Ninety (Eighty-eight) — Seeking Comfort in False Peace

The next morning, the winter sun slipped through the thick, plain gauze curtains, and that dense warmth and brightness wrapped the whole room in a languid, easy comfort. In the distance, amid the long, wheezing cry of shells, Tan Yang opened her eyes. Seeing the clock on the wall, she sat bolt upright and muttered, “How has it gotten so late?”

Yan Tan was sitting beside her, still in his pajamas, his little arms wrapped around a large tin can as he dug biscuits out of it and ate. Bi Qingtang was seated in the chair by the bed, holding a cup of milk for Yan Tan to drink. Tan Yang hurriedly got out of bed, guilt-ridden. “Sleeping this late and making the child eat biscuits for a meal.”

With that, she went into the washroom. From behind her, she heard Bi Qingtang give a light laugh and say, “Aren’t you always like this? As soon as the weekend comes, you sleep late, yet you make yourself sound like such a diligent woman!”

At his words, Tan Yang’s hand on the faucet hesitated slightly. She had always been an industrious person and not one to sleep late; it was only that after marriage she had become too attached to him, too fond of the warmth of his body, and would feign sleep and linger in bed.

After quickly washing her face, Tan Yang rushed off to cook. As she came out of the washroom, Bi Qingtang handed her a freshly made cup of milk and told her to drink it before going. Tan Yang took the cup and looked at him, somewhat bewildered, because everything felt so natural, as though they had always lived together, without even the slightest pause in between.

Seeing her like that, Bi Qingtang tapped the glass in her hand with the spoon he had used to make the milk. Amid the tinkling sound, he half seriously, half jokingly complained, “What are you doing? Don’t drift off in front of me. It leaves a man with no sense of security.”

A pot of plain rice porridge and two home-style side dishes—that was the family meal. After eating, Tan Yang carried the bowls and chopsticks down to the kitchen below to wash them. Yan Tan, in a white wool dress with her glossy black hair falling over her shoulders, stood at the bedroom door waiting for her mother. When Tan Yang returned, she saw a foreign boy in a neat, well-fitting little suit standing on the stairs, looking at Yan Tan. The child was a little older than Yan Tan, with golden hair and blue eyes, handsome like a foreign figure from an overseas billboard.

Tan Yang smiled at the boy, then brought Yan Tan back inside. Just before closing the door, the little boy called softly after Yan Tan, “Snow-white!”

“Mommy, what did he say?” Yan Tan asked, tugging at her mother’s hand in puzzlement.

“Oh, that’s from your favorite foreign fairy tale. The little boy said you’re the girl in it.”

At her mother’s answer, Yan Tan’s eyes curved into two crescent moons.

That night, the night of November tenth, the roar of airplanes and the intermittent crack of gunfire and artillery did not cease for long. In the depths of the night, Yan Tan, frightened and tucked into her mother’s arms, wriggled and fretted. A plane screamed overhead, loud and harsh. Clinging to her mother’s neck, Yan Tan cried out, “Papa! Papa!”

When Bi Qingtang heard his daughter call him, he hurried from the sofa and lay down on her other side. Patting Yan Tan, he soothed her, saying, “Darling, Papa is here. Don’t be afraid.” Then he pulled the child into his arms, and with one hand, as though absentmindedly, he pressed it through the quilt onto Tan Yang’s arm. In a patient, low voice, he said, “Sleep. I’m right here. Nothing will happen.”

It was impossible to tell whether his words were for the child or for her.

Yet the daughter in her arms grew quiet, and her own heart eased and lightened in turn. Even the one speaking felt filled with warmth and happiness. In a night of fire and shells, what had a family, lying together in one bed, to fear? What had they to worry about?

The next morning, November 11, 1937, the mayor of Shanghai, Yu Hongjun, issued a proclamation to all citizens, sadly announcing that the Far East’s greatest metropolis—Shanghai—had fallen.

The long and grueling Battle of Shanghai ended in our defeat. In that campaign, China committed roughly eight hundred thousand troops, with more than three hundred thousand killed or wounded. Even in defeat, even at the cost of such grievous sacrifice, the battle shattered the Japanese fantasy of “conquering China in three months,” bought precious time, enabled the evacuation of factories and schools from eastern China, preserved strength for the protracted war of resistance, and made the nation’s resolve to resist the enemy all the more firm and unshakable.

On this land strewn everywhere with grief, how many civilians were left homeless, how many families lost their loved ones. And yet Bi Qingtang, tucked away in one corner of the foreign concession, lived with extraordinary comfort.

Defeat in war, the fall of the homeland—Bi Qingtang would think of it now and then and feel some bitterness, but that bitterness was like the sorrow stirred after a full meal, watching a play beneath the stage awning, and reaching the scene of the autumn wind at Five-Measure Plateau. The story belonged to someone else; his sorrow was the sorrow of an outsider. He was not a stubborn pedant, nor would he worry himself over men of old. His country was in calamity, yet he stood apart in another country entirely. No matter how storm-tossed and perilous the world outside became, he was convinced he had the ability to grant those he protected lasting peace and comfort.

In this mere single bedroom, with Tan Yang and the child always before his eyes, able at any moment to look up and see them, he felt an almost floating pride and contentment. Sometimes when he went next door to speak with Uncle Chen, he would even remark in wonder how, in the past, he had ever possessed such wild ambitions, wanting to live in such a vast estate. So long as the heart was full, two rooms were more than enough.

Since moving here, Bi Qingtang had been especially restrained in his opium smoking. Even when the craving came on, he endured it. When the discomfort became unbearable and sweat stood on his brow, he would slip into Uncle Chen’s room, only taking a couple of puffs when he truly could not bear it. Tan Yang and Uncle Chen were naturally relieved to see this, and they even figured that as his craving gradually weakened in this way, he would surely quit in another year or two.

Tan Yang had always been limited in her cooking skills. Bi Qingtang and Uncle Chen were not fussy, but Yan Tan, who had grown up steeped in honey, was used to the excellent cooking at the Bi household. Her palate had become extraordinarily exacting, and after eating her mother’s dishes for several days, she began to rebel. Watching her daughter shake her head like a rattle drum whenever she was fed, Tan Yang became troubled.

Bi Qingtang, both amused and helpless, put down his chopsticks and told Tan Yang, “What else is in the kitchen? Go wash it and cut it up for me.” Seeing her uncertain look, he added, “I’ll cook. I’ll make food for this little sovereign myself!”

Bi Qingtang strode into the kitchen with great swagger. Tan Yang followed behind him and said awkwardly, “You really intend to do it? Cooking isn’t something one can learn in a day or two!”

As he nodded and surveyed the things in the kitchen, Bi Qingtang teased her in an unkind tone, “When it comes to cooking, talent matters most. I suppose even at my worst, I can’t do worse than you, can I?”

“Aren’t you the one who’s been praising the food every meal these past few days, saying how delicious it is?”

“Which only proves how absurdly hard I’m trying to please you!”

Bi Qingtang waited calmly while Tan Yang washed and cut the vegetables, then casually took up the spatula. Seeing him in that crisp suit, Tan Yang urged him to put on an apron. Bi Qingtang glanced at the floral apron in her hand, snorted coldly, shook his head, and took the oil dish from the side cabinet. Without another word, Tan Yang snatched the apron from him. “Just wear it. No one’s going to see you. Besides, if oil splashes on your clothes, won’t I still have to wash them?”

Bi Qingtang lowered his head and looked at Tan Yang as she tied the apron on him. His gaze darkened at once, and then he suddenly pulled her into a tight embrace. For a long while he could not speak, and when he finally did, his voice was choked with emotion. “Little sister... I can’t even think about it. I can’t even bring myself to think about it.”

She knew better than anyone what he meant. In the past, they had not dared to imagine it—had not dared imagine that such a day would ever come. And after the day had come, they dared not imagine what lay ahead.

Although Bi Qingtang’s movements were still awkward when he stir-fried, he understood the essentials. He knew when to do what, and how much of each thing to add. Tan Yang could not help marveling. “Have you seen cooks prepare food before?”

Bi Qingtang looked at her with a smile and said nothing.

After he plated the dishes, he picked up his chopsticks and offered Tan Yang a bite. After tasting it, Tan Yang said in disbelief, “Is this really your first time cooking?”

Bi Qingtang gave a deliberately profound smile. “You guess.”

His daughter was very receptive to her father’s cooking and ate a full bowl of rice. After that, Bi Qingtang took over the job of cooking.

A few days later, one evening, Bi Qingtang set the finished dishes on the table. Tan Yang and her daughter praised the flavor again and again, and Bi Qingtang, flattered by the compliments, grinned so broadly he lost all restraint. After only a few bites, he suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to bring out the soup he had cooked, and he sprang up cheerfully to fetch it from the kitchen.

Watching Bi Qingtang’s back, Uncle Chen smacked his lips and said, “Back when we were in Southeast Asia, life was hard to make. The master and I took a few brothers and went out early and came back late to scrape together a few coins. The young master was still small then, only twelve or thirteen. The master told him to stay home and make food for the rest of us! That young master’s temper! He cooked for only two months before he smashed the stove, and said that for a man, there was nothing more humiliating and wearisome than cooking. He said he would surely make his name in the world, just so he’d never have to touch a spatula in his life!” At that, Uncle Chen smiled helplessly. “Truly, a year makes a man, and a year changes his heart. Look at him now. I’m guessing that if he could cook like this for the rest of his life, he’d be willing to trade anything for it!”

More than half a month passed. The weather grew colder, and in the afternoon small, scattered snowflakes began to drift from the sky. By evening, the snow had grown heavier. Yan Tan leaned against the windowpane, holding a basin of hot water and blowing warm mist onto the glass, then drawing snowflakes and snowmen on it with her fingers. The child had remarkable talent for drawing and loved it intensely; it could be said she had inherited her mother’s aspirations, and this greatly comforted Tan Yang.

“Mommy, let me go build a snowman in the yard tomorrow. I haven’t been out in ages!” Yan Tan begged, pouting.

Though the situation outside remained tense, in these past few days the gunfire had become barely audible, and besides, they were in the concession. It should be safe. Tan Yang had meant to agree, but remembering that Bi Qingtang was always cautious when it concerned his daughter, she turned to look at him. Unconsciously, hope showed in her eyes as well, and she very much wanted him to give his assent.

Seeing this, Bi Qingtang smiled. In the end, both of them were people who indulged their child, and fortunately their little darling was a rare good child and had not been spoiled by it. He came over beside Yan Tan, rubbed the child’s head, and promised, “All right, all right. Papa will accompany you to build a snowman tomorrow!”

That evening, after Yan Tan fell asleep, Tan Yang went to the cupboard to find thick clothes for her daughter to wear out the next day. Having found them, she thought of how she had urged Bi Qingtang several times to add more layers, but he never listened and even boasted that he could endure the cold. Tan Yang pulled out the rattan trunk where he kept his clothes. There were far fewer things inside than in the trunk she and her daughter used. She roughly tidied away the overcoat and a few suits and shirts. Beneath them, carefully placed at the bottom, was a folded chestnut-colored sweater. It was worn all the time and already very old; the fur at the collar had been rubbed away.

Tan Yang felt a lump in her chest and could only let out a long sigh. She took out the sweater and shook it open to bring it to him, but as she shook out the sleeve, a small knotted ball of yarn fell out as well. The sleeves of the sweater had been worn through and were fraying, and yet he was still wearing it. The sleeve had been reduced to little more than half, and he had tied the loose threads together just to keep on wearing it.

Tan Yang held the sweater in her hands for a long while. Later, after Bi Qingtang finished bathing and came out, she forced herself to remain calm and asked, “So you only have this one sweater?”

Looking at the sweater in her hands, Bi Qingtang was a little embarrassed, and hurriedly teased, “Who says that? I still have half a sweater left!” Saying this, he took out from the box above the wardrobe a silver-gray sweater he had only half knitted and said proudly with a smile, “Look, our darling said she’ll finish knitting it for me when she grows up. I’m waiting!”

Tan Yang did not say anything. Turning her face away, after quite a long while she looked back, took the knitting needles from the sweater, and under the lamplight began mending the old garment. Because so many threads had broken, the clothes were difficult to repair, and her feelings grew restless with the work. Later that night, Bi Qingtang came over to take back the sweater, turned off the light for her, and said firmly, “No need to mend it. It still can be worn!”

The nights of heavy snow were especially cold, a chill like fine needles drilling in through the seams of bone. Because of that cold, Tan Yang was even less able to sleep peacefully. In the small hours of the morning, amid the steady sound of Bi Qingtang’s breathing, she carried the half-knitted sweater into the washroom.

Sitting on the toilet lid in the freezing washroom, Tan Yang knitted the sweater through an entire night. By the time it was finished, dawn had broken in the east. She had long suffered from shoulder pain in autumn and winter, and after this night her pain was so severe she could not even lift her hands. After placing the finished sweater by Bi Qingtang’s pillow, she lay back down and shut her eyes in relief.

When she woke again, it was morning. From the window, Tan Yang saw her daughter playing in the snow below, and smiling, she put on her clothes and went downstairs.

During this period, Yan Tan had been playing very well with the son of the vice consul, Matthew. Just then the two children were crouched together rolling snowballs, while Bi Qingtang merely stood by watching. When he saw Tan Yang come out, he knitted his brow and scolded her without preamble, “You knitted a sweater all night! As a doctor, how can you not know to take care of your own body?”

Tan Yang saw that the silver-gray sweater fit him perfectly and gave a faint smile, saying nothing.

Bi Qingtang looked at Tan Yang, his eyes full of indescribable tenderness and distress. Stubbornly, he reached out and gripped Tan Yang’s hand tightly, asking in a soft voice by her ear, “Your shoulder hurts again, doesn’t it?”

Tan Yang smiled and shook her head. “No.”

Together they watched the two children, flushed with exertion from playing in the snow, laughing and romping, and both of them wore happy smiles.

“I think our darling especially gets along with foreign children. Tell me, won’t she end up bringing us some foreign son-in-law in the future?” Tan Yang asked with a smile.

“Would she dare? I’d break her legs!” Bi Qingtang said solemnly, his face stern.

“You must never say such things. Don’t you know? In the movies, they say that even if you break a girl’s legs, she still can’t be married off—yet somehow most of them still get married.” Tan Yang teased him with a bitter smile.

At that, both of them burst out laughing. After a moment, however, they both fell silent again, almost in unison.

More than a decade ago, an old man had said to them: if you ever meet him again, I will break your legs! And yet later, they still married, and that old man had died.

With a sorrowful expression, Tan Yang withdrew her hand. Bi Qingtang gave a wry smile and placed his now empty hand back into his coat pocket...