七部小说 · Seven Novels

第 16 章 ——《他的手在我肋下》

三月十六日，礼拜二。

雨自礼拜六起便落在弄堂里。风琴凳的一角——墙脚与地面相接的那一角——是潮的。林姨中午没起身，四点也没起身，六点半才起身吃了一碗汤，七点又回到躺椅上。蝉还有两个月才开声。三月的弄堂便是三月的弄堂。

八点半我去百乐门，穿的是十一月鸿翔西服店替我裁的那件藏青排练旗袍——素绉缎，无银线，无袖，右胯的内缝里衬着哥哥的信，紧挨那道缝的另一条缝里，是一九二五年哥哥替我留下的那缕头发。每月第二个礼拜，我便把这两样东西缝进当周礼拜二要穿的那件旗袍的衬里。礼拜二便是林姨自二月起一直睡过去的那个礼拜二。冷藏间的厨子自圣诞起，每逢礼拜二便多摆一碗大麦茶。

午夜我从后楼梯下去。雨在屋檐上歇了，在弄堂里却未歇。万航渡路与愚园路口的点灯人不曾巡到；愚园路一线的煤气灯，他十点便已熄了，因为这礼拜二全城公共租界新装电缆要做试运行，点灯人在八点钟便被通知回去了。他在拐角的灯杆上留下一只备用火柴盒，给天亮前要来查验今晚试的是哪一盏灯的人看的。

我穿过时，厨子不在凳子上。

七个月里不曾有过这样的事。

冷藏间最低一只板条箱上点着煤油灯。灯比厨子平日的火头压低了半档。没有大麦茶。冷藏间最里头的草席是卷起的。烟枪不在席子上方的搁板上。我明白了，厨子并非出去办一桩十五分钟的差事。厨子是被叫去过夜了。

我在拱门前站了六拍。

我并不，在这站着的当口，作什么决断。风声在一月的第三个礼拜五告诉过我，倘若厨子不在凳子上，我仍要照常穿过去。他告诉过我，不在凳子上意味着一件厨子不会落在纸上写的事，而风声会在我穿过来后向我交代。九个礼拜里，我不曾在厨子不在凳子上的时节穿过来过。今晚要穿过去这件事并不是一桩决断。决断是他在一月里替我作下的，而我，在这三月的礼拜二，便是那个穿着排练旗袍走过拱门的女人。

我便穿了过去。

砖室便是砖室。墙边的德律风根关着。钢琴旁桌上的灯是低火。碟子里的蜡是礼拜二的蜡。新距离上的椅子便是椅子。钢琴的键盖合着。

风声不在钢琴前。

他坐在行军床上。瓷面具戴着，手套戴着，膝上搭一件灰色羊毛大衣。那不是他的大衣。那是莫朗西医生的大衣——医生在毕勋路寓所里过礼拜天四重奏下午时穿的那件 Burberry——大衣此刻搭在风声的膝上，是因为莫朗西医生晚上六点来过地下室，七点离去时把大衣留在了行军床上，因为他当日清早在法国医院巡房时，被告知了一件事。

我进来时他并未起身。

「婉吟。」

「风声。」

「厨子不在凳子上，因他在杨树浦的妹子被人赶出了租房。今夜她寄在一位朋友的灶间，厨子陪着她。厨子明日回。屋子还是这屋子。」

「是。」

「坐。」

我坐下。

今晚我不曾脱大衣。三月午夜的地下室有一种公共租界三月地下室的寒——也便是工程师图纸上没有名字的那条暴雨排水管的寒。他在行军床边的地上搁了一只铜炭炉。炉子点着。炉子不够。

「莫朗西医生六点来过，」他说。

「是。」

「他带来一样东西。大衣是误带。礼拜五我托木匠还回去。他有意带来的，是法租界公董局印发的一张通告。公董局已议决：将艾尔倍国王路后弄改为车行通道，限四月第二个礼拜六前完成。同一次议决里，公董局又新设一文书职位，由通告中具名的卫连忠先生出任。卫连忠先生是里卡尔巡长的表兄弟。」

「我识得此人，」我说。

「你识得他，因为泰迪一月二号提过他。自四月起，艾尔倍国王路一线住户名册便由他执笔登写。五月里，他还要替百代那栋楼写一桩事。公董局已发给他一架打字机，一间办公室，窗子开在法国总会运动场上。」

「你为何告诉我这些。」

「因为即将盯你的那个人有名有姓。名字叫卫连忠。四十一岁。在霞飞路一家理赔事务所做过十五年。升迁六次落空。第七次，里卡尔巡长出于一桩私心擢升了他——这桩私心的内情，三月里此刻的我尚未查明。」

他顿了一下。

「自一月八日起，凡你在新雅与泰迪喝咖啡的日子，他便晚六点到新雅。他在一本学生本上记。他不是个仔细的写手。两个月里他记下了在那张里桌见过的九个男人、四个女人的名字。你尚未入他的本子。公董局让他扩列时，你便会入。」

「为何要在今夜告诉我。」

「因为今夜我们要做的，是卫连忠先生把你名字记入那一栏之后，你将需要的一口气。那口气在桥段里。这桥段，自十月八日起便是这桥段。自二月起，这桥段成了——容我说——几乎是这桥段。所谓「几乎」，便是今夜要做的功课。所谓「几乎」，是膈膜里那四分之一寸。这四分之一寸，我在钢琴前教不了你。」

我看着他。

「你要在行军床前教。」

「我要在你身后教。我会站着。我会把右手放在你的肋骨底缘。手放在最末一根肋骨之下的位置。气息便在手上。你唱桥段。气息不在你喉里。气息在手里。」

他这话说得，像一个人决定不再添任何铺陈的话——像一位老师，在教一个学生进入第三年时，决定下一处要纠正的地方，是老师与学生都得熬过去的纠正。

「好，」我说。

他站起来。

站起时他不曾看钢琴。他径自走到行军床旁的桌前。从工作台拿了一只薄薄的黑棉手套，套在右手上，套在原已戴着的那只手套外。他这样做，像一个人决定：在他的手与歌女的旗袍之间多隔一层棉，便是这堂课的规矩。左手那只手套他没动。

他走到新距离上的那把椅子前。

我起身。

我走到钢琴旁，立在谱台前。台上摊着第二乐章，第十四稿。第七小节的页边红笔批注：四分之一寸。这批注礼拜五还不在。批注是在礼拜五凌晨四点到礼拜二午夜之间添上的。这四天里他决断：四分之一寸，便是这个礼拜二要教的事。

他走到我身后。

走来时他不曾出声。他在离我背后一尺处停住。我感到那一尺距离，因为那一尺距离比砖室的凉要暖。我感到砖室的凉，因为那一尺距离把它推开了。

「婉吟。」

「是。」

「手要放在肋骨底缘。手要放在右侧最末一根肋骨之下的位置。所谓放置，便只是放置。所谓放置，不会是放置以外的别样事。这堂课里若有一刻，你愿这堂课就此停下，你便说。课便停。礼拜五续课时，便由你自己在那个位置上替自己按一块木头。法门如何，由你决——」

「放上，」我说。

他静了一拍。

「我正在放。」

手便放上了肋骨底缘。手便放在右侧最末一根肋骨之下的位置。手便是一只手。是一个男人的右手。隔着两层薄薄的黑棉。手在那个位置上。手歇在那个位置上。不曾按。便是一位老师——在教学第三年里，要一名歌女去感受她已几乎感受了八个礼拜的那四分之一寸时——所放下的那种手。

这只手亦是一只手。

我二十二岁。我在上海城里，被那些我收过钱去受其触碰的男人触碰过。我被姚三爷照他那种触法触过肘弯。我被宅里的女佣在收菊花针的时节触过腕子。我被安雅在替我扣旗袍纽襻时触过颈背，触了九年。我在上海城里，不曾因「男人在客厅里把手放在歌女肋骨底缘」之外的别样缘故，被一只手在肋骨底缘触过。

这只手的缘故，不是那个缘故。

这只手的缘故，是四分之一寸。

我有三拍不曾呼吸。

「婉吟。」

「是。」

「呼吸。」

「我正——」

「你没有。你把气憋在喉里。气不在手上。手是空的。把气放到手上。」

我吸了一口气。

我吸气时不曾把气放到手上。我把气放进了喉里。喉，自一九二七年榆林路宿舍以来的九年里，便是我被人看着时安放气息的所在。一九二七年榆林路宿舍里那场看，是那位拿铅笔在第八小节上点的师傅。师傅要气在喉里，因为喉是他被许可索求的部位。手是师傅在第三周之前不曾索求的部位。十四岁那年我学会的，是把气放在被索求处，而不是放在它愿意去的所在。

放在右侧最末一根肋骨之下那个位置上的手，并不是师傅的手。

我把气放进了喉里。

「婉吟。」

「是。」

「气在喉里。手是空的。这一手自放下以来已过八个小节，所感受到的，无非是绸子在肋上的微移。唱。」

「我不曾——」

「唱桥段。照你自十月以来一直唱的样子唱。我以手为你打小节。你以喉唱小节。第七小节上，我们便听一听手听见了什么。」

他打起拍来。

他用手打拍。放在右侧最末一根肋骨之下那个位置上的手不曾按。手在落拍上以分毫之差搏动一下。那个落拍，是新距离上椅子里的那个男人，八个月来用指节在谱台上轻叩给我的那个落拍。今夜的落拍，是一只手在一根肋骨上。落拍便是同一个落拍。搏动便是同一个搏动。

我便唱了。

我唱第一小节。气在喉里。放在右侧最末一根肋骨之下的那只手，在第二小节上不曾搏动。落拍便是落拍。手是空的。气是这屋子从前听过的气。喉里的气。《明月》的气。一九二七年的气。一个少女——其师傅在第二周告诉她，要把气放在师傅听得见的所在——的气。

手不曾动。

我唱第三小节。手不曾动。我唱第四小节。手不曾动。手，我在第五小节上明白过来，是要在右侧最末一根肋骨之下的位置上一直待下去，直到气下来为止。手不会走。手要等。手是一只已在一个位置上停了两分钟、必要时可在那个位置上停一个钟头的手。

我唱第六小节。

手不曾动。

我唱第七小节。

气便下来了。

气下来了四分之一寸。气下来了，因为手在第七小节上正在右侧最末一根肋骨之下的位置上，而第七小节便是那个半口气「几乎」要落处的小节。气下到手上，因为手所在之处，便是两个月来气几乎要去的地方。手承住了气。手在第八小节落拍上搏动一下。这一搏，便是气一直在等的那一搏。

我唱第八小节。

气在手上。

手不曾动。

我唱第九、第十小节。气在手上。手在右侧最末一根肋骨之下的位置上。我身后那个位置上的男人不曾出声。搏动便是搏动。落拍便是落拍。新距离上的那把椅子是空的。

我一路唱到桥段末了。

最后一个元音坐定。我让它坐到不再是元音，而成了这屋子。这屋子便是这屋子。这屋子是在我九点半唱歌的那层楼下两层的一间砖室。屋里：行军床上方墙上三只铜钉，门上方一只法国铁路钟，木箱上一台德律风根，键盖合拢的一架贝希斯坦立式钢琴，谱台上一根蜡烛，桌上一盏灯，一个男人的右手放在一名穿藏青排练旗袍的歌女的右侧最末一根肋骨之下。

手离开了。

不是骤然的离开。是一只——在最后那个元音唱完之后——完成了被安放在那里要做之事的手的离开法。它先以四分之一寸离开——便是绸子在肋上的那段微移——再以一寸，再以一尺。数到三时，手已不在那块地方的地理之内。数到六时，那个位置上的男人已不在我身后。数到九时，他已在新距离上的椅子里。

我不曾回头。

「婉吟。」

「是。」

「坐到谱台前。」

「是。」

我坐下。

他坐在新距离上的那把椅子里。他有十五拍不曾出声。木箱上的德律风根没开。蜡还剩两寸。灯没灭。法国铁路钟说，一点过三分。

「四分之一寸，」他说。

「是。」

「你拿到了。」

「我拿到了。」

「你拿到了，因为手在气几乎要去的地方。气下到手上。礼拜五，手不在那个位置。木头会在。木头不是手。除非你决断要让气下来，气不会下到木头上。这决断由你。气是你的。木头是礼拜五。手是今夜。这间屋子里，手不会再放在那个位置上——直到这首歌将要在它要被唱的那间屋子里被唱出的前一夜。」

「我明白。」

「手是一桩教导。」

「我明白。」

「教的是四分之一寸。」

「是。」

「我要回行军床。我回到行军床上坐。这堂课余下的时辰，我都坐在行军床上。这堂课余下的时辰，你都坐在谱台前。我们要做第三段，不用钢琴。这个钟头里，钢琴不是我们要的乐器。我们用蜡烛。我们以蜡烛标小节。你唱小节。我看蜡烛打拍。」

「是。」

他便走回行军床。

他坐下。莫朗西医生的那件灰羊毛大衣还搁在床上他课前放下的地方。他没去碰。他在大衣旁边坐下。两手摊平按在腿上。他看着我。

我坐在谱台前。

我便唱第三段，不用钢琴。他看蜡烛打拍。蜡烛便是蜡烛。蜡油沿碟子缓缓下滴。他以这下滴打小节。我用低音域唱这一段。我不在任何一个音节上倚重。第三段桥段的第三小节，有四个气口——风声自十月起便用红墨水改的那四个气口。那四个气口是名字。是他日记附录里那四个男人的名字——名字是龙华停尸间一名共产党文书（其中一名死者的表亲）写下的，一九三三年交给了陆继文。

我把这四个气口当作气来唱。唱时我并不知道这四个气口是名字。三月的这个礼拜二，他不曾告诉我。他要到八月的某个礼拜三才告诉我——在同一间屋子里，光的地理却已不同。那个礼拜三他告诉我时，会是那种一个男人交还给歌女一件她在喉里替他揣了十个月之物的口气。

我唱完第三段。

蜡剩一寸。

「睡，」他说。「上去。一点半珠儿会在门厅口等你，因为自三月二日起，每个礼拜二一点半她便在门厅口。她送你出。今晚别克车不在街角。别克在霞飞路对面的华格臬路上。黄包车是那个六点上轮油的老汉。自一月起，每个礼拜二他七点便在弄堂口。坐黄包车。」

「是。」

「婉吟。」

「是。」

「那只手并不是手以外的别样东西。」

「我知道。」

「我若不曾在十一月里决断「放手是唯一能教会四分之一寸的法门」，便不会放下。我会用木头。换一世，我会用一截骨头——厨子会在二月第二个礼拜二替我从灶间里取下来。我在二月里、在这三月里，并未用骨头。」

「为何。」

「因为十一月里我便决断：骨头是——容我说——一桩不诚实。手则不是不诚实。手是教你的那个男人的手。手是被允许去教的。手只被允许去教手所被允许教的那一件事——便是四分之一寸。手离开之后，便回了新距离上的椅子。这间屋子里，手不会再放在那个位置上——直到这首歌将要被唱的前一夜。」

「我明白。」

「我告诉你，是因为在二十八年里，我不曾与一名歌女有过这样一段话。」

「我明白。」

我起身。

我朝拱门走去。

到了拱门，我头一回没有立刻跨过门槛。我在拱门前站了三拍。我站着，他不曾出声。九个月里他不曾要我以一拍之外的拍数离去。三拍是新的拍数。三拍是我的。

「风声。」

「是。」

「手便是手。」

「是。」

「我很欣幸它是手。」

他沉默了。

「婉吟。」

「是。」

「睡。」

我跨过了门槛。

我上去。

冷藏间便是冷藏间。厨子不在凳子上。最低一只板条箱上没有大麦茶碗。煤油灯比我穿过来时又压低了半档；厨子在课中某个时分回来过，又把灯压低了一档，又走了。最里头的草席不再卷着。烟枪在席子上方的搁板上。我并未见到厨子。厨子是有意让我看见灯被压低、席子被铺开。这盏灯便是那个手势。

我上后楼梯。

一点半珠儿在门厅口。

她穿着灰色羊毛大衣，狐毛领便是十一月里有三个礼拜六她送我的那条狐毛领，左手指间的香烟是一根「已在门厅口候了十分钟」的香烟。她看着我。她看着我，除了看，不再做别样事。

「亲心肝。」

「珠儿。」

「跟我走。黄包车在街角。别克在华格臬路。姚在华格臬路。杜先生在华格臬路。三姨太也在华格臬路。他们在吃冷面，没在讲你。我告诉你，是因为不然你走到黄包车前的这段路，便要走出一副正要被一个你不愿被她盯的人盯着的样子。你没人盯。」

「珠儿，谢谢你。」

「走。」

我们便走。

雨歇了。愚园路上的湿，是一条公共租界街道——煤气灯十点便熄了、明日的中文报纸要写「公董局议决试电缆」——的那种湿。这段路上，珠儿有九拍不曾出声。到了街角她停下。

「婉吟。」

「是。」

「你走起路来，像一个今夜在一个位置上被一个有缘故的缘故触过的女人。」

「是。」

「这缘故不是姚。」

「不是。」

「是地板下的那个男人。」

「是。」

「走。」

我们走完最后那二十英尺到黄包车前。

「珠儿。」

「心肝。」

「他把手放在了那个位置上。所谓放置，便是四分之一寸。十一月里他说他会用木头。他没有。他用了手。事后他告诉我：骨头是一桩二月里他便决断不用的不诚实。」

她听了，并不看我。

「心肝。」

「是。」

「你睡过了么。」

「没。」

「你会睡。黄包车到弄堂口，二十五分钟。林姨睡了。风琴盖掀着半寸。那缕头发在衬里。哥哥的信在衬里。菊花针在漆盒里。地板下的那个男人，此刻，在他的行军床上，黑里，手在手套里，脸在面具里，想着骨头那桩不诚实。你呢，会在床上想那只手。你不会立时入睡。你会到四点才睡着。你五点醒。五点醒来，你便是那个被一个你不曾见过脸的男人按住肋骨四分之一寸的女人。」

「是。」

「礼拜五呢。」

「是。」

「礼拜五，那块木头按在那个位置上，便不是手。礼拜五你便自己把气送下来送到木头上。你做得到，因为这礼拜二你已学会了这一做法。这一做法是你的。手是教导。教导已过。气，是——这话若一九二五年林姨清醒，她也会说，可她那时不清醒，且她也不在《明月》——气，如今是你的。你拿到了那四分之一寸。那四分之一寸是你的。」

「珠儿，谢谢你。」

她把手放在我肩上。歇了三拍。她拿了下来。

我上了黄包车。

那个六点上轮油的老汉，回弄堂的二十五分钟里不曾出声。愚园路上的湿便是愚园路上的湿。百乐门那道霓虹立柱八点钟便与灯一并熄了。苏州河与桥相接的街口，一名包红头巾的锡克巡捕立在路灯下，衣领竖起。黄包车驶过时他不曾抬头。他从六点起便在那个街口上。

弄堂屋子里，林姨在躺椅上，风琴上方的无线电开得很轻。无线电不在汉口频道。无线电在马尼拉频道。马尼拉频道凌晨两点正在播一支弦乐队奏的慢华尔兹，我不识得。林姨醒着。她右手端着一只淡茶。

「阿良。」

「姨。」

「过来。」

我便过去。

我在躺椅边沿坐下。

「你的手。」

「是。」

「伸出来。」

我便伸出。

她接过我的手。她握住。她握我的手的样子，便是一九二七年七月第三周，我九天没进食、十三岁的我在榆林路宿舍里时，她握我的样子。她握了九拍。

「阿良。」

「是。」

「今夜那男人，把手放在你身上了。」

「是。」

「不是姚那种放法。」

「不是。」

「是一个男人——在一名歌女唱出了她生来要唱的那首歌时——把手放在歌女身上的那种放法。」

「是。」

「那你便睡。睡，不要作任何决断。明早再决断：那把手放在那个位置上的男人，是不是你在另一个时节里，也愿意成为的那个人。」

「是，姨。」

「睡，阿良。」

我回了我的房间。

我宽衣。把藏青旗袍挂在屏风后。从衬里取出哥哥的信，搁在桌上。从衬里取出那缕头发，搁在信旁。我和这两样东西一同躺在灯光里。有一阵，我没有合眼。

屋那头衣橱门边的镜子里——灯把一方黄光投在镜面上——一个穿着内衣的女人坐在床上，两手搁在膝头。她二十二岁。她左锁骨下有一颗小痣，她按工是要遮住的。她的右侧肋骨底缘，今晚被一个戴瓷面具、她不曾见过脸的男人按住过，时长是一首歌的一段桥。

镜中的女人看着我。

她今夜不曾与我达成「是同一个人」的协议。

她听见了那四分之一寸。

那四分之一寸是她的。

我看着她。

我看她的样子，便是一个女人看镜里的女人——而镜里的女人身上发生了一桩，镜外的女人尚未决断要称之为一桩什么的事。镜里的女人不像害怕。镜里的女人不像年轻。镜里的女人，在衣橱门边那方黄光里，看上去——欢喜。

镜里女人脸上那欢喜的样子，是九年里我头一回见到。

我不认得她。

自一九二七年宿舍以来，我不曾在镜子里见过一个欢喜的女人。

我便陪着这桩事坐了一阵，没去数那一阵的拍数。

我躺下。

我没合眼。

合上眼时，我想到谱台上碟子里的蜡——第三段唱完时它还剩一寸——想到坐在行军床上、旁边搁着误带来的莫朗西医生那件灰大衣的男人，想到他不曾出声的那十五拍。我想到肋骨底缘上的那只手。我想到那放置。我想到那只手以四分之一寸、再以一寸、再以一尺离开。我想到新距离上的那把椅子。

我便睡了。

夜里我没梦见那只手。我梦见那根蜡。蜡便是蜡。蜡剩一寸。一寸便是一寸。

五点我醒。

我走到风琴前。

我掀开盖。我以右手弹那一段桥。这一段右手已弹了九个月。我合上盖。

蝉还没开声。

弄堂便是弄堂。

风琴上的漆盒里——菊花针旁，当票旁，一九二五年哥哥替我留下的那张叠纸旁——我把自己的右手，手心向下，放在盒盖上。

我按住。

按了三拍。

我拿下。

我合上漆盒。

针便是针。发便是发。手便是手。

手便是那桩教导。

教导已过。

气，是我的。

Chapter Sixteen — His Hand at My Ribs

Tuesday the sixteenth of March.

The rain had been in the lane since Saturday. The harmonium's bench was damp at the corner where the wall met the floor. Auntie Lin had not gotten up at noon and had not gotten up at four and had gotten up at half past six to drink the broth and had gone back to the chaise by seven. The cicadas were two months from beginning. The lane was the lane in March.

I went to the Paramount at half past eight in the navy rehearsal qipao Hong Xiang had cut me in November — the plain crêpe-de-chine, no lamé, sleeveless, the inside seam at the right hip lining the brother's letter and, at the seam beside it, the lock of hair my brother had been keeping for me in 1925. I had been sewing the two of them, in the second week of every month, into the lining of whichever qipao I would wear on the basement Tuesday. Tuesday was the Tuesday Auntie Lin had been sleeping through since February. The cook in the cold-storage room had begun, since Christmas, to set out a second bowl of barley tea on Tuesdays.

I went down at midnight by the back stair. The rain had stopped at the cornice and not in the alleys. The lamp-lighter at Wanhangdu and Yuyuan was not on his round; the gas lamps along Yuyuan had been turned out by him at ten because the city was, this Tuesday, running its Settlement-cut new-electric-mains on a test schedule, and the lamp-lighter had been told at the eight o'clock to go home. He had left a spare match-tin on the lamppost at the corner for the men who would, by morning, want to know which lamp had been the lamp the test had been run on.

I did not see the cook on the stool when I went through.

This was not a thing that had happened in seven months.

The cold-storage room had its kerosene lamp on the lowest crate. The lamp had been turned down by half a notch from the level the cook kept it at. There was no bowl of barley tea. The mat at the back of the cold-storage was rolled. The pipe was not on the ledge above the mat. The cook was, I understood, not on a fifteen-minute errand. The cook had been called away for the night.

I stood at the arch for the count of six.

I did not, on the standing, decide anything. I had been told, by Feng Sheng, on the third Friday of January, that if the cook was not on the stool I was to come through anyway. I had been told that the not-being-on-the-stool meant a thing the cook would not in writing explain and which Feng Sheng would, when I came through, account for. I had not, in nine weeks, come through without the cook on the stool. The deciding to come through tonight was not a deciding. The deciding had been made by him in January, and I was, on this Tuesday in March, the woman in the rehearsal qipao who walked through the arch.

I walked through.

The brick room was the brick room. The Telefunken at the wall was off. The lamp at the table by the piano was at its low. The candle in the saucer was the candle of a Tuesday. The chair at the new distance was the chair. The piano keyboard cover was closed.

Feng Sheng was not at the piano.

He was at the cot. He was sitting on the cot with the porcelain mask in place and the gloves on and a grey wool coat across his knees. The coat was not his coat. The coat was Dr. Morancy's coat — the Burberry the doctor wore on his Sunday quartet afternoons in his apartment on Avenue Pichon — and the coat was on the Phantom's knees because Dr. Morancy had been at the basement at six in the evening and had left the coat on the cot at seven because he had been told, on his round at the French Hospital that morning, a thing.

He did not stand on the entering.

"Wanyin."

"Feng Sheng."

"The cook is not on the stool because his sister in Yangshupu has been turned out of her room. She is in a place tonight in a friend's kitchen and the cook is with her. The cook will be back tomorrow. The room is the room."

"Yes."

"Sit."

I sat.

I did not, this evening, take off my coat. The basement at midnight in March had the cool of a Settlement basement in March which was the cool of the storm drain that did not have a name in the engineer's diagram. He had a brass charcoal warmer on the floor at the cot. The warmer was lit. The warmer was not enough.

"Dr. Morancy was here at six," he said.

"Yes."

"He brought me a thing. He brought the coat by mistake. I will return it on Friday by way of the carpenter. The thing he brought intentionally was a printed circular from the French Concession Council. The Council has approved the conversion of the alley behind Avenue du Roi Albert into a vehicle passage by the second Saturday of April. The Council has approved, in the same vote, a clerical position to be filled by a man named in the circular as Mr. Wei Lianzhong. Mr. Wei Lianzhong is the cousin of Sergeant Ricard."

"I know him," I said.

"You know him because Teddy mentioned him on the second of January. He is now the man whose ledger will, from April, hold the writing-down of the names of the tenants of Avenue du Roi Albert. He will, in May, be the man who writes a thing about the building that is the Pathé building. He has been given, by way of the Council, a typewriter and a office with a window onto the Cercle Sportif."

"Why are you telling me this."

"Because the man you are about to be observed by has a name. The name is Wei Lianzhong. He is forty-one. He worked for fifteen years in a claims office on Avenue Joffre. He was passed over for promotion six times. He has, on the seventh occasion, been promoted by Sergeant Ricard for a private reason of Ricard's I have not, at this present moment in March, been able to identify."

He paused.

"He has, since the eighth of January, been at Sun Ya at six in the evening on the days you have had coffee with Teddy. He has been writing in a school notebook. He is not a careful writer. He has, in two months, written down the names of nine men and four women he has seen at the back table. You are not yet in his notebook. You will be, when the Council asks him to expand the column."

"Why are you telling me this tonight."

"Because tonight we are working on a breath you will need to take when Mr. Wei Lianzhong has put your name in the column. The breath is in the bridge. The bridge has, since the eighth of October, been the bridge. The bridge has, since February, become — let me say — almost the bridge. The almost is what we will work on tonight. The almost is a quarter inch in the diaphragm. I cannot teach the quarter inch from the piano."

I looked at him.

"You will teach it from the cot."

"I will teach it from behind you. I will stand. I will place my right hand at the base of your ribcage. The hand will be at the place below the bottom rib. The breath will be at the hand. You will sing the bridge. The breath will not be in your throat. The breath will be in the hand."

He said it the way a man says a thing he has decided to say without any further preface, in the manner of a teacher who has decided, in the third year of teaching a student, that the next correction is a correction the teacher and the student will both have to survive.

"Yes," I said.

He stood.

He did not, on the standing, look at the piano. He went, instead, to the table by the cot. He took a thin black cotton glove from the worktable and put it on his right hand, over the glove that was already there. He did this in the manner of a man who has decided that the layer of cotton between his hand and the singer's qipao would be the protocol of the lesson. He left the left glove the way it was.

He came to the chair at the new distance.

I stood.

I went to the piano. I stood at the music desk. The score on the desk was the second movement, draft fourteen. The seventh measure had a annotation in red in the margin: quarter inch. The annotation had not been there on Friday. The annotation had been added between Friday at four in the morning and Tuesday at midnight. He had, in the four days, decided that the quarter inch was the thing this Tuesday would teach.

He came behind me.

He did not, in the coming, say anything. He stopped a foot from my back. I felt the foot of distance because the foot of distance was warmer than the cool of the brick room. I felt the cool of the brick room because the foot of distance had displaced it.

"Wanyin."

"Yes."

"The hand will go at the base of the ribcage. The hand will go at the place below the bottom rib on the right side. The placing will be a placing. The placing will not be anything other than the placing. If at any moment in the lesson the placing becomes a thing you would like the lesson not to continue, you will say so. The lesson will stop. The lesson will resume on Friday, in the placing of a piece of wood you will hold for yourself at the place. The choice of method is yours. The choice will be made — "

"Make the placing," I said.

He was quiet for a count of one.

"I am making it."

The hand came at the base of the ribcage. The hand came at the place below the bottom rib on the right side. The hand was a hand. It was a man's right hand. It was gloved in two layers of thin black cotton. It was at the place. It rested at the place. It did not press. It was the hand a teacher places at the base of a singer's ribcage when the teacher is, in the third year of the teaching, asking the singer to feel the quarter inch she has been almost feeling for eight weeks.

The hand was also a hand.

I was twenty-two. I had been touched, in the city of Shanghai, by men whose touches I had been paid to receive. I had been touched by Yao Sanye at the elbow in the manner Yao Sanye touched a woman at the elbow. I had been touched by the parlor maid at the wrist on the receiving of the chrysanthemum pin. I had been touched by Anya at the back of the neck for nine years in the doing of the qipao buttons. I had not been touched, in the city of Shanghai, by a man at the base of the ribcage for a reason that was not the reason a man placed his hand at the base of a singer's ribcage in a parlor.

The reason of this hand was not that reason.

The reason of this hand was the quarter inch.

I did not, for a count of three, breathe.

"Wanyin."

"Yes."

"Breathe."

"I am — "

"You are not. You are holding the breath in the throat. The breath is not in the hand. The hand is empty. Put the breath in the hand."

I breathed.

I did not, in the breathing, put the breath in the hand. I put the breath in the throat. The throat had, in the nine years since the dormitory on Yulin Road, been the place I put the breath when I was being looked at. The looking, in the dormitory on Yulin Road in 1927, had been by the master with the pencil at the eighth bar. The master had wanted the breath in the throat because the throat was the part of the body the master had been permitted to require. The hand was a part of the body the master had not, until the third week, asked for. I had learned, at fourteen, to put the breath where it had been asked for and not where it was wanted.

The hand at the place below the bottom rib on the right side was not the master's hand.

I put the breath in the throat.

"Wanyin."

"Yes."

"The breath is in the throat. The hand is empty. The hand has not, in the eight bars since the placing, felt anything other than the displacement of the silk against the rib. Sing."

"I have not — "

"Sing the bridge. Sing it as you have been singing it since October. I will count the measures with the hand. You will sing the measures with the throat. We will, at the seventh measure, hear what the hand has heard."

He counted.

He counted with the hand. The hand at the place below the bottom rib on the right side did not press. The hand pulsed, by a fraction of a millimeter, on the downbeat. The downbeat was a downbeat that the man at the piano in the chair at the new distance had been giving me, for eight months, with the dry tap of a finger on the music desk. The downbeat tonight was a hand on a rib. The downbeat was the same downbeat. The pulse was the same pulse.

I sang.

I sang the first measure. The breath was in the throat. The hand at the place below the bottom rib on the right side, on the second measure, did not pulse. The downbeat was the downbeat. The hand was empty. The breath was a breath the room had heard before. The breath in the throat. The Bright Moon breath. The 1927 breath. The breath of a girl whose master had told her, in the second week, to put the breath where the master could hear it.

The hand did not move.

I sang the third measure. The hand did not move. I sang the fourth. The hand did not move. The hand was — I understood, at the fifth measure — going to stay at the place below the bottom rib on the right side until the breath came down to it. The hand was not going to leave. The hand was going to wait. The hand was a hand that had been on a place for two minutes and would, if it had to, stay on the place for an hour.

I sang the sixth measure.

The hand did not move.

I sang the seventh measure.

The breath came down.

It came down by a quarter inch. It came down because the hand, on the seventh measure, was at the place below the bottom rib on the right side, and the seventh measure had been the measure where the half-breath had been almost. The breath came down to the hand because the hand was where the breath had been almost going for two months. The hand received the breath. The hand pulsed on the downbeat at the eighth measure. The pulse was the pulse the breath had been waiting for.

I sang the eighth.

The breath was in the hand.

The hand did not move.

I sang the ninth and tenth measures. The breath was in the hand. The hand was at the place below the bottom rib on the right side. The man at the place behind me did not speak. The pulse was the pulse. The downbeat was the downbeat. The chair at the new distance was empty.

I sang to the end of the bridge.

The last vowel sat. I let it sit until it had stopped being a vowel and had become the room. The room was the room. The room was a brick room two floors below the floor I had been singing at half past nine. The room had three brass nails in the wall above the cot, a French railway clock above the door, a Telefunken on a wooden box, a Bechstein upright with its keyboard cover closed, a candle on the music desk, a lamp at the table, and a man's right hand at the place below the bottom rib of a singer in a navy rehearsal qipao.

The hand left.

It did not leave abruptly. It left in the manner of a hand that had, after the singing of the last vowel, completed a thing it had been placed to do. It left by the quarter inch first — the quarter inch that had been the displacement of the silk against the rib — and then by the inch, and then by the foot. By the count of three the hand was no longer in the geography of the place. By the count of six the man at the place was no longer behind me. By the count of nine he was at the chair at the new distance.

I did not turn.

"Wanyin."

"Yes."

"Sit at the music desk."

"Yes."

I sat.

He sat at the chair at the new distance. He did not, for a count of fifteen, say anything. The Telefunken on the wooden box was not on. The candle had two inches left. The lamp held. The French railway clock said it was three minutes past one.

"The quarter inch," he said.

"Yes."

"You have it."

"I have it."

"You have it because the hand was at the place the breath had been almost going. The breath came down to the hand. The hand will not, on Friday, be at the place. The piece of wood will. The piece of wood will not be a hand. The breath will not come down to the piece of wood unless you have decided it will come down. The decision is yours. The breath is yours. The piece of wood will be Friday. The hand was tonight. The hand will not, in this room, be at the place again until the night after the song has been sung in the room it will be sung in."

"I understand."

"The hand was a teaching."

"I understand."

"The teaching was the quarter inch."

"Yes."

"I am going to the cot. I will sit on the cot. I will, for the rest of this lesson, sit on the cot. You will, for the rest of this lesson, sit at the music desk. We will work on the third verse without the piano. The piano is not, at this hour, the instrument we need. We will use the candle. We will mark the measures by the candle. You will sing the measures. I will, at the candle, count."

"Yes."

He went to the cot.

He sat. The grey wool coat that was Dr. Morancy's coat was, on the cot, where he had set it at the beginning of the lesson. He did not pick it up. He sat beside it. He set his hands flat on his thighs. He looked at me.

I sat at the music desk.

I sang the third verse without the piano. He counted on the candle. The candle was a candle. The wax ran down the saucer by a slow descent. He counted the measures by the descent. I sang the verse in the lower register. I did not lean on any syllable. The third measure of the bridge of the third verse had the four breath-marks Feng Sheng had been correcting in red ink since October. The four breath-marks were names. The names were the four men in the appendix of his diary whose names had been written by a cousin of one of the dead, a Communist clerk at the Longhua morgue, and given to Lu Jiwen in 1933.

I sang the four breath-marks as breath. I did not, on the singing, know that the four breath-marks were names. He had not, on a Tuesday in March, told me. He would tell me on a Wednesday in August, in the same room, in a different geography of light. He would tell me, on that Wednesday, in the manner of a man giving a singer a thing she had been carrying in her throat for ten months.

I finished the third verse.

The candle had an inch left.

"Sleep," he said. "Go up. Pearl will be at the lobby door at half past one because she has been at the lobby door at half past one on Tuesdays since the second of March. She will see you out. The Buick will not, this evening, be at the corner. The Buick is at Rue Wagner. The rickshaw will be the older man with the wheel oiled at six. He has been at the lane since seven on a Tuesday since January. Take the rickshaw."

"Yes."

"Wanyin."

"Yes."

"The hand was not anything other than the hand."

"I know."

"I would not have placed it if I had not, in November, decided that the placing was the only way to teach the quarter inch. I would have used the piece of wood. I would, in another life, have used a length of bone the cook would have, on the second Tuesday of February, brought down from the kitchen. I did not, in February or in this March, use the bone."

"Why."

"Because I had decided, in November, that the bone was — let me say — a dishonesty. The hand was not a dishonesty. The hand was the hand of the man teaching you. The hand was permitted to teach. The hand was permitted to teach the only thing the hand had been allowed to teach, which was the quarter inch. The hand has, on the leaving, gone back to the chair at the new distance. The hand will not, in this room, be at the place again until the night after the song has been sung."

"I understand."

"I am telling you because in twenty-eight years I have not had this conversation with a singer."

"I understand."

I stood.

I went toward the arch.

At the arch I did not, for the first time, immediately keep the threshold. I stood at the arch for a count of three. He did not, on the standing, speak. He had not, in nine months, asked me to leave on a count other than the count of one. The count of three was a new count. The count of three was mine.

"Feng Sheng."

"Yes."

"The hand was the hand."

"Yes."

"I am glad it was the hand."

He was quiet.

"Wanyin."

"Yes."

"Sleep."

I kept the threshold.

I went up.

The cold-storage room was the cold-storage room. The cook was not on the stool. The bowl of barley tea was not on the lowest crate. The kerosene lamp had been turned down by the second half-notch since I had come through; the cook had, at some point in the lesson, returned and turned it down a second time and gone again. The mat at the back was no longer rolled. The pipe was on the ledge above the mat. I did not see the cook. The cook had decided to let me see the lamp turned down and the mat unrolled. The lamp was the gesture.

I went up the back stair.

Pearl was at the lobby door at half past one.

She was in her grey wool overcoat, with the fox collar she had given me three Saturdays in November, and the cigarette in the left hand was the cigarette of a woman who had been at the lobby door for ten minutes. She looked at me. She did not, on the looking, do anything other than look.

"Sweetheart."

"Pearl."

"Walk with me. The rickshaw is at the corner. The Buick is at Rue Wagner. Yao is at Rue Wagner. Mr. Du is at Rue Wagner. The third wife is at Rue Wagner. They are eating cold noodles and not talking about you. I am telling you because you would otherwise, on the walk to the rickshaw, walk in the manner of a woman who is about to be observed by someone she would prefer not to be observed by. You are not being observed."

"Thank you, Pearl."

"Walk."

We walked.

The rain had stopped. The wet on Yuyuan Road was the wet of a Settlement street whose gas lamps had been turned out at ten and whose Chinese papers, tomorrow, would say Council Approves Test of Electric Mains. Pearl did not, in the walk, say anything for a count of nine. At the corner she stopped.

"Wanyin."

"Yes."

"You are walking like a woman who has, this evening, been touched in a place she has been touched for a reason that is a reason."

"Yes."

"The reason is not Yao."

"No."

"It is the man under the floor."

"Yes."

"Walk."

We walked the last twenty feet to the rickshaw.

"Pearl."

"Sweetheart."

"He placed his hand at the place. The placing was the quarter inch. He said in November he would use the piece of wood. He did not. He used the hand. He told me, after, that the bone was a dishonesty he had decided in February not to use."

She did not, on the hearing, look at me.

"Sweetheart."

"Yes."

"Have you slept."

"No."

"You will sleep. The rickshaw is at the lane in twenty-five minutes. Auntie Lin is asleep. The harmonium's lid is by half an inch. The lock of hair is in the lining. The brother's letter is in the lining. The chrysanthemum pin is in the lacquer box. The man under the floor is, at this hour, at his cot, in the dark, with his hand in the glove and his face in the mask, thinking about the dishonesty of the bone. You will, on the bed, think about the hand. You will not sleep at once. You will sleep by four. You will wake at five. At five you will be the woman who had her ribcage held for a quarter inch by a man whose face she has not seen."

"Yes."

"And on Friday."

"Yes."

"On Friday the piece of wood will, against the place, not be a hand. You will, on Friday, take the breath down to the piece of wood. You will do it because you have, on this Tuesday, learned the doing. The doing is yours. The hand was the teaching. The teaching is over. The breath is — and this is what Auntie Lin would have said in 1925 if she had been sober, which she was not, and if she had been at the Bright Moon, which she was not — the breath is now yours. You took the quarter inch. The quarter inch is yours."

"Thank you, Pearl."

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

I got into the rickshaw.

The older man with the wheel oiled at six did not, in the twenty-five minutes back to the lane, say anything. The wet on Yuyuan Road was the wet on Yuyuan Road. The neon column at the Paramount had been turned off at the eight o'clock with the lamps. At the corner of Soochow Creek and the bridge a Sikh constable in his red turban was at the streetlamp with his coat collar up. He did not look up as the rickshaw went past. He had been on the corner since six.

In the lane house Auntie Lin was on the chaise with the wireless above the harmonium on at a low volume. The wireless was not on the Hankou frequency. The wireless was on the Manila frequency. The Manila frequency was, at two in the morning, broadcasting a string section playing a slow waltz I did not recognize. Auntie Lin was awake. She had the cup of weak tea in the right hand.

"Aliang."

"Auntie."

"Come."

I went.

I sat on the edge of the chaise.

"Your hands."

"Yes."

"Hold them out."

I held them out.

She took my hands. She held them. She held them the way she had held them at thirteen in the third week of July 1927 in the dormitory on Yulin Road when I had not eaten for nine days. She held them for the count of nine.

"Aliang."

"Yes."

"The man has placed a hand on you tonight."

"Yes."

"Not in the way Yao would place a hand."

"No."

"The way a man places a hand on a singer when the singer has been singing the song the singer was made for."

"Yes."

"Then you will sleep. You will sleep without deciding anything. You will, in the morning, decide whether the man whose hand was at the place is a man you will, in some other season, also be."

"Yes, Auntie."

"Sleep, Aliang."

I went to my room.

I undressed. I hung the navy qipao behind the screen. I took off the brother's letter from the lining and laid it on the table. I took off the lock of hair from the lining and laid it beside the letter. I lay down with the two of them in the lamplight. I did not, for some time, close my eyes.

In the mirror across the room, by the door of the wardrobe, where the lamp threw a square of yellow on the glass, a woman in her under-things was sitting on a bed with her hands in her lap. She was twenty-two. She had a small mole below the left collarbone she was paid to cover. She had been touched at the base of the ribcage on the right side, for the duration of the bridge of a song, by a man in a porcelain mask whose face she had not seen.

The woman in the mirror looked at me.

She did not, this evening, agree with me to be the same person.

She had heard the quarter inch.

The quarter inch had been hers.

I looked at her.

I looked at her in the way a woman looks at a woman in a mirror when the woman in the mirror has had a thing happen to her body that the woman outside the mirror has not yet decided to call a thing. The woman in the mirror did not look afraid. The woman in the mirror did not look young. The woman in the mirror looked, in the yellow square of lamplight on the glass beside the wardrobe door, happy.

The looking of happiness on the face of the woman in the mirror was the first time, in nine years, I had seen it.

I did not recognize her.

I had not, since the dormitory in 1927, seen a woman in a mirror who was happy.

I sat with this for the count I did not measure.

I lay down.

I did not close my eyes.

When I closed them I thought of the candle in the saucer at the music desk with its inch left at the end of the third verse and the man at the cot beside the grey coat that was Dr. Morancy's coat by mistake and the count of fifteen he had not spoken in. I thought of the hand at the base of the ribcage. I thought of the placing. I thought of the hand leaving by the quarter inch and the inch and the foot. I thought of the chair at the new distance.

I slept.

In the night I did not dream of the hand. I dreamed of the candle. The candle was the candle. The candle had an inch. The inch was the inch.

I woke at five.

I went to the harmonium.

I lifted the lid. I played the right hand of the bridge. The right hand had been the right hand for nine months. I closed the lid.

The cicadas had not begun.

The lane was the lane.

In the lacquer box on the harmonium, beside the chrysanthemum pin and the pawn ticket and the fold of paper my brother had been keeping for me in 1925, I put my own right hand, palm down, on the lid.

I held it there.

I held it there for the count of three.

I took it off.

I closed the box.

The pin was the pin. The hair was the hair. The hand was the hand.

The hand had been the teaching.

The teaching was over.

The breath was mine.