Free Song of Everlasting Sorrow by Wang Anyi

Peizhen had a faint notion that the reason Wang Qiyao was avoiding her had something to do with that failed screen test, so she too stopped going to the film studio, even breaking off contact with her cousin. The screen test became a source of sorrow for both of them, leaving them with a deep sense of defeat. Things gradually got to the point where they were no longer on speaking terms: running into one another at school, each would make haste to awkwardly get out of the other’s way. They sat on opposite sides of the classroom, but, though their eyes never met, they could always feel one another’s’ presence. A wall of pity grew between them. The incident at the film studio ended with the word “camera,” and the result was what they call in the industry a “freeze frame.” Gone, never to return, but the memory hangs on for all eternity.
    Their after-school lives gradually returned to normal; but things were not really the same—something had been snatched away. They were hurt, but neither could say where the pain was. At their girls’ school, where rumors usually flew rampant, not a soul knew about Wang Qiyao’s screen test; they had succeeded in keeping it completely under wraps. It was implicitly understood between them that they should never broach the subject. Actually, just to be chosen by a director for a screen test would already have been a great honor in the eyes of most girls—any hopes of getting a part would be a long shot in a long shot. This was also what Wang Qiyao thought at first, but once she reached that stage everything changed. Suddenly, a price had been exacted and loss was imminent. Only because Wu Peizhen stepped out of her own shoes and empathized completely with her friend was she able to understand the grief Wang Qiyao was going through.

The Photograph
     
    A month had gone by before the director finally called. Wang Qiyao’s voice was stiff and a bit sardonic as she asked him just what business he had calling her. The director explained that he had a photographer friend named Mr. Cheng and wanted to arrange a photo shoot for her. Wang Qiyao replied that she was not very photogenic and told him that he had better have Mr. Cheng find somebody else!
    The director laughed. “Oh, little Yao Yao’s throwing a temper tantrum!”
    With that, Wang Qiyao was too embarrassed to refuse and gave in. The next day the Mr. Cheng in question called to arrange the time and place.
    When the time came, Wang Qiyao went to the address Mr. Cheng had given her, taking with her several cheongsams and dresses. Mr. Cheng lived on the penthouse floor of a multistoried apartment building on the Bund. Part of his apartment had been renovated into a photo studio, complete with cardboard scenic backdrops of European castles as well as Chinese pavilions. Inside were also a dark room and a dressing room. Mr. Cheng was a young man of twenty-six; he had on a pair of goldtrimmed glasses—he was nearsighted—and was wearing a pair of suspenders over a white dress shirt and a pair of Western slacks—very sharp. He had Wang Qiyao fix herself up in the dressing room while he set up the lights.
    From the dressing room window, Wang Qiyao could see the Bund, stretched out like a white ribbon. It was a Sunday afternoon and the sunlight was especially refreshing. The clock tower at the Custom House rang the hour, its chiming gradually spreading through the air as if from someplace far, far away. People down beside the river, the size of ants, shimmered as they moved. Pulling her gaze back into the dressing room, Wang Qiyao suddenly felt flustered. Why had she gone there in the first place? Without being conscious of it, she suppressed all hope, refusing to let her expectations grow. She had already suffered a terrible blow and could not help but be discouraged. At the same time, she took a kind of perverse pleasure in watching her dreams melt away, fancying herself the heroine of a sad story. Her only reason for coming, she