Oblivious to the irony, Zhang Yonghong responded in a dejected tone, “That’s right. There must be something wrong with me. After ten minutes of passion, nothing about them seems to sit right with me.”
“You’ve had too much, you know,” remarked Wang Qiyao. “It’s like medicine. If you take too much, you build up a resistance and the medicine becomes useless. After too many boyfriends, it is difficult to stick with any one.”
“In any case, I dumped him when I had had enough,” Zhang Yonghong said.
That’s what she said, and her voice showed the pride that she felt deep down in her bones. After all, she was the one who was picky and not the other way around, and she was the one doing the dumping, showing that she still had other options. Wang Qiyao could tell what she was thinking and knew that the day would come when she would look back with regret. She looked at Zhang Yonghong’s colorless, almost transparent, face and saw there the shadow of emaciation; her experiences had begun to leave their mark on her. The affairs were over and done with, so she claimed, but they remained etched on her face. How does a woman get old? This is how. Rouge is useless as the vicissitudes of life draw their lines, the result of which is age. The more you try to hide it, the more it shows. Wang Qiyao watched Zhang Yonghong as she wound the yarn ball with her delicate fingers. The nail polish emitted a seashell-like glow and the veins in her arms showed lightblue under the light, giving one the impression of too much effort expended. Wang Qiyao felt sorry for her. Zhang Yonghong started to retell some of the rumors she heard on the streets — all sex scandals and murders. Weiwei’s head emerged from the comforter and her eyes widened as she listened.
Wang Qiyao chided her. “Did you go out for Christmas Eve, or did you work the night shift? What are you doing? Waiting for us to serve you?”
To Wang Qiyao’s surprise, Weiwei did not talk back. This lack of reaction was very unlike her. Wang Qiyao glanced at Weiwei, but she just lay lazily in bed without moving.
Before long it was truly nightfall. As soon as they turned on the light, the entire room filled with a radiant glow. Even when Zhang Yonghong announced her departure, Weiwei still didn’t get up. Wang Qiyao saw Zhang Yonghong as far as the landing and went into the kitchen to make dinner. Only when she saw the thick fog outside the north window and heard a crisp rustling sound did she realize that it was snowing. Gazing out the window, she thought how much it really did seem like Christmas. She heard Weiwei calling to her from the bedroom. At first she ignored her, but finally she went in to ask her what she wanted. “Don’t tell me you want me to bring your dinner to you in bed?”
Instead of answering, Weiwei pulled the comforter up to her chin. “Xiao Lin proposed.”
Wang Qiyao sat down slowly. “When did he say he wants to get married?”
“During the Spring Festival,” Weiwei responded, her back to her mother.
Although Weiwei’s relationship with Xiao Lin had seemed a set thing, they had never discussed marriage. Wang Qiyao had known it would be coming sooner or later, but now that it was here it still took her by surprise. She thought, Weiwei’s getting married — how times flies! She couldn’t tell if she was happy or sad and for a moment didn’t know how to respond. She sat there in a daze for she didn’t know how long, until she heard Weiwei saying with irritation in her voice, “His parents have invited us for dinner next week. So, do you approve or don’t you?”
Wang Qiyao snapped out of her trance. “What’s there for me to approve? The two of you have decided this on your own. Since when have you ever asked me for advice?”
But Weiwei pressed her for an answer.
Wang Qiyao heaved a light sigh. “How could I be against it? This is a good thing!”
“What do you mean, ‘a good thing’?” Weiwei asked.
Wang Qiyao did not reply. Instead she got up and walked over to the corner of the room, where she cleared the things lying on top of her camphor chest, and opened the lid. One after another, she took out wool blankets, down quilts, eiderdown pillows — whole sets of beddings, which she put in a neat pile.
“I prepared all of this for you years ago.” As she spoke, tears trickled down her cheeks. Weiwei also cried, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything sweet.
The Wedding
The trousseau Wang Qiyao prepared for Weiwei could just as well have been prepared for herself. Each and every article was a mark of striving for a bright future — but bright futures come by chance and cannot be counted on. Everybody is supposed to have one, and this gives people something to look forward to. The dragons, phoenixes, and peonies woven in jacquard on the damask bedding, the broad-pleated furbelows, and the vines and branches in cutwork — all these were blueprints for the future. Most of the women crowding around the linens section of the department store were there to buy articles for trousseaus, whether for themselves or for their daughters. They might shop ten stores only to emerge empty-handed, so when they finally find what they have been looking for, they make it into a big event! Who can fathom their dedication?
Wang Qiyao had never prepared herself a trousseau — she had bypassed that moment in her own history. Now, stepping back and taking everything in from a distance, she discovered that she had arrived at a place in life where none of that mattered anymore. She was now in a position to prepare a trousseau for Weiwei, but sometimes she wondered just what business it was of hers. Her enthusiasm fluctuated; but over time she managed to purchase enough items to fill two or three chests. Opening the chests to air out the clothes under the blinding glare of the summer sun, she could barely bring herself to look at these brand-new items: these had no history, no roots, only a future of which she could not partake. She opened the windows to let in the sunlight and fresh air. The room filled with the distinctive smell of those new things untouched by human hands, and for a split second she was filled with the kind of joy that lets one momentarily forget oneself. New things always fill people with delight, with the excitement that comes just before something is about to begin.
As Weiwei took the trousseau bundle from her mother’s hands, she felt as if a great fortune had suddenly been bestowed on her and contentment filled her heart. She went through the articles on a daily basis, examining them and discussing them with her mother. Whenever they suspected that a fabric might not be what it was alleged to be, they would conduct a little test. To see if something was pure wool, they would tease out a small clump and, setting it on fire, watch the rate at which it burned. They looked like children as they huddled together, gazing intently at the flames.
Zhang Yonghong also came over to inspect Weiwei’s trousseau. As she looked the items over, she secretly compared them to her own trousseau. At some point unknown to the others, Zhang Yonghong had started to put aside half the money she normally spent on clothes for her trousseau. Although her boyfriends came and went like fleeting clouds, her trousseau grew with the passing months and years as steadily as if vows of everlasting love had been exchanged. It was only when accumulating items for her trousseau that Zhang Yonghong could faintly make out her future, a future that otherwise utterly bewildered her. One of the items in Weiwei’s trousseau was a bed net made of beaded gauze; Wang Qiyao spread it out with the help of Zhang Yonghong, who took the other end. When Weiwei crawled inside, she really did look like a bride through the sheer netting. As Wang Qiyao and Zhang Yonghong exchanged glances, a feeling of commiseration welled up between them, and they quickly looked away.