七部小说 · Seven Novels

第 18 章 ——《仲夏舞会》

七月二十五日，礼拜日。

百乐门七年里办过七场仲夏舞会。头一场是一九三〇年，那时我还不曾在百乐门，第二日清晨，是头一回去鸿翔先生处的路上，在四川北路与虹口公园街口那家面摊吃早点时，从《申报》上读到那场舞会的。第七场是一九三六年，是在八月之前那个礼拜日——彼时风声尚不曾透过镜子同我说话——那一场舞会，我唱了，却不曾晓得这场舞会会是一场我将于百乐门合约的第七年里、以一个在地板下头一位男子教她唱过桥的女人的身份，再去唱的舞会。

第八场舞会便是第八场。

水晶吊灯正午便已落下，由木匠胡师傅那两位从吴县来过夏的侄儿洗过——每一颗切面坠玻璃，都用乐队廊里被服橱里的一方棉法兰绒擦拭过。坠子俱晾在厨房食品间一张铺了厚屠夫纸的长条搁板上。四点钟，由胡师傅亲自登上他一九三二年为换灯泡而做的那架高高的图书馆梯，一颗一颗重新挂回原处。

乐台是三日里重搭的。礼拜三排练那日，吉米·金请人在乐台后头加搭一座台，好让菲律宾铜管组在《夜上海》的过桥处能立得比那位长号独奏者高一截。胡师傅便用八月里早到的那批烟草公司货箱的板条搭了那座台。板条礼拜五刨光、染色，台子礼拜六下午铺上了从二楼下人楼梯转角处拆上来的那条威尔顿地毯。

二楼下人楼梯转角的那条威尔顿地毯，自礼拜六下午起，至我此刻不去想的那个礼拜二之间，正是一九三〇年十一月白珠头一回走上下人楼梯去面试时铺在那里的同一条地毯。白珠当年走过这条地毯时，身上是一件她在佛山以两块银元买下、由她姑妈替她收过下摆的蓝布旗袍——那是她十五岁时值得起的那身衣裳。地毯是一九三〇年新铺的。到了一九三七年，地毯的右侧边沿上已有一道淡色的痕——是七年里百乐门歌女们一双双高跟鞋只走右边、不走左边踩出来的。

乐台有了那座台。

地毯有了那道淡痕。

舞会便是舞会。

我两点便到了化妆室。三点钟，刘小姐替我做了头发——那是高髻，髻上别着银簪，簪上压着一朵白山茶；山茶是她礼拜五在霞飞路花房订的。那支银簪，是一九三三年十一月我十八岁生日时白珠送我的——自一九三三年十一月起，凡逢礼拜六由我领唱，到第二场第三支歌时，我便戴着这支簪。那朵白山茶，并非《牡丹亭》第二折里的白牡丹。礼拜五那日，刘小姐在花房并未要牡丹。刘小姐说要山茶，不要牡丹。霞飞路的花房说好的，刘小姐。

旗袍是五月里鸿翔先生替我裁的那件银色旗袍。

那件银色旗袍是鸿翔先生六月第三个礼拜六，在他朝东那扇窗下的台子上做完的。旗袍是一袭长长的银色金缎，右肩那条龙以浅灰丝线绣成，左胯那只凤亦以浅灰丝线绣成——龙与凤，由鸿翔先生的手定夺，是相向不视、各自望向他方，正合一个二十二岁、尚不曾决意要拿自己被人认出的那一面如何处置的女人的身份。一件旗袍上的龙与凤相视而望，是一位已被认出、且已下定决心的女人的旗袍。一件女人尚未决断的旗袍上的龙与凤，是相望而互不视的。

旗袍的右胯里衬接缝里——那是我此刻不去想的那个礼拜二清晨四点半，亲手缝进去的——藏着兄长那封信、一九二五年那一束发丝、龙华那一方折好的棉布，以及风声六月第二个礼拜五递给我的那四张百代五线谱稿纸。那四张纸，是他五月第四个礼拜五烛光下写的《夜上海》过桥的那四小节——是在我头一回把那道过桥唱通、把第七小节的半口气、第三小节第三字呼吸里那一寸四分之一、第四行第二字的低音区都唱出来之后写的。

旗袍有了那道接缝。

那道接缝里有了那匣圣物。

五点钟，我便坐到了妆台上那只漆盒前。我从内格里取出那支菊花簪，凝望了九数，又放了回去。那支菊花簪是二月里杜先生在华格涅路送我的。那支菊花簪并不是我此刻头发上戴的簪。那支菊花簪是我会在舞会上佩在银色旗袍内襟、左胯凤纹的里衬上的簪——里衬上有一只手缝的小内袋，大小恰好容得下一支菊花簪。

簪在内衬里、在凤纹之上。

簪不在头发里。

簪是给那位华格涅路客厅里的男人的——他将于十点钟那场舞会里，与他第三位太太、他同父异母的弟弟、他第二位养子和他的医生同坐在侧窗旁的那张桌上；到过桥第七小节时，由我右手轻轻一抬告诉他：簪在内衬上、在凤之上，并不在头发里。

簪在「关照」之下。

舞会那晚，八点到十点，姚三爷在廊座第三排。姚三爷之所以在廊座第三排、在廊栏拐角靠近那只插干茉莉的黄铜瓮的位子上，是因为二月里杜先生告知过他：那位歌女是在「关照」之下；这份关照，是以姚一方的代价、由海港办事处过手的姚一方煤炭合约的第二成本，作交换换来的——而那第二成本，杜先生三月第三个礼拜便已悄悄替他接下了，直到三月第四个礼拜方才告诉姚说：那笔接下，已经接下。

姚三爷被挪了位子。

挪便是挪。

姚此时尚不晓得。

伊藤健介少校十点钟坐在十一桌。十一桌是离侧窗第二张的那一桌。少校是因为杜先生坐在四桌，由大堂领班洛佩斯先生从四桌挪到十一桌的。少校以一位被告知舞会便是舞会的东京银行家的客气，受了这一挪。少校身上是那件藏青亚麻西服，领口别着黑色海军徽，新洗的白手帕折成东京银行家的三角折，扣眼里另插一朵新鲜的白山茶。这朵山茶，便是六月第二个礼拜五在国泰窗边公桌上、那一场以国语与英文进行的晚餐的第三回邀约里那一朵山茶——那一晚，少校问我礼拜二午夜在做什么，我说我睡觉。到第七道菜时，少校并未再追问。

少校的山茶，便是少校对那「睡觉」的答。

少校六月第二个礼拜五在国泰窗边公桌上待过，七月第二个礼拜五又在国泰窗边公桌上待过。七月第二个礼拜五便是八日——那是宛平桥事的次日，那座桥白珠自四月起便一直跟我讲。少校七月第二个礼拜五在国泰，并未提到那桥。少校提的是苏轼一首咏冬日雁阵旧径的诗——一九二八年他母亲的丧礼上有人引过。我说我不曾听过那首诗。少校以他的国语念出了那两行。两行是：

雁路非雁所开之路。 路是雁所记得之路。

我让那两行停在那里，停了九数。我说少校，雁记性好。少校说是的。我便是一只雁。我又让这话停了三数。我说您并非孤雁。少校笑了。少校把第七道菜吃了。第七道菜是奶油白汁海鲂柳，搁着一支莳萝。少校说这个七月里的礼拜五，我是同一小群雁一道在空里。我没问是哪一小群。

第二回邀约已被应下。

第三回邀约尚未发出。

少校将于——以白珠的算法——八月第二礼拜的某个礼拜五发出第三回邀约：那是我将于八点钟乐台上、第二次在公开场合唱完《夜上海》的头一节之时；而这第三回邀约——以领事馆五月第二礼拜所下、亦即东京来电自三月第二礼拜起一直在替领事馆所下的那个决断——是上虹口武汉路领事馆私厅去用晚餐的邀约。

我将——以白珠的好言、林姨的好言、地板下头那个男人好的沉默——回绝。

这一回绝，在此刻七月这场舞会的礼拜日里，是「将来式」里的回绝。

将来式尚未来到。

杜先生坐在四桌，同他第三位太太——身上是鸿翔一九三四年替她裁的那件绿绸旗袍——同他同父异母的弟弟（一身黑西服）、同他十六岁的第二位养子、同他自一九二九年起便侍奉杜先生的医生王医生在一处。杜先生六十九岁。杜先生身上是那件立领灰长袍、头上那顶圆缎瓜皮帽、腕上那串深色木珠——自一九三四年起，他公开场合便一直这般装束：那一年里，一位龙华古寺的老相士告诉他，西式礼服并非他这个岁数的男人该穿的衣裳，于是他便戒了。第三位太太身上是那件绿绸旗袍和那串珍珠——自一九三五年起，公开场合便一直如此。王医生身上是那位毕业于爱丁堡、行医于租界的医生的礼服。第二位养子身上是那位毕业于上海美国学校的十六岁少年的礼服。

房中即是房中。

我九点一刻便已到了乐台上。吉米·金身上是那件白色礼服，黑色的新领结是他在杨树浦的太太礼拜六替他熨的。菲律宾铜管组在乐台后头那座台上，节奏组在前。长号手托尼穿着那件六月第二个礼拜由他马尼拉裁缝寄来的新白礼服。匈牙利第一小提琴费伦克先生穿着那件他匈牙利妻子在家熨好、再装在她惯用的那只亚麻提袋里送到百乐门来的新白礼服。俄国钢琴的立式谱架上，新插了一朵刘小姐六点钟从花房第二只盒子里取上来的鲜山茶。

我九点一刻便到了化妆室门前。

洛佩斯先生候在我门口。

他原不该礼拜日九点一刻候在我门口。他之所以候在我门口，是因为八点钟时，一位厨房小工受白珠两块银元之托，把一张折好的纸条递了上来。

那纸条是给我的。

纸条上是白珠那一笔方正的字：地板下那位先生于四点，借厨子的口、再借我的口，传话来了。他说：照那道桥被唱过的样子唱。他说：那口半气。他说：那一寸四分之一。他说：第四行第二字的低音区。他说：杜先生认出来时，莫看四桌。他说：少校认出来时，莫看十一桌。他说：房中即是房中。他说：若侬听得见我，侬便听得见我。——P。

我读了两遍。

我把它递回给洛佩斯先生。

洛佩斯先生接了纸条。他将纸条折好，纳入大堂领班礼服胸袋里那只皮夹。他鞠了半寸的躬。他说纸条在我处。我不会给任何人看。我说谢您，洛佩斯先生。

他说舞会顺利，苏小姐。

我说舞会顺利，洛佩斯先生。

他便走了。

我在门口立了九数。立着时，我并不曾决断什么。决断是礼拜日下午四点便已做下的——那时风声把吩咐传到乐台上，离我此刻立在化妆室门口尚有四个钟头。

吩咐便是吩咐。

房中即是房中。

九点二十五分，我从廊座后头出去。我沿栏到楼梯口。我从屋角的楼梯下来。我绕着侧墙的远路走到乐台。我登上乐台。吉米·金抬眼。吉米·金不曾点头。吉米·金自一九二九年起便在百乐门。吉米·金已被告知：今晚——这个七月里的礼拜日——第二场第三支歌便是那支歌。吉米·金不曾问哪一支。吉米·金已在第二场曲目第二支的第四小节处摆好了《夜上海》的铜管编配。

第二场曲目是：《春风秋雨》《天涯歌女》《夜上海》。

第一场曲目是：《五月的细雨》《一剪梅》《大路歌》《起来》。第一场是姚三爷的一场。姚虽被挪了位子；这一场仍是姚的一场。挪的是人，不是节目。

我唱了第一场。

我以姚三爷自一九三三年起要我唱的那种法子唱。我在第三字上靠了一靠。我把长句子抻住。我不曾在第七小节里取那半口气。我不曾取那四分之一寸。我以姚三爷付了钱要我唱的那种法子，以我百乐门合约这七年里每一个礼拜日舞会上唱的那种法子，唱了第一场。

廊座里的姚三爷未动。姚三爷尚不曾见过鸿景明先生侄儿那张折叠的纸条。八点钟时，他门口的弟兄已告诉他：舞会便是舞会。八点半时，洛佩斯先生经门房之口告诉他：那歌女便是那歌女。直到第二杯威士忌，方才有人告诉他：第二成本已经被接下。

十点半，我唱完第一场下来。

我回到化妆室。我坐到妆台前。坐时，我并不曾碰那只漆盒。菊花簪在左胯凤纹处的里衬里。簪在杜先生这一边。簪将——以杜先生在第二场第三支歌过桥第七小节处那一记认出——落在簪原本由鸿翔先生绿丝线缝定的那一边。

我饮了一杯水。

我坐了九数。

十点三刻，我回到乐台。

第二场十一点开。

我唱《春风秋雨》。我以十月第二个礼拜起风声要我唱的那种法子唱。我在过桥第七小节处取了那半口气。我在第三小节第三字呼吸里取了那一寸四分之一。我在第四行第二字上唱了低音区。四桌的杜先生未动。十一桌的伊藤健介少校未动。廊座第三排的姚三爷——经鸿景明先生侄儿差十一点送来的那张纸条、就着第三杯威士忌——在过桥第七小节处，抬了两根手指。姚抬这两根手指、抬在每一道过桥的第三字上，已抬了七年。

姚这一场，未在第三字上抬。

姚抬在第七小节上。

姚已读过纸条。

姚已晓得了那笔第二成本。

姚自第七小节之后，便不曾再看乐台。

我唱了《天涯歌女》。匈牙利小提琴费伦克先生——自六月第三个礼拜起便等着拉吉米·金在第二段副歌里为他写的那段助奏——拉了那段助奏。他以一位自一九二九年起便不曾在布达佩斯被人听过的匈牙利小提琴家、自一九三三年起便每个礼拜日午后让自己住在虹口两间小屋里的匈牙利妻子唱给他听的一支中国民歌的法子，拉了它。匈牙利小提琴家的妻子是用一种匈牙利人的国语唱的。匈牙利小提琴家是用一种匈牙利人的中国话拉的。那段助奏，便是一段匈牙利人的中国助奏。台后那座台上的菲律宾铜管组，在助奏底下按住和弦。四桌的杜先生——经鸿景明先生侄儿在第二段副歌第七小节那一记手势——把杯子放下了。

房里稳着。

我唱到了第三支歌。

我在一九三七年七月二十五日礼拜日、百乐门第八场仲夏舞会上，于十一点过十一分，唱起了《夜上海》。

我自五月第二个礼拜起便在地下室里唱《夜上海》。我自六月第三个礼拜起便在第一场的尾声以公开形式唱那道过桥。我尚不曾在公开场合连词带曲一道唱过。

歌共四段一桥一尾声。

第一段是城。第二段是舞厅。第三段是屋子。第四段是清晨。

那道过桥便是第七小节那口半气。

那尾声便是把最后一个母音抻到它不再是一个母音、而成了一间屋子。

我唱了第一段。

第一段是城。我以风声要我唱的那低音区唱了那座城。我以一位二十二岁的女人——她一九三六年六月十二日傍晚六点立在外滩、面带暮色自外滩往四川北路上走过——的法子唱了那座城。城便是那座城。房里稳着。

我唱了第二段。

第二段是舞厅。我以一位在舞厅里唱了七年、到第八年里方才决断了这舞厅是哪一种舞厅的女人的法子唱。那舞厅是一座有菲律宾铜管组、有匈牙利第一小提琴、有俄国钢琴、有一九二九年别人都走了他却留下来的、亚特兰大来的一位黑人乐队领班的舞厅。那舞厅便是我此刻置身其中的舞厅。房里稳着。

我唱了过桥。

过桥四小节。过桥便是第七小节里那口半气。过桥便是第三字上那一寸四分之一。过桥便是第四行第二字上的低音区。过桥便是过桥。

十一桌的伊藤健介少校在过桥之中不曾呼吸。少校的水杯，立在他胸骨上。少校的水杯，直至过桥第三小节第三字之前，不曾搁下。少校的水杯在第三字上搁下了。少校的水杯搁下时，是一只国泰水杯被一个用八个月在认这件事的人，搁在亚洲第一大城里第二大舞厅的国泰桌面上时，所发出的那种喀的一声。

四桌的杜先生未动。

杜先生把腕上深色的木珠，捻过了一颗。

廊座第三排的姚三爷自第二段起便已不再望乐台。姚三爷在过桥时，望的是四桌的第二位养子。四桌那位第二位养子十六岁。第二位养子自第一段起便不曾从桌面上抬过眼。第二位养子在过桥第三小节第三字上抬起了眼。第二位养子并不晓得自己在为何抬眼。这一抬，是一位在华格涅路一间客厅里被养了十六年、十六年来不曾置身于一间——一位歌女在某支歌的过桥里、于第七小节取半口气，而这支歌乃是他继父舞厅的地板下、一位他继父二月里决断不去晓得姓名的男子所写——的屋子里的十六岁少年的一抬。

这一抬便是这一抬。

房中，在过桥第三小节第三字上，是那间房。

我唱了第三段。

第三段是屋子。我以一位六月二十日清晨一点半被人从门下塞进第三张曲谱的女人的法子唱了那间屋子。我以一位曾感到一个男人的右手贴在她胸腔底端、有三数之久不能正常呼吸的女人的法子唱了那间屋子。我以一位在合约第七年里决断了那间屋子便是一间屋子的女人的法子唱了那间屋子。乐台后那座台上的菲律宾铜管组，在第三段底下按住和弦。托尼的长号在低八度。屋子便是第三段。

我唱了第四段。

第四段是清晨。我以一位曾把一方白棉巾搁在漆盒内格里的女人的法子唱了清晨。我以一位以那一搁、定下了她将以这清晨做何事的女人的法子唱了清晨。清晨便是清晨。第四段便是这一段。

我唱到了尾声。

尾声便是最后那一个母音。

我把最后那个母音抻了七数。我以六月第三个礼拜起风声要我抻的那种法子抻它。我让那母音坐到它不再是一个母音、而成了一间屋子。

房中即是房中。

掌声不是掌声。

掌声是寂静。

那寂静，是一九三七年七月二十五日、百乐门仲夏舞会第二场第三支歌的尾上，四百人一屋子的人，在他们来百乐门——八月前那个礼拜日——的七年里，不曾听过的、以这支歌被唱过的法子唱出的歌之后，那三秒的寂静。

那寂静是四桌一位男子的寂静——他在过桥第七小节处搁下了腕上的木珠，至此尚不曾再搁下别的什么。那寂静是十一桌一位男子的寂静——他在过桥第三小节第三字上搁下了水杯，自尾声以来这一秒里，未尝呼吸。那寂静是廊座第三排一位男子的寂静——他在第三杯威士忌上被挪了位子，又在尾声里晓得了第三杯威士忌。

第四秒上，掌声起。

那掌声，是一九三七年七月二十五日百乐门仲夏舞会上的掌声——这场舞会在第二场第三支歌里，听过了一支为这城里——到八月第二个礼拜之时，便要再没有的那间屋子——而写的歌。

我鞠躬。

我下了乐台。

我从远路沿侧墙、过衣帽间、沿廊栏走到屋角的楼梯。我未上。我又回到底下场上。我沿舞池边上沿至乐台廊。我未去化妆室。我去了厨房廊，沿厨房廊到了冷藏间。厨子坐在凳上。这个七月里的礼拜日，厨子坐在凳上。厨子抬了抬烟斗。厨子点头。厨子未出声。厨子在下午四点便被风声经洗衣娘的表弟之口告知：舞会礼拜日十一点一刻，那穿银色旗袍的歌女会未换衣便从冷藏间过，而厨子要坐在凳上。厨子坐在凳上。

我穿了过去。

我下了楼梯。

我穿着银色舞会旗袍下了那四十二级——左胯里衬的凤纹里有菊花簪，右胯里头的接缝里有兄长那封信、那一束发丝、龙华那方折好的棉布、和那四张百代五线谱稿纸。我下楼梯时，银色金缎贴着楼梯的墙走过，发出一种这楼梯的墙日里不常听见的衣料声。四十二级便是四十二级。倒数第二级上头墙台的碟里那支蜡，正燃。蜡是风声十一点一刻点着的。

我到了底。

我穿过那道拱门。

房中即是房中。

风声在钢琴前。他背对着拱门。他不在弹。他坐着，两手搁在闭着的键盘盖上，盖合着，灯捻得很低，谱架碟里那支蜡正燃。墙边那台德律风根开着，音量按低，刻度盘对着马尼拉频道。礼拜日舞会差一刻午夜的马尼拉频道，已在第二个钟头里转播百乐门的舞会。

马尼拉频道的转播比舞会延了十三分。

差一刻午夜，马尼拉频道正放到那道过桥。

我穿过那间砖屋。

我穿着银色舞会旗袍走过，金缎走着。我走过，并不去想那走着。我走到钢琴侧。我在琴凳侧立住。他不曾转身。

马尼拉频道，在过桥第三小节上，便是那第三小节。

我把手搭在他肩上。

他未动。

我把他转过来。

他在琴凳上转过身来与我相对。面具戴着。面具便是面具。谱架碟里那支蜡照亮他面孔的右侧——那不曾烧过的一侧，自十月第二个礼拜以来我一片片所见的那一侧。烛光里，他面孔的右侧便是他面孔的右侧。眉是黑的。颊自清晨以来不曾刮过。嘴角便是嘴角。

他看着我。

我俯下身。

我在面具边缘与皮肤接缝处，吻了他嘴角的右侧。

面具是凉的。皮肤是温的。

他有三数之久不曾回吻。

到第三数上，他回了吻。

吻便是吻。

他退开。

「婉吟。」

「风声。」

「你还不曾见过我的脸。」

「我不曾求见。」

他望着我。

他有九数之久，除了望着我，什么也不做。

马尼拉频道，到了第四段，便是第四段。墙上那台无线电里第四段，是我的声音在唱清晨——而我此刻身在银色旗袍里、手按在钢琴前那位男子面具的烧过那一侧上。清晨便是清晨。第四段便是第四段。无线电便是无线电。

「那么明晚再来，」他说，「我们来做第二乐章。」

谱架碟里那支蜡，依旧燃着它那一截。

四十二级楼梯，因有厨子在凳上，便是那四十二级。

国家，在这个七月里的礼拜日，尚不曾是那个国家。

房中即是房中。

马尼拉频道便是尾声。

我把那尾声抻住。

我上去了。

Chapter Eighteen — The Mid-Summer Gala

Sunday the twenty-fifth of July.

The Paramount had, in seven years, given seven Mid-Summer Galas. The first had been in 1930, when I had not yet been at the Paramount and had read about the gala the next morning in the Shenbao at the noodle stall on the corner of Sichuan Road N. and Hongkou Park where I had been eating breakfast on the way to Mr. Hong Xiang's for the first time. The seventh had been in 1936, on the Sunday before the August in which Feng Sheng had not yet spoken to me through the mirror, and on which the gala had been a thing I had sung at without knowing the gala was a gala I would, in the seventh year of my Paramount contract, sing at as a woman who had been taught to sing the bridge by a man under the floor.

The eighth gala was the eighth.

The chandeliers had been let down at noon and washed by Mr. Hu the carpenter's two nephews, who had come from Wuxian for the summer, and who had washed each pendant of cut glass with a square of cotton flannel from the linen press at the bandstand corridor. The pendants had been left to dry on a long trestle table covered in butcher's paper in the kitchen pantry. At four the pendants had been re-hung by Mr. Hu himself standing on the tall library ladder he had built in 1932 for the changing of the bulbs.

The bandstand had been rebuilt in three days. Jimmy King had asked, at the Wednesday rehearsal, for a platform to be added at the back of the bandstand so that the Filipino brass section could stand higher than the trombone soloist for the bridge of Night Shanghai. Mr. Hu had built the platform out of crating from the cigarette company's August shipment that had come in early. The crating had been planed and stained on Friday and the platform had been carpeted on Saturday afternoon in a Wilton runner pulled up from the second-floor landing of the staff stair.

The Wilton runner on the second-floor landing was, between Saturday afternoon and the Tuesday I was not thinking about, the runner that had been there in November of 1930 when Pearl had first walked up the staff stair to her audition. Pearl had walked up the runner in a blue cotton dress she had bought in Foshan for two silver dollars and had been hemmed in by her aunt and had been the dress she had been worth at fifteen. The runner had been new in 1930. The runner had, by 1937, the pale stripe along the right edge where seven years of women's heels in the manner of Paramount singers had walked the right side of the runner and not the left.

The bandstand had the platform.

The runner had a pale stripe.

The gala was the gala.

I had been at the dressing room since two. I had had my hair done by Miss Liu the hairdresser at three, in the chignon with the silver pin held by the white camellia she had ordered from the florist on Avenue Joffre on Friday. The silver pin was the pin Pearl had given me in November of 1933 for my eighteenth birthday and which had been, since November of 1933, the pin I had worn at the third song of the second set of any Saturday on which I had been the lead. The white camellia was not the white peony of the second act of Peony Pavilion. Miss Liu had not, at the florist on Friday, asked for a peony. Miss Liu said the camellia and not the peony. The florist on Avenue Joffre said yes, Miss Liu.

The qipao was the silver qipao Mr. Hong Xiang had cut me in May.

The silver qipao had been finished by Mr. Hong Xiang at the table by his East-facing window on the third Saturday of June. The qipao was a long sheath of silver lamé with the dragon at the right shoulder embroidered in pale grey silk thread and the phoenix at the left hip embroidered in pale grey silk thread and the two of them — by Mr. Hong Xiang's hand — looking past each other and not toward each other in the manner of the qipao a woman of twenty-two wore when she had not yet decided what to do with what she had been recognized as. The dragon and the phoenix on a qipao were looking at each other in the qipao of a woman who had been recognized and had decided. The dragon and the phoenix on the qipao of a woman who had not yet decided were looking past each other.

The inside seam at the right hip had, by my own hand at half past four on the morning of the Tuesday I was not thinking about, the brother's letter and the lock of hair from 1925 and a folded square of cotton from Longhua and the four pieces of Pathé staff paper that Feng Sheng had given me on the second Friday of June. The four pieces were the four bars of the bridge of Night Shanghai he had written in the candlelight on the fourth Friday of May after the first time I had sung the bridge through with the half-breath at the seventh measure and the quarter inch in the breath at the third syllable of the third bar and the lower register on the second word of the fourth line.

The qipao had the seam.

The seam had the reliquary.

I had been at the lacquer box on the vanity at five. I had taken the chrysanthemum pin out of the inner partition and looked at it for the count of nine and put it back. The chrysanthemum pin was the pin Mr. Du had given me at Rue Wagner in February. The chrysanthemum pin was not the pin I was wearing in my hair at the gala. The chrysanthemum pin was the pin I would wear at the gala on the inside lapel of the silver qipao at the phoenix at the left hip on the inside lining, where the lining had been hand-stitched into a inner pocket the size of a chrysanthemum pin.

The pin was on the inside lining at the phoenix.

The pin was not in the hair.

The pin was for the man in the parlor at Rue Wagner who would, at the gala at ten, sit at the table by the side window with his third wife and his half-brother and his second adopted son and his physician, and who would be told, by the lift of the right hand at the seventh measure of the bridge, that the pin was in the lining at the phoenix and not in the hair.

The pin was under courtesy.

Yao Sanye was at the third row of the gallery from eight to ten on the gala night. Yao Sanye was, by the third row of the gallery and the seat at the corner of the gallery rail and the brass urn that held the dried jasmine, the man who had been told by Mr. Du in February that the singer was under courtesy and that the courtesy had been extended to the Yao interest at the second cost of the Yao interest's coal contract through the harbour office, which Mr. Du had picked up the second cost of on the third week of March without telling Yao until the fourth week of March that the picking-up had been the picking-up.

Yao Sanye had been displaced.

The displacement was the displacement.

Yao did not yet know.

Major Itō Kensuke was at table eleven at ten. Table eleven was the table at the side window two tables in from the side window. The Major had been moved by the maître d' Mr. Lopes from table four to table eleven at the gala because Mr. Du was at table four. The Major had accepted the moving with the courtesy of a Tokyo banker who had been told that the gala was the gala. The Major had on the navy linen suit and the black seal at the lapel and the new white pocket square folded in the Tokyo-banker's three-point fold and a fresh white camellia at the buttonhole. The camellia was the camellia of the third invitation that had been a dinner at the Cathay on the second Friday of June, at the public table by the window, in Mandarin and English, in which the Major had asked me what I did on Tuesdays at midnight, and I said I sleep. The Major had not, in the seventh course, pressed.

The Major's camellia was the answer of the Major to the sleep.

The Major had been at the public table by the window at the Cathay on the second Friday of June and at the public table by the window at the Cathay on the second Friday of July. The second Friday of July had been the eighth, which had been one day after the bridge at Wanping which Pearl had been telling me about since April. The Major had not, on the second Friday of July at the Cathay, mentioned the bridge. The Major had instead mentioned a poem by Su Shi about a wild geese path in winter that had been quoted at his mother's funeral in 1928. I said I had not heard the poem. The Major said, in his Mandarin, the lines. The lines were:

The wild geese path is not a path the geese have made. The path is a path the geese have remembered.

I had let the lines sit for the count of nine. I said Major, the geese have a good memory. The Major said They have. I am a goose. I had let that sit for a count of three. I said You are not alone in the air. The Major had smiled. The Major had eaten the seventh course. The seventh course had been a filet of John Dory in a buerre blanc with a sprig of dill. The Major said I am, this Friday in July, in the air with a very small flock. I had not asked what flock.

The second invitation had been accepted.

The third invitation had not yet been issued.

The Major would, by Pearl's count, issue the third invitation in the second week of August, on a Friday on which I would, by the eight o'clock at the bandstand, have completed the first set of Night Shanghai in public for the second time, and the third invitation would, by the consulate's deciding in the second week of May which had been the deciding the Tokyo telegrams had been making for the consulate since the second week of March, be the invitation to the private dining room at the consulate at Wuhan Road.

I would, by Pearl's good counsel and Auntie Lin's good counsel and the man under the floor's good silence, decline.

The declining was, on this gala Sunday in July, the declining in the future tense.

The future tense had not yet come.

Mr. Du was at table four with his third wife in the green silk qipao Hong Xiang had cut her in 1934 and his half-brother in a black suit and his second adopted son who was sixteen and his physician Dr. Wang who had attended Mr. Du since 1929. Mr. Du was sixty-nine. Mr. Du had on the mandarin-collar grey gown and the round black skullcap and the rope of dark beads on the wrist that he had been wearing in public since 1934, when he had given up the Western suit at the public dinners on account of his having been told by an old fortune-teller at the Longhua Temple that the suit was not the suit a man of his age wore. The third wife had on the green qipao and the pearls she had been wearing in public since 1935. Dr. Wang had on the dinner jacket of a Settlement physician who had been trained at Edinburgh. The second adopted son had on the dinner jacket of a sixteen-year-old who had been trained at the Shanghai American School.

The room was the room.

I had been at the bandstand by quarter past nine. Jimmy King had on the white tuxedo with the new black bowtie his wife at Yangtsepoo had pressed for him on Saturday. The Filipino brass section was on the platform at the back of the bandstand and the rhythm section was at the front. Tony the trombonist had on the new white tuxedo his Manila tailor had sent him at the second week of June. The Hungarian first violinist Mr. Ferenc had on the new white tuxedo his Hungarian wife had pressed at home and brought to the Paramount in the linen carrier that she always brought it in. The Russian piano had on the fresh white camellia at the upright music desk that Miss Liu the hairdresser had brought up from the florist's second box at six.

I had been at the dressing-room door at quarter past nine.

Mr. Lopes had been at my door.

He had not been at my door at quarter past nine on a Sunday. He was at my door because, at the eight o'clock, a folded note had been brought to him by a kitchen boy whom Pearl had paid two silver dollars to bring the note up at the eight o'clock.

The note was a note for me.

The note was, in Pearl's square hand: the man under the floor sent word by way of the cook by way of me at four. he said sing the bridge the way the bridge has been sung. he said the half-breath. he said the quarter inch. he said the lower register on the second word of the fourth line. he said do not, on the recognition by Mr. Du, look at table four. he said do not, on the recognition by the major, look at table eleven. he said the room is the room. he said if you can hear me you can hear me. — P.

I had read it twice.

I had handed it back to Mr. Lopes.

Mr. Lopes had taken the note. He had folded the note into the leather wallet he carried at the breast pocket of the maître d' jacket. He had bowed by half an inch. He said I have the note. I will not show it to anyone. I said Thank you, Mr. Lopes.

He said Good gala, Miss Su.

I said Good gala, Mr. Lopes.

He had gone.

I had stood at the door for the count of nine. I had not, on the standing, decided anything. The deciding had been made at four on the Sunday afternoon when Feng Sheng had sent the instruction to me at the bandstand four hours before I was at the dressing-room door.

The instruction was the instruction.

The room was the room.

I went out at twenty-five past nine to the back of the gallery. I went along the rail to the stair. I came down the stair at the corner of the room. I went to the bandstand by the long route along the side wall. I climbed the bandstand stair. Jimmy King lifted his eyes. Jimmy King did not nod. Jimmy King had been at the Paramount since 1929. Jimmy King had been told that the third song of the second set was, on this Sunday in July, the song. Jimmy King had not asked which song. Jimmy King had set out the brass arrangement for Night Shanghai in the fourth measure of the second piece on the second set's program.

The second set's program was: Spring Wind Autumn Rain, The Wandering Songstress, Night Shanghai.

The first set's program was: Drizzle of May, Plum Blossom, Walking on the Wide Road, Get Up. The first set was Yao Sanye's set. Yao had been displaced; the set was still Yao's set. The displacement was the displacement of the man and not of the program.

I sang the first set.

I sang it the way Yao Sanye had been having me sing it since 1933. I leaned on the third. I held the long line. I did not take the half-breath at the seventh measure. I did not take the quarter inch. I sang the first set the way Yao Sanye paid me to sing the first set and the way I had, on every Sunday gala in the seven years of my Paramount contract, sung the first set.

Yao Sanye at the gallery did not move. Yao Sanye had not yet seen Mr. Hong Jingming's nephew's folded note. Yao had been told by his men at the door at eight that the gala was the gala. Yao had been told by Mr. Lopes by way of the doorman at half past eight that the singer was the singer. Yao had not been told, until the second whisky, that the second cost had been picked up.

I came off after the first set at half past ten.

I went to the dressing room. I sat at the vanity. I did not, on the sitting, touch the lacquer box. The chrysanthemum pin was in the lining at the phoenix at the left hip. The pin was on Mr. Du's side. The pin would, by Mr. Du's recognition at the seventh measure of the bridge of the third song of the second set, be on the side the pin had been put on by Mr. Hong Xiang's green silk thread.

I drank a glass of water.

I sat for the count of nine.

I went back to the bandstand at quarter to eleven.

The second set began at eleven.

I sang Spring Wind Autumn Rain. I sang it the way Feng Sheng had been having me sing it since the second week of October. I took the half-breath at the seventh measure of the bridge. I took the quarter inch in the breath at the third syllable of the third bar. I sang the lower register on the second word of the fourth line. Mr. Du at table four did not move. Major Itō Kensuke at table eleven did not move. Yao Sanye at the third row of the gallery — by Mr. Hong Jingming's nephew's note delivered at five to eleven at the third whisky — lifted, at the seventh measure of the bridge, two fingers. Yao had been lifting the fingers at the third syllable of every bridge for seven years.

Yao did not, this set, lift them at the third syllable.

Yao lifted them at the seventh measure.

Yao had read the note.

Yao had understood the second cost.

Yao did not, after the seventh measure, look at the bandstand.

I sang The Wandering Songstress. The Hungarian violinist Mr. Ferenc — who had been waiting since the third week of June for the chance to play the obbligato Jimmy King had given him on the second chorus — played the obbligato. He played it the way a Hungarian violinist who had not been heard in Budapest since 1929 played a Chinese folk song he had been having his wife sing to him on Sunday afternoons in their two-room apartment in Hongkew since 1933. The Hungarian violinist's wife sang in a Hungarian Mandarin. The Hungarian violinist played in a Hungarian Chinese. The obbligato was a Hungarian Chinese obbligato. The Filipino brass section at the back of the platform held the chord under the obbligato. Mr. Du at table four — by Mr. Hong Jingming's nephew at the wave at the seventh measure of the second chorus — set down his glass.

The room held.

I came to the third song.

I came to Night Shanghai at eleven minutes past eleven on the eighth Mid-Summer Gala of the Paramount on Sunday the twenty-fifth of July, 1937.

I had been singing Night Shanghai in the basement since the second week of May. I had been singing the bridge in public at the close of the first set since the third week of June. I had not, in public, sung the song with the words.

The song had four verses and a bridge and a coda.

The first verse was the city. The second verse was the dance hall. The third verse was the room. The fourth verse was the morning.

The bridge was the half-breath at the seventh measure.

The coda was the last vowel held until it had stopped being a vowel and had become the room.

I sang the first verse.

The first verse was the city. I sang the city in the lower register Feng Sheng had been having me sing in. I sang the city in the manner of a woman of twenty-two who had been at the Bund at six in the evening on the twelfth of June, 1936, and who had walked from the Bund up Sichuan Road N. with the dusk on her face. The city was the city. The room held.

I sang the second verse.

The second verse was the dance hall. I sang the dance hall in the manner of a woman who had been singing in a dance hall for seven years and had, in the eighth year, decided what kind of dance hall the dance hall was. The dance hall was a dance hall with a Filipino brass section and a Hungarian first violinist and a Russian piano and a black bandleader from Atlanta who had stayed when the others had gone in 1929. The dance hall was the dance hall I was in. The room held.

I sang the bridge.

The bridge was four bars. The bridge was the half-breath at the seventh measure. The bridge was the quarter inch at the third syllable. The bridge was the lower register on the second word of the fourth line. The bridge was the bridge.

Major Itō Kensuke at table eleven did not breathe through the bridge. The Major's water glass at table eleven was at his sternum. The Major's water glass did not, until the third syllable of the third bar of the bridge, set down. The Major's water glass set down at the third syllable. The Major's water glass set down with the click a Cathay water glass made when set on the Cathay's table at the second-largest dance hall in the largest city in Asia by a man who had been recognizing what he was hearing for the eight months he had been recognizing it.

Mr. Du at table four did not move.

Mr. Du turned the dark beads on his wrist by one bead.

Yao Sanye at the third row of the gallery had stopped watching the bandstand at the second verse. Yao Sanye was, at the bridge, watching the second adopted son at table four. The second adopted son at table four was sixteen. The second adopted son had not lifted his eyes from the table since the first verse. The second adopted son lifted his eyes at the third syllable of the third bar of the bridge. The second adopted son did not know what he was lifting his eyes for. The lifting was the lifting of a sixteen-year-old who had been raised in a parlor at Rue Wagner and had not, in sixteen years, been in a room in which a singer had taken a half-breath at the seventh measure of a bridge of a song that had been written under his stepfather's dance hall by a man under the floor whom his stepfather had decided in February not to know the name of.

The lifting was the lifting.

The room was, at the third syllable of the third bar of the bridge, the room.

I sang the third verse.

The third verse was the room. I sang the room in the manner of a woman who had been brought, on the twentieth of June, the third sheet of music under the door at half past one in the morning. I sang the room in the manner of a woman who had felt the right hand of a man at the base of her ribcage and had not been able to breathe correctly for the count of three. I sang the room in the manner of a woman who had, in the seventh year of her contract, decided that the room was a room. The Filipino brass section at the platform at the back of the bandstand held the chord under the third verse. Tony's trombone was at the lower octave. The room was the third verse.

I sang the fourth verse.

The fourth verse was the morning. I sang the morning in the manner of a woman who had laid a white cotton wrapper in the inner partition of the lacquer box. I sang the morning in the manner of a woman who had, by the laying, decided what she would do with the morning. The morning was the morning. The fourth verse was the verse.

I came to the coda.

The coda was the last vowel.

I held the last vowel for the count of seven. I held it the way Feng Sheng had been having me hold it since the third week of June. I let the vowel sit until the vowel had stopped being a vowel and had become the room.

The room was the room.

The applause was not the applause.

The applause was the silence.

The silence was, for three seconds at the end of the third song of the second set of the Mid-Summer Gala of the Paramount on the twenty-fifth of July, 1937, the silence of a room of four hundred people who had not, in the seven years they had been coming to the Paramount on the Sunday before the August, heard a song sung the way the song had been sung.

The silence was the silence of a man at table four who had set down his beads at the seventh measure of the bridge and had not yet set down anything else. The silence was the silence of a man at table eleven who had set down his water glass at the third syllable of the third bar of the bridge and had not, in the second since the coda, drawn breath. The silence was the silence of a man at the third row of the gallery who had been displaced at the third whisky and who had, at the coda, understood the third whisky.

The applause came at the fourth second.

The applause was the applause of a Mid-Summer Gala of the Paramount on the twenty-fifth of July, 1937, that had heard, in the third song of the second set, a song that had been written for the room the city was, by the second week of August, not going to have any longer.

I bowed.

I came down the bandstand stair.

I went, by the long route, along the side wall and past the cloakroom and along the gallery rail to the stair at the corner. I did not go up. I came back down to the floor. I went along the floor at the side of the dance area to the bandstand corridor. I did not go to the dressing room. I went to the kitchen corridor and along the kitchen corridor to the cold-storage room. The cook was on the stool. The cook was, this Sunday in July, on the stool. The cook lifted the pipe. The cook nodded. The cook did not say anything. The cook had been told, by Feng Sheng at four in the afternoon by way of the second cousin of the laundress, that on the gala Sunday at quarter past eleven the singer in the silver qipao would come through the cold-storage room without having changed, and that the cook was to be on the stool. The cook was on the stool.

I went through.

I went down the stair.

I went down the forty-two steps in the silver gala qipao with the chrysanthemum pin in the lining at the phoenix at the left hip and the brother's letter and the lock of hair and the folded square of cotton from Longhua and the four pieces of Pathé staff paper in the inside seam at the right hip. I went down the stair with the silver lamé moving against the wall of the stair with the sound of a fabric the wall of the stair did not habitually meet. The forty-two steps were the forty-two steps. The candle in the saucer on the wall ledge above the second-to-last step was burning. The candle had been lit, by Feng Sheng, at quarter past eleven.

I came to the bottom.

I went through the arch.

The room was the room.

Feng Sheng was at the piano. He had his back to the arch. He was not playing. He was sitting with his hands on the keyboard cover, the cover closed, the lamp at its low, the candle in the saucer on the music desk burning. The Telefunken at the wall was on, the volume down, the dial at the Manila frequency. The Manila frequency at quarter to midnight on the gala Sunday was, for the second hour, broadcasting the gala from the Paramount.

The gala on the Manila frequency was broadcasting Night Shanghai with a thirteen-minute delay.

The Manila frequency was, at quarter to midnight, playing the bridge.

I walked across the brick room.

I walked across in the silver gala qipao with the lamé moving. I walked across without thinking about the moving. I came to the piano. I stopped at the side of the piano stool. He had not turned.

The Manila frequency was, at the third bar of the bridge, the third bar.

I put my hand on his shoulder.

He did not move.

I turned him.

He turned on the piano stool to face me. The mask was on. The mask was the mask. The candle in the saucer on the music desk lit the right side of his face — the unburned side, the side that had been, since the second week of October, the side I had been seeing in fragments. The right side of his face was, in the candlelight, the right side of his face. The eyebrow was dark. The cheek had not been shaved since the morning. The corner of the mouth was the corner of the mouth.

He looked at me.

I leaned down.

I kissed the corner of his mouth on the right side at the seam where the mask's edge met the skin.

The mask was cool. The skin was warm.

He did not kiss back for the count of three.

At the count of three he did.

The kiss was the kiss.

He pulled back.

"Wanyin."

"Feng Sheng."

"You have not seen my face."

"I have not asked to."

He looked at me.

He did not, for the count of nine, do anything other than look at me.

The Manila frequency was, at the fourth verse, the fourth verse. The fourth verse on the wireless at the wall of the brick room was my voice singing the morning while I was in the silver qipao with my hand on the burned side of the mask of the man at the piano. The morning was the morning. The fourth verse was the fourth verse. The wireless was the wireless.

"Then come back tomorrow night," he said, "and we will work on the second movement."

The candle in the saucer on the music desk burned at its level.

The forty-two steps were, by the cook on the stool, the forty-two steps.

The country had not, on this Sunday in July, yet been the country.

The room was the room.

The Manila frequency was the coda.

I held the coda.

I went up.