七部小说 · Seven Novels

第 24 章 ——《血色礼拜六》

八月十四日，礼拜六。

新雅在正午本是这样的新雅——靠窗第三张桌、大理石桌面上一只漆木烟灰缸、大理石柜台一角电风扇的嗡嗡声，柜台后的伙计魏先生，正专心招呼靠窗第二桌一位四十岁比利时女人所点的菜式。

白珠自十一点半便坐在靠窗第三张桌。

她穿一件灰色旅行外套，内里是海军蓝府绸连衣裙。除了那位葡萄牙男朋友第二个圣诞送她的金项链，她没戴别的首饰。她脸上是一位二十五岁、行李已收拾停当的百乐门歌女的神情。

萨先生自十一点半便坐在侧墙第二张桌。

萨先生并未与白珠同桌。

萨先生坐在第二张桌，是因为萨先生在霞飞路毕勋路口那间公寓里告诉过白珠，他在海关码头第三号码头有一桩事务，到一点会回来新雅接她。

第三号码头那桩事务里的葡萄牙堂兄，正在核对八月第二个礼拜六清晨六点出发的文件——文件现已改为八月第三个礼拜六清晨六点。

八月第三个礼拜六，是那艘澳门航线挪威运煤船改定的日子——它把出航从第二个礼拜六六点挪到了第三个礼拜六六点。

白珠自礼拜五下午便知道了改期。

白珠并未告诉我改期，因为白珠在礼拜四茶舞那时尚不知会改期。改期是礼拜五下午的改期。礼拜五下午的改期是领事馆的改期。

白珠告诉我了。

她说：那挪威船改到第三个礼拜六，不是第二个。这一周我就住在毕勋路那公寓。我们还有一周的钟点。萨先生现在三号码头，与他堂兄在一起。他一点回来。礼拜六傍晚六点他回公寓接我，去霞飞路那家意大利馆子——他和我吃过馄饨饺的那家。我们吃那馄饨饺。我们喝那瓶红酒。我们十点回毕勋路公寓睡。礼拜六清晨六点喝咖啡。六点半步行到毕勋路与霞飞路转角。六点三刻雇黄包车去三号码头。八点上那艘挪威运煤船——用萨先生堂兄自六月第二个礼拜起便在澳门那家印刷铺里办的伪造茨维特科夫文件。我本想让你也上那第三个礼拜六的挪威船。我本想，依澳门航线的日历，把你和我连同萨先生堂兄在澳门印刷铺办的那套伪造茨维特科夫文件一起带走。我早知道萨先生堂兄在澳门印刷铺办的那套文件，是两人份的，不是三人份的。两人份是为第二个礼拜六六点办的。礼拜五早晨武汉路领事馆的改期，把出航挪到了第三个礼拜六六点。改期并未改文件。文件现在萨先生堂兄手里，在三号码头。文件是两人份，不是三人份。我之前告诉你第二个礼拜六六点到三号码头，是因为我希望你到三号码头。那三号码头本是这样一个三号码头：文件是两人份，而萨先生堂兄在澳门印刷铺还备有第三个人份的预留。第三份原是萨先生堂兄专为我带你去办的。第三份原本一直在三号码头，到下午四点半改期把礼拜六六点挪到了第三个礼拜六六点，萨先生堂兄便把第二个礼拜六的那两人份退回印刷铺改办第三个礼拜六，于是预留没有了。预留已经被用掉。我对不起你。这下一周我在毕勋路公寓里，会托萨先生堂兄在澳门印刷铺替你想办法——单人份。我会托萨先生堂兄想办法。我不知预留还能不能有。我会尽力。

她说：开个价吧，宝贝。开高一点。

她说：我自己的话我自己听。我在开价。这价就是与萨先生在八月第三个礼拜六走。这价是我开下来的价。我要替你开的，是单人份的价。替你那单人份的价，将在澳门印刷铺，是一笔我托萨先生堂兄付的款。喝咖啡。喝下去。

我喝下了咖啡。

那盘杏仁饼自十一点半白珠点下便一直摆在大理石桌上。那是新雅的杏仁饼，自一九二九年起就是新雅的杏仁饼。伙计魏先生自一九三二年起便用那只白底蓝边的瓷盘把它端到靠窗第三张桌——那是新雅老板亲口吩咐魏先生须用的盘子。

我一块也没吃。

我从魏先生大理石柜台抽屉里抽了一张折好的蜡纸，包了四块杏仁饼。

我把包好的饼塞进手袋内袋——内袋里另有：兄长的信、一缕头发、龙华那方折叠的棉布、四张百代五线谱、一九〇〇年那张折叠的纸、礼拜四清晨从行军床上得来的折叠便条、百乐门茶舞那位七十岁日本老妇人留下的折叠米色信封、礼拜五晚八点伊藤少佐与杜先生分别送来的两张折叠便条。

手袋内袋里有十一样东西。

我看着白珠。

白珠看着我。

她说：我们还有下一周。我每天下午三点都在毕勋路那公寓。公寓在毕勋路第二幢的二楼。二楼楼梯口，绿油漆的门便是。来找我。萨先生堂兄若办到文件，把文件带来。若办不到，也只管来。

她放下第二杯咖啡。

她望了望大理石柜台——礼拜六正午这一钟点，伙计魏先生站着的那处。

靠窗第二桌四十岁的比利时女人，已吃完了她那盘苏夫蕾。四十岁的比利时女人用一张东方汇理银行的法郎纸币结了账。四十岁的比利时女人起身。四十岁的比利时女人戴上那顶白色草帽——帽檐缀深色丝带，自六月第二个礼拜六起，她每个礼拜六中午来新雅总戴着的那一顶。

四十岁的比利时女人走到门口。

到门口，四十岁的比利时女人停住。

四十岁的比利时女人抬头。

四十岁的比利时女人朝南京路与四川路转角新雅门外的天空指了指。

我从第三张桌站起来。

白珠从第三张桌站起来。

我们走到门口。

我们望出去。

南京路与四川路转角的天空里，有五架中国飞机——便是《Lʼécho de Chine》连日报道的那五架诺斯罗普轰炸机，沿黄浦江南下，以攻击航高扑向领事馆三号码头外第三锚位的「出云」号。它们抛下一串炸弹。这串短了。落在三处：南京路与外滩转角，砸在国泰饭店的外立面上；爱多亚路转角，砸在大世界游乐场上；以及虹口的弄堂里——新雅以东两百码、再南半英里、那条弄堂。

我尚不知是哪三处。我听见三声响——三声爆震，每声相隔九秒。第三声时，那比利时女人坐在人行道上，一言不发，摘下了白色草帽。

我沿南京路向东奔，朝外滩去。白珠跟着，灰色旅行外套外套着我礼拜五在毕勋路向她借的那身灰色排练旗袍。我们在南京路与外滩转角停下。

国泰饭店东向墙九楼的转角已塌。人行道上覆满九楼坠落的石块，覆满尸首——正午时分立在转角的男女老幼，数也数不过来。

白珠说，用一位二十五岁百乐门歌女在转角这一钟点的嗓音：哦，宝贝。

她说：第三串。第三串。虹口。

我们转身。

我们沿外滩北行，朝外白渡桥去。

我们走到了外白渡桥。

外白渡桥北端——租界已尽、虹口已始的那一头——立着一排日本海军陆战队。

那排日本海军陆战队的岗位上，立着一位日本哨兵军曹。

哨兵军曹横步枪于胸。

哨兵军曹示意难民鞠躬。

难民鞠了躬。

哨兵军曹放难民过去。

难民北行进了虹口。

我走到队首。

我说：我须过去。

哨兵军曹看着我。

我鞠了躬。

那一鞠躬，是一位苏州生、二十二岁的歌女，在外白渡桥北端、租界与虹口之间，向一位日本哨兵军曹鞠的躬。

我过去了。

白珠鞠了躬。

白珠过去了。

我们进了虹口。

正午十二点半，虹口外白渡桥路与文监师路转角，火起。第三枚炸弹落在文监师路与第三条弄堂转角——直到礼拜五下午四点一刻，那转角还摆着刘小姐表兄的面摊。如今是一坑瓦砾，烧着，火朝弄堂北端三个街区外蔓延。

我跑。白珠跟着。十二点四十，我们到了那条弄堂的转角。转角尚未着火。人行道上，一位身穿灰布对襟褂、五十八岁的虹口接生婆——自一九二四年便住在第二幢的周妈——立在那里。

阿良，她说。

她说：第三枚炸弹正午落在第三幢——曾太太家。曾先生刚拉完黄包车回家，正在二楼。他遭难了。爆震带塌了第二幢与第四幢。曾太太在第二幢。林姨在第四幢，躺在贵妃榻上。贵妃榻陷进了瓦砾里。林姨没了。我已替她们遮盖好，曾先生也是。我对不起你。我从贵妃榻的瓦砾里，捡回这只漆杯——里头还有些清茶。我知道你会来。

她把杯子递给我。杯是空的，杯口第二段缺了个口子——清晨四点三刻曾太太替林姨沏新茶时，原是没有的。坍塌砸出了那缺口。我把杯放进手袋内袋——同那十一样东西放在一起。内袋里成了十二样。

我在转角站住，数到九，没有落泪。我望向弄堂深处三户人家以外的瓦砾——那便是我住了八年的屋子的瓦砾。底下某处，压着那架风琴，盖下封着林姨九天里反复练的右手乐句，盖上压着茉莉，内格里搁着那只漆木匣。我听不见风琴。瓦砾不出声。我说：姨。瓦砾一声不响。

周妈说：去吧。我替你守着她们，守在瓦砾边。去吧。

我看了看白珠——她在我身后两步的转角处哭着，那是一位二十五岁百乐门歌女，在她当了七年姐姐的、一位二十二岁苏州出生的歌女家弄堂屋的瓦砾前的哭法。

我转身。

我同白珠沿弄堂折回文监师路，沿文监师路折回外白渡桥路与外白渡桥转角。

外白渡桥上，一点钟那一钟点，哨兵军曹仍立岗位。

我鞠了躬。

白珠鞠了躬。

我们过去了。

我们南向过桥。

桥下的苏州河，还是那条苏州河。

桥下苏州河的水，是棕色的。

那水的棕，是我头一回过外白渡桥起，苏州河便一直是的那种棕。

我们在一点钟那一钟点苏州河的棕里，默默地走过了桥。

到了桥南，我们仍走着。

我们沿外滩南行。

南京路与外滩转角，国泰饭店东向墙九楼那一角的瓦砾，便是瓦砾。

转角的人行道上，排着法国医院救护车的担架。

担架数了十九具。

那十九具的数，是十九具死者与伤者的数。

我没停下。

我继续走。

爱多亚路转角，大世界游乐场的瓦砾上，下午一点半，法国医院的担架沿人行道一字排开——救护车带不走的死者与伤者，数也数不过来。

我们一路向南，默不作声。到了亚尔培路与霞飞路转角，法租界这边静些；炸弹未落到这边。八月某个礼拜六下午两点，霞飞路梧桐树荫下，我停住，看着白珠。

白珠说：来公寓吧。萨先生两点半便从三号码头回来。我们喝白兰地，洗一洗，在沙发上躺一会儿，闭一闭眼。

我说：我去百乐门。

白珠九息未答。然后：宝贝。

我说：我下午三点到毕勋路公寓。每天下午三点。下一周。把这包饼带去。我从手袋里取出正午为林姨包的那张蜡纸——四块杏仁饼——递给白珠。吃了它。在公寓。同萨先生。三点。

白珠说：好，宝贝。再会，婉吟。

我转身西行，沿霞飞路走。两点半，到了愚园路与静安寺路转角。百乐门门已闭；林师傅不在门口；红地毯也没铺。我沿侧墙到后门门厅。后门未上锁，因为魏良知先生正在后门门厅。

魏良知先生本坐在一九三四年胡师傅打的那条木凳上。

魏良知先生站了起来。

魏先生说：苏小姐。正午我听见第三声。我便知道是虹口。

我说：林姨。贵妃榻。第四幢。瓦砾里。

他说：我对不起你。下去吧。他在钢琴边。他自十二点一刻起便晓得了——那只灰麻雀从天窗下来，过厨房走廊、过冷藏间楼梯，到了砖屋，落在谱架上那支烛台上，停了九息，又飞回去。风声晓得了。

我穿过冷藏间（墙边那只凳子、与魏师傅同护的那根管子），在灰旅行外套和灰排练旗袍下走下了那四十二级。倒数第二级上方那支烛已点着。我走到底，穿过拱门。

风声在钢琴前，没弹，瓷面具戴着，灰呢大衣罩在手套外。他站起来，转身面对我，张开双臂。我穿过砖屋，走进他怀里，哭起来——一位二十二岁苏州出生的歌女，靠在一个左手无名指没了第二指节的男人怀里，他的面具贴在我额角发凉。这一日，三枚炸弹落上租界，她的养母遭了难。

我哭了十五分钟。他抱着我，没说话，把脸颊贴在我额角。然后我说：继元。弄堂。林姨。曾先生。曾太太。瓦砾里。周妈把那只漆杯给了我。

我从手袋里取出那只漆杯——杯口第二段那缺口——递给他。他用没戴手套的右手接过，看了九息，递回给我。我把它放回内袋。

他说：阿良。砖屋还是砖屋。魏师傅在后门门厅。百乐门按杜先生的话，本周末歇业；到工部局不再过问的那一晚再开。今晚你睡行军床。明日正午魏师傅自四川路摊上替你带饭来。明日下午三点你去毕勋路公寓。萨先生堂兄若办到了你的单人份，白珠便把文件给你，第三个礼拜六六点带你上那挪威船。你随白珠走。

我后退一步。不。

不，继元。听我说。第三段还在行军床那只皮匣里。它没出去，因为昨夜舞台上那四十二人，并不是那间屋。我不离开上海，要等到第三段出去。

我说：贵妃榻便是瓦砾。弄堂便是瓦砾。林姨没了。曾先生没了。曾太太没了。这国家在那条弄堂里。这国家在那条弄堂里，是因为这国家便是这国家。八月第二个礼拜六、那条弄堂上的这国家，是一个落到了那条弄堂上的国家。八月第二个礼拜六、那条弄堂上的这国家，是一个把炮弹落到文监师路转角的国家。八月第二个礼拜六、那条弄堂上的这国家，便是一九三四年闸北第三家印刷所、一九二七年龙华、一九一六年外滩那间客厅里的那个国家。这国家也是高空那位中国飞行员。这国家也是工部局警员吴老爷在北海路行军床边，也是洪敬铭先生的侄儿在新雅，也是杜月笙先生在四号桌、佛珠绕腕，也是武汉路领事馆里自十一月起待白珠不薄的那个厨房小工。国家就是国家。八月第二个礼拜六弄堂里的这国家，杀了我养母。八月第二个礼拜六弄堂里的这国家，并不知自己杀了我养母。八月第二个礼拜六弄堂里的这国家，是正午那一钟点高空一位中国飞行员，把那一串投在了错的转角。那位中国飞行员不会知道。我要唱第三段。我要在一间有三位外国记者的屋子里唱。我要在一间装着话筒、有线中继直通香港和马尼拉、无十三分钟延迟的屋子里唱。

他说：告诉我，怎么做。

我说：我不知道。

我说：听我说。昨夜少佐留了一张便条给我——今夜我在领事馆，请万事小心，Ｋ。*他是领事馆里那位「便是国家」的参谋；这国家会派他来求我的事——至迟到十月或十一月第二个礼拜——是要我做日方在虹口正在筹建的那座广播电台的歌手。那是一座向上海、并经马尼拉与香港中继、用华语播歌的电台。我会答应。我会答应，是因为那座电台便是那间装着话筒、有线中继直通、无十三分钟延迟的屋。是第三段所需的那间屋。在首播那一刻——在这国家未及切断之前——我要唱第三段。

第三段会在首播当日清晨，由百代的工程师门德尔松先生压成一张黑胶。*

我说：门德尔松。亚尔培路百代的那位工程师。据他自述，他原是汉堡来的客座和声教授，一九二九年十一月某个礼拜三，曾在陆继元先生二十二岁那间音乐学院教室里授课。一九三三年他自汉堡出逃。

他说：我记得他。他给我修过第二个练习里桥段的声部进行。一九三三年他自汉堡出逃。你不曾告诉我他在百代。

我说：白珠让我，等到门德尔松成为门德尔松那一刻再告诉你。此刻，他已成为门德尔松。他将压三张唱片——一张由海路去香港，一张由空路经马尼拉去香港，一张由铁路去重庆。哈姆斯沃斯泰迪带一张，葡萄牙男朋友带一张，白珠一位叫梁的青帮远房表亲带一张。泰迪会借少佐亲自的请柬，把两位外国记者带进听众席。

他说：你都想透了。何时。

我说：今日下午两点，在亚尔培路与霞飞路转角。这一想，已想了十四日。

他说：之后呢。

我说：首播之后，这国家会逮我，把我带到极司菲尔路七十六号审讯。依我对国泰那一回少佐的算计，它不会枪毙我。你次日带人来接我——同梁、三位青帮的弟兄、哈姆斯沃斯泰迪、门德尔松一道。我们从三号码头那艘运煤船离开上海。告诉我，你答应。

他说：我答应。

我说：继元。我对不起你。

他说：阿良。我引以为荣。

我说：今夜我睡在行军床上，因为此刻，我已没有弄堂。明日正午我吃魏师傅带来的那顿饭。明日下午三点我去公寓告诉白珠。白珠会劝我不要去。我不会被劝住。继元。摘下面具。

他九息未答。然后：阿良。今夜不可。林姨在弄堂瓦砾里遭难的这一日，我不是你要他摘下面具的那个男人。这个礼拜六，我是钢琴边的那个男人。钢琴边的男人，就是钢琴边的男人。我会在首播那日清晨，做那个摘下面具的男人。

我说：首播那日清晨。我等。继元。同我睡在行军床上。

他说：面具戴着。

我说：面具戴着。

他转身走向行军床，脱下灰呢大衣搭在木箱上，坐下，抬头看我。我跪下，脱下灰旅行外套与灰排练旗袍，搭在他大衣旁的木箱上，躺了下来。他在我身边躺下——面具戴着，手套戴着，白衬衫、深裤、深皮鞋仍在身上。他右臂垫在我头下，左手放在我胯骨弧线处——便是那处衬里：里头曾装过兄长的信、那缕头发、龙华的棉布、四张百代五线谱、一九〇〇年那张纸。我把头偎进他肩窝——瓷面具与白衬衫在缝线处相接的那一处。瓷是凉的。衬衫是暖的。

我合上眼。

我睡了——在行军床上，一九三七年八月第二个礼拜六的下午，在一个左手无名指没了第二指节的男人怀里，这一日，我养母在四川北路与虹口公园转角、第四幢房屋的瓦砾里遭了难。

我无梦。

Chapter Twenty-Four — Bloody Saturday

Saturday the fourteenth of August.

Sun Ya at noon had been the Sun Ya of an hour at the third table from the window with the lacquer ashtray on the marble table and the hum of the electric fan at the corner of the marble counter and the attention of Mr. Wei the clerk at the marble counter to whatever dish a Belgian woman of forty at the second table by the window had ordered.

Pearl had been at the third table from the window since half past eleven.

She had on the grey traveling coat over a navy poplin dress. She had on no jewelry except the gold chain at the neck the Portuguese boyfriend had given her at the second Christmas. She had on the expression of a Paramount singer of twenty-five who had finished packing.

Mr. Sá had been at the second table on the side wall at half past eleven.

Mr. Sá had not been with Pearl.

Mr. Sá had been at the second table because Mr. Sá at the flat at Avenue Pichon had told Pearl that he had a business at the third pier of the customs jetty and would, at one, come back for her at Sun Ya.

The Portuguese cousin at the business at the third pier was confirming the papers for the second Saturday of August at six in the morning of the third Saturday of August.

The third Saturday of August was the calendar of the Macau line of the Norwegian coal carrier that had moved its sailing from the second Saturday at six to the third Saturday at six.

Pearl had known about the reschedule since the Friday afternoon.

Pearl had not told me about the reschedule, because Pearl at the Thursday tea dance had not known there would be a reschedule. The reschedule had been the Friday afternoon's reschedule. The Friday afternoon's reschedule had been the consulate's reschedule.

Pearl had told me.

She said: The Norwegian has gone to the third Saturday and not the second. I am at the flat at Avenue Pichon for the week. We have the hour of a week. Mr. Sá is at the third pier with his cousin. He will, at one, come back. He will, at the flat at the Saturday evening at six, take me to the Italian restaurant at Avenue Joffre that he and I have eaten the ravioli at. We will eat the ravioli. We will drink the bottle of the red wine. We will, at the flat at Avenue Pichon at ten, sleep. We will, at the Saturday morning at six, drink the coffee. We will, at half past six, walk to the corner of Avenue Pichon and Avenue Joffre. We will, at quarter to seven, take a rickshaw to the third pier. We will, at the third pier at eight, be on the Norwegian coal carrier with the forged Tsvetkov papers Mr. Sá's cousin has been at the print-shop at Macau for since the second week of June. I would have wanted you on the Norwegian at the third Saturday of August. I would have wanted, by the calendar of a Macau line, to have you with me at the forged Tsvetkov papers Mr. Sá's cousin has been at the print-shop at Macau for. I had known the set of papers Mr. Sá's cousin had been at the print-shop at Macau for was a set of two and not a set of three. The set of two was for the second Saturday at six. The reschedule by the consulate at Wuhan Road at the Friday morning had moved the sailing to the third Saturday at six. The reschedule did not change the set of papers. The set of papers is at Mr. Sá's cousin at the third pier. The set of papers is for two and not for three. I had told you the third pier at six on the second Saturday because I had wanted you to be at the third pier. The third pier was a third pier at which the set of papers was for two and at which Mr. Sá's cousin had a third set for a third person at the reserve at the print-shop at Macau. The third set was a set Mr. Sá's cousin had been preparing for me to bring you. The third set was at the third pier at half past four when the reschedule moved the Saturday at six to the third Saturday at six and Mr. Sá's cousin had sent the set of two for the second Saturday back to the print-shop for the third Saturday and had not the reserve. The reserve had been used. I am sorry. I will, at the flat at Avenue Pichon at the hour of the next week, attempt to obtain — by Mr. Sá's cousin at the print-shop at Macau — a set for one. I will, by Mr. Sá's cousin, attempt. I do not know whether the reserve will be available. I will try.

She said: Set the price, sweetheart. Set it high.

She said: I am taking my own advice. I am setting the price. The price is the leaving with Mr. Sá at the third Saturday of August. The price is a price I am taking. The price I am going to try to set is a price for a set for one for you. The price for the set for one for you will, at the print-shop at Macau, be a sum I will, by Mr. Sá's cousin, pay. Drink the coffee. Drink it.

I had drunk the coffee.

The dish of almond biscuits had been at the marble table since the eleven-thirty when Pearl had ordered them. The dish had been the dish of Sun Ya's almond biscuits, which had been the dish of Sun Ya's almond biscuits since 1929. Mr. Wei the clerk had been bringing them to the third table from the window since 1932 in the white dish with the blue rim that Mr. Wei the clerk had been told by Mr. Sun Ya himself to bring the dish of almond biscuits in.

I had not eaten one.

I had taken a folded square of the wax paper Mr. Wei kept in the drawer beneath the marble counter, and I had wrapped four of the almond biscuits.

I had put the wrapped biscuits in the inside pocket of the handbag with the brother's letter and the lock of hair and the folded square of cotton from Longhua and the four pieces of Pathé staff paper and the folded square of paper from 1900 and the folded note from the cot at the Thursday morning and the folded cream-paper envelope from the old Japanese woman of seventy at the Paramount tea dance and the two folded notes from the Friday at the eight o'clock from the Major and Mr. Du.

The inside pocket of the handbag had eleven objects.

I had looked at Pearl.

Pearl had looked at me.

She said: We will have the next week. I will, every afternoon at three, be at the flat at Avenue Pichon. The flat is at the second floor of the second house at Avenue Pichon. The second floor is the floor with the green-painted door at the landing. Come to me. Bring the papers if Mr. Sá's cousin gets them. Come to me anyway if Mr. Sá's cousin does not.

She had set down the second coffee.

She had looked at the marble counter where Mr. Wei the clerk had been at the hour of the Saturday at noon.

The Belgian woman of forty at the second table by the window had finished her dish of soufflé. The Belgian woman of forty had paid the bill with the French paper note from the Banque de l'Indochine. The Belgian woman of forty had stood. The Belgian woman of forty had put on the white straw hat with the dark ribbon at the brim that she had been wearing on her Saturday outings to Sun Ya every Saturday at noon since the second Saturday of June.

The Belgian woman of forty had gone to the door.

At the door the Belgian woman of forty had paused.

The Belgian woman of forty had looked up.

The Belgian woman of forty had pointed at the sky outside the door of Sun Ya at the corner of Nanjing Road and Sichuan Road.

I had stood from the third table.

Pearl had stood from the third table.

We had gone to the door.

We had looked.

In the sky above the corner of Nanjing Road and Sichuan Road there were five Chinese airplanes — the five Northrop bombers the L'Echo de Chine had been writing about, going South down the Huangpu at the low altitude of a bomber on an attack-run at the Idzumo at the third anchorage off the consulate's third pier. They dropped a stick of bombs. The stick went short. It fell at three places: the corner of Nanjing Road and the Bund, at the façade of the Cathay; the corner of Avenue Édouard VII, at the Great World amusement hall; and the lanes of Hongkou — two hundred yards East of Sun Ya, half a mile South, and the lane.

I did not yet know the three places. I heard the three sounds — three concussions, each nine seconds after the last. At the third the Belgian woman sat down on the pavement, said nothing, and took off the white straw hat.

I ran East along Nanjing Road toward the Bund. Pearl followed, in the grey traveling coat and the grey rehearsal qipao I had borrowed from her at Avenue Pichon on the Friday. We stopped at the corner of Nanjing Road and the Bund.

The ninth-floor corner of the Cathay's East-facing wall had collapsed. The pavement was covered with the stones of the ninth floor, and with the bodies — men and women and children who had been at the corner at noon, a count beyond the count one took.

Pearl said, in the voice of a Paramount singer of twenty-five at the hour at the corner: Oh sweetheart.

She said: The third stick. The third stick. Hongkou.

We had turned.

We had gone North on the Bund toward the Garden Bridge.

We had come to the Garden Bridge.

The Garden Bridge had had at the North side of the bridge, where the Settlement ended and Hongkou began, a line of Japanese marines.

The line of Japanese marines had had at the post a Japanese sentry sergeant.

The sentry sergeant had held a rifle at the chest.

The sentry sergeant had gestured at the refugee to bow.

The refugee had bowed.

The sentry sergeant had let the refugee through.

The refugee had gone North into Hongkou.

I had gone to the head of the line.

I said: I must go through.

The sentry sergeant had looked at me.

I had bowed.

The bow had been the bow of a Suzhou-born singer of twenty-two who had bowed at a Japanese sentry sergeant at the North end of the Garden Bridge between the Settlement and Hongkou.

I had gone.

Pearl had bowed.

Pearl had gone.

We had gone into Hongkou.

Hongkou at half past twelve, at the corner of Garden Bridge Road and Boone Road, was on fire. The third bomb had fallen at the corner of Boone Road and the third lane — the corner where Miss Liu's cousin's noodle stall had been until quarter past four on the Friday. It was a crater of rubble, on fire, the fire spreading North toward the lane three blocks up.

I ran. Pearl followed. At twenty to one we came to the corner of the lane. The corner had not caught. At the pavement, in the grey cotton tunic of a Hongkou midwife of fifty-eight, was Mrs. Zhou, who had been at the second house since 1924.

Aliang, she said.

She said: The third bomb hit the third house — Mrs. Tsung's house — at noon. Mr. Tsung had come home from the rickshaw and was at the second floor. He was killed. The blast took the second house and the fourth. Mrs. Tsung was at the second house. Mrs. Lin was at the fourth house, on the chaise. The chaise was in the rubble. Mrs. Lin was gone. I have covered them, and Mr. Tsung also. I am sorry. I have, from the rubble at the chaise, the lacquer cup of weak tea. I knew you would come.

She handed it to me. The cup was empty, with a chip at the second quarter of the rim that had not been there at quarter to four that morning, when Mrs. Tsung had drawn the tea fresh. The collapse had made the chip. I put the cup in the inside pocket of the handbag with the eleven objects. The pocket had twelve objects.

I stood at the corner for the count of nine and did not weep. I looked at the rubble three house-lots into the lane — the rubble of the house I had lived in for eight years. Under it, somewhere, was the harmonium, with the right-hand phrase Auntie Lin had practiced for nine days closed under its lid, and the jasmine on the lid, and the lacquer box in the inner partition. I did not hear the harmonium. The rubble did not sound. I said: Auntie. The rubble said nothing.

Mrs. Zhou said: Go. I will keep them at the rubble. Go.

I looked at Pearl, two paces behind me at the corner, weeping — the way a Paramount singer of twenty-five weeps at the rubble of the lane house of a Suzhou-born singer of twenty-two she has been the older sister of for seven years.

I had turned.

I had gone with Pearl back along the lane to the Boone Road and along Boone Road back to the corner of Garden Bridge Road and the Garden Bridge.

At the Garden Bridge at the hour of one o'clock the sentry sergeant had been at the post.

I had bowed.

Pearl had bowed.

We had gone.

We had gone South across the bridge.

The Suzhou Creek under the bridge had been the Suzhou Creek.

The water of the Suzhou Creek under the bridge had been brown.

The brown of the water had been the brown the Suzhou Creek had been at since I had first crossed the Garden Bridge.

We had walked across the bridge in the brown of the Suzhou Creek at the hour of one o'clock without saying anything.

At the South side of the bridge we had kept walking.

We had walked South along the Bund.

At the corner of Nanjing Road and the Bund the rubble of the ninth-floor corner of the East-facing wall of the Cathay Hotel had been the rubble.

The pavement at the corner had had the stretchers of the French Hospital ambulances at the pavement.

The stretchers had been at the count of nineteen.

The count of nineteen had been the count of nineteen of bodies and wounded.

I had not stopped.

I had kept walking.

At the corner of Avenue Édouard VII the rubble of the Great World amusement hall had, at half past one, the French Hospital stretchers along the pavement — bodies and wounded the ambulances could not take, a count one did not take.

We walked South in silence. At the corner of Avenue du Roi Albert and Avenue Joffre the French Concession was quieter; the bombs had not fallen here. Under the plane-trees of Avenue Joffre, in the shade at two on a Saturday afternoon in August, I stopped and looked at Pearl.

Pearl said: Come to the flat. Mr. Sá will be back from the third pier by half past two. We will drink the brandy and wash and lie down on the sofa and close our eyes.

I said: I am going to the Paramount.

Pearl had not said anything for the count of nine. Then: Sweetheart.

I said: I will come to the flat at Avenue Pichon at three. Every day at three. The next week. Take the wrapped biscuits. I took the wax paper of the four almond biscuits I had wrapped for Auntie Lin at noon and handed it to Pearl. Eat them. At the flat. With Mr. Sá. At three.

Pearl said: Yes, sweetheart. Goodbye, Wanyin.

I turned and went West on Avenue Joffre, and at half past two came to the corner of Yuyuan Road and Bubbling Well. The Paramount's door was closed; Mr. Lin was not at it; the long red carpet was not rolled out. I went along the side wall to the back vestibule. The back door was unlocked, because Mr. Wei Liangzhi was at the back vestibule.

Mr. Wei Liangzhi had been on the wooden bench Mr. Hu had built in 1934.

Mr. Wei Liangzhi had stood.

Mr. Wei said: Miss Su. I heard the third sound at noon. I knew it was Hongkou.

I said: Mrs. Lin. At the chaise. At the fourth house. At the rubble.

He said: I am sorry. Go down. He is at the piano. He has known since quarter past noon — the dust-grey sparrow came down through the skylight and the kitchen corridor and the cold-storage stair to the brick room, landed at the candle on the music desk, sat for the count of nine, and flew back up. Feng Sheng knew.

I went through the cold-storage room (the stool at the wall, the pipe with Mr. Wei) and down the forty-two steps in the grey traveling coat and the grey rehearsal qipao. The candle above the second-to-last step had been lit. I came to the bottom and through the arch.

Feng Sheng was at the piano, not playing, the porcelain mask on, the grey wool coat over the gloves. He stood, turned to face me, and opened his arms. I crossed the brick room and walked into them and wept — a Suzhou-born singer of twenty-two in the arms of a man whose left fourth finger had no second joint, whose mask was cool against the side of my head, on the day three bombs had fallen on the Settlement and her foster-mother had been killed.

I wept for the count of fifteen minutes. He held me and said nothing and set his cheek at the side of my head. Then I said: Jiyuan. The lane. Auntie Lin. Mr. Tsung. Mrs. Tsung. At the rubble. Mrs. Zhou the midwife gave me the lacquer cup.

I took the lacquer cup from the handbag — the chip at the second quarter of the rim — and handed it to him. He took it in his bare right hand, looked at it for the count of nine, and handed it back. I put it back in the inside pocket.

He said: Aliang. The brick room is the brick room. Mr. Wei is at the back vestibule. The Paramount is closed for the weekend by Mr. Du's word; it will reopen at the first night the Settlement Council does not interfere. Tonight you will sleep at the cot. Tomorrow at noon Mr. Wei brings a meal from the Sichuan-Road vendor. Tomorrow at three you go to the flat at Avenue Pichon. Pearl will give you the papers for one if Mr. Sá's cousin has them, and take you on the Norwegian on the third Saturday at six. You will leave with Pearl.

I had stepped back from him. No.

No, Jiyuan. Listen. The third verse is at the cot in the leather case. It has not gone out, because the forty-two at the bandstand last night were not the room. I am not leaving Shanghai until the third verse has gone out.

I said: The chaise is the rubble. The lane is the rubble. Auntie Lin is gone. Mr. Tsung is gone. Mrs. Tsung is gone. The country is in the lane. The country is in the lane because the country is the country. The country at the lane on the second Saturday of August was a country that had fallen on the lane. The country at the lane on the second Saturday of August was a country that had landed a shell at the corner of Boone Road. The country at the lane on the second Saturday of August was a country that had been at the third printing press at Zhabei in 1934 and at Longhua in 1927 and at the parlor at the Bund in 1916. The country is also the Chinese pilot at the altitude. The country is also Constable Wu of the Settlement police at the cot at Beihai Road and Mr. Hong Jingming's nephew at Sun Ya and Mr. Du Yuesheng at table four with the beads at his wrist and the kitchen boy at the consulate at Wuhan Road who has been kind to Pearl since November. The country is the country. The country at the lane on the second Saturday of August killed my foster-mother. The country at the lane on the second Saturday of August did not know it had killed my foster-mother. The country at the lane on the second Saturday of August was a Chinese pilot at the altitude at the hour of noon who had dropped the stick at the wrong corner. The Chinese pilot will not know. I am going to sing the third verse. I am going to sing it in a room with three foreign journalists. I am going to sing it in a room with a microphone connected to a wire-relay that goes out to Hong Kong and to Manila without the thirteen-minute delay.

He said: Tell me how.

I said: I do not know.

I said: *Listen. The Major left me a note last night — I am at the consulate tonight, please be careful, K. He is the staff officer at the consulate who is the country, and the thing the country will send him to ask me, by the second week of October or November, is to be the singer of a Japanese radio station the consulate is building at Hongkou — a station to broadcast songs in Chinese to Shanghai and to the wire-relay at Manila and Hong Kong. I will accept. I will accept because that station is the room with the microphone on the wire-relay without the thirteen-minute delay. It is the room the third verse needs. At the inaugural broadcast I will sing the third verse, before the country can cut the broadcast.

The third verse will be pressed onto a black disc by the Pathé engineer Mr. Mendelsohn on the morning of the broadcast.*

I said: Mendelsohn. The Pathé engineer at Avenue du Roi Albert. By his own account he was a visiting professor of harmony from Hamburg at the Conservatory classroom of Mr. Lu Jiyuan at twenty-two, on a Wednesday in November of 1929. He fled Hamburg in 1933.

He said: I remember him. He corrected my voice-leading in the bridge of the second exercise. He fled Hamburg in 1933. You did not tell me he was at Pathé.

I said: Pearl told me to tell you when the Mendelsohn became the Mendelsohn. He has, at this hour, become the Mendelsohn. He will press three discs — one by sea to Hong Kong, one by air to Hong Kong by way of Manila, one by rail to Chongqing. Teddy Harmsworth takes one, the Portuguese boyfriend one, a Green Gang half-cousin of Pearl's named Liang one. Teddy will get two foreign journalists into the gallery by the Major's own invitation.

He said: You have thought this through. When.

I said: At two o'clock today, at the corner of Avenue du Roi Albert and Avenue Joffre. The thinking had been the thinking for fourteen days.

He said: And after.

I said: After the inaugural broadcast, the country will arrest me and take me to 76 Jessfield Road and interrogate me. By my counting of the Major at the Cathay, it will not have me shot. You will come for me the day after — with Liang and three Green Gang men and Teddy Harmsworth and Mendelsohn. We will leave Shanghai by the coal boat at the third pier. Tell me you will agree.

He said: I will agree.

I said: Jiyuan. I am sorry.

He said: Aliang. I am proud.

I said: I am going to sleep at the cot tonight, because I have not, at this hour, a lane. Tomorrow at noon I eat the meal Mr. Wei brings. Tomorrow at three I go to the flat and tell Pearl. Pearl will try to talk me out of it. I will not be talked out of it. Jiyuan. Take off the mask.

He had not said anything for the count of nine. Then: Aliang. Not tonight. I am not, on the day Auntie Lin has been killed at the rubble of the lane, the man you ask to take off the mask. On this Saturday I am the man at the piano. The man at the piano is the man at the piano. I will be the man who takes off the mask on the morning of the inaugural broadcast.

I said: On the morning of the inaugural broadcast. I will wait. Jiyuan. Sleep with me on the cot.

He said: With the mask on.

I said: With the mask on.

He turned to the cot, took off the grey wool coat and laid it across the crate, sat, and looked up at me. I knelt, took off the grey traveling coat and the grey rehearsal qipao and laid them across the crate beside his coat, and lay down. He lay down beside me — the mask on, the gloves on, the white shirt and dark trousers and dark shoes still on. He set his right arm under my head and his left hand on the curve of my hip, at the lining where the brother's letter and the lock of hair and the cotton from Longhua and the four pieces of Pathé staff paper and the paper from 1900 had been. I set my head at the hollow of his shoulder where the porcelain mask met the white shirt at the seam. The porcelain was cool. The shirt was warm.

I closed my eyes.

I slept — at the cot, on the afternoon of the second Saturday of August, 1937, in the arms of a man whose left fourth finger had no second joint, on the day my foster-mother had been killed at the rubble of the fourth house at the corner of Sichuan Road N. and Hongkou Park.

I did not dream.