Under the sky of the new district, the joyful laughter coming from the thirteenth floor of this joint-venture construction suddenly dissipates and the music fades away. But how much does that bit of happiness really matter in this new district? Playing out behind the honeycomb-like windows of those tall buildings is a fresh new form of happiness. In hotels so new that they have yet to acquire their four or five stars, there are buffets, dances, and receptions every night, as well as brazen games of passion that offered no excuses as they announced themselves to the world with “do not disturb” signs. With people of all races and colors taking part, it feels like a party of universal jubilation. This is especially so around Christmas time: as soon as the Christmas carols break out, you are hard pressed to discern whether you are in China or abroad. When you first arrive here, the place seems to lack a heart because it is so carefree — but that is because it hasn’t yet had time to build up a reservoir of recollections; its mind is blank and has not begun to feel the need to call on its memory. Such is the spiritual state of the entire district. The laughter and gaiety coming from the thirteenth floor form but a drop in the ocean. The only one who seems a bit annoyed is the elevator attendant, as people come rushing in and out of the elevator, in couples or crowds, holding wine and flowers — mostly strangers, in all shapes, sizes, and colors.
More than a dozen groups of guests had already arrived by the time Old Colour got to the party. The door had been left half-open and the room was filled with people moving about. No one paid the newcomers much attention as they came in; the stereo was blaring loud music. A few people sat around watching a television miniseries in the first room, which led out to the balcony. The door to the balcony was ajar and the wind was agitating the curtains. In a corner of this room sat a woman with fair skin, wearing light makeup, in a pinkish-purple suit made of raw silk. She was leaning forward slightly toward the television screen with her arms crossed. The curtain brushed against her skirt from time to time, but this didn’t seem to distract her. Only when the screen suddenly lit up did her drooping eyelids show, giving away her age. But the stamp of age passes in a flickering instant: she carefully wrapped hers up and tucked it away inside her bones. The years had tiptoed around her, careful not to leave too many traces, but in the end they couldn’t help leaving a few. This was Wang Qiyao in 1985.
Around this time the opulence of 1946 was revived in a few essays reminiscing about old Shanghai, and the name Wang Qiyao suddenly came into the spotlight again. One or two nosy reporters even went so far as to investigate what had happened to Wang Qiyao in the years following the pageant; several articles were published in the back pages of the newspapers but failed to generate much interest, and the whole thing eventually died down. A lot of time had indeed gone by. No matter how glamorous a woman has been, once she has entered the black hole of time, she is lucky to generate even a few flickers of light. The aura surrounding the beauty pageant, no less than Wang Qiyao herself, had also faded after forty years, and it only served to date her by revealing her age. It was like the old clothes at the bottom of her chest: though many were still in good shape, wearing them only made her look older, because they were from the wrong era.
The only one who seemed to be moved by any of this history was Zhang Yonghong. She didn’t believe the story initially, but once she had accepted it she had an endless array of questions for Wang Qiyao. Wang Qiyao, for her part, resisted answering them at first, but once she began to open up, she had an endless series of revelations for Zhang Yonghong to uncover. There were many things that Wang Qiyao thought she had completely forgotten, but as soon as she got started, all of those tiny bits and fragments of detail came together to make a flowing river of memories. The stories she told were those of a woman who had stood in the limelight; but wasn’t that the goal of all those girls on Huaihai Road trying to outdress one another? Wave after wave of fashion that came and went — weren’t they all vying for their moment in the spotlight? Zhang Yonghong, who understood the magnitude of the splendor Wang Qiyao was describing, exclaimed, “I’m so envious!”
Zhang Yonghong introduced Wang Qiyao to all of her boyfriends and invited her to all kinds of parties. These were mostly parties for young people, and, knowing her own place, Wang Qiyao would usually sit off to one side. Nevertheless, her elegance would still add a touch of distinction to the party. Barring the occasional glance, people didn’t pay her any attention, but everyone was aware that there was a “Miss Shanghai” in their presence. On occasion there might even be a few people eagerly awaiting her arrival, not realizing that she had been sitting in the corner all along — she sat there alone until the music stopped and the show was over. Wang Qiyao was always well dressed and elegant; she was never awkward and never got in the way. She was an ornament, a painting on the wall to adorn the living room. The painting was done in somber hues, with a dark yellow base; it had true distinction, and even though the colors were faded, its value had appreciated. Everything else was simply transient flashes of light and shadow.
It was under these circumstances that Old Colour first met Wang Qiyao. Could that be the “Miss Shanghai” everyone was talking about? he wondered. Just as he was about to walk away, he saw Wang Qiyao look up and scan the room before lowering her head again. The look in her eyes had a hint of panic, but she was not at all looking for sympathy or forgiveness. It was then that Old Colour realized how callous he had been. He thought, The Miss Shanghai pageant was nearly forty years ago. His vision grew blurry as he stared at Wang Qiyao, as if his eyes couldn’t focus properly, and through that hazy vision he saw an image of her from more than three decades ago. Gradually the image became clearer, taking on depth and new details. But none of those details looked real; they floated on the surface, piercing Old Colour’s heart. He came face to face with a cruel reality — the corrosive power of time.
At twenty-six years of age, Old Colour should have been too young to care about the passing of time; time had yet to teach him such truths, but that is precisely why he longed for the past — that is the only reason he dared to extol the fruits of time! The passage of time associated with those old jazz records was indeed a good thing; it had smoothed things out until they were strong and fine, rubbing off the superficial layers to reveal the inner grain, like gold emerging when the fire has burned away the dross. But what he saw that day was not an object, like an old jazz record, but a person. He was at a complete loss as to what to say, because the situation had an element of the tragic. He had finally touched the heart of that bygone era, whereas before he had only paced back and forth on its surface. Something halted his steps and Old Colour couldn’t bring himself to walk away. He picked up a glass of wine and leaned up against the door, fixing his gaze on the television. Eventually Wang Qiyao got up from the corner to go to the restroom. As she walked past him, he flashed her a smile. She immediately accepted his smile, responding with a look of gratitude before smiling back at him. When she came back, he asked her if he could get her a drink. She pointed to the corner and said that she already had a cup of tea, so there was no need. He asked her to dance. She hesitated for a moment. . and accepted.