Shanghai fashion in the early eighties had an air of dogged determination. It strutted boldly forward, keeping one eye on the past and the other on the future. Having undergone an era of distortion and suppression, its mind was now liberated, but it really didn’t know where to go! And so it felt its way as it went along. The street scenes at this time were oddly exaggerated and a little out of control, but the painstaking care and hard work behind them were plain to see; and those who understood what had gone into their making were quite moved. Under Wang Qiyao’s influence, Zhang Yonghong began to break away from the mainstream. At a casual glance, she looked as if she was falling behind, but closer scrutiny revealed that she was already far ahead, leaving the mainstream in the dust. But girls with real vision like Zhang Yonghong were few and far between; even her good friend Weiwei had a hard time understanding her, and so she began to feel estranged. Her rivals congratulated themselves, supposing her to have stepped out of the race, leaving the stage to them. If anything, they should have felt sad, because they had lost their leader. Without Zhang Yonghong, each new fashion cycle now fizzled out in mediocrity. Fashion is a good thing in its own way, but when the elite abandons it, it inevitably descends into banality. Zhang Yonghong became a solitary figure, with Wang Qiyao her sole confidante. Sometimes, even when Weiwei wasn’t home, she would drop by to chat with Wang Qiyao; if Weiwei happened to return in the middle of their conversation, the two of them would glance up at her as if she was an intruder. After graduation, Weiwei went on to nursing school but Zhang Yonghong, having come from a poor family, had to take a job as a meter reader at the gas company. That enabled her to visit Wang Qiyao more frequently; she would stop by almost every day, and in Weiwei’s absence the two of them became even closer.
“Why don’t you just trade me in for Zhang Yonghong!” Weiwei would occasionally say to her mother.
However, the nature of Wang Qiyao’s relationship with Zhang Yonghong was not at all that of mother and daughter; it was a relationship between two women who overcame the barriers of time and experience to form a strong bond.
Of the two, one had a heart that would never grow old and the other was born with an innate understanding; their hearts were both ageless — they were the hearts of true women. No matter how much their bodies might change, their hearts would always be the same, carrying with them an intimate self-understanding and a sense of longing. Don’t belittle the fact that they put their hearts into a few articles of clothing. Do you know what clothing is? To them clothing is life itself. You might accuse them of vanity, but if they were not supported by an inner strength, they would not be able to sustain the external beauty. They know their destiny better than anyone else; they know that they will never have a share of the world’s larger glory; all they can do is fight for their moment in the limelight, when they adorn the world’s larger glory. They don’t entertain illusions and extravagant dreams, but that isn’t to say that they are not ambitious; you would be hard pressed to find anyone as conscientious and meticulous. When they examine a skirt, they take in every seam and every stitch. They are extremely demanding when it comes to the color and texture of the fabric. Their carefree appearance belies their intense attention to detail; this is what you would call “seamless perfection.” When they start thinking about a new outfit, their hearts fill with pleasure and they take swift action. They go down to the fabric shop to pick out material and lining, making sure that the buttons match. The first fitting is the moment of truth, and not even the minutest error escapes their discerning eyes. Upon completion, as they stand before the mirror to survey their new outfit, taking notice of every thread and stitch, they cannot help but feel a spell of melancholy, wondering who they have gone through all this trouble for. It is during those moments of emptiness that they need each other most.
Each in her distinctive outfit, the two of them would stroll down the bustling Huaihai Road, Zhang Yonghong’s arm locked in Wang Qiyao’s. There was a unshakable aura of desolation in the sight of them walking side-by-side — the desolation that holds sway at dusk and again at dawn, when only a single ray of faint light shows against a world enshrouded in darkness. One of them was reaching her end with no future left to speak of. The other had a future, but there was no guarantee that her future would be any better than the one that was just ending; everything was hazy. If it weren’t for the difference in age, they could truly have passed for sisters.
But they never shared the kinds of things close friends talk about; their intimate exchanges all consisted of conversations about clothing and fashion. It was only after one particular incident that their relationship began to change. On that day, Zhang Yonghong had just left Wang Qiyao’s and was already at the edge of the longtang neighborhood when she suddenly remembered that she owed Wang Qiyao two yuan and went back to repay her. Stepping in, she saw that the teacup she had been drinking from had already been put aside, with a piece of paper placed inside it, clearly in imitation of the practice used by restaurants and teahouses of putting a strip of red paper in the cups of customers suffering from infectious diseases to remind employees to take extra care in disinfecting these items. Zhang Yonghong didn’t say anything. She repaid Wang Qiyao and left. The following week she did not call on Wang Qiyao. When Weiwei came home from school that Saturday, she asked her mother why Zhang Yonghong wasn’t coming over. Wang Qiyao said she didn’t know, but privately she had already guessed. Weiwei went to look for Zhang Yonghong, but her sister stuck her head out the window to say that she was working overtime. Weiwei ended up spending that weekend with some of her other girlfriends.
Two days later Zhang Yonghong suddenly reappeared. Without saying a word, she placed a medical report on the table before Wang Qiyao. Written in the sloppy hand of the doctor was the result of her examination, stating that there was no evidence of viral infection or tuberculosis in the lungs. Wang Qiyao turned red from embarrassment and hesitated for a moment before regaining her composure.
“Zhang Yonghong, you have raced ahead of me,” Wang Qiyao said. “I’ve been wanting to take you for an exam for a long time! Now I can finally stop worrying. But even though you do not have tuberculosis, I still think you may have too much internal heat in your lungs. How about I take you to see a herbal doctor in a few days?”
Zhang Yonghong was taken aback at first, but she soon turned away and started to cry.
At her age, Zhang Yonghong’s favorite conversation topic was, naturally, boys. She didn’t have a boyfriend, and whenever she talked about boys who liked her, it was with an air of ridicule. Wang Qiyao knew that girls like Zhang Yonghong were prone to making the mistake of being too picky. They think that, just because they are pretty, wear nice clothes, and are pursued by a few boys, they can have their pick of anyone they want. They flaunt this attitude, not realizing that most boys are not terribly patient and quickly retreat when things do not look promising. If there is a persistent one among them, he always seems to be the least desirable of the lot. In the end, girls who know themselves not to be a prize catch tend to fare better. Harboring no illusions about their situation, they manage to seize opportunities as they arise. Wang Qiyao felt it her responsibility to share this truth with Zhang Yonghong; deep down she also wanted to put a damper on her arrogance. Nobody really has endless time to fritter away, she thought.