Yan Tan

The day after Tan Yang returned home, Zhang Xiangning came to visit the Bi residence and see the newborn baby. Ever since Tan Yang had taken a leave from school and returned home, the truth of her marital status had become an open secret. In the presence of a happy family and a new life about to enter this world, everyone regarded her with envy and goodwill, and naturally no one minded Tan Yang’s secrecy. Zhang Xiangning remarked that their classmates all missed her, but with the university entrance exams approaching, everyone was too busy. They also feared that coming too soon, when many people would be around, might disturb the mother and child’s rest, so they had agreed to visit together in August.

Upon seeing the little baby, Zhang Xiangning could not help but exclaim, showering the child with praise for her beauty. A love for children is innate to women, but with Zhang Xiangning being so young and unmarried, she was full of timidity before such a tiny baby—watching carefully, but too nervous to hold her even when invited. Later, Bi Qingtang sat by the bedroom window, holding his daughter. It was late May in Shanghai; the sun was bright, and summer was in full bloom. Upon leaving the hospital, the Soviet doctor had advised that the child should be exposed to sunlight daily, for her health, so Bi Qingtang made it a habit to hold his daughter by the window each day. The Soviet doctor had also given many such detailed instructions, and Bi Qingtang, without a word, followed them all diligently.

Zhang Xiangning approached the window to look at the child as well. Seeing Bi Qingtang gaze fondly at his sleeping daughter, she turned to Tan Yang with curiosity, “Yang, what does it feel like to be a mother?” Tan Yang, sitting on the bed, thought for a moment, then shook her head with a smile. “It’s just happiness, really. Hard to describe it any other way.” “What about you, Mr. Bi?” Zhang Xiangning pressed on. Bi Qingtang freed his right hand to gently stroke the dark down on his daughter’s forehead, smiling as he said, “With a daughter, I ask for nothing more. I once had great ambitions, restless desires for mountains of gold and silver, and was never satisfied. But now, holding this little one, not even ten pounds, I finally know what it means to be content.”

Zhang Xiangning stood lost in thought for a long while after hearing this, then looked up and smiled at Tan Yang. “Mr. Bi’s words are truly touching. It turns out that, for a woman, the most cherished happiness isn’t the passionate words of love from films or novels, but the simple joys found by our side.” Tan Yang, a little embarrassed, gently reproached Zhang Xiangning for her sentimental, poetic musings, yet in her heart, she agreed. A man’s love for his family is steadier and more reassuring than his love for her alone. She knew in her heart what her own happiness was.

As she was about to leave, Zhang Xiangning pulled four or five notebooks from her floral satchel and handed them to Tan Yang, saying that if she planned to take exams, she should start regaining her strength and find time to study. Then, somewhat cryptically, she added, “Your happiness is something we’re all glad to see. I’ve told others, and they surely understand it now as well.”

After Zhang Xiangning left, Tan Yang opened the neatly stacked hard-cover notebooks and was instantly taken aback. From the day she had left school, each notebook was dated and labeled with the subject, and every day’s lesson was meticulously recorded in clear, well-organized handwriting, all in uniform black-blue ink—a handwriting Tan Yang knew well. Over the six months of her confinement at home, Xu Zhizhong’s name had faded from her mind along with the classroom, and though half a year was not long, it felt like a lifetime away. Yet page after page of notes, each stroke of the pen, brought those six months vividly to life, and Xu Zhizhong’s image grew clear again.

As mountains and rivers turn and time changes, there are some people destined never to fade easily from one’s life, whether by fate or by effort.

During Tan Yang’s stay at the hospital awaiting childbirth, Old Zhou had undergone a second surgery at St. Stephen’s Hospital. The operation was a success, and not long after Tan Yang returned home, Old Zhou also recovered and was discharged. This meant that the day Old Zhou would leave Shanghai was drawing near.

Because she had a caesarean section, even after her month of confinement, Tan Yang’s body had not fully recovered as it might have with a natural birth. So Bi Qingtang arranged a modest celebration at home for the baby’s first month, inviting only close friends and family. Tan Yang sat briefly at the table before returning upstairs to rest, but the child, passed from arm to arm, was cheerful and unafraid of strangers, full of smiles, winning everyone’s affection. The guests lavished her with praise, and as her father, Bi Qingtang was filled with pride.

When the guests had left, the baby slept in her cradle in the living room, while Tan Yang and Bi Qingtang sat on the sofa, leafing through seven or eight sheets of paper. The child had reached her first month, but her name was still undecided. They had considered their own ideas, asked others for suggestions, and even collected names proposed by friends and family at the celebration. The list grew ever longer, and the new parents found themselves more and more unable to decide. Western, Chinese, modern, classical—the names were endless and wildly varied. The most laughable was Fang Ya’s suggestion: Bi Yue Xiuhua.

As the couple debated animatedly, Old Zhou knocked and entered. Bi Qingtang laughed, “You’re just in time—come help us decide. Why is it so hard to name this child?” Old Zhou politely insisted he wasn’t well-read enough to choose a good name, but nonetheless took the papers and studied them with care.

After a long silence, he finally set the papers down and spoke. “I may not be highly educated, but I feel that a child’s name shouldn’t chase novelty, cleverness, or strangeness. Odd characters, obscure allusions, fragments from poems, Western names rendered phonetically, trendy neologisms—none of these make a good name. A name is for a lifetime, and especially for a girl, it should be simple, dignified, balanced, and serene. It needn’t be eye-catching or unusual; what matters is that it isn’t vulgar.” Looking at the baby in the cradle, he turned to Tan Yang. “Your own name, just Yang, is an excellent example—simple and distinctive. The little one’s name should follow that pattern.”

Hearing this, Tan Yang seemed to drift away, murmuring, “My father named me. When my mother was pregnant, he said that whether the child was a boy or a girl, the single name would be Yang, meaning ‘center, sincerity, enduring.’ He was a truly learned man. If he were alive, surely he could have chosen a fine name for his granddaughter.” As she spoke, Tan Yang’s expression was filled with longing and loss. Bi Qingtang comforted her, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Little sister, Uncle Tan would be happy, as long as you’re well, as long as our family is well. He would be content.”

“Little sister,” Old Zhou suddenly said, echoing Bi Qingtang’s affectionate nickname for Tan Yang. “You’re the only daughter of your family. I imagine your elders would hope the Tan lineage continues. So the child’s name ought to include ‘Tan’ as well. But calling her ‘Bi Tan’ is too blunt—why not separate the characters? Name her ‘Yan Tan’—Bi Yan Tan! ‘Yan’ is simple and elegant, and just the other day, I looked up ‘Tan’ in the Kangxi Dictionary—it means ‘lasting, deep, generous with virtue.’ A fine character.”

Tan Yang’s eyes lit up at once. “Bi Yan Tan, what a wonderful name! Both characters are lovely. In ancient texts, ‘Tan’ appears in phrases like ‘studying deeply and thinking thoroughly.’ I love this name. What do you think, big brother?” Bi Qingtang nodded, smiling, “It’s perfect, truly inspired.” He paused, then added with some embarrassment, “I’m grateful to you, Old Zhou, for putting so much thought into this.”

Old Zhou shook his head and laughed. Tan Yang, delighted, went to the cradle, leaned down, and whispered to her sleeping daughter, “Tan Tan, little Yan Tan, you have a name now!” Old Zhou also approached, clearing his throat and affecting a casual tone, “Tomorrow I’ll be leaving, returning to where I belong. Who knows when I’ll see your family again. This is just a small token for the child—please accept it.” With that, he took a gold lock charm from his pocket and placed it gently beside the baby’s pillow.

Tan Yang turned to look at Old Zhou, opened her mouth as if to speak, but was at a loss for words. After a long moment, she finally said, “Can’t you stay a few more days? Why are you leaving so suddenly?” “Orders came from above, just this morning. I have to leave sooner or later. Perhaps... perhaps I’ll come back alive someday.” As he spoke, Old Zhou’s expression grew distant and uncertain. Tan Yang could not bear to see him like this and began to weep silently. Bi Qingtang came over. “I never thought this day would come so soon. When do you leave?” “I board the ship at three in the morning.” “Then I’ll see you off, make sure you get safely out of Shanghai. Please, don’t refuse.”

Old Zhou nodded deeply. “Thank you, Mr. Bi. I’ll go pack my things now. You should both get some rest.” With that, he left the room, but at the door, he turned for one last look at Bi Qingtang and Tan Yang, his gaze lingering finally on the baby in her pale yellow swaddling. His eyes held a reluctant yearning—the yearning for the warmth and security of ordinary family life. Tan Yang understood his longing and hope. She lifted her daughter and went to Old Zhou. “You’ve spent your life in pursuit of ideals, never having a family of your own. As for you and Sister Ling and Brother Li, I can’t claim to understand, but I admire you. Since you named the child, if you don’t mind, please accept her as your goddaughter.”

Old Zhou solemnly received the infant. In the eyes of this steadfast, resolute man from Hunan, tears shimmered. In this world, not everyone can have a warm, complete home. He, she, and this swaddled child—how fortunate they were.

By the time Bi Qingtang returned from seeing Old Zhou off, it was past four in the morning. The sky was just beginning to lighten, and the baby’s cries came from the next room. Tan Yang went in to check. Leaning against the doorframe, watching his wife and daughter, Bi Qingtang smiled softly. “Has Old Zhou left already?” Tan Yang asked. He nodded. “Why are you standing in the doorway? Come in.” “I’ve brought the night chill in from outside—didn’t want to let you or the baby catch cold,” he replied gently. “Old Zhou will come back, won’t he?” “In times like these... who can say?” Bi Qingtang sighed, helpless.

Tan Yang bowed her head in silence, gazing at her daughter. Bi Qingtang changed the subject. “Before he left, Old Zhou told me he thinks of you as his sister, and asked me to take good care of you.” “Oh? And what did you say?” “I told him, so long as you’ll have me, I will do all I can to protect you for life.” Tan Yang gave a faint snort. “What do you mean, ‘so long as I’ll have you’? You always have to hedge your words instead of just saying what you mean.” Bi Qingtang’s nostrils flared slightly as he clutched his hat, gave a deep sigh, and turned away.

The helplessness that escaped from Bi Qingtang in that moment carried the weight of years and the irresistible force of fate.

At the beginning of August, as their daughter reached her hundredth day, Bi Qingtang held a grand banquet at the Grand China Hotel, inviting all the most prominent figures of Shanghai. This day marked both the child’s hundred-day celebration and Bi Qingtang’s retirement—his washing of hands in the golden basin, stepping back from the chamber of commerce, and leaving the underworld behind.

At the center of the great hall, on a crimson felt cloth, stood a gleaming golden basin. With near-reverence, Bi Qingtang washed his hands—those hands so accustomed to wielding a gun, now roughened but at peace. He dried them with a towel, applause rising in the hall, firecrackers resounding outside. He paid no mind to any of it, raising his eyes to see Tan Yang on the balcony above, holding their child and smiling down at him. Bi Qingtang’s heart brimmed with a happiness and confidence he had never known. He thought: from this day forward, the peaceful, contented life that belonged to them truly begins—and would last a lifetime. Of this, he was certain.

It was August of the year 1930—a year that seemed, on the surface, to be one of music and peace, untouched by calamity.

Bi Tan Chronicle, Chapter 37—End of “Yan Tan.”