Free Song of Everlasting Sorrow by Wang Anyi Page B

seagulls soaring above its waters looked like tiny silver spots. A car drove down alongside the riverbank and turned into a dark and quiet street, which ran straight through the tall buildings like a gully at the bottom of a canyon.
    Wang Qiyao took her time as she carefully changed back into the outfit she had came in and meticulously folded up the others. Her mind was clear and gave no thought to the pictures that had just been taken—she looked at this simply as something destined to come to naught. As she gathered up her things, she couldn’t help but admire the wonderful view from the apartment. The window, at the corner of the building situated right at the intersection of the Bund and that straight narrow road, was so high up you could see six blocks into the distance. She stepped out of the dressing room, said goodbye to Mr. Cheng before going out the door, and walked down the hall to the elevator. At the press of a button, the elevator silently ascended from the ground floor. As she stepped into the elevator, Wang Qiyao noticed Mr. Cheng standing outside his door, watching her.
    The photo later selected for the inside front cover of Shanghai Life was of Wang Qiyao wearing one of her casual cheongsams with a flowered pattern. She was sitting on a stone stool beside a stone table, her face turned slightly to one side, in a “listening pose,” as if chatting with someone outside the camera’s frame. Behind her was a traditional-style oval window and the shadows of flowers and tendrils—instantly recognizable as a painted cardboard backdrop. Although the photo was supposed to be an outdoor scene, the lighting was all artificial. Her pose was also patently artificial. In most respects it was a rather mediocre photo, the kind that can be seen hanging in the shop window of virtually every photo studio, a bit tacky; and, though the subject was pretty, she was not a stunning beauty. But there was something about that photo that made its way into people’s hearts. There is really only one way to describe the Wang Qiyao in that picture: she was a “good girl.” Hers was the look of a girl who alters herself to please other people, men as well as women. “Good girl” was written all over her face, in her posture; even the tiny, delicate flowers on her cheongsam reached out to you in friendliness. The background scene was fake, as was the lighting, even her pose—everything in the photo was contrived—but precisely because everything around her was fake, the person became real. She was not part of some conspiracy, she was merely playing out her part like a good girl; all of her cards were on the table. What you saw was what you got.
    The girl in the picture was not beautiful, but she was pretty. Beauty is something that inspires awe; it implies rejection and has the power to hurt. Prettiness, on the other hand, is a warm, sincere quality, and even hints at a kind of intimate understanding. Looking at her photo brought a feeling of true comfort and closeness, as though one could call her by name. Movie stars and models may indeed be enchantingly beautiful—but, after all, what do any of them have to do with you? They have their lives and you have yours. Wang Qiyao reached down into the bottom of your heart. The lighting in the picture also had a kind of minute intimacy that seemed to bring the image of Wang Qiyao to life. Images of people seemed to be reflected in her eyes and the pleats in her cheongsam appeared to move. It was more like the kind of picture one sees pasted in a family album than the kind seen hanging in a glass frame to be admired. It would not have been found in advertisements for Soir de Paris perfume or Longines wristwatches, but would have been perfect to promote MSG or laundry detergent. Down-to-earth, with no trace of extravagance, it had a touch of resplendence of a commonplace variety; and it had a touch of sweetness, as in the faint sweetness of porridge flavored with osmanthus blossoms. It