七部小说 · Seven Novels

第十章 ——《第二乐章》

我在礼拜五十二点下去。

我于礼拜三定下，要在午夜下去。我于礼拜四定下，要在第二场之后下去——按乐队合约，第二场是十一点半。我于礼拜五傍晚六点定下——林姨合上风琴盖，盖在她已练了九日的右手乐句上——要在她就寝的时辰下去；礼拜五她的就寝时辰是十一点。

我十二点才下去。

到了十二点，化妆室里第二场的戏服已收走，灯只剩四盏亮着，安雅十一点便回去了。

我在妆台前坐了一分钟。

妆台上空着。没有纸。没有改谱。窗边小桌上的灯已捻到最低。第二场我穿的是银色旗袍，中场亦不曾换下。铜钥匙在手里。手袋摆在椅旁。袋里是我在新雅写的那张新纸——那道命令并非命令；那道命令是一种客套——叠得比其余几张都小，压在最底下，压在哥哥那封信底下，这样我若伸手取别的纸，自己的手便不会无意间擦过它。

我披上一条薄纱披肩。我拿起一支蜡烛。我从化妆室后门出去，穿过工役走廊，下了后楼梯，穿过厨房——十二点时，厨房是一位广东师傅在备菜台前轻手收尾的厨房——再从厨房尽头那扇门进了冷藏间。

火腿挂着。木箱摞着。后头那扇门没上锁。我便走了过去。

四十二级阶梯还是四十二级阶梯。

这回我不数了。我把蜡烛举得低，左手扶着砖。这种砖是杨树浦的窑在一八八〇年代烧的小红砖，泰迪上礼拜二同我讲过的，我头一回下来时摸过、彼时却还不晓得是什么。自礼拜二起我便一直在想那砖。我一直在想，这座城有多少是叠在这十年间烧出的砖上头、而如今城里再没人记得这十年了。我亦在想，一个人去想砖，是在他不愿想自己正下到的那间屋子的时候才会做的事。

到了阶梯底下我停住。

拱门一如先前。拱门后头的屋子，是它一贯的那种黑——并非漆黑，乃是一盏油灯捻到第二根灯芯时砖砌穹顶下那种低低的黑。我看得见钢琴边小桌上的灯。我看得见乐谱架上那叠谱子的一角。我看不见屋子西头。今夜，我并不立时穿过拱门。

我把蜡烛举在门楣边。我不出声。

屋里，过了两拍，一声响：一支自来水笔轻轻旋上笔帽的干涩摩擦声，又过了半秒，搁在木头上。笔在乐谱架上。直到我抵达门楣的前一刻，那张案上一直有人在写字。

「你来了，」那声音说。

声音又从屋子西头传来，灯光照不到的地方。今夜的声音，我觉着，比上礼拜五干些。不是疲，是干。一个今夜已有几个钟头不曾开口的人的声音。

「我来了。」

「坐。椅子挪过了。距离同先前一样，只是往南挪了两尺，这样你把手里的烛搁在乐谱架上的烛碟里时，今夜你的影子就不会投在西墙上。今夜我宁愿你的影子不在西墙上。」

我穿过拱门。

椅子挪过了。烛碟搁在乐谱架上。碟里有一支新蜡烛。小桌上那盏灯比我先前见过的都捻得更低。木箱上那台收音机关着；上礼拜五我听过的那点细碎的滴答声，今夜没有。我把蜡烛放进碟里。我坐下。旗袍还是银色那身。第二场结束到下来之间，我不曾换过。

「好。坐一会儿。莫开始。」

我便坐着。

碟里的新烛点着了，火苗稳了。小桌上的灯依旧低着。屋子西头还是屋子西头。寂静里，我听得见钢琴另一头有一道极轻极缓的呼吸——并不全在那声音所在的位置，但在同一头。吸气四拍，吐气六拍。歌者练气的呼吸。正是那位歌者一直在教我的呼吸。

我明白，他在同我一起呼吸这个练习。

那一刻，我什么也没做。

「乐谱架上的谱子。」

我提起蜡烛。架上的谱共三页。第一页顶头的标题，一如先前，是夜来香未眠。题下他用花体小字写着：第二乐章。第三稿。 五线谱填满了。这一回，词不再是三阕，而是六阕。字迹仍是那一手刷出来的花体。栏外的红墨水批注，这回只在三处，不似上礼拜的七处。改动很细。改动正改在我自己会改的地方。我这才晓得，这一礼拜里，我一直停在《五月微雨》的第七小节、《夜来香未眠》的第三阕上头，而那第七小节同那第三阕，在我自己不肯承认的某层意识里，早已渐渐定出一个形状，眼下我读得出来了。

「你练过。」

「我练过。」

「右手在风琴上。」

「我养母的右手在风琴上。她一直在练第一句。眼下她左手够不到十度。」

「我不曾问。你自己告诉了我。再告诉我一件：风琴够不够得到第二乐章。」

「够不到。够不到那段过桥。过桥是升 C 小调。风琴调了十年，定在偏低半度的 A 上，风琴上的升 C 小调比该有的位置低了五度。这过桥在风琴上奏出来，听着同《梁祝》里的过桥一个样。」

「正是我所想。第二乐章里，那段过桥我重写过了。」

「我晓得了。」

「今夜你不唱过桥。你唱第一段同第二段。第三段我还不曾写。礼拜五我交给你。今夜你只拿到前两段同那段过桥的谱面。」

「是。」

「随你自己的时辰起。」

我捧着谱坐下。我把第一段默读一遍。词便是词。第二阕末了那一行，他的花体写道：凌晨三时的车站，灯将熄，灯犹未熄。 我读了三遍。我读到第四遍。第四遍我已不是在读它。我读过了它去，便如一个人骤然认出一句话原是自己写的，于是读了过去。

我起声。

九年登台，这时辰、这音域、这曲子，我不曾唱过。我十二点钟的嗓子，九年里学了它自己一些小小的将就，好把第三场唱完。这曲子不容许那些小小的将就。这曲子在头一小节，便要我立在自己的喉咙里，从胸口连着肋骨的地方唱起。

我唱了四小节。他听着。

他让我把第一段一路唱完，不曾打断。我原以为他会打断。他并不曾。我从第一段唱进了第二段。第二段在同一调上以另一组元音起句——这一组元音，我此刻看得出，是写给一个曾在苏州评弹的 aa 同 ee 上磨过一年、童年时又被挪到官话里去的人的。我不必听他告诉我这一节。我便那样唱了出来。我把第二段唱得同第一段微微不同，因为第二段在第三小节里要一口半气——这口半气，第一段里我并不曾换过。

第二段他听完了。

第二段里，他一处也未曾改。

第二段唱完之后，他许久不出声。

寂静里，我听见小桌上那盏灯在玻璃罩里极轻地嗒了一声。我听见钢琴另一头长凳极轻的木头吱呀，是半个人的重量在调坐姿。我又隐约听见那道吸四吐六的气。整个第二段里，那口气一直跟着我。唱的时候我并未察觉。这一刻我察觉了。

「婉吟，」他说。

「我在。」

「这第二段，正是我九日来在脑子里听到的那个样子。」

「是。」

「我并不曾敢断定，眼下这座城里活着的人，有谁能把它唱成我脑子里听到的那个样子。」

「这是您的曲子。」

「这是你正在把它唱成的曲子。等第三段来了，我们再做那段过桥。过桥难。过桥在升 C 小调上，是为这样一副嗓子写的：它在第二段里已学会了胸腔里的一桩事——第二段尚不需要，过桥却要用。过桥我会为你写。第三段，要等过桥写好我才动笔。这曲子里，第三段同过桥本是同一桩难题。明白么。」

「明白。」

「喝水。水在椅旁的小桌上。安雅替你搁的。」

椅旁小桌上果有一杯水，我下来时不曾留意。杯子是安雅的杯子。我便喝了。

「眼下，」他说，「你有一桩事要告诉我。」

我捧着水坐着。

礼拜二午后，林姨睡在屋子那头的躺椅上，我便定下了要说什么。礼拜三我定下不说什么。礼拜四我在浴桶里定下措辞。措辞是三句。我在浴桶里对着镜子，用低音域，照着他教过的那口气，把这三句反复练，练到这三句拥有了我能对着一堵墙说出口的那个形状。

我此刻便说了。

「日本领事馆现存一份名单，上头我眼下是第七个名字。这份名单是为帝国海军某个部门在过去六个礼拜里圈出的『可供应』女子开的。我名字旁那一栏里，姚三爷是负责出面引荐的那个人。」

那一刻，他不出声。

小桌上的灯稳着。烛碟里的烛稳着。那道四吸六吐的气，停在第六拍上，过了一会儿，重新接上，比方才更慢些。

「你知道了多久，」他说。

「礼拜六起。」

「从谁那儿。」

「从一位我不会道出名字的女子那儿。」

「是。我本也不会问。这位女子年过五十，在领事馆有一位朋友，礼拜三下午四点，她那位朋友会在那间存放名单的屋子里，而当班的那个年轻人写的字她认得。这个年轻人二十八岁。二月里他还不在职。在领事馆，他还没被人视作需提防的角色。听说他被视作要提拔的人。我不需要这位女子的姓名。我一直在等这份名单。我不曾料到第七个会是你。」

他说得极平。声音说到「第七」时不曾扬起。从这「不曾扬起」里，我明白，他晓得这份名单存在已有几个礼拜——或许几个月——一直所等的，无非是名字落下来。「第七」这个数，在这份「不曾扬起」里，正是他先前一直怕会出现的那个名字。

「我会拿出，」他说，「来换你今夜告诉我的这桩事，给你三样东西。它们不是按对你有用的次序排的。它们是按我此刻能给得出的次序排的。」

「是。」

「第一。领事馆这份名单要呈给帝国海军一位高级军官，那人不在这座城里。他要到八月第二个礼拜才回东京。在八月第二个礼拜之前，名单不送。之后，名单才送。这便是真正要紧的那本日历。我自六月起便晓得。今夜之前你不需要晓得。莫记下来。」

「我不会。」

「第二。你名字旁那一栏里的那个人，等八月这扇窗已等了一年。他是三个人之一——领事馆的『不便』腾出方便，正是为他们三人腾的。另外两个不在你眼前。他在你眼前。」

「是。」

「第三。」

他顿了一下。这一顿，是一个男人从一张他直到今晚都未曾打算给任何人的清单里，挑出第三样东西时那种长而审慎的停顿。

「第三，」他说，「是这桩事里我没法在那间屋里帮你。你明白。」

「我明白。」

「我在那间屋子下面两层楼。这间屋子里我没有门房，没有领事，桌前没有我的椅，手里没有我的牌。这间屋子里我什么也没有。我有一架钢琴、一支曲子、一位身穿银色旗袍的年轻女子——她在这支曲子的第二乐章里，能把第三小节那口半气唱成我九日来脑子里听到的样子。这间屋子里，我没有任何能对付一个穿日本海军制服的男人、一个穿姚三爷那身大衣的男人的东西。我此刻同你讲，是因为你想听我说的那句话，今夜我不会说。我会说的是真的那一句。我没法在那间屋里帮你。我只能在嗓音上做工。我把嗓音当作一门规矩去做。这门规矩并不要求我能在那间屋里帮你。这门规矩要求我，到八月第三个礼拜六之前，把你做成这样一个人——那间屋子里的那些人会在那间屋里愿意让她活下去。这便是我能给你的。这并非你所愿。请允许我说一句——它如此之小，我抱歉。」

我捧着水坐着。

「这并不小，」我说。

「它小。我在一桩事上花了一年，眼下这个钟点看下来，它原是小的。这一年我不悔。我只是告诉你我能给的这一份，到底有多大。你须先晓得它有多大，再决定八月第三个礼拜六你究竟要不要走进那间后头的屋子。我不会要你走进。我亦不会要你不走进。走，由你。」

「这桩事里，您告诉我的三件，本是我所不知。」

「是。那三件是白送的。」

「并非白送。」

「是白送。是一个砖屋里的男人不用站起身、便能给一个银色旗袍里的歌女的小小情报。这点小小情报，在任何可以付诸行动的意义上，都不会离开这间砖屋。站起身才会。我没站起身。请你原谅。」

「没有什么可原谅的。」

「有。原谅在你手里。日子长了，你可以原谅。今夜你不必。今夜，无论如何，我们也定不下到底是谁在求谁原谅。今夜，我们还是做第二段。第二段从我身边过去了。我没料到它会从我身边过去。劳烦你，我想再听一遍。第三小节里那口半气，里头有一桩我先前只写在脑子里、不曾写在纸上的东西。你不曾要我帮，便寻到了它。我想把它落在纸上。你唱。我写。然后我们便了了。好么。」

「好。」

我便又唱了第二段。

第二段在第二回唱里，同第一回略略不同。第三小节里那口半气，我比头一回多含了半拍。这一回他不曾在这口半气上同我一道呼吸；他在钢琴的另一头，提着笔，伏在纸上。我听得见笔尖在纸上极轻极干的擦响。我听得见它在第三小节里停了又起，三次。我听得见笔帽在乐谱架的木头上轻轻磕了两下，磕在第四小节上——我想，那是一个写字的人手停了下来思忖时，无意间的小敲击。我并不看乐谱架那一边。我对着碟里的烛唱。烛是诚的。烛不持意见。自上礼拜五起，烛便是这间屋子里我唯一被许可对话的东西。

我唱完。

最后一个元音他让它停着。让它停得比上礼拜五更久。让它停到，我觉着，它已不再是那个元音，而成了这间屋子。

「多谢，」他说。「这便是那口半气。」

「是。」

「它在第二乐章里。第三乐章里没有它。第三乐章没有半气。第三乐章有一口长憋的气，那是另一种损伤。到时我会先告诫你。今夜你做成了——请允许我说——一桩我先前不曾敢断定此生还能见的事。此生是我的。做成的是你。多谢。」

「多谢，风声。」

「上去。已过一点。你还要赶电车。安雅明早会问你昨夜睡得可好。你会撒谎。她会晓得你在撒谎。她不会再问第二遍。去罢。」

我便起身。

那一刻，我并不朝拱门走。我下来时便想好了，上去之前要问一桩事。礼拜三我定下了要问什么。礼拜四在浴桶里我定下了措辞。

「风声。」

「在。」

「礼拜五下午三点到五点，在『出云号』甲板上——」

「我有一台德律风根。我会听。」

「您会听。」

「三点是马尼拉，四点是汉口，四点半是《上海每日新闻》。《每日新闻》会按演讲的先后播报。我会在礼拜六午夜，用铅笔在你妆台上留一张条子，五行以内，写下那些演讲讲了什么、又没讲什么。没讲的那一截才要紧。作为回报，我不向你讨那杯波斯茶。你那位朋友，那位女子，无论哪一季，都不是一个经得起被人讨她礼拜三下午的人。明白么。」

「明白。」

「去罢。」

我便去了。

走到拱门时，我停了一下，手按在砖上。那一刻我并不回头。今夜，我自始至终不曾看过这间屋子西头一眼。我听过他在钢琴那一头。我听过他的笔。我听过他的呼吸。我隐约听过长凳承一个男人调坐姿时的木头吱呀。今夜他这个人，我什么也不曾看见。声音是声音。乐谱是乐谱。椅子是椅子。门槛是门槛。门槛是他在上礼拜五、今夜又一次，吩咐我守住的那处。

我守住了。

我便上去。

到了阶梯顶上，我从冷藏间走出。那位师傅在最里头，坐在矮凳上，抽着一根小小的竹烟管，烟管在凌晨一点放出他这个时辰惯抽的烟丝同檀香的柔和味道。他对我点了点头。我亦对他点了点头。三年里，他不曾问过一次我在地下室做什么。我穿过厨房，上了后楼梯，进了化妆室走廊，沿着走廊走到我那扇门前。

门一如我离去时。窗边小桌上的灯一如我离去时。妆台一如我离去时。妆台上有一张纸，是我下去时不曾料到的。纸是百代的五线谱纸。字迹是那一手花体。墨是那一种红。纸上一行字，只有三个字。

那口半气，撑住了。

我读了两遍。我把它放进手袋里层口袋，放在我在新雅写的那张新纸那道命令并非命令；那道命令是一种客套之后，放在哥哥那封信之前。我披上街衫。我熄了小桌上的灯。我把门带上。

我下了后楼梯。我从工役门出去，到了万航渡路上。夜里暖。万航渡路同愚园路口的路灯司务，凌晨一点一刻，正按他六个钟头前点亮的顺序熄那一排煤气灯。我经过时，他不曾抬头。早班第一辆电车还要再过一个钟头。街角那部黄包车，是个我不曾见过的车夫。许是三十五岁上下。车轮是六点钟上的油，凌晨小时辰的凉风里，油从车轴上飘出——同正午相比，凌晨一点的黄包车油有一种更清、更尖的头香，正午则是更温、更脏的底味。他按标价拉我到虹口的弄堂口。二十五分钟里，他不曾出声。

弄堂门口曹老伯歪在凳上睡着，手里握着门闩。他只为门闩才醒，门闩之外不为别的醒——一个守门的老人就是这样睡。他放我进去。又睡回去了。

弄堂屋里林姨睡在贵妃榻上。榻边小桌上的烟枪已凉。风琴上那束茉莉到第三日已下层的花瓣开始发褐，在最后一点甜里散出第三日那种细微的微酵底甜。今日她练过右手乐句了；风琴的盖子比我六点离开时开了半英寸。榻边那杯淡茶喝去了一半。小桌上的扇子挪过了一寸。

我在她对面贵妃榻的边沿坐下。我没有惊醒她。

我从手袋里取出那张百代的纸。我又在心里、在低音域里，把那三个字读一遍，并不唱出口。那口半气，撑住了。 这三个字本身并非一条指令。这三个字是一种承认。这种承认，是那个站在我所立的楼层下面两层的男人，在九个月里用红墨水改正我每一小节之后，给过我的、最接近所谓「赞许」的一桩东西。

我把那张纸叠起。我又放回手袋里。

我回了自己的屋子。我换下衣裳。我把银色旗袍挂在屏风后头。我在床上躺下，只穿着里衣。弄堂里梧桐上的蝉，一如七月里每一日，到午夜便歇了，要过三个钟头、到五点才会再起。这三个钟头里，弄堂便交还给那些没有蝉时的细碎声响：街角一只洋铁桶的响、木匠门口一条狗的吠、四川北路两个街区外一台无线电极轻地响——我想，是平·克劳斯贝罢，又或者并不是，在马尼拉的频率上，凌晨一点。我躺着，胸里有那一口半气，手袋里有五线谱纸上那三个字，脑子里有第二乐章——在升 C 小调里，伏在一段我还不曾唱过的过桥下头——又过了不知多久，那些细碎声响不再各自分开，渐渐合成了这条弄堂，于是我睡了。

夜里我又梦见那个砖屋里钢琴前的男人。我并不曾看见他。梦里我听见他那支自来水笔轻轻自旋上笔帽的干涩摩擦声，又听见整个第二段里他随我一道吸四吐六的那道气。那道气并无身躯系着。那支笔并无手握着。声音便是那声音。声音在梦里，用那一种干而礼拜五傍晚的音色，说，那口半气，撑住了。 梦里我不曾应他。第二回，我已无需再应。

Chapter Ten — The Second Movement

I went down on Friday at twelve.

I had decided, on Wednesday, that I would go at midnight. I had decided, on Thursday, that I would go after the second set, which was, by the band's contract, at half past eleven. I had decided, on Friday at six in the evening as Auntie Lin closed the harmonium lid on the right-hand phrase she had been practicing for nine days, that I would go at the hour she went to bed; which was, on a Friday, eleven.

I went at twelve.

By twelve the dressing room had emptied of the second set's wardrobe, the lamps were down to four bulbs, and Anya had gone home at eleven.

I sat at the vanity for a minute.

On the vanity was nothing. No paper. No correction. The lamp on the small table by the window had been turned to its lowest setting. I had worn the silver qipao for the second set and had not, between sets, changed. The brass key was in my hand. The handbag was beside the chair. In it were the new sheet I had written at Sun Ya — the order is not an order; the order is a courtesy — folded smaller than the others and placed at the bottom, under the brother's letter, where my own hand, going in for any of the others, would not pass over it accidentally.

I put on a light gauze shawl. I picked up a candle. I went out the back of the dressing room into the service corridor, and down the back stair, and through the kitchen — which, at twelve, was the soft kitchen of a Cantonese cook closing up at the prep table — and through the door at the far end of the kitchen into the cold-storage room.

The hams hung. The crates were stacked. The door at the back was unlocked. I went through.

The forty-two steps were the forty-two steps.

I did not count, this time. I held the candle low and kept my left hand on the brick. The brick was the small red kind that the kilns at Yangshupu fired in the 1880s, that Teddy had told me about on Tuesday last, that I had touched, on the first descent, without yet knowing what it was. I had been thinking about the brick since Tuesday. I had been thinking about how much of the city was built on top of bricks fired in a decade no one in the city now remembered. I had been thinking, also, that thinking about brick was a thing one did when one did not wish to think about the room one was descending into.

At the bottom of the stair I stopped.

The arch was as it had been. The room beyond the arch was dark in the way the room beyond the arch was dark — not pitch, but the low dark of a brick vault lit by one oil lamp turned to the second wick. I could see the lamp on the small table by the piano. I could see the corner of the score on the music desk. I could not see the west end of the room. I did not, tonight, walk through the arch immediately.

I held the candle at the lintel. I did not call out.

In the room, two beats later, a sound: the small dry rasp of a fountain pen being capped, and then, after a half a second, set down on wood. The pen was on the music desk. The desk had been written on, until a moment before I had reached the lintel.

"You came," said the voice.

It came, again, from the west end of the room, beyond the lamp's reach. Tonight the voice was, I thought, drier than it had been on Friday last. Not tired — drier. The voice of a man who had not, this evening, spoken in some hours.

"I came."

"Sit. The chair has been moved. It is at the same distance as before but it is two feet to the south, so that the candle in your hand, when you set it on the saucer on the music desk, will not, this evening, throw your shadow against the west wall. I would prefer, tonight, that your shadow not be against the west wall."

I went through the arch.

The chair had been moved. The saucer was on the music desk. There was a fresh candle in the saucer. The lamp on the small table had been turned down further than I had seen it turned down. The radio on the wooden box was off; the small ticking I had heard on Friday last was not, tonight, present. I set my candle in the saucer. I sat. The qipao was the silver one. I had not, between the second set and the descent, changed.

"Good. Sit a moment. Do not begin."

I sat.

The fresh candle in the saucer caught and steadied. The lamp at the small table held at its low. The west end of the room remained the west end of the room. I could hear, in the silence, a small slow breath being taken on the far side of the piano — not quite, I thought, where the voice was, but in the same end. A breath taken in for four counts and let out for six. The breath of a singer's exercise. The breath the singer had been telling me to take.

He was, I understood, breathing the exercise with me.

I did not, that moment, do anything.

"The score on the desk."

I lifted the candle. The score on the music desk was three pages. The title at the top of the first page was, as before, 夜来香未眠 — Tonight's jasmine has not yet slept. Below the title was a small subscript in his cursive: Second movement. Draft three. The staff was filled. The lyric below the staff was, this time, not three couplets but six. The hand was, as always, the brushed cursive. The red ink in the margins was, this time, in three places only, not the seven of last week. The corrections were small. The corrections were where I would have corrected them. I had been, I realized, on the seventh measure of Drizzle of May and the third couplet of Tonight's jasmine for a week, and the seventh measure and the third couplet had been, in some part of my head I had not allowed to know it, settling themselves into a shape I could now read.

"You have practiced."

"I have practiced."

"The right hand on the harmonium."

"My foster-mother's right hand on the harmonium. She has been practicing the first phrase. She does not, at the moment, span a tenth in the left."

"I had not asked. You have told me. Tell me also: the harmonium reaches the second movement."

"It does not. It does not reach the bridge. The bridge is in C-sharp minor. The harmonium has been tuned for ten years to a flat A and the C-sharp minor on the harmonium is a fifth lower than it ought to be. The bridge, on the harmonium, sounds like the bridge of Liang Zhu."

"That is what I had thought. I have, in the second movement, rewritten the bridge."

"I see."

"You will not, tonight, sing the bridge. You will sing the first verse and the second. The third I have not yet written. I will give it to you on Friday. Tonight you have the first two verses and the bridge as notation only."

"Yes."

"Begin in your time."

I sat with the score. I read the first verse silently. The lyric was a lyric. The line at the end of the second couplet was, in his cursive, the cab stand at three in the morning, the lamp going out, the lamp not yet gone. I read it three times. I read it a fourth time. I did not, the fourth time, read it. I read past it, the way one reads past a sentence one has, without warning, recognized as one's own.

I began.

I had not, in nine years on stage, sung in this register at this hour with this song. My voice at twelve had, in nine years, learned its own small dishonesties to get me through the third set. The song did not allow the small dishonesties. The song asked me, in the first measure, to stand inside my own throat and sing from where my chest met my ribs.

I sang four bars. He let me.

He let me sing through the first verse without stopping. I had expected him to stop me. He did not. I came out of the first verse into the second. The second verse opened in the same key with a different vowel sequence — a sequence that had, I now saw, been written for someone who had spent a year on the aa and ee vowels of Suzhou's pingtan and had then, in childhood, been moved to Mandarin. I did not have to be told that. I sang it. I sang it slightly differently than the first verse, because the second verse asked, in the third measure, for a half-breath I had not taken in the first.

He let the second verse finish.

He did not, in the second verse, correct anything.

He did not, at the end of the second verse, speak for some time.

In the silence I heard the lamp on the small table tick once, very softly, in its glass. I heard the small wooden creak of the bench beyond the piano take a half a man's weight in adjustment. I heard, faintly, the breath taken in for four counts and let out for six. The breath had been with me through the second verse. I had not noticed it during the singing. I noticed it now.

"Wanyin," he said.

"Yes."

"That was the second verse as I had heard it in my head for nine days."

"Yes."

"I had not been certain whether anyone alive in this city was going to be able to sing it as I had heard it in my head."

"It is your song."

"It is the song you are making it. We will, when the third verse comes, work on the bridge. The bridge is hard. The bridge is in C-sharp minor and the bridge is for a voice that has, in the second verse, learned to do a thing in the chest the second verse does not yet need but the bridge will. I will write the bridge for you. I will not write the third verse until I have written the bridge. The third verse and the bridge are, in this song, the same problem. Is that clear."

"It is clear."

"Drink. The water is on the small table by the chair. Anya has put it there."

The small table by the chair had a glass of water on it I had not noticed. The glass was Anya's. I drank.

"Now," he said. "You have a thing to tell me."

I sat with the water.

I had decided, on Tuesday afternoon in the lane house with Auntie Lin asleep across the room, what I would say. I had decided, on Wednesday, what I would not. I had decided, on Thursday in the bath, the wording. The wording was three sentences. I had practiced the three sentences against the mirror in the bath, in the lower register, on the breath he had taught me, until the three sentences had the shape of three sentences I could say to a wall.

I said them now.

"A list exists, at the Japanese consulate, on which I am presently the seventh name. The list is for women a particular office of the Imperial Navy has, in the past six weeks, identified as available. Yao Sanye is, in the column adjacent to my name, the man who is to make the introduction."

He did not, that moment, speak.

The lamp on the small table held. The candle in the saucer held. The breath, four in and six out, paused on its sixth count, and was, after a moment, taken up again, more slowly.

"How long have you known," he said.

"Since Saturday."

"From whom."

"From a woman I will not name."

"Yes. I would not, in any case, have asked. The woman is older than fifty and has a friend at the consulate who is, on Wednesday afternoons at four, in the room where the lists are kept by a young man whose handwriting the woman would recognize. The young man is twenty-eight. He was not yet on the staff in February. He is not yet, in the consulate, considered a thing to be careful around. He is, I am told, considered a thing to be promoted. I do not need the woman's name. I had been waiting for the list. I had not known you would be the seventh."

He said it very evenly. The voice did not, at the seventh, lift. I understood, in the not-lifting, that he had known the list existed for some weeks — perhaps months — and had been waiting only for the names. The seventh was, in the not-lifting, the name he had been afraid would be on it.

"I will give you," he said, "in exchange for what you have given me, three things. They are not in the order in which they are useful. They are in the order in which I can give them."

"Yes."

"The first. The lists at the consulate go to a senior officer of the Imperial Navy who is not in this city. He is in Tokyo until the second week of August. Until the second week of August, no list goes to him. After, the lists go. That is the calendar that matters. I have known it since June. You did not need to know it until tonight. Do not write it down."

"I will not."

"The second. The man in the column adjacent to your name has been waiting for the August window for a year. He is one of three men whose convenience the leave of the inconvenient consulates serves. The other two are not your concern. He is."

"Yes."

"The third."

He paused. The pause was the long careful pause of a man choosing the third thing from a list of things he had not, until this evening, been planning to give to anyone.

"The third," he said, "is that I will not, in this matter, be able to help you in the room. You understand."

"I understand."

"I am two floors below the floor on which the room will be. I have, in this room, no doorman, no consul, no chair at the table, no card. I have, in this room, nothing. I have a piano and a song and a young woman in a silver qipao who can, in the second movement of the song, sing the half-breath in the third measure as I have heard it in my head for nine days. I have not, in this room, anything that is of use against a man in a Japanese naval uniform and a man in a Yao Sanye coat. I am telling you because the thing you would like me to say I will not, this evening, say. The thing I will say is the thing that is true. I cannot help you in the room. I can only work on the voice. I work on the voice as a discipline. The discipline does not ask me to be able to help you in the room. The discipline asks me to make you, by the third Saturday in August, a person whose voice the men in the room will, in the room, want to keep alive. That is what I can give you. It is not what you would like. I am — let me say — sorry for the smallness of it."

I sat with the water.

"It is not small," I said.

"It is small. I have spent a year on a thing that has, in the present hour, turned out to be small. I do not regret the year. I am telling you the size of what I can give. You should know the size before you decide whether you will, on the third Saturday of August, walk into the back room. I will not tell you to walk in. I will not tell you not to. The walking is yours."

"You have, in this matter, told me three things I did not know."

"I have. Those were free."

"They were not free."

"They were free. They were the small intelligence a man in a brick room can give a singer in a silver qipao without standing up. The small intelligence does not, in any actionable way, leave the brick room. The standing up would. I am not standing up. Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive."

"There is. The forgiving is in your power. You may, in time, do it. Tonight you do not need to. Tonight we will not, in any case, agree on whose forgiving is being asked. Tonight we will, instead, work on the second verse. The second verse went past me. I had not been ready for it to go past me. I would like, please, to hear it again. The third measure has, in the half-breath, a thing I had written in my head and not on the paper. You found it without my help. I would like to write it down. You will sing it. I will write it. Then we will be done. Yes."

"Yes."

I sang the second verse.

The second verse went, in the second singing, slightly differently than in the first. The half-breath in the third measure I held a half-count longer than I had the first time. He did not, the second time, breathe with me on the half-breath; he was, on the far side of the piano, with his pen, on the paper. I heard the small dry scratch of the nib. I heard it stop and start, three times, in the third measure. I heard the cap of the pen tap, lightly, against the wood of the music desk, twice, on the fourth measure, which was, I thought, the small involuntary tap a writer made when he was thinking with his hand idle. I did not look at the music desk. I sang to the candle in the saucer. The candle was honest. The candle had no opinion. The candle had been, since Friday last, the only object in this room I had been permitted to address.

I finished.

He let the last vowel sit. He let it sit longer than he had on Friday last. He let it sit, I thought, until it had stopped being the vowel and had become the room.

"Thank you," he said. "That is the half-breath."

"Yes."

"It is in the second movement. It will not be in the third. The third will not have a half-breath. The third will have a held breath, which is a different kind of harm. I will warn you when we come to it. Tonight you have done — let me say — a thing I had not been certain would, in this lifetime, be done. The lifetime is mine. The doing was yours. Thank you."

"Thank you, Feng Sheng."

"Go up. It is past one. You have a tram to catch. Anya will, in the morning, ask whether you slept. You will lie. She will know you are lying. She will not ask twice. Go."

I stood.

I did not, that moment, move toward the arch. I had thought, on the descent, that I would, on the ascent, ask one thing. I had decided, on Wednesday, what the thing would be. I had decided, on Thursday in the bath, the wording.

"Feng Sheng."

"Yes."

"On Friday afternoons at three, between three and five, on the deck of the Izumo — "

"I have a Telefunken. I will be listening."

"You will be listening."

"Manila at three, Hankou at four, the Shanghai Mainichi at four-thirty. The Mainichi will broadcast the speeches in the order they are made. I will, on Saturday at midnight, send to the vanity in pencil, in five lines or fewer, the substance of what the speeches were and the substance of what they were not. The not is the part that will matter. I do not ask you, in return, for the Persian tea. Your friend the woman is not a person who can, in any season, afford to be asked for her Wednesday afternoon. Is that clear."

"It is clear."

"Go."

I went.

At the arch I stopped, once, with my hand on the brick. I did not, that moment, turn. I had not, at any point in this evening, seen the west end of the room. I had heard him on the far side of the piano. I had heard his pen. I had heard his breath. I had heard, faintly, the wooden creak of the bench taking a man's adjustment. I had not, this evening, seen anything of him. The voice had been the voice. The score had been the score. The chair had been the chair. The threshold had been the threshold. The threshold was the place I had been told, on Friday last and again tonight, to keep.

I kept it.

I went up.

At the top of the stair I came out into the cold-storage room. The cook was at the back, on a low stool, smoking a small bamboo pipe that gave off the soft tobacco-and-sandalwood scent he smoked at one a.m. He nodded at me. I nodded back. He did not, in three years, ever ask me what I had been doing in the basement. I went through the kitchen and up the back stair and into the dressing-room corridor and along the corridor to my door.

The door was as I had left it. The lamp on the small table by the window was as I had left it. The vanity was as I had left it. There was, on the vanity, a single piece of paper I had not, on the descent, expected. It was on Pathé staff paper. The hand was the cursive. The ink was the red. The line on the paper was three words long.

The half-breath holds.

I read it twice. I put it in the inside pocket of the handbag, behind the new sheet I had written at Sun Ya — the order is not an order; the order is a courtesy — and in front of the brother's letter. I put on my street coat. I turned out the lamp at the small table. I closed the door behind me.

I went down the back stair. I went out the service door onto Wanhangdu Road. The night was warm. The lamp-lighter at the corner of Wanhangdu and Yuyuan was, at one-fifteen, putting the gas lamps out in the order he had lit them six hours before. He did not, when I passed, look up. The first tram of the morning was an hour off. The rickshaw at the corner was a puller I had not seen before. He was perhaps thirty-five. The wheels had been oiled at six and the oil bloomed off the axle in the cooler small-hour air with the cleaner, sharper top-note rickshaw oil had at one a.m. compared with the warmer, dirtier ground-note it had at noon. He took me at the listed fare to the Hongkou lane. He did not, in twenty-five minutes, say anything.

At the gate Old Mr. Cao was asleep on a stool with the latch in his hand. He woke for the latch and the latch alone, the way an old gatekeeper sleeps. He let me through. He went back to sleep.

In the lane house Auntie Lin was asleep on the chaise. The opium pipe on the small table beside her was cold. The jasmine on the harmonium had, by the third day, begun to brown at the lower petals and to give off, in the last of its sweetness, the small fermented under-sweet jasmine had on the third day. The right-hand phrase had been practiced today; the lid of the harmonium was, by half an inch, more open than I had left it at six. The cup of weak tea by the chaise was half drunk. The fan on the small table had been moved an inch.

I sat on the edge of the chaise across from her. I did not wake her.

I took the sheet of Pathé paper out of the handbag. I read the three words again, in the lower register, in my head, without singing them. The half-breath holds. The three words were not, in themselves, an instruction. The three words were an acknowledgment. The acknowledgment was the closest thing the man two floors below the floor I had been standing on had given me, in nine months of correcting my measures in red ink, to a thing one would call praise.

I folded the sheet. I put it back in the handbag.

I went to my own room. I undressed. I hung the silver qipao behind the screen. I lay down on the bed in my under-things. The cicadas in the lane plane trees had stopped at midnight as they did every July and would, for three hours until they began again at five, leave the lane to the small noises the lane made when the cicadas were not in it: a tin pail at the corner, a dog at the carpenter's gate, a wireless on Sichuan Road two blocks off, playing very softly, what I thought might be Bing Crosby and might not, on a Manila frequency, at one in the morning. I lay with the half-breath in my chest and the three words on the staff paper in the handbag and the second movement, in my head, in C-sharp minor under a bridge I had not yet sung, and at some point the small noises stopped being separate and became the lane, and I slept.

In the night I dreamed, again, of the man at the piano in the brick room. I did not see him. I heard, in the dream, the small dry rasp of his pen capping itself, and the breath, four in and six out, he had taken with me through the second verse. The breath had no body attached to it. The pen had no hand. The voice was the voice. The voice said, in the dream, in the dry Friday-evening register, the half-breath holds. I did not, in the dream, answer. I had not, the second time, needed to.