七部小说 · Seven Novels

第 14 章 ——《百代》

一月末。

百代公司在亚尔培路与拉法叶路转角，黄色灰泥外墙的楼里，门楣上方的砖里嵌着 EMI 小狗与「百代公司」四个字。录音室在三楼；压片车间设在后院，礼拜二与礼拜四开工。礼拜六下午三楼空着，是事先排好的——专为萨先生那个月亲自监制的两位艺人留出来的。

我是两位中的第二位。第一位是姚莉，十五岁，三点过一刻就收工了，因为她十五岁便有了那样一副不需要重录的嗓子。

上一个礼拜六——八号——我已来过百代，签下两面唱片的合同。

那两面，并不是风声的曲子。

那两面是百代曲目里的两首——一九三四年黎锦晖的《南屏晚钟》，与一九三六年刘雪庵的《何日君再来》。萨先生与我，在他那间小办公室里——桌上摆着 EMI 小狗的模型，矮柜上放着一只茶盘——议定：两面将于二月七日灌录，每面酬我五十块大洋，预付计入将来的版税；合同两年，萨先生方面有两次续约权，我这边有一次。我们签了。

我们还议定了一句话，是萨先生在谈话末了才插进来的——我之所以让他插进来，是因为彼时我并未明白本该回绝——那便是，我会在十五号——亦即这个礼拜六——再回来一次，做一次小小的加录：声试录音，用百代的器材，账上不记，「供工程师校音用」。萨先生当时说的是为蒙德松先生，而蒙德松先生其时正立在萨先生办公室门口；蒙德松先生缓缓地、小小地点了一下头——那种点头，是一个男人在租界一家唱片公司的小后间、在礼拜二下午四点，应承着一桩并未被完整问过的事时所点的头。

我说了好。

我说好，是因为在说的那一刻，我尚未把第二个礼拜六的事告诉风声。合同的事我已告诉他。礼拜五那日他问我，两面唱什么。我说《南屏》与《何日君再来》。他说：选得对。刘雪庵的那首，你用低音区。第一段第三个字不要倚音。黎锦晖的过门，你用自己的气，不要用谱面上要的气。礼拜六半夜回来，告诉我工程师如何反应。我说了好。

那一日礼拜五，我并未向他提起第二个礼拜六。

我不提起，自有缘由，只是直到这礼拜六下午，我走上百代三楼楼梯时，才肯去探。那缘由——当我探它时，正立在自顶端数下来第三级阶上，手按楼梯扶栏，压片车间里淡淡的树脂与橡胶气味自井道里腾上来——便是：我想，有那么一个礼拜六下午，做百代录音室里的一个歌女，而不让百乐门地板下的那个男人知道我曾在此。这「想」是小小的。这「想」，是一个女子的小小的「想」——一个自九月十八日起便一直在另一个男人的纠正之下歌唱、又在十一月八日第一次以自己的声音在萨先生与蒙德松先生面前唱过、并被请再来一次的女子。那「再请」，是一群并非地板下那个男人的听众的「再请」。这「想」，是一个歌女想被人请的「想」。

走到三楼时，我并不曾，决定我要唱什么。

萨先生在二号录音室门口迎我。他是个五十岁的葡澳人，穿一身深蓝双排扣西装，握钢笔的姿势，像那笔早晨同他说过一桩话，他一时还未拿定主意答还是不答。白珠告诉我，他是上海或许仅有的三个人之一——这三人录下的歌者，百年之后，人们仍会把她们记作这个年代的声音。

「蒙德松先生在控音台。」他说，「这一小时里，我们做三次试录。《南屏》。《何日君再来》。第三首——」他将那钢笔握成他做了决定时才握的小小的角度，「——由工程师定夺。」

我走进二号录音室。

二号是小录音室。中央一小方铺着地毯的方块上立一只定座的麦克风，左墙靠一架立式钢琴——贝希斯坦立琴，与地下室那架同一家，我心里记下，没有出声——一把椅，一张小台，台上一杯水。墙上挂着灰色吸音毡。天花上挂着毡。通往控音间的玻璃窗是齐胸高的一小方。透过玻璃我能看见蒙德松先生坐在控音台前——一个清瘦的德国人，约莫五十，鬓角的灰发往前梳着，一副金属丝边眼镜推到了额上——在他身后是萨先生与他那支钢笔。

蒙德松先生转了转一只小旋钮。

「苏小姐，」他的声音透过喇叭传来。那是一个一九二八年在柏林音乐学院授过课、自一九三四年以来从未连续讲三分钟以上中文的人的声音。「先做《南屏》。钢琴是程先生。」

一个穿灰西装的男人自侧门走入——程先生，二十六岁，音乐院出身——坐到那架贝希斯坦立琴前，给我弹了和弦。

我唱。

我用风声训我的那种低音区，唱《南屏》的第一段与过门。我用了黎锦晖谱面不要的那种气。第三个字我不倚。程先生过门弹得干净，第二联处带一点点 rubato——我想，那是一个音乐院出身的钢琴师对一个他尚未在此室里学到呼吸的歌女所做的小小的迁就。我自过门走入第二段，蒙德松先生在控音间里抬起一只手，那小喇叭里说请停。

「好。」蒙德松先生说，「麦克风对了。我们走《何日君再来》。程先生，请。」

我唱《何日君再来》。我唱第一段与过门。我按风声前一个礼拜五半夜要我唱的方式去唱——低音区，过门第三小节的那半口气，他已让我憋了九个礼拜。程先生伴奏。过门稳住了。蒙德松先生在控音间里，过门收尾时并不动。他自额上把眼镜取下，戴回鼻梁。他俯向通话器。

「苏小姐。」

「在。」

「那是半口气。」

我极静下来。

「那是某首歌过门里的半口气——那歌，在谱上，是刘雪庵的。谱面并不要半口气。半口气不在谱上。你用的，是别人正在写的一首歌的气来唱这首歌。那气不属于刘雪庵。那气，属于一首我未曾听过的歌。我想，若你肯赐准，我愿一听。」

我望向玻璃后的萨先生。

萨先生在望蒙德松先生。

到了《何日君再来》的过门时，萨先生已不再将钢笔握成那种「尚未答复」的角度。萨先生已将笔放下了。萨先生已将笔放在通话器旁的一小条搁板上，把双手交握在胸骨前——一个澳门人在他决意要做个葡萄牙人的那一刻交握双手的方式。

蒙德松先生再次俯向通话器。

「苏小姐。第三次试录——容我说——归你。萨先生与我要听一首歌。这首歌不是百代的歌。这首歌，是把《何日君再来》过门里那半口气写出来的那首歌。我们不压片。我们不录。我们听。控音台关着。带子关着。你在控音间里为两个男人和一个钢琴师唱一遍，那钢琴师在此屋里不会再提起。你唱便是。歌一收，我便告诉你一桩我已决意要告诉你的事。」

我立在麦克风前。

我在录音室里的这三分钟里，并不曾，决定我要唱什么。这决定已被做下。这决定，已由蒙德松先生在那半口气处做下。这决定，已由我在《何日君再来》第二联上选用了刘雪庵谱上没有的那口气之时做下。这决定是我的。我做下时并不知自己做下了。我做下，是因为我想，有那么一个礼拜六下午，做地板下那男人一直在塑造我去做的那个歌女，在一个不是地板下的屋子里。

蒙德松先生说出归你之后的三秒里，我并不曾以这些字句去想这些。我在三秒的喉与气里想的。我做下了喉与气的决定。我唱。

我唱了《夜来香未眠》的过门。第二乐章。我们做了九个礼拜的那一版。我唱第一段与过门。我并不唱第三段。第三段——那带着四道并非呼吸的呼吸记号的一段——便是萨先生与蒙德松先生跪下来求我，我也不会在这屋里唱出。第三段是留给七月那场义演的。第三段是我此生最珍重的东西，比放在右胯上的兄长的信还要珍重。我唱第一段。我唱过门。我并不唱第三段。

程先生，弹到第二小节后，便自键盘上松了手。

谱面他不曾被给过。不曾被给的，他便不能弹。他坐在钢琴前，双手放在腿上，听。他听的方式，是一个音乐院出身的钢琴师听的方式——一个男人在实时心里默写时听的方式。

控音台前的蒙德松先生不动。

控音台前的萨先生将一只手按在通话器旁的小搁板上。

我唱过门。

我让最末那一个元音停坐，按风声教我的那样停坐。我让它停坐到不再是元音，而成了整间屋子。这屋子是一九三七年一月、上海法租界、亚尔培路与拉法叶路转角、黄色灰泥楼里、一小方铺着灰色地毯的方块。这屋子听见了一首再无别屋听过的歌。

这屋子如今听过了。

蒙德松先生将眼镜取下。他放在控音台上。他有好一阵不俯向通话器。

俯下时，他说：「苏小姐。」

「在，蒙德松先生。」

「这首歌，是我相识的一个人写的。」

我并不说话。

「这首歌，」他说，「是一个人写的。一九二九年，我在静安寺路国立音乐院三楼一间礼堂里纠正过他，纠正的是他用俄文写的一部普希金歌剧第二乐章第二联的声部进行。他二十一岁。他是同班里最暴脾气的作曲学生，也是唯一一个——被纠正之后，既不争辩亦不就范，回家去，到下一个礼拜五带回一份修订稿——容我说——比那纠正稍稍好上一些的学生。三年里我去那礼堂的所有探访中，他是同班里我唯一记得的一个。他一九三〇年离开音乐院。一九三四年报上说，他死于闸北的一场大火。

「你方才所唱的歌，过门，是他写的。我并不需要知道，苏小姐，这首歌如何到了你喉间。我不需要知道。我想，请，借片刻。」

他从通话器前转开。

他自胸袋里取出一方手帕，长久地按在眼上。彼时他并不曾落泪。他将那手帕按在那里——一个在上海做了三年的德国流亡者、五十岁的男人，被告知一个他在一九二九年纠正过其声部进行的少年，原来并未死于一九三四年的那场大火时，他会以这样的方式按住一方手帕。

他将手帕收起。

他俯向通话器。

「苏小姐。两桩事。第一桩：这首歌，今生不离此屋。萨先生与我不录。无论哪一年都不压片。我们也不会告诉程先生他方才听见的是什么——因为程先生并不曾，在这屋里，听见过；程先生——请你看他片刻——是一个过去七分钟里都规规矩矩看着琴键的人，到四点半，他便已忘了过门起在哪个调上。是不是，程先生。」

程先生，钢琴前，并不抬头。他以极小的声音说：「凡此生在此录音室内任何人所唱的任何过门，起在哪个调上，我皆不记得。我做忘记，已做了七年，是我的本行。是。」

「第二桩。」蒙德松先生说，「苏小姐。倘若那过门的作者尚在人世，且愿意——容我说——与一个百代的、听过他正在写的那首歌的工程师有所通讯，那工程师便愿知会一声。工程师之所以愿，是因为工程师此生，便是这般一首歌、由这般一个人、在这般一座城里，应当被刻进唱片的此生。工程师并不会违其心意压片。但工程师愿，在他决意刻录之时，在那屋里。便是如此。」

萨先生俯向通话器。他的声音，那个下午第一次，是一个不曾握着钢笔的葡澳人的声音。

「苏小姐。我愿，照原定，二月七日灌录《南屏》与《何日君再来》。合同有效。我另愿，保留《何日君再来》过门里那半口气。百代的唱片上，那半口气就是那半口气。我不会在写给任何人的任何信里，提到第二首。我会，在一封尚未写出的信里，愿意——容我说——对第三面持开放态度。我告诉你，是为了让你知道桌上摆着什么，而不向你索取。蒙德松先生与我退出此室。你与程先生退出此室。二月七日，我们做合同所要的事。是。」

「是，萨先生。」

「谢谢你，苏小姐。」

我下楼。程先生在三楼楼梯口为我扶门。他不看我。他在那扶门的当口决定下了：他并不曾听过一首歌。

他听过那首歌。到礼拜一，他便会以铅笔，在一本小学校簿上，将他所听到的过门写下。他会把那本子放进书桌抽屉。他今生不会再取出来。

我回了家。

半夜我不曾下去。礼拜六、礼拜日、礼拜一、礼拜二，我都不曾下去。礼拜日下午六点，第二场前，我坐在化妆间里，穿着那件银色旗袍，并不掀开手袋的盖去看里头那四张纸。我唱了第二场。我唱了第三场。我回家。凌晨三点，我穿着内衣躺在床上。我不曾入睡。

礼拜二傍晚六点，安雅替我扣珍珠耳坠，说：「Bárinya。四点有一张纸塞进门缝里。我没有看。我把它放在小床旁的小台上了。」

我自镜中望她。

「谢谢你，安雅。」

「Bárinya，你大可以选择不看。换作我，是会看的。那手是行书。」

「谢谢。」

第二场之后，我在化妆间一角小床旁的小台上、灯光下，看了那张纸。

那是百代谱用纸。手是那带笔锋的行书。墨是红的。纸上写了两段。

礼拜六四点，蒙德松电话给了木匠。木匠六点下来。他告诉了我。听完那一刻起的一个钟头里，我什么也未做。一个钟头后，我做了一桩我懊悔的事。我把皮带上了油，戴上了面具，自六点坐到半夜在那条琴凳上，听着。你不曾来。我自半夜坐到四点。你不曾来。我自四点坐到六点。你不曾来。礼拜日我自半夜坐到四点。这个礼拜日，与之后的两日，我并不曾比任何别的礼拜六睡得更多。此信里我并不请你下来。此信里我请你的，是去知晓你唱出那半口气时它是什么。那半口气是我的。我并不曾把它给过蒙德松。你并不曾求准把它给他，是因你不知你正在给。我并不曾，借着扣下那准允，把「这半口气是要求准的东西」说清。不清不楚是我的过。地毯之上，那半口气是你绝对有权拥有之物。九个礼拜来，我都在求你将它据为己有。你将它据为己有了。

你愿来时便来。琴凳便是琴凳。椅是新挪的那段距离。无论如何，我都将在那琴凳上。礼拜六六点起我已在上面。我会在上面，一直到你来。 ——F

那两段我读了两遍。读了第三遍。我坐在妆台前，纸搁在膝上。

录音与此信之间这四个夜里，我所期待的，是另一封信。我所期待的，是这样起首的一封：你把我的歌带到了一个会把它压进黑胶的人那里。礼拜六五点半起，我已在心里写着那封信的回。

这封信，是另一封。

这另一封，是一个人在四日内决意不以我所预备回话的那种方式震怒之人的信。这封信，是一个人决意将过——容我说——揽到自己身上之人的信。过不在他。过在我。过在于：我想，有那么一个礼拜六下午，做地板下的那个男人一直在塑造我去做的那个歌女，在一个不是地板下的屋子里。这「想」是我的。过在我。他在四日间将那过揽到了自己身上。他这么做，我明白，是因为他不能承受礼拜二傍晚六点时——我礼拜六半夜不曾下去。

我把信折起。

我换衣。

我十二点下去。

冷藏间还是冷藏间。厨子坐在他那只凳上，叼着烟管；麦茶碗搁在最底的板条箱上；那烟管小小一颔，权作招呼。拱门还是拱门。蜡烛是新的一支。椅在新挪的那段距离上。

他在琴凳上。

琴凳还是琴凳。他在那上面坐着，是一个自礼拜六六点起便已在上面坐着的男人坐着的样子。双手放在膝间。面具在脸上。小台上的灯亮着。茶碟里的蜡烛亮着。钢琴键盖合着。

「你来了。」他说。

「我来了。」

「那半口气是你的。」

「是你的。」

「曾是我的。十月八日起便成了你的。自十月八日起，你便在台上以你的去唱它。直到礼拜六下午之前，我并不曾，明白它已不再是我的。直到礼拜六下午之前，我都在要求你为一桩并非——在给之时——我所能给的事求准。过——」

「过，」我说，「在我。第二个礼拜六的事，我不曾告诉你。前一个礼拜五，第二个礼拜六的事我亦不曾告诉你。我想，有那么一个礼拜六下午，做我在此处一直所做的那个歌女，在一个不是此处的屋子里。这「想」是我的。这「不告诉」是我的。这「不告诉」——容我说——我抱歉。」

他有一会儿不曾说话。

「坐。」他说。

我坐下。

「小台上，有水。」

「在。」

我喝。

「蒙德松电话给了木匠，」他说，「请木匠告诉我一桩事。那桩事是：一九二九年纠正过我的那位工程师，自一九三四年起便在百代。自一九三四年起他便在等这首歌被刻录。他愿在它被刻录时，在那屋里。这个人——容我说——不会死在这间砖屋里。这个人会活到刻录，至少。」

「是。」

「信里讲的就是这个。」

「信里讲的就是这个。」

「我宽宥你。」

「无可宽宥。」

「有。我宽宥它。你不必请。宽宥在我手里。我已宥之。去罢。」

「你也求我宽宥。」

「我求了。」

「我宥了。」

「谢谢你。」

「谢谢你。」

那一夜，我们不曾做那首歌的工。他不曾掀开钢琴的盖。我不曾擎起烛。我们在砖屋里坐了一个钟头，无线电低声开着马尼拉台，播着美国舞乐——一个菲律宾报幕员，在半夜过半时，以带宿务方言口音的轻柔英语解说着。一点时我起身。他点头。我上去。

妆台上，今晚不曾有纸。

我宽衣。我挂起银色旗袍。我披上街上穿的外套。我回家。点灯人正在点他第四盏灯。第二辆黄包车——那辆车的车夫是六点把车轮上过油的年长那位——按挂牌的价钱拉我，这二十五分钟里他不曾说一句话。

弄堂房子里林姨睡在贵妃榻上。右手的句子今日练过了；风琴的盖比我六点离开时开了半寸。一盏淡茶喝了一半。扇子被挪过。烟枪冷了。

我坐在她对面的榻沿上。我不叫醒她。

我取出礼拜二四点塞进门缝的那封信。我读了第二段最末那一句。

——无论如何，我都将在那琴凳上。礼拜六六点起我已在上面。我会在上面，一直到你来。

我把它折起。我把它放进手袋里层的口袋，与其他几封一处。我回到自己的房里。我宽衣。我躺下。蝉自十月起便不在了。弄堂还是弄堂。

夜里我并未梦见他。我梦见的，是蒙德松先生——一九二八年柏林的一间课室，一架钢琴前一个少年，在弹一部普希金歌剧。那少年二十一。他尚未被烧过。他在梦里以左手弹着一个跨十度的把位。我不曾唤醒他。

我五时醒。

我走到风琴前。我掀开盖。我弹了过门的右手。我合上盖。

那半口气还是那半口气。到二月第三个礼拜五，它将——容我说——是一首尚未被刻录、却终将被刻录之歌的那半口气。

它将被刻录。

Chapter Fourteen — Pathé

Late January.

The Pathé studio was on Avenue du Roi Albert at the corner of Rue Lafayette, in a yellow stucco building with the EMI dog and the name 百代公司 set into the brickwork above the door. The recording rooms were on the third floor; the pressing plant ran in the back yard on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Saturday afternoons the third floor was empty by arrangement, for the two artists Mr. Sá was personally producing that month.

I was the second of the two. The first was Yao Lee, who was fifteen and had finished at quarter past three because she had, at fifteen, the kind of throat that did not require a second take.

I had been at Pathé the previous Saturday — the eighth — to sign the contract for two sides.

The two sides were not Phantom songs.

The two sides were two of the Pathé canon — a 1934 Li Jinhui called 南屏晚钟 (Nanping Evening Bell) and a 1936 Liu Xue'an called 何日君再来 (When Will You Return). Mr. Sá and I had agreed, sitting in his small office with the model of the EMI dog on the desk and a tea-tray on the credenza, that the two sides would be cut on the seventh of February, that I would be paid fifty silver dollars a side against future royalties, that the contract would run two years with two options on Mr. Sá's side and one option on mine. We had signed.

We had also agreed, in a sentence Mr. Sá had inserted late in the conversation and that I had let him insert because I had not understood, in the moment, that I should have refused, that I would come back on the fifteenth — that is to say, this Saturday — for a small additional session of voice-test recordings, on Pathé equipment, off the books, "for the engineer's calibration." Mr. Sá had said for Mr. Mendelsohn, and Mr. Mendelsohn had been at the door of Mr. Sá's office when he said it, and Mr. Mendelsohn had nodded the small slow nod of a man who was, in the small back office of a Concession recording company on a Tuesday at four, agreeing to a thing he had not entirely been asked.

I had said yes.

I had said yes because I had not yet, at the moment of the saying, told Feng Sheng about the second Saturday. I had told Feng Sheng about the contract. He had asked me, the Friday after, what I would sing for the two sides. I had told him Nanping and When Will You Return. He had said: the right two. You will sing the Liu Xue'an in the lower register. You will not lean on the third syllable of the first verse. You will sing the bridge of the Li Jinhui in your own breath and not in the breath the Li Jinhui sheet asks for. You will be back on Saturday at midnight to tell me how the engineer responded. I had said yes.

I had not, on that Friday, mentioned to him the second Saturday.

I had not mentioned it for a reason I did not, until I was on the stair to the third floor of Pathé on this Saturday afternoon, examine. The reason — when I examined it, on the third step from the top, with my hand on the banister and the small smell of resin and rubber from the pressing plant rising up the stairwell — was that I had wanted, for one Saturday afternoon, to be a singer in a Pathé recording studio without the man under the floor of the Paramount knowing I had been there. The wanting had been small. The wanting had been the small wanting of a woman who had, since the eighteenth of September, been singing under someone else's correction, and who had, on the eighth of November, sung in front of Mr. Sá and Mr. Mendelsohn for the first time in her own voice and had been asked to come back. The asking had been the asking of an audience that was not the man under the floor. The wanting was the wanting of a singer to be asked.

I had not, by the time I reached the third floor, decided what I would sing.

Mr. Sá met me at the door of Studio Two. He was a Portuguese-Macanese man of fifty, in a navy double-breasted suit, with a habit of holding a fountain pen as if the pen had said a thing to him that morning he had not yet decided whether to reply to. He was, Pearl had told me, one of perhaps three men in Shanghai who had recorded the singers people would in a hundred years remember of this decade.

"Mr. Mendelsohn is at the console," he said. "We will, in the hour, do three tests. Nanping. When Will You Return. The third — " he held the fountain pen at the small angle he held it at when he had decided a thing — "is at the engineer's discretion."

I went into Studio Two.

Studio Two was the small studio. It had a single microphone on a fixed stand at the center of a small carpeted square, a vertical piano against the left wall — a Bechstein upright, the same maker as the basement piano, which I noted without saying — a chair, and a small table with a glass of water. The walls were hung with grey acoustic felt. The ceiling was hung with felt. The window into the control booth was a small rectangle of glass at chest height. Through the glass I could see Mr. Mendelsohn at the console — a slender German man of perhaps fifty, with grey hair brushed forward at the temple, and a pair of metal-rimmed spectacles he had pushed up onto his forehead — and behind him Mr. Sá with his pen.

Mr. Mendelsohn turned a small dial.

"Miss Su," came his voice through the speaker. It was the voice of a man who had taught at the Hochschule für Musik in Berlin in 1928 and had not used Mandarin in public for more than three minutes at a stretch since 1934. "We will do Nanping first. The pianist is Mr. Cheng."

A man in a grey suit came in from a side door — Mr. Cheng, twenty-six, a Conservatory man — and sat at the Bechstein upright and played me the chord.

I sang.

I sang the first verse and the bridge of Nanping in the lower register Feng Sheng had drilled me in. I sang it in the breath the Li Jinhui sheet did not ask for. I did not lean on the third syllable. Mr. Cheng played the bridge cleanly, with a small rubato at the second couplet that was, I thought, the small accommodation a Conservatory pianist made to a singer's breath he had not yet, in this room, learned. I came out of the bridge into the second verse and Mr. Mendelsohn, in the booth, lifted one hand and the small speaker said stop, please.

"Good," said Mr. Mendelsohn. "The microphone is correct. We will move to When Will You Return. Mr. Cheng. Yes."

I sang When Will You Return. I sang the first verse and the bridge. I sang it the way Feng Sheng had told me to sing it the previous Friday at midnight — in the lower register, in the half-breath he had been having me hold at the third measure of the bridge for nine weeks. Mr. Cheng accompanied. The bridge held. Mr. Mendelsohn, in the booth, did not move at the end of the bridge. He took his glasses off the top of his head and put them on his nose. He leaned to the talkback.

"Miss Su."

"Yes."

"That is the half-breath."

I went very still.

"It is the half-breath in the bridge of a song that is, on the page, by Liu Xue'an. The page does not ask for a half-breath. The half-breath is not in the page. You have sung the song with a breath that is the breath of a song someone else is writing. The breath does not belong to the Liu Xue'an. The breath belongs to a song I have not heard. I would, if you will permit it, like to hear it."

I looked at Mr. Sá behind the glass.

Mr. Sá was looking at Mr. Mendelsohn.

Mr. Sá had not, at the bridge of When Will You Return, been holding the pen at the angle of a man not yet replying. Mr. Sá had set the pen down. Mr. Sá had set the pen down on the small ledge beside the talkback and had clasped his hands at his sternum the way a Macanese man clasps his hands when he has decided to be a Portuguese.

Mr. Mendelsohn leaned to the talkback again.

"Miss Su. The third test is — let us say — yours. Mr. Sá and I are going to hear a song. The song is not a Pathé song. The song is the song that wrote the breath in the bridge of When Will You Return. We will not press it. We will not record it. We will hear it. The console is off. The tape is off. You will sing it for two men in a booth and a pianist who will not, in this room, mention it again. You will sing the song. I will, when the song is done, tell you a thing about it I have already decided to tell you."

I stood at the microphone.

I had, in the three minutes I had been in the studio, not decided what I would sing. The deciding had been made. The deciding had been made by Mr. Mendelsohn at the half-breath. The deciding had been made by me at the moment I had elected, on the second couplet of When Will You Return, to put the breath in the bridge that was not on the Liu Xue'an page. The deciding had been mine. I had made it without knowing I had made it. I had made it because I had wanted, for one Saturday afternoon, to be the singer the man under the floor had been making me, in a room that was not under the floor.

I did not, in the three seconds after Mr. Mendelsohn said yours, think any of this in those words. I thought it in three seconds of throat and breath. I made the throat-and-breath decision. I sang.

I sang the bridge of 夜来香未眠 — Tonight's Jasmine Has Not Yet Slept. The second movement. The version we had been working on for nine weeks. I sang the first verse and the bridge. I did not sing the third verse. The third verse — the verse with the four breath-marks that were not breath — I would not have sung in this room if Mr. Sá and Mr. Mendelsohn had been on their knees. The third verse was for the gala in July. The third verse was the only thing in my life I held more carefully than the brother's letter at my right hip. I sang the first verse. I sang the bridge. I did not sing the third verse.

Mr. Cheng, after the second measure, dropped his hands from the keyboard.

He had not been given the score. He could not play what he had not been given. He sat at the piano with his hands on his thighs and listened. He listened the way a Conservatory pianist listens, which is the way a man listens when he is, in real time, transcribing in his head.

Mr. Mendelsohn at the console did not move.

Mr. Sá at the console put one hand on the small ledge beside the talkback.

I sang the bridge.

I let the last vowel sit, the way Feng Sheng had taught me to let it sit. I let it sit until it had stopped being a vowel and had become the room. The room was a small grey carpeted square in a yellow stucco building on Avenue du Roi Albert at the corner of Rue Lafayette in the French Concession of Shanghai in January of 1937. The room had heard a song no other room had heard.

The room had now heard it.

Mr. Mendelsohn took his glasses off. He set them on the console. He did not, for some time, lean to the talkback.

When he leaned, he said: "Miss Su."

"Yes, Mr. Mendelsohn."

"The song is by a man I knew."

I did not speak.

"The song," he said, "is by a man I corrected in 1929 on a third-floor recital hall at the National Conservatory on Bubbling Well Road. I corrected, in that hall, his voice-leading at the second couplet of the second movement of a Pushkin opera in Russian. He was twenty-one. He was the most ill-tempered composition student in his cohort and the only one who, when corrected, neither argued nor capitulated but went home and brought back, on the following Friday, a revised page that was — let us say — slightly better than the correction. He was the only one in his cohort, in three years of my visits to that hall, that I have remembered. He left the Conservatory in 1930. He was reported, in 1934, dead in a fire in Zhabei.

"The song you have just sung was written, in the bridge, by him. I do not, Miss Su, know how the song came to your throat. I do not need to know. I would like, please, to take a moment."

He turned away from the talkback.

He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it for a long moment against his eyes. He did not, in the moment, weep. He held the handkerchief there in the way a man of fifty who has been a German émigré in Shanghai for three years holds a handkerchief at the moment he has been told that a young man whose voice-leading he had corrected in 1929 is not, after all, dead in a 1934 fire.

He put the handkerchief away.

He leaned to the talkback.

"Miss Su. Two things. The first is that the song is not, in this lifetime, going to leave this room. Mr. Sá and I will not record it. We will not, in any year, press it. We will not tell Mr. Cheng what he has just heard, because Mr. Cheng has not, in this room, heard it; Mr. Cheng is — please look at Mr. Cheng for a moment — a man who has been correctly looking at the piano keys for the last seven minutes and who will, by half past four, have forgotten which key the bridge began on. Yes, Mr. Cheng."

Mr. Cheng, at the piano, did not look up. He said, in a small voice: "I do not, in this lifetime, remember which key any bridge anybody has sung in this studio began on. I have, in seven years, made forgetting my profession. Yes."

"The second thing," said Mr. Mendelsohn. "Miss Su. If the man whose bridge that is is alive, and is in a position to wish to be — let us say — in correspondence with an engineer at Pathé Records who has heard the song he has been writing, the engineer would like to know. The engineer would like to know because the engineer's lifetime is the lifetime in which a song like this, by a man like that, in a city like this, ought to be cut. The engineer will not press the song against the man's wishes. The engineer would like, however, to be in the room when the man decides to cut it. That is all."

Mr. Sá leaned to the talkback. His voice was, for the first time that afternoon, the voice of a Portuguese-Macanese man who was not holding a fountain pen.

"Miss Su. I would like, please, to record Nanping and When Will You Return on the seventh of February as scheduled. The contract stands. I would like, in addition, to keep the half-breath in the bridge of When Will You Return. The half-breath, on a Pathé pressing, will be the half-breath. I will not, in any letter to any man, mention the second song. I will, in a letter that has not yet been written, be willing to be — let us say — open to a third side. I am telling you because I would like you to know what is on the table without asking you for it. Mr. Mendelsohn and I will leave the room. You and Mr. Cheng will leave the room. We will, on the seventh of February, do the work the contract asks for. Yes."

"Yes, Mr. Sá."

"Thank you, Miss Su."

I went down the stairs. Mr. Cheng held the door for me at the third-floor landing. He did not look at me. He had decided, on that landing, that he had not heard a song.

He had heard the song. He would, by Monday, have written down, in pencil, in a small school notebook, the bridge as he had heard it. He would put the notebook in the drawer of his desk. He would not, in this lifetime, take the notebook out.

I went home.

I did not go down at midnight. I did not go down on the Saturday or on the Sunday or on the Monday or on the Tuesday. I sat in my dressing room on the Sunday afternoon at six, before the second set, and I did not, with the silver qipao on, lift the lid of the handbag to look at the four pieces of paper inside. I sang the second set. I sang the third set. I went home. I lay on the bed in my under-things at three in the morning. I did not sleep.

On Tuesday at six in the evening Anya, fastening the pearl drops, said: "Bárinya. There is a piece of paper that came under the door at four. I have not looked at it. I have, on the door, put it on the small table by the cot."

I looked at her in the mirror.

"Thank you, Anya."

"You may, bárinya, choose not to look at it. I would, in your case, look. The hand is the cursive."

"Thank you."

I looked at the paper after the second set, on the small table by the cot in the dressing-room alcove, in the lamplight.

It was on Pathé staff paper. The hand was the brushed cursive. The ink was the red. The paper had two paragraphs on it.

Mendelsohn telephoned the carpenter at four on Saturday. The carpenter came down at six. He told me. I did not, on the hearing, do anything for an hour. After the hour I did a thing I am sorry for. I oiled the strap and put on the mask and sat on the bench from six until midnight, listening. You did not come. I sat from midnight until four. You did not come. I sat from four until six. You did not come. On Sunday I sat from midnight until four. I did not, in this Sunday or in the two days after, sleep more than I sleep in any other Saturday. I will not, in this letter, ask you to come down. I am asking you, in this letter, to know what the half-breath was when you sang it. The half-breath was mine. I had not given it to Mendelsohn. You had not asked permission to give him the half-breath because you did not know you were giving it. I had not, by withholding the permission, made it clear that the half-breath was a thing one asked permission for. The unclearness was mine. The half-breath was, on the carpet, a thing you had every right to. I had been, for nine weeks, asking you to make it yours. You made it yours.

Come down when you would like to. The bench is the bench. The chair is at the new distance. I will, in any case, be on the bench. I have been on it since six on Saturday. I will be on it until you come. — F.

I read the two paragraphs twice. I read them a third time. I sat at the vanity with the paper on my lap.

I had expected, in the four nights between the recording and the letter, a different letter. I had expected the letter that began you took my song to a man who will press it onto a black disc. I had been writing the answer to that letter in my head since Saturday at half past five.

The letter was the other letter.

The other letter was the letter of a man who had, in the four days, decided not to be furious in the manner I had been preparing the answer for. The letter was the letter of a man who had decided, instead, that the fault was — let us say — his. The fault was not his. The fault was mine. The fault was that I had wanted, for one Saturday afternoon, to be the singer the man under the floor had been making me, in a room that was not under the floor. The wanting had been mine. The fault was mine. He had taken the fault, in the four days, onto himself. He had done it, I understood, because he could not bear, on Tuesday at six in the evening, that I had not come down on Saturday at midnight.

I folded the letter.

I changed.

I went down at twelve.

The cold-storage room was the cold-storage room. The cook was on his stool with his pipe; the bowl of barley tea on the lowest crate; the small dip of the pipe in greeting. The arch was the arch. The candle was a fresh candle. The chair was at the new distance.

He was on the bench.

The bench was the bench. He was sitting on it the way a man sits on a bench when he has been on it since six on Saturday. His hands were in his lap. The mask was on his face. The lamp at the small table held. The candle in the saucer held. The piano keyboard cover was closed.

"You came," he said.

"I came."

"The half-breath was yours."

"It was yours."

"It was mine. It became yours on the eighth of October. You sang it as yours on the bandstand from the eighth of October. I had not, until Saturday afternoon, understood that it had ceased being mine. I had been, until Saturday afternoon, requiring you to ask permission for a thing that was not, on the giving, mine to give. The fault — "

"The fault," I said, "was mine. I did not tell you about the second Saturday. I had not, the Friday before, told you about the second Saturday. I had wanted, on a Saturday afternoon, to be the singer I have been here, in a room that is not here. The wanting was mine. The not-telling was mine. I am — let me say — sorry for the not-telling."

He did not, for a moment, speak.

"Sit," he said.

I sat.

"There is, on the small table, water."

"Yes."

I drank.

"Mendelsohn telephoned the carpenter," he said, "and asked the carpenter to tell me a thing. The thing was that the engineer who corrected me in 1929 has been at Pathé since 1934. He has, since 1934, been waiting for the song to be cut. He would like to be in the room when it is. The man — let us say — will not die in this brick room. The man will live to the recording, at minimum."

"Yes."

"That is what the letter was about."

"That is what the letter was about."

"I forgive you."

"There is nothing to forgive."

"There is. I forgive it. You are not required to ask. The forgiving is in my power. I have done it. Go."

"You have asked me to forgive you also."

"I have."

"I have done it."

"Thank you."

"Thank you."

We did not, that night, work on the song. He did not lift the lid of the piano. I did not lift the candle. We sat in the brick room for an hour with the wireless on Manila at a low volume, playing American dance band music a Filipino announcer was, at half past midnight, describing in a soft Cebuano-accented English. At one I stood. He nodded. I went up.

On the vanity there was, this evening, no piece of paper.

I undressed. I hung the silver qipao. I put on my street coat. I went home. The lamp-lighter was at his fourth lamp. The second rickshaw, the older man with the wheel oiled at six, took me at the listed fare and did not, in twenty-five minutes, say anything.

In the lane house Auntie Lin was asleep on the chaise. 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 was half drunk. The fan had been moved. The opium pipe was cold.

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

I took out the letter that had come under the door at four on Tuesday. I read the last sentence of the second paragraph.

— I will, in any case, be on the bench. I have been on it since six on Saturday. I will be on it until you come.

I folded it. I put it in the inside pocket of the handbag with the others. I went to my room. I undressed. I lay down. The cicadas had been gone since October. The lane was the lane.

In the night I did not dream of him. I dreamed of Mr. Mendelsohn — of a Berlin classroom in 1928, of a young man at a piano in a Pushkin opera. The young man was twenty-one. He had not yet been burned. He was, in the dream, playing in a left hand that spanned a tenth. I did not wake him.

I woke at five.

I went to the harmonium. I lifted the lid. I played the right hand of the bridge. I closed the lid.

The half-breath was the half-breath. By the third Friday of February it would be — let us say — the half-breath of a song that had not yet been cut, but would be.

It would be.