七部小说 · Seven Novels

第十三章 ——《西安无线电》

礼拜六，十二月十二日。

第二场九点半起唱，我穿那件银色旗袍，侧开衩处新缀了金银线下摆，哥哥那封信干而轻地压在右胯——到十二月，我已不大留心它，惟有在登上乐池阶梯前那半秒，旗袍随腿一摆，缝口处带出那一点点添出来的温热，我才会觉得它在那里。

到第二场第二支歌时，舞池上已挤了两百对舞客。吊灯调到琥珀那一档。霓虹立柱亮着。门童是夜班那一位，两年来唤我「苏小姐」，目光从不曾抬过我下颔。

我唱到第二支的副歌过门时，一个男人自门厅进来，急步穿过抛光的舞池，上了二楼楼梯——卡鲁瑟斯先生与三位美孚的人正坐在那里，喝第二瓶玛姆。他手里捏着帽子，开口讲了十秒钟。卡鲁瑟斯先生取出怀表搁在桌布上，瞧着它，仿佛表盘上有个数字行止失了规矩。

随后，卡鲁瑟斯先生与那三位美孚的人一并自二楼下来，穿过门厅出去，步子是那种——今夜——并未在奔走的男人的步子。

账没结。

我唱过门。

过门唱出来时，那间厅堂已在四十秒里换了天气。领班洛佩斯先生不在门边了。俄国衣帽间姑娘塔季扬娜不在衣帽间了。塔季扬娜在圆明园路电报房有个兄弟，她又有个习惯——洛佩斯先生一开收音机，她便溜到衣帽间后头那间小办事房里。

收音机开了。我是全场唯一晓得的人，因为只有乐池上这一个座位能瞧见办事房门底下漏出来的那一线灯光；那一线，在第八小节时没有，到第九小节便有了。

我唱完第二支。

掌声是掌声。吊灯是吊灯。占美·金给我们点数起第三支——《五月的细雨》的新编排，那个我已不再压第三音的版本——数到「一」的当口，我又见两个男人自门厅进来，急步过厅上楼梯；又见第三个男人，一位法国银行家——他的名字我晓得，是白珠教我晓得的——离了座，在啜第二口马天尼的半中间，没有把杯子搁下，也没有同太太讲话。太太留在原位。她没起身。她替他把那杯马天尼搁下。她瞧了一眼他出去的那扇门，又把目光收回吊灯上。

我唱《细雨》的第一段。

我唱过门。我不压第三音。第三音是第三音。厅堂是厅堂——这间厅堂我已唱了两年。今夜，这厅堂边沿处有那种细微的稀薄——是男人们正在离场、女人们正在等着探听她们的男人听到了什么时，一间厅堂才有的稀薄。今夜男人是两三个、两三个地走——第一段的第八小节，一位英国银行家；过门的第三小节，比利时总领事的秘书；第二段第二联，三位国民党的科员，名字我不晓得，他们的帽子我倒识得。帽子顺着衣帽间到二楼楼梯之间那条走廊上的衣帽架排下来，先后正按各自主人寄存的次序——这意味着塔季扬娜数帽子的手脚，比三月时麻利了许多。

第二段第八小节，我接住占美·金的目光。占美·金接了半拍。他不曾停下。

到副歌时我瞧见白珠。她自厨房走廊出来，穿着她那件下午茶舞旗袍，跨过舞池——那是一个歌女在另一支自己并不唱的歌正进副歌时跨过舞池的走法——立在厨房走廊朝乐池这一面的门边，瞧着我。

她以唇形说了两个字。

两个字，是一个歌女在另一个歌女正唱着礼拜六晚上一支歌的过门、而厅堂正陷在那种她想要那个歌女晓得的天气里时，以唇形说出的两个字。

那两个字是 西安——和 委员长。

我唱过门。

我以风声教我唱过门的法子唱过门。第三个音字不压。第七小节那一处半口气，留住。我所唱给的这间厅堂，至第七小节，已少了三分之一的男人。剩下的男人换了喝酒的速度。还在等的女人开始从烟盒里取烟，眼睛不再看烟盒。吊灯是吊灯。

我自过门里转入第三段。

第三段第二联时，衣帽间办事房门底下那一线灯光，是整个门厅里最亮的物事；门厅正以一种礼拜六夜里稳稳的细水长流向愚园路上散去——一座城，明日，租界的报纸要说 局势缓和，华文的报纸要说另一桩事。

我把这支唱完。

我下了乐池阶梯。

白珠在厨房走廊门口接住我。她不碰我。她在走廊里，也不压低嗓子。

「张少帅扣住了委员长。」她说。

「在何处。」

「西安。昨日清早。新闻在办事房的收音机上。塔季扬娜两分钟前回来。九点四十路透线上发来的电讯。卡鲁瑟斯先生的司机六点起便候在礼查饭店，因为卡鲁瑟斯先生五点起便在礼查饭店，因为卡鲁瑟斯先生自十一月起，便同路透社里一个人有约。公共租界还不晓得。法租界一小时内会晓得。到午夜，华文报纸就会拿到。」

「委员长可还活着。」

「他还活着。他同张少帅已在一处三十二个钟头。他们一直在谈。还会接着谈下去。宋美龄那边已发了电报，明日自南京动身。日本居留地已得了讯。杜月笙得了讯。姚三爷亦得了讯——姚三爷这个钟点正在华格臬路吃面，对谁也不开口，因为在这个钟点开口，对一个在华格臬路上的男人来说，是一桩——他得先决定自己究竟站哪一边了，才好做的事，而他自己尚未拿定主意。」

「这意味着什么。」

「这意味着，」白珠说，「我们一直假装不曾置身的那一场战，便是我们如今已置身的那一场战。张少帅以枪逼着委员长，要他答应同日本打、不同共产党打。无论张少帅讨什么，委员长都得点头。这意味着统一战线。意味着六个月后的卢沟桥，九个月后的租界、九个月后的虹口——婉吟——意味着我们在这座城里，还有一年。我们不到一年了。我们有一年，还有这一年里我们要做的事。」

我在走廊里那张小条凳上坐下。

白珠不坐。白珠手按着门框立着，又过了好一会儿，自那一句「一年」之后，再没出声。

我瞧着条凳。我瞧着自己的手。手是手。它们不曾发抖。手是在十月里某一刻自己定下不再发抖的。何时定下的，我并不晓得。我未曾留心。

「婉吟。」

「在。」

「你还有第三场。」

「是。」

「你要把它唱完。」

「是。」

「你要照你方才唱过门的法子唱完。你不要压第三音。你不要凭喉咙里任何一点小小的不诚实，唱出不是那一桩的那一桩。这间厅堂要好些时日才能再做回这间厅堂了。从明日起，便是另一间厅堂。今夜的这间厅堂是何模样，你便唱何模样。」

「是，白珠。」

她把按门框的手挪开。她按在我肩上。按了她惯有的那三拍。她又挪开。

「第三场唱完，」她说，「你做你礼拜六十二点要做的事。」

我抬头瞧她。

自九月十八日起，她不曾问过我礼拜六十二点要做什么。她是在八月第三个礼拜里定下的，便不再问。她此刻亦不问。

「是。」我说。

「好。地板下头那个人也有收音机。我料他自九点四十起便一直开着。我料他要把他的想头讲给你听。我嘱你下去，听他讲。」

「是。」

她转身。她朝化妆室走廊去了。她在拐角处停下。她回过身来。

「婉吟。」

「在。」

「便是这一年。我们身在其中。此生此世，再不会得回另一年。你唱，囡囡。你唱，唱完了，便去做你礼拜六十二点一向做的事。你同我——我们能得多少夜与多少早晨，便得多少。我们会得到春日。春日之后无论来什么，我们都会得到。我们要一路唱过去。可好。」

「好。」

她去了。

我在条凳上坐了一分钟。然后我起身。我上去。我唱了第三场。

我照白珠嘱咐的法子唱了第三场。菲律宾乐手把过门弹得比谱面慢了四分之一拍。二楼到第二支歌便空了。最末一支歌的最末一个韵脚落下时，舞池上还剩二十八个人，姚三爷不在其中，伊藤不在其中，白珠在二楼栏杆边，一支烟搁在一个烟灰缸里，捏着，不抽。

掌声细。掌声细——是在一间男人们正掐算自己还剩多少年头的厅堂里那种细法。

我下了台，从后楼梯上去。我一样没换。十二点我下去。

冷藏间是冷藏间。师傅不在他那只方凳上。他在屋后，地上，一张小席上，背靠着砖。他听到了。最底下那只木箱上没有那碗大麦茶。我明白了——师傅定下：礼拜六这一夜，委员长被扣，年头到了，大麦茶不是这一夜该有的礼数。

我穿过去。

拱门是拱门。

钢琴旁小桌上的灯，捻高了一档。碟子里的蜡烛是支新的。木箱上的收音机开着。马尼拉那一头，午夜正放一支弦乐——听来像鲍罗丁。九点四十他在听路透频率；十点一刻他在听电报房中继；十二点他在听汉口出来的新闻广播，用的是汉口新闻广播所用的那种语言，那便是他自己——一九二九年静安寺路那个小音乐厅乐池上——母语的语言。

他在钢琴另一头。

「你听见了。」他说。

「十点过十分，白珠在厨房走廊门口告诉我。」

「你把第三场唱了。」

「我唱了。」

「好。坐。今夜，我并不央你唱。我们坐。小桌上有一桩可饮、不是水的物事。」

椅旁的那张小桌——按十一月里礼数所挪到的那段新距离——上头搁着一只小瓷杯，一只棕色瓶子，里头是——我端起杯子才晓得——厨房师傅自酿的那种薄薄的大麦烧酒。我从前喝过一回——是林姨告诉我那只镯子的事的那一夜，礼拜天，在厨房里——这九年来在百乐门台上唱着，亦不曾喝过三回以上。我喝了半杯。

「把这半杯喝了。」他说。「我亦有一杯。我们坐。」

我们坐了。

头三分钟，我们都不曾出声。收音机以低音放汉口的新闻；播音员是个四十多岁的湖北男人，带着工整的国语腔，以一个在午夜里全城唯一能替这座城读电讯给它听的男人那种细细的诵读嗓子，读着电讯。这位播音员，十五分钟里第三遍读到自西安发来的电讯。委员长还活着。委员长在一家旅馆里。委员长已经谈判了三十六个钟头。谈判尚未谈拢。天津的日本报纸今日下午用了 严峻 二字。上海的日本报纸八点钟亚细亚饭店门厅里那一条快报，则未用一字。

他把收音机调得再低了些。

「这是，」他说，「我们再没法跳过去的那一场战的开头。」

「是。」

「你明白。」

「我明白。」

「好。如今。告诉我你哥哥的事。」

我端着那只小瓷杯。

七个月里，我改我的小节，他不曾问过我哥哥的事。七个月里，他不曾问过。他——在十月、十一月第二个礼拜五的课上，以及十一月那个礼拜五末了——我把那道密码的问题带给他、他不曾回答的那一夜——朝着这一问，他迈过若干小小的步子，每一步都停下来等，又不开口问。我每一步都明白——他在等，要等到这一问不致——容我这样讲——成了对他已晓得的事一种细小不公的借用。我这几个月里，皆不曾定下这一问几时才算公道。在十二月这个礼拜六，午夜过十二分，在我半个钟头前还穿着银色旗袍唱着的那一层下头两层的砖砌房里，他定下了。

我明白，他是定下了，因为这一年替他定下了。

我把哥哥的事讲给他听。

我讲了吴县那段河岸，讲了那个我已记不得嗓音的女人。我讲了我父亲，鸦片，与一九二七年五月的那九十块银元。我讲了六月第三个礼拜里的林姨，讲了那位唱曲师傅，玉林路二楼宿舍，第二日师傅告诉我——我见不到我哥哥了，因为我哥哥已经北上。我讲了我九日没吃东西。我讲了一九二七年七月十八日那一日，林姨从吴步伟兄长处得了讯——四月里出了什么事，而我，要到一九二九年八月才得了讯。

我把哥哥的名字讲了。

我用吴县口音、用他训我下沉的那一档低音域讲的。沈阿淮。一出口，他没动。收音机以低音放着播音员的嗓子。

「他十九岁。」我说。

「他十九岁。」

「你晓得。」

他不出声。

「我晓得。」他说。「我是十月第二个礼拜里确知的。胡木匠给我送来一张纸条。我曾——容我这样讲——自六月起便起了疑心，那时你在乐池上把《五月的细雨》的过门那第三个音字唱出一段特别的停顿——我以为，那是一个曾被自己哥哥教过这支歌的姑娘的停顿，而她在某个时辰之后被告知，哥哥教过的事她不能再讲。我不识令兄。但我听过他的名字。在这间屋子那只箱子里的本子上，他是较老那张名单上的第七人。」

「较老那张名单。」

「一九二七年四月罹难者的名单。是其中一人的表亲一九三三年交给我的同父异母弟弟的，我弟弟于一九三三年十一月转交给我——那时他已下定要去申新厂里组织。我弟弟一九三四年是二十岁。他死在一九三四年十一月。他在较新那张名单上。」

「怎么。」

「同样的法子。」

「青帮。」

「青帮。一九三四年十一月那一回，我能认出两个人。一九二七年四月那一回，十六个人——我手里有两位见证的口供，自一九三五年起便再寻不着他们。姚三爷是十六人之一。一九二七年四月他二十九岁。彼时他做杜月笙的人,才两个月。那日清早，他在杨树浦的人行道上，以一截铁管打死了较老那张名单上的三个人。我是从第二位见证那里得来的。第一位——容我这样讲——印证了。」

我坐着，把这一段在心里搁了一会儿。

收音机放着汉口播音员的声。头顶街上，从下水道传来一阵略略闷住的响动——清晨一点，一辆电车正自愚园路上开下来，铃响了两下。当日头一班电车尚未发出。这一辆顺愚园路开下来的，是一辆空电车，正回车厂去。

「我哥哥——」我说。

「在。」

「他可在那截铁管打死的三人之中。」

他不出声。

「不在。」他说。「令兄不在那截铁管打死的三人之中。令兄是十二日清早六点，在龙华那道战壕里。他是五点半在福佑路他那个细胞的安全屋被带走的。他是自战壕南端起第四个进战壕的人。他是六点零二被公共租界一位姓吴的巡捕开枪打死的——那日清早他被借调给青帮——彼时十九岁，如今三十岁，住在北海路。他是第一位见证。一九三五年，我以大量大麦烧酒、大量耐心，与他做了那次问话。第四个钟头里他告诉我，第四个进战壕的人，在枪响之前，用吴县口音讲了——容我这样讲——一桩今夜我不愿向你转述的话。」

「他讲了什么。」

「他讲了一支曲子的名字。那支他正在吴县河岸的板屋里教给一个十七个月不曾见面的妹妹的曲子。小桥流水——你身子某一处嗓音里，自六岁起便晓得的。我把《小桥流水》的头一联，用作了第三段第二联。我并不曾告诉你为何。」

我把那杯烧酒喝尽。

「我原想，」他说，「换一夜再告诉你。委员长在西安被扣。下礼拜底，委员长会答应同日本打。打到了七月，便起。打到了八月，便到此处。今夜我没有六点钟时所有的那份把握——以为我还会有那些夜，按某一种次序，一桩一桩，待每一桩成了——容我这样讲——你该被告知的，再告诉你。我今夜告诉你，是因为这一年定下了今夜便是我告诉你的那一夜。请你原谅这等仓促。」

「无可原谅。」

「有可原谅。在较老那张名单的第七人下，十月第二个礼拜里，我用红墨水画了一道——这两年来，我只把那种双线留给某一类事——我画了双线。我未得你的应允便做了。我此刻讨这个应允。」

「画罢。」

「已画了。」

「再画一道。我允你。再画第三道。第三道我亦允你。」

他不出声。

「我会画第三道。多谢你。」

「多谢你，风声。」

收音机放着。委员长还活着。委员长在一家旅馆里。我们六月里还不曾做其国民的那一国，到了十二月第二个礼拜，我们就快又要再做其国民。租界是一座岛，这岛还剩九个月。

「上去。」他说。「睡。明日清早，白珠会问你睡了没有。你要扯个谎。她会晓得。她不会再问第二遍。」

「是。」

我起身。

我朝拱门走去。到了拱门，我不回头。门槛是门槛。我守住它。

楼梯顶上，师傅已不在那张席上。师傅下窖去搬清早煮粥的米了。他在最底下那只木箱上留了一小碗温烧酒，碟子做盖。我在倒数第二级阶梯上将它喝了。我把碗放回去。我穿过厨房，沿走廊回到自己门口。

妆台上有一张纸。是百代的五线谱纸。字迹是那种刷出来的草书。墨是红的。纸上那一行只有四个字。

礼拜六，唱。唱。

我读了两遍。我同其余几张一并收入手袋内袋。我披上街上要穿的外套。我下楼走到工役门。

万航渡路与愚园路口的点灯人，一点二十时，正在熄最后一盏灯。我过去时他抬头。两年里他不曾抬过头。他朝我点头。我朝他点头。他又回到那盏灯上。

弄堂里那辆黄包车，是六点钟把车轮上过油的老车夫。他按挂出来的车价拉我，二十五分钟里没说一句话。四川北路上三家小无线电铺这个钟点亮着灯——礼拜六十二月里，四川北路是不亮的。其中一家，临街窗里，一位五十上下的男人，穿衬衫，把一只收音机的耳机贴在一只耳上，在一只小本子上转录。黄包车过去时他抬头。他不识得我。

里弄里的房中，林姨在贵妃榻上醒着。

九个月里，她不曾在一点二十时醒着。

她坐起身，穿着寝衣，半盏冷茶在身旁，鸦片烟枪是凉的。簧风琴上头的收音机以低音开着，放的还是那位汉口播音员。她不曾转头。

「坐。」她说。

我在贵妃榻沿坐下。

「委员长。」她说。

「还活着。」

「还活着。他会答应。」她那一刻并不看我。她望着簧风琴。「会有一场战。这场战，会以你哥哥一九二七年里那样的夏天，临到我头上。我想——在那场战临到我头上之前——告诉你一桩九年里不曾告诉你的事。」

「告诉我，姨。」

「一九二七年七月，浦东的吴步伟兄长给了我两样物事。一样是你哥哥那封信。信我已给了你。另一样是一小绺头发，包在一张纸里，是你哥哥放在大衣口袋里一直留着的。那不是他的头发。是他妹妹的。是一九二五年他最后一回到家时，他妹妹给他的。他一直留着。那一绺，在簧风琴上漆盒里。这九年我不曾给你。我此刻给你。这一年是这一年。我想要这绺头发在你身上，而不在簧风琴上。」

我走到簧风琴前。

漆盒里，挨着那枚已黯了的小发卡、那张当票，与霍尔希德夫人的票据，是一小折纸。我把它打开。里头是一缕细黑的头发，用一根线系着。

是我的头发。

一九二五年我十一岁。那头发，是十一岁的头发。

我握着它。我同它一起坐着。有好几分钟，我别的什么也不做。

「谢谢你，姨。」

「去睡罢。明日你要唱的。」

「我会的。」

我回房。我宽了衣。我把银色旗袍挂在屏风后头。我躺下，那一绺头发搁在床边小桌上，哥哥那封信压在椅上的绸子下，外头是夜。

知了不在了。弄堂是弄堂。

我睡了。

夜里我梦见了一个年头。那年头是一九三七。我在乐池上，穿着那件银色旗袍。我五点醒来时，记不得那个梦。我握着那一绺头发躺着，想着公共租界那位姓吴的巡捕——三十岁，住在北海路，一九二七年四月十二日清早六点零二开枪打死我哥哥的那一位——这个礼拜六十二月里，他正在睡觉。我什么也不曾决定。我无须决定。

这年头是这年头。要做的决定，由这年头去做。

Chapter Thirteen — The Xi'an Wireless

Saturday the twelfth of December.

The second set began at half past nine in the silver qipao, the new lamé hem on the side slit, the small dry weight of the brother's letter at the right hip where I had, by December, stopped noticing it except in the half-second before I went up the bandstand stair, when the qipao swung against my leg with the small added warmth of the seam.

By the second song of the second set the floor was two hundred dancers thick. The chandeliers were at the amber setting. The neon column was on. The doorman was the night doorman who had called me Miss Su for two years and never looked above my chin.

I was on the bridge of the second song when a man came in from the lobby and went fast across the polished floor and up the gallery stair to where Mr. Carruthers and three Standard Oil men were drinking the second bottle of Mumm. He held his hat in his hand and spoke for ten seconds. Mr. Carruthers took out his pocket watch and set it on the linen and looked at it as if a number on the dial had failed to behave.

Then Mr. Carruthers and the three Standard Oil men came down the gallery stair and went out through the lobby together at the pace of men who were not, that evening, running.

They had not paid the bill.

I sang the bridge.

The bridge went out into a room which had begun, in forty seconds, to change weather. The maître d' Mr. Lopes was no longer at the door. The Russian cloakroom girl Tatiana was no longer at the cloakroom. Tatiana had a brother in the cable office on Yuanmingyuan Road and a habit of going to the small office behind the cloakroom when Mr. Lopes turned the wireless on.

The wireless had been turned on. I was the only person in the room who knew this, because the bandstand was the only seat from which one could see the small slit of light that came under the office door when the wireless was on, and that slit had not been there at the eighth measure and was there at the ninth.

I finished the second song.

The applause was the applause. The chandeliers were the chandeliers. Jimmy King counted us in for the third song — the new arrangement of Drizzle of May, the one in which I no longer leaned on the third — and as the count came down to one I saw two more men come in from the lobby and cross fast to the gallery, and a third man, who was a French banker whose name I knew because Pearl had taught me to know it, leave his table in the middle of the second sip of a martini without putting the martini down or speaking to his wife. The wife stayed at the table. She did not stand. She put the martini down for him. She looked at the doorway he had gone through and then back at the chandeliers.

I sang the first verse of Drizzle.

I sang the bridge. I did not lean on the third. The third was the third. The room was the room I had been singing this room for two years. Tonight the room had the small thinning at the edges that happened to a room when its men were leaving and its women were waiting to find out what their men had heard. Tonight the men were leaving in twos and threes — at the eighth measure of the first verse, an English banker; at the third measure of the bridge, the Belgian Consul-General's secretary; at the second couplet of the second verse, three KMT functionaries whose names I did not know but whose hats I knew. The hats came down the rack on the corridor between the cloakroom and the gallery stair in the order their owners had checked them, which suggested Tatiana had counted out the hats faster than she had been able to do in March.

At the eighth measure of the second verse, I caught Jimmy King's eye. Jimmy King held my eye for a half count. He did not stop the song.

At the chorus I saw Pearl. She came in from the kitchen corridor in her tea-dance qipao and crossed the floor the way a singer crosses a floor when a song she is not singing is in its chorus, and stood at the bandstand-side door of the kitchen corridor, and looked at me.

She mouthed two words.

Two words is what a singer mouths to another singer when the other singer is on the bridge of a Saturday-night song and the room is in a weather the singer wants the other singer to know about.

The two words were 西安 — Xi'an — and 委员长 — Chairman.

I sang the bridge.

I sang the bridge in the way Feng Sheng had told me to sing the bridge. The third syllable was not leaned. The half-breath in the seventh measure held. The room I was singing to had, by the seventh measure, lost a third of its men. The men who remained had begun to drink at a different speed. The women who were waiting had begun to take their cigarettes out of their cases without looking at the cases. The chandeliers were the chandeliers.

I came out of the bridge into the third verse.

At the second couplet of the third verse the small slit of light under the cloakroom-office door was the brightest object in the lobby, and the lobby was emptying onto Yuyuan Road at the small steady rate of a Saturday night in a city whose Settlement papers, tomorrow, would say tensions ease and whose Chinese papers would say something else.

I finished the song.

I came down the bandstand stair.

Pearl met me at the kitchen-corridor door. She did not put a hand on me. She did not, in the corridor, lower her voice.

"Marshal Zhang has the Generalissimo," she said.

"Where."

"Xi'an. Yesterday morning. The news is on the wireless in the office. Tatiana came back two minutes ago. The cable came in on the Reuters line at nine forty. Mr. Carruthers's driver has been at the Astor since six because Mr. Carruthers has been at the Astor since five because Mr. Carruthers has, since November, had an arrangement with a man at Reuters. The Settlement does not know yet. The French Concession will know in an hour. By midnight the Chinese papers will have it."

"Is the Generalissimo alive."

"He is alive. He has been with Marshal Zhang for thirty-two hours. They have been talking. They are going to keep talking. Soong Meiling has been telegraphed and will leave Nanjing tomorrow. The Japanese Concession has been told. Du Yuesheng has been told. Yao Sanye has been told — Yao Sanye is at Rue Wagner at this hour eating noodles and saying nothing to anyone, because saying anything in this hour is, for a man at Rue Wagner, the kind of thing one does not do until one has decided whose side the man at Rue Wagner is on, which one does not yet know."

"What does it mean."

"It means," said Pearl, "that the war we have been pretending not to be in is the war we are now in. Marshal Zhang has held the Generalissimo at gunpoint to make him agree to fight Japan and not the Communists. Whatever Marshal Zhang asks for, the Generalissimo will agree to. It means the United Front. It means Marco Polo Bridge in six months and the Settlement in nine and Hongkou in nine and — Wanyin — it means we have, in this city, a year. We have less than a year. We have a year and we have what we do with it."

I sat down on the small bench in the corridor.

Pearl did not sit. Pearl stood with her hand on the doorframe and she did not, after the year, say anything for some time.

I looked at the bench. I looked at my hands. The hands were the hands. They were not shaking. The hands had decided, some time in October, to stop shaking. I did not know when. I had not noticed.

"Wanyin."

"Yes."

"You have a third set."

"Yes."

"You will sing it."

"Yes."

"You will sing it the way you sang the bridge. You will not lean on the third. You will not, by any small dishonesty in the throat, sing a thing that is not the thing. The room is not going to be the room again for a long time. From tomorrow it is a different room. You sing the room the room is tonight."

"Yes, Pearl."

She took her hand off the doorframe. She put it on my shoulder. She left it there for the small count of three that was her count of three. She took it off.

"And after the third set," she said, "you do what you do on Saturdays at twelve."

I looked up at her.

She had not, since the eighteenth of September, asked me what I did on Saturdays at twelve. She had decided, on the third week in August, that she would not. She did not ask now.

"Yes," I said.

"Good. The man under the floor has a wireless. I assume he has had it on since nine forty. I assume he is going to want to tell you what he thinks. I am telling you to go and let yourself be told."

"Yes."

She turned. She went toward the dressing-room corridor. She stopped at the corner. She turned back.

"Wanyin."

"Yes."

"It is the year. We are in it. We will not, in this lifetime, get another one back. You sing, baby. You sing, and after the singing you do what you have been doing on Saturdays at twelve. You and I — we will get the night and the morning we get. We will get the spring. We will get whatever comes after the spring. We will sing through it. Yes."

"Yes."

She went.

I sat on the bench for one minute. Then I stood. I went up. I sang the third set.

I sang the third set the way Pearl had told me to sing it. The Filipinos played the bridge a quarter note slower than the chart. The gallery emptied by the second song. By the last vowel of the last song there were twenty-eight people on the floor, and Yao Sanye was not among them, and Itō was not among them, and Pearl was at the gallery rail with one cigarette in one ashtray, holding the cigarette and not smoking it.

The applause was small. The applause was small in the way it is small in a room where the men are doing arithmetic on the year they have.

I came off stage and went up the back stair. I changed nothing. I went down at midnight.

The cold-storage room was the cold-storage room. The cook was not on his stool. He was at the back, on the floor, on a small mat, with his back against the brick. He had heard. The bowl of barley tea was not on the lowest crate. The cook had, I understood, decided that on a Saturday night when the Generalissimo had been taken and the year had come, the barley tea was not the gesture the evening called for.

I went through.

The arch was the arch.

The lamp on the small table by the piano had been turned up by one notch. The candle in the saucer was a fresh candle. The radio on the wooden box was on. Manila was, at midnight, broadcasting a string section playing what sounded like Borodin. He had been listening through the Reuters frequency at nine-forty; he had been listening through the cable office relay at ten-fifteen; he had been listening, at midnight, to the news radio out of Hankou, in the language of the news radio out of Hankou, which was the language of his own first language at the bandstand of the small concert hall on Bubbling Well Road in 1929.

He was on the far side of the piano.

"You have heard," he said.

"Pearl told me at the kitchen-corridor door at ten past ten."

"You sang the third set."

"I sang it."

"Good. Sit. I will not, this evening, ask you to sing. We will sit. There is, on the small table, a thing to drink that is not water."

The small table beside the chair, at the new distance the protocol had moved it to in November, had on it a small porcelain cup and a brown bottle of what turned out, when I lifted the cup, to be a thin barley shōchū the cook in the kitchen brewed. I had had it once before — on the night Auntie Lin had told me about the bracelet, in the kitchen on a Sunday — and had not, in nine years on stage at the Paramount, had it more than three times. I drank a half.

"Drink the half," he said. "I have one also. We will sit."

We sat.

We did not, in the first three minutes, speak. The wireless ran the Hankou news at a low volume; the announcer was a man in his forties from Hubei, with a careful Mandarin accent, reading the cable in the small reading-voice of a man who was, at midnight, the only person his city had to read its cables to it. The announcer read, for the third time in fifteen minutes, the dispatches from Xi'an. The Generalissimo was alive. The Generalissimo was in a hotel. The Generalissimo had been in negotiations for thirty-six hours. The negotiations had not concluded. The Japanese press in Tianjin had, that afternoon, called the situation grave. The Japanese press in Shanghai had not, in the lobby of the Asia Hotel at the eight o'clock bulletin, used a word.

He turned the wireless to a slightly lower volume.

"This is the beginning," he said, "of the war we will not be able to dance through."

"Yes."

"You understand."

"I do."

"Good. Now. Tell me about your brother."

I sat with the porcelain cup.

I had not, in seven months of correcting my measures, told him about my brother. He had not, in seven months, asked. He had taken — in the second-Friday lessons of October and November, and at the end of the Friday in November when I had brought him the cipher question and he had not answered — small steps toward the asking, and at each step he had stopped and waited and not asked. I had understood, at each step, that he was waiting until the asking would not be — let us say — a small unfair use of a thing he already knew. I had not, in any month, decided when the asking would be fair. He had, on this Saturday in December at twelve past midnight in a brick room two floors below a floor where I had been singing in a silver qipao thirty minutes ago, decided.

He had decided, I understood, because the year had decided for him.

I told him about my brother.

I told him about the riverbank in Wuxian and the woman whose voice I could not remember. I told him about my father and the opium and the ninety silver dollars in May of 1927. I told him about Auntie Lin in the third week of June, the singing instructor, the second-floor dormitory on Yulin Road, and the master who had told me, on the second day, that I would not see my brother because my brother had gone north. I told him about the nine days I had not eaten. I told him about the eighteenth of July 1927, when Auntie Lin had been told by Wu Buwei's elder brother what had happened in April, and that I had not been told until August 1929.

I told him my brother's name.

I told it in my Wuxian accent, in the lower register he had drilled me in. Shen Ahuai. He did not, on the saying, do anything. The wireless ran the announcer's voice on a low volume.

"He was nineteen," I said.

"He was nineteen."

"You knew."

He was quiet.

"I knew," he said. "I have known, with certainty, since the second week of October. Mr. Hu the carpenter brought me a slip of paper. I had — let me say — suspected since June, when you sang on the bandstand the bridge of Drizzle of May with a particular pause at the third syllable that was, I thought, the pause of a girl who had been taught the song by a brother whose teaching she had been told, at some point afterward, was a thing she could not speak of. I had not known the brother. I had known of him. He is, in the diary in the trunk in this room, the seventh name on the older list."

"The older list."

"The list of the dead of April 1927. The list a cousin of one of them gave to my half-brother in 1933, and which my half-brother gave to me in November of 1933, when he had decided to organize at the Shenxin Mill. My half-brother was twenty in 1934. He died in November of 1934. He is on the newer list."

"How."

"In the same way."

"With the Green Gang."

"With the Green Gang. With, in November 1934, two men I could identify. With, in April 1927, sixteen men whose names I have, by the testimony of two witnesses I have not since 1935 been able to find again. Yao Sanye is one of the sixteen. He was twenty-nine in April of 1927. He had been Du Yuesheng's man for two months. He killed, that morning, three of the men on the older list with a length of iron pipe on the Yangshupu pavement. I have this on the second of the two witnesses. The first — let me say — corroborated."

I sat with this.

The wireless ran the Hankou announcer. Somewhere on the streets above, by the small dampened sound that came through the storm drain, a tram was going down Yuyuan Road at one in the morning with a bell that had been rung twice. The first tram had not yet started for the day. The tram going down Yuyuan was an empty tram returning to its depot.

"My brother — " I said.

"Yes."

"Was he one of the three on the pipe."

He was quiet.

"No," he said. "Your brother was not one of the three on the pipe. Your brother was in the trench at Longhua at six in the morning of the twelfth. He had been taken at five-thirty at his cell's safe house on Fuyu Road. He was the fourth man into the trench from the south end. He was shot at six-oh-two by a Constable Wu of the Settlement police, on loan that morning to the Green Gang, who was nineteen, who is now thirty, who lives on Beihai Road, who was a witness number one when I interviewed him in 1935 with a great deal of barley shōchū and a great deal of patience. He told me, in the fourth hour of the interview, that the man who had been fourth into the trench had said, in his Wuxian accent, before the firing — let me say — a thing I will not repeat to you tonight."

"What did he say."

"He said the name of a song. The song he had been teaching, in a riverbank tenement in Wuxian, to a sister he had not seen in seventeen months. 小桥流水 — small bridge flowing water — which you have known, in some part of your throat, since you were six. I have used the first couplet of small bridge flowing water as the second couplet of the third verse. I had not told you why."

I drank the rest of the shōchū.

"I had thought," he said, "that I would tell you on a different evening. The Generalissimo has been taken at Xi'an. The Generalissimo will, by the end of next week, agree to fight Japan. The fighting will, by July, begin. The fighting will, by August, be here. I do not have, tonight, the certainty I had at six in the evening that I would have the evenings I would, in some other order, have used to tell you each thing as the thing became — let me say — yours to be told. I am telling you tonight because tonight is the night the year decided I was telling you. Forgive me for the speed of it."

"There is nothing to forgive."

"There is. I have, on the seventh name of the older list, in the second week of October, double-underlined a thing in red ink that I have, in two years, kept double underlines for. I have done it without your permission. I am asking it now."

"Underline it."

"It is underlined."

"Underline it again. I give the permission. Underline it a third time. I give the permission for the third."

He was quiet.

"I will underline it a third time. Thank you."

"Thank you, Feng Sheng."

The wireless ran. The Generalissimo was alive. The Generalissimo was in a hotel. The country we had not been a citizen of in June was, by the second week of December, a country we were about to be a citizen of again. The Settlement was an island and the island had nine months.

"Go up," he said. "Sleep. Pearl will, in the morning, ask if you slept. You will lie. She will know. She will not ask twice."

"Yes."

I stood.

I went toward the arch. I did not, at the arch, turn. The threshold was the threshold. I kept it.

At the top of the stair the cook was no longer on the mat. The cook had gone to the cellar to bring up the morning rice for the breakfast porridge. He had left, on the lowest crate, a small bowl of warm shōchū with the lid on a saucer. I drank it on the second-to-last step. I put the bowl back. I went up through the kitchen and along the corridor to my door.

On the vanity there was a single piece of paper. It was on Pathé staff paper. The hand was the brushed cursive. The ink was the red. The line on the paper was four words long.

Sing on Saturday. Sing.

I read it twice. I put it in the inside pocket of the handbag with the others. I put on my street coat. I went down to the service door.

The lamp-lighter at Wanhangdu and Yuyuan was, at one twenty, putting out the last lamp. He looked up when I passed. He had not looked up in two years. He nodded. I nodded. He went back to the lamp.

In the lane the rickshaw was the older man with the wheel oiled at six. He took me at the listed fare and did not, in twenty-five minutes, say anything. Three of the small wireless shops on Sichuan Road North had their lights on at this hour, which Sichuan Road North did not do on a Saturday in December. At one of them, in the front window, a man of perhaps fifty was standing in his shirtsleeves with the receiver of a wireless to one ear, transcribing onto a small notepad. He looked up as the rickshaw went past. He did not recognize me.

In the lane house Auntie Lin was awake on the chaise.

She had not, in nine months, been awake at one twenty.

She was sitting up in her gown with the cup of weak tea half drunk and the opium pipe cold. The wireless above the harmonium was on at a low volume, running the same Hankou announcer. She did not turn her head.

"Sit," she said.

I sat on the edge of the chaise.

"The Generalissimo," she said.

"He is alive."

"He is alive. He will agree." She did not, that minute, look at me. She looked at the harmonium. "There will be a war. The war will, in the kind of summer your brother had in 1927, come for me. I would like, before the war comes for me, to tell you a thing I have not told you in nine years."

"Tell me, Auntie."

"Wu Buwei's elder brother in Pudong gave me, in July of 1927, two things. One was your brother's letter. I have given you the letter. The other was a small lock of hair, in a paper, that your brother had been keeping in his coat pocket. It was not his hair. It was his sister's. The sister had given it to him in 1925 the last time he had been home. He had been keeping it. The lock is in the lacquer box on the harmonium. I have, in nine years, not given it to you. I am giving it to you now. The year is the year. I would like the lock to be on you and not on the harmonium."

I went to the harmonium.

In the lacquer box, beside the small tarnished hairpin and the pawn ticket and the receipt from Madam Khorshid, was a small fold of paper. I unfolded it. Inside was a fine lock of black hair tied with a thread.

It was my hair.

I had been eleven in 1925. The hair was eleven.

I held it. I sat with it. I did not, for some minutes, do anything else.

"Thank you, Auntie."

"Sleep. You will sing tomorrow."

"I will."

I went to my room. I undressed. I hung the silver qipao behind the screen. I lay down with the lock of hair on the small table beside the bed and the brother's letter against the silk on the chair and the night outside.

The cicadas were gone. The lane was the lane.

I slept.

In the night I dreamed of a year. The year was 1937. I was on the bandstand in the silver qipao. When I woke, at five, I could not remember the dream. I lay with the lock of hair in my hand and thought about Constable Wu of the Settlement police, who was thirty, who lived on Beihai Road, who had shot my brother at six-oh-two on the twelfth of April 1927, and was, this Saturday in December, asleep. I did not decide anything. I did not need to.

The year was the year. The deciding would be made by the year.