Wang Qiyao could distinguish Xiao Lin and Weiwei through the glass door of the restaurant. Under the light of a lamp, their heads were almost touching as they bent down to read the menus. Unconsciously, Wang Qiyao hesitated for a moment and thought to herself: How could all those decades have passed by in the blink of an eye like that? She pushed open the door and went inside.
When she got to their table, the first thing Weiwei said to her was, “And I thought you weren’t going to show up!”
Her tone clearly indicated that she would much rather that her mother did not.
Wang Qiyao pretended not to notice and replied, “I promised to take you two out — how could I not show up?”
Weiwei ordered. She picked out the most expensive dishes, partly to show off to Xiao Lin, but also to wring out her mother. Initially Wang Qiyao was ready to go along with this, but, seeing how her daughter completely disrespected her, she decided to assert her authority by canceling some of the dishes Weiwei had ordered and replace them with others that were just as tasty but less expensive. Weiwei tried to argue, but Wang Qiyao retorted, “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that something is good just because it is pricy. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Oxtail soup is highly acclaimed, but it is best eaten in France where oxen are raised especially for their meat; we don’t have anything like the quality of that meat here. You’d be better off ordering French onion soup, which tends to be much more authentic.”
This barrage left Weiwei speechless. She lowered her head and didn’t open her mouth again for the rest of the dinner. Xiao Lin, however, appreciated the knowledge and experience evident in Wang Qiyao’s words, which he attributed to the “old days.” He asked a string of questions, which Wang Qiyao was only too happy to answer, patiently explaining everything she knew.
In the blink of an eye the table was covered with large and small dishes, the white china giving off a soft glow under the lights. Their eyes grew moist from the steam rising from the food. Outside the sky had turned completely dark and the streetlights shone like stars; under them the people and cars passed noiselessly by. The trees swayed gently in the evening wind, projecting their dreamlike shadows toward them. This corner could be said to be the most romantic spot in Shanghai: shatter that romance and you will still find its broken shards here. For a while Wang Qiyao did not speak. She sat staring out the window as if she was searching for someone or something she knew. But all she saw was the reflection of the three of them in the glass, moving like characters in a silent film. By the time she turned back around, the sound and color had returned. They may not have been aware of it, but the couple sitting before her was a match made in heaven. Wang Qiyao sat in silence, barely moving her fork or knife. She couldn’t drive away the oppressive feeling that her world had returned, but she was now only an observer.
Chapter 2
The Dance
THE WOMAN SITTING in the corner at the dance, content in her loneliness — that is Wang Qiyao. Keeping an eye on a pile of jackets and purses, a charitable smile lighting up her face, she watched the dancers on the floor. She seemed to be saying: You’re doing the steps all wrong, but it’s okay. Each night she too would take to the floor every so often; her partners were always young men and women. Once you got close to her on the dance floor you would hear her whispering instructions to her partner, and only then did it become clear that she was the one teaching them. You wouldn’t have enough experience to rate her dancing skills, but her calm and assured manner was evident. Maintaining her poise like that in a roomful of young people wasn’t easy. At every dance there would always be at least one or two people her own age who were there to turn back the clock. They brought back the air of gallant gentlemen and proper ladies from thirty or forty years before; although they weren’t the most eye-catching ones present, they embodied authenticity. When they got out on the floor, they always looked solemn; the movements they made were exact. Seeing them for the first time, you might think that dancing was work for them and that they approached the floor with a sense of duty. But closer scrutiny would reveal that they were dancing joyously. Their joy did not overflow in the way of young people; it was more like water coursing steadily down an irrigation ditch — quietly, without calling attention to itself, yet full of stamina.
Compared with this, the happiness of the young could only be described as “getting wild.” The thing that is beguiling about Latin dance is its ability to take raw emotion and channel it into precise movements, giving it a rational, almost philosophical expression. It takes a special understanding to appreciate Latin dance, and this was why the older dancers held themselves somewhat aloof. This was back in the days before disco became popular in China, but the young people were already getting impatient. When they danced, their movements were coarse and impulsive, and they liked numbers with a fast tempo that made it easier to gloss over their mistakes in front of others — and themselves. They were overeager for the excitement of dancing and did not care whether they knew how to dance; all they wanted was to get out on the floor; the rest they could worry about later. They failed to understand the principle of restraint, which is what makes excitement grow and endure. Their inclination was to squander everything; the money they made was never sufficient to cover their expenses, nor was a single night of song and dance ever enough. And so they danced night after night, drawing on the happiness that was their due, not realizing that they were depleting their accounts prematurely. Nevertheless, their excitement was contagious; one could hardly sit still beside them without feeling one’s heart pounding and blood racing.
On one occasion the district political consultative committee organized a dance, and Xiao Lin, who was able to get tickets, took a few friends along. It was here that Wang Qiyao first witnessed true Latin dance. This dance stood out from the others because more than half the dancers were past fifty. Wearing everyday blue and gray outfits, those who knew each other sat together, chatting. The dance was held in a dining hall and the air was filled with the smell of grease. The floor, which had been mopped and sprinkled with powder, only managed to look squalid. The ceiling was stained yellow from accumulated smoke, but the molding was a Renaissance-style floral pattern, the hall was lined with Roman columns, and a semicircular French window looked out into the garden. The blazing lights did nothing to hide the age of the building. Under their glare, one could count every old-age blemish on peoples’ hands and faces. The static-laden music sounded hollow and pathetic as it rang out through a four-speaker boom box in the large open hall, and everyone looked tiny under the great dome.
Only after several bars of music had been played did a few couples make their way onto the dance floor. Under the large domed ceiling, they looked as if they were Lilliputians. But these little people were great dancers with decades of experience, and they burned up the floor with their consummate skill. Their demeanor was cool, but they all knew exactly what they were doing. Thirty years away from the dance floor — yet they had not forgotten a step, for they had been properly trained and had spent the necessary time practicing. And even though this was a kingdom of little people, the look on their midget faces was expressive of a solemn dignity. Can you tell what they are thinking? Do you know what they see? Something unfathomable. Their expressions contained a mixture of sorrow and joy; but what was it that aroused these feelings? The young people all fought their shyness of the dance floor; when they did dance, they felt intimidated in this atmosphere enshrouded by a somber gravity. The graying dancers were timeless, like the hall itself. Latin dance has this truly amazing power to transcend time — to transform the old, timeworn, dejected, battered, foul, and rotten into something noble and ethereal.