occasions when, half-asleep, she sensed him hovering by her bedside. Her heart palpitated, and she thought that he might stay. But after a few minutes, he would always leave. Each time she heard the door closing softly, she would be struck with a combination of disappointment and relief.
Now and then their conversations turned to old friends such as Jiang Lili. Mr. Cheng still had some news about Jiang Lili these days from that film director friend of his. At the mention of the director, Wang Qiyao was transported to another world, and scenes from her confused past emerged out of the recesses of her memory.
“How does the director know Jiang Lili?” she asked.
Mr. Cheng explained that in an effort to locate him, Jiang Lili had contacted Wu Peizhen, who had put her in touch with the director. Wu Peizhen, of course, was another name that brought back a torrent of memories. Mr. Cheng said the director now held a deputy position at the Department of Film — none of them had known it at the time, but he had been a long-standing Communist Party member. It was under his influence that Jiang Lili had joined the revolution. When Shanghai was being liberated, Mr. Cheng had personally witnessed Jiang Lili waving her baton at the head of a parade of girls beating on drums as they marched past. He could scarcely recognize her in that military uniform. She still had glasses, her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and she was wearing a leather belt. She could have stayed in college and received her diploma in another two years, but she had decided instead to work in a yarn factory as a common laborer. Being educated and exuding revolutionary zeal, she was singled out to serve as a union officer and before long was married to the factory’s military representative. Her husband was a native of Shandong province and had originally come south to Shanghai with the troops. They now lived in a new commune in Dayangpu with their three children.