Once you left Chengdu Road and ventured into the longtang neighborhoods, things got worse. Those alleys were crooked and winding, many still paved with cobblestones, and most of the homes were makeshift shacks. You would never guess that tumbledown shacks like those existed in the heart of the city. By Weiwei’s time most of these had been torn down to make way for new concrete structures, which made the area even more chaotic, and the longtang alleys even narrower, barely leaving room for the pedestrian to turn around. Who could have guessed that the glamour of Huaihai Road was built on a way of life that had its feet so firmly planted on the ground?
Between Huaihai Road and Changle Road, tucked into the folds of the long and winding Chengdu Road, there was a small door opening onto the street. The door was usually left ajar, but seldom did anyone take notice. That is because not only was the door very small, but it was extremely dark inside. If you happened to stand outside the doorway for a moment, you would immediately be assaulted by a strange odor. The identifiable part of that strange odor was Glauber’s salt, but there was another, more mysterious smell — the breath of tuberculosis. The door was like a black hole, there was no rear window, and the front window was blocked by a discolored floral curtain that only allowed a hazy light to penetrate inside. If you were to turn on a light, you would discover that the room couldn’t possibly have been any smaller than it was. Piled up all around were old leather shoes and the tools of a tanner. The shoemaker sitting in the middle of the room was Zhang Yonghong’s father. Facing the door was a steep, narrow staircase without a railing that went directly up to the second floor. Although we call it the second floor, it was actually an attic; the center of the room was the only place where you could stand erect without bumping your head on the ceiling. Lying in the attic were two sick people — Zhang Yonghong’s mother was one, and the other was her older sister. They were both victims of tuberculosis.
If Zhang Yonghong had gone to the hospital to be examined, it is very possible that she would have been diagnosed as well. Her skin was unusually fair, almost transparent, taking on a red glow every afternoon at around two or three o’clock. She was as beautiful as a plum blossom. Since childhood she had never had much to eat and thus learned to suppress her appetite, eventually developing severe anorexia. She ate like a bird; meat and fish made her especially nauseous. To pay for the clothes she wore, she took on all kinds of odd jobs, including taking apart discarded fabric to extract the thread, walking school children to school, and supervising their homework until their parents get home. She was never short of cash, but even so never spent money on buying herself food.
The first time Weiwei brought Zhang Yonghong home with her, Wang Qiyao could immediately tell what was wrong with her. At first she prohibited Weiwei from spending time with her, fearing contagion. But Weiwei was never one to listen to her mother’s advice; Wang Qiyao was just wasting her breath. Moreover, Zhang Yonghong looked so gorgeous that tuberculosis only enhanced her elegance, covering up the ugly stamp a life of poverty had left on her. She also touched Wang Qiyao in a way that made her feel sympathetic toward the girl; Zhang Yonghong reminded her of all those old stories about beautiful young maidens fated to live short and difficult lives. Zhang Yonghong’s elegant style of dressing also won Wang Qiyao’s approval. The same fashions that on Weiwei appeared humdrum took on a new look when Zhang Yonghong tried them on. Eventually Wang Qiyao stopped interfering with their friendship; but she never invited Zhang Yonghong to stay for dinner and, naturally, didn’t have to worry about Weiwei eating over at her friend’s house.
Wang Qiyao left a deep impression on Zhang Yonghong. When she asked Weiwei what her mother did for a living, Weiwei didn’t know what to say. Asked about her mother’s age, Weiwei was certain that, like everyone else, Zhang Yonghong would say how she could pass for her older sister. She was surprised to hear Zhang Yonghong remark, “Look at the cotton overall your mother is wearing. It’s actually a men’s overall with vented sides and the front buttons on the opposite side — that’s so hip!”
Weiwei wasn’t as offended by her comments as she normally would have been; in fact, she was a bit pleased. She had felt indebted to Zhang Yonghong for her kindness but had always regretted that she had nothing to give in return. Seeing Zhang Yonghong’s respect and admiration for her mother made Weiwei feel a bit better. Even though she knew her mother did not want her to bring her friend home, her qualms were outweighed by her eagerness to repay Zhang Yonghong’s kindness. And so Weiwei invited her friend over almost every other day. Zhang Yonghong was happy to accept every invitation, never missing out on a chance to get closer to Wang Qiyao. As they learned more about each other, they both secretly wished they had met earlier; for they really saw eye to eye on almost everything — one look and each knew what the other was thinking. As Weiwei sat beside them listening to their conversation, she was often dumbfounded.
“You know, Auntie Wang,” Zhang Yonghong said on one occasion, “when it comes to fashion, you’re the real thing. We’re all fakes compared to you.”
“What do I know about fashion?” Wang Qiyao laughed. “All I know is how to recycle the old and try to make it new again.”
“That’s right!” exclaimed Zhang Yonghong. “Your fashion sense comes from recycling the old.”
Wang Qiyao nodded. “Actually, that’s what all fashion is — recycling the old and making it new.”
“All you guys do is repeat yourselves,” laughed Weiwei. “You sound like you are playing a word game!”
Because of her adoration for Zhang Yonghong, Weiwei gained a new respect for her mother. She even eased up a bit and ceased to be so hostile.
Zhang Yonghong’s aesthetic sense was untrained. Everything she knew she had picked up on the streets, and the fact that she was able to distinguish herself was proof of her talent. But she was still young and had not experienced many fashion cycles. Gifted as she was, she still had her limitations. She was able to avoid falling behind but could never see past the current trend, and was not capable of developing her own distinctive style. Wang Qiyao opened up a new world for her. It had never dawned on Zhang Yonghong that, prior to her own time, Shanghai fashion had already known a glorious age. Like most young people, she thought history began with her generation, but unlike Weiwei, she wasn’t thickheaded and moreover Wang Qiyao had won her over with her discriminating taste — truly she was a living portrait of the fairy-tale resplendence of bygone years.
Zhang Yonghong was exceedingly thankful that Wang Qiyao had come into her life and gladly became a disciple at her feet. Wang Qiyao also felt lucky to have Zhang Yonghong in her life. It had been years since she was able to talk freely to someone, and best of all, on a subject dear to her heart — clothes. Wang Qiyao could recall at will decades of fashion, all of which came back to her without bidding. One might call fashion the product of vanity, but one must never underestimate it, for it carries with it the spirit of the age. Were it able to speak, it would speak volumes. As Wang Qiyao described in detail all the changes that had taken place over the past several decades, images of beauty passed before Zhang Yonghong’s eyes, and she was humbled to think of all that she had missed out on. It dawned on her that the fashions of her era were only a continuation of what had gone before. There was so much she had to catch up on.
Weiwei was also present for these discussions, but she heard all this unmoved. She still preferred the fashions of her generation: as far as she was concerned, the things her mother described might as well be costumes in an old opera, preposterous and laughable. She conceded defeat only when, with a shift in fashion, some of the old styles came back before her eyes. She was the kind of person who wouldn’t weep until she actually saw the coffin — she didn’t use her brain. All that seemed to matter was the present: for Weiwei, neither the past nor future had any meaning.