Lunch that afternoon was much more elaborate than usual. Wang Qiyao swallowed her irritation and was extremely attentive to Old Colour, casually telling him all kinds of interesting stories she had never shared with him before. Old Colour gradually cooled down, till he almost forgot that he had been upset — but then Wang Qiyao brought it up again.
“You really think those things I said the other night over dinner just came out of nowhere? As if I had nothing better to do?”
Old Colour stopped eating, uncertain of what she was trying to say.
“I was thinking back to many years ago, on a day like this one, when it was cold and bleak outside and there were four people sitting around a hotpot. One of the women was just an onlooker, but you would not believe what happened between those two men and that other woman.”
Wang Qiyao paused for a moment before continuing. “That woman was me.”
Old Colour put down his chopsticks and glanced up at Wang Qiyao. She had an indifferent expression, as if she were talking about someone else. What happened between her, Uncle Maomao, and Sasha some twenty years earlier seemed so alien, it didn’t even feel like a part of her anymore. She didn’t know if the details had faded with time or she had blocked them out, but she had trouble remembering the sequence of how things had happened. Her nonchalant air only made the tragedy more shocking. This was the first time that Old Colour had heard Wang Qiyao talk about her past; up till then she had described only the settings, but the participants were elusive, disappearing and reappearing like phantoms. But now those phantoms had come to life. They were real people; ironically, this knowledge only made Old Colour feel more perplexed, lost in a massive cloud of mist. Wang Qiyao’s face was like a reflection in water — it seemed to ripple and sway. He realized that he was crying, partly out of sympathy and partly because he was deeply moved.
“Even I’m not crying,” protested Wang Qiyao, “so what are you crying for?”
“I don’t know…” he murmured as he put his head down on the table.
From that point on, Wang Qiyao began to reveal her secret life over the past several decades to him. They spent the next few days together, Wang Qiyao telling her buried stories, Old Colour silently listening. The stories were accompanied by cigarettes and the room became enveloped in thick smoke. Their faces grew hazy, their voices too. It was a story that began forty years ago, about a life filled with splendor and turmoil — where would one trace the beginnings of such a story? Although it was a tragedy, it was a tragedy laced with grandeur and elegance — how was such a story going to end? Wang Qiyao’s voice grew quiet, and all was silent, only the cigarette smoke thickened and dissipated freely in the air. Then the sound of someone clapping thrice softly broke the silence — it was Wang Qiyao. Taken aback, Old Colour immediately looked over to see her smiling at him through the smoke.
“Our little game is coming to an end too, isn’t it?” she said.
He trembled slightly, struck by an ominous sensation.
“After all, life is like a game, right?” she continued.
He didn’t know whether to agree or disagree, but he saw her stand up and walk toward him through the smoke. She began to caress his hair, which took him off guard. She ran her hands through his hair several times and he heard her whisper, “You silly boy.”
He reached up to guide her hands but before he could touch her, she was gone. Wang Qiyao had already left the room, and as he watched her receding into the door he began to feel feverish. Upon her return she found him shivering, his teeth chattering loudly. She put down the bowl in her hand to feel his forehead, only to be caught up in his arms, like vines wrapping around a tree. When she asked him what was wrong, he didn’t say a word, but keeping his eyes closed, pulled himself against her body. She could feel that his whole body was burning and helped him over to the bed to lie down. Clamped down on her waist with both arms, he pulled her down on top of him. Wang Qiyao kept telling him to let go, but he just held on more tightly. In her panic, she slapped him in the face. But he just kept his eyes closed and held on tighter still. She continued hitting him until her hand ached. His face was coming out in red welts, and taking pity on him, she gently caressed his cheeks. To this he responded by pushing his face against hers. They lay like this for quite some time went by. As she leaned on his chest, Wang Qiyao let out a sigh, and he took advantage of her momentary passivity by turning over suddenly and pressing down on top of her.
As his fever subsided, he broke out in a cold sweat, but continued to shiver. Strange, incoherent mumblings spilled out of his mouth and Wang Qiyao had no idea what he was saying. She did all she could to sooth him, treating him like a child who needed to be comforted. She consented to whatever he wanted, doing all she could to please him. At certain moments he grew frustrated because he didn’t know how to do what he was yearning to do and ended up throwing a tantrum. In the end it was Wang Qiyao who guided him with her hand. He sobbed a few more times, desperately, as if his world had come to an end. So Wang Qiyao consoled him and did her best to encourage him. That was a long, distressful night, and many things occurred that should never have been. The lights went on and off all night as they tried to go to sleep but kept getting up. There was something odd about Peace Lane that night, it was so quiet, empty of all the usual sounds of things stirring about — the only noises were those they made. And even these sounds seemed to get swallowed up, so that the noisier they were, the lonelier it felt. They were both plagued by nightmares, emitting muffled cries. Their breath came heavily, and their eyes felt sore and dry. It was an exhausting night, and felt as if they were both being crushed under some enormous weight.
They prayed for the morning to arrive, but as the first rays of light shone on the curtain, they started to worry how they would get through this new day. He was utterly spent, so exhausted that he could barely move. But she forced herself to get up before sunrise. She couldn’t bear to look at herself in the mirror as she washed her face and brushed her hair. Quickly getting herself together, she tiptoed like a thief out of the apartment with a basket. It was still dark outside, the streetlights were still on, and there was virtually no one on the streets. Wang Qiyao walked briskly toward the market, where people were beginning to stir. By this time the sky was brightening and she felt that she had finally got past the previous night’s ordeal. The streetlights went off one by one, but a few stars were still faintly visible in the sky. She asked herself what time it was. When she got home, the bed was empty and Old Colour had gone.
Old Colour did not come back. Wang Qiyao thought it was probably just as well. With him gone, the first thing she did was to pull open the curtains to let the sunlight in, letting it dissolve the darkness from the night before. Her mind seemed to skip over that night; she kept thinking, Nothing happened. . nothing happened. The ensuing days were quite peaceful, as were the nights that followed. Her social life was calmer, as everyone was busy with different things. She started a new cashmere sweater that required some very complicated knitting work. She knitted from morning until night, stopping only to eat. She kept the television on constantly, all the way until “Good-bye” appeared on the screen. Only then would Wang Qiyao put her knitting away and go to bed. She tried not to think of him, erasing his name from her mind as if he had never existed. Sometimes she would wonder, What’s the difference? I still live my life exactly as I did before. But then one day Long Legs came by and casually asked, “When is Old Colour coming back to town?”