My Mistress's Sparrow Is Dead (62 page)

Zhenbao met a girl named Rose. She was his first love, which is why he also likened his two later women to roses. Rose’s father was a good-looking English businessman who’d lived in southern China for many years and then, thanks to a passing fancy, married a Cantonese girl and brought her home to Edinburgh. The wife had to be living in the house still, but she was practically invisible and never took part in social events. Rose attended an English school, and because she wasn’t completely English she acted more English than the English themselves. The English students liked to affect a certain dashing indifference, and when something really important was at stake, the affectation grew even stronger. Zhenbao couldn’t figure out whether or not Rose really loved him; he, for his part, was rather dazzled. They both liked to do things fast, and on Saturday nights they made the rounds of different dance halls. When they weren’t out on the dance floor, but just sitting around and talking, Rose never seemed to pay much attention. She’d take out some matches and try to balance a glass on top of them. Zhenbao was supposed to help. That was Rose: solemn as could be when she was horsing around. There was a canary at her place, and whenever it sang she thought it was calling to her. “Yes, bird?” she’d answer right off, standing on tiptoe with her hands behind her back, and her face tilted up toward the birdcage. Her tan face was long, not round like a child’s, but at such moments she seemed remarkably childlike. She’d gaze wide-eyed at the bird in the cage, the whites of her eyes tinged blue, as if she were staring into deep blue skies.

Rose may have been the most ordinary of girls, but her very youth made her remarkably hard to read. Like that canary—calling out but not really saying anything to anyone.

Her short skirt ended above her knees, and her legs were light and nimble, as delicately made as wooden legs in a shop window; her skin was as smooth and glistening as freshly planed and oiled wood. Her hair was cut very short, shaved down to a little point at the nape of her neck. No hair to protect her neck, no sleeves to protect her arms—Rose did not watch her words, and her body was open for the taking. She was carefree with Zhenbao, and he put that down to her being innocent, but her being so carefree with everyone struck him as slightly nutty. This kind of woman was common enough in foreign countries, but in China it would never do. Marrying her, then transplanting her to his hometown—that would be a big waste of time and money, not a good deal at all.

One evening he drove her home, as he often did. But this time it seemed different because he was going to leave England soon and if he had anything to say he should have said it by now. He hadn’t. Her house was quite far from town. The faint black-and-white of the late-night road patted their faces like a powder puff. The conversation in the car was desultory in the English fashion, starting and stopping again. Rose knew that she had already lost him. Then, out of a kind of hopeless obstinacy, her heart caught fire. “Stop here,” she said, when they had almost reached her house. “I don’t want to let my family see us saying good-bye.” “I’d kiss you even in front of them,” Zhenbao said, smiling. He reached out to wrap his arm around her shoulder, and she buried her face into his chest. The car kept going—they were well past her house before it stopped. Zhenbao slid his hand under her velvet coat and pulled her toward him. Behind her aching-cold diamonds, crinkly silver lace, hundreds of exquisite nuisances, her young body seemed to leap out of her clothes. Zhenbao kissed her, and tears streamed over her face till neither of them could tell who was crying. Outside the car, a damp, limitless fog floated in the wind. Its emptiness sapped their strength, and all they could do was hang on to each other. Rose clung to his neck, this way then that, trying to pull ever closer, wishing she could fuse her body with his, press herself into it. Zhenbao was so confused that he couldn’t think. He had never dreamed that Rose loved him so much; he could have done whatever he wanted. But . . . this would not do. Rose, after all, was a decent girl. This sort of thing was not for him.

Rose’s body leapt out of her clothes, leapt onto his body, but he was his own master.

Afterward, even he was surprised by his self-control. He’d hardened his heart and taken Rose home. Just before he left, he held her moist face, with its sniffles and tears and quivering eyelashes that fluttered in his palms like some tiny winged creature. In later days, he’d recall this experience whenever he needed to rally his strength: “If you could control yourself then, in that situation, surely you can do so now.”

His behavior that evening filled him with astonishment and admiration, and yet in his heart he felt regret. Without admitting it, he felt quite a lot of regret.

He seldom mentioned the incident, but there was not one of his friends who was unaware of Zhenbao’s reputation as a regular Liu Xiahui, a man who could keep perfectly calm with a beautiful woman in his lap. Word had gotten around.

Zhenbao’s grades were excellent, and before he’d even graduated he was offered a position at Great Beneficence, an English dyeing and weaving company; he started there immediately upon his return to Shanghai. Zhenbao’s family home was in Jiangwan, quite far from his job, and at first he stayed with some old family friends. But when his younger brother, Tong Dubao, finished his secondary schooling, Zhenbao made arrangements for Dubao to come and live with him, so he could help him with his studies; he wanted Dubao to take the entrance exam for the technical school that was affiliated with the Great Beneficence Dyeing and Weaving Company. They couldn’t both stay in the friends’ home; that would be too great an imposition. As it happened, an old classmate of Zhenbao’s, Wang Shihong, had an empty room in his place. Wang Shihong had been abroad and had come back to Shanghai two years before Zhenbao; now he was living in an apartment on Ferguson Road. He and Zhenbao struck a deal—the room was even furnished.

On the day he was to move in, Zhenbao left work just after dusk. He and his brother were busy supervising the coolies as they carried the trunks in, and Wang Shihong was standing arms akimbo in the doorway, when a woman walked in from the room behind. She was washing her hair, which was all lathered up with shampoo, the white curls standing high on her head like a marble sculpture. “While the workmen are here,” she said to Shihong, holding her hair with her hands, “have them arrange all the furniture and things. It’s no use asking our majordomo to help: he ’ll just make excuses—if he’s not in the mood he won’t do anything.”

“Let me introduce everyone,” said Wang Shihong. “Zhenbao, Dubao, my wife. I believe you haven’t met yet?”

The woman withdrew her hand from her hair to shake hands with the guests, but seeing the shampoo on her fingers, she hesitated. She nodded and smiled instead, then wiped her fingers on her dressing gown. A little shampoo splashed the back of Zhenbao’s hand. Instead of rubbing it off, he let it dry there. The skin puckered up slightly, as if a mouth were lightly sucking at the spot.

Mrs. Wang turned and went back into the other room. Zhenbao directed the workers as they moved the bed and wardrobe, but he felt troubled, and the sucking sensation was still there. His mind wandered as he headed to the bathroom to wash his hands, thinking about this Mrs. Wang. He’d heard that she was an overseas Chinese from Singapore who, when she was studying in London, was quite a party girl. She and Wang Shihong got married in London, but Zhenbao had been too busy to attend the wedding. Seeing her was much better than hearing about her: under her white, shampoo-sculpted hair was a tawny gold face, the skin glistening and the flesh so firm that her eyes rose at a long upward slant, like the eyes of an actress. Her striped dressing gown, worn without a belt, hugged her body loosely, and the black-and-white stripes hinted at her figure, each line, each inch, fully alive. People like to say that the wide, long-sleeved gowns of former times didn’t flatter curvaceous beauties, but Zhenbao had just discovered that this was not the case. He turned on the faucet. The water wasn’t very hot, though the water heater downstairs was certainly on, and yet the lukewarm stream seemed to have a lighted wick running through it. Twisting and winding, the water ran from the faucet, every inch of it alive, while Zhenbao’s mind went running off to who knows where.

Wang Shihong heard the sound of running water and came into the bathroom. “Do you want to take a bath? The water never comes up hot in this bathroom. The hot water pipe wasn’t connected properly. That’s one bad thing about this apartment. If you want to wash, come into our bathroom.”

“Oh no, please don’t bother,” Zhenbao said. “Isn’t your wife washing her hair?”

“She must be finished by now. I’ll go and have a look.”

“Oh, really, it’s not that important.”

Wang Shihong went to speak with his wife, and his wife said, “I’m just finishing. Tell the amah to draw him a bath.”

A little later, Wang Shihong told Zhenbao to bring his soap, towel, and clothes into their bathroom. Mrs. Wang was still in front of the mirror, struggling to get a comb through her tightly permed hair. The bathroom was full of steam, and the night wind blew in through the open window. On the floor, clusters of fallen hair swirled about like ghostly figures.

Zhenbao stood outside the door holding his towel and watching the tangled hair, in the glare of the bathroom light, drifting across the floor. He felt quite agitated. He liked women who were fiery and impetuous, the kind you couldn’t marry. Here was one who was already a wife, and a friend’s wife at that, so there couldn’t be any danger, but . . . look at that hair! It was everywhere. She was everywhere, tugging and pulling at him.

The couple stood in the bathroom talking, but the water filling the tub was loud and Zhenbao couldn’t hear what they said. When the tub was full, they came out so he could take his bath. After his bath, Zhenbao crouched down and started picking up stray hairs from the floor tiles and twisting them together. The permed hair had turned yellow at the ends; it was stiff, like fine electrical wire. He stuffed it into his pocket. His hand stayed there, and his whole body tingled. But this was too ridiculous. He extracted the hair from his pocket and tossed it into the spittoon.

Carrying his soap and towel, he returned to his own room—Dubao was opening the trunks and arranging things. “What kind of person could the previous tenant have been?” Dubao asked. “Look, here under the chair slipcovers, and under the carpet here—those have got to be cigarette burns! And these marks under the table—they won’t come off. Mr. Wang isn’t going to blame us is he?”

“Of course not. They must know about it already. Besides, we’re classmates from way back, so they won’t be as petty as you are!” Zhenbao smiled.

Dubao fell silent. Then he asked, “Do you know who the previous tenant was?”

“His family name is Sun I think; he’s back from England, teaching at a university now. Why do you ask?” Dubao smiled before he spoke. “Just now when you were gone, the majordomo and the amah came to put up the curtains. They said something about not knowing how long we’ll stay, and they said that Mr. Wang had wanted to kick out the man who lived here before. Mr. Wang was planning to go to Singapore on business, and he should have left a long time ago, but something happened and he got nervous—he wouldn’t leave till the other fellow was out. Neither of them budged—not for two whole months.”

Zhenbao told him to shush. “How can you believe such nonsense! When you live in someone’s house, the first rule is never to discuss the family with the servants. That only leads to trouble!” Dubao didn’t say anything more.

A bit later, the amah came to call them to dinner, and the brothers went into the dining room together. The cooking in the Wang household had a slightly Southeast Asian flavor, Chinese food prepared Western style, and the main dish was lamb curry. Mrs. Wang had nothing but a thin slice of toast and a piece of ham in front of her. She even cut the fatty part off the meat and gave it to her husband.

“Such a small appetite?” Zhenbao smiled.

“She’s afraid of getting fat,” said Shihong.

Zhenbao’s face expressed disbelief. “Mrs. Wang looks just right. She’s not fat at all.”

“I’ve just lost five pounds, so I’m a lot thinner than I was,” she said.

Shihong grinned and reached over to pinch her cheek. “A lot thinner? Then what’s this?”

His wife gave him a sharp glance. “That’s the London lamb I ate last year.” Everyone laughed hard at this.

Even though the Tong brothers and Mrs. Wang had just met for the first time, their hostess hadn’t bothered to change before coming to the dinner table. She was still in her dressing gown and her hair was still wet. A white towel was wrapped carelessly around it, and every so often the towel dripped, spangling her eyebrows. Dubao was a country boy, and Mrs. Wang’s free-and-easy ways struck him as strange indeed. But even Zhenbao found her pretty remarkable. Mrs. Wang was extremely attentive, asking all sorts of questions. She wasn’t very good at keeping house, that was clear, but she did know how to entertain.

“I haven’t had time to tell you,” Shihong said to Zhenbao, “but I’m leaving tomorrow. I have some business in Singapore. It’s good that you’ve moved in and can take care of things here.”