七部小说 · Seven Novels

第六章 ——《鸿翔》

礼拜六下午。热气整个上午从弄堂里升上来，到两点钟，那是一种使一个只穿衬裙的女人立在铜脸盆前一动也不动的热。我立在脸盆前，自以为只立了三分钟，再看一眼簧风琴上的钟，已经是十七分钟。

我四点钟才上的床。睡到正午。在厨房里站着吃了一碗白米饭，又泡了一盏淡茶，是林姨叫我替她沏的，她后来又忘了喝。蝉一点钟在弄堂的法国梧桐里叫起，要叫到十点才肯歇，而到八月底，这便是我们任何一个人此后唯一记得的一段配乐了。

三点钟，我得到鸿翔。

南京路上的鸿翔，是合约里指定的西服店。自一九三四年起便是这一家，自百乐门的财团接手我的合约、并于十月里某个礼拜三决断了「明月」的旗袍配不上他们打算把我训练成的那副样子的那一天起。鸿老板，号称店主，七十六岁，已不下楼。他儿子鸿景明，三十五岁，瘦得很，穿一身英国式西服，戴夹鼻眼镜，礼拜六下午专管夜总会这边的试身，因为唯有这一段时辰，做夜场的女人方才不在睡梦里，又尚未到俱乐部去。他不会管我们叫夜总会的女人。他唤我们这一行里的小姐们。

我换衣裳。衬裙黏在身上。我披上那件在新雅穿过的鸽灰双绉旗袍——那是我手头仅有的一件白日衣裳，看上去不像歌女歇班时穿的那种东西——再戴上那顶镶藏青缎带的小白帽，从弄堂后门出去，手袋沉甸甸地挂在肘弯里。

手袋里，自昨夜起，装的是：化妆间的铜钥匙；那支康威斯图尔特钢笔；礼拜五的《申报》，我还没扔；三张折叠的乐谱稿纸；那份死者名单的两页——一页是打字员的速记本，一页是他的手书；那张百代五线谱上写着是。便是那一个音。下来罢的纸条；还有一小束新鲜的茉莉，是我一时兴起在街角小贩那儿买的。茉莉摆在最上头。死者压在茉莉底下。笔搁在钥匙旁。手袋在一礼拜的过日子之中，已成了比它当初打算承载的更重的物件。

我在武进路口叫了辆人力车。那车夫是个约莫四十岁的人，右小腿肚上结着一块旧伤疤，长长一道，是给锅炉烫的。他按公价拉我，不和我讲价，因为我用他那一路的上海腔向他开了口——这是林姨在我十五岁上教过我的一手伎俩。

车辕在夏天里有那种湿铁与灯油的气味，是车夫六点钟给轮轴上过油、自那以后一直拉到此刻的车上才会有的气味。油在热里从轴上慢慢蒸腾。那气味贴着木头脚踏板，沿着旗袍内侧爬到人的膝头。我自十三岁起便坐这种车，在一九三三年的某一时光里已不再去留意那油味。今日，因为热，我留意到了。这是一个二十二岁的人在一座自我抵埠以来从不曾派一辆车来接我去任何我想去的地方的城里所闻见的气味。

我们走武进路，过四川北路，过外白渡桥。

桥上车堵。两辆电车连成一串。南端站着一个红头巾的锡克巡捕。北端立着一个日本哨兵，他脸上不动声色地看着车夫过去。车夫极低地说，用上海话：昨日那个在查证件，我说，我晓得，他又说，查的不是白人的证件，我说，我晓得，他便沉默到出了桥。

南京路在七月一个礼拜六的下午三点，自有它的一种气候。永安、先施门口三三两两的英国太太。各大十字路口的锡克巡捕。永安地下入口处包子蒸笼的气味，烟与尘的气味，浙江路上小贩一支铜板一枝的栀子花。福州路口的洋伞店，铜版雕刻匠，河南路上锁匠铺窗里那把比小臂还长的铜钥匙——一连三天，我都从它跟前走过。

鸿翔在河南路口，二楼，下头是一家西式皮鞋店。门旁有一块小铜牌：鸿翔西服店，创于一九一七，男女装，凭约见客。铜牌上的英文是给英国太太们看着舒坦的。中文是给其余一切人看的。

我登楼。一个穿长身绿衣裙的俄国女人挽着三只衣袋从我身边走下，眼也不抬，用带俄国口音的上海话说，今朝热煞，我也回她，热煞。她是霍尔希德夫人手下最年轻的一个针线娘子；她那张脸我在兆丰公园俄国裁缝们的礼拜日野餐上见过。她的名字我不晓得。

楼顶上是裁剪间。三个穿白衬衫的中国剪刀师傅立在长长的橡木台前；两个俄国针线娘子守着南墙根的缝纫机；架上的丝绸是一卷一卷的——给英国太太们的鸽灰丝，给中国师奶们的厚红与龙纹妆花缎，远端则是银线提花与银光闪闪的金银缎，那一角便是夜总会的角落。

鸿景明在裁剪台旁，戴着夹鼻眼镜，手里一截白粉笔，台上摊开一长卷牛皮样纸，他已用极细极慎的线条起了一件衣裳的胸襟。他抬头。

「苏小姐。你迟了四分钟。」

「桥上电车。」

「今朝礼拜六。电车永远卡在桥上。来。」

我们走进帘后的小试衣间。一面高镜，一只矮凳，一只挂钩，一台小电风扇在线上嗡嗡转着，后墙开了一扇我手掌大小的窗，朝皮鞋店的天井。风扇搅着空气。那空气搅着搅着，却并不曾凉下来。我脱衣。他立在帘子另一侧，说几句枯燥的关于天气的话，我立在高镜前，只穿一身衬裙。

高镜里的那女人，不是百乐门妆台镜里的那女人。她更瘦。锁骨更刺。左锁骨下那点痣，依旧。眼眶下有一弯小小的浮肿。头发，我看出来，礼拜一得去霞飞路上的安雅夫人那里。礼拜一我已经忘了两礼拜。

他抱着金银缎进来。

他在胸襟上三处下了别针。他用红粉笔在胸下划了一道。他用长铜尺量从肩高点到背窝的那一段，量从背窝到小腿肚的那一段，量从小腿肚到地面的那一段。小腿肚到地面，是为开衩；这开衩定下我要为这块金银缎付多少银元。金银缎按尺裁来是八十块。开衩多六块。里衬多十二块。领口的滚边多四块。

「下摆高。」他说。

「比去年高。」

「是时新。姚三爷吩咐的。」

「我晓得。」

「下摆你可以说不。下摆由你来拿主意。领口由不得你。料子由不得你。下摆，在道理之内，你可以拿主意。」

「道理之内是甚么。」

他让我跟这句话坐了一刻。他把粉笔夹在指间立着。

「礼拜五早上十点，姚三爷亲身来过。三年里他没有亲身来过。他指定开衩在膝盖骨以上三英寸。领口比去年高四分之三英寸。滚边用银线，不要白线。他亲身来过。我告诉你，是因为十九年里我未曾在七月的礼拜六同一个女人谈过一道开衩的事。下摆我会替你放四分之一英寸。八月一个礼拜五他见着旗袍，是看不出这四分之一英寸的。我给你这四分之一英寸，并不能替你救下其余。我告诉你我能做甚么。」

「我懂得。」

「这一单，连里衬、滚边和开衩，共一百二十四块银元。那笔账，添上这一项——」他取出那本黑色小摩洛哥皮笔记，舔了舔拇指，翻过一页——「四千一百一十二块。去年此时这笔账是三千八百零四。」

我在矮凳上坐下。

我心里算账，他立在那里，夹鼻眼镜架在他那只小小干净的鼻子上。我在台上，心里有一阵小小枯燥的感觉，像一段和弦正转到我还没准备好歌唱的调上去。一年前的账是三千八百，今日的账是四千一百。按一年还七百算，假设这笔账不再涨，约莫五年半可以清账。这十二个月里，虽然付了七百，账反而长了三百零八。这账，若老实算，倘若我谨慎，是六年半能清；若我不谨慎，便是八年。我清账之日，将是二十八岁或二十九岁。年初的时候，我以为是三十。

一月一日的账是三千九百一十。如今的账多了一百零二。下摆与领口，自一月至七月，已替我花掉了一百零二块银元和约莫一年的命。

我并不曾把这一番话同鸿景明说。鸿景明心里明白。

「姚三爷，」他闲谈似的，把胸襟从我肩上取下放到台上，「礼拜五问过我，你那笔账是多少。我告诉了他。他问那笔账是不是那种一席话便能替人结清的账。我也告诉了他。他取出一只小簿子，写了一个数字。那数字他没告诉我。他说他日后会就那数字与我通气。」

「他还没通气。」

「还没。」

「鸿景明。」

「在，苏小姐。」

「那四分之一英寸。」

「四分之一英寸归你。让我把话讲清——并不算多。是夏天里的四分之一英寸。」

「够了。」

他点头。其余的话他不必再说。他又把一片银线提花的样布别在我锁骨旁，与我一同断定这丝不对——光泽在水晶吊灯的距离上不肯听话——便又抱回裁剪间去了。我穿好衣。我出来。我没付他一个钱。他在那本黑色小摩洛哥皮笔记上写下那笔账，注了日子，把本子转向我让我落押，我便用康威斯图尔特钢笔在上头落了押。笔写出的线比他先前用的铅笔细。鸿景明看了一眼。

「新笔。」

「人送的。」

「英国尖。仔细收着。」

「我会的。」

他送我到楼梯口。

「八月一个礼拜五，」他说，「你穿这件金银缎，唱到香字第三个音节上你压一压，银行家便得了他们的好彩头，这一行里的男人就不会留意到那个压着第三音节的女人，是在七月一个礼拜六的下午、从她西服店裁缝那里讨走四分之一英寸像讨一枚铜钿揣进口袋里的那个女人。我告诉你，是因为十九年里，我未曾给过哪一个女人这四分之一英寸。再会，苏小姐。」

「再会，鸿先生。」

我下楼。皮鞋店窗里那个锡克小厮正在替一只童式翻毛短靴打蜡，那块布在三月里曾经是白的。我穿过南京路四点钟的人流，又向浙江路上卖栀子花的小贩买了一朵栀子。我把它放进手袋，搁在茉莉上头。

福州路口的车站上，早上那个车夫正坐着啃包子等着。他拉我过桥回去。日本哨兵换了一个人。车夫极低地说，下午查证件比早上多，我说，我晓得，车夫又说，巡捕讲，是浦东的事，我说，嗯，我听说浦东有事，车夫又说，巡捕听的，是姚家人的话。姚家人每两个月便有一桩浦东的事。今朝便是那桩事又翻出来的日子。他拉我上武进路。我多给了他一块银元。他说，苏小姐，我叫老吴。同你看门的讲一声。我做早班生意。我说，老吴，便沿弄堂走到门前。

门下有一张纸。

我钥匙还没掏出便看见。一角乐谱稿纸，折过一次，从门框下塞进来，那一角勾住了我的凉鞋。九年里，我跨过这门槛千百遍，从没在门下捡过一张纸。这弄堂是一条封弄。弄口有铁栅门。看门的曹老伯从早上六点坐到夜里九点，进来一个人便问一声是来寻谁的。看门的认得我和林姨，认得弄子对面那家人，也认得弄子尽头的木匠。七月一个礼拜六的下午，看门的，是断不会放一个生人进来的。

我捡起那张纸。我开锁。

林姨睡在贵妃榻上，小白瓷烟枪搁在边几上，灯没点。烟已经灭了。屋里有它的气味——夏天里一间窗只开一道缝的屋子里，鸦片留下的那种又厚又甜的小小气味——还有我刚买的栀子的气味，还有弄堂石库门内里那种老檀木与潮木和后廊上挂着的衣裳的气味。簧风琴抵着墙。钟说差一刻六点。

我把门关上。我握着那张纸立了好一长晌。

然后我把它展开。

是一张百代五线谱稿纸，画着三行谱表，第一行谱表上头用小小的红墨水题着：夜来香未眠。

那曲子两样了。旋律是同一段旋律。伴奏重写过了。第七小节底下的那个和弦——昨夜我隔着楼板，在化妆间里听见的那个和弦——简化过了。左手的声部疏开了。昨夜还是四个音、跨度十度的那个和弦，今日这张纸上是三个音、跨度六度。他替一只不能跨十度的左手重写了这个和弦。他把这首歌改写成可以由他、在他那架钢琴上弹奏的样子。

谱边上他没写一个字。

右下角，极小地，落着两个字。

在家。

这首歌如今在家了。这首歌晓得我住在哪里。

我在贵妃榻边上坐下。一长晌，我什么也没做。我听林姨呼吸。我听弄堂法国梧桐里的蝉。我听武进路上一辆电车开往一个今日午后我不会跟去的方向。

厨房里这时水壶啸了，因为我不知什么时候把它搁在了炉上，又忘了。我去厨房。我把水冲进那只小陶壶里。茶叶舒展开。我提着茶壶回到前厅。

林姨醒了。

「阿良，」她说。

她已有十九个月不曾这样唤过我的名了。

「在，姨。」

「你上哪去了。」

「鸿翔。」

「今朝礼拜六。」

「是。」

「今朝便是那个礼拜六。」她又闭上眼。「我三月里就同你讲过，他会亲身来。领口要高，滚边要银线，下摆要往上。我三月里就讲过。下摆上去了。」

「下摆上去了。」

她又睁开眼。一时之间，那双眼比这三礼拜里我看见的都要清。

「他还没开价。」

「他向鸿景明问过价了。」

「他问了西服店裁缝。还没问到你。等他问到你那一天，是一个礼拜五。是在第二节里。他会在间奏上抬起两根手指，并且不放下来。你会看见空中那两根手指，便晓得这一问已经来了。阿良。听我说。我有一个不是「是」的答覆替你预备着。」

「姨。」

「听我讲。床底下有一只洋铁罐。不是现在。等我睡了以后。有一只罐。罐里有一封信，还有一张不是信的纸。两样都看过。看完之后来同我坐着，告诉我四月里哪一天你晓得的。」

「姨。我晓得的是年份。」

「那一天你还不晓得。看了罐里的东西就晓得了。还有——」她顿了一顿，那种顿，是一个女人在烟从底下涌到舌尖时才会有的顿——「霞飞路上有一个波斯来的小妇人。在霞飞路与拉法叶路口。霍尔希德夫人。自一九二九年起，替我收着一样小东西。那样小东西，依你账上的价钱，是二百块银元。」

「姨。你向霍尔希德夫人当掉了甚么。」

「评弹镯子。我母亲的。我母亲的母亲。玉的。在一个小小的丝绒匣子里。霍尔希德夫人那里收着匣子。当票在罐里。」她闭上眼。「九年里，我没把当票交给你。今日交给你。一九三四年没给你，我抱歉。一九三四年我有一样东西想给你。你会看见的。那样东西在罐里。那样东西是一封信。信的日子是四月初八。一九二七年四月初八。九年里，我一直留着。我告诉你我做过甚么。看了以后，你想同我讲什么便讲。今夜九点之前，我不会睡。从此刻起到九点钟，这一段时辰我给你。」

「是。」

「先来同我坐一坐。」

我坐下。我握着她的手。手极瘦。灯没点。屋里就着烟枪、栀子和茶的小小气味。外头弄堂里蝉声不断。隔两家的男孩在练小提琴的音阶。那音阶上有十二岁的提琴学生在第三把位上常犯的一个小小重复的错——四指落得低了四分之一音，下一小节升了四分之一，再下一小节又落回去。他七分钟里会改过来。他七分钟里改过来了。九年里，孩子拉小提琴是我不肯让自己听的一件事。今日，握着养母的手，我听了。

不一刻她便睡了。

我握着她的手坐了好一长晌，看着抵墙的那架簧风琴。

那架簧风琴自一九一九年起便是她的。一九二二年从吴县沿河搭一艘小舢板上来。中央 C 上头那枚 C 上有一道小小的象牙裂痕，是她先夫一九二五年用一枚钉子磕的。风箱在一九三三年由北海路上一位早已故去的老先生重换过皮。

我替自己倒了一盏茶。我回来。我把茶盏搁在簧风琴侧。我把那朵栀子插在盏旁一只小小的水盂里。钟说六点。

我在簧风琴前坐下。我把那第三张乐谱搁在谱架上。我把双手放在键上。

我踩风箱。

我极轻地按下第一个和弦。这和弦经过那些小簧片透出来，是七月一个礼拜六的下午、虹口一户石库门里的一架簧风琴会发出的那种小小、干燥的叹息。这是一种我先前不曾听过任何一架簧风琴发过的和弦。这和弦原是为一只不能跨十度的左手所写的，到了簧风琴上，便归到我两只手中的右手去了。和弦坐在簧片里。它不像钢琴那样衰退。只要我让它响下去，随着风箱，它便响下去。

我让它响下去。我按住那和弦。

那是一九二二年从吴县沿河上来的一架簧风琴的簧片里的——同一个和弦，是他凌晨一点，在百乐门地下五十英尺处弹过的。

我把那和弦放掉。

身后贵妃榻上的手袋里，装着死者名单。簧风琴上摊着第三首歌，那和弦已为他那只手重写过。钟说六点过三分。林姨睡。蝉声不断。隔两家的男孩在拉同一段音阶，高了一个音，四指不再走低。

我弹起第一个乐句。

在这一架簧风琴上，在一户虹口石库门里，在那灭了的烟枪与我新买的那朵栀子的气味里，它已与在贝希斯坦琴上不是同一首歌了。它如今是一首艺术歌。桥段升上去。设问落回到它自己的设问里。第七小节按住了他重写过的那和弦。

我用我真正的音域唱起第一段——不是合约里训出来的那一种女高音，而是安雅在一九三四年说过我本该一向用着的那一种女低音——簧风琴在「安」字底下按住那和弦，「安」字像一个问句似的升上去，那个问句飘到虹口的弄堂里去，便是一个歌女礼拜六夏天的下午在家里练唱的那种小小寻常的声响。

隔两家的男孩停下了他的音阶。我听见他停下。他有一长晌没有再起。然后他又起，比方才更仔细，低了一些。

我唱第二段。我停。

我没有在簧风琴上去试那桥段。桥段是为贝希斯坦琴而写的。桥段是为那间在四十二级阶下头的砖屋而写的。桥段是为那个左手不能跨十度的男人而写的。

隔两家的男孩开始弹起一段东西，不是音阶，而是《五月的细雨》的第一句，是一个孩子弹它的方式，调对了，慢慢地，第三音节上没有那一顿，因为这男孩是十二岁，没有人吩咐过他要在那里顿一顿。

我合上簧风琴。我把那张乐谱收进手袋。我在林姨对面的贵妃榻上坐下，看她睡着，屋子慢慢地暗下来，七点半，弄堂里点路灯的人把我家门口那盏灯点上了，便是曹老伯凳子上头那一盏小的，一方小小的黄色便从窗户里进来，落在林姨的薄毯上，法国梧桐里的蝉不停，我等着贵妃榻上的女人醒来，等着那只洋铁罐从床底下出来，等着一九二七年的那一日成为日历上的一个日期，而不再是一道空缺。

她九点钟醒了。烟枪一直没有再点。她也不再点了。

「现在，」她说。「把那罐拿来。」

我去拿。

Chapter Six — Hong Xiang

Saturday afternoon. The heat had come up through the lane all morning and was, by two o'clock, the kind of heat that makes a woman in a slip stand in front of a brass washbasin and not move. I had stood in front of the basin for what I thought had been three minutes and what had, when I looked again at the clock on the harmonium, been seventeen.

I had come up at four. I had slept until noon. I had eaten plain rice standing in the kitchen and drunk a cup of weak tea Auntie Lin had asked me to make her, which she had then forgotten to drink. The cicadas had begun in the lane plane trees at one and would not stop until ten, and would, by the end of August, be the only soundtrack any of us would remember.

I was, at three, due at Hong Xiang.

Hong Xiang on Nanjing Road was the tailor the contract used. They had been the tailor since 1934, since the Paramount syndicate had taken over my contract and decided, on a Wednesday in October, that the Bright Moon's qipao were not adequate for what I was being trained to be. Mr. Hong, the founder, was seventy-six and did not come down to the shop. His son Hong Jingming, who was thirty-five and very thin and wore an English suit and pince-nez, did the cabaret fittings on Saturday afternoons because that was when the cabaret women were not asleep and were not yet at the club. He would not have called us cabaret women. He called us the ladies in the trade.

I dressed. The slip clung. I put on the dove-grey crêpe-de-Chine I had worn at Sun Ya — the only daytime piece I had that did not look like a thing a singer would wear off-duty — and the small white hat with the navy band, and I went out the back door of the lane with the handbag heavy on the inside of my elbow.

In the handbag, since last night, were: the brass key to the dressing room; the Conway Stewart pen; the Shenbao from Friday I had still not thrown away; the three pieces of folded music paper; the two sheets of the dead list — one in the typist's shorthand, one in his cursive; the line on Pathé paper that said Yes. That was the note. Come down; and a small fresh bunch of jasmine I had bought, on impulse, from the vendor at the corner. The jasmine was at the top. The dead were under the jasmine. The pen was beside the key. The handbag had become, in the doing of one's week, a thing heavier than it had been meant to carry.

I took a rickshaw at the corner of Wujin Road. The puller was a man of perhaps forty whose right shin was knotted at the calf with a long old burn from a boiler. He took me at the listed fare without bargaining, because I had asked in Shanghainese in his own register, which was a trick Auntie Lin had taught me at fifteen.

The rickshaw shafts had the wet-iron and lamp-oil smell rickshaws had in summer, when the puller had oiled the wheels at six and had been pulling since. The oil bloomed off the axle in the heat. The smell sat against the wooden footboard and worked its way up the inside of one's qipao to one's knees. I had been getting into rickshaws since I was thirteen and had stopped noticing the oil somewhere in 1933. Today, with the heat, I noticed it. It was the smell of being twenty-two in a city that had not, in any week since I had arrived, sent a vehicle to take me anywhere I had wanted to go.

We went down Wujin Road, across Sichuan Road North, over the Garden Bridge.

The bridge was full. Two trams in series. A Sikh constable in the red turban at the south end. A Japanese sentry at the north end whose face did not change as the puller went past. The puller said, very low, in Shanghainese, that one yesterday was checking papers, and I said, I know, and he said, they were not checking white men's papers, and I said, I know, and he was quiet for the rest of the bridge.

Nanjing Road at three on a Saturday in July was its own weather. British wives at Wing On's and Sincere's, in groups of three and four. Sikh constables at the major intersections. The smell of the baozi steamer at the Yongan basement entrance, the smell of cigarette and dust, the gardenia a vendor on Zhejiang Road was selling for a copper a stem. The umbrella shop at the corner of Fuzhou Road, the brass-engraver, the locksmith on Henan Road with the brass key the size of a forearm in his window I had walked past three days running.

Hong Xiang was at the corner of Henan Road, on the second floor over a Western shoe shop. A small brass plate by the door: Hong Xiang Tailor, Estd 1917, Ladies' and Gentlemen's, By Appointment. The English was on the brass to comfort the British wives. The Chinese was for everyone else.

I climbed the stair. A Russian woman in a long green dress descended past me with three garment bags over her arm and said, without looking, in Russian-accented Shanghainese, very hot today, and I said back, very hot. She was Madam Khorshid's youngest seamstress; I knew her face from the Russian dressers' Sunday picnics at Jessfield Park. I did not know her name.

At the top of the stair was the cutting room. Three Chinese cutters in white shirts at the long oak table; two Russian seamstresses at machines along the south wall; bolts of silk on the rack — the dove silks for the British wives, the heavier reds and the dragon-pattern brocades for the Chinese matrons, and at the far end the silver lamés and the silver-shot jacquard, which were the cabaret corner.

Hong Jingming was at the cutting table with his pince-nez and a piece of chalk and a long sheet of brown pattern paper laid out on which he had begun to draw, in fine careful lines, the bodice of a thing. He looked up.

"Miss Su. You are four minutes late."

"The tram on the bridge."

"It is a Saturday. The tram is always on the bridge. Come."

We went into the small dressing room behind the curtain. A single tall mirror, a low stool, a hook, a fan running on a wire, a window the size of my hand at the back wall onto the airshaft of the shoe shop. The fan moved the air. The air did not, in moving, become cool. I undressed. He stood on the other side of the curtain and said small dry things about weather, and I stood in front of the tall mirror in my slip.

The woman in the tall mirror was not the woman in the vanity mirror at the Paramount. She was thinner. The collarbone was sharper. The mole below the left collarbone was as it had been. The eyes had the small puffed under-curve. The hair, I saw, needed Madame Anya at Avenue Joffre on Monday. I had been forgetting Monday for two weeks.

He came in with the lamé.

He pinned the bodice at three points. He marked a line under the breast in red chalk. He measured, with the long brass tape, the line from the high point of the shoulder to the small of the back, and the line from the small of the back to the calf, and the line from the calf to the floor. The calf-to-floor was for the side slit; the side slit was what determined how many silver dollars the lamé was costing me. The lamé came in at eighty cut. The side slit added six. The lining added twelve. The piping at the collar added four.

"The hem is high," he said.

"Higher than last year."

"It is the fashion. Yao Sanye instructed."

"I see."

"You may say no to the hem. The hem is your decision. The collar is not your decision. The fabric is not your decision. The hem you may, within reason, decide."

"What is within reason."

He let me sit with it for a moment. He stood with the chalk between his fingers.

"On Friday morning at ten, Yao Sanye came in person. He has not, in three years, come in person. He specified three inches above the kneecap on the side slit. Three quarters of an inch above last year's collar. The piping in silver thread, not white. He came in person. I am telling you because in nineteen years I have not had this conversation with a woman, on a Saturday in July, about a slit. I will adjust the hem by a quarter inch. He will not, in seeing the qipao on a Friday in August, notice the quarter inch. I will not, in giving you the quarter inch, save you from the rest. I am telling you what I can do."

"I understand."

"The bill, with the lining and the piping and the side slit, is one hundred and twenty-four silver dollars. The line, with this addition, is — " he had the small black moleskine out, and he licked his thumb and turned the page — "four thousand one hundred and twelve. Last year at this date the line was three thousand eight hundred and four."

I sat on the stool.

I did the arithmetic in my head while he stood with his pince-nez on his small clean nose. I had, on stage, the small dry feeling of a chord modulating into a key I was not ready to sing in. The line at three thousand eight hundred a year ago, the line at four thousand one hundred today. At seven hundred a year of repayment, accepting the line did not grow, the line was approximately five and a half years from clearing. The line had grown in twelve months by three hundred and eight in spite of seven hundred paid down. The line was, in any honest reckoning, six and a half years from clearing if I was careful, eight if I was not. I would be twenty-eight or twenty-nine when I was free. I had thought, on the first of the year, that I was thirty.

The line at the first of January had been three thousand nine hundred and ten. The line now was one hundred and two larger. The hem and the collar had cost me, between January and July, a hundred and two silver dollars and approximately a year of my life.

I did not say any of this to Hong Jingming. Hong Jingming knew.

"Yao Sanye," he said, conversationally, taking the bodice off my shoulders and laying it on the table, "asked me on Friday what your line was. I told him. He asked whether the line was the kind of line a man could, with a single conversation, clear. I told him. He took out a small notebook and wrote a number in it. He did not tell me the number. He told me he would, in time, communicate with me about the number."

"He has not yet communicated."

"He has not."

"Hong Jingming."

"Yes, Miss Su."

"The quarter inch."

"The quarter inch is yours. It is not — let me be clear — much. It is a quarter inch in summer."

"It is enough."

He nodded. He did not need to say anything else. He pinned a second sample of silver-shot jacquard against my collarbone, decided with me that the silk was wrong — the sheen would not behave at chandelier distance — and took it back into the cutting room. I dressed. I came out. I paid him nothing. He wrote the line in his small black moleskine and dated it and turned the book toward me to initial, which I did with the Conway Stewart. The pen wrote a thinner line than the pencil he had been using. Hong Jingming looked at it.

"A new pen."

"A gift."

"A British nib. Take care of it."

"I will."

He walked me to the top of the stair.

"On Friday in August," he said, "you will wear the lamé and you will lean on the third syllable of fragrant, and the bankers will get their catch, and the men in the trade will not notice that the woman who is leaning on the third syllable is, on a Saturday afternoon in July, the woman who took a quarter inch from her tailor and put it in her pocket like a coin. I am telling you because in nineteen years I have not, before, given a woman a quarter inch. Goodbye, Miss Su."

"Goodbye, Mr. Hong."

I went down. The Sikh boy in the shoe shop window was polishing a child's brogue with a cloth that had been white in March. I crossed Nanjing Road through the four o'clock crowd and bought, from the gardenia vendor on Zhejiang Road, a single gardenia. I put it inside the handbag, on top of the jasmine.

At the rickshaw stand at Fuzhou Road the puller from the morning was eating a baozi and waiting. He took me back across the bridge. The Japanese sentry was a different man. The puller said, very low, there are more papers being checked this afternoon than this morning, and I said, I see, and the puller said, the constable said it is a Pudong matter, and I said, yes, I have heard a Pudong matter is current, and the puller said, the constables hear what the Yao men say. The Yao men have a Pudong matter every two months. Today is the day the matter has come back. He took me up Wujin Road. I gave him a dollar over the fare. He said, Miss Su, my name is Old Wu. Tell your doorman. I do morning runs. I said, Old Wu, and went down the lane to the door.

There was a sheet of paper under the door.

I saw it before I had the key out. A corner of music paper, folded once, slid under the doorframe so the corner caught my sandal. I had not, in all the times I had crossed this threshold in nine years, found a paper under the door. The lane was a closed lane. There was a gate at the entrance. The gate-man, Old Mr. Cao, sat on his bamboo stool from six in the morning until nine at night and asked every person who entered who they were going to see. The gate-man knew me and Auntie Lin and the family across the lane and the carpenter at the far end. The gate-man, on a Saturday afternoon in July, would not have admitted a stranger.

I picked up the paper. I unlocked the door.

Auntie Lin was asleep on the chaise with the small porcelain pipe on the side-table and the lamp not lit. The pipe had gone out. The room smelled of it — the small heavy sweet that opium left, in summer, in a room with the window cracked — and of the gardenia I had just bought, and of the inside of the lane house, which was old sandalwood and damp wood and the laundry hanging on the back porch. The harmonium was at the wall. The clock said quarter to six.

I closed the door. I stood with the paper in my hand for a long second.

Then I unfolded it.

It was a single sheet of Pathé staff paper with three staves drawn and the title above the first staff in the small red ink: 夜来香未眠.

The song was different. The melody was the same melody. The accompaniment had been redrawn. The chord under the seventh measure — the chord I had heard, through the floor, in the dressing room — had been simplified. The left-hand voicing had been thinned. The chord that, last night, had been four notes in a span of a tenth was, on this sheet, three notes in a span of a sixth. He had rewritten the chord for a left hand that did not span a tenth. He had rewritten the song to be playable, by him, on the piano he had.

He had not written anything in the margin.

In the bottom right corner, very small, were two characters.

在家。

At home.

The song was now at home. The song knew where I lived.

I sat down on the edge of the chaise. I did not, for a long minute, do anything. I listened to Auntie Lin breathing. I listened to the cicadas in the lane plane trees. I listened to a tram on Wujin Road that was going somewhere I would not, this afternoon, follow.

In the kitchen, presently, the kettle began to whistle, because I had at some point put it on the stove and not remembered. I went to the kitchen. I poured the water into the small earthenware teapot. The tea bloomed. I came back into the front room with the teapot.

Auntie Lin was awake.

"Ah Liang," she said.

I had not heard her use my name in nineteen months.

"Yes, Auntie."

"Where have you been."

"At Hong Xiang."

"Today is Saturday."

"Yes."

"Today is the Saturday." She closed her eyes again. "I told you in March he would come in person. The collar would be higher and the piping silver and the hem would go up. I told you in March. The hem is up."

"The hem is up."

She opened her eyes again. They were, for the moment, clearer than I had seen them in three weeks.

"He has not yet asked for the price."

"He has asked Hong Jingming for the price."

"He has asked the tailor. He has not yet asked you. When he asks you it will be on a Friday. It will be in the second set. He will lift two fingers on the bridge and he will not lower them. You will see the two fingers in the air, and you will know the asking has come. Ah Liang. Listen. I have an answer for you that is not yes."

"Auntie."

"Listen. There is a tin under the bed. Not now. After I am asleep. There is a tin. In the tin is a letter and a piece of paper that is not a letter. Read both. After you read them, come and sit with me and tell me which day in April you knew."

"Auntie. I knew the year."

"You did not know the day. You will, after the tin. There is also" — she paused, the way a woman paused when the opium was at her tongue from below — "there is also a small woman from Persia. On the Avenue Joffre, at the corner of Rue Lafayette. Madam Khorshid. She has, since 1929, held a small thing of mine. The small thing is, in your line, two hundred silver dollars at the listed price."

"Auntie. What did you put in pawn with Madam Khorshid."

"The pingtan bracelet. From my mother. The mother of my mother. Jade. It is in a small velvet box. Madam Khorshid has the box. The receipt is in the tin." She closed her eyes. "I have, in nine years, not given you the receipt. I am giving you the receipt today. I am sorry I did not give it to you in 1934. I had a thing I wished, in 1934, to give you. You will see. The thing is in the tin. The thing is a letter. The letter is dated April eighth. April eighth in 1927. I have, for nine years, kept it. I am telling you what I have done. After you read it you may say to me whatever you wish to say. I will not, this evening, be asleep before nine. I am giving you the hour from now until nine."

"Yes."

"Come and sit with me first."

I sat. I held her hand. The hand was very thin. The lamp was not lit. The room held the small smell of the pipe and the gardenia and the tea. Outside in the lane the cicadas continued. A boy two doors down was practicing scales on a violin. The scales had the small repeated mistake violin students made at twelve, in the third position, which was that the fourth finger sat a quarter tone flat and went up a quarter tone in the next bar and came back flat in the bar after. He would, in seven minutes, fix it. He fixed it in seven minutes. Children with violins were one of the things I had not, in nine years, allowed myself to listen to. Today, with my foster-mother's hand in mine, I listened.

Presently she slept.

I sat for a long minute holding her hand and looking at the harmonium against the wall.

The harmonium had been hers since 1919. It had come up the river from Wuxian on a junk in 1922. It had a small ivory crack on the C above middle C that her late husband had cracked with a nail in 1925. The bellows had been retipped in 1933 by an old man on Beihai Road who had since died.

I poured myself a cup of tea. I came back. I put the cup at the side of the harmonium. I put the gardenia in a small water jar next to the cup. The clock said six.

I sat at the harmonium. I put the third sheet of music on the desk. I put my hands on the keys.

I pumped the bellows.

I played the first chord, very softly. The chord came through the small reeds with the small dry sigh a harmonium made on a Saturday afternoon in July in a Hongkou lane house. It was a chord I had not heard a harmonium make before. The chord had been written for a left hand that did not span a tenth and was, on the harmonium, given over to the right of my hands. The chord sat in the reeds. It did not, the way piano chords did, decay. It went on, with the bellows, for as long as I asked it to.

I asked it to. I held the chord.

It was, in the reeds of a Suzhou harmonium that had come up the river in 1922, the same chord he had played, fifty feet under the Paramount, at one in the morning.

I let the chord go.

The handbag, on the chaise behind me, had in it the dead list. The harmonium had on it the third song with the chord rewritten for the hand he had. The clock said three minutes past six. Auntie Lin slept. The cicadas continued. The boy two doors down was playing the same scale a tone higher, no longer flat at the fourth finger.

I played the first phrase.

It was, on a harmonium, in a Hongkou lane house, in the smell of the pipe that had gone out and the gardenia I had bought, a different song than it had been at the Bechstein. It was an art song now. The bridge phrase rose. The question fell into its question. The seventh measure held the chord he had rewritten.

I sang the first verse in my real range — not the soprano range the contract had taught me, but the contralto Anya had once, in 1934, said I should have been all along — and the harmonium held the chord under the 安, and the 安 lifted as a question, and the question went out into the Hongkou lane and was the small ordinary sound of a singer practicing at home on a Saturday afternoon in summer.

The boy two doors down stopped playing his scales. I heard him stop. He did not start again for a long minute. Then he started again, more carefully, lower.

I sang the second verse. I stopped.

I did not, on the harmonium, attempt the bridge. The bridge was for the Bechstein. The bridge was for the brick room at the bottom of the forty-two steps. The bridge was for the man with the left hand that did not span a tenth.

The boy two doors down began to play, not a scale, but the first phrase of Drizzle of May, as a child played it, in the right key, slowly, without the catch on the third syllable, because the boy was twelve years old and had not been told to put a catch in.

I closed the harmonium. I put the sheet of music inside the handbag. I sat on the chaise opposite Auntie Lin, and I watched her sleep, and the room darkened slowly, and at half past seven the lamp-lighter in the lane lit the lamp outside our door, the small one above Old Mr. Cao's stool, and the small yellow square came in through the window and lay on Auntie Lin's blanket, and the cicadas in the plane trees did not stop, and I waited for the woman in the chaise to wake up, and the tin to come out from under the bed, and the day, in 1927, to become a date in a calendar instead of an absence.

She woke at nine. The pipe was still out. She did not relight it.

"Now," she said. "Bring the tin."

I brought it.