七部小说 · Seven Novels

第 20 章 ——《虹桥》

八月九日礼拜一。

虹桥机场，依礼拜二早晨租界几份报纸的说法，是一名叫大山的日本海军少尉于礼拜一下午五点二十分在第三哨所被击毙的地方。报纸不曾点明那是哪一处哨所，亦不曾点出同被击毙的少尉司机的姓名，亦不曾点出那未被击毙、却被扣押的中国哨兵的姓名。

租界各报说，紧张局势趋缓。

华文各报说，日方挑衅。

礼拜二早晨六点一刻，马尼拉频率的电波里，林姨自一九三三年起便一直在听的马尼拉播音员阿库尼亚先生，以他那口讲究的英文报道：据报，上海一地之局势已由租界工部局掌握。 阿库尼亚先生念这句话的腔调，正是一位自一九三三年起便一直在念租界工部局那口讲究英文的马尼拉播音员的腔调——一位四年来从不相信租界工部局任何报告的播音员。

林姨在贵妃榻上。

她醒着。

自一九三六年十月以来，她不曾在哪一日早上六点一刻便醒着。自一九三三年十一月的那一次中风起，她便按一份时刻表过日子：正午起身，四点喝汤，五点上榻，六点听无线电，八点就寝，礼拜二的午夜醒一回——那是我从地下室回来的时辰——而后睡到十一点，正午再喝汤。这份时刻表已行了八年。

时刻表在仲夏盛大舞会之后的那个礼拜六破了。

时刻表破了，是因为那日下午三点莫朗西医生提着他那只黑色诊包来了，陪林姨坐了一个钟头，然后把我带到风琴前的椅子边，说：苏小姐，我们六月里谈过的脑里的出血，至下午三点的第二次复查，并未消退。据礼拜四我请教过的杜公馆里的王医生说，这并非身子能消退的那种。身子在六十二岁，能消退多少便消退多少。至九月的第二个礼拜，所谓消退，便会成另一份时刻表。

我说：另一份时刻表，亦算时刻表么。

他说：算。是一份睡得更久的时刻表。是一份饭食更少的时刻表。是一份礼拜二更少的时刻表。我心里抱歉。至八月的第二个礼拜六起，我会一礼拜来两回。我同弄堂里第二户的曾太太说过了。曾太太做接生婆已三十年。我不来的日子，曾太太就在弄堂的屋里。她男人的钱我未付。她男人，五月里第二个礼拜五起，便欠了百乐门衣帽间一个人情。这人情便算他男人的工钱。我在舞会后这个礼拜六同你讲，是因为那场舞会就是那场舞会。那场舞会在十一点半到十二点之间那半个钟头里，由马尼拉频率转播了。我在霞飞坊住所里的收音机前听了第二场。我听到了第二场第三支歌的过门。在那过门处，我想到了林太太。我在舞会后这个礼拜六同你讲，是因为那场舞会已是那场舞会，且因为那场舞会，依八月第二周的那种意味，已是这个国之前的最后一场舞会。我同你讲，是因为林太太自礼拜一下午起便一直在榻上问起那场舞会，且因为林太太身子的时刻表，在问起舞会这件事里，已不复是那份时刻表。林太太下午四点便上了榻，并非五点；她五点便开了无线电，并非六点；她午夜醒着，并非在礼拜二，而是在礼拜一、礼拜三、礼拜四。林太太正在告诉自己，那场舞会就是那场舞会；告诉自己，一个六十二岁的女人，倘她女儿在七月里的那个礼拜日、亦即八月第二周的那一场百乐门第八届仲夏盛大舞会上唱了第二场第三支歌的过门，那么她的时刻表，便不再是一个六十二岁的女人可以按自家节奏耗下去的时刻表。礼拜二早晨告诉她。礼拜二早晨便是那个早晨。礼拜一下午有那条新闻。礼拜二早晨有《中法新汇报》的第二栏。礼拜二早晨《中法新汇报》第二栏，据我推算，会有礼拜一下午尚未有的那则虹桥新闻。我同你讲，是因为虹桥乃是一场已经发生的虹桥。告诉她。在那则新闻之后告诉她。告诉她你不会离开上海，因为她在弄堂里，而你不在。

我说：我不会的，医生。

他说：她，据我推算，会在礼拜二早晨那则新闻之后，告诉你你必须走。

我说：我不会走的。

他说：苏小姐，我认得你已三年。我不曾听你用这般口吻说过一件事。我心里感激。

我说：告诉我八月第二个礼拜六的时刻表是何模样。

他说：时刻表便是曾太太正午来弄堂、四点再来。时刻表便是正午一碗汤、六点再一碗。时刻表便是我自六月第二周起一直给林太太的巴比妥，剂量再减三分之一。时刻表便是身子已经走入的那份时刻表。时刻表是你的、我的、曾太太的。时刻表不是这个国的。林太太自礼拜六早晨起，便一直对曾太太说，她会在某个月份做一件事。曾太太告诉我，林太太一直在告诉她，她会在八月的第二周里把一件事做得轻省。曾太太不曾问林太太那件事是什么。我亦不会问。我同你讲，是因为问便是问。林太太要做轻省的那件事，便是这份时刻表。九月里某个礼拜六，你会发现这份时刻表已比它本来更轻省了。我心里抱歉。我不会阻止这种轻省。这种轻省是林太太的。这种轻省不是我的。礼拜六好，苏小姐。

我说：礼拜六好，医生。

礼拜一下午五点便是那条新闻。

礼拜二早晨六点一刻便是带着第二栏的《中法新汇报》。

第二栏便是关于虹桥那一栏。

我在六点半把报纸从门口取了进来。我把它搁在贵妃榻边的小桌上。林姨在榻上，开着无线电，手边一只漆杯里盛着淡茶。马尼拉频率上的阿库尼亚先生，至六点半，尚不曾说出虹桥二字。

「阿良。」

「姨。」

「念。」

我念。

我念那第二栏。

第二栏在第三版上，用的是《中法新汇报》给那些它决定不作头条之新闻所用的细体字。第二栏写着 昨日虹桥，后面写着 下午五时二十分，虹桥机场第三哨所发生枪击事件。一名日本帝国海军军官身亡。一名中国保安队哨兵已被扣押审讯。租界工部局尚未获悉详情。日本总领事馆拒绝置评。

我念了两遍。

我把报纸搁下。

林姨在榻上，握着那只漆杯。她不曾转过头。她把漆杯在榻边小桌上挪了半寸。

「阿良。」

「姨。」

「那海军。那哨兵。那第三道门。阿良。你要离开上海。」

我不曾说话。

我在风琴边的椅子上。我自六点半起便在椅子上。自把报纸取进来起，我不曾离开椅子。六点三刻，从风琴上方的窗子里漏进来的光，是虹口弄堂里一个八月初的礼拜二的薄光。这种光，正是曾太太进到弄堂房子里送新鲜姜汤时所见的光——自礼拜六起，姜汤便是曾太太在六点送来、林姨却还不曾喝下的姜汤。

姜汤在风琴台沿上。

汤尚是温的。

「姨。」

「嗯。」

「我不离开上海。」

「你要走。」

「我不走。」

「阿良。」

「姨。」

「你做过我的女儿。」

「是。」

「你从不曾做过那种回绝我一件事的女儿。」

「这件事我回绝。」

「你不会回绝第二回。」

「我会。」

她不曾说话。

她举起漆杯。她饮了一口淡茶。她又把漆杯搁回小桌上。

她说：第二户的曾太太——自六月里第三个礼拜六起——一直在六点送姜汤来。曾太太送汤来，是因为六月第二个礼拜六，莫朗西医生给了我一只盛着巴比妥的漆瓶——为治那处出血而一直给我开的那种巴比妥。六月第二个礼拜六时，那只漆瓶便是那只漆瓶。八月第二个礼拜二，那只漆瓶亦是那只漆瓶。漆瓶里比六月第二个礼拜六少了一点点。那一点点的少，正是八个礼拜以来我在礼拜二、礼拜五服下的那一点点。那一点点的少，便是漆瓶里少了的一点点。八月第二个礼拜二，漆瓶里亦多了一样它先前没有的东西。那东西便是那份多出来的剂量。那剂量，是曾太太替我添进去的。曾太太替我添，是因为七月里第三周时，我请她添的。添便是添。剂量，在八月第二个礼拜二，便是那剂量。这剂量眼下——在漆瓶里，并不在杯里。这剂量，会在某个早晨——据我推算，亦据曾太太那一手好苏州人情——进到杯里。那个早晨并非今日的早晨。那个早晨将是这个国进到弄堂里的那个早晨。我不会同你讲那个早晨。我同你讲的是，剂量在漆瓶里。这剂量，是这个国不会有空替我做的一件事。我是一八九一年生于苏州的舞女；一九三三年那一次中风，已消退了四年。这个国在八月第二周或第三周，会进到弄堂里。这个国进了弄堂，按它的脾性，是不会同一个六十二岁、躺在榻上的舞女耐心的。我是把这个国挡在门外。这个国到门口的那一日，据我推算，是在你尚未——在礼拜五的乐池或礼拜日的乐池上——被告知须带上胡先生自六月第二周起替你收在第三储物间里的那只皮箱、离开化妆室的那一日。这个国到门口那一日，你会在乐池上。这个国到门口那一日，我会在榻上。这榻是我的。这个国进到弄堂的屋里，会发现一张榻。这个国发现的，是它无法对其有所作为的东西。你会在八月第二周或第三周，同那个在地板下的人一起离开上海。

我说：我不会在八月第二周离开你。

她说：你会。你会走，因为走那个早晨，那榻上将只是一张榻。地板下那个人自六月第二周起，便一直在第三储物间里给你存着一只皮箱，备着去坐一艘自七月第三周起便泊在海关码头第三号埠位上的运煤船离沪。在榻只是榻、这个国到门口的那个早晨，你会离开弄堂。你会去第三号埠位。你会带着那只皮箱，同地板下的那个人一道去。你会带上那只银镯子、哥哥那封信、那缕头发、龙华那块叠好的方棉布、那四张百代的五线谱、那枚菊花簪、少佐的名片、那块白棉布包巾，以及若另有那第二朵牡丹的包巾，亦带上。你不会回绝。八年里你不曾回绝过我。八月第二个礼拜二，你不会回绝。这八年里我做你的养母，是因为一九二九年，在四川北路同虹口公园转角的那爿面摊上，你是那个挎着吴县皮书包的十四岁姑娘——是那个用你在膳宿处镜前练了两个月的舞台官话掩着真正苏州口音、向我讨一个名字的姑娘。你想要个名字，去十一点一刻明月歌舞团的试镜上用。我把「苏婉吟」这个名字给了你。我同你讲，那名字是一九〇五年我在苏州像你那般大时自己想用、却因我父亲那一手好儒家规矩不许我用的名字。这名字是一九〇五年一个我这个年纪的女人决定不用的名字，因为那名字便是那名字。我同你讲，拿去。拿去用一阵子，你不需要的时候再还来。某个早晨还来，阿良。你不需要的时候还来。还到我所在的地方来。我等着。这名字是我的。这名字借给一个十四岁的姑娘已有八年。你离开上海时，它便不再是你的了。你需要多久便顶着它唱多久。能还的时候便还来。我在六十二岁，已不再需要它。我借给你再用一阵子。

她把这名字给过我一回。她又把这名字给了我第二回。

我看了眼风琴。

我哭了。

我哭的样子，正是一个生于苏州、做女儿做了八年的二十二岁姑娘，于一九三七年八月第二个礼拜二的早晨六点三刻，在虹口一处弄堂房子里、风琴前的椅子边——在她养母把她已顶着唱了八年的名字给了她时——哭的那种样子。

林姨在我哭时不曾说话。

她举起漆杯。她饮了一口淡茶。她又把漆杯搁回小桌上。

阿库尼亚先生用英文简短地播了一则关于七月里渣打银行第三个礼拜五银元对港元汇率的报道。

我起了身。

我喝下了曾太太六点送来的姜汤。

我走到风琴前。我掀开琴盖。风琴上的那只漆盒里，自舞会之后那个礼拜六起，便多了第四样东西。这第四样东西，是一个旧纸包——苏州药铺在一九二五年用来包一束草药的那种纸包。这纸包，是林姨在莫朗西医生走后那个礼拜六，从榻底下的漆匣里取出的——那时我正坐在风琴前的椅子上，脑子里满是莫朗西医生那一串法文句子，她便把那纸包搁进了风琴上的漆盒里。

我先前在内层隔板里见过这纸包。我先前不曾打开。

我打开它。

纸包里，是林姨已折了三十一年的一方折好的纸。纸上以一九〇〇年爱多亚路膳宿处里、一个十九岁的苏州舞女工整的手迹，写着一方字——那舞女当年在那张纸上为自己写下了她父亲不许她用的名字之形。字迹写的是 苏婉吟，正是一九二九年林姨在面摊上为我所写的那个样子。

这名字，在一九〇〇年，是写下的。

这名字，在一九二九年，是给出的。

这名字，在一九三七年，是归还的。

我曾在六月第二个礼拜六——林姨递给我那方写有她头一回写下此名的折纸时——把这名字还了回去。

她在六月第二个礼拜六，把这名字还了回来。

她又在八月第二个礼拜二，第二次把这名字还了回来。

我合上漆盒的盖子。

我合上风琴的盖子。

我走到榻边。

我跪在榻边。

我把额头抵在她手上。

她的手在榻边小桌上，是一个生于苏州、六十二岁的女人的手，手旁是那只漆杯。

她在我额头抵上来时，不曾抬手。

她说：礼拜日早晨睡好。你礼拜日要唱舞会。你在舞会上，将做第二场第三支歌时的苏婉吟。你做第二场第三支歌时，将做这名字借给的那个女人。你在礼拜二午夜，将下到地下室。你在礼拜五，将取到胡先生自六月第二周起替你存在第三储物间里的那只皮箱。你在八月第三周，将看到这个国到了门口。

我说：我会在八月第二周，告诉地板下的那个人。

她说：礼拜二告诉他。亦把那支歌告诉他。

我说：那支歌。

她说：第二乐章。亦把第三段告诉他。第三段是那些名字。他自六月起便一直在写那些名字。他一直在写那些名字——一九三四年二月，在闸北第三家印刷所，把那份壕沟名单交给租界探员哈格里夫斯先生的那些人的名字；哈格里夫斯先生把名单转给了武汉路上的领事馆，那领事馆便付了壕沟那头那些人的钱。他一直在写那些名字，是因为那些名字便是那支歌。他一直把它们写在第三段里。他写它们的样子，是一个已经决意要将第三段付与歌唱的人写的样子。

我说：他不曾同我讲。

她说：礼拜二午夜，他会同你讲。他一直在等那个礼拜二——你将在那个早晨问出那道问的问题。问便是问。你会问。他会讲。第三段里那些名字，亦有你哥哥的名字。

我抬眼看过去。

我从榻边抬眼看着她的手。

我看着她的脸。

她的脸，是一九三七年八月第二个礼拜二早晨八点一刻，在一处虹口弄堂屋子里，一个生于苏州、六十二岁的女人的脸。她的眼，是她在一九二九年面摊上的眼，是十二岁那年她在风琴前教我提起那只手镯时的眼，是一九三三年第二次中风后她在榻上的眼，是六月第二个礼拜六她从榻底下漆匣里取出那方折纸递给我时的眼。

「姨。」

「嗯。」

「我哥哥的事，你晓得。」

「自一九二九年十一月第三个礼拜五起，我便晓得你哥哥的事。」

「怎么晓得的。」

「第二户曾太太的男人，从前在龙华停尸房做文书。他四月十二日早晨在停尸房。他四月十三日早晨也在停尸房。十三日的早晨，是他把那日上午收殓的那一栏写下的。那一栏里有这样一个中文名字：沈阿淮，十九岁，吴县，于龙华被押，由租界巡捕吴某下令开枪击毙，尸由同乡堂姊沈阿良，吴县，于同日上午认领。 曾太太的男人认出了你。曾太太的男人告诉了曾太太。曾太太告诉了我。我便晓得了。」

「你不曾告诉我。」

「一九二九年我不曾告诉你，因为你来上海是要做苏婉吟，不是要做那位同乡堂姊沈阿良——这沈阿良一九二九年时早已在租界一份监视名单上，那名单上的都是龙华死难者的家眷。你需要做那个挎着借来名字、在百乐门试镜的十四岁姑娘。我把那名字给了你。我不曾用这桩相认压你。」

「你晓得这桩事，那回一九二九年舞会后第二个礼拜日你在面摊上为我念那一栏字时，你便晓得。」

「我晓得。我还是念了。那一栏字便是那一栏字。那一栏字不得不被念出来。你是一个十四岁的姑娘，一九二九年十一月第二周时还不晓得这个国已经要了你哥哥。我念那一栏字给你听，是因为那一栏字已经是你的了。」

「姨。」

「嗯。」

「地板下那个人呢。」

「第二户曾太太的男人，一九二七年四月十二日、十三日的早晨都在龙华停尸房。曾太太的男人也是那位文书——在同一栏字里写下这样一个中文名字的文书：陆继文，二十一岁，上海，于闸北第三印刷所被押，由租界巡捕吴某下令开枪击毙，尸由同父异母弟陆继元，上海音乐专科学校，于同日上午认领。 这两栏字便在四月十三日的那一页上，在龙华停尸房那张劣纸的同一栏里——隔着两行收殓记录。」

「姨。」

「嗯。」

「地板下的那个人是陆继元。」

「正是。」

「这个，你自一九二九年十一月第三个礼拜五起便晓得。」

「我晓得这名字。直至六月第二个礼拜日凌晨一点半弄堂门下的第三张乐谱出现之前，我并不晓得地板下那个人便是陆继元。自六月第二个礼拜日起，我才晓得地板下那个人，便是那位异母弟弟——一九二七年四月十三日早晨在停尸房，与堂姊之同胞兄长之堂姊在同一处的，正是他。」

「白珠也是这般说。」

「白珠这般说，因为白珠是上海这座城的耳朵。白珠自六月第三周起便晓得这名字。白珠不曾告诉你。白珠——凭着她那一手好心思——任你自己走到了这一步。」

「白珠。」

「是。白珠。还有我。还有地板下那个人。我们三个一直在等。等的是那个你将在那一早问出那道问的问题的礼拜二午夜。那个礼拜二便是今夜。」

「姨。」

「嗯。」

「这一切是你布置的。」

她静了九拍。

她说：不是的，阿良。我不曾布置。布置的是这个国。一九二七年，这个国杀了你哥哥，也杀了陆继文。一九三四年，这个国烧了闸北第三家印刷所，烧了陆继元桌上他异母兄长的手稿、他异母兄长的义弟的笔记、他异母兄长的妻子、以及他异母兄长妻子的名字。一九三六年，这个国把一位被烧得半残的音乐教授送到百乐门下的一间砖屋里——那时木匠在第三储物间，厨子在凳子上，掌灯人在愚园路与万航渡路第二个转角。这个国在十月十七日，把你带到了一支你已在百乐门唱了七年的小曲过门的第七小节、那半口气上。这个国在八月八日下午五点一刻、在虹桥第三哨所，把你带到了八月第二个礼拜二早晨七点三刻——在虹口一处弄堂屋子里，一位六十二岁苏州女人的榻边，她身旁小桌上有一只盛着淡茶的漆杯。这个国一直在布置。布置便是布置。我是那榻。

我静了九拍未语。

「姨。」

「嗯。」

「今夜。」

「今夜。」

「我午夜下去。」

「你下去。」

「我会同他讲虹桥。我会同他讲莫朗西医生。我会同他讲停尸房的那一栏字。」

「你会。」

「我会问他第三段。」

「你会。」

「姨。」

「嗯。」

「你会醒着。」

「我会。」

「曾太太。」

「曾太太在第二户门口的椅子上。曾太太——凭我在六月第二个礼拜六的好安排——会一直坐在椅上等到黄包车回来。曾太太在早晨,会在六点送来姜汤。这碗汤，凭我的手、凭曾太太的手，便是那碗汤。」

「姨。」

「嗯。」

「今夜我不离开你。」

「你要走。你是去地下室。你在天亮前回来。去地下室是一种走。天亮前回来是一种回。这一回便是这一回。那一种走，在八月第二周或第三周，是这榻尚未要求你做的那种走。」

「是，姨。」

「睡到十一点。」

「是。」

我回房去。

我躺下。

我有九拍未阖眼。

我阖上了眼。

我未睡着。

我躺在弄堂屋子后头那张窄床上、那间窄屋子里，想着一九三四年二月闸北第三印刷所里的陆继文先生，想着一九二七年四月十二日早晨六点零六分龙华的我哥哥，想着十三日早晨的那位停尸房文书——便是曾太太的男人——他在同一张劣纸上隔着两行写下了那两行收殓记录；想着音乐专科学校的陆继元在八点半去认领他异母兄长的尸首，想着停尸房里九点半去认领她胞弟尸首的沈阿良。在两行收殓记录之间那一段时间里，他们曾在同一个早晨、同一处停尸房里——比他们日后同处百乐门下那间砖屋早了十一年。他们曾在一条走廊上、或一张案前擦身而过，却不曾看见彼此。

我在窄床上躺了一个钟头。

我九点半起了身。

我在窗边的书桌前坐了两个钟头。我什么都不曾写。我坐着。我想那支歌——《夜上海》第二乐章、第三段、那些名字。

我想那位租界巡捕吴某——一九二七年四月十二日早晨六点零六分，下令开枪击毙我哥哥、亦击毙陆继文的，便是他。我想那位租界探员哈格里夫斯先生——一九三四年，在武汉路领事馆里，他把闸北第三印刷所的壕沟名单交给了一个我那时尚不晓得姓名的日本助理武官。

我想着他们所有人——那第七小节、那半口气、那四分之一寸、第四行第二字上的低音区、那第三段。第三段自一九二七年四月十三日早晨起，便已是第三段。它只是刚刚找到了它自己的小节。

我阖上了眼。

我睡了。

我睡了十一点半到一点一刻之间那一个钟头薄薄的觉。

一点一刻，曾太太叩门。我下到弄堂里，坐黄包车去百乐门，进了化妆室。

我在妆台前坐了九拍。

我未碰那只漆盒。

那枚菊花簪在屏架上挂着的那身银色旗袍里衬里。哥哥那封信、一九二五年那缕头发、龙华那块叠好的方棉布、那四张百代的五线谱、少佐的名片、那块白棉布包巾，以及林姨在六月第二个礼拜六给我的那方折好的纸，都在右胯内缝里。

十一点三刻，我下去。

厨子在凳子上。烟斗在第三次提到嘴边。大麦茶碗在木箱上。

我穿过去。

我下了那四十二级阶梯。

我下到了底。

我穿过拱门。

砖屋还是砖屋。

风声在钢琴边。他不在弹。键盘盖合着。灯捻到了最低。蜡烛在碟里。

我穿过屋子。

我坐在那把椅子上——按新的距离。

我未等满九拍。

他不曾转身。

他把两只手平放在键盘盖上。

我说：沈阿良。吴县人。他十九岁。

他说：我晓得。

我说：我晓得。同我讲讲第三段。

他说：明日。今夜之后那一日。明日我同你讲。今夜，唱。唱第二乐章。我们要在唱过它之后，方才两人都备好那一讲。

他不曾转身。

他打开键盘盖。他把手放在键上。他在第一小节上，弹了第一小节。

我唱。

我唱《夜上海》第二乐章的第一段。

我以他在五月第四个礼拜五烛光下写就此第二乐章的样子来唱。我以低音区来唱。我以一个生于苏州、二十二岁的歌者最贴近的留意来唱——这歌者，在八月第二个礼拜二早晨七点三刻、在虹口弄堂的一处榻边，被她那位六十二岁的养母告知了：地板下钢琴边那个人，乃是她由龙华停尸房一九二七年四月十三日早晨八点半那一栏字所认下的异母弟弟。

我唱了第一段。

我唱了第二段。

他不曾转身。

他弹了过门。

我在第七小节上托住了那半口气。

我在第三小节第三个字上托住了那四分之一寸。

我在第四行第二字上唱出了低音区。

我唱到了第三段。

第三段有六行。前五行是名字。第六行是租界巡捕吴某。

我唱了那五个名字。

到第六行前，唱第六行之前，我唱了那半口气。我曾被教过——在十二月第二个礼拜日、在西安无线电之后第二个地下室礼拜二——那半口气便是这支歌让死者进来的那口气。

那半口气是沈阿淮，是陆继文，是头四个名字所代表的那四个男人。那半口气是死者。

我唱了租界巡捕吴某。

他弹了尾声。

我托住了那末一个母音。

我把那末一个母音托住，直至它已不再是一个母音、而成了这间屋子。

屋子是屋子。

这间砖屋，在一九三七年八月第二周礼拜三的早晨一点一刻，是这样一间砖屋：钢琴边的那个男人，他的异母兄长一九三四年二月被击毙；椅子上的那个女人，她的胞兄一九二七年四月被击毙；他二人有十个月不晓得对方在一九二七年四月十三日早晨为何同在那座停尸房里。

他二人晓得了。

厨子在凳子上。

愚园路那第三个转角的路灯，凭六点掌灯人的手，尚未到第二回熄灭的时辰。

乐池便是乐池。

这个国，在一九三七年八月第二周礼拜三的早晨一点一刻，距租界各报宣告本城已陷入战事，还有三日。

我在八月第三周，要凭这个国到了虹口弄堂的门口，离开上海。

我在离开那个早晨，还不会晓得自己要离开了。

我在那把椅子上、按新的距离，坐了九拍。

我起身。

我走到钢琴边。

我把手放在他右肩上。

他不曾转身。

他任那只手留着。

我上去。

那四十二级阶梯还是四十二级阶梯。

凳子上的厨子点了点头。烟斗在第三次提到嘴边。

愚园路与万航渡路转角那盏路灯，一直亮到两点一刻方熄。

黄包车在转角。

弄堂还是弄堂。

曾太太在弄堂屋子门口的椅子上。

榻边开着无线电。

林姨在榻上。

榻边小桌上是那只盛着淡茶的漆杯。

她在看见我时，不曾抬手。

我睡了。

Chapter Twenty — Hongqiao

Monday the ninth of August.

The Hongqiao Aerodrome was, by the Settlement papers on the Tuesday morning, the place where a Japanese marine sub-lieutenant named Ōyama had been shot at the third sentry post at twenty minutes past five on the Monday afternoon. The papers did not name the sentry post, the sub-lieutenant's driver who had also been shot, or the Chinese sentry who had not been shot but had been arrested.

The Settlement papers said tensions ease.

The Chinese papers said Japan provokes.

The wireless at the Manila frequency at quarter past six on the Tuesday morning said, in the careful English of the Manila announcer Mr. Acuña whom Auntie Lin had been listening to since 1933, that the situation at Shanghai is reported to be in hand by the Settlement Municipal Council. Mr. Acuña had read it in the manner of a Manila announcer who had been reading the careful English of the Settlement Municipal Council since 1933 and who had not, in four years, believed the Settlement Municipal Council's reports.

Auntie Lin was on the chaise.

She was awake.

She had not been awake at quarter past six on a morning since October of 1936. Since the stroke of November 1933 she had been on a schedule: noon, broth at four, chaise at five, the wireless at six, sleep at eight, awake at midnight on the Tuesday when I came home from the basement, sleep until eleven, broth at noon. The schedule had been the schedule for eight years.

The schedule had broken on the Saturday after the Mid-Summer Gala.

The schedule had broken because Dr. Morancy had come at three with his black bag and had sat with Auntie Lin for an hour and had taken me to the harmonium chair and said: Miss Su, the bleeding in the brain we discussed in June has not, by the second check at three this afternoon, resolved. By Dr. Wang of the Du household whom I consulted on Thursday, it is not the kind the body resolves. The body is, at sixty-two, resolving what it can. By the second week of September, the resolving will be a different schedule.

I said: Is the different schedule a schedule.

He said: It is. It will be a schedule with longer sleep. It will be a schedule with smaller meals. It will be a schedule with fewer Tuesdays. I am sorry. I will, by the second Saturday in August, come twice a week. I have spoken to Mrs. Tsung at the second house in the lane. Mrs. Tsung has, for thirty years, been a midwife. Mrs. Tsung is at the lane house on the days I am not. The husband I have not paid. The husband is owed a favor by the Paramount cloakroom from the second Friday in May. The favor will be the husband's wage. I am telling you this on the Saturday after the gala because the gala was the gala. The gala was broadcast on the Manila frequency at the half hour between half past eleven and midnight. I had heard the second set at the radio in my apartment at Avenue Pichon. I had heard the bridge of the third song of the second set. I had, at the bridge, thought about Mrs. Lin. I am telling you on the Saturday after the gala because the gala has been the gala, and because the gala has been the kind of thing that has, by the manner of the second week of August, been the last gala before the country. I am telling you because Mrs. Lin has, at the chaise, been asking after the gala since the Monday afternoon, and because the schedule of the body of Mrs. Lin has, in the asking after the gala, been not the schedule. Mrs. Lin has been on the chaise at four in the afternoon instead of at five. Mrs. Lin has been at the wireless at five instead of at six. Mrs. Lin has been awake at midnight not on the Tuesday but on the Monday and the Wednesday and the Thursday. Mrs. Lin is telling herself the gala was the gala, and that the schedule of a woman of sixty-two with a daughter who has sung the bridge of the third song of the second set of the eighth Mid-Summer Gala of the Paramount on the Sunday in July at the second week of August is not a schedule a woman of sixty-two waits out at her own pace any longer. Tell her on the Tuesday morning. The Tuesday morning is the morning. The Monday afternoon has the news. The Tuesday morning has the second column of the L'Echo de Chine. The second column of the L'Echo de Chine of the Tuesday morning will, by my counting, have the news at Hongqiao the Monday afternoon will not have had. I am telling you because the Hongqiao is a Hongqiao that has happened. Tell her. Tell her after the news. Tell her you will not leave Shanghai because she is in the lane and you are not.

I said: I will not, Doctor.

He said: She will, by my counting, on the Tuesday morning after the news, tell you you must.

I said: I will not.

He said: I have known you, Miss Su, for three years. I have not heard you say a thing in the manner you have said the thing. I am grateful.

I said: Tell me what the schedule of the second Saturday in August will be.

He said: The schedule will be Mrs. Tsung at the lane at noon and at four. The schedule will be the broth at noon and at six. The schedule will be a third smaller dose of the barbiturate I have been giving Mrs. Lin since the second week of June. The schedule will be the schedule the body has moved into. The schedule will be yours and mine and Mrs. Tsung's. The schedule will not be the country's. Mrs. Lin has, since the Saturday morning, been telling Mrs. Tsung that she will, in some month, do a thing. Mrs. Tsung has told me that Mrs. Lin has been telling her she will, by the second week of August, make a thing easy. Mrs. Tsung has not asked Mrs. Lin what the thing is. I will not ask. I am telling you because the asking will be the asking. The thing Mrs. Lin will make easy will be the schedule. You will, by some Saturday in September, find that the schedule has been made easier than the schedule had been. I am sorry. I will not prevent the making easier. The making easier is Mrs. Lin's. The making easier is not mine. Good Saturday, Miss Su.

I said: Good Saturday, Doctor.

The Monday afternoon at five had been the news.

The Tuesday morning at quarter past six had been the L'Echo de Chine with the second column.

The second column had been the column on Hongqiao.

I had brought the paper in from the door at half past six. I had set it on the table by the chaise. Auntie Lin had been at the chaise with the wireless and the lacquer cup of weak tea. Mr. Acuña on the Manila frequency had not, at half past six, said the word Hongqiao.

"Aliang."

"Auntie."

"Read."

I read.

I read the second column.

The second column was, on the third page, in the spare type the L'Echo de Chine used for the items that were not the items the paper had decided to lead with. The second column said YESTERDAY AT HONGQIAO and then said A SHOOTING INCIDENT OCCURRED AT 5.20 P.M. AT THE THIRD SENTRY GATE OF THE HONGQIAO AERODROME. AN OFFICER OF THE IMPERIAL JAPANESE NAVY WAS KILLED. A CHINESE PEACE PRESERVATION CORPS SENTRY HAS BEEN DETAINED FOR QUESTIONING. THE SETTLEMENT MUNICIPAL COUNCIL HAS NOT YET BEEN APPRAISED OF THE FACTS. THE JAPANESE CONSULATE-GENERAL DECLINES TO COMMENT.

I read it twice.

I set the paper down.

Auntie Lin was at the chaise with the lacquer cup. She had not turned her head. She had moved the lacquer cup by half an inch on the table by the chaise.

"Aliang."

"Auntie."

"The marine. The sentry. The third gate. Aliang. You will leave Shanghai."

I had not said anything.

I had been at the chair at the harmonium. I had been at the chair since half past six. I had not moved from the chair since the bringing in of the paper. The light at quarter to seven through the window above the harmonium was the thin light of a Tuesday in early August in a lane in Hongkou. The light had been the light Mrs. Tsung had come into the lane house to bring the fresh ginger broth at, the broth that Mrs. Tsung had been bringing at six since the Saturday and that Auntie Lin had not yet drunk.

The ginger broth was on the harmonium ledge.

The broth was still warm.

"Auntie."

"Yes."

"I am not leaving Shanghai."

"You are."

"I am not."

"Aliang."

"Auntie."

"You have been my daughter."

"Yes."

"You have not been the daughter who has refused me a thing."

"I refuse this thing."

"You will not refuse the second time."

"I will."

She had not said anything.

She had lifted the lacquer cup. She had drunk a swallow of the weak tea. She had set the lacquer cup back on the table.

She said: Mrs. Tsung at the second house has — since the third Saturday of June — been bringing the ginger broth at six. Mrs. Tsung has been bringing the broth because Dr. Morancy at the second Saturday of June had given me the lacquer bottle of the barbiturate that he has been giving me for the bleeding. The lacquer bottle was, on the second Saturday of June, the lacquer bottle. The lacquer bottle is, on the second Tuesday of August, also the lacquer bottle. The lacquer bottle has a little less than it had on the second Saturday of June. The little less is the little less I have, over eight weeks, been taking on the Tuesdays and the Fridays. The little less is the little less the lacquer bottle has. The lacquer bottle has, on the second Tuesday of August, also a thing it did not have. The thing is the extra dose. The extra dose is the dose Mrs. Tsung has been adding for me. Mrs. Tsung has been adding it because I have, on the third week of July, asked her to add it. The adding is the adding. The dose is, at the second Tuesday of August, the dose. The dose is at this hour — in the lacquer bottle and not in the cup. The dose will, on some morning — by my counting and Mrs. Tsung's good Suzhou sense — be in the cup. The morning is not the morning. The morning will be the morning the country is in the lane. I am not telling you the morning. I am telling you the dose is in the lacquer bottle. The dose is a thing the country will not have time to do for me. I am a Suzhou-born dancer of 1891 whose stroke of 1933 has been resolving for four years. The country will, by the second or third week of August, be in the lane. The country in the lane will not, by its habit, be patient with a dancer of sixty-two on a chaise. I am making the country wait at the door. The country at the door will, by my counting, be at the door on the day you have, by the bandstand on the Friday or the Sunday, not yet been told to leave the dressing room with the leather suitcase Mr. Hu has been keeping at the third storeroom since the second week of June. You will, on the day the country is at the door, be at the bandstand. I will, on the day the country is at the door, be at the chaise. The chaise will be mine. The country will, on entering the lane house, find a chaise. The country will find nothing the country can do anything with. You will, by the second week of August or the third, leave Shanghai with the man under the floor.

I said: I will not, by the second week of August, leave you.

She said: You will. You will leave because the chaise on the morning of the leaving will be a chaise. The man under the floor has been keeping a leather suitcase at the third storeroom since the second week of June, for a passage out of Shanghai on a coal carrier that has been at the third pier of the customs jetty since the third week of July. On a morning at which the chaise is a chaise and the country is at the door, you will leave the lane. You will go to the third pier. You will go with the leather suitcase and the man under the floor. You will take the silver bracelet, the brother's letter, the lock of hair, the folded square of cotton from Longhua, the four pieces of Pathé staff paper, the chrysanthemum pin, the Major's card, the white cotton wrapper, and the second peony's wrapper if there is one. You will not refuse. You have not, in the eight years, refused me. You will not refuse on the second Tuesday of August. I have, in the eight years, been your foster-mother because in 1929 at the noodle stall on the corner of Sichuan Road N. and Hongkou Park you were the girl of fourteen with the leather satchel from Wuxian who had asked me, in your real Suzhou accent under your stage Mandarin which you had been practicing in the mirror at the boarding house for two months, for a name. You had wanted a name to give the audition at the Bright Moon at quarter past eleven. I had given you the name Su Wanyin. I said to you the name was the name I had wanted to use myself when I was your age in 1905 in Suzhou and had not, by my own father's good Confucian sense, been allowed to use. The name was a name a woman my age had decided in 1905 not to use because the name was a name. I said to you, take the name. Take it and use it for a while and bring it back when you do not need it any more. Bring it back on a morning, Aliang. Bring it back when you do not need it any more. Bring it back to wherever I am. I am going to wait for it. The name is mine. The name has been on loan to a girl of fourteen for eight years. By your leaving Shanghai it will no longer be yours. Sing under it as long as you need to. Bring it back when you can. I have, at sixty-two, no more use for it. I am leaving it to you for a while.

She had given me the name once. She had given me the name a second time.

I had looked at the harmonium.

I had wept.

I had wept the way a Suzhou-born girl of twenty-two who had been a daughter for eight years wept at a chair at a harmonium in a lane house in Hongkou on a Tuesday morning at quarter to seven on the second Tuesday of August, 1937, when her foster-mother had given her the name she had been singing under for eight years.

Auntie Lin had not, at the weeping, said anything.

She had lifted the lacquer cup. She had drunk the swallow of the weak tea. She had set the lacquer cup back on the table.

Mr. Acuña had read a brief English item about the rate of the silver dollar against the Hong Kong dollar at the Chartered Bank's third Friday of July.

I had got up.

I had drunk the ginger broth that Mrs. Tsung had brought at six.

I had gone to the harmonium. I had lifted the lid. The lacquer box on the harmonium had a fourth additional object since the Saturday after the gala. The fourth additional object was a worn paper packet of the kind a Suzhou apothecary in 1925 wrapped a bundle of herbs in. The packet was the packet Auntie Lin had taken from the lacquer chest under her chaise on the Saturday after the gala when Dr. Morancy had gone, and which she had put in the lacquer box on the harmonium while I was at the chair at the harmonium with Dr. Morancy's French sentences in my head.

I had found the packet at the inner partition. I had not opened it.

I opened it.

The packet had, inside it, the folded square of paper Auntie Lin had been folding for thirty-one years. The paper had the square of script in the careful hand of a Suzhou-born dancer of nineteen in a boarding house at Edward VII in 1900 who had written for herself, on the square of paper, the square of the name the Suzhou-born dancer had not been allowed by her father to use. The script said Su Wanyin in the manner Auntie Lin had written it for me at the noodle stall in 1929.

The name was, in 1900, written.

The name was, in 1929, given.

The name was, in 1937, returned.

I had at the second Saturday of June, when Auntie Lin had handed me the folded square of paper that had been her first writing of the name, given the name back.

She had given the name back at the second Saturday of June.

She had given the name back, second, at the second Tuesday of August.

I closed the lid of the lacquer box.

I closed the lid of the harmonium.

I went to the chaise.

I knelt at the chaise.

I put my forehead at her hand.

Her hand was, on the table by the chaise, the hand of a Suzhou-born woman of sixty-two with the lacquer cup beside it.

She did not, at the forehead, lift the hand.

She said: Sleep on the Sunday morning. You will, on the Sunday, sing the gala. You will, by the gala, be Su Wanyin for the third song of the second set. You will, by the third song of the second set, be the woman the name has been on loan to. You will, by Tuesday at midnight, be at the basement. You will, by Friday, have the leather suitcase Mr. Hu has been keeping at the third storeroom. You will, by the third week of August, have the country at the door.

I said: I will, by the second week of August, tell the man under the floor.

She said: Tell him on the Tuesday. Tell him also the song.

I said: The song.

She said: The second movement. Tell him also the third verse. The third verse is the names. He has been writing the names since June. He has been writing the names of the men who, in February of 1934, gave the trench list at the third printing press in Zhabei to the Settlement detective Mr. Hargreaves, who gave it to the consulate at Wuhan Road, who paid the men at the trench. He has been writing the names because the names have been the song. He has been writing them in the third verse. He has been writing them in the manner of a man who has decided that the third verse is for the singing.

I said: He has not told me.

She said: He will, on Tuesday at midnight, tell you. He has been waiting for the Tuesday on which you would, by the morning, ask the question that asks. The question is the question. You will ask. He will tell. The names in the third verse are also the name of your brother.

I had looked up.

I had looked up from the chaise at her hand.

I had looked at her face.

Her face had been the face of a sixty-two-year-old Suzhou-born woman in a Hongkou lane house at quarter past eight on the Tuesday morning of the second Tuesday of August, 1937. Her eyes had been the eyes that had been her eyes at the noodle stall in 1929 and at the harmonium at twelve when she had taught me to lift the bracelet and at the chaise at the second stroke in 1933 and at the chaise at the second Saturday of June when she had given me the folded square of paper from the lacquer chest.

"Auntie."

"Yes."

"You knew about my brother."

"I have known about your brother since the third Friday of November in 1929."

"How."

"Mrs. Tsung's husband at the second house was a clerk at the Longhua morgue. He had been at the morgue on the morning of the twelfth of April. He had been at the morgue on the morning of the thirteenth of April. He had written the column of the morning's intakes on the morning of the thirteenth. The column had the Chinese name Shen Ahuai, age nineteen, Wuxian, taken at Longhua, firing order of Constable Wu of the Settlement police, body collected by the elder cousin Shen Aliang, Wuxian, on the same morning. Mrs. Tsung's husband had recognized you. Mrs. Tsung's husband had told Mrs. Tsung. Mrs. Tsung had told me. I had known."

"You did not tell me."

"I did not tell you in 1929 because you had come to Shanghai to be Su Wanyin and not the elder cousin Shen Aliang, who in 1929 was already a name on a Settlement watch-list of the family members of the Longhua dead. You needed to be the girl of fourteen at the Paramount audition who had the borrowed name. I gave you the name. I did not burden you with the recognition."

"You knew this when you read me the column on the second Sunday after the gala at the noodle stall in 1929."

"I knew it. I read the column anyway. The column was the column. The column had to be read. You were a girl of fourteen who, in the second week of November of 1929, did not yet know that the country had had her brother. I read you the column because the column was already yours."

"Auntie."

"Yes."

"And the man under the floor."

"Mrs. Tsung's husband at the second house had been at the Longhua morgue on the morning of the twelfth and the thirteenth of April, 1927. Mrs. Tsung's husband had been also the clerk who wrote, in the same column, the Chinese name Lu Jiwen, age twenty-one, Shanghai, taken at the third printing press in Zhabei, firing order of Constable Wu of the Settlement police, body collected by the younger half-brother Lu Jiyuan, Shanghai Conservatory, on the same morning. The two columns were at the column of the thirteenth of April, two intake lines apart on the sheet of cheap paper at the Longhua morgue."

"Auntie."

"Yes."

"The man under the floor is Lu Jiyuan."

"He is."

"You have known this since the third Friday of November of 1929."

"I have known the name. I have not known, until the second Sunday of June at the third sheet of music under the lane door at half past one, that Lu Jiyuan was the man under the floor. I have known, since the second Sunday of June, that the man under the floor was the younger half-brother who had been at the morgue on the morning of the thirteenth of April with the elder cousin of the elder cousin's younger brother."

"Pearl said the same."

"Pearl said the same because Pearl is the listener of Shanghai. Pearl has, since the third week of June, known the name. Pearl has not told you. Pearl has — by Pearl's good sense let you arrive at it."

"Pearl."

"Yes. Pearl. And me. And the man under the floor. The three of us have been waiting. The waiting has been the waiting for the Tuesday at midnight on which you would ask the question that asks. The Tuesday is tonight."

"Auntie."

"Yes."

"You orchestrated this."

She had been quiet for the count of nine.

She said: No, Aliang. I did not orchestrate. The country orchestrated. The country in 1927 killed your brother and Lu Jiwen. The country in 1934 burned the third printing press at Zhabei and burned, at Lu Jiyuan's table, his half-brother's manuscript and his half-brother's adopted brother's notes and his half-brother's wife and his half-brother's wife's name. The country in 1936 brought a half-burned music professor to a brick room under the Paramount where the carpenter was at the third storeroom and the cook was on the stool and the lamp-lighter was at the second corner of Yuyuan and Wanhangdu. The country brought you, on the seventeenth of October, to a half-breath at the seventh measure of a bridge of a folk song you had been singing at the Paramount for seven years. The country brought you, on the eighth of August at quarter past five at the third sentry post at Hongqiao, to the second Tuesday of August at quarter to eight in a lane house in Hongkou at the chaise of a sixty-two-year-old Suzhou-born woman with a lacquer cup of weak tea on the table beside her. The country has been orchestrating. The orchestration has been the orchestration. I have been the chaise.

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

"Auntie."

"Yes."

"Tonight."

"Tonight."

"I will, at midnight, go down."

"You will."

"I will tell him about Hongqiao. I will tell him about Dr. Morancy. I will tell him about the column at the morgue."

"You will."

"I will ask him about the third verse."

"You will."

"Auntie."

"Yes."

"You will be awake."

"I will."

"Mrs. Tsung."

"Mrs. Tsung will be at the second house at the chair by the door. Mrs. Tsung will, by my good arrangement at the second Saturday of June, be at the chair until the rickshaw returns. Mrs. Tsung will, by the morning, bring the ginger broth at six. The broth will, by my hand and Mrs. Tsung's hand, be the broth."

"Auntie."

"Yes."

"I am not leaving you tonight."

"You are. You are leaving for the basement. You are returning by the morning. The leaving for the basement is a leaving. The returning by the morning is a returning. The returning is the returning. The leaving will, by the third week of August or the second, be a leaving the chaise is not yet asking you to do."

"Yes, Auntie."

"Sleep until eleven."

"Yes."

I went to my room.

I lay down.

I did not close my eyes for the count of nine.

I closed them.

I did not sleep.

I lay on the narrow bed in the narrow room at the back of the lane house and thought about Mr. Jiwen at the third printing press in February of 1934, and my brother at Longhua at six minutes past six on the morning of the twelfth of April in 1927, and the clerk at the morgue on the morning of the thirteenth who had been Mrs. Tsung's husband and had written the two intake lines two lines apart on the same sheet of cheap paper, and Lu Jiyuan at the Conservatory at half past eight collecting the body of his older half-brother, and Shen Aliang at the morgue at half past nine collecting the body of her younger brother. For the count of two intake lines they had been at the same morgue on the same morning, eleven years before they were at the same brick room under the Paramount. They had passed each other in a corridor or at a desk and had not seen each other.

I had been on the narrow bed for the count of an hour.

I had got up at half past nine.

I had been at the writing desk by the window for two hours. I had written nothing. I had sat. I had thought about the song — the second movement of Night Shanghai, the third verse, the names.

I had thought about Constable Wu of the Settlement police, who in 1927 had given the firing order at six minutes past six on the morning of the twelfth of April for my brother and for Lu Jiwen. I had thought about the Settlement detective Mr. Hargreaves, who in 1934 had at the consulate at Wuhan Road given the trench list of the third printing press at Zhabei to a Japanese assistant attaché whose name I did not yet know.

I had thought about all of them — the seventh measure, the half-breath, the quarter inch, the lower register on the second word of the fourth line, the third verse. The third verse had already been the third verse, since the morning of the thirteenth of April in 1927. It had only found its bars.

I closed my eyes.

I slept.

I slept the thin hour of sleep between half past eleven and quarter past one.

At quarter past one Mrs. Tsung knocked. I went down to the lane, took the rickshaw to the Paramount, went to the dressing room.

I sat at the vanity for the count of nine.

I did not touch the lacquer box.

The chrysanthemum pin was in the inside lining of the silver qipao that hung on the screen rod. 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 and the Major's card and the white cotton wrapper and the folded square of paper Auntie Lin had given me at the second Saturday of June were in the inside seam at the right hip.

At quarter to midnight I went down.

The cook was on the stool. The pipe was at the third lift. The bowl of barley tea was on the crate.

I went through.

I went down the forty-two steps.

I came to the bottom.

I went through the arch.

The brick room was the brick room.

Feng Sheng was at the piano. He was not playing. He had the keyboard cover closed. The lamp was at its low. The candle was at the saucer.

I crossed the room.

I sat at the chair at the new distance.

I did not wait for the count of nine.

He did not turn.

He set both hands flat on the keyboard cover.

I said: Shen Aliang. From Wuxian. He was nineteen.

He said: I know.

I said: I know. Tell me about the third verse.

He said: Tomorrow. The day after the night. I will tell you tomorrow. Tonight, sing it. Sing the second movement. We will, on the singing, both be ready for the telling.

He did not turn.

He opened the keyboard cover. He set his hands on the keys. He played, at the first bar, the first bar.

I sang.

I sang the first verse of the second movement of Night Shanghai.

I sang it the way the second movement of the song had been written by him in the candlelight on the fourth Friday of May. I sang it in the lower register. I sang it with the close attention of a Suzhou-born singer of twenty-two who had, on the second Tuesday of August at quarter to eight on a chaise in a lane house in Hongkou, been told by her sixty-two-year-old foster-mother that the man at the piano under the floor was her younger half-brother by way of a column at the Longhua morgue at half past eight on the morning of the thirteenth of April in 1927.

I sang the first verse.

I sang the second.

He did not turn.

He played the bridge.

I held the half-breath at the seventh measure.

I held the quarter inch at the third syllable of the third bar.

I sang the lower register on the second word of the fourth line.

I came to the third verse.

The third verse had six lines. The first five were names. The sixth was Constable Wu of the Settlement police.

I sang the five names.

At the sixth, before I sang the sixth, I sang the half-breath. I had been taught, on the second Sunday of December at the second basement Tuesday after the wireless of Xi'an, the half-breath as the breath the song let the dead in.

The half-breath was Shen Ahuai, and Lu Jiwen, and the four men whose names had been the first four. The half-breath was the dead.

I sang Constable Wu.

He played the coda.

I held the last vowel.

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

The room was the room.

The brick room was, at quarter past one on the Wednesday morning of the second week of August, 1937, the brick room of a man at the piano whose half-brother had been shot in February of 1934 and a woman at the chair whose elder brother had been shot in April of 1927, and the two of them had for ten months not known what the other had been at the morgue on the morning of the thirteenth of April in 1927 for.

The two of them knew.

The cook was on the stool.

The lamp at the third corner of Yuyuan was, by the lamp-lighter at six, not yet at the second extinguishing.

The bandstand was the bandstand.

The country was, at quarter past one on the Wednesday morning of the second week of August, 1937, three days from the Settlement papers announcing that the city had been at war.

I would, at the third week of August, by the country at the door of the lane in Hongkou, leave Shanghai.

I would, by the morning of the leaving, not yet know that I would be leaving.

I sat at the chair at the new distance for the count of nine.

I stood.

I went to the piano.

I put my hand on his right shoulder.

He had not turned.

He let the hand stay.

I went up.

The forty-two steps were the forty-two steps.

The cook on the stool nodded. The pipe was at the third lift.

The lamp at the corner of Yuyuan and Wanhangdu had been left lit until quarter past two.

The rickshaw was at the corner.

The lane was the lane.

Mrs. Tsung was at the chair by the door of the lane house.

The chaise was at the wireless.

Auntie Lin was at the chaise.

The lacquer cup of weak tea was on the table by the chaise.

She did not, at the seeing me, lift her hand.

I slept.