七部小说 · Seven Novels

第 15 章 ——《华格臬路》

二月二十七日，礼拜六。

那辆车是黑色别克，引擎盖上嵌着小小的镀铬燕子，七点半便已停在百乐门正门口，司机戴着杜月笙公馆的号衣帽。我自后楼梯下来时，穿着鸽灰色旗袍，发间是林姨在我九岁那年给的那支小小玉簪——姚三爷已在敞开的车门旁等我，手里捏着一柄不曾打开的小黑绸折扇，因为折扇本是姿态，并非折扇。

「婉吟。」

「姚爷。」

今晚他不曾再说别的。他扶着车门。我上了车。

由万航渡到华格臬路，司机走的是长路线，二十二分钟。短路线本来只要十五。长路线带我们经过霞飞路与马塞尔·提洛路口的杜公馆礼节地址，楼上的窗里点着一盏小灯——这便是说杜先生尚未到家，晚饭不会在九点之前开。姚三爷坐在我身旁的后座，不曾解释。姚三爷向来不是会解释的人。

他在路上只开口一次，是在静安寺路与霞飞路转角，一名印度巡捕正指挥第二盏灯。他望着窗外说：「客厅里有六位男客，一位女眷。女眷是杜先生的三太太。你唱三支曲子。我点的那一支放最末。前两支的次序由你。第三支的次序由我。是。」

「是，姚爷。」

此后整段路他都不曾开口。

华格臬路十八号是一幢西班牙式的两层洋房，自街沿退入，前有一道铁艺大门，红瓦白墙，前院里已经停了两辆车——一辆雪铁龙，一辆派克。两个穿深色西装的男子守在门前。他们为别克开了门。别克在台阶下停住。姚三爷先下车。今晚他不曾向我递手。他无须递。司机绕过来为我开门，递上一只号衣男的小小戴着白手套的手，我握了那手，到第二级台阶顶上便依礼松开——那点小心的距离正是规矩所要求。

门厅里有一名客厅女佣。她接过我的皮草——白珠在六点借我的那件二手银狐，右肩上有一道小小补好的接缝，是白珠礼拜一替我绣过的——接皮草时，她不曾把目光抬到我下颌以上。姚三爷脱下帽子。女佣接过帽子。

我们进了客厅。

客厅果如白珠所形容。是一间狭长的厅堂，两端各有一只煤火炉，三盏铜质吊灯，凸窗里摆着一架法国小型立式钢琴，朝向内院。钢琴四周一圈低椅排成马蹄形，另有一把单独的扶手椅与众分开。那把扶手椅是杜先生的。此刻空着。马蹄形里坐着五位男客。

五位中，我知名者三人，知面者二人。

我知名的是：

黄金荣先生，六十九岁，三大亨中年最长者，深蓝色丝绸长衫，膝间夹着一柄小小银柄手杖，右手按杖，左手按膝。他已两年不曾来华格臬路赴会。今晚来，是因为杜先生请。我进门时，他望我一眼，那是一位老人对一名年轻女子的小小干涩留意——他从一位较年轻的副手那里听过她的嗓子。

张啸林先生，五十八岁，三大亨中行三者，灰色精纺呢西装，翻领上别一枚小小的日本徽章——若非白珠上礼拜一指给我看，我原不曾学会留意。白珠当时说：张啸林开始在私人客厅里别这枚徽章。他还不曾在外滩别。在外滩别它的那一日——这样说罢——便是一个人非离开上海不可的日子。 白珠是礼拜一说的，烟灰落在第二只烟缸里，不在第一只。礼拜一我不曾问白珠她什么时候离开上海。她也不曾告诉我。

洪敬铭先生，六十一岁，鸿翔西服店的店主，过去二十年里，每逢二月的第二个礼拜六，他都来华格臬路赴会，因为杜先生是他春节订单的赞助人；我认得他，是因为他六月与十一月分别替我量过旗袍。我进门时他不曾自他正在写的小黑本子上抬起头。他不是听客。今晚他坐在马蹄形的最远端，靠近雪铁龙那一侧的火炉，因为他曾以一种丝毫不肯让步的方式表示——他要来。

我知面的两位是：菲奥里上尉，法租界一名警务监察，自一九三三年起每隔一周礼拜六便来杜先生这里赴会；另一位是一名四十岁的日本人，灰色西装，翻领上一枚小小的徽章。今晚之前我并不曾被引见给他。十一月的三个礼拜五，他穿便服坐过百乐门的第七桌。一月在国泰茶舞会上有过。二月在新雅有过。他不是伊藤少佐。我此刻明白，他是少佐的副官——他的脸我已在国泰记下，又在乐池前归过档。

姚三爷在扶手椅右侧的小椅上坐下。他不立。自一九二二年起他便在华格臬路出入，在这间客厅里他从不立。

客厅女佣将我引至立式钢琴旁的一把小椅。广东籍琴师彭先生——自香港酒店请来的——把琴凳让给我，自己在我身旁的折椅上坐下，谱架上摊着和弦表。

我们坐着。

客厅很静。

黄金荣先生看着手杖底下的地毯。张啸林先生看了一眼怀表。洪敬铭先生在本子上写字。菲奥里上尉抽着一支法国香烟。日本副官端坐椅上，双手在胸骨前交握，目光落在钢琴上。三太太——我尚未被引见、歌女入场时她也不曾进厅——我明白，她要与杜先生一同进。

差七分九点，女佣开了通往内院的门。

杜月笙先生进来。

他本人，与白珠一九三六年六月某个礼拜天清晨五点在天台上向我描述的那个人，相差三处。他比我预想的高。他比白珠梳妆台抽屉里那些照片还要瘦。脸是一方苍白的长方形，太阳穴处那种小小干涩的皮肤——是一个五十岁、每天伏案十四小时的男人才有的。他穿灰色西装，系一条栗色丝绸领带。右手不曾握着烟。一九三三年起他便戒了烟。他握着的是一方小小的白手帕。那手帕便是烟。

三太太跟在他身后进来，穿一件午夜蓝丝绒冬款旗袍，小小毛领。她三十三岁。一九二九年之前在天津唱评剧。一九三二年起做了杜先生的三太太。她进了客厅，径直走到扶手椅对面的那把椅子前坐下。她看着我。她不笑。看时她除了看以外不做任何别的事。

杜先生在扶手椅里坐下。

他望我。他望了我数到四的时辰。这四下里他除了望以外不做别的事。然后他对立式钢琴旁的彭先生极小地点了一下头。

彭先生把手放在键上。

我唱。

我唱《夜来何处》——一九三四年黎锦晖的曲子，C 大调，用低音域，第三个字不靠。彭先生伴奏，带着一位广东琴师那种小心而周到的留意——十五年里他给四十位歌女弹过琴，可直到今晚才在华格臬路弹过。他一个音都不漏。过桥那一段他比舞厅速度慢了半拍，因为我在前厅请他这样办过。他是个肯依的人。

我唱完第一支。

雪铁龙一侧火炉旁的黄金荣先生不动。张啸林先生把怀表放回西装背心的口袋里。日本副官把交握的双手松开又重新交握。菲奥里上尉吸了半口烟。坐在最远端的洪敬铭先生今晚头一次自手上的字停下来，抬起头。

杜先生望我。

唱完第一支之后，他不曾说话。

我唱第二支。

我唱《春风秋雨》——一九三五年的曲子，作者徐卓尧，名不甚显。礼拜三在新雅喝咖啡时，我与白珠商量过，这一支正合做第二支：稍稍过时，把歌者的咬字摆在前头，和弦工夫摆在后头——在一屋子已经听过流行歌三百遍的男人面前，这便是一支请他们听唱者而非听曲子的歌。我用低音域唱。一字不靠。坐在扶手椅对面的三太太，到桥段第三对句时，向前倾了半寸。日本副官的双手不曾松开。

我唱完第二支。

杜先生再望我。

这一次，他望了数到七的时辰。然后他向右极小地转过半寸，望姚三爷。

姚三爷在小椅上，不动。

杜先生与姚三爷之间的对望，许是两下数的工夫。我坐在琴凳上，彭先生在我右手边的谱架旁，发间是林姨在我九岁那年给的小小玉簪——他们之间过的什么，我不曾听见。我听见的是客厅两端的两只煤火炉。我隐约听见后头厨房里那台无线电——女佣不曾关掉。我听见菲奥里上尉抽烟时那一下小小干涩的法国式清喉。

然后杜先生用他柔软的浦东口音官话说：「第三支。」

「是，杜先生。」

扶手椅旁的姚三爷说：「《五月的微雨》。一九二七年黎锦晖的曲子。一九二九年皇家饭店的编曲。婉吟唱桥段用原速。」

我在前厅已答应——桥段用原速唱。

彭先生把手放在键上。

我唱。

我唱《五月的微雨》。第一段我用原速唱——便是一九三四年我在百乐门每逢礼拜五唱的那个速度，第三字上靠的那种唱法，是我十五岁在明月社学的。我照姚三爷所指点的唱。第一段里，我把第三字让给姚三爷。我让，是因为姚三爷坐在扶手椅右侧，客厅主人坐在扶手椅里——而客厅主人，方才两分钟里那一来一回的对望已经告诉我，已经定了：姚三爷的请，是杜先生要应的请，还是要按浦东礼数那种小心的法子搁下的请。

到《五月的微雨》桥段——第七小节、那个姚要我靠的第三字——我不靠。

我不靠。

我用风声这十九个礼拜五在地下室教我的那种法子唱了桥段。我用低音域唱第三字。我在桥段第三小节那里停半口气。第七字——风声自六月以来用红墨水改的那个字——我让它做那个字。

彭先生在键上，于第七小节第二拍处停了八分之一秒。原速是已告知他的。他便按原速弹。停了那八分之一之后他不曾再停。他把整段桥段弹完。

我唱完《五月的微雨》。

我让最后一个元音留着，直到它不再是一个元音，已成了那间屋子。

那间屋子是客厅。

那间屋子是一九三七年二月二十七日晚上华格臬路的一间西班牙式客厅。三盏铜吊灯，两只煤火炉，六位男客，一位女眷，一位广东籍琴师，一位身穿鸽灰色旗袍、发间一支玉簪的歌女。

那间屋子十分安静。

然后扶手椅里的杜月笙先生把白手帕放在右手边的小漆盘上。

「苏小姐。」

「是，杜先生。」

「《五月的微雨》桥段——第七小节第三字——请你用你自己的话，告诉我你方才吸的那口气。」

我坐在琴凳上。

自前厅起我便知道杜先生会问一个问题。我不曾知道问的是什么。进客厅时我已定下：答的话，不会是官话。官话是客厅的话。官话是握我合同的那些男人的话。上海话是后台过道的话。低音域是一个歌女不打算在乐队声上头被听见时所用的音域。

我用吴县苏州话答。

吴县苏州话是一九二四年河岸贫民窟里的话。吴县苏州话是兄长教我一支歌的话。吴县苏州话是——一九二七年雨林路宿舍里一个十三岁的女孩——歌唱教习在她受训第二天告诉她、自此在明月社不许再用的那种话。自一九二七年七月八日起，我不曾在一间有男人的屋子里用过它。

我用吴县苏州话说：「这口气，是当一个人——曾被人教过——在民间小调的一道小小桥段里、把第三小节留给那个尚未被买走的字时，所吸的那口气。」

杜先生像杜先生那样的人，五十岁坐在自家客厅的扶手椅里，把这一答留在耳边——留了片刻。

留时他不曾开口。

然后他起身。

他在厅中走到凸窗旁的小漆木柜前。他拉开第二只抽屉。他取出一支小小玉簪。这支玉簪——礼拜一我会从白珠那里听说——是汉代之物，他的秘书一九三四年在永乐拍卖行替他用六十块银元拍下的。簪子的式样雕成菊花。颜色像新茶。这是一种簪——一个人送给一名女子时，今生今世尚不打算再送任何更分量重的东西。这是一种簪——送给一名歌女，是为把她——以这一送——置于自家客厅的礼护之下，直到客厅在某个别的季节里定下：这礼护要不要变成另一种礼护。

他走到琴凳前。他把簪递出来。

「苏小姐。」

「是，杜先生。」

「你曾受教。」

「是，杜先生。」

「不是在明月社受的。」

「不是，杜先生。」

「不是在音乐学院受的。」

「不是，杜先生。」

「那便是受教于一位——名讳此刻我尚不需知道的人。是。」

「是，杜先生。」

「把簪收下。把簪戴上。这支簪不是发问。这支簪是礼。这礼便立在那里，立到另一种礼献出之日。另一种礼——某个季节里——会献。那献——这样说罢——不在今夜。今夜便是这支簪。是。」

我接过簪。

我欠身。

杜先生回到扶手椅前。他坐下。他拾起白手帕。拾起以后他不曾看姚三爷。他看那位日本副官。

日本副官把交握的双手松开又重新交握。

杜先生用官话对日本副官说：「请代我向少佐转达——他在国泰茶舞会上听过的那位歌女，自一九三二年起便是洪敬铭先生的裁缝替她做衣裳的歌女。这位裁缝——在这间客厅里——不让出自己的账目。账目是他的。歌女是在账目里头的。账目——在这间客厅里——不可转。请代为转达我的礼意。」

副官颔首。

「姚三爷。」

「是，杜先生。」

「晚饭后我要别克送苏小姐回虹口的弄堂。今晚你不与她同车。晚饭后你与我同车，去黄先生处。是。」

「是，杜先生。」

杜先生转向我。他颔首——便是方才向日本副官颔的那一小小的下。

「苏小姐。」

「是，杜先生。」

「八月第二个礼拜你将在百乐门的盛会上献唱。你将唱那一首——你与那位名讳我尚不需知道的人正在琢磨的曲子。你将在那个晚上的那间厅堂里唱它。那支簪要在你头上。那一夜，那支簪便是那支簪。是。」

「是，杜先生。」

他再颔一下首。

他向后靠回扶手椅里。

晚饭开始。

我坐在餐厅一张小桌前——桌上那张名牌，名字是杜先生秘书的笔迹。洪敬铭先生坐我右侧。菲奥里上尉坐我左侧。日本副官坐在厅堂最远端、临着内院窗的两人小桌前。黄金荣先生与张啸林先生坐在正中那张八人圆桌前。三太太坐在与日本副官对面的两人小桌前，挨着杜先生。饭间，他们不曾说话。

我身旁的洪敬铭先生取出那本小黑本子，写了两次。一次在椒盐虾时，一次在樱桃汤时。两次写时他都不曾抬头。

「洪先生。」

「苏小姐。」

「您写了一笔。」

「我写一笔，」他说。他不抬头。「为书。书便是书。是为书。」

整段晚饭他不曾再说别的。

晚饭末了，女佣把皮草从门厅取来。别克在台阶下。台阶上姚三爷说：「婉吟。」说时他不曾再说别的。他扶我下了第三级。他扶着车门。他关上车门。他回到台阶上、回到客厅去。

别克在十一点半的时辰送我穿过法租界。司机——不是来时那位，礼拜一我会从白珠那里听说，他是杜先生的私人夜班司机——走的也是长路线。他走长路线，是因为长路线会经过霞飞路与马塞尔·提洛路口——那处礼节地址的楼上窗里，灯已熄灭。他走长路线，又是因为长路线还会经过万航渡与愚园的转角——百乐门那道霓虹灯柱亮着，掌灯人在十一点半还没开始夜巡。司机要我回程时看见那道灯柱。我不知道他为什么要我看。我也不需知道。

在别克后座，我把玉簪从发间取下。

我把它握在掌心里。

颜色像新茶。雕的是菊花。在掌心里掂量，大约一两。

我坐在别克后座，二月二十七日十一点半——华格臬路化作拉法叶路，拉法叶路化作霞飞路，霞飞路化作福煦路，再化作过苏州河进入虹口的那些小街。

我心里很清楚地想：我是待价而沽的，价钱方才涨了。

想了以后我不曾就这念头做什么。我不曾把簪重新别回发间。我不曾把它放进右胯旁手袋的内袋里——那里头有四张纸和兄长的信。我把簪握在掌心里，看着它。

价钱自一九三二年起便是合同——今年是四千一百银元，每年还七百，要五年半才能还清。价钱是姚三爷自一九三四年三月起开的——两千元加霞飞路一处小公寓。价钱是那位日本军官尚未递出的名片。价钱——九个月以来——是我在与那合同所在楼层下两层的一间砖砌房间里唱的那首歌。

今夜的价钱是一支汉代的菊花玉簪。

这支簪便是那份礼——明日起，姚三爷的开价，将不能再以一九三四年三月以来的那种成立法成立。这支簪便是那份礼——之下，姚三爷或者接受我已被置于杜先生的客厅之中，或者将这一安置视作切身之辱。这支簪便是那份礼——杜先生本人到时机成熟那一日要亲自取回的礼。这支簪便是价钱。

价钱涨了，因为价钱已不再是姚的。在客厅里，杜先生从姚的口袋里把它取出，放进了自己的口袋。

白珠曾在六月某个礼拜天清晨五点的天台上对我说：这城里的女人个个待价而沽。诀窍是做那个定价的人。 那天清早我是以一种法子明白它的。西安电报的那夜我是以另一种法子明白它的。此刻——拉法叶路上一辆别克后座里、菊花玉簪握在掌心——我以第三种法子明白它。

第三种法子是：定价不是一个单一的决定。第三种法子是：定价将是一连串拒绝——一路串过两个季节——直到八月里百乐门盛会客厅里的那个男人发现，在那间屋子里，他本以为自己开出的价钱、已是他不再有权开出的价钱。

那一夜——盛会之夜——那支簪要在我发间。那支簪将是那间我所歌唱的屋子——这样说罢——直到那道桥段为止，尚不曾完全明白过的一样东西。

弄堂里的家中，林姨睡在贵妃榻上。风琴的盖子开了半寸。

我在风琴前坐下。我掀起琴盖。我把簪放进漆盒里，与当票和兄长一九二五年替我留着的那一小绺头发放在一起。我合上盒。我合上盖。

回到自己房中，我宽衣。我把鸽灰色旗袍挂在屏风后头。我躺下来，身旁的小桌上是兄长的信——原先这桌上放过那一小绺头发。那绺头发到二月时我已缝进银色旗袍的衬里，缝在右胯旁，挨着兄长的信，叫它两样东西在同一道接缝里。

那道接缝拢着它们。

我睡了。

夜里我梦见客厅。客厅里有六个男人、一位女眷、一支菊花玉簪、一首歌。那首歌是《今夜茉莉未曾眠》。梦里的桥段，我不曾唱第三段。八月第二个礼拜，我要唱。梦里的杜先生知道这一节。自第三支曲子起，他便知道。

梦里的杜先生定下了：价钱不会是姚的。他尚未定下：价钱是不是他的。这定夺，是这一年——以某种方式——要替他做下的事。

我五点醒。

蝉今年还没起。弄堂便是弄堂。

我走到风琴前。我打开漆盒。我把簪握在掌心里，对着灯光。我握了一个我不曾计数的数。我把它放回。我合上盒。我合上盖。

右手原是我的。这支簪——眼下——是我的。

Chapter Fifteen — Rue Wagner

Saturday the twenty-seventh of February.

The car was a black Buick with the small chromium swallow on the bonnet, and it had been at the Paramount's lobby door at half past seven, with a driver in a Du-Yuesheng-livery cap. Yao Sanye was, when I came down the back stair in the dove-grey qipao with the small jade hairpin Auntie Lin had given me at nine years old, already at the open passenger door, holding a small black silk fan he was not opening because the fan was the gesture and not the fan.

"Wanyin."

"Yao-ye."

He did not, this evening, say anything else. He held the door. I got in.

The drive from Wanhangdu to Rue Wagner was twenty-two minutes by the long route the driver took. The short route would have been fifteen. The long route took us past the Du-Yuesheng courtesy address at Avenue Joffre and Rue Marcel-Tillot, where a small light was on in the upper window — which meant Mr. Du was not yet home, and the dinner would not begin before nine. Yao Sanye, in the back seat beside me, did not explain this. Yao Sanye was not a man who explained.

He spoke once, on the route, at the corner of Bubbling Well and Avenue Joffre, where a Sikh constable was directing the second light. He said, looking out the window: "There will be six men and one woman in the parlor. The woman is Mr. Du's third wife. You will sing three songs. You will sing the one I have asked for last. The order of the first two is yours. The order of the third is mine. Yes."

"Yes, Yao-ye."

He did not, for the rest of the drive, speak.

The mansion at 18 Rue Wagner was a Spanish-style two-story house, set back from the road behind a wrought-iron gate, with a tiled red roof, white stucco walls, and a small forecourt in which two cars — a Citroën and a Packard — had already been parked. Two men in dark suits stood at the gate. They opened it for the Buick. The Buick rolled to a stop at the steps. Yao Sanye got out first. He did not, this evening, offer me a hand. He did not need to. The driver came around and held my door open and offered, instead, the small gloved hand of a livery man, which I took, and which I released at the top of the second step at the small careful distance the protocol required.

In the foyer was the parlor maid. She took my fur — the second-hand silver fox Pearl had lent me at six, with the small mended seam at the right shoulder Pearl had embroidered over on the Monday — and she did not, on the taking, look at my face above the chin. Yao Sanye took off his hat. The parlor maid took the hat.

We went into the parlor.

The parlor was as Pearl had told me it would be. It was a long narrow room with two coal fires at either end, three brass chandeliers, a small French upright piano in the bay window that opened onto the inner courtyard, and an arrangement of low chairs in a horseshoe around the piano with a single armchair set apart. The armchair was Mr. Du's. The armchair was, at this minute, empty. The horseshoe contained five men.

Of the five, three I knew by name and two by face.

The three I knew were:

Mr. Huang Jinrong, sixty-nine, the oldest of the three tycoons, in a Chinese long gown of dark blue silk, with his small silver-handled cane between his knees and his right hand on the cane and his left hand on his knee. He had not, in two years, attended a parlor at Rue Wagner. He had attended tonight because Mr. Du had asked him to. He looked at me, on the entering, with the small dry attention an old man pays to a young woman whose voice he has heard about from a younger lieutenant.

Mr. Zhang Xiaolin, fifty-eight, the third of the three tycoons, in a Western suit of grey worsted with a small Japanese pin on the lapel I had not, until Pearl had pointed it out to me last Monday, learned to look for. Pearl had said: Zhang has begun to wear the pin in private parlors. He has not begun to wear it on the Bund. The wearing of it on the Bund is — let us say — the date by which one will need to leave Shanghai. Pearl had said this on the Monday with the cigarette in the second ashtray and not in the first. I had not, on the Monday, asked Pearl when she would leave Shanghai. She had not, on the Monday, told me.

Mr. Hong Jingming, sixty-one, the proprietor of Hong Xiang tailor, who had been at the parlor for the last twenty years on the second Saturday of February because Mr. Du was the patron of his Spring Festival commission, and who I knew because he had fitted my qipao in June and again in November. He did not, on the entering, look up from the small black notebook he was writing in. He was not the audience. He had been seated, this evening, on the far end of the horseshoe by the Citroën-side fire because he had asked, in a manner that conceded nothing, to attend.

The two I knew by face were Capitaine Fiori, a French Concession police inspector who had been at Mr. Du's parlor every second Saturday since 1933, and a Japanese man of forty in a grey Western suit with a small pin on the lapel. I had not, until tonight, been introduced to him. He had been at Table Seven at the Paramount in plainclothes on three Fridays in November. He had been at the Cathay tea-dance in January. He had been at Sun Ya in February. He was not Major Itō. He was, I now understood, the Major's adjutant — whose face I had memorized at the Cathay and had filed at the bandstand.

Yao Sanye took the small chair at the right of the armchair. He did not stand. He had been at Rue Wagner since 1922 and did not, in this parlor, stand.

I was directed by the parlor maid to a small chair at the upright piano. The Cantonese pianist — Mr. Pang, hired from the Hong Kong Hotel — gave me his stool and sat at a folding chair beside me with the chord chart on a music stand.

We sat.

The parlor was quiet.

Mr. Huang Jinrong looked at the carpet at the foot of his cane. Mr. Zhang Xiaolin checked his watch. Mr. Hong Jingming wrote in his notebook. Capitaine Fiori smoked a French cigarette. The Japanese adjutant sat in his chair with his hands clasped at the sternum and his eyes on the piano. The third wife — who I had not yet been introduced to and who had not entered the parlor at the entering of the singers — would, I understood, enter with Mr. Du.

At seven minutes to nine the parlor maid opened the door at the inner courtyard.

Mr. Du Yuesheng came in.

He was, in the flesh, the man Pearl had described to me at the Sky Terrace at five in the morning on a Sunday in June 1936, with three corrections. He was taller than I had expected. He was thinner than the photographs Pearl kept in the drawer of her vanity. His face was a pale rectangle with the small dry skin at the temples of a man of fifty who had been at his desk for fourteen hours of the day. He wore a grey Western suit and a maroon silk tie. He did not, in his right hand, hold a cigarette. He had given up the cigarette in 1933. He held, instead, a small white handkerchief. The handkerchief was the cigarette.

The third wife came in behind him in a winter qipao of midnight-blue velvet with a small fur collar. She was thirty-three. She had been a pingju opera singer in Tianjin until 1929. She had been Mr. Du's third wife since 1932. She walked, in the parlor, to the chair opposite the armchair, and she sat. She looked at me. She did not smile. She did not, on the looking, do anything other than look.

Mr. Du sat in the armchair.

He looked at me. He looked at me for a count of four. He did not, in the four, do anything other than look. Then he nodded, once, very small, at Mr. Pang at the upright.

Mr. Pang put his hands on the keys.

I sang.

I sang 夜来何处 — Tonight, From Where — a 1934 Li Jinhui in C major, in the lower register, the third syllable not leaned. Mr. Pang accompanied with the small careful attentiveness of a Cantonese pianist who had played for forty cabaret singers in fifteen years and had never, until tonight, played at Rue Wagner. He did not miss a note. He held the bridge a half-count slower than the cabaret tempo because I had asked him to in the antechamber. He was a man who agreed.

I finished the first song.

Mr. Huang Jinrong, at the Citroën-side fire, did not move. Mr. Zhang Xiaolin set his watch back in his waistcoat pocket. The Japanese adjutant unclasped his hands and reclasped them. Capitaine Fiori took a half-pull on his cigarette. Mr. Hong Jingming, at the far end, paused for the first time that evening in his writing, and looked up.

Mr. Du looked at me.

He did not, after the first song, say anything.

I sang the second song.

I sang 春风秋雨 — Spring Wind Autumn Rain — a 1935 piece by an obscure composer named Xu Zhuoyao, which Pearl and I had agreed, on Wednesday at coffee at Sun Ya, would be the right second song because it was a slightly out-of-fashion song that put a singer's diction at the front and her chord work at the back, which in a parlor of men who had heard the popular songs three hundred times would be the song that asked them to listen to the singer and not the song. I sang it in my lower register. I sang it without leaning on any syllable. The third wife, on the chair opposite the armchair, on the third couplet of the bridge, leaned forward by half an inch. The Japanese adjutant did not unclasp his hands.

I finished the second song.

Mr. Du looked at me again.

He looked, this time, for a count of seven. Then he turned, half an inch, to his right, and he looked at Yao Sanye.

Yao Sanye, in the small chair, did not move.

The looking between Mr. Du and Yao Sanye took perhaps two counts. I did not, on the piano stool with Mr. Pang at the music stand at my right hand and the small jade pin Auntie Lin had given me at nine in my hair, hear what passed between them. I heard the parlor's two coal fires. I heard, faintly, the wireless in the kitchen at the back of the house that the parlor maid had not turned off. I heard the small dry French clearing-throat of Capitaine Fiori on his cigarette.

Then Mr. Du said, in his soft Pudong-accented Mandarin: "The third song."

"Yes, Mr. Du."

Yao Sanye, at the armchair, said: "Drizzle of May. The 1927 Li Jinhui. The 1929 arrangement at the Royal Hotel. Wanyin will sing the bridge in the original tempo."

I had agreed, in the antechamber, to sing the bridge in the original tempo.

Mr. Pang put his hands on the keys.

I sang.

I sang Drizzle of May. I sang the first verse in the original tempo, which was the tempo I had sung at the Paramount on the Fridays in 1934, in the lean-on-the-third manner I had been trained in at fifteen at the Bright Moon. I sang it the way Yao Sanye had specified. I gave Yao Sanye, in the first verse, the third syllable. I gave it to him because Yao Sanye was at the right of the armchair, and the parlor's host was in the armchair, and the parlor's host had — the lookings had told me, two minutes ago — decided whether Yao Sanye's request was a request Mr. Du would honor or a request Mr. Du would, in the small careful way of his Pudong courtesy, set aside.

At the bridge of Drizzle of May — at the seventh measure, where the third syllable was the syllable Yao had requested I lean on — I did not lean on it.

I did not lean.

I sang the bridge in the way Feng Sheng had been having me sing it on the basement Fridays for nineteen weeks. I sang the third syllable in the lower register. I held the half-breath at the third measure of the bridge. I let the seventh syllable be the syllable Feng Sheng had been correcting in red ink since June.

Mr. Pang, at the keys, paused for an eighth of a second on the second beat of the seventh measure. He had been told the original tempo. He played the original tempo. He did not, after the eighth, paus again. He played out the bridge.

I finished Drizzle of May.

I let the last vowel sit until it had stopped being a vowel and had become the room.

The room was the parlor.

The room was a Spanish-style parlor on Rue Wagner on the evening of the twenty-seventh of February 1937. Three brass chandeliers, two coal fires, six men, one woman, a Cantonese pianist, and a singer in a dove-grey qipao with a jade pin in her hair.

The room was very quiet.

Then Mr. Du Yuesheng, in the armchair, set the white handkerchief down on the small lacquer tray at his right hand.

"Miss Su."

"Yes, Mr. Du."

"In the bridge of Drizzle of May — at the third syllable of the seventh measure — please, in your own language, explain to me the breath you have just taken."

I sat at the piano stool.

I had known, since the antechamber, that Mr. Du would ask a question. I had not known the question. I had, on the entering of the parlor, decided the answer would not be a Mandarin answer. Mandarin was the language of the parlor. Mandarin was the language of the men who held my contract. Shanghainese was the language of the dressing-room corridor. The lower register was the register a singer used when she did not, on the using, intend to be heard above the band.

I answered in Wuxian Suzhou.

The Wuxian Suzhou was the language of a riverbank tenement in 1924. The Wuxian Suzhou was the language my brother had taught me a song in. The Wuxian Suzhou was the language a thirteen-year-old girl in a dormitory on Yulin Road in 1927 had been told, by the singing instructor on the second day of her training, not to use again at the Bright Moon. I had not used it in a room with men in it since the eighth of July 1927.

I said, in the Wuxian Suzhou: "The breath is the breath one takes when one has been taught, in the small bridge of a folk song, to leave the third measure for the syllable that has not been bought."

Mr. Du held the answer at his ear for the moment a man like Mr. Du, in his armchair at fifty in his own parlor, held an answer at his ear.

He did not, on the holding, speak.

Then he stood.

He went, in the parlor, to the small lacquer cabinet by the bay window. He opened the second drawer. He took out a small jade pin. The pin was, I would learn from Pearl on Monday, a Han-dynasty piece his secretary had picked up at the Yong Le auction house in 1934 for sixty silver dollars. It was carved in the shape of a chrysanthemum. It was the color of new tea. It was the kind of pin one gave a woman one did not yet, in this lifetime, intend to give anything more substantial. It was the kind of pin one gave to a singer one was placing — by the giving — under one's parlor's courtesy until the parlor decided whether the courtesy would, in some other season, become a different courtesy.

He came to the piano stool. He held out the pin.

"Miss Su."

"Yes, Mr. Du."

"You have been taught."

"Yes, Mr. Du."

"You have not been taught at the Bright Moon."

"No, Mr. Du."

"You have not been taught at the Conservatory."

"No, Mr. Du."

"Then you have been taught by a man whose name I do not yet need to know. Yes."

"Yes, Mr. Du."

"Take the pin. Wear the pin. The pin is not a question. The pin is a courtesy. The courtesy stands until the date a different courtesy is offered. The different courtesy will, in some season, be offered. The offering — let me say — will not be tonight. Tonight is the pin. Yes."

I took the pin.

I bowed.

Mr. Du went back to the armchair. He sat. He picked up the white handkerchief. He did not, after the picking up, look at Yao Sanye. He looked at the Japanese adjutant.

The Japanese adjutant unclasped his hands and reclasped them.

Mr. Du said, in Mandarin, to the Japanese adjutant: "Please convey to the Major that the singer he had heard at the Cathay tea-dance is a singer Mr. Hong Jingming's tailor has dressed since 1932. The tailor does not, in this parlor, give up his accounts. The accounts are his. The singer is in the accounts. The accounts are not, in this parlor, transferable. Please convey this with my courtesy."

The adjutant inclined his head.

"Yao Sanye."

"Yes, Mr. Du."

"I would like the Buick, after the dinner, to take Miss Su to the lane at Hongkou. You will not, this evening, ride with her. You will, after the dinner, ride with me to Mr. Huang's. Yes."

"Yes, Mr. Du."

Mr. Du turned to me. He inclined his head — the small inclination he had given the Japanese adjutant.

"Miss Su."

"Yes, Mr. Du."

"You will, in the second week of August, sing at the gala at the Paramount. You will sing the song you have been working on with the man whose name I do not yet need. You will sing it in the parlor that is the parlor it will be on that evening. The pin will be in your hair. The pin will, on that evening, be the pin. Yes."

"Yes, Mr. Du."

He inclined his head once more.

He sat back in the armchair.

The dinner began.

I sat at a small table in the dining room at the place card on which my name had been written in Mr. Du's secretary's hand. Mr. Hong Jingming sat at my right. Capitaine Fiori sat at my left. The Japanese adjutant sat at a small two-person table at the far end of the room, by the window onto the inner courtyard. Mr. Huang Jinrong and Mr. Zhang Xiaolin sat at the round eight-person table at the center. The third wife sat at the small two-person table opposite the Japanese adjutant, beside Mr. Du. They did not, in the dinner, speak.

Mr. Hong Jingming, beside me, took out the small black notebook and wrote in it twice. Once at the salt-and-pepper shrimp, once at the cherry soup. He did not, in either writing, look up.

"Mr. Hong."

"Miss Su."

"You wrote a thing."

"I write a thing," he said. He did not look up. "For the book. The book is the book. It is for the book."

He did not, in the dinner, say anything else.

At the end of the dinner the parlor maid brought my fur from the foyer. The Buick was at the steps. Yao Sanye, at the steps, said: "Wanyin." He did not, in the saying, say anything else. He helped me down the third step. He held the door. He closed the door. He went back up the steps to the parlor.

The Buick took me back across the Concession at the half-past-eleven hour. The driver — who was not the man who had driven me on the way out, and who I would learn from Pearl on Monday was Mr. Du's private night driver — took the long route back. He took it because the long route went past the corner of Avenue Joffre and Rue Marcel-Tillot, where the upper-window light at the courtesy address had been turned off. He took it because the long route also went past the corner of Wanhangdu and Yuyuan, where the Paramount's neon column was on, and where the lamp-lighter, at half past eleven, had not yet begun his outgoing round. The driver wanted me to see the column on the way home. I did not know why. I did not need to.

In the back of the Buick I took the jade pin out of my hair.

I held it in my palm.

It was the color of new tea. It was carved in the chrysanthemum. It weighed, in my palm, perhaps an ounce.

I sat with the pin in the back of the Buick at half past eleven on the twenty-seventh of February on Rue Wagner becoming Rue Lafayette becoming Avenue Joffre becoming Avenue Foch becoming the small streets across the Soochow Creek into Hongkou.

I thought, very clearly: I am for sale, and the price has just gone up.

I did not, on the thinking, do anything with the thought. I did not put the pin back in my hair. I did not put it in the inside pocket of the handbag with the four pieces of paper and the brother's letter at my right hip. I held the pin in my palm and I looked at it.

The price had been the contract since 1932 — four thousand one hundred silver dollars this year at seven hundred a year of repayment, five and a half years from clearing. The price had been Yao Sanye's offer, since March of 1934, of two thousand and a small apartment off Avenue Joffre. The price had been the Japanese officer's not-yet-offered card. The price had been, for nine months, the song I had been singing in a brick room two floors below the floor I was contracted to.

The price tonight was a Han-dynasty chrysanthemum pin.

The pin was the courtesy under which Yao Sanye's offer would, from tomorrow, no longer be valid in the way it had been valid since March of 1934. The pin was the courtesy under which Yao would either accept that I had been placed under Mr. Du's parlor or take the placing as a personal insult. The pin was the courtesy Mr. Du himself would, when he was ready, redeem. The pin was the price.

The price had just gone up because the price was no longer Yao's. Mr. Du had, in the parlor, taken it out of Yao's pocket and put it in his own.

Pearl had told me, on the Sky Terrace at five on a Sunday in June: Every woman in this town is for sale. The trick is being the one who sets the price. I had understood it that morning in one way. I had understood it, on the night of the Xi'an cable, in another. I had understood it now, with the chrysanthemum pin in my palm in the back of a Buick on Rue Lafayette, in a third.

The third way was that setting the price was not a single decision. The third way was that setting the price was going to be a series of refusals strung across two seasons until the man in the parlor at the Paramount gala in August found, in the room, that the price he had thought he was offering had become a price he no longer held the right to offer.

The pin would, on the night of the gala, be in my hair. The pin would be a thing the room I sang in had — let me say — not, until that bridge, fully understood.

In the lane house Auntie Lin was asleep on the chaise. The harmonium's lid was open by half an inch.

I sat at the harmonium. I lifted the lid. I put the pin in the lacquer box, beside the pawn ticket and the small lock of hair my brother had been keeping for me in 1925. I closed the box. I closed the lid.

In my room I undressed. I hung the dove-grey qipao behind the screen. I lay down with the brother's letter beside me on the small table where the lock of hair had been. The lock of hair I had, by February, sewn into the lining of the silver qipao at my right hip, beside the brother's letter, so that the two of them were in the same seam.

The seam held them.

I slept.

In the night I dreamed of the parlor. The parlor had six men and one woman and a chrysanthemum pin and a song. The song was Tonight's Jasmine Has Not Yet Slept. I had not, on the dream's bridge, sung the third verse. I would, in the second week of August, sing it. Mr. Du, in the dream, knew this. He had known it since the third song.

Mr. Du, in the dream, had decided that the price would not be Yao's. He had not yet decided whether the price would be his. The deciding was a thing the year would, in some way, make for him.

I woke at five.

The cicadas had not yet begun for the year. The lane was the lane.

I went to the harmonium. I opened the lacquer box. I held the pin in my palm in the lamplight. I held it for a count I did not measure. I put it back. I closed the box. I closed the lid.

The right hand had been mine. The pin was — for the moment — mine.