Chapter Twenty-Three — August 13
Friday the thirteenth of August.
The first Japanese shell had fallen on Zhabei at quarter past four in the afternoon.
The shell had been a naval shell from the flagship Idzumo at the third anchorage off the consulate's third pier. It had gone over the tin roofs of the third lane of Hongkew and come down on an empty courtyard at the corner of Boone Road. It killed no one. It was the first. By the second hour after, the shells from the Idzumo had been at the count of nineteen.
The Chinese 87th Division at the second corner of North Sichuan Road and Yongxing Road had returned fire.
The Settlement Municipal Council had tested the air-raid sirens for the first time, at the brick siren-tower at the corner of Bubbling Well and Sichuan Road that the Council had built in 1934. The siren had gone off for the count of three minutes. The all-clear horn had sounded at twenty to six.
The Paramount had opened at the usual time, which had since 1929 been the eight o'clock.
The Paramount had at the door at the corner of Yuyuan Road and Bubbling Well Road, the long red carpet rolled out by the doorman Mr. Lin who had been at the Paramount since 1933.
Mr. Du Yuesheng had — at four o'clock on the Friday afternoon, at the parlor at Rue Wagner, by way of Mr. Hong Jingming's nephew at Sun Ya, by way of Mr. Lopes at the Paramount cloakroom by way of the kitchen boy at the third lane of Hongkew who had been the kitchen boy of the third lane and not the kitchen boy at the consulate at Wuhan Road — sent the folded note. The folded note said the eighth Paramount summer is the eighth Paramount summer. Open at the eight o'clock. — Y.D.
The Y.D. had been Mr. Du Yuesheng.
The Paramount had opened at the eight o'clock.
The Paramount on the second Friday of August at the eight o'clock had had, by Mr. Lopes's count at the door, ninety-two of the four hundred and twenty seats.
The ninety-two had been the ninety-two of a Friday on which the shells were at the third lane of Hongkew and at the corner of Boone Road and at the second corner of North Sichuan Road and Yongxing Road. The ninety-two had been the ninety-two who had come to the Paramount because the Paramount was the Paramount. The ninety-two had been the ninety-two who had decided that the late hour of an evening at the Paramount at the eight o'clock on the second Friday of August was an evening to spend at the Paramount and not at the parlor at the third house in the lane at the wireless on the second floor and the bottle of Hongkong gin and the candle on the dish.
I had been at the dressing room at quarter past seven.
I had on the silver gala qipao Mr. Hong Xiang had cut me in May. I had on the silver gala qipao on the second Friday of August because Mr. Lopes at the door at the eight o'clock had written Miss Su, by Mr. Du's wish, the silver gala. — F.L.
The F.L. had been Mr. Lopes.
The silver gala qipao had 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.
The chrysanthemum pin had been at the inner pocket since the Tuesday morning.
The Major's card from the ninth of April had been with the chrysanthemum pin since the Wednesday morning.
I had not done anything with my hair.
Miss Liu had set the chignon at the nape with three steel pins and the small silver pin Pearl had given me at my eighteenth birthday in 1933.
Miss Liu had not said anything.
She said: I am sorry. Mr. Lin the doorman told me my Hongkew cousin's noodle stall at the corner of Yuyuan and Bubbling Well had a shell come down near it at half past four. My cousin is at the dispensary at the corner of Yongxing Road. He is alive, at the third bed, since half past five. I am at the chignon. The dressing room is at the Paramount. The Paramount is at the eight o'clock. I am at the chignon.
She had set the small silver pin into the chignon.
She had left the dressing room.
I had sat at the vanity for the count of nine.
At quarter to eight Mr. Lopes had written Miss Su, table four is Mr. Du. Table eleven is the Major. The Major has at six this evening, by Mr. Ng at the third pier of the customs jetty by way of Mr. Almeida at the Cathay — sent a card to me at the cloakroom at half past six asking that I provide a carafe of water at table eleven this evening. The carafe of water at table eleven is to be a carafe of water with no glass. The Major says: 'The water at table eleven is at the table. The glass at table eleven is at the consulate. The consulate will, by the eight o'clock, be sending me a folded note.' The carafe of water at table eleven has been at the table. The glass at table eleven has not been at the table. Mr. Du at table four is at table four. Mr. Du has, at the seven o'clock, no third wife with him. Mr. Du has, at the seven o'clock, no half-brother. Mr. Du has, at the seven o'clock, no second adopted son. Mr. Du has, at the seven o'clock, Dr. Wang at his left.
I had read the folded note.
I had gone from the dressing room along the kitchen corridor and the bandstand corridor to the stair and up to the bandstand.
Jimmy King had been at the stool.
Jimmy King had on the white tuxedo with the worn look of a Friday August dinner-jacket at the eighth Paramount summer. Jimmy King had looked at me at the stair.
He said: We open with Drizzle of May. You take it the way the man under the floor's been having you take it. Second set we'll do Spring Wind Autumn Rain and then The Wandering Songstress and then Night Shanghai. The new arrangement. The full second movement. I've had the new score on the bandstand since the Friday afternoon. Mr. Hu the carpenter brought it up at four. Mr. Hu had the score in the leather folder. The score was in his hand from the third storeroom to the bandstand at four. The score is at the music desk at the bandstand. The score is the full second movement with the third verse. Sweetheart. I am sixty-two next month. I have, since 1929, been the bandleader at the Paramount. I have, in the long hour of eight years at the third pier of the bandstand of the Paramount, been a black bandleader who has decided that the man under the floor is the man under the floor. I have not asked who he is. I will not ask. I have, on the second Friday of August at half past four, taken the leather folder from Mr. Hu the carpenter at the third storeroom and at the bandstand have, in the late hour of an evening at the eighth Paramount summer at the third Friday of August on which the first shell has come down at the third lane of Hongkew, set the score at the music desk of the bandstand. I am your bandleader. Sing the bridge, sweetheart. Sing the third verse. One, two, three.
The Filipino guitarist had picked up the first bar of Drizzle of May.
The rhythm section had followed.
I had sung Drizzle of May.
I had sung it the way the man under the floor had been having me sing it since the second week of October. I had taken the half-breath at the seventh measure. I had taken the quarter inch at the third syllable. I had sung the lower register on the second word of the fourth line.
The room at the second Friday of August at the eight o'clock had been the room of ninety-two of four hundred and twenty seats. The room had been the rose-pink of a Paramount evening. The room had the late-summer Friday dusk of a city that had, at quarter past four in the afternoon, had a naval shell come down at the corner of Boone Road and the third lane of Hongkew.
The room had the close attention of ninety-two people who had decided to be at the Paramount.
The ninety-two had included Mr. Du Yuesheng at table four with Dr. Wang at his left.
The ninety-two had included Major Itō Kensuke at table eleven with the carafe of water at the table and the glass not at the table.
The ninety-two had included Mr. Sá at the second table on the side wall.
The ninety-two had not included Pearl.
Pearl had left the Paramount at quarter past five on the Thursday afternoon. Pearl had been at the flat at the second floor of the second house at Avenue Pichon at the second Friday of August at the eight o'clock.
The ninety-two had included a Chinese girl of nine in a white-cotton frock at the third table from the bandstand with her grandmother Mrs. Cao from the second alley at Xinzhakou.
The Chinese girl of nine had looked at the bandstand the way she had looked at the bandstand at the tea dance.
The Chinese girl of nine had known.
The Chinese girl had clapped twice.
Mrs. Cao had taken the granddaughter's hand in her own Sichuan hand and had held it.
The Chinese girl had not clapped a third time.
I had let the last vowel sit until it had stopped being a vowel and had become the room.
I had looked at table eleven. The Major had on the navy linen suit and the white pocket square and the black seal at the lapel and no camellia at the buttonhole. He did not lift his eyes. He set the black leather wallet at his right hand on the table, opened it, took out a folded note in the careful Japanese hand of a Tokyo Imperial University graduate of 1922, and slid it half an inch toward the carafe of water. He knew I was looking. He did not look back.
The applause had ended at the count of seven.
Jimmy King had looked at me.
Jimmy King said: Sweetheart. The second song. Plum Blossom. Take it the way Pearl was taking it on the Thursday.
The chandeliers at the second song had begun, at the fourth measure of the second song, to tremble.
The trembling had been the faint trembling of the bulbs of the chandeliers of the Paramount at the second Friday of August when the naval shells of the Idzumo at the third anchorage had landed at the Chinese 87th Division's second position at the second corner of Yongxing Road and North Sichuan Road, which had been the corner where Miss Liu's cousin's noodle stall had been.
The chandeliers had trembled.
The Chinese girl of nine at the third table from the bandstand had looked at the chandelier above her grandmother Mrs. Cao.
The chandelier above Mrs. Cao had been the second chandelier of the second row.
The chandelier had trembled.
Mrs. Cao had looked at the chandelier above the granddaughter.
The chandelier above the granddaughter had been the third chandelier of the second row.
The chandelier had trembled.
Mrs. Cao had taken her granddaughter's hand. Mrs. Cao had stood. Mrs. Cao had bowed at the bandstand. Mrs. Cao said, in the Sichuan she had been speaking at the Paramount tea dance for two years: Miss Su. Please excuse us.
I had nodded.
Mrs. Cao had taken her granddaughter's hand and had walked, in the manner of an old Chinese woman of seventy-five at the Paramount on a second Friday of August at the second song of the first set at the eight o'clock, to the door of the kitchen corridor.
Mr. Lopes had been at the door.
Mr. Lopes had bowed.
Mrs. Cao and the Chinese girl had gone.
The chandeliers had stopped trembling.
I had sung in the lower register.
I had let the last vowel sit at the count of seven.
I had let it down.
The applause had been the applause of forty-eight remaining of the ninety-two.
Forty-four had left in the quiet of the count of nine bars.
Mr. Du Yuesheng at table four had not moved.
Major Itō at table eleven had not moved.
Mr. Sá at the second table on the side wall had not moved.
The first set had ended at half past nine.
I had come down the stair to the dressing room and sat at the vanity. I drank a glass of water, opened the lacquer box, took the chrysanthemum pin in my hand and held it for the count of nine, put it back, closed the box, and went to the door.
In the kitchen corridor at the third bracket-lamp of the chandelier was the dust-grey sparrow.
The sparrow had come back in.
The sparrow had come back.
The sparrow had sat.
I had gone back into the dressing room.
I had sat at the vanity.
At quarter to ten Mr. Lopes had written Miss Su, the Major at table eleven has left the Paramount. The Major has sent the folded note from his black leather wallet at his right hand on the table to the kitchen corridor by way of the waiter Mr. Han. The folded note is at the lacquer tray at the door. The folded note is for Miss Su.
I had gone to the kitchen-corridor door at the third bracket-lamp where the sparrow was at the bracket-lamp.
Mr. Lopes had been at the door of the kitchen corridor.
Mr. Lopes had handed me the lacquer tray.
I had taken the folded note.
I had opened it.
The folded note had three lines in English.
I am at the consulate tonight. Please be careful. — K.
I had read them twice.
I had looked at Mr. Lopes.
He said: The Major had set the black leather wallet at the carafe of water and had written the folded note. He had written the three lines you have read. He had folded the folded note in the manner of a Tokyo banker who had been taught at the office of the Settlement Branch of the Yokohama Specie Bank to fold a folded note. He had put the folded note on the lacquer tray that had been brought to him by the waiter Mr. Han at the request of the Major at quarter to nine. He said to the waiter Mr. Han: 'Bring it to Mr. Lopes.' The waiter Mr. Han had brought it to me at the door at quarter past nine. The Major had stood from table eleven. The Major had bowed at table four. Mr. Du at table four had inclined his head by half an inch. Mr. Du had turned his dark beads by one bead. The Major had left the Paramount. The Major had gone to the black sedan with the consular plate at the corner of Yuyuan and Bubbling Well, where Mr. Lin the doorman had opened the door of the black sedan for him. The Major had gone to the consulate at Wuhan Road. Mr. Du Yuesheng at table four is still at table four. Mr. Du Yuesheng has sent the folded note by way of Dr. Wang's medical bag at his left to me at the cloakroom at half past nine. The folded note is in the lacquer tray. The folded note is for Miss Su.
I had taken the second folded note.
I had opened it.
The second folded note had four lines in classical Chinese.
The Lotus Sutra teaches that the lotus rises from the mud and is not of the mud.
The pin at the phoenix is the pin.
The third verse is the singer's.
Sing it. — Y.D.
I had read the four lines twice.
I had looked at Mr. Lopes.
He said: Mr. Du is finishing his dish of the kitchen's almond biscuits. He will, by the third song of the second set, listen. Good set, Miss Su.
I said: Good set, Mr. Lopes.
I had gone back to the dressing room.
I had opened the lacquer box.
I had put both folded notes into the inner partition.
I had closed the lacquer box.
I had sat for the count of nine.
At ten Jimmy King at the bandstand stair had sent a message by way of Mr. Lopes by way of the waiter Mr. Han: the second set, sweetheart.
I had gone to the door.
In the kitchen corridor at the third bracket-lamp of the chandelier the sparrow had gone.
The sparrow had left.
I had not been at the bracket-lamp when the sparrow had gone.
I had walked along the kitchen corridor at the empty bracket-lamp and along the bandstand corridor at the skylight at the western corner where the sparrow had gone out, and at the bandstand stair I had climbed the bandstand stair.
Jimmy King had been at the stool.
Jimmy King had looked at me.
Jimmy King said: Sweetheart. Second set. Spring Wind Autumn Rain, then The Wandering Songstress, then Night Shanghai — the full second movement, the third verse. Forty-eight have stayed. The forty-eight are the forty-eight. Sing it. One, two, three.
The Filipino guitarist had picked up the first bar of Spring Wind Autumn Rain.
The rhythm section had followed.
I had sung Spring Wind Autumn Rain.
I had sung the bridge with the half-breath at the seventh measure.
I had taken the quarter inch at the third syllable.
I had sung in the lower register.
Mr. Du Yuesheng at table four with Dr. Wang at his left had turned the dark beads on his wrist by one bead.
Mr. Du Yuesheng had set down his cup of tea.
Mr. Du Yuesheng had closed his eyes for the count of three.
He had opened them.
The applause had been the applause of the forty-eight at the second song of the second set on the second Friday of August at the eight o'clock.
I had sung The Wandering Songstress. Mr. Ferenc played the obbligato; the brass held the chord. The chandeliers trembled at the fourth bar of the second chorus — the third sequence of shells from the Idzumo at the corner of Yongxing Road and North Sichuan Road. I sang the third verse and let the last vowel sit. The forty-eight had become forty-two; six had left at the second tremble.
Mr. Lopes at the door of the kitchen corridor had let them through.
I had come to the bridge of Night Shanghai.
I had come at quarter to eleven — forty-two of the four hundred and twenty seats, Mr. Du at table four with Dr. Wang, no Major at table eleven, no Pearl, the sparrow gone, the chandeliers having trembled twice at the third sequence of shells.
I had taken the half-breath at the seventh measure.
I had taken the quarter inch.
I had sung in the lower register.
Mr. Du Yuesheng at table four had turned the dark beads by one bead.
At the bridge I did not sing the third verse. The third verse — the seven names — I had not sung. I sang the second movement, the Night Shanghai the city had been hearing since May. The third verse was not for this hour. It would be at the air at some other hour. I held the last vowel.
I had held it for the count of seven.
I had let the last vowel sit until it had stopped being a vowel and had become the room.
The room at five to eleven on the Friday night of the second Friday of August, 1937, had been the room of forty-two of the four hundred and twenty seats with Mr. Du Yuesheng at table four with Dr. Wang at his left, with no Major at table eleven, with the dust-grey sparrow that had gone out at the second leaving, with the chandeliers trembling at the third sequence of naval shells at the second corner of Yongxing Road and North Sichuan Road, with the Chinese 87th Division at the second corner of Yongxing Road firing back at the Idzumo at the third anchorage.
The applause had been the applause of forty-two.
Mr. Du Yuesheng at table four had stood from his chair and bowed at the bandstand — a thing he had not done in seven Paramount summers — and sat down. The forty-one who were not Mr. Du stood and applauded for the count of sixty seconds. At the count of thirty Jimmy King and the brass section and the Russian piano and the Hungarian first violinist and the rhythm section all stood. At sixty the applause ended.
Mr. Du Yuesheng had risen and walked, with Dr. Wang at his left, to the kitchen-corridor door. He said something to Mr. Lopes, who bowed and placed a dark coat on his shoulders. Mr. Du turned to the bandstand and inclined his head by half an inch. I inclined mine. He had gone.
The Paramount had emptied of all but twelve.
The twelve had been Mr. Sá, the doorman Mr. Lin, the cloakroom attendant Mr. Wei Linzhang, the kitchen boy Mr. Han, Mr. Lopes, the Filipinos Tony and his cousin, the Russian Mr. Markovich, the Hungarian Mr. Ferenc, the drummer Mr. Sandoval, Jimmy King, and me.
He said: Third set. Twelve in the room. We open with Get Up. You sing it the way Yao Sanye's been having you sing it for seven years. Mr. Sá won't care — he's drinking port and waiting for his lift at half past midnight. We sing it for Mr. Sá.
I sang Get Up the way Yao had been having me sing it — the third syllable in his manner, the second word of the fourth line in his register, the coda only to the second of three seconds — and bowed.
The applause had been the applause of the twelve.
I had bowed.
Jimmy King said: That's it, sweetheart. The Paramount's done for the eight o'clock. Mr. Lopes will close at midnight, Mr. Du's word. We'll be at the bandstand tomorrow night unless the Council shuts us, and the Council won't — by the second week of August or the third it'll be Mr. Du's. We'll be at the bandstand for as long as Mr. Du is Mr. Du. Go home.
I had bowed.
I had come down the stair to the dressing room and sat at the vanity and opened the lacquer box.
I had looked at the folded note from the Major.
The folded note had three lines.
I am at the consulate tonight. Please be careful. — K.
I had read it twice.
I had closed the lacquer box.
I had stood.
I had gone to the door.
In the kitchen corridor at the third bracket-lamp the sparrow had not come back.
I had gone past the dressing-room door.
I had gone to the cold-storage room.
Mr. Wei Liangzhi had been on the stool.
The pipe had been at the third lift. The bowl of barley tea had been on the crate. The grey wool coat had been at the second nail on the wall.
Mr. Wei had stood from the stool.
He said: The Friday is the Friday. Go down.
I had gone through the arch.
I had gone down the forty-two steps in the silver gala qipao at the count of half past eleven on the Friday night of the second Friday of August, 1937.
The candle at the wall ledge above the second-to-last step had been lit.
I had come to the bottom.
I had gone through the arch.
Feng Sheng was at the piano.
He had not turned.
He had on the porcelain mask. He had on the grey wool coat over the white shirt. He had on the gloves.
He had played the second verse of Night Shanghai.
He had the Manila frequency on at its low.
The Manila frequency at half past eleven on the second Friday of August was, by its thirteen-minute delay, broadcasting the Night Shanghai without the third verse from the eight o'clock at the Paramount.
The Manila frequency at half past eleven was singing the second movement at the second verse.
I had walked across the brick room.
I had come to the piano.
He had finished the bar.
He had stopped.
He said: Wanyin. You did not sing the third verse.
I said: No. Mr. Du sent a note at quarter past nine — the third verse is the singer's, sing it, signed Y.D. I did not sing it. The Major left at quarter past nine and sent a note that said please be careful, signed K. The forty-two stayed for the second movement, but the forty-two were not the room the third verse needs. That room is three hundred, with foreign journalists, with a microphone on a wire-relay to Hong Kong and Manila without the thirteen-minute delay. The forty-two were Mr. Du and Mr. Sá and the kitchen boy and the doorman and a handful of regulars who stayed past the chandelier-tremble. I sang the second movement the way the city has heard it since May. The third verse is for the night it can go out. That night is not tonight.
He said: No.
I said: We will find the night. I am sorry.
He said: Wanyin. You did the right thing. The third verse will go out at the night it can go out. The night is not tonight. By some month, it will come.
I said: I am going home. Auntie Lin is at the chaise. The Saturday at dawn is the Saturday.
He said: Yes. The Saturday will, by Pearl at the third pier and by the country at Zhabei and by the Idzumo at the third anchorage, be the Saturday.
I said: Go down. Sleep. The third verse is at the cot in the leather case. The night will, by some month, come.
I had put my hand on his shoulder. He set his right hand on top of mine and closed his eyes. I bent and kissed the side of the porcelain mask at the right side of his mouth, at the seam where the mask's edge met the skin.
I stepped back, turned, walked back across the brick room to the arch, and went up the forty-two steps to the cold-storage room.
Mr. Wei Liangzhi had been on the stool. He stood. The Friday, he said. The Friday, I said. Good night, Mr. Wei.
I had gone down the back stair to the back vestibule and out to the lane of Avenue Joffre.
The lane of Avenue Joffre had the rickshaw man Mrs. Tsung's husband Mr. Tsung at the rickshaw.
Mr. Tsung had been at the rickshaw since quarter to midnight, when Mrs. Tsung had sent him from the second house at the lane in Hongkou at the folded note from me at half past eight at the kitchen boy Mr. Han at the kitchen corridor.
Mr. Tsung had stood.
I had sat.
The rickshaw had gone.
The rickshaw had gone along Avenue Joffre to the corner of Avenue du Roi Albert. At the corner of Avenue du Roi Albert and Bubbling Well the rickshaw had passed a column of Settlement police on bicycles going North to the corner of Sichuan Road N. The column had been six bicycles. The six bicycles had been ridden by six Settlement policemen whose names I had not known.
At the corner of Bubbling Well and Sichuan Road N. the rickshaw had passed a column of Chinese refugees going South from Hongkou into the Settlement. The column had been a count I had not taken. The column had been a line of men and women and children with bundles at their backs and handcarts at their fronts.
The column had been going to the Settlement Bridge at the Garden Bridge at the corner of the Bund and Sichuan Road N.
The column was the beginning.
The column was the country.
I had closed my eyes.
I had not slept.
At the corner of Sichuan Road N. and Hongkou Park the rickshaw had turned.
The rickshaw had gone East.
At the corner of the lane the rickshaw had stopped.
Mrs. Tsung had been at the chair by the door.
The chaise had been at the wireless.
Auntie Lin had been at the chaise.
The lacquer cup of weak tea had been on the table by the chaise.
She had been awake.
She had looked up.
She said: You did not sing the third verse. Mr. Acuña on the Manila frequency at half past eleven did not sing the third verse.
I said: The forty-two were not the room.
She said: No.
I said: The third verse is for some other night.
She said: Aliang. Listen. The third verse is a third verse one sings once. The first singing is the song. There will not, by the country, be a second. Save it for the room the room is. You did the right thing.
I had sat at the stool at her side.
I had put my head at her hand.
She said: In the morning we will drink the broth.
I had closed my eyes.
I had slept.
I had slept the thin hour of sleep between half past midnight and quarter to four.
In the dream the third verse was in the lacquer box.
In the lacquer box the third verse was a folded note in his hand.
In the dream I had not opened it.
In the dream the folded note had sat.
In the dream the lacquer box had kept the third verse at the inner partition.
In the dream Auntie Lin was at the chaise. The lacquer cup of weak tea was on the table. The wireless above the harmonium was at the Manila frequency. Mr. Acuña on the Manila frequency was broadcasting the careful English of a Manila announcer who had been at the Manila frequency since 1933.
In the dream the country was at the corner of the lane.
In the dream the country had not entered the lane.
The country was, at that hour, at the corner.
I had woken at quarter to four.
Mrs. Tsung had been at the chair by the door.
The chaise had been at the chaise.
Auntie Lin had been at the chaise.
She had been asleep.
The lacquer cup of weak tea was on the table by the chaise.
The wireless above the harmonium was at the Manila frequency.
The Manila frequency at quarter to four was, by Mr. Acuña, broadcasting the careful English news from the Manila announcer's desk.
Mr. Acuña said: The Settlement Municipal Council at Shanghai has, at half past three on the morning of Saturday the fourteenth of August, ordered the closure of the Chinese sector at the corner of North Sichuan Road and Boone Road. The closure is a precaution.
Mrs. Tsung had come to the chaise. Mr. Tsung is at the second house. The lane is the lane. Mrs. Lin is asleep. Sleep, Aliang.
I had slept the second sleep of the morning, between quarter to four and seven.
I had woken.
Mrs. Tsung had been lighting the brazier for the ginger broth.
Auntie Lin had been at the chaise.
She had been awake.
She had looked up.
She said: The third verse is at the inner partition.
I had sat at the stool.
She said: Go to Pearl. Have a coffee with her at Sun Ya — she is at the flat at Avenue Pichon and will be at Sun Ya at noon. Mrs. Tsung will be at the chair. I will be at the chaise. And bring me back a dish of the almond biscuits Sun Ya makes at the second Saturday of August.
I had stood and kissed the side of her face.
She said: Aliang. Sing it in some other room.
I had gone.
The lane had, at quarter to ten on the morning of the second Saturday of August, 1937, been the lane.
The country had not, for the count of the morning, been at the corner of the lane. It had been at the corner of Boone Road and at North Sichuan Road and Yongxing Road, where the 87th Division had been firing since quarter past five on the Friday afternoon. The corner was, at quarter to ten, the corner.
I had got into Mr. Tsung's rickshaw at the corner.
I said: Mr. Tsung. Sun Ya.
The rickshaw had gone.
The rickshaw had turned.
The rickshaw had gone South.