七部小说 · Seven Novels

第八章 ——《霞飞路》

礼拜一一点钟，我并不下百乐门。

礼拜日早晨在水壶边，我已经决定要下去。那时我在水壶边对自己讲得很明白。我曾在心里把那句我一点钟下去用上海话默念了两遍，要它扎住。那话像某些决定那样，并不曾扎住。礼拜日中午，我已开始修订这决定。礼拜日三点，我已修订过它。礼拜一早晨七点，弄堂里的点灯人已上床，弄堂自身被早起的小车碾得半醒，我又把它修订了一回，朝着这个方向：今日不去。先取当票。后下楼。八点，林姨眼睛不睁就问我可曾睡过，我便不能用一个女人能对一个被她在礼拜六夜里十点请去做某件事而熬到失眠的养母答睡过的那种声气，去答睡过。

我并不曾睡。我把那封信读了四遍。

第四遍是在礼拜日下午四点半，靠在贵妃椅上，窗子开着，弄堂里的梧桐里蝉声正盛，隔了两户那家木匠门廊上的一个小女孩拿了一根棍子，沿着鸟笼的铁条来回地划，笼里关着木匠太太的八哥。八哥已用上海话低声骂了一个钟头——夏天里木匠家的八哥便是这样的。这第四遍读，是那种读法：把一桩自己已晓得的事再读一回，是为了确认它不曾改过。它不曾。

到礼拜一早晨八点，我已决定如下：

我会在中午，依约去霞飞路安雅夫人那里做头发。安雅夫人的店在霞飞路与亨利·李维拉路的转角。这位安雅夫人并非百乐门那位安雅；她是一位约莫五十五岁的老波兰俄国人，自一九二八年起便为夜总会的女人们做指波，礼拜一中午是我的常约。

做完头发，一点半，我向南走两条街，到霞飞路与拉法叶路的转角，找到霍尔希德夫人的小店，呈上当票，付清那一百六十五块大洋——这一百六十五块的来路是确凿的：铜罐里、合约预付里、小钱包里，再加上那只白信封里——这白信封是上礼拜二搁在妆台上的，里头六十块大洋,加一张红墨水字条写着礼拜五借的款，我未曾启封，搁在手袋内袋里已九日，压在《申报》后头，分毫不差，正如林姨礼拜六夜里告诉我的——再用安雅夫人对我担保过的那种带波斯口音的官话，开口向她要那只镯子。

到了霍尔希德夫人那里，两点钟，我便会有生平做工以来头一件属于我自己的乐器。

这便是礼拜一的计划。

礼拜一一点钟，我并不下百乐门。

中午我去安雅夫人那里。

店是老样子。三把椅子，三位太太坐在椅上，四位白罩衫的发型师傅守在椅旁与后头的洗头池边。安雅夫人——波兰那位——在一号椅前，白发用一只小黑帽别住，两只手深深地按在一位我不认识的外国太太的肥皂泡里。她没把手从泡里拔出来，朝我点了点头。前台是位约莫十九岁的英法混血小姑娘，叫海伦，端了一杯咖啡到窗边的小桌上来，我便坐在那里翻一份《中法新汇报》等着。

公共租界的报，我向来不是从头版读起——头版是布鲁塞尔的一桩德国外交问题——我读它，是读第三版底脚的那些小公告。

一九三六年七月十三日礼拜一这天，第三版上有这几则小公告：

小黄浦航空俱乐部：礼拜日的飞行延期。

租界警察通告：护照换发须在八月十五日前办理。

法国体育会：茶舞暂停十日；地板正在打蜡重做。

茶舞暂停十日。这茶舞在我读《回声报》的这四年里，从未停过。法国体育会的礼拜三下午茶舞，自一九三二年起便是法租界太太们带女儿去做小小社交预演的所在——再过五年，这些预演便会化作订婚。茶舞暂停十日这桩事，搁在一九三四年，原会上租界报头版的；到了一九三六年，它落在第三版底脚。我便对着它坐了一分钟。

法国体育会是里卡尔中士礼拜二喝酒的所在。

我手袋里那张红墨水的字条上写着：里卡尔中士礼拜二在法国体育会喝酒。莫派你那英国人去。他自礼拜一起便被人盯了。

倘若法国体育会的茶舞暂停十日，酒吧大约也要关十日。地板打蜡的时候，酒吧不一定关；酒吧在大楼南端，舞池在北端。但这家酒吧自一九三六年七月起，礼拜三与礼拜六生意已淡了两个月；这两个月里，里卡尔中士大约是它最稳的四位老主顾之一。若酒吧也关了——若那「暂停」的字眼是个委婉——那么里卡尔中士礼拜二的酒局，要么改地方，要么也一并停了。

依租界里日复一日的小节奏看，这便是新闻。它是《中法新汇报》第三版底脚上的新闻，正如别的新闻是《申报》头版上的新闻一样。这是新闻底下的新闻——白珠是这么叫它的。新闻底下的新闻，是这城里掌事的人用暗语彼此通气的地方，一九三五年白珠隔着一瓶茅台对我说过，你把新闻底下的新闻读上三年，便会渐渐看明白，究竟是哪十个法国人、哪四个英国人，在替这页报纸顶上的新闻拿主意，让它说什么、不让它说什么。

我把《中法新汇报》折起来。我把咖啡喝了。安雅夫人替那位外国太太做完，在白围裙上揩干手，把围裙转向我，用上海话说：苏小姐。来。

她让我坐二号椅。她洗我的头。她照一九三四年起替我做指波的法子，用小木梳把波纹一一别住。她不说话。这四年里，洗头时她从不曾对我说过话。她只在末了开口。末了她开口说：收据六毛，赏钱随客便，下回是八月第二个礼拜一。这便是我们之间的对话。我们之间的另一种对话——她真正讲话、而不在别波纹的时候——只发生在兆丰公园的礼拜日野餐上。她曾在一九三五年的一次野餐上告诉我，她的儿子一九一八年十一月死在斯摩棱斯克的犹太屠杀里，而她，十八年里不曾把他的名字出过声。

我在椅上坐了四十分钟，头发里别着小木梳，眼睛闭着，悄悄地想着里卡尔中士的礼拜二和法国体育会的十日暂停。我也悄悄地想着，第七小节底下那个为不能跨十度的左手改过的和弦。

差一刻两点，安雅夫人把木梳取了下来。波纹立住了。我付她九毛——六毛收据，三毛赏钱——她递给我那枚菊花形的小黑漆牌子，那便是付清的凭证，我便走出门，到了霞飞路上。

七月差一刻两点的霞飞路，是约好了的上海的巴黎。梧桐老而密，树荫顺着这条路一路铺开。咖啡馆都把遮阳棚放了下来。一个小法国男孩骑着三轮车从我身边踏过，挟着一根有他大腿那么长的法棍。霞飞路与马思南路转角文艺复兴餐厅门前的一位白俄门房朝我抬了抬礼帽，仿佛认得我——他确是认得我，因为一九三三年他曾是我在卡尔登的客人，一九三五年升到了门房的工钱，两年里从不曾叫我记起他。我朝他抬了抬下巴。我向南走。

霍尔希德夫人的店在南面三个街口，霞飞路与拉法叶路转角，开在一栋法租界 Art Deco 楼的底层；这种楼一九四九年以后会改成公家宿舍，一九九〇年以后又会改成外资样品房。一九三六年，它是一家小小的珠宝店，一扇深绿门，一块黄铜招牌上以三种文字——波斯文、英文、中文——写着霍尔希德兄弟珠宝当押，临街一扇小玻璃窗里，一块绒垫上托着一只珍珠吊坠，衬着深蓝绸子。这吊坠至少自一九三三年起就在窗里。从某种意思上讲，这便是这家店唯一的招贴。

我按了门铃。咔哒一声。一个低低的声气用法语问是谁。我用官话答：林姨的女儿。来取当。咔哒声化作蜂鸣。门朝里开了。

里头。

一间小小的前室，两把丝绒扶手椅，一张矮几，一只玻璃面的柜子，柜子下托着三块绒垫（今日垫上不搁东西），地上一张波斯地毯，深红与深蓝——一九三六年的上海，波斯地毯并不时兴。空气里有玫瑰水的气味，正如安雅说的；还有霍尔希德夫人用小玻璃杯加银匙呷的那种小豆蔻与佛手柑味浓重的波斯茶香。柜子背后的墙上挂着三幅装框照片：一幅是看着像一九〇〇年的德黑兰，一幅是看着像一八九三年的士麦那院落里的小女孩，一幅是看着像一九二八年这间店面前一位穿着上海旗袍的年轻女人。这年轻女人，便是霍尔希德夫人。

霍尔希德夫人此刻坐在第二把扶手椅上。一九三六年，她五十八岁。人很小。一头银白长发结成一条辫子，垂在背后。一张瘦脸，颧骨高，那双暗而耐心的眼睛，正是一个女人在四十到五十之间下了决心——五十岁之后，她不再怕这座城里任何人手里捏着的任何东西——之后才会有的眼睛。她穿着一身黑绸中国袍子，小小的波斯领，绣着银线。腕上一条细金链上串着七颗小金珠。她不曾起身。

「坐，请。喝茶？」

「谢谢。好。」

她斟。波斯茶从一只小银壶里斟进那只配银匙的小玻璃杯，正如安雅说的。香气在屋里漾开。杯子很烫，我用两只手捧着。

「苏小姐。」

「在，霍尔希德夫人。」

「林爱卿礼拜六夜里告诉过你，要带什么来。」

「告诉过。我这只钱包里有一百六十五块大洋。我没凑齐两百。我听说您肯在意，受这一百六十五块，余下三十五块按九十日清。」

「我肯。先请告诉我，为什么你的养母礼拜六不来。」

「我养母七月里不出弄堂屋。她身子不许。」

「我认得你养母已七年。她身子不许什么，我清楚。我这一问，并不是问她身子不许什么。我是问，何以一九三六年这一个礼拜六——这七年里每年春上我都问过她是否愿意来——她偏偏不来。何以是今年。」

我捧着茶坐着。

「因为，」我说，「她头一回告诉了我我哥哥的日子。」

霍尔希德夫人一时没答话。

「我明白了。」

「您也是晓得的。哥哥这件事。」

「七年里，我已在三次谈话里被告知。头一次是一九三〇年冬。第二次是一九三三年春。第三次是去年五月，一个下雨的礼拜三，你养母坐八路电车下来，在这间屋里坐了一个钟头，把她一直憋着的事，原原本本告诉了我。她在五月的那个礼拜三告诉我，她会在夏末之前把那只锡盒给你。我当时料她会在六月里给。她不曾。她是在礼拜六给的。何以不在六月给，我不晓得。何以今日不来，我晓得。她是让你，苏小姐，替她走进这间屋。她让你以你的时间，做她七年里不曾做的那件事。这一小桩，我是欣慰于她的。我也告诉你，为的是要你晓得，你的养母做了什么。」

「我晓得。」

「喝茶。」

我喝。

「好。」她说。「现下，镯子。」

她早就把它备好了。它从头便搁在她身旁的小几上，盛在一只扑克牌那么大的丝绒盒里。她不曾先开盒。她先在一张印好的小单子上，用铅笔，以三种文字写收据。她写下日期——新历五年七月七日；一九三六年七月十三日；一三一五年提尔月二十二日——以及银元一百六十五块的数目，余款三十五块大洋于五年十月初五；一九三六年十月十三日；一三一五年迈赫尔月二十二日之前付清。她把收据转向我画押。我用康威斯图尔特笔签了。

「英国笔尖。」

「人送的。」

「男人送的。」

「一位朋友。」

「这罕见。把他当朋友留着。」

「我会试。」

她把丝绒盒沿着小几推过来。我把它打开。

里头，一垫米白色丝绸上，搁着那只镯子。一条浅青瓷色的玉箍，宽不过五毫米，无刻，无嵌，无字。是那种苏州内宅太太藏在袖管里头从不上街露出来的镯子，是那种评弹艺人的女儿会从她母亲和她母亲的母亲那里继承下来的镯子。圈口小——眼下对我的腕子已嫌小。礼拜六夜里，我曾想着戴上它。坐在霍尔希德夫人这小小的前室里，我便看出，我是戴不上的。

「你戴不上，」她说。「这是给一个十三岁的姑娘做的。你养母的母亲在她十三岁那年把它套到她腕上，那时腕子还细，从那以后便不曾下来过。一九二五年你养母叫一位苏州玉匠把它从内缝处剖开，使它得以不破而下；但这一圈，到了成年，便不能再合回去。它——容我说——是个小姑娘的镯子。你不再是小姑娘了。」

「我要留着。」

「好。留着便是它的价。」

「霍尔希德夫人。」

「在。」

「您自来上海这十八年——」

「二十六年。」

「二十六年。这二十六年里，您替这城里多少女人收过镯子。」

「二十六年里，我替一百零八位女人收过镯子。这一百零八位里，我已经把七十一只赎了出来。另外三十七只，是按那些女人的请求，或因那些女人过世，或因那些女人未能赎回，已被我卖掉。这七十一回赎出里，有十九回是由女儿，或姊妹，或女人自己的养女赎的。你，今日，是这第十九回。」

「七年的息费是多少。」

「这一笔交易里，我不收七年的息费。这一笔交易里，我是按头一年挂牌的复利收的。我不曾涨过。你一九二九年要付的两百块，仍是你一九三六年要付的两百块。七年里，我不曾涨过。我告诉你这话，是要你晓得你养母所晓得的。你养母晓得这件事。你养母在这七年里，连头一期的六十块也凑不出来。她凑不出，是因为，这位好心的女人，把它花在了北海路的鸦片上、医生上、和你身上。我告诉你，这七年是一份赠予。这份赠予，是我给她的。你所受的，是这赠予里继承的那一份。是这样。」

「是。谢谢您。」

「不必谢。把茶喝了。」

我把剩下的茶喝了。茶酽。杯底的小豆蔻，是杯底里波斯茶留下的那一点小小的干甜。

「还有一桩，苏小姐。」

「请讲。」

「你在百乐门做。」

「是。」

「百乐门，八月里某个礼拜六，有一桩小小的私人席。日子在八月的第三个礼拜。是为一位伊藤健介少佐设的私席，听说是日本帝国海军的。席摆在画廊后头那间小私房里。是——容我说——请帖到才能去的。当晚的女东道是一位约莫二十二岁的中国女人，她的名字，上礼拜被写到了领事馆的一张名单上。我告诉你这话，是因为这名单一经写下，便存在了。你眼下已在名单上。我把名单上写你的话告诉你。这名单上——是我未见过、但领事馆的一位朋友形容过的笔迹——写着：歌伶，女低音，英文尚可，除合约之外无已知保护人。末一句——除合约之外无已知保护人——这一句，便是说，在领事馆看来，你是可以接的。」

我一时不曾出声。

「霞飞路上一位波斯珠宝商，何以晓得日本领事馆名单上的事。」

「霞飞路上一位波斯珠宝商，自一九二二年起，便在这城里每一家领事馆都有一位朋友。这些朋友，多半是太太们。日本领事馆的那位朋友，自一九三四年起，是一位田中太太，每礼拜三四点钟来喝茶。田中太太不读名单。她丈夫读。田中太太每礼拜三，把她在丈夫私用早膳房的早餐桌上听见的事，用她不晓得我在一九三四年起就读得懂的日语，向我提一提。我告诉你，是因为这名单的事，是五月里的一回礼拜三茶话。席在八月。还有时辰。不算多。」

「姚三爷也在这名单上。」

「姚三爷在这名单上，相应那一栏里，是被请去做引见的人。引见，便是采办那件事可以推开的一种说法。他一直在等这一请。八月里，他将——容我说——乐于做这引见。自五月起，他便为此事乐着。你礼拜六在鸿翔试的那件礼服，下摆、领口、侧开衩，正是为八月那场席备的礼服。」

我对着这话坐了一时。

「谢谢您，霍尔希德夫人。」

「不必谢。十月十三日前的三十五块。镯子是你的。那位有英国笔尖的朋友，我望你留下。还有——苏小姐。」

「在。」

「礼拜三下午四点钟，倘若哪个礼拜，你恰好在这一带，又愿来喝一杯波斯茶，那时的店面是只待女客的。礼拜三下午，我别无约会。礼拜三下午，我是有空的。」

「谢谢您。」

「去吧。」

我去了。

两点二十分，我走出店面，到了霞飞路上，丝绒盒在我手袋里，收据上画着他笔下的押，镯子搁在最底下，路上是梧桐树荫满天和礼拜一下午寻常的车马。我顺着这条路朝北走了两条街，并不曾思想，到了先施公司对面一棵梧桐下的长凳上坐了，沐在午后的暖意与叶下细细的斑驳里，把丝绒盒搁在膝头，十分钟里一桩事也不曾做。

两点半，我搭电车往东。我并不曾在哪一刻，朝南往百乐门那一向去。礼拜日早晨我在水壶边订下的计划，从霞飞路到先施之间的某一刻起，已经散了。我在这散里并不曾决定何时下楼。我只决定了，今日不是日子。今日是镯子的日子。今日是四月初八的日子。今日是领事馆名单的日子。

今日不是地下室的日子。

地下室得等到礼拜五。

电车载着我顺霞飞路往下，过爱多亚路，进了南京路。我在河南路下车。我向北走了半个街口，到新雅。礼拜一。礼拜一下午三点的新雅，是空的。后头两个堂倌。鲁道夫经理在柜旁的小桌边读《中法新汇报》。英国太太们都已经礼拜五礼拜六购物完回了家；早班的常客都在午饭后散了。礼拜二我和泰迪坐的那张靠窗的桌子，今日空着。

我坐在那张靠窗的桌上。

我点了咖啡。堂倌是年长的那位，曹太太，一九二九年就在新雅做了。她递上咖啡，添了一小块饼干，顺口问我可好。我说好。她说，那位英国人礼拜一不来。礼拜一他在长酒吧。我说，是，我晓得。我今日一个人。她点点头。退回后头去了。

我坐着，捧着咖啡。我取出康威斯图尔特笔。我从我装词曲的小本子上抽出一张新纸。我用他的笔在纸顶上写：

礼拜二。法国体育会茶舞已暂停十日。法国体育会酒吧——查——亦或一同关闭。里卡尔中士的礼拜二亦——查——或已挪移。礼拜二下午里卡尔会被挪到何处。名单。八月之席。姚三爷，采办，可推开的形式。礼服即是席上的礼服。

我用细致工整的小字写下。把笔帽合上。把纸对折，放进手袋内袋，搁在死人名单与哥哥那封信之间。手袋抵着我肘弯，与从前无异。在新雅这片临南京路窗口的后边小一隅里，手袋便是我的国度。

我把咖啡喝完。下午一寸寸过去。四点钟我结了账。我走到热里去。我过外滩。出云号仍泊在它自一九三五年十一月起的所在。海关大楼的钟敲了四下。外滩的点灯人四点已开始巡——是先点的那一批；七月里外滩的路灯五点才齐亮。今日在英国领事馆下的台阶下偷钓鱼的男孩，与从前是另一个。卖花的老人是从前那位。他今日的茉莉是清晨送进来的。我替林姨买了一小束。

我搭人力车从花园桥过河回去。今日的日本哨兵，是礼拜六那位。他不曾抬眼。拉车的是老吴。他按挂牌价拉的我。他没说浦东的事。他把我拉上吴淞路，在街角放了我下来。我从弄口走进巷子。老曹先生朝我抬了抬帽子。我顺巷子上去到屋。

弄堂屋里，林姨已醒了。她在风琴前。她正非常仔细、非常慢地弹着夜来香未眠的头一句。她只用右手弹，因为左手在一九三六年已没了跨第七小节底下那和弦的力气。她从下午两点起便坐在风琴前。第七小节底下那和弦，搬在风琴上，便是他改写过的那和弦。她弹完右手的那一句。她不曾在自己养女的风琴上去试那和弦。

她弹完。把手放下。

「明日你在新雅。同那英国人。」

「是。」

「你明日，不要派他去法国体育会。」

「我不派。」

「请你替我，向他问候。」

「我替您问。」

「礼拜五你便下楼。」

「我礼拜五，便下楼。」

「好。把茉莉递给我。」

我把茉莉递给她。她将它搁在风琴上，礼拜六的那枝栀子已枯成棕色的甜香。茉莉白且紧实，未开。明日便要开。礼拜三便要发棕。

我坐在贵妃椅上。我把丝绒盒搁在小几上，旁边是那只瓷烟枪——它已是第三晚未点。今夜我不曾开盒。烟枪与盒，并排搁着。林姨又把右手的那一句弹了一回。然后她把手歇下，闭上眼睛，说，第二段会比头一段难，我说，我晓得，她说，八月那场席会比第二段更难，我说，这个我也晓得，她说，好。我们说定了。睡。我便睡了。

夜里我梦见一只波斯茶玻璃杯，配着小银匙，杯底沉着小豆蔻；又梦见我哥哥坐在杨树浦路一家临窗的小桌前，对着一壶大麦茶和一位名叫吴步韦的朋友；又梦见一位日本领事的太太在某个礼拜三的茶里；又梦见一个男人在一间砖屋的钢琴前，为他剩下的那只手写一个和弦。梦里那和弦，便是第七小节底下那和弦。梦里那手，戴着手套。我没看见那手。我只听见那和弦。

Chapter Eight — Avenue Joffre

I did not, on Monday at one, go to the Paramount.

I had decided, at the kettle on Sunday morning, that I would. I had been very clear with myself at the kettle. I had said the words I will go down at one in my head, in Shanghainese, twice, to make them stick. The words had not, in the way certain decisions did not, stuck. By Sunday at noon I had begun to amend the decision. By Sunday at three I had amended it. By Monday at seven in the morning, when the lamp-lighter on the lane was already in bed and the lane itself was half-awake with the early carts going past, I had amended it again, in the direction of: not today. The pawn ticket first. The descent later. By eight, when Auntie Lin asked me, without opening her eyes, if I had slept, I had not been able to say yes in the kind of voice a woman could say yes in to a foster-mother who had been kept conscious by what she had asked her, on Saturday night at ten, to take.

I had not slept. I had read the letter four times.

The fourth reading had been at half past four on Sunday afternoon, on the chaise with the windows open and the cicadas at full volume in the lane plane trees and a small girl on the carpenter's stoop two doors down running a stick along the bars of the bird cage that contained the carpenter's wife's myna. The myna had been swearing softly in Shanghainese for an hour, the way carpenters' mynas did in summer. I had read the fourth time the way one reads a thing one already knows in order to make sure it has not changed. It had not.

I had decided, by Monday morning at eight, the following:

I would, at noon, keep the appointment with Madame Anya on Avenue Joffre for my hair. Madame Anya's was at the corner of Avenue Joffre and Rue de Henri Rivière. Madame Anya was not the Anya of the Paramount; she was an older Polish-Russian woman of about fifty-five who had been doing the finger waves of the cabaret women since 1928 and who was, on Mondays at noon, my standing appointment.

After my hair, at half past one, I would walk south two blocks to the corner of Avenue Joffre and Rue Lafayette and find Madam Khorshid's small parlor and present the pawn ticket and pay the one hundred and sixty-five silver dollars I had, in fact, in the brass jar and the contract reserve and the small purse and the white envelope (which was, on Tuesday last, on the vanity, sixty silver dollars and a note in red ink that said the loan from Friday, which I had not opened and which had been in the inside pocket of my handbag for nine days, behind the Shenbao, exactly as Auntie Lin had told me on Saturday night) and ask her, in the Persian-accented Mandarin Madame Anya had assured me she spoke, for the bracelet.

After Madam Khorshid, at two, I would have, for the first time in my working life, an instrument that was mine.

That was the plan for Monday.

I did not, on Monday at one, go to the Paramount.

At noon I went to Madame Anya.

The shop was as it had been. Three chairs, three women at the chairs, four hairdressers in white smocks at the chairs and the back sink. Madame Anya — the Polish one — was at chair one with her white hair pinned up under a small black cap and her hands deep in the suds of a foreign lady I did not recognize. She nodded at me without taking her hands out of the suds. The receptionist, a small Anglo-French girl of about nineteen named Helene, brought me a cup of coffee at the side table by the window, where I sat with a copy of L'Echo de Chine and waited.

I read L'Echo de Chine the way I read everything in the Settlement papers — not for the front page, which was a German diplomatic question in Brussels, but for the small notices at the bottom of page three.

Page three, on Monday the thirteenth of July 1936, had these small notices:

Aero-Club du Petit Whampoa: Sunday flight, postponed.

Concession police notice: passport renewals due before fifteenth August.

Cercle Sportif Français: tea dance suspended for ten days; the floor is being refinished.

The tea dance suspended for ten days. The tea dance had not been suspended in the four years I had been reading L'Echo. The Cercle Sportif on a Wednesday afternoon in July had been, since 1932, the place where French Concession wives took their daughters for the small social rehearsal that, in five years, would become the engagements. Suspending the tea dance for ten days was the kind of thing that, in 1934, would have made the front page of the Settlement papers; in 1936 it appeared at the bottom of page three. I sat with it for a minute.

The Cercle Sportif was the club where Sergeant Ricard, on Tuesdays, drank.

The note in my handbag, in red ink, had said Sergeant Ricard drinks at the Cercle Sportif on Tuesdays. Do not send your Englishman. He has been followed since Monday.

If the Cercle Sportif had suspended the tea dance for ten days, the bar would also, presumably, be closed for ten days. The bar was not always closed when the dance floor was being refinished; the bar was at the south end of the building and the floor at the north. But the bar, in July 1936, had been having a slow Wednesday and Saturday for two months; Sergeant Ricard had been the bar's regular for, perhaps, the four most reliable. If the bar was being closed too — if the suspended notice was a euphemism — then Sergeant Ricard's Tuesday drinking was either being moved or being suspended also.

This was, in the small daily way of the Settlement, news. It was news in the bottom of page three of L'Echo de Chine the way other news was on the front page of the Shenbao. The news under the news, Pearl called it. The news under the news is where the people who run the city tell each other things in code, Pearl had said in 1935 over a bottle of Maotai. You read the news under the news for three years and you start to understand which ten Frenchmen and which four Englishmen are actually deciding what the news on the top of the page is allowed to say.

I folded L'Echo de Chine. I drank the coffee. Madame Anya finished with the foreign lady and dried her hands on her white apron and turned the apron toward me and said, in Shanghainese, Miss Su. Come.

She put me in chair two. She washed my hair. She set the finger waves with the small wooden combs the way she had been setting my finger waves since 1934. She did not speak. She had not, in four years, spoken to me during a wash. She spoke at the end. She spoke at the end when she said, the receipt is sixty cents and the gratuity at your discretion and I will see you on the second Monday in August. That was the conversation between us. The other conversation between us, which was when she was speaking and not setting waves, happened only at Sunday picnics at Jessfield Park, where she had told me once in 1935 that her son had been killed in the November pogrom in Smolensk in 1918 and that she had not, in eighteen years, spoken his name aloud.

I sat in the chair for forty minutes with the small wooden combs in my hair and my eyes closed and I thought, very quietly, about Sergeant Ricard's Tuesday and the Cercle Sportif's ten-day suspension. I thought also, very quietly, about the chord under the seventh measure that had been rewritten for a left hand that did not span a tenth.

At quarter to two Madame Anya took out the combs. The waves held. I gave her ninety cents — sixty for the receipt and thirty for the gratuity — and she gave me the small black-lacquered token in the shape of a chrysanthemum that meant I had paid, and I walked out into Avenue Joffre.

Avenue Joffre at quarter to two in July was the Paris of Shanghai by appointment. The plane trees were old and dense and the shade ran the length of the avenue. The cafés had their awnings down. A small French boy on a tricycle pedaled past me with a baguette as long as his leg. A White Russian doorman at the Restaurant Renaissance on the corner of Avenue Joffre and Rue Massenet tipped his hat to me as if he knew me, which he did, because he had been a customer of mine at the Carlton in 1933 and had moved up to a doorman's wage in 1935 and had never, in two years, asked me to remember him. I tipped my chin to him. I went south.

Madam Khorshid's parlor was three blocks south, at the corner of Avenue Joffre and Rue Lafayette, on the ground floor of a French Concession Art Deco building of the kind that, after 1949, would be converted into government housing and after 1990 into a foreign-investment showroom. In 1936 it was a small jewel parlor with a single dark-green door, a brass plate that said in three scripts — Persian, English, Chinese — Khorshid Frères, Gem and Pawn, and a small glass window at street level in which one velvet pad displayed a single pearl pendant against a dark blue silk. The pendant had been in the window since at least 1933. It was, in some sense, the parlor's only advertising.

I rang the bell. A small click. A voice, low, asking who, in French. I said, in Mandarin, Aunt Lin's daughter. The receipt. The click became a buzz. The door opened in.

Inside.

A small front room with two velvet armchairs, a low table, a glass-fronted cabinet with three small velvet pads under it (the pads not, today, holding anything), a Persian rug on the floor in the dark red and the dark blue Persian rugs in Shanghai were not, in 1936, in. The air smelled, as Anya had said it would, of rose-water and the strong cardamom-and-bergamot Persian tea Madam Khorshid drank from a small glass with a silver spoon in it. The wall behind the cabinet had three framed photographs: one of Tehran in what looked like 1900, one of a small girl in a Smyrna courtyard in what looked like 1893, one of a young woman in a Shanghai cheongsam at the front of this same parlor in what looked like 1928. The young woman was Madam Khorshid.

Madam Khorshid was now in the second armchair. She was, in 1936, fifty-eight. She was small. She had silver-white hair in a long braid down her back and a thin face with high cheekbones and the kind of dark patient eyes a woman acquired between forty and fifty when she had decided that, at fifty, she would not be afraid of anything anyone in this city had on offer. She was wearing a black silk Chinese dress with a small Persian collar embroidered in silver thread. There was a thin gold chain at her wrist on which were threaded seven small gold beads. She did not stand.

"Sit, please. Tea?"

"Thank you. Yes."

She poured. The Persian tea came out of a small silver pot into the small glass with the silver spoon, the way Anya had said it would. The smell came up into the room. I held the glass with both hands because the glass was very hot.

"Miss Su."

"Yes, Madam Khorshid."

"Lin Aiqing told you, on Saturday night, what to bring."

"She did. I have one hundred and sixty-five silver dollars in this purse. I do not have the full two hundred. I am told you will, in your discretion, accept the one hundred and sixty-five against the ninety-day balance of thirty-five."

"I will. Tell me first, please, why your foster-mother did not come on Saturday."

"My foster-mother does not, in July, leave the lane house. Her health does not allow."

"I have known your foster-mother for seven years. I know what her health does not allow. I am not, in this question, asking what her health does not allow. I am asking why she did not come on a Saturday in 1936 when I have, in the seven years, asked her in the spring of every year if she wished to come. Why this year."

I sat with the tea.

"Because," I said, "she has, for the first time, told me my brother's day."

Madam Khorshid did not answer for a moment.

"I see."

"You also know it. About the brother."

"I have, over seven years, in three conversations, been told. The first time was in 1930, in winter. The second time was in 1933, in spring. The third time was last May, on a Wednesday in the rain, when your foster-mother came down on the eight tram and sat in this room for an hour and told me, in detail, what she had been keeping. She told me, on the Wednesday in May, that she would, by the end of the summer, give you the tin. I had expected her, at that point, to give it in June. She did not. She gave it on Saturday. The reason she did not, in June, I do not know. The reason she did not come today, I do know. She is letting you, Miss Su, walk into this room in her place. She is letting you do, in your time, what she has not done in seven years. I am, in this small thing, pleased with her. I am, also, telling you so that you know what your foster-mother has done."

"I know."

"Drink the tea."

I drank.

"Now," she said. "The bracelet."

She had it. It had been beside her on the small table all along, in a small velvet box the size of a deck of cards. She did not open the box first. She wrote a receipt on a small printed form, in pencil, in three scripts. She wrote the date — seventh of the seventh month, fifth year of the new calendar; 13 July 1936; 22 Tir 1315 — and the amount of one hundred and sixty-five silver dollars, and the balance of thirty-five silver dollars due before fifth of the tenth month, fifth year; 13 October 1936; 22 Mehr 1315. She turned the receipt around for me to initial. I initialled with the Conway Stewart.

"A British nib."

"A gift."

"From a man."

"A friend."

"That is rare. Keep him as a friend."

"I will try."

She slid the velvet box across the small table. I opened it.

Inside, on a pad of cream silk, was the bracelet. It was a thin band of pale celadon-green jade, no more than five millimeters wide, no carving, no inlay, no inscription. The kind of bracelet a Suzhou matron wore in the inside of a sleeve and never showed in the street, the kind a pingtan singer's daughter would have inherited from her mother and her mother. The hoop was small — too small now for my wrist. I had thought, on Saturday night, that I would wear it. I saw, in the small front parlor of Madam Khorshid, that I would not.

"You cannot wear it," she said. "It was made for a thirteen-year-old. Your foster-mother's mother put it on her wrist at thirteen, when the wrist was still narrow, and it has not been off since. Your foster-mother had it cut, in 1925, at the inner seam, by a Suzhou jade-worker, so that it could be removed without breaking the band, but the band cannot, in adulthood, be put back on. It is — let me say — a girl's bracelet. You are no longer a girl."

"I will keep it."

"Yes. The keeping is the value."

"Madam Khorshid."

"Yes."

"You have, in the eighteen years since you came to Shanghai — "

"Twenty-six."

"Twenty-six. You have, in the twenty-six years, held bracelets for many women in this city."

"I have held bracelets for one hundred and eight women in twenty-six years. I have, in the keeping, redeemed seventy-one. The other thirty-seven I have, by the women's request or by the women's death or by the women's failure to redeem, sold. The seventy-one redemptions have, in nineteen instances, been by daughters or by sisters or by women's own foster-daughters. You are, today, the nineteenth instance."

"What is the seven-year fee."

"I do not, in this transaction, charge a seven-year fee. I have, in this transaction, charged at the first year's listed compound. I have not raised it. The two hundred you would have paid in 1929 is the two hundred you are paying in 1936. I have, in seven years, not raised it. I am telling you so that you know what your foster-mother knew. Your foster-mother knew this. Your foster-mother, in seven years, has not been able to come up with sixty for the first installment. She has not been able to come up with sixty because she has been spending it, sweet woman, on the opium and the doctor on Beihai Road and on you. I am telling you the seven years was a gift. The gift was from me to her. You are receiving the inherited part of the gift. Yes."

"Yes. Thank you."

"You are welcome. Drink the tea."

I drank the rest of the tea. It was strong. The cardamom was, at the bottom of the glass, the small dry sweet a Persian tea was at the bottom of a glass.

"One more thing, Miss Su."

"Yes."

"You are at the Paramount."

"Yes."

"The Paramount, on Saturday in August, has a small private occasion. The occasion is in the third week of August. It is a private dinner for, I am told, a Major Itō Kensuke of the Japanese Imperial Navy. The dinner is in the small private room behind the gallery. It is — let me say — by invitation. The hostess of the evening will be a Chinese woman of about twenty-two whose name has, in the last week, been written on a list at the consulate. I am telling you because the list, in being written, exists. You are now on the list. I am telling you what the list says about you. The list says, in a hand I have not seen but a friend at the consulate has described, vocalist, contralto, English passable, no known protector beyond contract. The last clause — no known protector beyond contract — is the clause that means you are, in the consulate's view, available."

I did not, for a moment, speak.

"How does a Persian gem dealer on Avenue Joffre know what the Japanese consulate has in a list."

"A Persian gem dealer on Avenue Joffre has, since 1922, had a friend in every consulate in this city. The friends are usually wives. In the Japanese consulate the friend is, since 1934, a Mrs. Tanaka who comes for the Wednesday tea at four. Mrs. Tanaka does not read the lists. Mrs. Tanaka's husband does. Mrs. Tanaka, on Wednesday, mentions things to me she has overheard at the breakfast table in her husband's small private breakfast room, in the Japanese which I read and which she does not, in 1934, know I read. I am telling you because the list was a Wednesday-tea conversation in May. The dinner is in August. There is time. There is not much."

"Yao Sanye is on this list."

"Yao Sanye is, on this list, in the corresponding column, the man who is being asked to make the introduction. The introduction is the deniable form of the procurement. He has been waiting for the request. He will, in August, be — let me say — pleased to make it. He has been pleased about this since May. The dress that you fitted on Saturday at Hong Xiang is, in the hem and the collar and the side slit, the dress for the August dinner."

I sat with this for a moment.

"Thank you, Madam Khorshid."

"You are welcome. The thirty-five before the thirteenth of October. The bracelet is yours. The friend with the British nib I would, please, keep. And — Miss Su."

"Yes."

"On Wednesday afternoons at four, if you should, in a week, find yourself in this neighborhood and wish to have a glass of Persian tea, the parlor is in those hours private to women. I have, on Wednesday afternoons, no other appointments. I am, on Wednesday afternoons, available."

"Thank you."

"Go."

I went.

I came out into Avenue Joffre at twenty past two with the velvet box in my handbag and the receipt initialed in his pen and the bracelet at the bottom and the day, on the avenue, full of plane-tree shade and the ordinary Monday afternoon traffic. I walked north up the avenue for two blocks without thinking and then sat on a bench under a plane tree across from the Sun Sun Department Store, in the warmth of the afternoon and the small dapple of the leaves, and I held the velvet box on my lap and I did not, for ten minutes, do anything.

At half past two I took a tram east. I did not, at any point, go south toward the Paramount. The plan I had made at the kettle on Sunday morning had, sometime between Avenue Joffre and the Sun Sun, become unmade. I had not, in the unmaking, decided when I would go down. I had decided, only, that today was not the day. Today was the day of the bracelet. Today was the day of the eighth of April. Today was the day of the consulate list.

Today was not the day of the basement.

The basement would have to wait until Friday.

The tram took me down Avenue Joffre and across Avenue Edward VII and into Nanjing Road. I got off at Henan Road. I walked the half-block north to Sun Ya. It was Monday. Sun Ya, on a Monday at three, was empty. Two waiters at the back. Rudolph the manager at his small desk by the counter, reading the L'Echo de Chine. The British wives had all gone home by Friday-and-Saturday-shopping; the morning regulars were at lunch. The window table at which I sat on Tuesdays with Teddy was, today, free.

I sat at the window table.

I ordered a coffee. The waitress was the older one, Mrs. Cao, who had been at Sun Ya since 1929. She gave me the coffee and a small biscuit and asked, in passing, whether I was well. I said yes. She said, the Englishman is not here on Monday. He is on Monday at the Long Bar. I said, yes, I know. I am alone today. She nodded. She went back to the back.

I sat with the coffee. I took out the Conway Stewart. I took out a fresh sheet from a small notebook I carried for lyrics. I wrote, at the top of the sheet, in his pen:

Tuesday. The Cercle Sportif tea dance has been suspended for ten days. The bar at the Cercle Sportif is — investigate — possibly also closed. Sergeant Ricard's Tuesday is therefore — investigate — possibly moved. Where would Ricard, on a Tuesday afternoon, be moved to. The list. The August dinner. Yao Sanye, the procurement, the deniable form. The dress is the dress for the dinner.

I wrote it in small careful Chinese. I capped the pen. I folded the sheet in half and put it in the inside pocket of the handbag, between the dead list and the brother's letter. The handbag, against my elbow, was as it had been. The handbag was, in the small back office of Sun Ya behind the windows fronting Nanjing Road, my country.

I drank the coffee. The afternoon went past. At four I paid the bill. I went out into the heat. I crossed the Bund. The Izumo was where it had been since November. The Customs House clock chimed four. The lamp-lighter on the Bund was already, at four, beginning his rounds — the early ones; the Bund had its lamps lit by five in July. The boy fishing illegally off the steps below the British Consulate was, today, a different boy. The flower vendor was the same. The jasmine he had today had come in this morning. I bought a small bunch for Auntie Lin.

I went home across the Garden Bridge in a rickshaw. The Japanese sentry, today, was the man from Saturday. He did not look up. The puller was Old Wu. He took me at the listed fare. He did not say anything about Pudong matters. He took me up Wujin Road and let me off at the corner. I went down the lane to the gate. Old Mr. Cao tipped his cap to me. I went up the lane to the house.

In the lane house, Auntie Lin was awake. She was at the harmonium. She was, very carefully and very slowly, playing the first phrase of 夜来香未眠. She was playing it with one hand, the right, because the left did not, in 1936, have the strength to span the chord under the seventh measure. She had been at the harmonium since two in the afternoon. The chord under the seventh measure was, on the harmonium, the chord he had rewritten. She played the right-hand phrase. She did not, on her foster-daughter's harmonium, attempt the chord.

She finished. She lowered her hands.

"Tomorrow you are at Sun Ya. With the Englishman."

"Yes."

"You will not, tomorrow, send him to the Cercle Sportif."

"I will not."

"You will tell him, please, that I have asked after his health."

"I will."

"And on Friday you will go down."

"I will, on Friday, go down."

"Good. Hand me the jasmine."

I handed her the jasmine. She put it on the harmonium where the gardenia from Saturday had wilted to a brown sweetness. The jasmine was white and tight and not yet open. By tomorrow it would be open. By Wednesday it would be brown.

I sat on the chaise. I put the velvet box on the small table beside the porcelain pipe, which was on its third evening of being unlit. I did not, that night, open the box. The pipe and the box sat side by side. Auntie Lin played the right-hand phrase one more time. Then she rested her hands and closed her eyes and said, the second verse will be harder than the first, and I said, I know, and she said, the August dinner will be harder than the second verse, and I said, I know that also, and she said, good. We are agreed. Sleep. I slept.

In the night I dreamed of a Persian tea glass with the small silver spoon and the cardamom at the bottom, and of my brother at a small table at a window over Yangshupu Road with a barley tea and a friend named Wu Buwei, and of a Japanese consul's wife at a Wednesday tea, and of a man at a piano in a brick room writing a chord for the hand he had. The chord, in the dream, was the chord under the seventh measure. The hand was, in the dream, gloved. I did not see the hand. I only heard the chord.