七部小说 · Seven Novels

第 17 章 ——《武官的花》

四月九日，礼拜五。

那张名帖六点送到。是领班洛佩斯先生亲自捧上三楼来的。洛佩斯先生从不亲自送名帖到化妆室门口，而这个四月的礼拜五，他却认定这张帖子非得由他这样身量的人沿走廊一路捧来不可。他敲门。我让他进。他将名帖放在一只朱漆托盘上，那是洛佩斯先生从前在华懋饭店受过训练的捧法——后来华懋以一位法语更地道的比利时人取代了他。花搁在门口地上，装在一只白绿相间的盒子里。他并不，在那门口，把花一并捧入。

「苏小姐。」

「洛佩斯先生。」

「帖子。」

「是。」

「这花，凭小姐意思，进，或不进。我把盒子搁在门槛上，并不入内。门槛是您的。」

「谢谢，洛佩斯先生。」

我接过帖子。

帖子小小一张。是那种外滩印刷铺三月里第三个礼拜替一位日本军官印的帖子。厚。米白。左下角钤着一枚黑印——正月里我在华懋茶舞上见过这印，钉在乐池前一个男人的西装翻领上，我把他那张脸记下，连同兄长的信，一并归入手袋里那只内层口袋。印上是「海軍」两字汉字——帝国海军。

帖子正中央，用一种行草写着一句中文诗。那行草是东京帝国大学课上才教得出的行草，而那种行草，又是北京饱学之士才使得出的行草：

「汤显祖《牡丹亭》中，丽娘以歌唱出一个世界。今夜，您做了与之相通的事。——K。」

我读了两遍。

洛佩斯先生在门口，除了站着，并不做别的事。送帖子的人已嘱咐过他：洛佩斯先生须在门口等候读帖。洛佩斯先生这辈子已被嘱咐过三次在门口等候读帖。两次帖子是女人送的。一次是一位比利时银行家送的。

「洛佩斯先生。」

「是，小姐。」

「客人在哪里。」

「四号桌。四号桌已坐了四十分钟。自第一轮起，只喝过一杯威士忌。翻领上别着您自正月以来见过的那枚徽。胸袋里有一份对折两次的《L'Echo de Chine》（《中法新汇报》）。对折两次，是那种读到第二页第二栏便决意在那栏对折的人才有的折法。那一栏是说卢沟桥的一栏。那一栏，是工部局自四月里第二个礼拜起决意开始剪报的一栏。」

「您所知甚多，洛佩斯先生。」

「我这一行，是看门的。」

「谢谢。那花。」

「是，小姐。」

「拿进来。放屏风边的几上。盒子不要打开。」

「是，小姐。」

他把盒子捧进来。他放在屏风旁的几上。他半寸一鞠躬。他离开房间。他关上门。

我在妆台前坐下。

那位武官走进来的时候，我正唱到第一轮的第三支歌。我从门口看见他，因为陪他进来的人就是领班洛佩斯先生，而洛佩斯先生把他带到了四号桌，不是七号桌。七号桌，半年来都是武官副官的桌子。四号桌，是武官的桌子。武官从未坐过四号桌。武官，正月里在华懋茶舞，二月里在新雅，三月里又在华懋茶舞。自十一月起，武官每月第三个礼拜便着便服，在百乐门顶层廊座第三排出现。十一月七、十二月二、正月八、二月五、三月十二，五个礼拜五，他都在廊座。五个礼拜五，他都不曾递帖子来。

朱漆托盘上的这张帖子，是第一张帖子。

我唱完第一轮，妆台上搁着帖子，门槛上搁着盒子，门口立着洛佩斯先生；我在第二轮里，并不，把歌唱得有半点不同。我仍照十月八日以来一贯的唱法唱。第三度音我不抬高。过桥的第七小节我守住那半口气。在低音区，我唱《春风秋雨》的过桥那一段，仍依三月里那个礼拜二开始的法子，在气息里留出那四分之一寸。四号桌的武官，过桥第八小节时举着杯，直到第九小节，才把杯放下。

帖子上写：相通的事。

相通于什么。

相通于《牡丹亭》。相通于一五九八年荒园里的杜丽娘。相通于一位女主——她在梦里以歌将一个状元郎唱进世间，又在那唱里，把自己亦唱进了世间。相通。

我在百乐门台上七年，并不曾被人比作过杜丽娘。一九三四年十一月的《字林西报》上，把我比作一位叫卡门·米兰达的巴西桑巴歌女。一九三五年春节号《申报》上，把我比作一只钟。一九三六年三月，一位送过我一把银梳的广东银行家，把我比作「一个晓得男人想听什么的女子」。那广东银行家不晓得那梳子背面有一处凹痕。他是从霞飞路一家当铺买来的，那凹痕是前主人摔在前主人丈夫脸上时砸出的。

七年里，我被叫过种种东西。

我不曾被叫做杜丽娘。

这张帖子，不只是一张帖子。

这张帖子，是一种「认出」。

我在妆台前坐着，朱漆托盘上搁着帖子。我九息之内并不动一动。第三轮，二十分钟后开始。第一轮唱过后，吩咐已下：第三轮要唱《五月细雨》。这吩咐是姚三爷八点钟那班借领班的一个颔首传过来的。姚三爷今天坐在廊座第三排——靠廊栏拐角、那只盛着干茉莉的铜瓮旁边。姚三爷三个月里头一次在礼拜五出现在廊座第三排。姚三爷所以来廊座第三排，是因为四号桌坐着伊藤少佐。

我明白这意味着什么。

二月里第三个礼拜六起我便明白了——那日杜先生在华格臬路的客堂里说，武官在华懋茶舞上听过的那位歌女，是洪敬铭先生那家裁缝铺自一九三二年起便包做衣裳的歌女。洪敬铭先生的账，是不可让的。那账是洪先生的账。歌女在那账里。杜先生那日已告诉姚三爷：姚的兴趣，凭着那枚菊花针的「持」，已经搁置。杜先生亦告诉姚三爷：武官的兴趣，凭着同一个「持」，亦当搁置。姚三爷点了头。

朱漆托盘上这张帖子，便是武官对那一点头的回复。

武官凭这张帖子，借客堂的章程，向杜先生传出意思：武官并未，在二月里，被那枚针搁置。武官曾由副官转得杜先生口讯：那位歌女在「关照」之下。武官送这张帖子，便是一个男人决意试一试——这「关照」能容得下什么，容不下什么——之时所送的那种帖子。

我在这一番盘算里，并不决定什么。

我立起。

我走到屏风边的几前。我掀开那白绿盒子的盖。盒子里是一朵白牡丹，新鲜，茎口斜长地剪过，包在湿润的白棉布里。这朵牡丹是从第七瓣那点暗斑可以辨出的——清早的霜碰过那一瓣——是凌晨四时在龙华庙花市采下的。凌晨四时的龙华花市，距华格臬路六英里。这朵牡丹在武官的办公室里搁了八个钟头，才于六点送到百乐门来。

武官并未送一束。

武官送的是一朵牡丹。

这朵牡丹，正是《牡丹亭》第二折的那朵牡丹——丽娘梦中遇见那位她从未见过的男子，因相思而死，三年之后，又因那男子在园中掘开她的身，被复生。第二折里的那朵牡丹，是女主从梦中花园采回、又带到醒着的世间的花——而那花，在醒着的世间，原本是不存在的。

武官送的不是人世的花。

武官送的是梦中的花。

我合上盒子。

我回到妆台前。

我坐下。我并不把帖子收入手袋的内层口袋。我把帖子放回朱漆托盘上。我把朱漆托盘放进妆台的抽屉里。我合上抽屉。我用一九三四年木匠胡师傅给我的那把铜钥匙将抽屉锁上。

那钥匙，是十三岁时胡师傅给我的钥匙。那钥匙，是这只妆台抽屉的钥匙。这只妆台抽屉，在我进百乐门的四年里，只锁过两次。第一次是一九三四年十一月第二个礼拜的礼拜六——那一日无线电报里说，闸北一家印刷厂被烧，三个共党组织者被害，其中一人的姓名第二日登在《L'Echo de Chine》第三页一栏里。那个礼拜六，那些名字我一个都不曾认得。我锁了抽屉，是因为白珠在凌晨一点半的门厅，对我说：把抽屉锁上，亲爱的。今晚就锁。别问。礼拜日我开了抽屉，发觉里头有一张纸，是白珠用她那一手方方正正的字写的：这一年开始了。不识得的夜里，把你的抽屉锁上。

第二次，是林姨告诉我那只手镯的事的那一夜。

第三次，是今晚。

我把钥匙放回手袋的内层口袋里，与兄长的信、那束发、四张百代的五线谱，搁在一处。

我立起。

我走到门前。

我下去到廊座。

洛佩斯先生在乐池廊道的门口。他见我过来。他并不，在见我之时，指向廊座。他用眼角一动，指向四号桌。我从厨房廊道绕远路走，过衣帽间，到廊座后头，再沿廊栏走到下到四号桌旁的那道楼梯，按从前教过的那份端庄一级一级走下来，在那桌旁立定。

伊藤健介少佐起身。

他没穿军服。他穿一身灰色西装，藏青领带，胸袋里塞一方折成东京银行家三尖折的白手帕，翻领上钉着帝国海军的黑印。他三十四岁。不高。瘦削，谨慎，两肩纤细——像一九二二年某个钢琴学生背着皮琴包从东京音乐学校下学时所背的那种舒伯特练习曲里的肩。他那一头头发，是依一九三二年某本美国杂志上的样子向前梳的——那是某个东京银行家读到那篇文章后断定那样梳便是那样梳的样子。眼角带着一种干燥的留意——一个三十四岁的男人，曾是钢琴学生，后来做了军官，又两样都不曾丢下，眼里才有的那种留意。

「苏小姐。」

「少佐。」

「您读过帖子了。」

「我读过帖子。」

「您在第二轮里，并不做别的，只照十一月以来一贯的唱法唱第二轮。这「不做」，我心怀感激。这「不做」，使你我都免去乐池前一场尴尬议论——那议论本来要被洛佩斯先生看在眼里。」

「洛佩斯先生这一行，是要眼明的。」

「他是。请坐。」

我坐下。

他坐下。

他坐下之时，并不召唤侍者。桌上有一杯威士忌，倒了三分之二，一只盛水的玻璃水瓶，一份对折的《L'Echo de Chine》。他把那份《L'Echo》挪到旁边的椅上。他把水瓶挪开了四分之一寸。

「我，」他说，「请人替您取水来。」

「谢谢。」

他抬起一根手指。一名侍者来了。一名侍者去了。一名侍者携着水回来。一名侍者退下。

「苏小姐。」

「伊藤少佐。」

「自十月八日起，您所用的那种唱法，不是从明月社出身的百乐门歌女通常会有的唱法。这唱法是经过教的。这教法，不是明月社的教法。这教法，凭我所听，亦不是音乐学校的教法。这是第三种教法。五个礼拜五，我设法辨认。五个礼拜五，我并未辨出。这个礼拜五，我亦不指望辨出。」

「少佐听过我五回。」

「我听过您五回。在那个十一月之前，我曾再听过您两回；而一九三六年十月里，我尚不是我，这个四月的礼拜五，坐在这桌前的我。我做过别的人。我成为今夜在这桌前的我，是因为去年十一月，您在第二轮第三支歌过桥那段所做的一件事，是我在九座城里十四年听女子歌唱里，不曾听过的事。我想请教您，那一件，是什么。今夜我不发问。我把这一问，留与第二次邀请。」

「还会有第二次邀请。」

「会有第二次邀请。」

「少佐。」

「苏小姐。」

「那么，今夜，是什么。」

「今夜，」他说，「是第一次邀请。第一次邀请，便是这帖子。这帖子，是一种认出。这「认出」，是认出您与我自一九三六年十月以来，便是同一间屋子里的两个人——您唱着，我听着。那屋子是百乐门。那屋子是华懋。那屋子是新雅。那些屋子，都不是我的屋子。我在那些屋子里是客。我希望——某个别的月里——您能作客于我的屋子。我的屋子，将是华懋九楼那间餐厅，您七年里不曾在那里用过餐。那邀请，将在某个别的月里发出，是晚餐之邀。今夜我并不发出此邀。今夜我宣示此邀。这宣示，是我应当对您行的礼。您不是一位可以未经宣示便被邀的女子。」

我端着那杯水坐着。

七年来，向我说过那类话的男人极多。第十四桌那位西班牙白兰地进口商对我说过那类话——那是一种把一笔银钱搁在桌布上、报出一个日子的法子。姚三爷对我说过那类话——那是一种把一笔银钱搁进大衣口袋、报出一个季节的法子。华格臬路客堂里那一位对我说过那类话——那是一种把一枚菊花针别进我发间、报出一年的法子。

七年里，我并不曾，被人以「认出」的法子，作此邀。

「认出」是一种不同的邀。

「认出」，是一位男人——他在一九三六年十一月第二个礼拜决定——桌对面的这位女子，其价不是他能开出数目的事；而他「问」的法子，便不再是数目，而是关于一支歌的一个问题。这男人报的不是日子，不是季节，不是一年。这男人报的是一个「界」。

这界，是男人决定——他所要的女子，是一位他要慢工地、跨过数年、慢慢取过来的女子，而非一手交一手的买卖之时——所报的那种界。

「少佐。」

「苏小姐。」

「您是做什么的。」

「我是参谋武官。」

「在哪里。」

「在武汉路上的领事馆。我，按正式委派，是副海军武官。我，按不那么正式的委派，是领事馆里那位「读」的人。这「读」，是一种事。这事，三月里第二个礼拜起，便日渐增多。」

「读什么。」

「报纸。租界的报纸。中国的报纸。东京来的电报。天津领事馆发来的那些谨慎的电报。这「读」，是为领事馆而读。这「读」，不是为我而读。我此刻坐在亚洲最大都市第二大舞厅的一张桌前，向一位歌女送了一朵牡丹——因为这位歌女自十月以来，在一支歌的过桥里，教过我一件事。」

「少佐。」

「是。」

「这朵牡丹，是第二折的花。」

他沉默。

「是。」他说。

「您是知道的。」

「我知道。」

「您是知情之下送的牡丹。」

「我是知情之下送的牡丹。」

「少佐。」

「是。」

「我不是杜丽娘。」

「您不是杜丽娘。」

「丽娘在第二折里死。」

「她死。她在第三折里复生。」

「第三折，少佐，要走三年。」

「要走三年。」

「您是有耐心的人。」

「我是有耐心的人。」

「这舞厅里没有第三折。」

「这舞厅里没有第三折。也许，别的什么舞厅里，有第三折。我愿等那舞厅。」

我喝了一口水。

喝水之时，我并不看他。我望过场子，望向乐池——此刻，金正在唱「孩子们，第三轮回来」。菲律宾长号手东尼，长号搁在膝上，正用胸袋里那块布走滑管的油。吊灯调到玫红色。窗边的霓虹立柱亮着。

我看那位少佐。

「伊藤少佐。」

「苏小姐。」

「某个别的月，我接受晚餐之邀。」

「谢谢。」

「有三个条件。」

「是。」

「第一，晚餐在华懋，不在领事馆。」

「是。」

「第二，晚餐在窗边的散座，不在小餐间。」

「是。」

「第三，晚餐以国语和英语进行，不以日语。」

「是。」

「我不会说日语。」

「您不会。」

「您说国语。」

「我说。」

「那一晚，您说国语。」

「我说。」

「谢谢，少佐。」

「谢谢，苏小姐。」

他微一颔首。他并不起立。他让我先起立。我起身。我沿楼梯回到廊栏，沿廊栏到厨房廊道，下了厨房廊道，到化妆室廊道。白珠穿着那身银蜻蜓旗袍立在她门口，左手一根烟，桌上一只新的烟灰碟，她那扇门半开着。

「亲爱的。」

「珠姐。」

「进来。」

我进去。

她把门掩上。

「婉吟。」

「是。」

「他说什么。」

「他说今夜不请我吃饭。他说某个别的月再请。他从龙华送来一朵牡丹。他告诉我他读过《牡丹亭》第二折。他告诉我他有耐心。」

「他有。」

「这事你早晓得。」

「我自十一月便晓得。」

「你不曾告诉我。」

「我不曾告诉你，是因为你那时还不是会听得进我要告诉你的那种女子。你如今——四月八日，礼拜五，第三轮唱之前——是听得进我要告诉你的那种女子。」

「珠姐，你要告诉我什么。」

她三息之内不开口。她吸一口烟。烟灰落进碟里。她在碟沿上轻轻磕了两下。她把烟放下。

「我要告诉你，」她说，「上海滩这一城里，你最该怕的男人，是伊藤健介少佐。他不是你该照着怕姚三爷的法子去怕的男人。姚三爷是那种——会在华格臬路客堂里——把你领上一辆车的男人。伊藤是那种——一九四〇年，会在华懋的私餐间里，把你留在一个他「做出来」的国——并由他做那国参谋武官——的男人。姚是有季节的男人。伊藤是有「国」的男人。季节会过去。他做副武官的那个国，咱们这辈子里，过不去。「国」是更大的事。」

「是。」

「那朵牡丹是一朵牡丹。」

「是。」

「那朵牡丹是一个国。那国是他此刻做副武官的那个国。他送来的是那个国。那个国是杜丽娘。他有耐心，是因他服事的国，在他听来，是一个第三折可以走三年的国。国就是国，亲爱的。他是那国的牡丹。」

「珠姐。」

「亲爱的。」

「我怎么办。」

「你唱第三轮。你照地板底下那位让你唱的法子唱《五月细雨》。过桥那处，第三个字，别照姚三爷要的法子唱。仍照十一月以来的那个法子唱。少佐到了第三轮，便会晓得他要晓得的。他会晓得这法子，就是这法子。这法子，过桥之时，仍是他自十月以来听过的那个法子。第三轮里他并不决定什么。第三轮唱完，他会决定一件他原已决定要在五月第二个礼拜决定的事。」

「什么事。」

「五月第二个礼拜他要决定的事，是七月第三个礼拜之前，你便会是他那个国的女子。这决定，此刻正在领事馆里做——由那些自三月第二个礼拜起便向东京发着谨慎电报的人在做。到了七月，这决定就不再是领事馆做的决定了。这决定，将由军队在七月七日某座桥头替领事馆做出来。到七月第二个礼拜，你便会在租界的报纸上读到那座桥。租界的报纸要说「局势缓和」。中国的报纸要说「日方挑衅」。真相，是七月初某个礼拜四，桥头某团人马，将开一枪；少佐原决定要在五月里决定的事，借着那一枪，便由东京替他决定了。」

「珠姐。」

「亲爱的。」

「这些，你怎么晓得的。」

「我晓得，是因我是上海滩一个歌女，九年里礼拜三凌晨四点都醒着。这「醒」是一份功夫。这功夫便是「听」。菲律宾长号手东尼，礼拜三凌晨四点，与他堂兄在百乐门厨房门口把那瓶酒喝完时，会告诉我一件事。那堂兄又把领事馆灶间的小工告诉他的事告诉我。那灶间的小工自十一月以来对我和气，是因为十一月里他两天没吃饭，凌晨三点我从四川北路那个摊上替他买过一碗粥。打那以后他便一直对我和气。他是我的「和气」。」

「卢沟桥这事，你早晓得。」

「我在三月里就晓得：五月里、或七月里，必有一座桥。那时桥还没起名字。那座桥，三月第二个礼拜由天津领事馆一封谨慎的电报起了名。那封电报，三月十四日发往东京。那座桥名叫卢沟桥——马可·波罗桥。桥在宛平，北平西头。这座桥，自一九三七年起，便是日本军队认定要做的那座桥。」

「这些为什么今夜告诉我。」

「因为今夜，是你坐在我房里——屏风边几上搁着一朵牡丹，手袋的内层口袋里——与兄长的信、与那束发一同——搁着妆台抽屉的那把铜钥匙——的那一夜。这朵牡丹，是少佐的第一次邀请。少佐的第一次邀请，是领事馆的第一次邀请。领事馆的第一次邀请，凭着五月里要做的那个决定，便是那国的第一次邀请。那国正向我们走来。我告诉你，是要在七月第二个礼拜——桥头开枪的那一夜——你与我不至于是被吓着的歌女。」

「珠姐。」

「亲爱的。」

「我今夜怎么办。」

「你唱第三轮。你照地板底下那位让你唱的法子唱《五月细雨》。第三轮唱完，从后楼梯上去。你换衣。你叫黄包车到虹口。你睡。明早六点，你把牡丹、把帖子、把四号桌、把第三折，统统告诉地板底下那位。你照你告诉他事情的法子告诉他。不可添。不可减。你告诉他。下个礼拜五之前，他自有定夺。」

「是，珠姐。」

「另外，亲爱的——」

「是。」

「五月里，第二次邀请，你不接。六月里，你接一次。七月里，你再接一次。任何月里，你都不接第三次。第三次，将是领事馆私餐间的那次邀请。第二次，是华懋的散座。第一次，是一朵牡丹。第二次共三回。你接两回。你回绝第三回。这「回绝」，地板底下那位自会晓得拿来做什么。我不晓得他要做什么。我晓得九个月以来，你不曾递给他一个他不晓得怎么定夺的邀请。这一桩，他会定夺。」

「是，珠姐。」

「去罢。唱。」

我去了。

我唱第三轮。

我照地板底下那位让我唱的法子唱《五月细雨》。廊座第三排，姚三爷在过桥第三个字处抬起两根手指。七年来，他每次都在过桥第三个字处抬起这两根手指。今晚——他在别的小节并不抬。四号桌的少佐不动。少佐在过桥第八小节，把那杯威士忌举在胸骨前，直到第九小节，才放下。

我让最后一个元音坐定，坐到它不再是一个元音，而成了这间屋子。

这间屋子，是百乐门的大舞厅，四月里的一个礼拜五，四号桌坐着一位少佐，廊座第三排坐着一位姚三爷，厨房廊道门口立着穿银蜻蜓旗袍的白珠，乐池一侧门口立着洛佩斯先生，三楼化妆室屏风旁的几上，白绿盒子里搁着一朵牡丹，而这屋子又恰在某间砖砌密室的两层楼之上——八个月前的十月里，那间密室里坐在钢琴前的一个男人，头一回，听见一位歌女在过桥第三小节处取了那半口气。

屋子，便是屋子。

掌声，便是掌声。

我鞠躬。我从乐池楼梯下来。我从后楼梯上去。

化妆室里，那朵牡丹仍在屏风旁几上的盒子里。我在第三轮里并不曾决定如何处置它。如今我决定。我捧起那盒子。我走到门前。我开门。领班备用的炭灰桶搁在廊道转角的墙根。我走到那处。我并不把盒子搁进炭灰桶。我把盒子搁在炭灰桶旁的地上。我把廊道的门掩上。

掩门之际，那一时辰里，关于这朵牡丹，我并不再多想什么。这朵牡丹是属于早上的事。早上里，凭弄堂里五点时我的定夺，会拿这朵牡丹怎么处置便怎么处置。这朵牡丹，是一朵——凌晨四点在龙华花市采下、又在少佐办公室里搁过、又在那盒子里、又在那几上、又在那廊道墙根的——花。

这朵牡丹，曾是那个国。

那个国，凭这一掩门，已在屋子外头。

弄堂房子里，凌晨一点半，林姨在贵妃榻上还醒着。

她把无线电调到马尼拉台，搁在风琴上头。这礼拜五凌晨一点半的马尼拉台，正播一支弦乐奏《吉姆诺佩第第一号》。她手边一杯淡茶喝了一半。

「阿良。」

「姨。」

「坐。」

我坐下。

「你门口有一朵花。」

「有过。我留下了。」

「留在哪里。」

「廊道墙根，炭灰桶旁。」

「什么花。」

「一朵牡丹。龙华花市来的。伊藤健介少佐送的。」

她沉默。

她九息之内不动，只看着风琴。琴盖开了半寸。右手的乐句今天已练过。这右手自十二月起便是我的。

「阿良。」

「是。」

「那花是国。」

「珠姐也是这么说。」

「珠姐这么说，是因珠姐是宁波鱼贩的女儿，在上海待了九年，已学得了「国」是什么。林姨是从前的舞女，在上海待了三十一年，三十一年里把花做过的每一种「国」都学过了。我告诉你这花是国，是因这花就是国。」

「是，姨。」

「你留下了那花。」

「我留下了那花。」

「留下时，你并不曾把它搁进炭灰桶。」

「不曾。」

「为何。」

「因为那炭灰桶是领班的。领班在澳门有妻子，有两个孩子。妻子如今怀着第二胎。倘那领班的炭灰桶里，在四月八日午夜过后半，盛着伊藤健介少佐被丢下的那朵牡丹——而少佐在领事馆里是知情之下、知这牡丹便是那个国而送出的——那么到四月二日之前，领班便会丢了百乐门的差事。领班无辜。我留下花时，不愿把领班搁进炭灰桶里。」

她沉默。

「阿良。」

「是。」

「你是个好女人。」

「我并不——」

「你是。你留下花时，不曾把领班搁进炭灰桶。你早上，不会把地板底下那位搁进炭灰桶。你五月里，不会把少佐搁进炭灰桶。到了七月，你便会学得：少佐该归在哪一只炭灰桶里。那只炭灰桶不是你的。是他的。」

「是，姨。」

「睡罢。」

我睡了。

夜里，我梦见《牡丹亭》第二折。我是杜丽娘。我在一座花园里。那花园是百乐门后头的空地——一九三四年起，木匠胡师傅一直在那里种一排番茄。花园里有一朵牡丹。那牡丹不在廊道墙根。那牡丹在我的发间。我是十六岁。

我五点醒。

我走到风琴前。我掀开琴盖。琴上那只朱漆匣，内层原是我藏菊花针的那一格，三月第二个礼拜起，多了一物。多的那一物，是一方白色棉布。那白棉布，是白绿盒子里包过那朵牡丹的棉。我把它带回了家。我并不曾在凌晨一点半把它搁进朱漆匣。我不曾。我把它搁进朱漆匣，是在凌晨五点——其时我左手按着风琴右键，照风声让我弹的法子，弹着《五月细雨》的过桥；我右手开匣，把那方白棉布平铺其内。

我看那白棉布。

那白棉布，是一方新鲜湿润的白棉，上头有一点暗斑——四月八日凌晨四点，龙华花市，清早的霜碰过那朵牡丹的第七瓣留下的暗斑。

我合上朱漆匣的盖。

我合上风琴的盖。

我在风琴前坐了些时辰。

百乐门的门房，今晚会叫我苏小姐。

乐队领班会叫我婉吟。

伊藤健介少佐，五月里，会叫我苏小姐。他会照——一个自一九三六年十一月起便已被宣示为那「国」的男人——的法子，叫我苏小姐。

地板底下那位，礼拜二午夜，会叫我婉吟。

那个国，某一月里，会叫我那国要叫我的那一物。那国如今尚未决定，那一物是什么。

我回我房里去。

我躺下。

我并未合眼。

我合了。

我睡了早晨的第二觉——五点到七点之间那一个干燥的时辰——十三岁那年林姨便教我把它单算作一觉。我梦见过桥。

那过桥，是《五月细雨》的过桥。

那过桥里有一朵牡丹。

那牡丹在第七小节。

我并不曾把那牡丹唱出来。我让那牡丹在第七小节处坐定。

我七点醒。

弄堂，便是弄堂。

梦里那朵牡丹，不曾被唱。

朱漆匣里、里衬里、夹缝里、屏风边椅上手袋的内层口袋里、白棉布里、木匠胡师傅给的那把铜钥匙锁住的妆台抽屉里——这朵牡丹，在五间屋子里，是那个国。

那个国，在五间屋子里，是我的。

礼拜二午夜之前，我会把这朵牡丹告诉地板底下那位。

礼拜五之前，他自会定夺。

我合眼，数九息。

我睁开。

我起身。

Chapter Seventeen — The Major's Flowers

Friday the ninth of April.

The card had come at six. It had been brought up by the maître d' Mr. Lopes himself, who had not come to my dressing-room door for the bringing of a card and who had, on this Friday in April, decided that the card required a man of his height to carry it down the corridor. He knocked. I let him in. He held the card on a lacquer tray, in the way Mr. Lopes had been trained to hold a card on a lacquer tray at the Cathay Hotel before the Cathay had moved him for a Belgian who spoke better French. The flowers were in a green-and-white box on the floor at the door. He had not, by the door, brought the flowers in.

"Miss Su."

"Mr. Lopes."

"The card."

"Yes."

"The flowers will, by your wish, come in or stay out. I have, in the box, put the box on the threshold and not inside. The threshold is yours."

"Thank you, Mr. Lopes."

I took the card.

The card was small. The card was a card of the kind a man at the Bund printers had made for a Japanese officer in the third week of March. It was thick. It was cream. It had, in the lower left corner, the black seal of the kind I had seen at the Cathay tea-dance in January on the lapel of a man whose face I had memorized at the bandstand and had filed in the inner pocket of the handbag with the brother's letter. The seal was the kanji 海軍 — Imperial Japanese Navy.

In the center of the card, in a brushed cursive that was the brushed cursive of a man who had been taught at the Tokyo Imperial University the kind of brushed cursive that was the brushed cursive of a Beijing-trained scholar, was a Chinese verse:

"In Tang Xianzu's Peony Pavilion the heroine sings the world into being. Tonight you have done a related thing. — K."

I read it twice.

Mr. Lopes did not, at the door, do anything other than stand. He had been told, by whoever had given him the card, that Mr. Lopes was to wait at the door for the reading of the card. Mr. Lopes had been told to wait at the door for the reading of a card three times. Twice the cards had been from women. Once the card had been from a Belgian banker.

"Mr. Lopes."

"Yes, Miss."

"Where is the gentleman."

"At table four. He has been at table four for forty minutes. He has, since the first set, drunk one whisky. He has, in the lapel, the pin you have seen since January. He has, in the breast pocket, a copy of the L'Echo de Chine folded twice. The folded twice is the manner of a man who has, in the reading of the second column on the second page, decided to fold the paper at the column. The column is the column about the Marco Polo Bridge. The column is the column the council has, in the second week of April, decided to begin clipping."

"You know a great deal, Mr. Lopes."

"I have, in my career, kept the door."

"Thank you. The flowers."

"Yes, Miss."

"Bring them in. Set them on the table by the screen. Do not open the box."

"Yes, Miss."

He brought the box in. He set it on the table by the screen. He bowed by half an inch. He left the room. He closed the door.

I sat at the vanity.

I had been on the third song of the first set when the Major had come in. I had seen him at the door because the man with him had been the maître d' Mr. Lopes and Mr. Lopes had brought him to table four and not to table seven. Table seven had been, for six months, the table of the Major's adjutant. Table four was the table of the Major. The Major had not been at table four before. The Major had been at the Cathay tea-dance in January and at Sun Ya in February and at the Cathay tea-dance in March. The Major had been, since November, at the Paramount, in plainclothes, in the third week of the month, in the third row of the gallery. He had been at the gallery on the seventh of November and the second of December and the eighth of January and the fifth of February and the twelfth of March. He had been on five Fridays. He had not, on any of the five Fridays, sent a card.

The card on the lacquer tray on the vanity was the first card.

I had finished the first set with the card on the vanity and the box at the threshold and Mr. Lopes at the door, and I had not, in the second set, sung any differently. I had sung the way I had sung since the eighth of October. I had not leaned on the third. I had held the half-breath at the seventh measure of the bridge. I had, in the lower register, sung the bridge of Spring Wind Autumn Rain with the quarter inch in the breath the way I had been taking the quarter inch in the breath since the Tuesday in March. The Major, at table four, had held his glass at the eighth measure of the bridge and had not, until the ninth measure, set it down.

The card said related thing.

Related to what.

To the Peony Pavilion. To Du Liniang at the abandoned garden in 1598. To a heroine who sings, in a dream, a magistrate's son into being and is, in the singing, also herself sung into being. Related.

I had not, in seven years of being on stage at the Paramount, been compared to Du Liniang. I had been compared, in the North-China Daily News in November of 1934, to a Brazilian samba singer named Carmen Miranda. I had been compared, in the Shenbao, in the Spring Festival edition of 1935, to a bell. I had been compared, by a Cantonese banker who had given me a silver hair-comb in March of 1936, to "a girl who knew what a man wanted to hear." The Cantonese banker had not known the comb had a dent in the back. He had bought it from a Pawn shop on Avenue Joffre, and the dent was the dent the previous wearer had made when the previous wearer had thrown the comb at the previous wearer's husband.

I had been, in seven years, called several things.

I had not been called Du Liniang.

The card was not a card.

The card was a recognition.

I sat at the vanity with the card on the lacquer tray. I did not, for the count of nine, do anything. The third set was in twenty minutes. I had been told, on the first set, to sing Drizzle of May in the third set. I had been told this by Yao Sanye at the eight o'clock by way of the maître d's nod. Yao Sanye had been at the gallery in the third row at the corner of the gallery rail and the brass urn that held the dried jasmine. Yao had been at the gallery in the third row for a Friday for the first time in three months. Yao had been at the gallery on the third row because Major Itō had been at table four.

I knew what this meant.

I had known what it meant since the third Saturday in February when Mr. Du said, in the parlor at Rue Wagner, that the singer the Major had heard at the Cathay tea-dance was a singer Mr. Hong Jingming's tailor had dressed since 1932. The accounts of Mr. Hong Jingming were not transferable. The accounts were Mr. Hong's. The singer was in the accounts. Yao had been told by Mr. Du that Yao's interest in the singer had been, by the holding of the chrysanthemum pin, set aside. Yao had been told by Mr. Du that the Major's interest in the singer would, by the same holding, also be set aside. Yao had nodded.

The card on the lacquer tray was the Major's response to the nod.

The Major was, by the card, communicating to Mr. Du through the parlor protocol that the Major had not, in February, been set aside by the pin. The Major had been told by Mr. Du, through the adjutant, that the singer was under courtesy. The Major's card was the card a man sent when the man had decided to test what the courtesy could and could not contain.

I did not, on this counting, decide anything.

I stood.

I went to the table by the screen. I lifted the lid of the green-and-white box. Inside the box was a single white peony, fresh, the stem cut at a long angle, wrapped in damp white cotton. The peony had been picked, by the dark spot at the seventh petal where the morning's frost had touched it, at four in the morning at the Longhua Temple Flower Market. The Longhua flower market was, at four in the morning, six miles from Rue Wagner. The peony had been at the Major's office for eight hours before it had been delivered to the Paramount at six.

The Major had not sent a bouquet.

The Major had sent a peony.

The peony was the peony of the second act of The Peony Pavilion, in which Du Liniang dreams of the man she has not met and dies of the longing and is brought back, three years later, by the man who has dug up her body in the garden. The peony, in the second act, is the flower the heroine takes from the garden in her dream and brings back to the waking world, where it does not exist.

The Major had not sent a flower of the world.

The Major had sent a flower of the dream.

I closed the box.

I went back to the vanity.

I sat. I did not put the card in the inside pocket of the handbag. I put the card on the lacquer tray. I put the lacquer tray in the drawer of the vanity. I closed the drawer. I locked the drawer with the brass key Mr. Hu the carpenter had given me in 1934.

The key was the key Mr. Hu had given me at thirteen. The key was the key to the drawer of the vanity. The drawer of the vanity had been, in my four years at the Paramount, locked twice. The first time had been on the Saturday of the second week of November 1934, when the wireless said a printing press in Zhabei had been burned down and three Communist organizers had been killed and one of the dead had been named in the L'Echo de Chine the next day in a column on the third page. I had, on that Saturday, not known any of the names. I had locked the drawer because Pearl, at the lobby door at half past one, said lock your drawer, sweetheart. Lock it tonight. Don't ask. I had, on the Sunday, unlocked the drawer and found a piece of paper inside on which Pearl had written, in her square hand: the year is starting. lock your drawer on the nights you do not know.

The second time had been the night Auntie Lin had told me about the bracelet.

The third time was tonight.

I put the key back into the inside pocket of the handbag with the brother's letter and the lock of hair and the four pieces of Pathé staff paper.

I stood.

I went to the door.

I went down to the gallery.

Mr. Lopes was at the door of the bandstand corridor. He saw me. He did not, on the seeing, indicate the gallery. He indicated, by a movement of the eyes, table four. I went, by the long route, along the kitchen corridor and past the cloakroom and to the back of the gallery and along the gallery rail to the stair that came down by table four, and I came down the stair with the dignity I had been trained to come down the stair with, and I stopped at the table.

Major Itō Kensuke stood.

He was not in uniform. He had on a grey Western suit with a navy tie, a white pocket square folded into a Tokyo-banker's three-point fold, and the black seal of the Imperial Japanese Navy on the lapel. He was thirty-four. He was not tall. He was slight, careful, with the kind of slender shoulder a piano student in 1922 had carried his Schubert exercises home on, in a leather satchel, on the way back from a Tokyo conservatory. He had hair brushed forward in the manner of a Tokyo banker who had read about the manner from a 1932 American magazine and had decided that the manner was the manner. He had the dry attentiveness at the corner of the eye of a man of thirty-four who had been a piano student and had become an officer and had not given up either practice.

"Miss Su."

"Major."

"You read the card."

"I read the card."

"You did not, in the second set, do anything other than sing the second set the way you have been singing the second set since November. I am grateful for the not-doing. The not-doing has saved us both the awkwardness of a discussion at the bandstand that would have been observed by Mr. Lopes."

"Mr. Lopes is, by trade, observant."

"He is. Sit, if you please."

I sat.

He sat.

He did not, on the sitting, summon a waiter. He had a glass of whisky at the table, two-thirds full, and a carafe of water, and a folded L'Echo de Chine. He moved the L'Echo to the chair beside him. He moved the carafe of water by a quarter inch.

"I will," he said, "have water brought for you."

"Thank you."

He lifted one finger. A waiter came. A waiter went. A waiter came back with water. A waiter left.

"Miss Su."

"Major Itō."

"You have been singing in a manner since the eighth of October that is not the manner one expects from a Paramount singer who began at the Bright Moon. The manner is schooled. The schooling is not the schooling of the Bright Moon. The schooling is not, by my hearing, the schooling of the Conservatory either. The schooling is a third schooling. I have, in five Fridays, attempted to identify it. I have not, in five Fridays, identified it. I do not, this Friday, expect to."

"You have heard me five times, Major."

"I have heard you five times. I had heard you twice before the November and I had, in October of 1936, not been the man I am, on this Friday in April, at this table. I have been other men. I am the man I am at this table because in November you did a thing in the bridge of the third song of the second set that I had not, in fourteen years of listening to women sing in nine cities, heard. I would like to ask you what you did. I will not ask you tonight. I am saving the question for the second invitation."

"There is to be a second invitation."

"There is to be a second invitation."

"Major."

"Miss Su."

"What was tonight, then."

"Tonight," he said, "was the first invitation. The first invitation was the card. The card is a recognition. The recognition is that you and I have been, since October of 1936, two people in a room where you have been singing and I have been listening. The room has been the Paramount. The room has been the Cathay. The room has been the Sun Ya. The rooms have not been my rooms. I have been a guest in them. I would like, in some other month, for you to be a guest in a room of mine. The room of mine will be the Cathay's dining room on the ninth floor, in which you have not eaten in seven years. The invitation will, in some other month, be the invitation to dinner. I am not, tonight, issuing it. I am declaring it. The declaration is the courtesy I owe you. You are not a woman who should be invited without the declaration."

I sat with the glass of water.

I had been, in seven years, propositioned by a great many men. I had been propositioned in the manner of the Spanish brandy importer at table fourteen, which was the manner of a man who put a sum of money on the linen and named a day. I had been propositioned in the manner of Yao Sanye, which was the manner of a man who put a sum of money in his coat pocket and named a season. I had been propositioned in the manner of the parlor at Rue Wagner, which was the manner of a man who put a chrysanthemum pin in my hair and named a year.

I had not, in seven years, been propositioned in the manner of a recognition.

The recognition was a different proposition.

The recognition was the proposition of a man who had decided, in the second week of November 1936, that the price of the woman across the table was not a thing he could put a number on, and that the manner of the asking would, instead of the number, be a question about the song. The man was not naming a day or a season or a year. The man was naming a register.

The register was the register a man named when he had decided that the woman he wanted was a woman he intended to take in slow motion across several years and not in a single transaction.

"Major."

"Miss Su."

"What do you do."

"I am a staff officer."

"Where."

"At the consulate on Wuhan Road. I am, by official posting, assistant naval attaché. I am, by less official posting, the man at the consulate who reads. The reading is a kind of work. The work has been increasing since the second week of March."

"Reading what."

"Newspapers. Settlement papers. Chinese papers. Telegrams from Tokyo. The careful telegrams from the consulate at Tianjin. The reading is for the consulate. The reading is not for me. I am at a table in the second-largest dance hall in the largest city in Asia, having sent a peony to a singer because the singer has taught me a thing in the bridge of a song since October."

"Major."

"Yes."

"The peony is a flower of the second act."

He was quiet.

"It is," he said.

"You are aware."

"I am."

"You sent the peony with the awareness."

"I sent the peony with the awareness."

"Major."

"Yes."

"I am not Du Liniang."

"You are not Du Liniang."

"Du Liniang dies in the second act."

"She does. She is restored in the third."

"The third act, Major, takes three years."

"It does."

"You are a patient man."

"I am a patient man."

"There is no third act in this dance hall."

"There is no third act in this dance hall. There is, possibly, a third act in some other dance hall. I am willing to wait for the dance hall."

I drank the water.

I did not, on the drinking, look at him. I looked across the floor at the bandstand where Jimmy King was, at this minute, calling the boys back for the third set. The Filipino trombonist Tony had his trombone on his knee and was running the slide oil through with the rag he kept in his breast pocket. The chandeliers were at the rose setting. The neon column at the side window was on.

I looked at the Major.

"Major Itō."

"Miss Su."

"I will, in some other month, accept the invitation to dinner."

"Thank you."

"On three conditions."

"Yes."

"The first is that the dinner will be at the Cathay and not at the consulate."

"Yes."

"The second is that the dinner will be at the public table by the window and not at the private dining room."

"Yes."

"The third is that the dinner will be conducted in Mandarin and in English and not in Japanese."

"Yes."

"I do not speak Japanese."

"You do not."

"You speak Mandarin."

"I do."

"You will speak it at the dinner."

"I will."

"Thank you, Major."

"Thank you, Miss Su."

He inclined his head. He did not stand. He let me stand. I stood. I went back along the stair to the gallery rail and along the gallery to the kitchen corridor and down the kitchen corridor to the dressing-room corridor. Pearl was at her door in the silver dragonfly qipao with a cigarette in the left hand and a fresh ashtray and the door of her room half open.

"Sweetheart."

"Pearl."

"Come in."

I came in.

She closed the door.

"Wanyin."

"Yes."

"What did he say."

"He said he would not, this Friday, ask me to dinner. He said he would, in some other month, ask. He sent a peony from Longhua. He told me he had read the second act of Peony Pavilion. He told me he is patient."

"He is."

"You knew this."

"I have known it since November."

"You did not tell me."

"I did not tell you because you were not, in November, the woman who would have heard what I would have told you. You are, on the eighth of April at the third set of a Friday, the woman who is hearing what I am telling you."

"What are you telling me, Pearl."

She did not, for a count of three, speak. She drew on the cigarette. The ash fell into the ashtray. She tapped the cigarette twice on the rim. She set it down.

"I am telling you," she said, "that Major Itō Kensuke is the man you should be most afraid of in the city of Shanghai. He is not the man you should be afraid of in the manner of Yao. Yao is a man who would, in a parlor in Rue Wagner, have you walked to a car. Itō is a man who would, in a private dining room at the Cathay in 1940, have you in a country he had made a country he was the staff officer of. Yao is a man with a season. Itō is a man with a country. The seasons end. The country he is assistant attaché of does not, in our lifetime, end. The country is the larger thing."

"Yes."

"The peony was a peony."

"Yes."

"The peony was a country. The country was a country he is, at this hour, the assistant attaché of. He sent the country. The country was Du Liniang. He is patient because the country he serves is, in his hearing, the country in which the third act can take three years. The country is the country, sweetheart. He is its peony."

"Pearl."

"Sweetheart."

"What do I do."

"You sing the third set. You sing Drizzle of May the way the man under the floor has been having you sing it. You do not, on the bridge, sing the third syllable in the manner Yao requested. You sing it the way you have been singing it since November. The Major will, by the third set, know what he knows. He will know that the manner is the manner. The manner will, by the bridge, be the manner he has heard since October. He will not, in the third set, decide anything. He will, by the end of the third set, decide a thing he has decided to decide in the second week of May."

"What thing."

"The thing he decides in the second week of May is that you will, by the third week of July, be a woman of his country. The deciding is being made, at this hour, at the consulate, by men who have been sending careful telegrams to Tokyo since the second week of March. The deciding will not, by July, be a deciding the consulate makes. The deciding will be a deciding the army makes for the consulate at a bridge on the seventh of July. You will, by the second week of July, have heard about the bridge in the Settlement papers. The Settlement papers will say tensions ease. The Chinese papers will say Japan provokes. The truth will be that a regiment at the bridge will, on a Thursday in early July, fire a shot, and the deciding the Major has been deciding to decide in May will, by the firing, be made for him by Tokyo."

"Pearl."

"Sweetheart."

"How do you know this."

"I know it because I am a singer in Shanghai who has been awake on Wednesdays at four for nine years. The waking has been the discipline. The discipline has been the listening. The Filipino trombonist Tony tells me a thing on the Wednesday morning at four when he and his cousin have, by the kitchen door of the Paramount, finished the bottle. The cousin tells him a thing the kitchen boy at the consulate has told the cousin. The kitchen boy at the consulate has been kind to me since November because in November I bought him a bowl of porridge from the Sichuan Road vendor at three in the morning when he had not eaten for two days. He has been kind to me ever since. He is my kindness."

"You knew about the Marco Polo Bridge."

"I knew, in March, that there would, in May or in July, be a bridge. The bridge had not yet been named. The bridge was named in the second week of March by a careful telegram from the consulate at Tianjin. The telegram was sent to Tokyo on the fourteenth of March. The bridge was named Lugou Qiao — the Marco Polo Bridge. The bridge is at Wanping, west of Beiping. The bridge has, since 1937, been the bridge the Japanese army has decided will be the bridge."

"Why are you telling me this tonight."

"Because tonight is the night you are sitting in my dressing room with a peony at the table by the screen and the brass key of the drawer of your vanity in the inside pocket of your handbag with the brother's letter and the lock of hair. The peony is the Major's first invitation. The Major's first invitation is the consulate's first invitation. The consulate's first invitation is, by the deciding being made in May, the country's first invitation. The country is coming for us. I am telling you so that on the night the bridge is fired, in the second week of July, you and I will not be the singers who were surprised."

"Pearl."

"Sweetheart."

"What do I do tonight."

"You sing the third set. You sing Drizzle of May the way the man under the floor has been having you sing it. After the third set you go up the back stair. You change. You take the rickshaw to Hongkou. You sleep. In the morning, at six, you tell the man under the floor about the peony and the card and the table four and the third act. You tell him in the manner you tell him a thing. You do not embellish. You do not withhold. You tell him. He has, by Friday next, decided what to do."

"Yes, Pearl."

"And, sweetheart — "

"Yes."

"You do not, in May, accept a second invitation. You accept one in June. You accept one in July. You do not, in any month, accept the third. The third will be the invitation to the private dining room at the consulate. The second is the public table at the Cathay. The first was a peony. The seconds are three. You accept two. You decline the third. The declining will, by the man under the floor, be the declining the man under the floor will know what to do with. I do not know what he will do. I know that you have not, in nine months, sent him an invitation he has not decided what to do with. He will, in this case, decide."

"Yes, Pearl."

"Now go. Sing."

I went.

I sang the third set.

I sang Drizzle of May the way the man under the floor had been having me sing it. Yao Sanye, in the third row of the gallery, lifted two fingers at the third syllable of the bridge. He had been lifting the fingers for seven years at the third syllable of the bridge. He did not — this Friday — lift them at any other measure. The Major at table four did not move. The Major at the eighth measure of the bridge held the glass of whisky at his sternum and did not, until the ninth measure, set it down.

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

The room was the Paramount Main Ballroom on a Friday in April with a Major at table four and a Yao Sanye in the third row of the gallery and a Pearl in the silver dragonfly qipao at the kitchen corridor door and a Mr. Lopes at the bandstand-side door and a peony in a green-and-white box on the table by the screen in the dressing room on the third floor in a building two floors above a brick room in which a man at a piano had — eight months ago in October — heard a singer take, for the first time, a half-breath at the third measure of the bridge.

The room was the room.

The applause was the applause.

I bowed. I came down the bandstand stair. I went up the back stair.

In the dressing room the peony was in the box on the table by the screen. I had not, in the third set, decided what to do with it. I decided now. I lifted the box. I went to the door. I opened the door. The maître d's spare ash-pail was on the corridor wall at the corner. I went to it. I did not put the box in the ash-pail. I put the box on the floor beside the ash-pail. I closed the corridor door.

I did not, on the closing, think anything more about the peony for that hour. The peony was a thing for the morning. The morning would, by my decision at five in the lane, do with the peony what the morning did. The peony was a flower that had been picked at four in the morning at the Longhua flower market and had been at the Major's office and had been at the box and at the table and at the corridor wall.

The peony had been the country.

The country, by the closing of the door, was outside the room.

In the lane house, at half past one, Auntie Lin was awake on the chaise.

She had on the wireless above the harmonium on the Manila frequency. The Manila frequency at half past one was, this Friday, broadcasting a string section playing the Gymnopédie no. 1. She had a cup of weak tea half drunk.

"Aliang."

"Auntie."

"Sit."

I sat.

"You have a flower at the door."

"I did. I left it."

"Where."

"At the corridor wall by the ash-pail."

"What was the flower."

"A peony. From the Longhua market. The Major Itō Kensuke."

She was quiet.

She did not, for a count of nine, do anything other than look at the harmonium. The lid was open by half an inch. The right-hand phrase had been practiced today. The right hand had been mine since December.

"Aliang."

"Yes."

"The flower is the country."

"Pearl said the same."

"Pearl said the same because Pearl is a Ningbo fishmonger's daughter who has been in Shanghai for nine years and has learned the country. Auntie Lin is a former dancer who has been in Shanghai for thirty-one years and has learned, in those thirty-one, every kind of country a flower has been. I am telling you the flower is the country because the flower is the country."

"Yes, Auntie."

"You left the flower."

"I left the flower."

"You did not, on the leaving, put it in the ash-pail."

"No."

"Why."

"Because the ash-pail is the maître d's. The maître d' has a wife in Macau and two children. The wife is at present in the second pregnancy. The maître d' would, by the second of April, have lost his job at the Paramount if the maître d' had been the man whose ash-pail contained, at the half past midnight of the eighth of April, the discarded peony of Major Itō Kensuke, who had at the consulate sent the peony with the awareness that the peony was the country. The maître d' is innocent. I did not, on the leaving, want to put the maître d' in the ash-pail."

She was quiet.

"Aliang."

"Yes."

"You are a good woman."

"I do not — "

"You are. You did not, on the leaving, put the maître d' in the ash-pail. You will not, on the morning, put the man under the floor in the ash-pail. You will not, in May, put the Major in the ash-pail. You will, by July, have learned which ash-pail the Major belongs in. The ash-pail will not be yours. It will be his."

"Yes, Auntie."

"Sleep."

I slept.

In the night I dreamed of the second act of Peony Pavilion. I was Du Liniang. I was in a garden. The garden was the back lot of the Paramount where Mr. Hu the carpenter had been growing a line of tomatoes since 1934. The garden had a peony in it. The peony was not at the corridor wall. The peony was in my hair. I was sixteen.

I woke at five.

I went to the harmonium. I lifted the lid. The lacquer box on the harmonium had, in the inner partition where I had been keeping the chrysanthemum pin, an additional object since the second week of March. The additional object was a white cotton wrapper. The white cotton wrapper was the cotton the peony had been wrapped in at the green-and-white box. I had brought it home. I had not put it in the lacquer box at half past one. I had not. I had put it in the lacquer box at five in the morning, while my left hand was on the harmonium's right keyboard playing the bridge of Drizzle of May the way Feng Sheng had been having me play it, and my right hand was opening the lacquer box and laying the white cotton wrapper inside.

I looked at the wrapper.

The wrapper was a white square of fresh damp cotton with the dark spot of the seventh petal where the morning's frost had touched the peony at four in the morning at the Longhua market on the eighth of April.

I closed the lid of the lacquer box.

I closed the lid of the harmonium.

I sat at the harmonium for some count.

The doorman at the Paramount would, this evening, call me Miss Su.

The bandleader would call me Wanyin.

Major Itō Kensuke would, in May, call me Miss Su. He would call me Miss Su in the manner of a man who had been declared, in November of 1936, the country.

The man under the floor would, on Tuesday at midnight, call me Wanyin.

The country would, in some month, call me a thing the country would call me. The country had not yet decided what the thing was.

I went to my room.

I lay down.

I did not close my eyes.

I closed them.

I slept the second sleep of the morning, the dry hour of sleep between five and seven that Auntie Lin had taught me to count as a separate sleep at thirteen. I dreamed of the bridge.

The bridge was the bridge of Drizzle of May.

The bridge had a peony in it.

The peony was in the seventh measure.

I had not sung the peony. I had let the peony sit at the seventh measure.

I woke at seven.

The lane was the lane.

The peony, in the dream, had not been sung.

In the lacquer box, in the lining, in the seam, in the inner pocket of the handbag at the chair by the screen, in the white cotton wrapper, in the drawer of the vanity locked with the brass key from Mr. Hu the carpenter — the peony was, in five rooms, the country.

The country was, in five rooms, mine.

I would, by Tuesday at midnight, tell the man under the floor about the peony.

He would, by Friday, have decided.

I closed my eyes for the count of nine.

I opened them.

I got up.