In the early evening, when the lights came on, you could see in all the windows the watchful eyes of frightened people looking out for signs of trouble. But whenever something bad did happen, no one ever saw it coming. This was where Peace Lane had gone numb and where it displayed its pragmatism. The residents were never prepared for the closest dangers. Yes, they understood the dangers of fire and electricity, but beyond that they had no imagination. And so if you were to see the people of Peace Lane praying, they would be like idiots reciting a book from memory, chanting with their lips but not their minds, repeating the same incantations over and over again. Meanwhile the flowerpot sitting on the windowsill was just an inch away from falling down, but no one ever bothered to move it; the termites had already done their work on the floors, but no one ever seemed to care; illegal structures kept being added one on top of the other, causing the foundation to sink, yet another one was about to be built. During the typhoon season, when Peace Lane shook and rattled and it appeared as if the entire neighborhood was going to pieces, people curled up in their rooms, complacently enjoying the cool breeze brought by the storm. What people in Peace Lane prayed for was to be able to live in a fool’s paradise — they would rather turn a blind eye and never ask questions. The pigeon whistles sounding in the morning sang of peace, announcing the good but never the bad; but even if they had, would that have made a difference? You might be able to escape it in the first round, but would you escape in the second? Put that way, those prayers must imply an acceptance, a sort of Daoist resignation to reality. For want of anything else to pray for, night after night they pray for peace, but that was just wishful thinking.
The wind whistles across the street and down the alleys, picking up handfuls of dead leaves along the way. Sunlight, also in handfuls, seemed reluctant to leave the long, winding longtang behind. Summer was gone, autumn waning. The houses at the end of longtang had their doors and windows all tightly shut. The sweet-scented oleander shed its petals; stories that never got a chance to be told were swallowed back down and kept quiet. This was the moment when the Shanghai longtang showed their solemn side; their solemnity carried weight and from it you could feel the pressure of time. This longtang had already built up its own history and history always shows a stern face, making the longtang put its frivolous side away. How unruly it used to be! — Seductive eyes peeking out of every corner, one false step and you would be ensnared.
But now the story seems to be coming to an end. Even those who attempt brazen acts with a smiling façade are met with sober, straight faces: the time for equivocation was over. The tide was receding and the rocks would soon be exposed. Counting on one’s fingers, one finds that the Shanghai longtang have quite a few years on them — a few more and they’ll be treading on thin ice. Going up again to the highest point in the city and looking down, one sees that the crisscrossing longtang neighborhoods are already beginning to look desolate. If these had been large imposing building, that desolation might be mitigated by their grand proportions. But longtang buildings all have low walls and narrow courtyards, filled with ordinary people carrying out their mundane tasks: could places like these be thought of as desolate? Desolation takes on a comical aspect in such places, and that only makes the people living there all the more dejected. Putting it in harsher terms: the whole place bore a certain resemblance to a heap of rubble. With the leaves falling in early winter, all we see are broken bricks and shattered tiles. Like an aging beauty who retains her alluring profile, it can no longer bear scrutiny. Should you insist on searching for a trace of her former charm — after all, not everything is erased — you would have to look for it in the turn of the alley. Left here, right there, as if glancing coquettishly from side to side, but the eyes that are so flirtatious are also getting on in years, they have lost their luster and are incapable of grabbing hold of your attention. Soon, sleet began to come down — that was the frigid past accumulated over generations — turning to water before it even hit the ground.
Let’s now look into the longtang windows to see what is happening inside Peace Lane. In the quarter built right over the entrance lives the family of the old man who used to sweep the streets in the longtang. A Shandong native, he passed away year before last and his funeral portrait is hanging on the wall. At the table beneath his portrait his grandson is doing homework; he is supposed to write each Chinese character twenty times over, but he is so drowsy that nothing can pry his eyes back open. Downstairs, in the apartment with the lean-to shed, the dinner party is still going on. They have not had that much to drink, just a quart of Shaoxing wine, but they are taking their time, savoring each and every drop. Going deeper into the neighborhood, we look through a kitchen window and see two women whispering in hushed tones, their eyes making dramatic gestures — it is a mother and daughter exchanging nasty words about the new daughter-in-law. Following the street number signs hanging over the doors, we arrive at the next household, where the front room is filled with people playing mahjong — one can hear the clacking of the tiles as the players shuffle them and their voices calling out different hands. The players look as if they belong to the same family, but their grim expressions show they are playing for real stakes. The couple next door is in the middle of an argument, exchanging insults and curses. It’s clear they can no longer stand each other — not even one more night; so back and forth they go on a violent seesaw. The lights are out in the next apartment over: maybe the people are asleep, or maybe they have yet to come home. At 18 Peace Lane, the retired tailor, now working on his own, is busy cutting fabric as his wife carefully threads a needle; the television is on, but they are both too preoccupied to watch.
That’s right. Although each family was busy with their own affairs, there was one thing that they all had in common — television. Whether they were playing mahjong, drinking, arguing, or reading, the television was always on. It didn’t matter whether or not they were watching or even listening, they just liked to have it on. Most of them kept it on the same channel, usually one of those with endless miniseries that dominated the evening’s activities. Finally, we reach Wang Qiyao’s window. Perhaps you expected it to be lonely on the inside, but it is surprisingly packed with people, some sitting on the sofa, some in chairs, and even a few on the floor, while others stood or leaned up against the wall, and the whole room was filled with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. They were having a party and oh, how exciting it was!
Once again Wang Qiyao’s apartment had come alive with people, mostly young friends of hers. Pretty, refined, bright, and fashionable: just seeing them there was enough to make one light up with joy. They appeared in Peace Lane like a flock of golden phoenixes alighting in a nest of grass. Staring at them as they disappeared into Wang Qiyao’s apartment, the neighbors marveled at her ability to bring together the best and brightest of Shanghai’s fashionable elite. Everyone forgot how old she was, just as they had forgotten how old Peace Lane was. They even forgot about her daughter, taking her for a single woman who had never borne a child. If there is such a thing as an evergreen tree, she was one, untouched by the seasons. And now she had a new set of carefree young friends; they made themselves at home in her apartment, which became a palace of youth. Sometimes even Wang Qiyao herself wondered if time had stopped and everything was still as it had been forty years before. It was easy to get carried away, to focus on the pleasure at hand and leave reality behind.