七部小说 · Seven Novels

第 19 章 ——《华懋饭店的晚餐》

七月三十日，礼拜五。

华懋饭店占了九楼——这是沙逊先生一九三二年定下的，要这一层得外滩之景。一九三七年，这一层是那间得景的餐厅。

七月末一个礼拜五傍晚七点半，外滩的暮色，是一座城的暮色——这座城在三礼拜前听说卢沟桥已被开了火，宛平已成了「桥头事件」。租界报纸说「局势已趋缓和」。礼拜五七点半在外滩读那些报纸的人，并不相信。这暮色，是事变前的城的暮色。

我于礼拜二午夜在地下室告诉了风声那顿晚餐之事，依四月里白珠教我告诉他的方式。我并不渲染，亦不隐瞒。少佐已发了第二次邀。七月三十日礼拜五傍晚七点半，华懋饭店九楼临窗的公席。我已应下。这是三次邀约里的第二次。我会依白珠的好建议、依你的好沉默，回绝第三次。

他不曾，足足九拍里，说出一句话。他坐在钢琴前，台灯捻到最低，蜡烛持在它的高度，双手按在合着的键盘盖上。第三拍上，他抬起右手离了那盖，看了那手，又把它放回去。

他说：告诉我那餐厅的公席。

我告诉了他：朝东的窗，是俯花园桥的那一扇，不是俯海关大楼的那一扇。罗培斯先生的外甥在衣帽间里说，是从角落数过来的第二张桌——那角落归比利时银行家。东侧的椅。西侧另一把椅。

他说：坐东侧。他会坐西侧。你于东侧，七点半时，自窗里得那一捧光。他于西侧，立在影里。

他说——这是他就那顿晚餐说过的、唯一一句不是指令的话——我并不，在这个礼拜二，是你坐到桌子东侧为之坐的那个人。我在钢琴前。钢琴会在它的高度上。你在桌前，会在桌子所在的高度上。你不会在钢琴的高度上。你会在华懋的高度上。

他说：*你会在第二道菜的时候被问起——是谁在指点你。他在百乐门的八个月里不曾问；他在等。华懋是问这话的地方。他会在汤这一道上问，因为汤这一道是公开而可以否认的——他给你拒绝这问的余地。你将以不拒绝来拒绝它。

你将说：一位男士，一九二五年。他那时十九岁。他依年岁论，已不再做这一行了。这位男士便是你哥哥。哥哥那封信、一九二五年的一缕发，缝在右胯里衬中——你依一九三六年自己定下的分寸，有权指他。少佐会在第二道菜上明白：他已被告知了一件真实之事，而他并未被告知答案。他不会再问。

我礼拜五七点半在钢琴前。你将于十点半之前，回到钢琴前来。*

我说：我会。

礼拜五就是礼拜五。

我四点已在化妆室，与刘小姐一同梳那简素的发髻，不上发簪，因少佐不曾赠我簪。我穿着鸿翔先生三月里替我裁的浅灰丝旗袍，那件素净的，领口与左下摆有深灰绣花的，鸿翔先生称之为「一位女子身在某间餐厅里的旗袍——因她被认了出来，因了一件尚未成事之事」。除了林姨在我十二岁那年给我的银镯，我没戴别的首饰。这镯子，是一九一六年林姨自己二十二岁时在爱多亚路那间舞厅里戴过的镯子，也是我告诉她我去考了百乐门那一夜，林姨亲手套上我腕的镯子。这镯子是那件属于你自己的东西。

七点二十我已到华懋的大堂。穿长红制服的门童口里识得少佐的名字——不是写在纸上的——他靠的是数我们在此度过的七个礼拜五。自六月第三个礼拜五起，他便给我那种倾首之礼——华懋的门童对一位他认定、在此刻，是一位「女人」的女子才行的礼。他向我倾首。我穿过大堂。

电梯停在三楼。电梯司是吴先生，一九三四年起便在华懋当差，台山人，台山有一位太太、三个孩子，长子八岁，今年夏天与他一同住在虹口的公寓里。一九三七年华懋的电梯门，由一位并不晓得歌女去九楼是为何事而去的男子合上时，是一种轻轻的咔哒声；吴先生近来已学了那种咔哒声。

吴先生今晚七月的礼拜五里，不曾以那咔哒声合门。

吴先生是慢慢合上的。

他说：少佐于七点一刻已在九楼。他自七点一刻起，便坐在临窗第二张桌的东侧。他自七点一刻起，除了一壶清水，未点别的。他穿一身藏青亚麻西服，换了一方袋巾。袋巾，依舍亲所言，是那种自家用熨斗在礼拜五早上熨平的方折。少佐是独自一人。从厨房数过来的第三张桌上，坐的是领事馆的人。那人没穿制服。那人，依舍亲所言，坐第三桌上，旁边是一位租界记者，七月头一礼拜起，领事馆便一直请这记者喝酒。那人不是冲我们这桌来的。

电梯停在九楼。

电梯门开了。

电梯门开在一处铺地毯的前厅——正中一座中式乌木条案，青瓷瓶里供着一支新鲜的白牡丹。这白牡丹——新摘，茎以斜长之角切下，第七瓣上有一处深斑，是清晨的霜碰过的——并非少佐所订；罗培斯先生的外甥这九个月里一直告诉我，华懋的花房按时令订花。这牡丹是时令的，非少佐的。

我在条案前停了三拍。我以林姨在五点的早晨教我的方式去看那牡丹——教我于战事将临之际如何去看一支牡丹。牡丹便是牡丹。依四月里九点半乐台之上的那「国」论，牡丹便是国。在华懋九楼，它是条案上的国。

桌上的国，在临窗第二张桌的东侧，穿一身藏青亚麻西服。

华懋九楼餐厅的领班已在餐厅门口。不是罗培斯先生，是华懋本店的阿尔梅达先生，自果阿来的，一九三二年起在华懋当差，四点便被告知：那位歌女要被引到临窗的第二张桌。他鞠了躬。

「苏小姐。」

「阿尔梅达先生。」

「这边请，小姐。」

餐厅有朝东与朝西的窗，靠近朝东窗的一角设有一座高起的台基，上置一架贝希施坦大三角——是沙逊先生一九三一年在酒店两周年时所赠。七点半时，一九三〇年起便在华懋的俄罗斯钢琴师马尔科维奇先生，正以半速弹他新编的《夜上海》。他是七月二十五日仲夏晚会的电波播出里、在马尼拉电台上听来的。我走过去时，未看他。

我穿过餐厅，走到临东窗的第二张桌。

伊藤健介少佐站起身。

他穿一身藏青亚麻西服，新换的白袋巾作平折，襟上别着日本帝国海军的黑色徽章，扣眼上插一朵新摘的白山茶。那白山茶不是华懋花房的山茶。那是私下的山茶。那山茶，依我自己的数算，是这样一位男子的山茶：他傍晚六点在武汉路领事馆的私家花园里剪下一朵新鲜的白山茶，亲手别在扣眼上。

「苏小姐。」

「少佐。」

「请。」

我坐东侧。他坐西侧。

朝东窗外，外滩的暮色，便是暮色。江便是江。浦东那一岸的灯尚未点亮。外滩这一岸的灯亮着。海关大楼亮着它的白灯。汇丰银行亮着它的白灯。外滩排着一排灯——是一座城在一九三七年七月末礼拜五傍晚七点半的太平之灯。

少佐落座之后，并不做什么。

他等足了九拍。

他说：苏小姐，今晚阿尔梅达先生有一尾新到的河鲜可推荐。我不替我们两人点。你点你要点的。

阿尔梅达先生过来了。我们点了菜。我们二人都依阿尔梅达先生之荐：第二道点河鲜，第七道点奶油烩小牛，第三道青菜沙律，第四道清汤，第六道柠檬冰糕，第九道千层酥，第十道意式浓咖啡，第十一道一杯干邑。

阿尔梅达先生鞠了躬，退下了。

少佐在阿尔梅达先生退下、与那壶清水送到我手边之间，望了望江。

他说：您于七月二十五日晚会第二场第三首歌里，唱过《夜上海》那一段桥段——以一种我在九座城里听女子唱歌的十四年间，不曾听过的方式。我那时坐十一号桌。我是因了罗培斯先生在九点半门口的好眼力，由四号桌移过去的。我坐十一号，因杜先生坐了四号。第二场第三首时，我坐十一号桌上，一壶清水、一片白汁多宝鱼柳，一枝莳萝。在桥段的第七小节上，我不曾呼吸。您自十月八日起一直在唱，以一种我自十一月第二个礼拜五起，便一直在试图辨认其师承的方式唱。八个月里，我不曾辨出。七月二十五日，我不再试着辨那师承了。我今天，在这七月末的礼拜五，要问您一个问题。这问题，便是我为第二次邀约存下的问题。您于阿尔梅达先生入门时的那一躬里，便已明白：我一直在为第二次邀约存着这问题。第二次邀约便是第二次邀约。问题便是问题。

他顿了一下。

他说：苏小姐，是谁在教您把《夜上海》那段桥的第七小节，以七月二十五日您所取的那半口气，安在那里？

我让这问题搁了三拍。

那壶清水在我手边。桌东侧的灰色丝旗袍兜住了从朝东窗里漏入的暮色。台基上的贝希施坦以半速弹着第二乐章。台基上的马尔科维奇先生没有望临东窗的第二桌。

我说——我以风声礼拜二午夜在地下室教我的方式说——少佐，一位男士，一九二五年。他那时十九岁。他已不再做这一行了。

少佐看着我。

少佐把那壶清水放下半寸。

他说：那位一九二五年的男士。他那时十九岁。他已不再做这一行了。我替那一年觉得抱歉。

他足足六拍里，不曾说一句话。

阿尔梅达先生上了第二道的河鲜。

那鱼便是鱼。那鱼小。鱼配的是华懋自一九二八年起便进口的波尔多干白。华懋自一九二八年起，便从霞飞路那位进口商处一箱一箱买这酒。七月末礼拜五的这一瓶，来自七月第二礼拜进的那一箱。

少佐吃鱼的方式，是一位男子的方式——一九二二年在东京帝国大学，由一位法国教授教他如何在法式餐厅里吃一尾新河鲜。我吃鱼的方式，是一位女子的方式——一九二九年在上海美国学校，十一月的演奏会之后，由 Whitford 太太那位资深音乐老师在礼查饭店里教过我。

少佐在吃鱼时说：卢沟桥。

他说：那座桥在宛平。那座桥，于七月七日，被一支日本陆军在傍晚操演中的部队开了火。这火，便是租界报纸自七月第二礼拜起所称的「桥头事件」。这火，并不是「桥头事件」的那一种火。我告诉您一件我未被授权告诉您的事。我告诉您，是因为我此刻坐在华懋九楼临东窗第二张桌的东侧，而坐在桌子东侧的这位女子，是一位我未被授权不告诉她的女子。

我说：这一告诉，我不会复述。

他说：我便仰仗这不复述。

我说：您仰仗。

他说：那一火，是第三方所为。第三方不是中国军。第三方不是桥头的那支团。第三方是桥头的一支部队，其命令我们尚未能确定。那些命令，自七月第二礼拜起，作为北方驻屯军司令部的命令抵达东京。北方驻屯军司令部于七月第二礼拜，是——依我自一九三六年十一月起、对东京电报这八个月里所作的近察——一位等了一座桥的将军的司令部。这位将军，依我所读，已断定宛平之桥便是那座桥。这位将军，依我所读，并未被授意去断定。是他自己断定的。这位北方驻屯军司令部之将军的那一断，自七月第二礼拜起，便是在替东京的电报作断了。东京的电报，自七月第三礼拜起，便是在替领事馆作断了。领事馆替领事馆里的参谋军官作断。领事馆里那位参谋军官，便是七月末礼拜五华懋九楼临东窗第二桌东侧坐着的人。陆军不想要一场对华之战。领事馆不想要一场对华之战。外务省不想要一场对华之战。北方驻屯军司令部已断定要一场对华之战。陆军会有那场北方驻屯军司令部已断要的对华之战。陆军将有的那场对华之战，将在八月第二或第三礼拜——一场领事馆将作为其领事馆的战。我今晚在这七月末的礼拜五坐在此桌前，是要告诉您一件我——依我所代表的这国家之礼——本无权告诉您的事。我之所以告诉您，是因为我今晚在这七月末的礼拜五，是我自己这个人，不是我所代表的那个国家，也不是国家已断定到八月第三礼拜我将成为的那位参谋军官。

我望了望江。

那江——在七月第二礼拜与七月第三个礼拜五之间，在华懋九楼之上——承载了一九三七年七月末礼拜五傍晚七点半外滩的那份枯重。

我说：我承您之情。

他说：我抱歉。

我说：您抱歉。

他说：我是。

我们已用过了鱼、沙律、清汤、冰糕。少佐不曾再问。第七道是奶油烩小牛。我们用了它，是按这般方式——一位一九二二年在东京帝大受训的日本参谋军官，一位苏州生、一九二九年在礼查饭店由 Whitford 太太教过的歌女。

少佐在用小牛时说：那首诗。

他说：雁阵之路。我是一只雁。

我说：您不是空中独自一只。

他说：我今晚在这七月末礼拜五、在华懋九楼临东窗第二桌东侧的这一桌，与我七月第二个礼拜五时在空中相伴的那一群相比，已是更小一群。

我说：七月第二个礼拜五的那一群，雁数曾不少。

他说：曾不少。

我说：今晚七月末礼拜五这一群，雁数已少。

他说：已少。

我说：那些雁，落了么。

第七与第九之间，台基上的马尔科维奇先生已自第二乐章过到了第三乐章。第三乐章，是他依五月第三个礼拜五时俄罗斯人的好分寸，于礼拜五九点半时不弹的那一段——他改弹《起来》。今天七月末礼拜五，他却弹了《夜上海》的第三乐章。少佐未看他。少佐看着我。

他说：我会在某一月里，发出第三次邀约。第三次邀约，将是请您到武汉路领事馆的邀约。那邀约，将是请到一间私席的邀约。那一间私席，将属于一位男士——一位我到八月第三礼拜，便再也不能完全推辞着不去做的男士。我此刻告诉您，在这七月末礼拜五华懋九楼临东窗第二桌东侧之上，第三次邀约将会发出。第三次邀约将会发出，是因为——依北方驻屯军司令部的那一断——第三次邀约将不会是由我发出的邀约。第三次邀约将是领事馆发出的邀约。领事馆是借我之手发出。我便是这桌前之人。我请您回绝。

我让它搁着。

我说：我承您之情。

他说：我尚未说完。

我说：未。

他说：我会在某一月里发出第三次邀约，因领事馆要发。您将依我所数算，回绝。这一回绝是您的，不是那国的。这一回绝，将不是领事馆能担得起去接受的那种回绝。

我说：领事馆将担不起接受什么。

他说：那回绝。领事馆，在某一月里，将是一国之领事馆——而该国，将与今晚七月末礼拜五我居其九楼的这国家交战。领事馆，在某一月里，将不再是领事馆。领事馆，到八月第三礼拜，将归陆军所有。陆军，到八月第三礼拜，便是那国。

我说：您是这桌前的男士——而非那国家依其断定、所断定您将成为的那位参谋军官，至少今晚在这七月末礼拜五里是。

他说：是。

我说：您在某一月里，可还是这桌前的男士？

他足足九拍里，不曾说一句话。

他说：不是。我承您一问之情。

千层酥在第九道上来，是华懋来自里昂的糕点师贝特朗先生做的——他自一九二八年起，每礼拜五都做。我们用了它。

意式浓咖啡在第十道上来。拉瓦扎自一九三二年起便在华懋了——这是一位美国酒店家在一九三二年六月一次私宴上听沙逊先生提过华懋正考虑此事之后，买来相赠的礼物。

我们喝了那咖啡。

那一杯干邑在第十一道上来。干邑出自华懋的酒窖——沙逊先生自一九二九年起便为这间南京路与外滩转角的酒店一直备着。

我没喝。

少佐没喝。

我们让它搁着。

我们结了账。少佐结账的方式，便是一位男子结账的方式——他于一九三七年七月末礼拜五在华懋九楼临东窗第二桌东侧坐着：黑皮夹、白折好的纸条、阿尔梅达先生于十点半夹进皮制账夹里、十一点差一刻签了字、阿尔梅达先生在账夹一角行的那一躬。

我们站起身。

少佐让我先走。

我穿过餐厅，向门口走去。台基上的马尔科维奇先生已止了琴。台基上的马尔科维奇先生已站起。台基上的马尔科维奇先生倾下了头——以一九三七年七月末礼拜五华懋的一位俄罗斯钢琴师，向曾是「桌前的那位女子」的歌女倾首之礼。

阿尔梅达先生在门口。

他鞠了躬。

我鞠了躬。

我走出去到前厅。青瓷瓶里那支牡丹便是牡丹。我没望那牡丹。

少佐到了我身边，在前厅里。

他说：吴先生在电梯里。我请吴先生送您到大堂。

电梯随铜铃声而至。吴先生开了门。吴先生未看少佐。吴先生看着我。吴先生说：九楼到大堂，小姐。

我说：九楼到大堂，吴先生。

电梯下行。

少佐与我立在电梯两侧。少佐于八楼、于七楼、于六楼，看着我。五楼时，他望了望电梯的地板。

我们到了大堂。

电梯门开了。

我穿过大堂。穿长红制服的门童倾下了头。我也倾下了头。少佐在我身后，依一九三七年七月末礼拜五十一点二十五分时一位日本参谋军官跟在一位苏州歌女身后的距离——走着。

门童叫了一辆人力车。

我说：Goodnight。他说：Goodnight。我们彼此倾首。我上了车。车走了。车走时，我没回头。

到了南京路与云南路口，我回了头。少佐在华懋门廊那里。少佐站在门口长红地毯一角的第二级阶上。少佐望着南京路与云南路口。少佐倾下了头，半寸。

我没倾下我的。

车转了弯。

我于一九三七年七月末礼拜五十一点二十八分，在南京路上向西去，穿着鸿翔先生三月里替我裁的浅灰丝旗袍，腕上是林姨那只小小的银镯，右胯里衬中藏着哥哥一九二五年的信与那一缕发、龙华那块叠好的白棉布、四张百代乐谱纸；左胯凤纹内袋里，是那枚菊花簪。

南京路与西藏路口，离华懋三个街区西的一家露天咖啡馆里，里数过来第三张桌前，坐着姚三爷。他坐在一张藤桌前，桌上两杯威士忌，旁边坐着一位穿灰色西服、袋巾作东京银行家三角折的男子。这张脸我见过两次——一月里华懋的下午茶舞会上、三月第三个礼拜五少佐在乐台走廊里那一回。他便是吴先生的舍亲所说的那位领事馆里的人。

姚三爷未见我。他四分之三背向南京路而坐。那位领事馆里的人正面朝南京路。他见了我。他没向姚三爷作任何示意。他放下杯子，足足九拍里再未拿起。

车已过了那转角。

那转角已过了我。

我在车上坐了九拍。

我想着第二乐章、第三乐章、第三次邀约，想着一九二五年那位十九岁、已不再做这一行的男士，想着一九三四年在音乐学院、亦不再做这一行的那位男士，想着地板下那位男子、想着一点半时立在自己门口的白珠、想着躺椅上的林姨；又想着一九三七年七月末礼拜五十点半时、华懋九楼前厅里青瓷瓶里那支白牡丹。

那国，曾穿一身藏青亚麻西服，坐在桌前，说：我请您回绝，又说：我尚未说完，又说：我，在某一月里，将不再是这桌前的男士。

我闭上眼九拍。

我睁开眼。

车到了虹口那条弄堂口时，是一点差一刻。

那条弄堂便是那条弄堂。

那国，在一点差一刻虹口那条弄堂里，在弄堂之外。

林姨在躺椅上。

她醒着。

她开着风琴上方的无线电，调在马尼拉的频率。马尼拉频率在一点差一刻——今夜礼拜五——播着马尼拉某座厅里的弦乐四重奏，演奏舒伯特。

「阿良。」

「姨。」

「坐。」

我坐。

「你吃了。」

「吃了。」

「他问了。」

「问了。」

「你说了。」

「我说一九二五年那位男士。我说他十九岁。我说他已不再做这一行。」

「好。」

「姨。」

「嗯。」

「他告诉了我一件事。」

「嗯。」

「他告诉我北方驻屯军司令部已断定了。他告诉我到八月第二礼拜或第三礼拜，领事馆将是一国之领事馆——而该国，将与我所歌唱的这国家交战。」

她默着。

她足足九拍里，除了看那风琴，什么都不做。

「阿良。」

「嗯。」

「他告诉你，是因为他是一只雁。」

「嗯。」

「雁正在落。」

「嗯。」

「国，要来了。」

「嗯。」

「你没接第三次邀约。」

「他还未发。」

「他会发。」

「嗯。」

「你会回绝。」

「嗯。」

她默着。

「阿良。」

「嗯。」

「少佐是第二朵牡丹。」

「嗯。」

「第三朵牡丹不会是一朵牡丹。」

「不会。」

「会是一件军服。」

「嗯。」

「睡。」

「嗯。」

我回了房。

我躺下。

我闭上眼又睁开，再闭上，便睡了。

梦里，华懋的贝希施坦已被换作百乐门下那间砖室里的那架。坐在前面的，是戴面具的那个人。他以半速弹着《夜上海》的第二乐章。餐厅是空的，只有那张桌子在东侧。两把椅都空着。鱼未上。那壶清水在我位上。外滩的灯亮着，浦东的灯亦亮，江便是江。

雁阵之路并不是雁走出来的路。那路，是雁记下的路。

我五点醒来。

我去了风琴前。我揭开盖。漆盒里——自礼拜五一点半起——内格里除了那枚菊花簪与白棉布之外，多了第二件附加之物：少佐四月九日的那张名片。我在晚会后那个礼拜日，不曾经过决定，便把它从妆台抽屉里取出，藏在右胯里衬中带回了家。这取回之事，我方才记起。

三件物事并排放在内格中：簪是杜先生，棉布是伊藤少佐，名片是伊藤少佐。第四角空着。

我合上漆盒的盖，又合上风琴的盖。弄堂便是弄堂。国，在格子的第二与第三角，在漆盒里。第四角，到天明尚未填上。

我会，于礼拜二午夜，告诉地板下那位男子第二乐章、第三次邀约、华懋以西三个街区藤桌前那位男子之事。他会，到了礼拜五，作出决断。

我又睡了第二觉，直到七点。

我梦见了江。

那江，承载着一九三七年七月末礼拜五傍晚七点半外滩的那份枯重。江将在某一更后之月里，承载这国。

我七点醒来。

弄堂便是弄堂。

Chapter Nineteen — Dinner at the Cathay

Friday the thirtieth of July.

The Cathay had the ninth floor — by Mr. Sassoon's 1932 instruction, the floor that had the view of the Bund. In 1937 it was the floor of the dining room with the view.

The dusk on the Bund at half past seven on a Friday in late July was the dusk of a city that had heard, three weeks earlier, that the Marco Polo Bridge had been fired upon, and that Wanping had become the bridge incident. The Settlement papers said tensions had eased. The men who read the papers on the Bund at half past seven did not believe it. The dusk was the dusk of the city before.

I had told Feng Sheng about the dinner on the Tuesday at midnight in the basement, in the manner Pearl had told me to tell him in April. I had not embellished, I had not withheld. The Major has issued the second invitation. The Cathay on the ninth floor at the public table by the window, Friday the thirtieth of July at half past seven. I have accepted. The invitation is the second of three. I will, by Pearl's good counsel and your good silence, decline the third.

He had not, for the count of nine, said anything. He had been at the piano with the lamp at its low and the candle at its level and his hands on the keyboard cover with the cover closed. On the third tick of the count he had lifted his right hand from the cover, looked at the hand, and set it back.

He said: Tell me about the dining room at the public table.

I had told him: East-facing window, the one over the Garden Bridge and not the one over the Customs House. Mr. Lopes's nephew at the cloakroom said the second table from the corner — the corner being the Belgian banker's. Chair on the East. The other chair on the West.

He said: Take the East. He will take the West. You will, by the East, have the bowl of light at half past seven from the window. He will, by the West, be in the shadow.

He said — and this had been the only thing he said about the dinner that was not an instruction — I am not, on this Tuesday, the man you sit at the East side of the table for. I am at the piano. The piano will be at its level. You will, at the table, be at the level the table is. You will not be at the level of the piano. You will be at the level of the Cathay.

He said: *You will, in the second course, be asked who has been training you. He has not asked in the eight months he has been at the Paramount; he has been waiting. The Cathay is the place of the asking. He will ask at the soup because the soup is public and deniable — he will be giving you the chance to refuse the question. You will refuse it by not refusing.

You will say: A man in 1925. He was nineteen. He is, by the year, no longer at this work. That man is your brother. Your brother's letter and the lock of hair from 1925 are in the lining at the right hip — you have, by your own decision in 1936, the right to refer to him. The Major will, by the second course, understand he has been told a true thing he has not been told the answer to. He will not ask again.

I will be at the piano on the Friday at half past seven. You will, by half past ten, come back to the piano.*

I said: I will.

The Friday was the Friday.

I had been at the dressing room at four with Miss Liu and the simple chignon with no pin, since the Major had not given me a pin. I had on the pale grey silk qipao Mr. Hong Xiang had cut me in March, the plain one with the dark grey embroidery at the collar and the left hem, the one Mr. Hong Xiang had called the qipao of a woman who is in a dining room because she has been recognized for a thing that is not yet a thing. I had no jewelry except the small silver bracelet Auntie Lin had given me at twelve. The bracelet was the bracelet Auntie Lin had been wearing herself at twenty-two at the dance hall on Edward VII in 1916, and which had been the bracelet Auntie Lin had put on my wrist on the night I had told her I had taken the Paramount audition. The bracelet was the thing that was yours.

I had been at the Cathay's lobby at twenty past seven. The doorman in the long red livery had known the Major's name in his own mouth and not in writing, by his counting on the seven Fridays of our being there. Since the third Friday in June he had taken to giving me the inclination of head a Cathay doorman gave a woman he had decided, for the present hour, was a woman. He gave me the inclination. I crossed the lobby.

The lift had been on the third floor. The lift attendant had been Mr. Ng, who had been at the Cathay since 1934 and was from Toishan and had a wife in Toishan with three children, the oldest of whom was eight and was, this summer, with him at the apartment in Hongkew. Mr. Ng had taken to closing the lift gates with the soft click of the lift gates of the Cathay in 1937 when closed by a man who had not known what the singer was going to the ninth floor for.

Mr. Ng had not closed the gates with the click on this Friday in July.

Mr. Ng had closed them slowly.

He said: The Major is at the ninth at quarter past seven. He has been at the East side of the second table at the window since quarter past. He has not, since quarter past, ordered anything other than the carafe of water. He has on the navy linen suit and a different pocket square. The pocket square is, by my cousin, a folded square of the kind a man wears who has pressed it himself with his own iron on the Friday morning. The Major is alone. There is, at the third table from the kitchen, a man who is the consulate's man. The man is not in uniform. The man is, by my cousin, at the third table with a Settlement journalist whom the consulate has been buying drinks for since the first week of July. The man is not for our table.

The lift had stopped at the ninth.

The lift gates had opened.

The lift gates had opened on a carpeted vestibule with a Chinese ebony console at the center and a fresh white peony in a celadon vase. The peony — fresh, stem cut at a long angle, the dark spot at the seventh petal where the morning's frost had touched it — had not been ordered by the Major; Mr. Lopes's nephew had told me for nine months that the Cathay's house florist ordered them in season. The peony was the season's, not the Major's.

I had stopped at the console for the count of three. I had looked at the peony the way Auntie Lin had, on the morning at five, taught me to look at a peony at the eve of a war. The peony was a peony. By the country at the bandstand at half past nine in April, the peony was the country. At the Cathay on the ninth, it was the country at a console.

The country at the table was at the East side of the second table at the window in the navy linen suit.

The maître d' of the Cathay's ninth-floor dining room had been at the door of the dining room. He had not been Mr. Lopes; he had been the Cathay's own Mr. Almeida from Goa, who had been at the Cathay since 1932 and had been told at four that the singer was to be brought to the second table at the window. He had bowed.

"Miss Su."

"Mr. Almeida."

"This way, Miss."

The dining room had East-facing and West-facing windows and a Bechstein grand on a raised dais at the corner near the East-facing windows — Mr. Sassoon's 1931 gift on the hotel's second anniversary. At half past seven Mr. Markovich, the Russian piano-player at the Cathay since 1930, was playing his new arrangement of Night Shanghai at half tempo. He had heard it on the Manila wireless at the broadcast of the Mid-Summer Gala on the twenty-fifth of July. I did not look at him on the walking.

I walked across the dining room to the second table at the East-facing window.

Major Itō Kensuke stood.

He had on the navy linen suit and the new white pocket square in a flat fold and the black seal of the Imperial Japanese Navy at the lapel and a fresh white camellia at the buttonhole. The camellia was not the camellia of the Cathay's florist. The camellia was a private camellia. The camellia was, by my own counting, the camellia of a man who had clipped a fresh white camellia from a private garden at the consulate at Wuhan Road at six in the evening and had pinned it himself at the buttonhole.

"Miss Su."

"Major."

"Please."

I sat on the East. He sat on the West.

The dusk on the Bund through the East-facing window was the dusk. The river was the river. The lights on the Pudong side had not been turned on. The lights on the Bund side were on. The Customs House had its white lights. The Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank had its white lights. The Bund had the row of lights of a city that had been at peace at half past seven on a Friday in late July, 1937.

The Major did not, on the sitting, do anything.

He waited for the count of nine.

He said: Miss Su, Mr. Almeida has a fresh river fish tonight he will recommend. I will not order for both of us. You will order what you order.

Mr. Almeida had come. We ordered. We both took the fish at the second course and the veal in cream at the seventh, the green salad at the third, the consommé at the fourth, the lemon sorbet at the sixth, the mille-feuille at the ninth, espresso at the tenth, and the glass of cognac at the eleventh on Mr. Almeida's recommendation.

Mr. Almeida had bowed and gone.

The Major had — between Mr. Almeida's going and the carafe of water being brought to my side — looked at the river.

He said: You sang the bridge of Night Shanghai on the twenty-fifth of July, at the third song of the second set of the gala, in a manner I have, in fourteen years of listening to women sing in nine cities, not heard. I was at table eleven. I was, by Mr. Lopes's good sense at the door at half past nine, moved from table four. I was at table eleven because Mr. Du was at table four. I was, at the third song of the second set, at table eleven with a carafe of water and a filet of John Dory in beurre blanc and a sprig of dill. I did not, at the seventh measure of the bridge, breathe. You have been singing since the eighth of October in a manner that I have, since the second Friday of November, been trying to identify the schooling of. I have not, in eight months, identified it. On the twenty-fifth of July I stopped trying to identify the schooling. I am, on this Friday in late July, going to ask you a question. The question is the question I have been saving for the second invitation. You will, by Mr. Almeida's bow at the entry, have understood that I have been saving the question for the second invitation. The second invitation is the second invitation. The question is the question.

He had paused.

He said: Miss Su, who has been teaching you to phrase the bridge of Night Shanghai at the seventh measure with the half-breath you took on the twenty-fifth of July.

I had let the question sit for the count of three.

The carafe of water was at my side. The grey silk qipao at the East side of the table caught the dusk through the East-facing window. The Bechstein at the dais played the second movement at half tempo. Mr. Markovich at the dais was not looking at the second table at the East-facing window.

I said — and I said it the way Feng Sheng had on the Tuesday at midnight in the basement told me to say it — Major, a man in 1925. He was nineteen. He is no longer at this work.

The Major had looked at me.

The Major had set down the carafe of water by half an inch.

He said: The man in 1925. He was nineteen. He is no longer at this work. I am sorry for the year.

He had not, for the count of six, said anything.

Mr. Almeida had brought the fresh river fish at the second course.

The fish had been the fish. The fish had been small. The fish had been served with the dry white wine from the Bordeaux import that the Cathay had been importing since 1928. The Cathay had been buying the wine by the case from the importer at Avenue Joffre since 1928. The bottle on the Friday in late July had been from the case of the second week of July.

The Major had eaten the fish in the manner of a man taught at the Tokyo Imperial University in 1922 by a French professor of how to eat a fresh river fish at a French dining room. I had eaten it in the manner of a woman taught at the Shanghai American School in 1929 by Mrs. Whitford the senior music teacher at the Astor Hotel after the November recital.

The Major said, at the eating of the fish: The Marco Polo Bridge.

He said: The bridge was at Wanping. The bridge was, on the seventh of July, fired upon by a detachment of the Japanese army on an evening exercise. The firing was the firing the Settlement papers have, by the second week of July, called the bridge incident. The firing was not the firing the bridge incident. I am telling you something I have not been authorized to tell you. I am telling you because I am at a table at the Cathay on the ninth floor at the East side of the second table at the window, and the woman at the East side of the table is a woman I am not authorized not to tell.

I said: I will not repeat the telling.

He said: I am relying on the not-repeating.

I said: You are.

He said: The firing was a third party. The third party was not the Chinese army. The third party was not the regiment at the bridge. The third party was a unit at the bridge whose orders we are not yet certain of. The orders, by the second week of July, are arriving in Tokyo as the orders of the Northern Garrison Command. The Northern Garrison Command at the second week of July is, by the close attention I have been giving to the Tokyo telegrams for the eight months since November of 1936, the command of a general who has been waiting for a bridge. The general has, by my reading, decided that the bridge at Wanping is the bridge. The general has not, by my reading, been told to decide. The general has decided. The deciding by the general at the Northern Garrison Command is, by the second week of July, the deciding that has been deciding the Tokyo telegrams. The Tokyo telegrams are, by the third week of July, deciding the consulate. The consulate is deciding the staff officer at the consulate. The staff officer at the consulate is the man at the table at the East side of the second table at the window at the Cathay on the ninth on the Friday in late July. The army does not want a war in China. The consulate does not want a war in China. The Foreign Ministry does not want a war in China. The Northern Garrison Command has decided to have a war in China. The army will have the war in China the Northern Garrison Command has decided to have. The war in China that the army will have is by the second week of August or the third — a war the consulate will be the consulate of. I am at this table on this Friday in late July to tell you a thing I have, by the manner of the country I am the consulate of, no right to tell you. I am telling you because at this table on this Friday in late July I am the man I am, and not the country I am the consulate of, and not the staff officer the country has decided I will, by the third week of August, be.

I had looked at the river.

The river had carried, between the second week of July and the third Friday of July at the ninth floor of the Cathay, the dry weight of the Bund at half past seven of a Friday in late July, 1937.

I said: I am grateful.

He said: I am sorry.

I said: You are.

He said: I am.

We had eaten the fish, the salad, the consommé, the sorbet. The Major had not asked again. The seventh course was the veal in cream. We had eaten it in the manner of a Japanese staff officer trained at Tokyo Imperial in 1922 and a Suzhou-born singer trained by Mrs. Whitford at the Astor in 1929.

The Major said, at the eating of the veal: The poem.

He said: The wild geese path. I am a goose.

I said: You are not alone in the air.

He said: I am, on this Friday in late July at the table at the East side of the second table at the window at the Cathay on the ninth, in the air with a smaller flock than I was in the air with at the second Friday of July.

I said: The flock at the second Friday of July had a number of geese.

He said: It had.

I said: The flock on this Friday in late July has a smaller number.

He said: It has.

I said: Have the geese landed.

Mr. Markovich at the dais had moved, between the seventh and the ninth, from the second movement to the third. The third movement was, by his good Russian sense at the third Friday in May, the movement he did not at half past nine on a Friday play — he played Get Up instead. On this Friday in late July he had played the third movement of Night Shanghai. The Major did not look at him. The Major had looked at me.

He said: I will, in some other month, issue the third invitation. The third invitation will be the invitation to the consulate at Wuhan Road. The invitation will be the invitation to a private dining room. The private dining room will be the dining room of a man I will, by the third week of August, no longer be entirely able to refuse to be. I am telling you, on this Friday in late July at the table at the East side of the second table at the window at the Cathay on the ninth, that the third invitation will be issued. The third invitation will be issued because, by the deciding at the Northern Garrison Command, the third invitation will not be the invitation I issue. The third invitation will be the invitation the consulate issues. The consulate is issuing it through me. I am the man at the table. I am asking you to decline.

I had let it sit.

I said: I am grateful.

He said: I am not finished.

I said: No.

He said: I will, in some other month, issue the third invitation because the consulate is issuing it. You will, by my count, decline. The declining will be yours and not the country's. The declining will not be the declining the consulate can afford to accept.

I said: What will the consulate not be able to afford to accept.

He said: The declining. The consulate, in some other month, will be the consulate of a country that is at war with the country whose dining room I am, on this Friday in late July, at the ninth floor of. The consulate, in some other month, will be not the consulate. The consulate, by the third week of August, will be the army's. The army, by the third week of August, will be the country.

I said: You are the man at the table who is not, on this Friday in late July, the staff officer the country has, by the deciding, decided you will be.

He said: I am.

I said: Will you be, in some other month, the man at the table.

He had not, for the count of nine, said anything.

He said: No. I am grateful for the asking.

The mille-feuille had come at the ninth course, made by Mr. Bertrand the Cathay's pastry chef from Lyon, who had been making it on Fridays since 1928. We had eaten it.

The espresso had come at the tenth. The Lavazza had been at the Cathay since 1932, a gift from an American hotelier who had bought it after Mr. Sassoon mentioned at a private dinner in June 1932 that the Cathay had been considering one.

We had drunk the espresso.

The glass of cognac had come at the eleventh. The cognac was from the Cathay's cellar, which Mr. Sassoon had been laying down since 1929 for the hotel at the corner of Nanjing Road and the Bund.

I had not drunk it.

The Major had not drunk it.

We had let it sit.

We had paid the bill. The Major had paid the bill the way a man at the East side of the second table at the window at the Cathay on the ninth on a Friday in late July paid a bill: with the black leather wallet and the white folded note slipped into the leather binder by Mr. Almeida at half past ten and signed at quarter to eleven and the bow of Mr. Almeida at the corner of the binder.

We had stood.

The Major had let me go first.

I had walked across the dining room to the door. Mr. Markovich at the dais had stopped playing. Mr. Markovich at the dais had stood. Mr. Markovich at the dais had inclined his head at the manner of a Russian piano-player at the Cathay on a Friday in late July, 1937, inclining his head at a singer who had been the woman at the table.

Mr. Almeida had been at the door.

He had bowed.

I had bowed.

I had walked out to the vestibule. The peony in the celadon vase had been the peony. I had not looked at the peony.

The Major had come up next to me at the vestibule.

He said: Mr. Ng at the lift. I will, by Mr. Ng, see you to the lobby.

The lift had come at the ringing of the brass bell. Mr. Ng had opened the gates. Mr. Ng had not looked at the Major. Mr. Ng had looked at me. Mr. Ng said: Ninth to lobby, Miss.

I said: Ninth to lobby, Mr. Ng.

The lift had descended.

The Major and I had stood on opposite sides of the lift. The Major had looked at me at the eighth and at the seventh and at the sixth. At the fifth he had looked at the floor of the lift.

We had reached the lobby.

The lift gates had opened.

I had walked across the lobby. The doorman in the long red livery had inclined his head. I had inclined mine. The Major had walked behind me at the distance of a Japanese staff officer walking behind a Suzhou-born singer at the Cathay's lobby on a Friday in late July, 1937, at twenty-five past eleven.

The doorman had hailed a rickshaw.

I said Goodnight. He said Goodnight. We inclined our heads. I stepped into the rickshaw. The rickshaw had moved off. I had not, on the moving off, looked back.

At the corner of Nanjing Road and Yunnan Road I had looked back. The Major had been at the doorway of the Cathay. The Major had been on the second step at the corner of the long red carpet at the doorway. The Major had been looking at the corner of Nanjing Road and Yunnan Road. The Major had inclined his head by half an inch.

I had not inclined mine.

The rickshaw had turned.

I had been on Nanjing Road heading West at twenty-eight past eleven on a Friday in late July, 1937, in the pale grey silk qipao Mr. Hong Xiang had cut me in March, with the small silver bracelet from Auntie Lin at the wrist and the brother's letter and the lock of hair from 1925 and the folded square of cotton from Longhua and the four pieces of Pathé staff paper in the inside seam at the right hip and the chrysanthemum pin in the inner pocket at the phoenix at the left hip.

At the corner of Nanjing Road and Tibet Road, three blocks West of the Cathay, three tables back at a open-air café, was Yao Sanye. He sat at a wicker table with two whiskeys and a man in a grey Western suit and the Tokyo-banker's three-point fold of pocket square. I had seen that face twice — the Cathay tea-dance in January, the Major's third Friday in March at the bandstand corridor. He was the consular man Mr. Ng's cousin had been speaking of.

Yao did not see me. He sat three-quarters away from Nanjing Road. The consular man was full-face to Nanjing Road. He saw me. He did not indicate anything to Yao. He set down his glass and did not lift it again for the count of nine.

The rickshaw was past the corner.

The corner was past me.

I sat at the rickshaw for the count of nine.

I thought about the second movement and the third movement and the third invitation, about the man in 1925 who had been nineteen and was no longer at this work, and the man in 1934 at the Conservatory who was no longer at this work either, about the man under the floor and Pearl at her door at half past one and Auntie Lin at the chaise, and about the white peony in the celadon vase at the ninth-floor vestibule of the Cathay at half past ten on the Friday in late July, 1937.

The country had been at the table in the navy linen suit, and said I am asking you to decline, and I am not finished, and I will, in some other month, no longer be the man at the table.

I closed my eyes for the count of nine.

I opened them.

The rickshaw was at the lane in Hongkou at quarter to one.

The lane was the lane.

The country was, at quarter to one in the lane in Hongkou, outside the lane.

Auntie Lin was on the chaise.

She was awake.

She had on the wireless above the harmonium on the Manila frequency. The Manila frequency at quarter to one was, this Friday, broadcasting a string quartet from a hall in Manila playing Schubert.

"Aliang."

"Auntie."

"Sit."

I sat.

"You ate."

"I ate."

"He asked."

"He asked."

"You said."

"I said the man in 1925. I said he was nineteen. I said he is no longer at this work."

"Good."

"Auntie."

"Yes."

"He told me a thing."

"Yes."

"He told me the Northern Garrison Command has decided. He told me the consulate will be, by the second week of August or the third, the consulate of a country at war with the country I am the singer of."

She was quiet.

She did not, for the count of nine, do anything other than look at the harmonium.

"Aliang."

"Yes."

"He told you because he is a goose."

"Yes."

"The geese are landing."

"Yes."

"The country is coming."

"Yes."

"You did not accept the third invitation."

"He has not issued it."

"He will."

"Yes."

"You will decline."

"Yes."

She was quiet.

"Aliang."

"Yes."

"The Major is the second peony."

"Yes."

"The third peony will not be a peony."

"No."

"It will be a uniform."

"Yes."

"Sleep."

"Yes."

I went to my room.

I lay down.

I closed my eyes and opened them and closed them and slept.

In the dream the Cathay's Bechstein had been replaced by the one in the brick room under the Paramount. The man at it was the man in the mask. He was playing the second movement of Night Shanghai at half tempo. The dining room was empty except for the table at the East side. Both chairs were empty. The fish had not been brought. The carafe of water was at my place. The lights on the Bund were on, and the lights on Pudong, and the river was the river.

The wild geese path was not a path the geese had made. The path was a path the geese had remembered.

I woke at five.

I went to the harmonium. I lifted the lid. The lacquer box had, since the Friday at half past one, a second additional object in the inner partition with the chrysanthemum pin and the white cotton wrapper: the Major's card from the ninth of April. I had, without deciding to, taken it out of the vanity drawer on the Sunday after the gala and brought it home in the inside seam at the right hip. I had only just remembered the bringing.

The three objects sat side by side in the inner partition: the pin was Mr. Du, the wrapper was Major Itō, the card was Major Itō. The fourth corner was empty.

I closed the lid of the lacquer box and the lid of the harmonium. The lane was the lane. The country was, at the second and third corners of the partition, in the lacquer box. The fourth had not, by the morning, been filled.

I would, on the Tuesday at midnight, tell the man under the floor about the second movement and the third invitation and the man at the wicker café three blocks West of the Cathay. He would, by Friday, have decided.

I slept the second sleep until seven.

I dreamed of the river.

The river had been carrying the dry weight of the Bund at half past seven of a Friday in late July, 1937. The river would carry, by some later month, the country.

I woke at seven.

The lane was the lane.