七部小说 · Seven Novels

第七章 ——《那只铁盒》

那只铁盒从前是福州路的一只饼干盒。盒盖上印着一幅小小的庐山茶园图，一位民国旗袍的姑娘正从一把黄壶里倾着茶，盒身印着乐园牌精制饼干的中英文字样，那是出口业自一九二五年起便沿用的那种字体。林姨头一回拿出这盒来给我看时我十四岁，里头是她惯常用来薰茶的干茉莉花。那时它搁在风琴上。自那一年以后，多年我不曾再见着它。

我从床底下把它取出来。我须得平贴在地板上才够得着。床是四柱床，床脚那一头钉着一道木板挡着，铁盒就抵在那道板上，在床头一侧，藏在林姨保存着的一小捆布后面——这布我不晓得她为何要留。我绕过那捆布伸手。铁盒提出来时比我意料中沉。

我把它拿到贵妃榻边。我搁在那只小凳上。我在她对面榻沿坐下，两手按住盒盖，并不曾立刻打开。

「打开，」她说。

我打开了。

盒里最上头是一方小手帕。手帕底下，一叠廉价方纸，九年下来已经被茶盒里那种太阳黄染成了棕色。再底下，霞飞路上一爿铺子开的当票一张，铺名Madam Khorshid用波斯文与英文写着，日期是一九二九年十月十二日，并一串号码。当票底下，是第二张纸，与我已极熟的那种百代五线谱同款——可这一张不是他的草书。这一张所用的笔迹，我已九年不曾见过。一张纸上三行字，无日期，未具收信人。

第二张纸底下：我哥哥的信。

我晓得那是我哥哥的信，是因为那只信封。信封是申新九厂为它的工人小报成百成百订下的那种廉价毛边纸——这种纸我在一九二八年曾在林姨厨房的抽屉里见过，问她那是什么，她说，厂里要丢的，我拿了一百张回来写信，我便不曾再问。信封左下角有那个小小的申新水印，须得把纸举到灯下才看得见。信封上写着林爱卿，那是林姨的全名。是我哥哥的字。是一个十三岁少年的字。落笔时他十七岁。

我把信从信封里抽出。纸折作四叠。顶端的日期是四月初八。下头，以一个想要给妹妹的姨母写信的少年那种小心翼翼的学童笔法，我哥哥写道：

林姨：

您的地址是从舍妹上次的信里得来的。她二月间写信到杨树浦寻我。我未曾回复，因当时我在浦东办工会的事，后又在租界办一件事，日子便这样过去了。如今写信，是因从一位在公共租界巡捕房当差的朋友处听到，未来一周里，恐有事发生。我得到的话是青帮已与国民党议定，要在国民政府北伐之前将工会从城里清出去。我听说他们要在五一之前动手。我的朋友说，他们这一礼拜便要动手。

距我十九岁生日还有十二天。我写信，是因不知届时我会是在上海过这十九岁，还是在我此刻愚蠢地一直未曾上的那班苏州火车上。我已决意不上那班车。决意的理由是：晓得风声起了便走的人，往后我没法再与他们做同道。我把这决意写下来，是因我并不全然信得过自己，到了四天之后，在我作此决意的那间屋子里，还能记得为何作此决意。

我写给您，是因舍妹十三岁，这封信我不能写给她。我写给您是因为：万一我有个什么，她该晓得，四月初八的清晨，我坐在杨树浦路一扇临街窗前的一张小桌旁，喝着一杯大麦茶，与一位名叫吴步危的朋友谈过我们是否该走，谈罢决定不走。我们决定不走，是因吴步危以他说话的那种方式说，会走的人不是从前的我们。我赞同吴步危。吴步危说这话时，二十一岁。他有一个三年未见的妹妹在芜湖。他不曾说她的名字。他只说，他不在了，她会懂。我并不以为她会懂。换作我自己不在了，我也不会懂。在您看顾下的我妹妹，亦不会懂。我把她不会懂的这封信写给您，请您在需要的时候，于需要的时刻，读与她听。

另一件事。另一件事是：申新公司九个月以来按每钟点七个铜板付我们工钱，合同是我们以九个铜板签下的。这七而非九，便是这一礼拜要动的事的缘由。九个月以来，工会未能把这七提上去。我把这七告诉您，是因将来某年若有人问她，她哥哥为何而死，她有权得到的答案不是爱国，不是社会主义，连友情也不是。答案是那两个铜板。那两个铜板是被同一伙人偷去的——下一礼拜他们或许便要为了我们追问而开枪。开枪是第二桩偷。第一桩偷是那两个铜板。请告诉舍妹。

林姨，敬上。弄堂口邮局的小厮，我想，不会问这信封里装着什么。三个月里头，他不曾问过我寄给您的任何一封信里装着什么。

顺颂安康，

阿淮

我把信从头至尾读了一遍。我捧着它坐了许久。我又读了一遍。我读了第三遍。第三遍我把末段轻声念了出来。屋子里最响的是蝉声。林姨躺在贵妃榻上，闭着眼，手搁在胸口。她是醒着的。她在呼吸。

「你已读了，」她说。

「我已读了。」

「另一张纸。盒里搁在信上头那张。读。」

我捡起那另一张纸。三行字，是我九年不曾见过的那一种笔迹。那笔迹要稳一些。那笔迹比信上的笔迹年长，许是三个月。三行字：

林姨：印事所得十元，奉与小良作寄养之资。印事另得五十，作她束修。留着。她若问从何而来，便说我把那本旧的俄文课本卖与了杨树浦食堂的一个人。——A。

一张小条。一张工作的条。一张钱的条。一个在他生命最后几周里还在惦记妹妹束修、还把一本俄文课本卖与食堂里一个人的兄长。那五十块大约便成了我的束修。我的束修——一九二七和一九二八年林姨为我在四川北路修道院付下的那点小课——一位法国修女教我算术，一位法国神父用他蹩脚的国语教我圣徒生平——竟是用我哥哥在一个我永也无从晓得日子的日子，在杨树浦食堂里以五十块大洋卖出的一本俄文课本买下来的。

我把两张纸搁在膝上坐着。

「林姨。」

「嗯。」

「为什么。」

「为什么什么。」

「为什么瞒了九年。」

她久久不答。蝉声继续。隔两户人家那个男孩已不再拉提琴。墙边那架风琴咔的一响——风琴里簧片在暑气里安顿下来时便会那样响一声。

「一九二七年，」她说，「你十三岁半。一九二七年六月你从榆林路那位歌唱教师处来到我跟前，九天不吃东西。明月社已开了你的训，第二天师傅告诉你，说你见不着你哥哥了，因你哥哥北上了。你不信他。第三天晚上你问我，问我信不信他。第三天晚上我告诉你：我不信。你便不吃了。九天后你又吃了。开始吃以后，我去问吴步危的大哥——他是一九二四年我在浦东识得的——问他肯不肯告诉我。一九二七年七月十八日，他告诉了我四月十二日发生的事。他亦把那封信交了给我。信他已在手三月。他不肯把信交给你哥哥的父亲，因到那时你哥哥的父亲已经把你卖了。他便把信交给了我。他说我该把信交给你。他说这信是要给你读的。」

「你却不曾交给我。」

「我不曾交给你，因一九二七年七月你不吃东西。因一九二七年十一月你又不吃东西。因到一九二八年你虽吃东西了，却已开始做那个跳舞场里的女人——那个跳舞场里的女人，不需要读一封会让她又不吃的信。我作了一个决定。那决定是错的。我现在告诉你。」

「这决定你在一九二七年作过。」

「是。」

「一九二八年也作过。」

「是。」

「一九二九年你为了北海路那位医生当掉手镯付诊金的时候，你也作过。一九三一年那夜我从一位姓刘的男人那里回来，问你这城里我有没有任何亲缘的时候，你也作过。一九三三年安雅夫人头一回给我吹了手指波浪，第二天早晨我问你你有没有过一个儿子的时候，你也作过。一九三五年我从外滩花贩那里买了一小束茉莉花回家的那天——四月十二日，林姨——你看着那茉莉花告诉我，说你做姑娘的时候四月里也喜欢茉莉，那时你也作过。每一个四月十二日，你都晓得四月十二日是什么日子。我不晓得。你晓得。」

「我晓得。」

「九年里头，每一个四月十二日你都让我把茉莉花捧进这屋子，从不曾告诉我。」

「是。」

我又捧着那信坐了一分钟。

「林姨。」

「嗯。」

「其余的，告诉我。」

「其余的便是那张当票。」

「那张当票。」

「当票是为那只手镯。一九二九年北海路那位医生在冬天不肯不收押金便给我看病。我没有钱。我有那只手镯。我去找了 Madam Khorshid。Madam Khorshid 是卡尔登的一位俄国服装管理人介绍给我的——她也是在冬天去找过她的。Madam Khorshid 在霞飞路上，专做这一行：拿玉作押，借钱给丈夫不肯、或保护人不愿、或合同不许的中国女人。她以那手镯押下六十块大洋借给我。她替我寄存了七年。利按公示的复利算下来，是二百。手镯的公示价是八百。如今要赎，连她不肯减免的利在内，是二百。七年里头我未曾去赎。七年里头我未曾去赎，是因价涨得比我能往风琴上那只漆盒里搁银子的速度还快。我把这告诉你，是要你——若你愿意——挑一个礼拜一的午后，到霞飞路上去，凭票交付二百块，把那只手镯领回来。」

「林姨。我没有二百块大洋。」

「厨房里那只铜罐里你有六十一。五月份合同备用金里我还未差遣你支出去的，你有三十。袜抽屉里那只小钱袋里，你有十四。礼拜二来的那只白信封里，你有六十——那信封是一个人寄来的，他的声音你还未以名字介绍过给我。我听说那六十是借给你的。四项总计一百六十五。二百——便是说——已近了。比这七年里任何一日都近。」

我此刻在贵妃榻上并不曾立刻问她，那六十块装在白信封里的事她从何晓得。其实礼拜二我并不曾收过一只白信封——但接着我想，以一个虹口弄堂房子里的女人在夜里十点排布她一周事务时那种小小的、慢慢的重整，或许我是收过的。或许礼拜二那只信封确曾搁在妆台上，而我归了档，如归棕色亚麻西装、宝丽芬圣经、拉米神父那般——归进手袋的内袋里，搁在《申报》与亡人单之间，归进那只手袋如今变作的一个小小的私人衙署里。

「你并不问我，」她说，「我从哪里晓得你手袋里有什么。」

「以后再问。」

「你不会问。你会问安雅。她每礼拜一来这屋子洗衣服。安雅，每个礼拜一在这屋子里，曾三回趁我睡着时翻看你的手袋——那三回是我吩咐她翻的。我吩咐她，她便照办。我现在告诉你，是因我已到我此生那一段：我已无力再吩咐安雅替我做什么事。吩咐的事已了。安雅是你的朋友。她不是我的朋友。她在这屋子里，每个礼拜一，是我七年里办过三桩差事的差使。我告诉你，是因你二十二岁，我四十八岁，吩咐这桩事，今日，已了。未来两年里，吩咐的事归你做。你须得晓得，你曾被许可吩咐谁。」

「安雅。」

「安雅晓得三件事，是你不晓得我晓得的。她未曾告诉我——我从她脸上读了出来。第一件，是你礼拜五夜里下过地下室。第二件，是你又下过一个礼拜五。第三件，是地下室里那位先生为他不全的一只手改写了一首歌。安雅，在那改写之中，已经开始——便说吧——为你担起心来。她有理由担心。我告诉你，是要你在未来的几礼拜里，也为她担心。一九三五年外白渡桥上，安雅的女儿差一点被捕。这件事我晓得。救她的人是一个菲律宾长号手，名叫维森特。这件事我晓得。地下室那位先生便是差遣维森特去的那位。这件事我晓得。我晓得，是因一九三五年有一个人提着一小篮梨到这门上，告诉了我。这人是百乐门的大木匠，姓胡。胡先生是奉地下室那位先生的吩咐来告诉我的。地下室那位先生在一九三五年并不晓得你的名字，却晓得我的名字。一九三五年，地下室那位先生借由安雅的女儿、借由维森特、借由胡先生，对我好。那好是一笔投资。投资的内容是：一年里、两年里、三年里，你将处于一个可以被联络上的位置。如今这笔投资到了期。你已下去过两回。这笔到期的投资此刻搁在风琴上，那个和弦已为他那只手改写过了。」

她说得很轻。一双眼盯着天花板。

「林姨。」

「嗯。」

「一九三五年你便晓得。」

「一九三五年我晓得这栋楼下面有一个人，曾对我那位俄国服装管理人的女儿在外白渡桥上动过善心。一九三五年我并不晓得，他那一份善心是冲着你的。我晓得是冲着某一个人的。我以为是冲着哪一位资格老些的歌女。或许是白珠。又或许是礼查的那位中国女招待。租界里有几位女子，他或许都正预备着派上用场。我以为他在一九三五年还未选定。我错了。如今我想，一九三五年他已选定。我想到那时他已听了你大约一年。」

「他听了。」

「从那弹簧地板下头听的。乐池里那些男孩自一九三四年起便在菲律宾乐手的食堂里抱怨，说冷藏间里有一个人有时在他们后桌坐着，不开口。大木匠自一九三四年起，时不时在深夜十二点把一只小热水瓶的咖啡送到冷藏间去。胡先生于礼拜五的第二与第三套节目之间这么做。他被人问起时不肯说冷藏间里是谁。他已这么做了二十六个月。安雅数过。安雅比她看着的要老，她是一九一九年从彼得格勒过来的，她数别人不数的东西。二十六个月。他在底下已二十六个月。我告诉你，是因你一直在人力车里回家的路上想：是怎样一个人会替一只不能横跨十度的左手谱曲。他已这么写了二十六个月。他在这栋楼里不是新人。对你的嗓子他亦不是新人。他只是新近被那嗓子答复了。他这一礼拜是新近遇上：有一个女人从他的草书里读出了棕色亚麻西装、宝丽芬圣经、拉米神父，把那些纸搁进了自己的手袋，并且九天里头不曾离开这栋楼。这是新事。是。」

「是。」

我们在静里坐了许久。

「林姨。」

「嗯。」

「我该怎么办。」

「你便做，」她说，「你哥哥决定不走那桩事。但你不要照你哥哥那样做。你哥哥十九岁，到杨树浦路一扇临街窗前坐下，决定他不做那个走的人。他没有家伙做他所决定下的事。他有一位朋友，一杯大麦茶。你，在一九三六年，有家伙。你的家伙是那首和弦已为他那只手改写过的歌。你的家伙是一九三四年安雅告诉你那才是你本嗓的中音。你的家伙是你在礼拜五的夜里学会在安字上抬起的那一问。你哥哥没有家伙。你有。家伙便是你与你哥哥的分别。用那家伙。请不要决意以为：做你哥哥那种女人，唯一诚实的方式是拒掉那家伙。家伙是你的。你哥哥没有。我想，他若晓得你有，会高兴的。」

她闭上了眼。

「我，到此处，要睡了。还有一件事。当票就在贵妃榻上。这个月里，你须挑一个礼拜一，把当票拿到霞飞路。眼下这个礼拜一你不能去，因今天礼拜一中午你在安雅夫人那里有一约，做头发。你下一个礼拜一去。下一个礼拜一你便已凑齐：铜罐里的、合同备用金里的、小钱袋里的、白信封里的——一百六十五块大洋。你以一百六十五去见 Madam Khorshid。你告诉她，余下的九十天之内付到。Madam Khorshid 会信你，因为 Madam Khorshid 是一八九九年德黑兰的姑娘，她母亲是一位亚美尼亚女人，一八九四年在士麦那，与一位男人——便说吧——有过一种相似的安排。Madam Khorshid 会把手镯交与你。手镯到手，你不要戴。你把它搁在衣柜最底下一个丝绒匣里，存着。你便当它是你养母在一季的前夕，把她可以给你的东西给了你。请你，不要把它卖了。可懂得。」

「懂得。」

「好。」

「林姨。」

「嗯。」

「你方才说，吩咐的事已了。」

「已了。」

「未了。我尚有一吩咐。」

「吩咐。」

「明年四月十二日的早晨，我要你叫醒我。无论我前一夜在百乐门还是在这条弄堂，我要你六点叫醒我。我要你是叫醒我的那个人。叫醒，便是吩咐。这吩咐，余生归我。你肯叫我么。」

她不曾睁眼。

「明年四月十二日的早晨，」她说，「我若在，便叫你。我若不在，便已托另一人来叫你。我会留一张条。条上会写四月十二日，六点，唤。条会搁在风琴上。你睁眼，便会见着那张条。」

「谢谢。」

「睡吧。已过十点。百乐门此刻，礼拜六这个钟点，是你第二套节目——今晚你不必上，因你礼拜六不上百乐门——而这一年里头每一礼拜你都不曾记得。今夜你不在百乐门。你在家里。你可以睡。明日午时我不会醒着。请你午时再读一遍那信。请你在我睡着的时候读。那读是你独有的。我不必清醒着陪你读。我已读过。我读了九年。在读之中，我已累。今夜，你可把那份累接过去。我把它给你。睡吧。」

她睡了。

我捧着膝上的信、手边的当票、手里那张关于俄文课本的小条，坐了许久。蝉声继续。门外路灯是这屋里唯一的光。风琴还靠在墙边，第三首歌还摊在谱架上，正是我离开时的样子。我养母的母亲的母亲那只手镯，眼下正在霞飞路上一爿小客厅里的一只丝绒匣里——那客厅闻起来是玫瑰水与波斯茶的气味，这是安雅夫人告诉我的。我会在这礼拜一之后的两个礼拜一去把它领回来。

那一夜，我并不曾睡。

天明我起来。我走那七步路到风琴前。我坐下。我并不曾踩风箱。我把手按在键上，并不弹。我那样坐了一分钟。

继而我把信从衣袋里取出。我顺原来的折痕把信对折。我把它搁进那件礼拜五我要穿到百乐门的银色旗袍内里——金线滚边，齐膝盖骨上方四分之三英寸开衩，领上银滚条，是姚三爷礼拜五上午十点亲自指定的。

里子贴在我右胯的接缝处，把信夹住了。

我把它留在那里。

我回到贵妃榻边。我把那张以他草书写就的亡人单，搁在我哥哥笔迹的信旁，一并夹进旗袍的里子里。两张纸贴着彼此。里子把它们夹住了。

我极轻地想：这首歌的第二乐章，是要点名的那一章。第一乐章是茉莉。第二乐章是一九三四年闸北弄堂房子里的男人，与一九二七年龙华的男人，与那个四月里如今已成了一个日子的日子。第二段比第一段难。第二乐章比第二段难。我会，到时候，把第二乐章唱出来。我并不曾，到此时，预备好。我今晨破晓在虹口一条弄堂里，开始预备了。

蝉声停了。门外的路灯五点已被点灯人持竿熄了。隔两户人家那男孩，这个礼拜日的早晨，还未拉起他的提琴。

林姨在睡。我到厨房把水壶坐上，烧早茶的水。茶几上那支烟斗，沿上有一圈灰，在晨光里看得清。

那一日，它将不再被点起。

水壶啸起来时，我已决定：礼拜一午后一点，我不去霞飞路安雅那里做头发，亦不到霞飞路上去。我在礼拜一午后一点，将经服务通道回百乐门。我会走后楼梯下去。我会进到地下室。我会走到冷藏间门口。我不敲门。我会在冷藏间里抬起后头那扇门。我会在黑里头，走那四十二级。

我会，在最底下，给他唱第一段——轻轻地，不示警——到第一段末了，在安字上，我会抬起那一问。

我便会在其后那一小段静里说，我已读过你在此处的缘由。我的缘由也在此处。读罢。而后我会把哥哥的信搁在乐谱架上，挨着那首歌。

而他，便会以那一不抬高的声音，读。

那是我在水壶啸响时立下的计。

那一晨，我并不晓得自己是否能守住它。

我晓得水壶在啸。

我把水壶从炉上提了下来。

Chapter Seven — The Tin

The tin had been a Foochow Road biscuit tin once. The lid had a small print of a tea garden on Lushan, a young woman in a Republican-era cheongsam pouring from a yellow pot, and the words Garden Brand Fine Biscuit in English and Chinese in the kind of typography the export trade had been using since 1925. The tin had, when Auntie Lin first showed it to me at fourteen, contained the dried jasmine she used to put in tea. It had been on the harmonium then. I had not, in all the years since, seen it again.

I brought it from under the bed. I had to lie flat on the floor to reach it. The bed was a four-poster with a board nailed across the bottom at the foot, and the tin was up against the board, at the head end, behind a small bundle of cloth Auntie Lin kept I did not know why. I reached around the bundle. The tin came out heavier than I had expected.

I brought it to the chaise. I set it on the small stool. I sat on the edge of the chaise opposite her and put my hands on the lid and did not yet open it.

"Open it," she said.

I opened it.

The tin had, on the top, a small handkerchief. Under the handkerchief, a folded square of cheap paper, brown with the sun-yellow tea-tin paper had after nine years. Under that, a pawn ticket from a shop on Avenue Joffre with the name Madam Khorshid in Persian and English script and a date — 12 October 1929 — and a serial number. Under the ticket, a second piece of paper, the same Pathé staff paper I had become very familiar with — but this one not in his cursive. This one in a hand I had not seen in nine years. Three lines on a single sheet, undated, not addressed to anyone.

Under the second piece of paper: my brother's letter.

I knew it was my brother's letter because of the envelope. The envelope was made of the cheap mill paper the Shenxin No. 9 ordered in lots of a hundred for its labor newsletter — a paper I had once, in 1928, found in a drawer in Auntie Lin's kitchen and asked her what it was, and she had said, something the mill was throwing out, I took a hundred sheets for letters, and I had not asked again. The envelope had the small Shenxin watermark in the lower left corner that you could only see if you held the paper to a lamp. The envelope was addressed to Lin Aiqing, which was Auntie Lin's full name. It was in my brother's hand. The hand was a thirteen-year-old's. He had been seventeen at the writing.

I took the letter out of the envelope. The paper folded into four. The date at the top was 四月初八. The eighth day of the fourth month, in the lunar calendar. Below it, in the small careful schoolboy's hand of a young man trying to write to an aunt of his sister, my brother had written:

Aunt Lin,

I have your address from my sister's last letter. She wrote me at Yangshupu in February. I did not reply because I was at Pudong on a matter for the union, and then I was in the Settlement on a matter, and the time went past. I am writing now because I have heard from a friend who works for the Settlement police what may, in the coming week, occur. I am told the Green Gang has agreed with the KMT to clear the unions from the city before the National Government moves north. I am told they will act before May Day. They will act, my friend says, this week.

I am twelve days from my nineteenth birthday. I am writing because I do not know whether I will be in Shanghai at my nineteenth birthday or whether I will be in a Suzhou train I have, in some folly, not yet taken. I have decided I will not take the train. I have decided this on the grounds that men who run when they know the run is on are not men I can be among afterward. I am writing the decision down because I do not entirely trust myself to remember why I made it, in the room where I made it, four days from now.

I am writing to you, because my sister is thirteen and I cannot write her this letter. I am writing it to you because if a thing happens to me she should know that on the morning of the fourth-month eighth I sat at a small table at a window over Yangshupu Road with a cup of barley tea and a friend named Wu Buwei, and we talked about whether we should run, and we decided to not. We decided to not because Wu Buwei said, in the way he said things, that the men who run are not the men who were us. I agreed with Wu Buwei. Wu Buwei was, at the saying, twenty-one. He had a younger sister in Wuhu he had not seen in three years. He did not say her name. He said, only, that she would, in his absence, understand. I do not think she will. I would not, in my own absence, understand. My sister, who is in your care, will not. I am writing you the letter she will not understand from me, so that you may, if it is required, read it to her at the time it is required.

The other thing. The other thing is that the company at Shenxin has been paying us seven coppers an hour for nine months on a contract we signed at nine. The seven instead of the nine is what the action this week is about. The seven is what the union has, in nine months, not been able to lift. I am telling you the seven because if a man asks her, in some year, why her brother died, the answer she has the right to is not patriotism and not socialism and not even friendship. The answer is the two coppers. The two coppers were stolen from us by the same men who, in the next week, may shoot us for asking. The shooting will be the second theft. The first theft was the two coppers. Tell my sister.

I send you my respects, Aunt Lin. The post-office boy at the lane will not, I think, ask what is in this envelope. He has not, in three months, asked me what is in any of the envelopes I have sent to you.

Yours,

Ahuai

I read the letter once through. I sat with it for a long time. I read it again. I read it a third time. The third time I read the last paragraph aloud, very quietly. The cicadas were the loudest thing in the room. Auntie Lin, on the chaise, lay with her eyes closed and her hand on her chest. She was awake. She was breathing.

"You have read it," she said.

"I have read it."

"The other paper. The one above the letter in the tin. Read."

I picked up the other paper. The three lines, in the hand I had not seen in nine years. The hand had been steadier. The hand had been older than the letter's hand by, perhaps, three months. The three lines:

Aunt Lin. I send Liang the ten dollars from the printing for the foster-month. I have, in the printing, made fifty more. The fifty is for her schooling. Keep it. If she asks where it came from, I sold the second-hand Russian textbook to a man at the Yangshupu canteen. — A.

A small note. A working note. A money note. A brother who had, in the last weeks of his life, been thinking about his sister's schooling and had sold a Russian textbook to a man at the canteen. The fifty dollars had become, presumably, my schooling. My schooling — the small lessons Auntie Lin had paid for at the convent on Sichuan Road North in 1927 and 1928, in which a French nun had taught me arithmetic and a French priest had taught me, in his bad Mandarin, the lives of the saints — had been bought with a Russian textbook my brother had sold for fifty silver dollars in a Yangshupu canteen on a date I would never now know.

I sat with both papers on my lap.

"Auntie."

"Yes."

"Why."

"Why what."

"Why for nine years."

She did not answer for a long minute. The cicadas continued. The boy two doors down was no longer playing the violin. The harmonium against the wall ticked once, the way a harmonium ticked when the reeds were settling in the heat.

"In 1927," she said, "you were thirteen and a half. In June 1927 you came to me from the singing instructor on Yulin Road and you would not eat for nine days. The Bright Moon had begun your training and the master had told you, on the second day of your training, that you would not see your brother because your brother had gone north. You did not believe him. You asked me, on the third evening, if I believed him. I told you, on the third evening, that I did not. You stopped eating. After nine days you began to eat. After the eating began I asked Wu Buwei's elder brother, who I had known in 1924 in Pudong, whether he would tell me. He told me, on the eighteenth of July 1927, what had happened on the twelfth of April. He gave me, also, the letter. He had had the letter for three months. He did not give it to your brother's father, because your brother's father had, by then, sold you. He gave it to me. He said I should give it to you. He said the letter was for you to read."

"And you did not give it to me."

"I did not give it to you because in July of 1927 you were not eating. Because in November of 1927 you were not eating again. Because by 1928 you were eating but you had begun to be the woman in the cabaret, and the woman in the cabaret did not need to read a letter that would make her not eat. I made a decision. The decision was wrong. I am telling you now."

"You made the decision in 1927."

"Yes."

"And in 1928."

"Yes."

"And in 1929 when you pawned the bracelet to pay for the doctor on Beihai Road. And in 1931 when I asked you, on the night I came back from a man named Liu, whether I had any blood in this city. And in 1933 when I asked you, on the morning after Madame Anya did my finger waves the first time, whether you had ever had a son. And in 1935 when I came home with a small bouquet of jasmine from the Bund vendor on April twelfth — on April twelfth, Auntie — and you told me, looking at the jasmine, that you had also liked jasmine in April, when you were a girl. You knew, on the April twelfths, what April twelfth was. I did not. You knew."

"I knew."

"You let me bring jasmine into the house on April twelfth for nine years and did not tell me."

"Yes."

I sat with the letter for another minute.

"Auntie."

"Yes."

"Tell me the rest."

"The rest is the pawn ticket."

"The pawn ticket."

"The pawn ticket is for the bracelet. In 1929 the doctor on Beihai Road would not, in the winter, see me without a deposit. I had no money. I had the bracelet. I went to Madam Khorshid. Madam Khorshid had been told of me by a Russian dresser at the Carlton who had also gone to her in winter. Madam Khorshid is, on the Avenue Joffre, the woman who lends, against jade, to Chinese women whose husbands have not, or whose protectors will not, or whose contracts do not. She lent me sixty silver dollars against the bracelet. She has held the bracelet for seven years. The interest, at the listed compound, is two hundred. The listed price of the bracelet is eight hundred. The release price now, with the interest she will not waive, is two hundred. I have, in seven years, not gone to release. I have, in seven years, not gone because the price went up faster than I could put silver into the lacquer box on the harmonium. I am telling you so that you may, if you choose, go on a Monday afternoon to Avenue Joffre and present the ticket and pay the two hundred and bring the bracelet home."

"Auntie. I do not have two hundred silver dollars."

"You have, in the brass jar in the kitchen, sixty-one. You have, in the contract reserve from May which I have not yet been told to spend, thirty. You have, in the small purse in your stocking drawer, fourteen. You have, in the white envelope you have not opened that came on Tuesday from the man whose voice you have not introduced to me by name, sixty. The sixty is, I am told, a loan. The four totals one hundred sixty-five. The two hundred is — let me say — close. Closer than it has been in seven years."

I did not, on the chaise, immediately ask how she knew about the sixty in the white envelope. I had not, in fact, received a white envelope on Tuesday — but then I thought, with the small slow rearrangement a woman in a Hongkou lane house arranges her week with at ten at night, that perhaps I had. Perhaps the envelope had been on the vanity on Tuesday and I had filed it the way I had filed the brown linen suit and the Bao Lifen Bible and the Father Lamy — into the inside pocket of the handbag, between the Shenbao and the dead list, in the small private bureau the handbag had become.

"You are not asking me," she said, "how I know what is in your handbag."

"I will, in time, ask."

"You will not. You will ask Anya, who comes here on Mondays for the laundry. Anya, on Mondays in this house, has on three occasions looked into your handbag while I was asleep, because I have, on three occasions, asked her to. She does as I ask. I am telling you now because I am at a part of my life in which I will not, presently, be able to ask Anya to do anything for me. The asking is over. Anya is your friend. She is not my friend. She is, on Mondays in this house, my agent of three errands in seven years. I am telling you because you are twenty-two and I am forty-eight and the asking is, today, finished. You will, in the next two years, do the asking. You will need to know whom you have been allowed to ask."

"Anya."

"Anya knows three things that you do not know I know. She has not told me — I have read in her face. The first thing is that you have gone down into the basement on a Friday night. The second is that you have gone down a second Friday. The third is that the man in the basement has rewritten a song for a hand he has that is not whole. Anya, in the rewriting, has begun to be — let us say — afraid for you. She is correct to be afraid. I am telling you so that you may, in the next weeks, be afraid for her also. Anya's daughter, on the Garden Bridge in 1935, was almost arrested. I know this. The man who saved her was a Filipino trombonist named Vicente. I know this. The man in the basement was the man who sent Vicente. I know this. I know it because in 1935 a man came to this door with a small basket of pears and told me. The man was the chief carpenter at the Paramount, a man named Mr. Hu. Mr. Hu had been told by the man in the basement to tell me. The man in the basement, in 1935, had not known your name but had known mine. The man in the basement had been kind, in 1935, to me through Anya's daughter through Vicente through Mr. Hu. The kindness was an investment. The investment was that you would, in a year, in two years, in three, be in a position to be reached. The investment has now matured. You have gone down twice. The matured investment is sitting, presently, on the harmonium, with the chord rewritten for the hand he has."

She said this quietly. The eyes were on the ceiling.

"Auntie."

"Yes."

"Did you know in 1935."

"I knew in 1935 that there was a man under the building who had been kind to my Russian dresser's daughter on the Garden Bridge. I did not know, in 1935, that the man's kindness was for you. I knew it was for someone. I assumed it was for one of the older singers. Bai Zhu, perhaps. Or the Chinese hostess at the Astor. There were several women in the Settlement to whom this man might have been preparing to be useful. I assumed he had not, in 1935, chosen. I was wrong. I think now he had, in 1935, chosen. I think he had been listening to you for, perhaps, a year by then."

"He listened."

"Through the sprung floor. The boys at the bandstand have been complaining, in the Filipino musicians' canteen, since 1934, of a man in the cold-storage room who sometimes sits with them at the back table and does not speak. The chief carpenter has, since 1934, sometimes taken out to the cold-storage at midnight a small thermos of coffee. Mr. Hu does this on a Friday, between the second and third set. He does not, when asked, say who is in the cold-storage. He has been doing it for twenty-six months. Anya has counted. Anya is older than she looks, and she is from Petrograd in 1919, and she counts things that other people do not. Twenty-six months. He has been there twenty-six months. I am telling you because you have been wondering, on the rickshaw home, what manner of man writes songs for a left hand that does not span a tenth. He has been writing them for twenty-six months. He is not new to the building. He is not new to your voice. He is new only to having been answered by it. He is new, this week, to having a woman read the brown linen suit and the Bao Lifen Bible and the Father Lamy from his cursive and put the papers in her handbag and not, in nine days, leave the building. That is new. Yes."

"Yes."

We sat in the quiet for a long minute.

"Auntie."

"Yes."

"What do I do."

"You do," she said, "the thing your brother decided not to run. You do not, however, do it the way your brother did. Your brother was nineteen and went to a window over Yangshupu Road and decided he would not be the man who ran. He had no instrument for what he had decided. He had a friend and a barley tea. You, in 1936, have an instrument. Your instrument is the song with the chord rewritten for the hand he has. Your instrument is the contralto Anya told you in 1934 was your real range. Your instrument is the question you have, on Friday night, learned to lift on the 安. Your brother did not have an instrument. You have one. The instrument is the difference between you and your brother. Use the instrument. Do not, please, decide that the only honest way to be the woman your brother was is to refuse the instrument. The instrument is yours. Your brother did not have one. He would, I think, have been glad that you have one."

She closed her eyes.

"I am, at this point, going to sleep. There is one more thing. The pawn ticket is on the chaise. You will, on a Monday this month, take the pawn ticket to Avenue Joffre. You will not take it on the present Monday because the present Monday you have, at Madame Anya's at noon, an appointment for your hair. You will take it on the Monday after. By the Monday after you will have, with what is in the brass jar and the contract reserve and the small purse and the white envelope, one hundred and sixty-five silver dollars. You will go to Madam Khorshid with one hundred and sixty-five. You will tell Madam Khorshid that the rest will arrive within ninety days. Madam Khorshid will believe you, because Madam Khorshid was a girl in Tehran in 1899 and her mother was an Armenian who in 1894 was — let us say — in a similar arrangement, in Smyrna, with a man. Madam Khorshid will give you the bracelet. The bracelet you will not, on receipt, wear. You will, in a velvet box at the bottom of your wardrobe, keep it. You will think of the bracelet as the thing your foster-mother gave you, on the eve of a season, that was hers to give. You will not, please, sell it. Do you understand."

"Yes."

"Good."

"Auntie."

"Yes."

"You said the asking is finished."

"It is."

"It is not. I have one ask."

"Ask."

"On the morning of the twelfth of April next year, I want you to wake me. Whether I am at the Paramount the night before or in this lane, I want you to wake me at six. I want you to be the woman who wakes me. The waking will be the asking. The asking is mine for the rest of my life. Will you wake me."

She did not open her eyes.

"On the morning of the twelfth of April next year," she said, "I will, if I am here, wake you. I will, if I am not here, have asked another to wake you. I will leave a note. The note will say April twelfth, six o'clock, wake. The note will be on the harmonium. You will, on opening your eyes, see the note."

"Thank you."

"Sleep. It is past ten. The Paramount is, at this hour on a Saturday, your second set, which you do not have tonight because you are not at the Paramount on Saturday, which you have not, in any week of the last year, remembered. You are not at the Paramount tonight. You are at home. You may sleep. Tomorrow at noon I will not be awake. Read the letter again at noon, please. Read the letter when I am asleep. The reading is for you alone. I do not need to be conscious for it. I have done my reading. I have done it for nine years. I have, in the doing, become tired. You may, tonight, take the tired. I am giving it to you. Sleep."

She slept.

I sat for a long time with the letter on my lap and the pawn ticket beside me and the small note about the Russian textbook in my hand. The cicadas continued. The lamp outside the gate was the only light in the room. The harmonium against the wall was as it had been, with the third song on the desk where I had left it. The bracelet that had been my foster-mother's mother's mother's was, on the Avenue Joffre, in a velvet box in a small parlor that smelled, I knew because Madame Anya had told me, of rose-water and Persian tea. I would, on a Monday two weeks from this Monday, go and get it.

I did not, that night, sleep.

At dawn I got up. I walked the seven steps to the harmonium. I sat. I did not pump the bellows. I put my hand on the keys without playing. I sat for a long minute.

Then I took the letter out of my pocket. I folded the letter in half along the original crease. I put it in the inside lining of the silver qipao I would, on Friday, wear at the Paramount with the new lamé hem at three quarters of an inch above the kneecap on the side slit and the silver piping at the collar that Yao Sanye had specified in person on Friday morning at ten.

The lining held the letter against the seam at my right hip.

I left it there.

I came back to the chaise. I put the dead list, in his cursive, against the letter, in my brother's, in the lining of the qipao. The two pieces of paper sat against each other. The lining held them.

I thought, very quietly: the second movement of the song is the one that will name the names. The first movement is jasmine. The second movement is the men in the lane house in Zhabei in 1934 and the men at Longhua in 1927 and the day in April that is now a date. The second verse will be harder than the first. The second movement will be harder than the second verse. I will, in time, sing the second movement. I have not, in time, been ready. I am, this morning at dawn in a lane in Hongkou, beginning to be ready.

The cicadas had stopped. The lamp outside had gone out at five with the lamp-lighter's pole. The boy two doors down had not, this Sunday morning, begun his violin.

Auntie Lin slept. I went to the kitchen and put the kettle on for the morning's tea. The pipe on the side-table was, in the morning light, dust on the rim.

It would not, that day, be relit.

By the time the kettle whistled, I had decided that on Monday afternoon, at one, I would not, instead of going to Anya's at Avenue Joffre for my hair, go on the Avenue Joffre at all. I would, on Monday afternoon at one, return to the Paramount through the service door. I would go down the back stair. I would go into the basement. I would walk to the cold-storage door. I would not knock. I would, in the cold-storage, lift the door at the back. I would, in the dark, go down the forty-two steps.

I would, at the bottom, sing him the first verse — quietly, without warning — and at the end of the first verse, on the 安, I would lift the question.

I would then, in the small silence after, say, I have read your reason for being here. My reason is also here. Read it. And I would put the brother's letter on the music desk, beside the song.

And he would, in his voice that did not raise, read.

That was the plan I made at the kettle's whistle.

I did not, that morning, know whether I would keep it.

I knew the kettle was whistling.

I took the kettle off the stove.