七部小说 · Seven Novels

第五章 ——《二度下行》

我礼拜五午夜下去了。

我本不曾决定要下。礼拜三我已决定不下；礼拜四又决定要下；礼拜五下午两点到三点之间，我坐在林姨床头给她念邮差送来的那一份百代戏迷月刊——一篇关于周璇的特写，题作《我们金嗓子最爱的早点》——又决定不下，且要用泰迪那支自来水笔写一张字条，留在妆台上，不署收件人，只说多谢，我不能再来。

到傍晚六点，那字条还没写。

到八点我已到了化妆室。安雅在屏风边上，银旗袍挂着，灯亮着，胭脂备好。妆台还是礼拜二我离开时的样子。镜子四围那八只灯泡都暗着。没有新的纸。

我坐下。安雅替我上胭脂。那天清早我在弄堂屋的浴桶里已经决定，对礼拜二那张字条的回话是——等。不下去，不去按墙纸的那条缝，不应。让寂静作回答；倘若他是个「他」，就让他留在我未曾打开的一扇门的那一头。这一决定，我是早晨十点在浴桶里、用白珠送的一块茉莉皂下定的，决定一直撑到十点过十——浴洗完了为止。十点半我便开始换衣裳，怀着那种与自己约好要安分的人才有的小小不安，又不甚相信自己会做到。那一天我不曾吃午饭。下午四点同林姨吃了一小碟酱萝卜，一盏苦茶，仅此而已。

化妆室里，八点一刻，安雅收了手，退后一步，把我转向镜子。

「今晚您像个女人，不像姑娘了，」她说。

「安雅。今天是礼拜五。」

「我晓得今天是哪一天。您像礼拜五的女人，不像礼拜五的姑娘。起来。这一场再过十七分钟开。」

我起身。她差五分钟到九点离开。我独坐了一分钟。这一分钟是我给自己定下的规矩。这一分钟里我又一次听见，我在自己的私下文法里管它叫那地板的那个东西。一阵漫长而缓慢的颤。一个音。其下另一个略小的音，低半度。两个音落到一个三度上——一个小三度——按住两秒便止。

是《五月的细雨》第七小节。

上礼拜五我听见过这个，那时我不晓得是什么。如今我晓得。他在我下头两层楼，在那架贝希斯坦的键盘上，做了一桩我未曾请他做的事——把第七小节弹一遍，两个音，一个三度，按住一秒的虚空——这便是一个人在楼下要告知楼上某人「我在，如有需要」时所做的事。以它自己的方式，是客气的。

我下去唱了头一场。我唱。姚三爷头一场不在廊座，这是少有的；两场之间，领班告诉我，三爷被浦东一桩事绊住了。七号桌的日本军官也不在，这在礼拜五已三周不曾有过；领班对他没有意见。今晚廊座比平日疏。约有二十位银行家，包括十四号桌那位西班牙白兰地进口商，他抬头三回。约有十二位外国太太——领班说，沙逊的三侄女在沪，带了一桌人来——九号桌还有一位德国领事的太太，与她丈夫同坐，三月里她曾以三种语言点名要听《五月的细雨》。

我唱。今晚我并不再倚在「香」的第三个字上。我把那个音按住。我按它的法子，是底下那位先生要我按的法子。银行家们没钓到他们要的鱼。那位白兰地进口商抬头又低下去，不曾再抬。德国领事的太太——倒是另一回事——略带惊讶地放下了她那杯香槟。乐台上第三只单簧管侧目看了头一只单簧管一眼，头一只摇头摇了十六分之一厘米——这就是乐队的头一只单簧管在察觉了一桩事而又决定要装作不曾察觉时所做的动作。

我鞠了两躬。我上去。

化妆室里，妆台上，与礼拜二同一处地方，有一行字，写在百代的五线谱上。

是的。就是那个音。下来。

我坐下。手袋搁在我离开时那张椅子上。我打开它。那枚黄铜钥匙在最底下。康威斯图尔特笔搁在钥匙边上。三张折好的乐谱纸压在《申报》后头。礼拜二外滩那束茉莉已枯成一缕褐色的甜。我有好一阵子，什么也不做。

随后我把那行字拿起来。读了两遍。折起。放进袋里。

我下去。

冷藏间还是礼拜五那个样子。火腿仍悬。木箱仍照原样堆着。后头的门未锁。我穿过去。楼梯也仍是那个样子，四十二级仍那么陡，砖墙仍贴着我肩。这一回我不数了。我手里这一段烛是新的——安雅抽屉里向来备着三段以备意外——我口袋里另有一段。

到底了，我穿过拱门。

屋子还是我离开时的样子。那架贝希斯坦立式离砖墙三英尺，与墙垂直，小桌上的灯拧得很低，行军床铺得齐整，书在它们的木箱里，收音机搁在木板箱上，极轻地咔嗒——德律风根开过又关、关在一个钟头之内时就这么咔嗒。琴凳被转了四分之一圈朝向墙。琴架上的乐谱换了。不再是《五月的细雨》。是一份五线谱，三页，词写在下方，用他那笔涂笔行书，每一道五线谱上方那个标题用同一种红墨：夜来香未眠。这就是礼拜日他塞在那件银旗袍夹里的那首歌。

「您来了，」那声音说。

仍是从屋子西头来的，灯过去那处。仍是那个声音。倦。礼拜二晚上的那种倦。国语，带南方的滑音，底下又一道俄语的元音。

「我来了。」

「坐。同一张椅子。烛您可以拿着。今晚的课是另一项练习。我不打算再叫您唱黎锦晖那一桥。您往后还会有别的时候唱黎锦晖。今晚我们要开一首新歌。您看过那行字。您读过那行字。坐。」

我坐了。

他让我坐了一会儿。木箱上那架收音机轻轻嗡了一下，止住。

他说，「我欠您一句道歉。」

我等着。

「礼拜二午夜十二点半，我在您妆台上留了一张纸，上头有我本不该有的消息。消息是真的。我经一条门路得来，那条门路日后我会与您一一道明，不一下子全说，因为我若一下子全说，您就不会再来，而我得到这消息的来路便会成为您不再来的缘由。今晚我先告知您这一段。」一顿。收音机的真空管极轻地咔嗒。「礼拜三早上九点，那位英国先生爱德华·哈姆斯沃斯，自上海总会的长酒吧走到外滩字林西报馆，一路被一位穿棕色亚麻西装的人尾着——这位先生从七点起就在长酒吧喝咖啡。棕亚麻西装那位不是日本人。棕亚麻西装那位，依我所估，是一位广东米商的女婿，自一九三三年起一直替张啸林办差。哈姆斯沃斯先生不是粗心人，到银行处便察觉了那身棕亚麻，又特意在四川北路上多走一个街区以核实自己不曾认错，之后回到字林西报馆，没落一字在纸上，只用他自己的口袋本写了一行小字：礼拜二张家人，棕亚麻。我不在长酒吧。我不在字林西报馆。我有一位朋友在。」

我让四秒过去。

「哈姆斯沃斯先生被人尾了多久。」

「十一天。自五月十八日字林西报上一篇——见报之前已被删到一段——关于湖北路烟馆与一位日本领事联络员常去那里的事见报起算。哈姆斯沃斯先生在原稿里没点那位领事联络员的名。他倒是点了两位青帮先生的化名。其中一个化名是张家的。张啸林如今经那位女婿与另外三个人，在留意此事。这留意尚未化作什么动手的举动。或许也不会。张啸林按规矩不动英国人，因为动英国人的代价于他暂时还不可接受；这代价或许在今年秋天就会变得可以接受。在那之前，哈姆斯沃斯先生属于「被尾而尚未动手」一类。我同您说，是因为，您若仍按礼拜二在新雅同哈姆斯沃斯先生喝咖啡——我鼓励您继续这一项，因为这对您的英文有好处，又因为哈姆斯沃斯先生是这租界里唯一一个，便是受刑也不会把您的名字说出来的人——您便会与一位被尾的男子同席，您也便会随之成为一位被尾的人，而那就要我们略作调整了。」

「调整什么。」

「调整您与哈姆斯沃斯先生在何处见。调整见多久。调整那支自来水笔——但凡可能被人截看的信——以后还用不用。调整一些小处。我亦请您，请您不再让哈姆斯沃斯先生礼拜二去万国体育会找里卡德军士。那份名单我自己去取。我有一条路。礼拜二写那张字条时，我没工夫告诉您我的路。今晚便告诉您。」

声音顿了顿。

「我有一位朋友，他有一位朋友，每月的第二个礼拜日，在福煦路与一位法租界副巡捕房长共进晚餐。我并不需要一本绿皮账册。名单我已有了。这份名单出自一九三四年——一位中国打字员在福煦路十一号一处偏厢里短暂任过职——她用速记把账册抄进一本《圣经》的封底里，又在一九三五年把那本《圣经》交给了爱多亚路上一座教堂的一位神父。那位神父是莫朗西医生的朋友。莫朗西医生便是一九三四年救我一命的那位医生。莫朗西医生六周前中风去世。爱多亚路那位神父还在，莫朗西医生丧礼后那个礼拜三，他经第三人邀我去望早弥撒，把那本《圣经》给了我。名单我有了。我有所有的名字。一共四十三人。其中四人，是一九三四年十一月申新印刷所那一案里牺牲的。其余三十九人，是一九二七年四月那案里牺牲的。」

我没动。整段独白里我都极静。

「我兄长的名字，」我说。

声音过了一会儿才答。

「是，」它说。「您兄长的名字在第二份单上。上礼拜五我把您唤下来时，并不晓得这是谁的名字。上礼拜五我也不晓得您的名字。我自礼拜二起，才知道了您的名字。我得知它的门路，与棕亚麻西装是同一条。我很抱歉。这三天我一直在想，今晚告诉您，还是再等一等。我今晚告诉您，是因为这是您的名字，不是我的；又因为我此处，在琴架上，有一张纸——上礼拜五还不在——上头写着第二份单上每一位逝者的名字。我愿意——若您愿意——把这张纸给您。我不会念给您听。您自己看。是中国打字员的速记。我已誊抄了一份在它下面，用我自己的手，端楷。两份您都可以拿去。」

屋里有好大一片静。

「替您把账册抄进《圣经》里的那位女子叫什么。」

「她已不在了。她叫包丽芬。她有一位女儿在震旦大学读书，现在在重庆。」

「神父叫什么。」

「拉米神父。」

「医生叫什么。」

「皮埃尔·莫朗西。他在十月之前是霞飞路圣玛利亚医院内科主任。六十岁。三个儿子。长子已不在，一九三四年死于里昂。次子在河内当先生。幼子大约一九四〇年会去维希——我想这一念头他心里还未定下。」

「您叫什么。」

声音停了比方才更长的一秒。

「今晚我不告诉您。」

「为什么。」

「因为今晚我若告诉您，您明日便会在一处我看不到的地方用它，以一种我没法预先替您准备的法子用它，会有人听见您把它说出来，认得它，便会来找我，您与我两边都会失去我们已经起的头。我会告诉您，到时候。等我给了您足够的东西，让您晓得自己接的是什么——我便把名字给您。您已有了我的声音。已有了我的手。今晚已有了两张写着死者的纸。这是我今晚肯给的。您要不要。」

「我要。」

「起。」

我起身。

「走到琴架前。两张纸搁在乐谱顶上。乐谱是那首新歌。两张纸由那枚河石压着。把纸拿去。把歌拿去。再坐下。」

我走到琴架前。河石便是上礼拜五我看见过的那只小小、光滑的黑物。我提起它。下面是三张纸。头一张是廉价的笔记本纸，河南路上随便一家文具铺都按一百张一捆地卖的那种，上面以小而紧的笔迹、以一种我半识半不识的中国速记——非全字，是缩写，是法院打字员速记口供时所用的那种——写着一份名单。我快快数了一遍：四十三个。第二张是同一些名字，誊作工整的中文，用他那笔涂笔行书，每个名字右侧以小而细心的字迹注着死亡日期与地点。第三张是那首新歌——夜来香未眠三页，两声部，钢琴一行写在底下。

我把三张纸都拿了。我坐下。

我读第二张。

一、沈阿淮（Shen Ahuai）——龙华刑场——一九二七年四月十二日——男，十九，纱厂工运组织者，申新九厂。

是名单上第三个名字。四十三人中的第三人。他是——一九二九年告诉我这桩事的那个男人讲时不曾肯安立片刻——四月十二日清早被杀的。一九二九年那个男人不曾给我地名。第二张纸上的地名是龙华。刑场。龙华刑场是龙华塔与龙华机场之间的一道乱葬沟，国民党人把四月那案里抓来的人带到那里，连过堂的麻烦都省了。一九二九年人告诉我，他与众人一道被扔进了那道沟里。不曾告诉我日期。日期是十二日。一九二七年四月十二日，他十九岁又三个月。人告诉过我他十九岁，可这九年里，我不曾晓得是哪一天。我晓得四月。我不曾晓得十二日。晓得一个月是一回事。晓得一日，又是一回事。日子，是一个人同意做一格日历里的一个数，而不再是一桩缺席的那一日。

我把第二张纸捧着捧了好一会儿。我没哭。这九年里，我除了同我自己的枕头说过我兄长的事而流过泪以外，对谁都不曾哭过；而那枕头自一九三三年起便不再以枕头之所以听人哭的法子听我哭了。

「您兄长，」那声音说，「死在与一九三四年申新九厂那个支部里四个人同一个四月。那个支部，一九三四年是一九二七年四月案里幸存下来的人重建的。共有三位。他们在一九二五年浦东码头工人罢工里。一九二六年中山公园那一案里。一九二七年三月被捕又放出，没在龙华，是因为那一周他们正关在虞林路工部局警务处的一间监房里。他们活了下来。他们花了七年重建。一九三四年十一月，他们在闸北一所弄堂房子里被人放火烧死。其中一位——申新四位逝者之一——是我同父异母的弟弟。另外三位是他朋友。同他们一道死的那位女子是我——」声音止了。「我所爱的女子。」

我让那一片静坐着。

「我很抱歉，」我说。

「您还不够认识我，不至于该抱歉。您日后会。我是在告诉您我自己故事里也是您兄长故事里的那一段。我们的名字在不同的账册里，是同一个名字。」声音顿了顿。「两年来我一直在写一首关于申新那案的歌。歌还没写完。您手里这一首——夜来香未眠——是它的第一乐章。第二乐章要把名字一一念出。尚没写。我一人写不出。我听了您两年，已经决定，唱它的歌女非您不可。我没法逼您唱。我也不会以——给您塞钱袋、把哈姆斯沃斯先生的事告诉您、用红墨给您改桥——这些法子让您唱。您要唱，是因为您自己决定要唱。您之所以决定唱，是因为第二份单上的名字也是您的。您会慢慢决定。我不会催。」

声音顿了顿。

「今晚我们只做第一乐章。第一乐章是清白的。第一乐章是一首关于茉莉的小歌。您可以唱给廊座里那些银行家听，他们会以为是一位姑娘唱给月亮的情歌。第一乐章里有层次。日后您会听见。今晚我们做气。第一乐章需要的那一口气，比您合同里所教您的要长。我要请您坐下。我要您把第二张纸塞到乐谱里，第三十二小节翻页那处。我要您看这首歌。我要您把指头按在肋骨底端的两侧，肋与软骨相接的那一处，我要您感觉，我数到四时您的肋是怎么动的。我们要数四拍，您要听您的肋。头半个钟头我们不唱。我们呼吸。可好？」

「好的。」

「起。」

他数了四拍。

我们呼吸。

三十分钟里我们都不唱。他数。我呼吸。他纠。他说了四回：低些；气太高；您在用喉咙呼吸；气是在背上的；背是歌者的朋友；喉是歌者的敌人。他从不抬高声调。他说话的样子，像一个教了多年小孩、又在某一处停下来、如今不甚乐意再教的人。木箱上那架收音机半点半点地走。这座砖屋与外面走廊一样的温度——比化妆室略凉——灯里的黄光也一样。南墙上那扇高窗仍是一样的漆作黑色。

半个钟头后他说，「这下。」

他弹了《夜来香未眠》的引子。钢琴部分极素——右手一道下行小线，左手一个按住的和弦，舒伯特艺术歌里最简单几首歌所用的那种伴奏。我意识到，这钢琴部分弹起来比听起来难。左手在这种和声排列里，要按一个十度跨度的和弦，得四指；琴上那位先生是用三指按的。我意识到，他左手的中指是在做两根手指的活——在最低音与次低音之间转。今晚我所听过的他弹的每一个和弦，他都是这么按的。不知是什么缘故，他左手没法跨一个十度。上礼拜五我没察觉，因为我还没听到那里。今晚我察觉了。

我自然没说我察觉了。

我唱了第一段。

夜来香未眠——三更月正寒——小桥流水声——何处问平安

我按方才那道气息练习要我唱的法子唱。元音开。子音软。下颌比合同里的国语低四分之一寸。词组在「月」上扬，在「寒」上落。桥段在「声」上扬，问句何处问平安——where shall one ask after peace——出口时却唱得像陈述，不像问。他在那一问上叫停了我。

「这是一个问句，」他说。「您唱得像在叙事。何处问平安——问在何处可向人问太平。您在喉咙里把它译作英文，而英文在那里没有问句的语调。中文有。把安在末了往上抬四分之一度。不是音高——是姿态。把它抬作一个问。再来。」

他给我那个和弦。我唱那一句。我把安抬起。

安抬起了。

「就那个，」他说。「就那个。您听见了吗。」

「我听见了。」

「这便是这首歌问观众的一问。这是第一乐章里唯一的一问。第一乐章其余的，都是茉莉。第二乐章会是答案。第二乐章尚没写。我们日后一道写。今晚，是这一问。再唱一遍这一段。」

我又唱了一遍。

我们做了两小时。两回他在问句上叫停我。一回他在桥段上叫停——桥段后半，我唱得过于事务，他要我少几分熟练，多几分老实，是他这么说的。您又在做职业人。停。把它唱作一个正在问那一问的女人。我把它唱作一个正在问那一问的女人。他把末了那个和弦按住。然后放开。

他说，「够了。再唱下去您明日要哑。把水罐里的水喝了。坐。歇口气。」

我喝了水。水罐是搪瓷，白底蓝口。水是凉的。他在我下来之前就把水罐盛好了；我没看见他盛——他必是在第二场之前那一个钟头里盛的，那时我在台上。我三口喝了。我坐。

「我有一问，」我说。

「请问。」

「礼拜二您说，您有一条门路得知哈姆斯沃斯先生被人尾了。今晚您说，您有一位朋友的朋友在福煦路用晚饭。您说，您有一条得账册的路。您说，您有一条得知《圣经》与神父的路。我今晚算下来，您过去一周里有三条门路把这屋子以外的消息带了进来。您是在说——而不明说——您不出这间屋子。是不是。」

声音停了一会儿。

「我不常出这间屋子。」

「四年里，这栋楼的走廊里我没见过任何一个可能是您的人。我对走廊有极好的记性。」

「我不走这栋楼的走廊。」

「那您走哪里。」

「有一道工务井。有一道楼梯，不是您下来这一道。有三个出口，今晚我不细说。我只说一桩——它们都不通到愚园路或万航渡路。我在这栋楼里有三条出路，过去三个月里，我用过一条，两次。我在这栋楼里有若干小小的安排，不在这间屋子里办，包括一位朋友是菲律宾乐手的头一只长号——一位名唤维森特·亚马多的先生——还有一位朋友是夜班门房。这位夜班门房，您按另一个名字唤他。他并不特别属于您。他是——这么说罢——先属于我。他晓得那位英国先生何时在何时不在。他晓得姚三爷何时在廊座何时不在。两个礼拜二里，他告诉过我您是几时进来的。他只告诉了我我请他告诉的那些，也就是只那些与歌有关的。他人若问他别的，他不曾再告诉别的。」

「夜班门房。」

「是。」

「他姓魏。他唤我苏小姐。」

「他礼拜三唤您这个。别的晚上，他唤您别的。魏是温州人。他父亲是天主教徒。他做门房之前在震旦读过书。他是这栋楼里站在我这一边的人之一。菲律宾乐手是另一位。木匠胡先生是第三位。俄国梳头娘安雅是第四位。电工领班王先生是第五位，可王先生去年八月不在了。这栋楼里我大约有八位，若我请，他们会替我递消息；他们没把您不曾授权的关于您的消息递给我。我请过他们不要把您未授权的消息递给我。我尤其请过夜班门房，不要告诉我您礼拜日早上几点到——因为礼拜日早上不属于歌。您礼拜日早上做什么，我不知道。我也不需要知道。可否？」

「可。」

「安雅。」

「安雅是我的朋友。一九三四年起便是我的朋友。她不曾把您的事告诉我。礼拜日晚上她告诉过我，我镜子后头有一片夹板。是我问她，她才告诉我。这两年里她对您一字未提。」

「安雅之所以忠于我，」那声音说，「是因为一九三五年她女儿——那位在礼查饭店当打字员的姑娘——差一点在外白渡桥上被一位日本宪兵以查证件为由抓走。那宪兵没抓她，是因为菲律宾乐手维森特那一夜恰好自礼查饭店的午夜场散场回来过桥，以一种我不细说的法子从中插了一手。安雅晓得这桩。安雅不晓得那是维森特。安雅只晓得有一位「某人」，因为事后我告诉了她，有一位某人帮过她女儿，而这位某人的名字不会说。安雅作为回礼，这十八个月里没有把指头按到您镜子后头那片夹板上。这便是这栋楼里所谓的忠。代价回头看来不高。是在地窖里付的那种价。」

这些事我一概不知。我不知道她女儿差一点被抓。我不知道安雅有什么理由要忠于女儿以外的任何人。

我说，「您为何等了两年。」

「因为您没准备好，」那声音说。「也因为我没。也因为一九三四年我是一个人，一九三五年我在愤怒，一九三六年我开始倦了。倦得先来。倦必得先来。一个人若在还愤怒着的时候去写一首关于被害朋友们的歌，他写出来的只会是那场被害。歌里也得有那些朋友。我一直到去年，才又听见那些朋友。我所以听见了那些朋友，是因为我开始听见您的声音。抱歉。这一桩感伤是我今晚本没打算给您的。我的感伤是有配给的。今晚超支了。」

我有好一会儿不知该说什么。

我说，「我唤您什么。」

「风声，」那声音说。「上礼拜五我便告诉过您。风的声音。亦是流言的声音。是一个小小的私下的笑话。我做了两年的流言。如今或许又在以一种小小的法子做一位先生了。我自一九二九年起便没做过先生。我——虽然我不告诉您是何故——比您所想的要年轻。我不是个老头子。我二十八岁。我有一只左手跨不到十度。我在这地板下头住了两年。我有一架德律风根收音机，能收汉口频率与马尼拉频率，又在晴好的夜里、天线摆得对了，能收西贡频率。我有一大堆五线谱稿纸。我有一只小蒸汽箱，里头是四种语文的书，其中两种我尚还过得去。我没什么我用得着的钱。这两年里，除我所提的那四位以外，没人见过我。在通常的意义上，我不存在。您是在与一个流言说话。这个流言决定教您一首歌。这，多少算不算是您那一问的一个答。」

「算。风声。」

「风声。」

我们坐在那片静里。收音机敲了第三刻。

「明晚，」他说。「第二场之后。把歌带来。两张纸，您愿带便带；不愿带，就留在琴架上。我并不特别要它们；它们是您的。我们做第二段。第二段比头一段难。第二段里，歌者承认自己到过那座桥，承认水一直流着，承认那一问一直在问。您唱时得晓得，您是否也是那个到过桥的歌者。我们慢慢来。我不催。」

「好。」

「这一支烛拿去，」他说。「您带来的那一支湿了。我的是干的。」

一只手自屋子西头的暗影里伸出。手戴着手套——薄黑棉，男人在四川北路的中西杂货摊上一买一打、合不到四十分钱的那种。手把一支新烛搁进一只小碟里，放在我椅边的桌上。我尚没来得及看清，手便又收回去了。我在烛光里只看见，手套是薄黑棉，袖口上的腕子瘦，左手——这是左手，我看出来了——的小指，在某处有些短。那短不是缺指；是指尖一节没了。棉手套虽撑过去要合身，到小指尖处却没合上。指尖在布上略平地搁着。

我没说我看见了那只手。我拿起那支新烛。我从窗边桌上的那盏灯上把它点了——做这一桩时把背朝向了屋子西头——我把烛端到拱门口，说了一声，风声，晚安，那声音说，婉吟，晚安，我便上楼了。

四十二级。这一回蜡没有顺着我的手流下。

冷藏间里火腿仍如旧。厨房后头一张桌上，第二只单簧管托尼正在吃一碗面，他朝我挥了挥筷子，那神情仿佛我礼拜五凌晨三点半从冷藏间上来是百乐门里寻常的事。或许是寻常的。或许托尼不曾被人嘱咐要注意。或许托尼被人嘱咐过要注意——又被人嘱咐过，注意了也不要说。我想，菲律宾乐手维森特·亚马多大约也被嘱咐过不要说。那位菲律宾乐手维森特·亚马多，一九三五年在外白渡桥上同一位俄国梳头娘的女儿、一位日本宪兵在过。

我走后楼梯上去。

化妆室的门是我锁上时的样子。衣柜是我离开时的样子。镜子四围那八只灯泡都暗着。

那两张名单在我手袋的内袋里，搁在《申报》之后，搁在那三张乐谱之后，搁在黄铜钥匙边上，搁在泰迪·哈姆斯沃斯那支自来水笔边上。

手袋，又一次，沉了起来。手袋在以某种小而未经准许的法子，变作一个国度——我是它唯一的国民。

我宽衣。我把那件银旗袍挂到屏风后头。我查了右侧腰缝的夹里，那处礼拜日有一张纸。今晚没有纸。我把旗袍放进衣柜，把柜锁上。

我穿着衬衣坐在妆台前，看镜里的女人。

她有一位兄长，死在一九二七年四月十二日，龙华，十九岁又三个月。她有一首歌，第二段会比头一段难。她有一位先生，二十八岁，曾爱过一位姓安的女子——那声音不曾把名字其余说完，但我已把那姓收作记档——且按他自己的说法，他并不存在。她有一位英国先生，被人尾着。她有一位日本军官，今晚未来。她有姚三爷，今晚被浦东一桩事绊住了。她有林姨，再过十四个月零两天，会在虹口一所弄堂房子里被一枚打偏的炸弹炸死。她有一位俄国梳头娘，女儿一九三五年差点被日本宪兵抓走。

她又有，那位男子在课末给她的一支新烛，搁在小碟里。她端着它上了楼。她把它搁在妆台上。它仍亮着，极静。

她在上礼拜五与今晚的礼拜五，听见过地板里一道伏音，那已不是蒸汽管的声响。

她已应了明日再来。

我把烛吹熄。屋子暗了。暗里我听见，远远地在我下头——五十英尺之下，隔着三层砖、托梁与弹簧枫木——钢琴上一个音，按了两秒，放开。

那是一声谢。听到第二回，我已经晓得，谢声听上去是什么样的。

我躺在长榻上，手按着手袋的内袋。我没睡。夜过去了。点灯人在外头某处的愚园路上，做着他与点灯相反的那一程——把煤气灯一一灭去。城在一九三六年六月那个礼拜五的长夜里，按这个钟点向来呼吸的法子呼吸——缓缓的，带着一道楼里经通风井送回的低嗡。四点一辆电车自愚园路过。五点一辆送奶车。

我直到六点才睡。睡时我梦见吴县那道河堤，母亲的声音，一座小桥下流着水，桥头一个男人不肯回头，我所能看见他的，只是他那只搁在桥栏上的左手，戴着一只薄黑棉手套，小指应有指节的那一处，略平地搁在布上。

梦里我问，何处问平安。

梦里那男人不答。

午时梦放我去。林姨在隔壁屋里，极轻地唱着我三年未听她唱过的一支评弹的头一句。

我手按着手袋的内袋躺在床上，听养母在她椅子里唱，我想，我已应了明日再来，又想，是，我已应了，又想，第二段会比头一段难。

是会的。这国度也会。

四百天后，我窗外这条弄不会再在。林姨此刻坐着唱的那张椅子不会再在。墙角的那架风琴不会再在。今天，六月这个礼拜六，虹口弄堂之上的一扇窗里，一切都还在，短暂地在，里头有我养母小而干的嗓子、有刚开始叫的蝉、有送奶人走过弄口时空瓶在他木箱里磕碰的声响。

这一切将不复存在，那时我尚不知。

我所知道的是，第二段会比头一段难。

我所知道的是，这一夜我会唱头一段。

午后是暖的。林姨睡了。我替自己盛了一小碗白饭，在厨房里站着吃，揭着饭锅盖——这种吃法我九年来没做过，因为这九年里，我不曾在午时一个人穿着衬衫站在厨房里，揭着饭锅盖。

七点我去了百乐门。

午夜我唱。

一点我下去。

四十二级。蜡没有流。

第二段，如他所说，比头一段难。

我五点上来。点灯人在愚园路上正灭最后几盏灯。我上了一辆人力车。车夫问，去哪里，我说，虹口的弄堂。他便拉我去。外白渡桥在这小钟点是空的。日本哨兵尚未变作他们日后所要变作的样子。桥在人力车的轮下，仍发着自一九〇七年起便发着的那一道小小的钢响。

手袋搁在我膝上，沉。

我一路把手覆在它上头，到家为止。

Chapter Five — The Second Descent

I went down on Friday at midnight.

I had not decided to. I had decided, on the Wednesday, that I would not. I had decided, on the Thursday, that I would. I had decided, on the Friday afternoon between two and three, sitting at Auntie Lin's bedside reading aloud from a Pathé fan magazine that had come in the post — a profile of Zhou Xuan called Our Golden Voice's Favorite Breakfast — that I would not, and I would write a note in Teddy's fountain pen and leave it on the vanity addressed to no one, saying thank you, I cannot return.

By six in the evening I had not written the note.

By eight I had reached the dressing room. Anya was at the screen with the silver qipao on the hanger and the lamp lit and the rouge ready. The vanity was as I had left it on Tuesday. The eight bulbs around the mirror were dark. There was no new paper.

I sat. Anya put the rouge on. I had decided, that morning in the bath in the lane house, that the answer to Tuesday's note was to wait — to not go down, to not press the seam in the wallpaper, to not answer; to let the silence be the answer; to keep him, if he was a him, on the far side of a door I had not opened. I had decided this in a bath at ten o'clock in the morning with a bar of jasmine soap Pearl had given me, and the decision had lasted until ten past ten, when I had finished the bath. By ten thirty I had begun to dress with the small dread of a person who has agreed with herself to behave and who does not entirely believe she will. I did not, that day, eat lunch. I had a small dish of pickled radish at four with Auntie Lin and a cup of bitter tea and that was all.

In the dressing room at quarter past eight Anya finished and stood back and turned me toward the mirror.

"You look like a woman tonight, not a girl," she said.

"Anya. Today is Friday."

"I know what today is. You look like a woman on a Friday, not a girl on a Friday. Stand up. The set begins in seventeen minutes."

I stood up. She left at five to nine. I sat alone for one minute. The minute was the discipline I had given myself. In the minute I heard, again, what I had called in my own private grammar the floor. A long slow vibration. A note. Below it a smaller note, half a tone lower. They settled into a third — a minor third — and held there for two seconds and stopped.

It was the seventh measure of Drizzle of May.

I had heard it on Friday last week and I had not known what it was. I knew now. He was, two floors below me, on the keyboard of the Bechstein, doing a thing I had not asked him to do — playing the seventh measure, two notes, a third, a held second of nothing — which was the kind of thing a person did, downstairs, when he was telling a person upstairs that he was there if needed. It was, in its own way, polite.

I went down to the first set. I sang. Yao Sanye was not in the gallery for the first set, which was unusual; the maître d' told me, between sets, that he had been delayed by a matter in Pudong. The Japanese officer at table seven was not there either, which had not happened on a Friday in three weeks; the maître d' had no opinion about him. Tonight the gallery was thinner than usual. There were perhaps twenty bankers, including the Spanish brandy importer at table fourteen who lifted his head three times. There were perhaps twelve foreign ladies — Sassoon's third niece was in town, the maître d' had said, and had brought a party — and there was a German consular wife with her husband at table nine who had, in March, requested Drizzle of May by name in three languages.

I sang. I did not, tonight, lean on the third syllable of fragrant. I held the note. I held it the way the man in the basement had asked me to hold it. The bankers did not get their catch. The brandy importer lifted his head and lowered it and did not lift it again. The German consul's wife, on the other hand, in some surprise, set down her champagne. The third clarinet on the bandstand looked sideways at the first clarinet and the first clarinet shook his head a sixteenth of a centimeter, which is what bandleaders' first clarinets do when they have noticed a thing and have decided to not have noticed it.

I bowed twice. I came up.

In the dressing room, on the vanity, in the same place as on Tuesday, there was a single line on Pathé staff paper.

Yes. That was the note. Come down.

I sat. The handbag was on the chair where I had left it. I opened it. The brass key was at the bottom. The Conway Stewart was beside the key. Three pieces of folded music paper were behind the Shenbao. The jasmine from Tuesday at the Bund had wilted to a brown sweetness. I did not, for a long moment, do anything.

Then I picked up the line. I read it twice. I folded it. I put it in the bag.

I went down.

The cold-storage room was as it had been on Friday. The hams hung. The crates were stacked as before. The door at the back was unlocked. I went through. The stair was as it had been, the forty-two steps as steep, the brick wall at my shoulder. I did not count, this time. The candle in my hand was a fresh one — Anya kept three in the drawer for blowouts — and I had a second in my pocket.

At the bottom I went through the arch.

The room was as I had left it. The Bechstein upright stood three feet from the brick wall, perpendicular, the lamp on its small table turned low, the cot neat, the books in their crate, the radio on its wooden box ticking very faintly the way the Telefunken ticked when it had been on and turned off in the last hour. The piano stool had been turned a quarter rotation toward the wall. The score on the music desk had changed. It was no longer Drizzle of May. It was a piece of staff paper in three pages, lyric below, in his cursive, and the title above the first staff in the same red ink: 夜来香未眠 — Tonight's jasmine has not yet slept. It was the song he had left in the lining of the silver qipao on Sunday.

"You came," said the voice.

It came, again, from the west end of the room, beyond the lamp's reach. The voice was the same voice. Tired. Tuesday-evening voice. Mandarin with the southern slide and the Russian vowel.

"I came."

"Sit. Same chair. You may bring the candle. Tonight the lesson is on a different exercise. I am not going to make you sing the bridge of Li Jinhui again. You will have other times to sing the bridge of Li Jinhui. Tonight we are going to begin a new song. You have seen the line. You have read the line. Sit."

I sat.

He let me sit for a moment. The radio on the crate hummed once, softly, and stopped.

He said, "I owe you an apology."

I waited.

"On Tuesday at half past midnight I left a piece of paper on your vanity which contained information I should not have had. The information was correct. I had it through a route I will tell you about in time, and not all at once, because if I tell you all at once you will not return and the information I had will become the reason you did not return. I will tell you, tonight, this part of it." He paused. The radio's vacuum tubes ticked, very faintly. "On Wednesday morning at nine, the Englishman Edward Harmsworth was followed from the Long Bar to the Daily News offices on the Bund by a man in a brown linen suit who had been having coffee at the Long Bar from seven. The man in the brown linen suit was not Japanese. The man in the brown linen suit was, in my best guess, the son-in-law of a Cantonese rice importer who has been doing favors for Zhang Xiaolin since 1933. Mr. Harmsworth, who is not a careless man, noticed the brown linen suit at the bank and walked an extra block on Sichuan Road in order to verify that he had not been mistaken, after which he went to the Daily News and wrote, without writing anything down, a small note in his own pocket book that said Zhang's people on Tuesday in brown linen. I am not at the Long Bar. I am not at the Daily News. I have a friend who is."

I let four seconds pass.

"How long has Mr. Harmsworth been followed."

"Eleven days. Since the publication, on the eighteenth of May, of a piece in the Daily News — which was edited down to a single paragraph before it ran — about the Hubei Road dens and a Japanese consulate liaison's habit of attending them. Mr. Harmsworth did not name the consulate liaison in the original draft. He did, however, name two Green Gang men by their aliases. One of the aliases was Zhang's. Zhang is now, by way of his son-in-law and three others, taking an interest. The interest has not yet manifested as anything physical. The interest may not. Zhang does not, as a rule, harm Englishmen, because the cost of harming Englishmen is not yet acceptable to him; the cost will become acceptable to him, possibly, this autumn. Until then Mr. Harmsworth is on the list of men who are followed but not yet acted on. I am telling you because if you continue to drink coffee with Mr. Harmsworth on Tuesdays at Sun Ya — which I encourage you to continue, because it is good for your English and because Mr. Harmsworth is the only man in the Settlement who would not, under torture, give your name — you will be in the company of a man who is followed, and you will then become a person who is followed, and that will require us to adjust."

"Adjust what."

"Adjust where you and Mr. Harmsworth meet. Adjust how long. Adjust whether you continue to use that fountain pen for any letter that might be intercepted. Adjust the small things. I am also asking you, please, to not send Mr. Harmsworth to Sergeant Ricard at the Cercle Sportif on Tuesdays. I will get you the list myself. I have a route. I did not, when I wrote the Tuesday note, have time to tell you my route. I will tell you now."

The voice paused.

"I have a friend who has a friend who has, on the second Sunday of every month, dinner at Avenue Foch with a French Concession deputy commissioner. I do not need a green ledger. I have the names already. I have the names from a list that was made in 1934 by a Chinese typist who worked, briefly, in a side office at 11 Avenue Foch, and who copied the ledger in shorthand into the back of a Bible, and who gave the Bible, in 1935, to a priest at the church on Avenue du Roi Albert. The priest was Dr. Morancy's friend. Dr. Morancy was the doctor who, in 1934, saved my life. Dr. Morancy died of a stroke six weeks ago. The priest at Avenue du Roi Albert is still alive, and on the Wednesday after Dr. Morancy's funeral the priest invited me to morning Mass through a third party and gave me the Bible. I have the names. I have all of them. There are forty-three. Four of them are persons who were killed in the action of November 1934 at the Shenxin printing press. The other thirty-nine are persons who were killed, in 1927, in the actions of April."

I had not moved. I had been very still through the entire monologue.

"My brother's name," I said.

The voice did not answer for a moment.

"Yes," it said. "Your brother's name is on the second list. I had not, when I called you down on Friday last week, known whose name it was. I did not, on Friday last week, know your name. I have, since Tuesday, learned your name. I learned it on the same path as the brown linen suit. I am sorry. I have been thinking, for three days, about whether to tell you tonight or to wait. I am telling you tonight because it is your name and not mine, and because I have a piece of paper here, on the music desk, that was not here on Friday last week, and on which is written the name of every person who died on the second of those two lists. I would like — if you would like — to give the paper to you. I will not read the paper to you. You may read it yourself. It is in a Chinese typist's shorthand. I have written the names out fair, in my own hand, on a second sheet beneath it. You may take both."

The room held a great deal of silence.

"What is the name of the woman who copied the ledger into the Bible."

"She is dead. Her name was Bao Lifen. She had a daughter at the Aurora University who is now in Chongqing."

"What is the name of the priest."

"Father Lamy."

"What is the name of the doctor."

"Pierre Morancy. He was, until October, the chief of internal medicine at the Hôpital Sainte-Marie on Avenue Joffre. He was sixty. He had three sons. The eldest is dead, in Lyon, in 1934. The middle is a teacher in Hanoi. The youngest will probably go to Vichy in 1940 and that has not, I think, yet been decided in him."

"And what is your name."

The voice paused for a longer second than before.

"I will not tell you tonight."

"Why."

"Because if I tell you tonight you will use it tomorrow in a place I cannot watch, in a way I cannot, in advance, prepare you for, and someone will hear you say it and will recognize it and will come for me, and you and I both will lose what we have begun. I will tell you, in time. I will give you my name when I have given you enough to know what you are taking on. You have my voice. You have my hand. You have, tonight, two pieces of paper with the dead written on them. That is what I am willing to give you tonight. Will you take them."

"I will take them."

"Stand."

I stood.

"Walk to the music desk. The two papers are on top of the score. The score is the new song. The two papers are weighted by the river stone. Take the papers. Take the song. Sit again."

I walked to the music desk. The river stone was the small black smooth thing I had seen on Friday. I lifted it. Underneath were three sheets of paper. The first was a piece of cheap notebook stock, the kind one bought in lots of a hundred at any stationer on Henan Road, on which had been written, in a small cramped hand, in a Chinese shorthand I half-recognized — not full characters, abbreviations, the kind a court typist used to take down testimony at speed — a list of names. I counted, quickly: forty-three. The second was the same names in clean Chinese, in his cursive, with the dates and the places of death noted at the right of each name in a small careful script. The third was the new song — the three pages of 夜来香未眠, in two voices, with the piano line written underneath.

I took the three sheets. I sat.

I read the second sheet.

1. 沈阿淮 (Shen Ahuai) — Longhua execution ground — 12 April 1927 — male, 19, textile organizer, Shenxin No. 9.

It was the third name on the list. He was the third of forty-three. He was, as I had been told in 1929 by a man who would not stand still while he told me, killed on the morning of the twelfth. The man in 1929 had not given me a place. The place on the second sheet was Longhua. The execution ground. The Longhua execution ground was a pauper's trench between the Longhua Pagoda and the Longhua Airfield, where the KMT had brought the men they had taken in their April action and had not bothered with magistracy. I had been told, in 1929, that he had been thrown into the trench with the others. I had not been told the date. The date was the twelfth. He was nineteen years and three months old on the twelfth of April in 1927. I had been told he was nineteen but I had not, in the nine years since, known the exact day. I had known April. I had not known the twelfth. It is one thing to know a month. It is another to know a day. The day is the day a person agrees to be a date in a calendar instead of an absence.

I held the second sheet for a long minute. I did not cry. I had not, in nine years, cried about my brother to anyone but my pillow, and the pillow had not been hearing me cry, the way pillows hear you, since 1933.

"Your brother," the voice said, "was killed in the same April as four of the men who were running the cell at Shenxin No. 9 in 1934. The cell, in 1934, was the rebuilt cell of the men who had survived the 1927 April. There were three of them. They had been at the Pudong dockworkers' strike in 1925. They had been at Sun Yat-sen Park in 1926. They had been arrested and released in March 1927 and had not been at Longhua because they had been in a Shanghai Municipal Police cell on Yulin Road for that week. They had survived. They had spent seven years rebuilding. In November of 1934 they were burned alive in a lane house in Zhabei. One of them — one of the four killed at Shenxin — was my younger half-brother. The other three were friends of his. The woman who was killed with them was a woman I — " The voice stopped. "The woman I had loved."

I let the silence sit.

"I am sorry," I said.

"You do not yet know me well enough to be sorry. You will. I am telling you the part of my own story that is also the part of your brother's story. We have the same name in different ledgers." The voice paused. "I have, for two years, been writing a song about the action at Shenxin. The song is not yet finished. The song you have in your hand — 夜来香未眠 — is the first movement of it. The second movement will name the names. It is not yet written. I cannot, alone, write it. I have decided, after listening to you for two years, that you are the singer it requires. I cannot make you sing it. I will not, by leaving you envelopes of money or by sending you news of Mr. Harmsworth or by correcting your bridge in red ink, make you sing it. You will sing it because you decide to sing it. You will decide to sing it because the names on the second list are also yours. You will decide it slowly. I will not press."

The voice paused.

"Tonight we are going to work on the first movement only. The first movement is innocent. The first movement is a small song about jasmine. You can sing the first movement to your bankers in the gallery and they will think it is a love song from a girl to a moon. There are layers in the first movement. You will, in time, hear them. Tonight we are going to work on the breath. The first movement requires a longer breath than your contract has been teaching you. I want you to sit down. I want you to put the second sheet of paper inside the score, where the page turns at measure thirty-two. I want you to look at the song. I want you to put your fingers on the bottom of your ribcage on each side, where the rib meets the cartilage, and I want you to feel what your ribs do when I count four. We are going to do four counts and you are going to listen to your ribs. We are not going to sing for the first half hour. We are going to breathe. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Begin."

He counted four.

We breathed.

For thirty minutes we did not sing. He counted. I breathed. He corrected. He said, four times, lower; the breath is too high; you are breathing in your throat; the breath is in your back; the back is the singer's friend; the throat is the singer's enemy. He spoke without ever raising his voice. He spoke in the manner of a man who had taught children for years and had stopped, somewhere, and was not entirely glad to be teaching again. The radio on the crate ticked the half hours. The brick room was the same temperature as the corridor — slightly cooler than the dressing room — and the lamp's yellow light was the same. The single high window above the south wall was the same painted black.

At the end of half an hour he said, "Now."

He played the lead-in to 夜来香未眠. The piano part was very simple — a small descending line in the right hand over a held chord in the left, the kind of accompaniment a Schubert lieder uses for the simplest songs. The piano part was, I realized, harder to play than it sounded. The left hand had to hold a chord that, in this voicing, required four fingers in a span of a tenth, and the man at the piano played the chord with three. The third finger of his left hand was, I realized, doing the work of two — pivoting between the lowest note and the next-lowest. He had been doing this on every chord I had heard him play. He could not, for some reason, span a tenth with his left hand. I had not noticed, on Friday, because I had not yet been listening for it. Tonight I noticed.

I did not, of course, say I noticed.

I sang the first verse.

夜来香未眠 — 三更月正寒 — 小桥流水声 — 何处问平安

I sang it the way the breath drill had asked me to sing it. The vowels open. The consonants soft. The jaw a quarter inch lower than the contract Mandarin. The phrase rising on 月 yuè and falling on 寒 hán. The bridge phrase rising on 声 shēng and the question 何处问平安 — where shall one ask after peace — coming out, in the singing, more as a statement than a question. He stopped me on the question.

"It is a question," he said. "You are saying it like a statement. 何处问平安 — where shall one ask after peace. You are translating it into English in your throat and the English does not have a question intonation on it. Chinese does. Lift the 安 a quarter step at the very end. Not in pitch — in posture. Lift it as a question. Try again."

He gave me the chord. I sang the line. I lifted the 安.

The 安 lifted.

"There," he said. "There. That. Did you hear it."

"I heard it."

"That is the question the song asks the audience. It is the only question the first movement asks. The rest of the first movement is jasmine. The second movement will be the answer. The second movement is not yet written. We will, in time, write it together. Tonight, the question. Sing the verse again."

I sang the verse again.

We worked for two hours. Twice he stopped me on the question. Once he stopped me on the bridge — the second half of the bridge, which I had sung in too businesslike a manner, and which he wanted less competent and more honest, was how he put it. You are again being a professional. Stop. Sing it as the woman who is asking the question. I sang it as the woman who was asking the question. He held the last chord and let it go.

He said, "Enough. You will be hoarse tomorrow if we go on. Drink the water in the pitcher. Sit. Catch your breath."

I drank the water. The pitcher was enamel, white with a blue rim. The water was cool. He had filled the pitcher before I came down; I had not seen him do it; he must have done it in the hour before the second set, when I was on stage. I drank the water in three swallows. I sat.

"I have a question," I said.

"Ask."

"On Tuesday you said you had a route by which you knew that Mr. Harmsworth had been followed. Tonight you said you have a friend who has a friend who has dinner at Avenue Foch. You said you have a route for the ledger. You said you have a path that knows about the Bible and the priest. You have, by my count tonight, three routes by which you have produced information from outside this room in the last week. You are saying — without saying — that you do not leave this room. Is that true."

The voice was silent for a moment.

"I do not leave this room often."

"In four years I have not seen anyone in the corridors of this building who could be you. I have a very good memory for corridors."

"I do not use the corridors of this building."

"Where do you use, then."

"There is a service shaft. There is a stair which is not the stair you came down. There are three exits I will not, tonight, describe. None of them, I will say, are on Yuyuan Road or Wanhangdu Road. I have, in this building, three ways out, of which I have used one, twice, in three months. I have, in this building, a number of small operations which I do not run from this room, including a friend who is the chief Filipino trombonist — a man named Vicente Llamado — and a friend who is the night doorman. The friend who is the night doorman is a man you call by another name. He is not particularly your doorman. He is — let me say — he is my doorman first. He knows when the Englishman has been here and when he has not. He knows when Yao Sanye has been in the gallery and when he has not. He has, on two Tuesdays, told me what time you came in. He has told me only what I asked him to tell me, which is only what concerned the song. He has not, when asked anything else, told me anything else."

"The night doorman."

"Yes."

"His name is Wei. He calls me Miss Su."

"That is the name he calls you on Wednesdays. On other nights he calls you other things. Wei is from Wenzhou. His father was a Catholic. He was at the Aurora before he was a doorman. He is one of the persons who, in this building, is on my side. The Filipino trombonist is another. The carpenter Mr. Hu is the third. The Russian dresser Anya is the fourth. The chief electrician Mr. Wang was the fifth but Mr. Wang died last August. I have, in this building, perhaps eight people who would, if asked, give me information; they have not given me information about you that they have not been authorized, by you, to give. I have asked them to not give me information you did not authorize. I have, in particular, asked the night doorman to not tell me what time you arrived on Sunday mornings, because Sunday mornings are not the song. I do not know what you do on Sunday mornings. I do not need to know. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Anya."

"Anya is my friend. She has been my friend since 1934. She did not tell me about you. She told me, on Sunday evening, that there is a panel behind my mirror. I asked her. She gave me the information. She has not, otherwise, said anything to me about you for two years."

"Anya is loyal to me," the voice said, "because in 1935 her daughter, the typist at the Astor House, was almost arrested at the Garden Bridge by a Japanese constable for a paper-papers question. The constable did not arrest her because the Filipino trombonist — Vicente — happened to be on the bridge that evening returning from a midnight set at the Astor and intervened in a manner I will not describe. Anya knows this. Anya does not know it was Vicente. Anya knows only that Vicente exists, because I told her, after the fact, that someone had helped her daughter, and that the someone would not be named. Anya, in return, has not pressed her finger to the panel behind your mirror in eighteen months. That is what loyalty is, in this building. The price is, in retrospect, low. It is the price one pays in cellars."

I had not known any of this. I had not known the daughter was almost arrested. I had not known Anya had any reason to be loyal to anyone but her daughter.

I said, "Why did you wait two years."

"Because you were not ready," the voice said. "And because I was not. And because in 1934 I was alone, and in 1935 I was angry, and in 1936 I was beginning to be tired. The tired came first. The tired had to come first. A man who tries to write a song about murdered friends while he is still angry will produce only the murder. The song must also have the friends. I did not, until last year, hear the friends again. I heard the friends because I started to hear your voice. I am sorry. That is a sentimentalism I had not meant to give you tonight. I have rationed my sentimentalisms. We are over budget."

I did not, for a long moment, know what to say.

I said, "What do I call you."

"Feng Sheng," the voice said. "As I told you on Friday. Sound of wind. It is also sound of rumor. It is a small private joke. I have been a rumor for two years. Now I am, perhaps, in a small way, a teacher again. I have not been a teacher since 1929. I am — though I will not tell you how — younger than you might think. I am not an old man. I am twenty-eight. I have a left hand that does not span a tenth. I have, for two years, lived under this floor. I have a Telefunken radio that gets the Hankou frequency and the Manila frequency and, on a clear night with the antenna in the right place, the Saigon frequency. I have a great deal of music paper. I have a small steamer trunk of books in four languages, two of which I am still good at. I have no money I have any need of. I have not, in two years, been seen by anyone but the four persons I named. I do not, in any conventional sense, exist. You are talking to a rumor. The rumor has decided to teach you a song. Is that, in any way, an answer to your question."

"It is. Feng Sheng."

"Feng Sheng."

We sat in the quiet. The radio ticked the third quarter.

"Tomorrow night," he said. "After the second set. Bring the song. Bring the two papers, if you wish to bring them. If you do not, leave them here on the music desk. I do not, in particular, need them; they are yours. We will work on the second verse. The second verse is harder than the first. It is the verse where the singer admits she has been to the bridge and that the water has been flowing, and that the question has been being asked. You will, in singing it, have to know whether you are also the singer who has been to the bridge. We will go slowly. I will not press."

"Yes."

"Take this candle," he said. "The one you brought is wet. Mine is dry."

A hand came out of the shadow at the west end of the room. The hand was gloved — thin black cotton, the kind a man bought in lots from a Chinese-Western dry-goods stall on Sichuan Road for the equivalent of forty cents. The hand laid a fresh candle, in a small dish, on the table near my chair. The hand was gone again before I had finished registering it. I had, in the candlelight, seen only that the glove was thin black cotton, that the wrist above the cuff was thin, and that the smallest finger of the left hand — for it was the left hand, I saw — was, in some way, slightly shortened. The shortening was not a missing finger; it was a missing joint at the tip. The cotton glove had been stretched to fit but did not, at the tip of the smallest finger, fit. The fingertip lay slightly flat against the cloth.

I did not say I had seen the hand. I picked up the fresh candle. I lit it from the lamp on the table by the window — turning my back, in the doing, to the west of the room — and I carried the candle to the archway, and I said, good night, Feng Sheng, and the voice said, good night, Wanyin, and I climbed the stair.

Forty-two steps. The wax did not, this time, run down my hand.

In the cold-storage room the hams were as they had been. In the kitchen Tony the second clarinet was eating a bowl of noodles at the back table and waved a chopstick at me as if my coming up out of the cold storage at half past three in the morning were a thing one did on Fridays at the Paramount. Perhaps it was. Perhaps Tony had not been told to notice. Perhaps Tony had been told to notice and had been told, also, to not say. The Filipino trombonist Vicente Llamado, I thought, had probably also been told to not say. The Filipino trombonist Vicente Llamado, who had been on the Garden Bridge in 1935 with a Russian dresser's daughter and a Japanese constable.

I went up the back stair.

In my dressing room the door was as I had locked it. The wardrobe was as I had left it. The eight bulbs around the mirror were dark.

The two sheets of names were in the inside pocket of my handbag, behind the Shenbao, behind the three pieces of music, beside the brass key, beside Teddy Harmsworth's fountain pen.

The handbag, again, was getting heavier. The handbag was becoming, in some small unsanctioned way, a country of which I was the only citizen.

I undressed. I hung the silver qipao behind the screen. I checked the lining at the right side seam, in the place where on Sunday there had been a piece of paper. Tonight there was no paper. I put the qipao in the wardrobe. I locked the wardrobe.

I sat at the vanity in my under-things and looked at the woman in the mirror.

She had a brother who had died, on the twelfth of April in 1927, at Longhua, at nineteen years and three months. She had a song the second verse of which would be harder than the first. She had a teacher who was twenty-eight, who had loved a woman named An — the voice had not said the rest of the name, but I had filed it — and who, by his own account, did not exist. She had an Englishman who was being followed. She had a Japanese officer who, tonight, had not come. She had Yao Sanye, who, tonight, had been delayed in Pudong. She had Auntie Lin who would, in fourteen months minus two days, be killed in a lane house in Hongkou by a bomb dropped short of its mark. She had a Russian dresser whose daughter had been almost arrested in 1935 by a Japanese constable.

She had, also, a fresh candle in a small dish that the man had given her at the end of the lesson. She had carried it up the stair. She had put it on the vanity. It was burning still, very quietly.

She had heard, on Friday last and on Friday tonight, an undernote in the floor that was no longer a steam pipe.

She had agreed to come back tomorrow.

I blew out the candle. The room went dark. In the dark I heard, faintly, far below me — fifty feet below me, through three floors of brick and joist and sprung maple — a single note on a piano, held for two seconds, and then let go.

It was a thank you. I knew, by the second time, what a thank you sounded like.

I lay down on the chaise in the dark with my hand on the inside pocket of the handbag. I did not sleep. The night went past. The lamp-lighter, somewhere out on Yuyuan Road, made his slow inverse round, putting the gas lamps out. The city, on the long Friday of June 1936, breathed in the way the city breathed at this hour — slowly, with a low hum the building gave back through the airshaft window. A tram on Yuyuan Road went past at four. A milk-cart at five.

I did not sleep until six. When I slept, I dreamed of the riverbank in Wuxian, and of my mother's voice, and of a small bridge with flowing water under it, and a man at the bridge who did not turn around, and the only thing I could see of him was his left hand on the rail, in a thin black cotton glove, with the smallest finger lying slightly flat against the cloth where the joint should have been.

In the dream I asked, where shall one ask after peace.

In the dream the man did not answer.

The dream let me go at noon. Auntie Lin, in the next room, was singing, very quietly, the first line of a pingtan I had not heard her sing in three years.

I lay in the bed with my hand on the inside pocket of the handbag and I listened to my foster-mother singing in her chair, and I thought, I have agreed to come back tomorrow, and I thought, yes, I have, and I thought, the second verse will be harder than the first.

It would be. The country would also be.

In four hundred days the lane outside my window would not exist. The chair Auntie Lin was singing in would not exist. The harmonium in the corner would not exist. Today, on the Saturday in June, in a window above a lane in Hongkou, it all existed, briefly, with my foster-mother's small dry voice in it, and the cicadas just beginning, and the sound of the milkman going down the lane with the empty bottles knocking in their crate.

I did not yet know any of it would not exist.

I knew the second verse would be harder than the first.

I knew I would, that night, sing the first.

The afternoon was warm. Auntie Lin slept. I made myself a small bowl of plain rice and ate it standing in the kitchen with the lid off the rice pot, the way I had not eaten in nine years, because I had not, in nine years, been a girl alone in a kitchen at noon in a slip with the lid off a rice pot.

At seven I went to the Paramount.

At midnight I sang.

At one I went down.

Forty-two steps. The wax did not run.

The second verse was, as he had told me, harder than the first.

I came up at five. The lamp-lighter was putting out the last of his lamps on Yuyuan Road. I got into a rickshaw. The puller asked, where to, and I said, the Hongkou lane. He took me. The Garden Bridge was, in the small hour, empty. The Japanese sentries were not yet what they would become. The bridge gave back, under the rickshaw's wheels, the small steel hum it had given back since 1907.

The handbag, in my lap, sat heavy.

I held my hand over it the whole way home.