Old Colour was an extremely quick-witted young man, and it took only a little effort for him to comprehend what the world had been like back then. Nothing authentic could slip past his eye, and nothing fake could fool him. He could almost smell the air from back then, carrying the scents of Rêve de Paris perfume and gardenias. The former belonged to the elite while the latter captured the banal tastes of the commoner, but even those gardenias had been romantic in their own way, each one carefully planted and cared for. And while that French perfume strove to rise above the rest, it still had its feet firmly planted on the ground. They represented the romance of the everyday world, which was quite enduring; even after its shell was cracked, the kernel remained.
“Whenever I come over to your place,” Old Colour commented, “I really get the feeling that I have gone back in time.”
“If you go back in time,” Wang Qiyao mocked him, “I’m afraid there isn’t that far you can go! Your mother’s belly?”
“No,” he explained, “I’m talking about going back to a previous life.”
Afraid that he was about to carry on again about his previous life, Wang Qiyao quickly waved her hand for him to stop.
“I know all about your former life as a gentleman working at a foreign firm and married to a virtuous wife!” she snorted.
He laughed for a while before continuing, “I’m afraid that I even saw you once in my previous life. You were a student at a middle school, wearing a cheongsam and carrying a bookbag with a lotus-leaf shaped border. .”
“And so you followed me, right?” She picked up where he left off, “and said, ‘Miss, would you like to see a movie? Vivien Leigh is in it.’. .”
With that, both of them keeled over in laughter.
That was the beginning.
From that point on, they often began their conversations that way, taking roles in a Hollywood-type movie. Naturally, love, which was the requisite theme, had to be part of the story. And so the two carried on rather recklessly, one fuelled by recollection, the other by aspiration, both fully immersed in their respective roles. From time to time they would forget it was mere playacting and take their fantasy as real. They even injected real feelings into the scenarios and grew melancholic as they ad-libbed. That’s when Wang Qiyao would have to put a stop to it: “All right already! Stop carrying on as if this was real!”
“I wish it were real,” declared Old Colour.
These words were followed by a long silence. They both felt a bit awkward and only then realized how far things had gone. He was after all still quite young and wasn’t always capable of finding the proper words for the occasion. He tried to explain by adding, “I really love the whole atmosphere of that time.”
Wang Qiyao didn’t respond immediately. It was only after a brief pause that she replied, “Oh yeah, the atmosphere back then was great! A pity that the people involved are now so old that their teeth are falling out!”
Old Colour realized that he had said something wrong, but he couldn’t find the words to explain himself any better and his face turned red in frustration. Wang Qiyao extended her hand to caress his hair.
“Such a child!”
He felt a lump in his throat and dared not look up. He couldn’t get rid of the feeling that he had been misunderstood, yet didn’t know how to express himself. Nor could he say for sure what exactly he had done wrong. As Wang Qiyao ran her hands through his hair he could sense the hurt this woman felt and her understanding. A well of compassion opened up in his heart, which brought them closer together.
They sat down next to each other and tried to avoid the previous topic of conversation by talking about some trivial things. Although the conversation wasn’t as animated as before, neither of them was uncomfortable, as they felt something existed between them that transcended the occasional silences. It was those made-up stories from old Shanghai — the kind that linger, clinging to the heart. That night Old Colour invited Wang Qiyao out to dinner again; she wanted to accept, but she didn’t. She thought, Just what is this? He’s forty years too late!
She smiled. “There’s no need for that. You usually eat better food at home than you do in some of those restaurants.”
Sensing that she was heading off in a different direction, Old Colour decided not to press the issue. From that point on, he would call on Wang Qiyao every three days or so. He would usually stay for a meal, and her apartment eventually became almost like a second home to him. Sometimes Zhang Yonghong would come over and wind up joining them for dinner. Other times she brought Long Legs along with her, but they wouldn’t necessarily stay for dinner, often just sitting and chatting for a while before leaving Wang Qiyao and Old Colour to have dinner alone. At such times the atmosphere would grow very still, as if signifying something. By tacit agreement, they avoided parties, which they found unwieldy because it was difficult to talk. Spending time at home may have been a bit too quiet, but there was a solidity to the quietness; they spoke when they had something to say, and kept silent when they didn’t. It was a setting more appropriate to two people who knew each other well, whereas parties were designed to make strangers feel more comfortable with each other.
Whenever Wang Qiyao tried out a new dish she would ask Old Colour, “How does this measure up to your mother’s cooking?”
Once, when she said this, Old Colour replied, “I never compare you to my mother.”
Asked why, he responded, “Because you are ageless.”
Wang Qiyao didn’t know what to say. After a pause she asked, “How can someone be ageless?”
Old Colour persisted, “You know what I mean.”
“You’re right, I know exactly what you mean. .” said Wang Qiyao. “But I don’t agree with you.”
“You don’t have to agree with me,” Old Colour responded, before lowering his head in dejected silence.
Wang Qiyao paid him no heed, but deep down she was laughing wryly, thinking that this fellow really didn’t know when to quit. She wasn’t sure if she liked that feeling or not. She stood in front of the stove waiting for a pot of water to boil as she stared at the scenery outside the window. Dusk was falling and the last rays of the sun seemed reluctant to leave. This was a scene she had been looking at for years; it had been etched into her heart. She knew that feeling so well that it was clear at every moment what the next moment would bring.
Wang Qiyao went back into the room and put the freshly brewed tea on the table. Seeing the gloomy look on his face, she said, “Now don’t go making a big deal out of nothing! Everything is fine, so why spoil it?”