七部小说 · Seven Novels

第 26 章 ——《插曲之二》

一九三七年八月十五日，礼拜日。凌晨四点。百乐门地下的砖室。

自一点一刻起，他便不曾合眼。

他在行军床上躺着，右臂垫在她的头下，瓷面具戴着，手套戴着，听她的呼吸——从一个二十二岁的歌女在梦里悲哭的呼吸，转成一个二十二岁的歌女已进入更深的静的呼吸——那种静，是身体决定在这一段长夜里，原谅了身体活着的事实。这决定，他想，并非她做的。是身体做的。一个二十二岁歌女的身体，在同一个钟点里既吸入了砖室男中音的肋间气息，又吸入了养母此刻压在虹口巷口颜色不对的砖堆下这件事——身体替头脑做了一个头脑未被征询的决定。决定是：继续呼吸。决定是：你身侧的男人不是那条弄堂，但你身侧的男人，便是那条弄堂之所是。

他听着。

四拍入、六拍出的呼吸贴着他右臂内侧——那臂膀与白衬衫接缝处——贴着他半边脸的瓷，贴着他右颧骨上那一小块未曾灼伤的皮肤。一九二九年，一位从汉堡来的客座和声学教授曾在此处搁下手背，用他的德语说：Lu Jiyuan, du atmest gut.——陆继元，你的气息好。 那位教授随后用了三十八分钟，把他第二段练习曲在过桥处的声部进行一一拆解，并在乐谱的边栏写下：Du wirst noch ein Mann werden, der etwas zu sagen hat. 那年他二十一。他把乐谱带回家，那一晚，亦不曾睡。

今夜，他亦不曾睡。

待到更深的静里，他开始想。

他想，第一桩，是这张行军床。

这张床是胡木匠在一九三五年二月，从文监师路与第二条弄堂转角的军余物资铺里买下的。铺子是一个六十二岁的山东鳏夫开的，他年轻时在德籍海关帮办处做过担架兵，一九二八年帮办处撤了，他便用那笔没领到的薪水开了这家小铺。这张床是帮办处撤走时留在吴淞的三张铁架军官床之一，由煤驳运回上海，按每张十二块银洋卖给铺子。胡木匠花了三块。

床有帆布底，三根松木板条。胡木匠把松木换成了三根柏木——砖室潮，松木已开始裂。柏木受潮时有一种小小的、干净的气味。凌晨四点，这气味会从帆布底下淡淡地透上来——而此刻床上躺着的，是两个身体，而非它原本只为承载一个身体而造。

床六英尺长，二十八英寸宽。本是给一个男人造的。一九三五年二月胡木匠曾问他：风先生，要不要替您寻一张更宽些的？铺子后面有一张更宽的，法国军官床，三十四英寸。 他答：我不需要更宽的。 胡木匠说：是，风先生。 没有再就一个两个月前从闸北印刷厂火场里被拖出来、左半边脸变成那副模样的男人的口角，发表任何评论。

这张床，本是一个不需要更宽的床的男人的床。

而此刻，它已经九个钟头，亦载着一位二十二岁的歌女——她的养母，是在一九三七年八月十四日礼拜六中午，被炸死在弄堂第四户的瓦砾里。

他想，第二桩，是她的头压在他肩窝的重量。

那肩窝，本是一个什么也不曾搁在里头的男人的肩窝。两年零七个月里，它只载过瓷面具的皮带、白衬衫的接缝；一九三六年十月有一秒，他在凌晨三点一刻换衬衫时，莫朗西医生为他诊脉的那只手，亦曾搁过。那是唯一的重量。如今搁在肩窝里的这颗头，按他三月第三个礼拜二做肋间练习时的估算，是它所连着那具身体的百分之十六。那具身体重五十公斤。这颗头便重八公斤。

八公斤，是他两年零五个月里不曾应承去担的重量。

此刻他担着。

他想，第三桩，是陆继文。

一九三四年二月，闸北第三家印刷所，陆继文二十岁。陆继文站在第二台机的平台印刷机前——那是一台 Diebold，一九三一年下午四点半，天津一家印铺以四十块银洋卖给一个十七岁的共产党组织者的那一种。那十七岁的组织者，是陆继文三姨这一房的表兄；天津那家印铺，是陆继文叔父的；一连串小小的偶然，把一台第二号机的 Diebold 平台机，送到了一九三四年二月第二个礼拜六、闸北第三印刷所——这一链条，他在漆盒里的那本日记中，用他在沙石上削尖的那支扁平 4B 铅笔，在一页之内画成了铅笔图。

那一日，陆继文正在印申新九厂罢工的第三号传单——罢工定于二月第二个礼拜一早晨六点开始。

第三号传单上了第二台机，是一九三四年二月第二个礼拜六下午三点半。

突袭是三点三刻。

突袭的，是十个人。这十人是：四个穿深色长褂、持木棍的青帮汉子。三个穿公共租界巡捕制服的租界巡捕，由那名站在弄堂口黄包车旁、抽烟的租界巡捕长发令。两个淞沪警备司令部的便衣，把煤油浇到门口的，是他们。一个穿深色长褂的日本领事馆书记，站在弄堂口看着。日记里他给每人写了一行，连那名领事馆书记也得了一小行括注，用他那一笔行书写道：那书记没有抬手。那书记看着。看着这件事，日记要记下。

第四个青帮汉子在弄堂的后门，握着木棍和门闩，把闩插进后门的锁扣板里——按第二栋的格局，那是前屋一旦着火、第三家印刷所唯一的退路。他是日记附录里的一个名字，没有名字可填的那种。他只有一件长褂、一根木棍、一根门闩。

公共租界的吴巡捕，一九三四年二月并不在闸北。吴巡捕是那个在一九二七年四月十二日清晨，提着一支步枪、一张写了四十二个名字的名单，站在龙华东门的人。这四十二人，是黎明时分行刑名单上的四十二个。名单上的第七个名字是：沈阿淮，年十九，吴县，纱厂工运。 这名字他一九二九年写进了日记，写的时候，那只手还不知道沈阿淮是谁的兄长。他在名字旁，只写了：第七。

他想，第四桩，是那第七个名字。

第七个名字曾在龙华东门转角、黎明时分的那张名单上。

第七个名字此刻在右胯内缝里——一件鸿翔西服店一九三七年五月裁的银色礼裙旗袍，挂在两级楼梯之上化妆间的雪松衣杆上。那道缝里收着哥哥的信，折得比别的都小，信后面是百代谱纸四片，信前面是杯沿第二刻度处那道缺口的茶杯。

他想，第五桩，是安文静。

一九三四年二月第二个礼拜六下午三点半，安文静在弄堂房子第三印刷所的前屋。安文静二十三岁。安文静是申新九厂工人新村第三条弄堂幼儿园的先生。安文静那天下午是从幼儿园过去，把第三号传单送到第二个街角的组织者手上。安文静在门边——煤油从门缝下渗进来时，那是一道她最不该靠近的门。

前屋着了。

他当时在弄堂与里弄的转角，第二栋房子那里，距第三印刷所有三户人家的间隔——他正在把一张伪造的乐谱出版社信笺，连同信封，交给一个二十六岁的男人。那人是跑狗场舞厅的驻场钢琴师，是用三个笔名替流行曲编配的编曲家，是一个同父异母的弟弟在第二号机上印传单的男人。那二十六岁的男人接过信封说：多谢，陆继元。 陆继元转过街角；街角就是街角；他转过去的第二瞬，他身后的弄堂便着了。

他听见了那个钟点。

他跑过去。

他用一块路面上的砖头，砸了前屋的窗。那砖是杨树浦窑场一八八〇年代的砖——他后来想，与百乐门后楼梯下那块砖是同一种砖，是后来他两年零七个月里，下那四十二级台阶时右手必扶的同一种砖。那砖是他这座城的砖。砖砸破了那扇窗。那扇窗，把安文静递给了他。

他把安文静拖了出来。

他又进去了。

进去的那一秒之第二秒，他在天花板下。

天花板塌了。

天花板砸在他左半边脸上。一根松木梁——平阳松，一九〇九年伐，一九二三年刷了一层廉价铅白漆，一九三四年已剥落——以约三十度的斜角砸下来，砸在他太阳穴。撞击之时，他没有昏厥。他失去的，是左半边脸——这是另一回事。他从梁下爬了出来。安文静仰躺在人行道上，气息是一个二十三岁幼儿园先生在着了火的屋里待过之后的那种气息。他在她身侧，伏在砖上，膝行爬过去。砖是湿的——邻人朝那扇门上泼的第三桶水留下的湿。

安文静活了三日。

第三日的第十一个钟点，在法租界医院的一间病房里，莫朗西医生在床的另一头，巴黎沙特尔仁爱修会的一位修女守在门口，安文静用她的天津官话说：继元。把救我的担子放下。放下。再担一个。

安文静死了。

他在法租界医院那间病房里。他由莫朗西医生救治。他在警局户籍上被宣告死亡，凭一纸由莫朗西医生伪造、盖了那位修女图章的死亡证明——那位修女，看了一年凌晨三点半进门的种种之后，已不再在意图章。他被莫朗西医生赐名风声；被福州路上做戏曲道具的师傅做了那张瓷面——眼缝从鼻梁起十九毫米，因为十九毫米恰好容下六步外一支烛、十六步外一个人。他被胡木匠送进百乐门地下的砖室，由胡木匠安了门、煤油灯、行军床、壁龛烛架、水壶；一九三四年十二月第三周，胡木匠说：风先生，您得有一架钢琴。 又在一九三五年一月十二日凌晨三点，带四个人和一辆手推车，从大楼后头的货运坡道把那架贝希斯坦立式钢琴抬了下来。

他在砖室里待了两年零七个月。

他担起了另一个。

那担子，是歌的担子。

歌写了两年。歌成了《夜上海》。歌成了名字的那一段词。歌从舞台上唱出去了一半。直到上个礼拜五八点钟，他才听见，第二段词被人唱在了一间——杜月笙、大日本帝国海军武官、青帮姚三爷坐在十一号台，一个穿银色礼裙旗袍、二十二岁、苏州出生的歌女在舞台上——的房间的空气里。那第二段词在那间屋的空气里，已是另一首歌。他从那间屋下面两层的砖室里听见了。他把两只戴着手套的手都搁在贝希斯坦的谱架上，等它唱完。

歌在第二只木箱的皮匣里。

歌也在他肩窝里——一个二十二岁的歌女把头搁在了那里。

他把头转了——瓷面具所能允许的最小幅度。他借着烛光看她。

她睡了。

她仍穿着八月十四日礼拜六下午两点三刻、她走下那四十二级台阶时穿的灰色排练旗袍。旗袍右下襟沾着颜色不对的砖灰。她睡前他没有替她洗。况且，他亦不知如何洗一件旗袍。

她身上还盖着那条灰毛毯——一九三五年二月胡木匠从文监师路与第二条弄堂转角军余物资铺买的那条。

她便是那一个。

她便是那一个——一九一四年，在吴县的河岸上，被母亲唤作阿良的那一个。

一九三七年八月第三个礼拜日凌晨两点一刻，他用自己的私人文法对自己说：我不被允许。

他想，第六桩，是这间砖室。

砖室的第二只木箱里，是装着第三段词的皮匣与那本漆面账册。砖室的第三只木箱里，是漆盒，盒中是那本写到第二附录的日记。砖室的贝希斯坦谱架上，是托盘里的那支蜡烛。砖室的行军床上，是一位把头搁在他肩窝的二十二岁的歌女。砖室倒数第二级台阶上方的壁龛里，是烧到第三刻度的蜡烛。砖室的墙上，是那只灰扑扑的麻雀——它会飞下来，落在贝希斯坦旁的烛旁，停足九拍，再飞回它在冷藏间上方的天窗。

凌晨两点一刻，灰麻雀不在墙上。灰麻雀在厨房里、厨子的左肩上。厨子坐在小凳上抽他的竹管烟，望着厨房的后门。厨子是在陪那只鸟——因为这鸟在凌晨一点本是陪着他的——而厨子在这个八月第三个礼拜日凌晨两点一刻，已决定砖室此时此刻，无须第三个见证。

他懂厨子的决定。他默默地，将这决定记入日记第三页那一栏小小的人情债里。

他想，第七桩，是他是否被允许。

他把允许的清单想了一遍。

他想：死者不在这间屋里。死者在日记第二附录里。死者在日记里，是自一九三四年起。死者是那些副记。他为死者留着副记。 一九三五年八月第二个礼拜一，他亲笔写过：副记是我在死者名字旁画下的记号。我留副记，是因为没有别人留。此时此日，这座城里有一份完整名单的，只有我一人——故能留副记的，亦只我一人。副记不是给死者的。死者不需要副记。副记是给我自己的。

他想：活的人在这间屋里。活的人，是一位把头搁在他肩窝的二十二岁的歌女。

他想：死者的副记，是死者的副记。

他想：单笔，是单笔。

他想：单笔，是为活人留下的。

他想：两年零七个月里，他不曾在日记里，为活人留下一笔。

他想：他要留一笔了。

他动了一动——肩窝里那颗头所能允许的最小幅度。

肩窝里那颗头没有醒。

他把右臂搁在床沿。右手伸向第三只木箱里的漆盒。他揭开盒盖。他取出日记。他从第二页里取出那支铅笔——沙石削尖的扁平 4B。他把日记搁在膝上。他翻到一九三七年八月第三个礼拜日那一页。那页是空的。

一九三七年八月第三个礼拜日凌晨两点半，他在那一页上，以自己的笔，写下了三句话。

第一句是：沈阿良。吴县，一九一四。在世。

第二句是：陆继元。天津，一九〇八。在世。

第三句是：砖室便是砖室。

他在三句旁各画了一笔。那一笔，是日记里为活人留的那种小小的、不慌不忙的勾——与一九二九年他在那位汉堡客座和声学教授名字旁画的同一种勾，与一九三二年他在胡木匠名字旁画的同一种勾，便是此刻，他在两个两年零七个月里不曾写下的名字旁画的同一种勾。

他合上日记。他把日记放回漆盒。他盖上盒盖。

他把右臂搁回那颗肩窝里的头下。

肩窝里那颗头没有醒。

一九三七年八月第三个礼拜日凌晨两点三刻，他用自己的私人文法说：我要做这件事。

他把脸颊搁在她头侧——瓷与发的交界处。

那头发有先施公司茉莉香水的气味——五月里，珍珠在洋行码头俱乐部的小型澳门轮盘之夜赢了钱，下午带她在三楼第二柜台买下了那半瓶；又有一丝砖灰的气味，一丝冷藏间的气味；底下，是那枚后颈髻发，每逢礼拜日凌晨三点一刻，一个歌女无声哭过许久之后，总有的那一缕温的、小小的、干燥的气息。

他用自己的私人文法说：我要做得很糟。我无论如何要做。

他合上眼。

一九三七年八月第三个礼拜日凌晨两点三刻，他在百乐门地下的砖室里，沈阿良的头搁在他肩窝、瓷面具戴着、手套戴着、第三只木箱里的漆盒里那本日记上写着为活人留的三句话、三笔——他睡了。

他睡了四十分钟。

三点一刻醒了。

他没有动。

他听着肩窝里那位二十二岁歌女的呼吸。那呼吸是一位二十二岁歌女在梦里悲哭的呼吸，亦是——按四拍入、六拍出那缓缓的起伏来看——一位歌女在梦里照他在舞台上教她的方法所做的呼吸。呼吸已成了他给她的纪律。纪律已成了他给她的睡眠。他依自己向来不慌不忙的方式记下这一点；他亦明白，这并非馈赠。这是他在此室、此一生里，唯一能给她的馈赠：一种呼吸的方法——当屋里嘈杂起来时，这呼吸不会停。

他用自己的私人文法说：我已放下救你这一担。我已担起另一担。另一担便是肩窝里这一位。另一担便是所剩的这一切。兄长。一九三七年八月第二个礼拜五八点钟，我已把那一半名字唱了出去。十月或十一月第二周，我将把另一半送出去。另一半便是第三段词。歉疚，已花了三年。第三段词在第二只木箱里。我并不曾识得你。一九二九年在日记里，我识得名单上的第七个名字。一九二九年我并不知道，那第七个名字，便是霞飞路转角明月排练厅里一位十三岁歌女的兄长。一九三六年，我识得那位歌女。一九三七年八月第二个礼拜五，我才知道，第七个名字此刻便缝在那位歌女所穿银色礼裙旗袍的右胯内缝里。我要替第七个名字，做他的妹妹自一九三七年八月第二个礼拜六凌晨两点三刻在砖室里一直在求我去做的那件事。我要让第三段词得到它所需的空间。

他把右手搁在灰毛毯下她胯骨的弧线上。他把手在那里搁了九拍。九拍，在他的私人文法里，是允许之数。他给了自己允许。

他用自己的私人文法对自己说：而且，做这件事时，我要在她眼前是看得见的。

他第二次合上眼。

一九三七年八月第三个礼拜日凌晨三点三刻，他又睡了。

他做了梦。

他短短地梦见：一九二九年十一月一个礼拜三下午三点半，音乐学院的一间教室里，一位从汉堡来的客座和声学教授替他改正声部进行，用一位客座教授的德语说：Lu Jiyuan, du wirst noch ein Mann werden, der etwas zu sagen hat.——陆继元，你将来还会成为一个有话可说的人。 教授把手搁在他肩背——那只手，比他想像中一位汉堡教授的手要重些。梦里，他怀着一九二九年时同样的惊讶；梦里，他亦多了那一点点的知道——这位教授是汉堡的犹太人，一九三三年秋，他将离开德国到上海；一九三八年秋，他便将在同一家 EMI 海耶斯压片厂——而第三段词，将在一九三八年四月第三个礼拜六，被压成三万二千张黑色虫胶唱片，送往不列颠帝国、自治领，以及香港的有线转播。

这一切，一九二九年，他并不知道。

一九三四年，他亦不知道。

一九三七年，在这梦里，他知道了。

四点二十分，他醒了——肩窝里那位二十二岁歌女在梦里、用她自己的吴县苏州话说：继元。

他把瓷按在她头侧。她没有醒。她又睡了过去。他亦如此。第二觉里，他没有做梦。

倒数第二级台阶上方壁龛里的那支烛，已烧到第三刻度。

第三只木箱里漆盒中的那本日记，载着为活人写下的三句话、三笔。

砖室便是砖室。

Chapter Twenty-Six — Interlude II

Sunday, August 15, 1937. Four o'clock in the morning. The brick room under the Paramount.

He had not slept since quarter past one.

He had lain at the cot with his right arm under her head and the porcelain mask on and the gloves on, and he had listened to her breath go from the breath of a singer of twenty-two grieving in her sleep to the breath of a singer of twenty-two who had passed into the deeper quiet — the quiet of a body deciding, for one stretch of the night, to forgive the body for being alive. The decision was not, he thought, hers. The decision was the body's. The body of a singer of twenty-two who had taken in, at one and the same hour, the rib breath of a brick-room baritone and the fact that her foster-mother lay under brick the wrong colour at the corner of a Hongkou lane, had made a decision the head had not been asked to make. The decision was: keep breathing. The decision was: the man beside you is not the lane house, but the man beside you is what the lane house is.

He listened.

The breath at four counts in and six counts out moved against the inside of his right arm, where the arm met the white shirt at the seam, and against the porcelain at the side of his face, and against the small unscarred patch above his right cheekbone where, in 1929, a visiting professor of harmony from Hamburg had once set the back of his hand and said, in his German, Lu Jiyuan, du atmest gut. — Lu Jiyuan, you breathe well. The professor had then proceeded, for thirty-eight minutes, to take apart the voice-leading of his second exercise at the bridge and to write, in the margin of the score, Du wirst noch ein Mann werden, der etwas zu sagen hat. He had been twenty-one. He had taken the score home and had not, that evening, slept.

He had not slept tonight either.

At the deeper quiet he began to think.

He thought, first, about the cot.

The cot had been bought by Mr. Hu the carpenter in February of 1935 from an army surplus shop at the corner of Boone Road and the second lane. The shop had been owned by a Shandong widower of sixty-two who had served, in his youth, as a stretcher-bearer in the German Customs Mission and who had, after the Mission left in 1928, opened a small surplus business with what he had not been paid. The cot had been one of three iron-framed officer's cots the Mission had left behind at Wusong, taken back to Shanghai on a coal barge, sold to the shop at twelve silver dollars apiece. Mr. Hu had bought one for three.

The cot had a canvas underside and three slats of pine. Mr. Hu had replaced the pine with three slats of cypress because the pine had begun to crack in the damp of the brick room. The cypress had a small clean smell when it was wet. The smell came up faintly through the canvas at the hour of four in the morning when the cot had on it two bodies instead of the one body it had been built to hold.

It was six feet long and twenty-eight inches wide. It had been built for one man. When Mr. Hu the carpenter had asked him in February of 1935, Mr. Sheng, do you want me to find a wider one? They had a wider one at the back of the shop, a French officer's cot, thirty-four inches, he had said, I do not need a wider one. Mr. Hu had said, No, Mr. Sheng, and had not commented on the expression on the mouth of a man who had, two months before, been pulled out of a printing-press fire at Zhabei with the left side of his face the way the left side of his face was.

The cot had been the cot of a man who had not needed a wider one.

It had now, for nine hours, also held a singer of twenty-two whose foster-mother had been killed at the rubble of the fourth house at the lane at noon on Saturday the fourteenth of August of 1937.

He thought, second, about the weight of her head at the hollow of his shoulder.

The hollow had been the hollow of a man who had placed nothing in it. It had held, in two years and seven months, the leather strap of the porcelain mask and the seam of the white shirt and, for one second in October of 1936 when he had been changing the shirt at quarter past three in the morning, the hand of Dr. Morancy taking a pulse. That had been the only weight. The head at the hollow, now, had a weight that was, by his estimate at the rib exercise on the third Tuesday of March, sixteen percent of the body it was attached to. The body it was attached to weighed fifty kilograms. The head therefore weighed eight kilograms.

Eight kilograms was the weight he had not, for the count of two years and five months, agreed to carry.

He carried it now.

He thought, third, about Lu Jiwen.

Lu Jiwen had been twenty in February of 1934 at the third printing press at Zhabei. Lu Jiwen had stood at the flat-bed press at the second machine, a Diebold of the kind a print-shop at Tianjin had sold at half past four in 1931 to a Communist organiser of seventeen for forty silver dollars. The seventeen-year-old organiser had been Lu Jiwen's elder cousin on the third aunt's side; the print-shop at Tianjin had been Lu Jiwen's uncle's; the chain of small accidents by which a Diebold flat-bed of the second machine had ended up at the third printing press at Zhabei by the second Saturday of February of 1934 had been, in his diary at the lacquer box, mapped on a single page in pencil with the small flat 4B he sharpened on the sandstone.

Lu Jiwen had been printing the third leaflet for the strike at the Shenxin Cotton Mill No. 9 that was to begin on the second Monday of February at six in the morning.

The third leaflet had been at the second machine at half past three on the afternoon of the second Saturday of February of 1934.

The raid had been at quarter to four.

The raid had been by ten men. The ten had been: four Green Gang men in dark coats with truncheons. Three Settlement police constables in the uniform of the Settlement police, under the order of the Settlement police inspector who had been at the corner of the lane at the rickshaw with a cigarette. Two KMT plain-clothes officers from the Songhu Garrison Command who had set the kerosene at the door. One Japanese consulate clerk in a dark coat who had stood at the corner of the lane and watched. He had, in the diary, given each a single line, including a small parenthetical for the consulate clerk that read, in his cursive: The clerk did not raise his hand. The clerk watched. The watching is a thing the diary records.

The fourth Green Gang man had been at the rear door at the lane with the truncheon and the locking-bolt, and had slid the bolt into the strike-plate at the rear door — which was, by the design of the second house, the only door out of the front room of the third printing press once the front had caught. He had been one of the appendix names in the diary. He had not had a name the diary could fill in. He had had a coat and a truncheon and a bolt.

Constable Wu of the Settlement police had not been at Zhabei in February of 1934. Constable Wu had been the constable who, on the morning of the twelfth of April of 1927, had stood at the East gate at Longhua with a rifle and a list of forty-two names. The forty-two had been the forty-two of the firing-order at the hour of dawn. The seventh name on the list had been Shen Ahuai, age 19, of Wuxian, textile organiser. He had written that name in the diary in 1929, in a hand that had not, in 1929, known whose elder brother Shen Ahuai had been. He had written, beside the name, only: Seventh.

He thought, fourth, about the seventh name.

The seventh name had been at the list at the hour of dawn at the corner of the East gate at Longhua.

The seventh name had been at the inside seam at the right hip of a silver gala qipao Mr. Hong Xiang had cut in May of 1937. The qipao was on its cedar dressing-room rail two stairs above this brick room. The seam held the brother's letter folded smaller than the others, and behind the letter the four pieces of Pathé staff paper, and in front of the letter the cup at the chip at the second quarter at the rim.

He thought, fifth, about An Wenjing.

An Wenjing had been at the front room of the lane house at the third printing press at half past three on the afternoon of the second Saturday of February of 1934. An Wenjing had been twenty-three. An Wenjing had been the teacher of the kindergarten at the third lane of the Shenxin Cotton Mill No. 9 worker's village. An Wenjing had come from the kindergarten that afternoon to take the third leaflet to the organiser at the second corner. An Wenjing had been at the door — which had been, when the kerosene came under it, the wrong door to have been near.

The front room had caught.

He had been at the corner of the lane and the alley at the second house at the distance of three house-lots from the third printing press, because he had been delivering the forged music-publishing letterhead at the envelope at the pocket of a man of twenty-six who had been a house pianist at the Canidrome Ballroom and an arranger of pop songs under three pseudonyms and a man whose younger half-brother had been at the second machine. The man of twenty-six had taken the envelope and said, Thank you, Lu Jiyuan, and Lu Jiyuan had turned at the corner, and the corner had been at the corner, and behind him, in the second of his turning, the lane had caught.

He had heard the hour.

He had run.

He had broken the window at the front room with a brick that had been at the pavement. The brick had been a Yangshupu kiln brick of the 1880s, the same kind, he later thought, as the brick under the back stair of the Paramount, the same kind he would, for two years and seven months, set his right hand against on the descent of the forty-two steps. The brick had been the brick of his city. The brick had broken the window. The window had given him An Wenjing.

He had pulled An Wenjing out.

He had gone back in.

He had, in the second second of the going back in, been at the ceiling.

The ceiling had come down.

The ceiling had fallen on the left side of his face. A beam of pine — a Pingyang pine, milled in 1909, painted in 1923 with a cheap lead white, peeling in 1934 — had come down at an angle of about thirty degrees and had taken him at the temple. He had not, at the impact, lost consciousness. He had lost the left side of his face, which was a different thing. He had crawled out under the beam. An Wenjing had been at the pavement, on her back, breathing the breath of a kindergarten teacher of twenty-three who had been in a room when the room caught. He had been beside her, on his hands and knees, on the brick. The brick had been wet from the third bucket the neighbours had thrown at the door.

An Wenjing had been alive for the count of three days.

An Wenjing had said, in her Tianjin Mandarin, at the hour — the hour was the eleventh hour of the third day, in a room at the French Concession hospital, with Dr. Morancy on the far side of the bed and a sister of the Sœurs de Saint-Paul-de-Chartres at the door — Jiyuan. Set down the burden of saving me. Set it down. Take up another.

An Wenjing had died.

He had been in the room at the French Concession hospital. He had been treated by Dr. Morancy. He had been declared dead at the police register on a certificate Dr. Morancy had forged with the seal of a Sœur who had no longer cared about the seals after a year of seeing what came in at the door at half past three in the morning. He had been given the name Feng Sheng by Dr. Morancy and the porcelain by the prop-maker at Fuzhou Road, who had cut the eye-slits at nineteen millimeters from the bridge of the nose because nineteen millimeters allowed a candle at six paces and a person at sixteen. He had been brought to the brick room under the Paramount by Mr. Hu the carpenter, who had set the door, the kerosene burner, the cot, the wall-ledge candle holder, the kettle, and had said, in the third week of December of 1934, Mr. Sheng. You will need a piano, and had brought the Bechstein upright down the freight ramp at the rear of the building at three in the morning on the twelfth of January 1935 with four men and a hand-truck.

He had been at the brick room for two years and seven months.

He had been at the burden of another.

The burden had been the burden of the song.

The song had taken two years. The song had become Night Shanghai. The song had become the verse of the names. The song had gone halfway out at the bandstand. He had not, until last Friday at the eight o'clock, heard the second verse sung in the air of a room that had Mr. Du Yuesheng and the Major of the Imperial Japanese Navy and Yao Sanye of the Green Gang at table eleven and a Suzhou-born singer of twenty-two in a silver gala qipao at the bandstand. The second verse, in the air of that room, had been a different song. He had heard it from the brick room two floors below the floor it had been sung on. He had set both his gloved hands at the music desk of the Bechstein and waited for it to be over.

The song had been at the leather case at the second crate.

The song had also been at the hollow of the shoulder where a singer of twenty-two had set her head.

He turned his head, the smallest distance the porcelain permitted. He looked at her in the candlelight.

She had been asleep.

She had been wearing the grey rehearsal qipao she had been wearing when she came down the forty-two steps at quarter to three on the afternoon of Saturday the fourteenth of August. The qipao had at the right hem the dust of brick the wrong colour. He had not, before she slept, washed it. He did not, in any case, know how to wash a qipao.

She had been wearing also the grey blanket Mr. Hu the carpenter had bought at the army surplus shop at the corner of Boone Road and the second lane in February of 1935.

She had been the one.

She had been the one whose mother had named her, on a riverbank in Wuxian in 1914, a-liang.

He said to himself, in his private grammar at quarter past two on the third Sunday of August of 1937: I am not allowed.

He thought, sixth, about the brick room.

The brick room had at the second crate the leather case with the third verse and the lacquer ledger. The brick room had at the third crate the lacquer box with the diary at the second appendix. The brick room had at the Bechstein the candle in the dish at the music desk. The brick room had at the cot a singer of twenty-two who had set her head at the hollow of his shoulder. The brick room had at the wall ledge above the second-to-last step the candle at the third mark. The brick room had at the wall the dust-grey sparrow that had flown down to the candle at the Bechstein and sat at the candle for the count of nine and flown back up to its skylight above the cold-storage room.

The dust-grey sparrow had not been at the wall at quarter past two on the third Sunday of August. The dust-grey sparrow had been with the cook at the kitchen, on the cook's left shoulder, while the cook smoked his bamboo pipe and watched the rear gate of the kitchen from his stool. The cook had been keeping the bird company because the bird, at one in the morning, was usually company for the cook, and the cook had decided, at quarter past two on the morning of the third Sunday of August, that the brick room, this hour, needed no third witness.

He understood the cook's decision. He marked it, silently, in the column of small obligations the diary had at the third page.

He thought, seventh, about whether he was allowed.

He thought through the list of allowances.

He thought: the dead were not in the room. The dead were at the second appendix at the diary. The dead had been at the diary since 1934. The dead had been the doubles. He had kept the doubles for the dead. He had written this in his own hand at the second Monday of August in 1935: The doubles are the marks I make against the names of the dead. I keep the doubles because no one else does. I am the only man in the city who has, at this date, a complete list, and I am the man therefore who can keep the doubles. The doubles are not for the dead. The dead have no need of doubles. The doubles are for me.

He thought: the living were in the room. The living was a singer of twenty-two whose head was at the hollow of his shoulder.

He thought: the doubles for the dead were the doubles for the dead.

He thought: a single mark was a single mark.

He thought: the single mark was what one made for the living.

He thought: he had not made a single mark, in his diary, for the living, in two years and seven months.

He thought: he was going to make a single mark.

He moved the smallest distance the head at the hollow would permit.

The head at the hollow did not wake.

He set his right arm at the edge of the cot. He reached, with the right hand, to the lacquer box at the third crate. He opened the lid. He took the diary. He took the pencil — the small flat 4B with the sandstone-sharpened point — from the second leaf. He set the diary at his knee. He opened to the page of the third Sunday of August of 1937. The page had been blank.

He wrote, in his hand, at the page, at half past two on the morning of the third Sunday of August of 1937, three sentences.

The first sentence was: Shen Aliang. Wuxian, 1914. Living.

The second sentence was: Lu Jiyuan. Tianjin, 1908. Living.

The third sentence was: The brick room is the brick room.

He set a single mark beside each of the three. The mark was a small unhurried tick the diary used for the living, the same tick he had used in 1929 beside the name of the visiting professor of harmony from Hamburg, the same tick he had used in 1932 beside the name of Mr. Hu the carpenter, the same tick he had used, that hour, beside two names he had not, for two years and seven months, written.

He closed the diary. He set the diary back in the lacquer box. He closed the lid.

He set his right arm back under the head at the hollow.

The head at the hollow did not wake.

He said, in his private grammar, at quarter to three on the morning of the third Sunday of August of 1937: I am going to do this.

He set his cheek at the side of her head where the porcelain met the hair.

The hair smelled of the jasmine eau de toilette of the Sun Sun department store, the half-bottle at the vanity she had bought with Pearl in May at the second counter on the third floor on the afternoon Pearl had won the small Macao roulette evening at the cargo line club, and faintly of brick dust and faintly of the cold-storage room, and under those of the warm small dry scent the chignon at the nape always had at quarter past three on a Sunday morning after a singer had wept a long while without sound.

He said, in his private grammar: I am going to do this badly. I am going to do this anyway.

He closed his eyes.

He, at the hour of quarter to three on the morning of the third Sunday of August of 1937, in the brick room under the Paramount, with the head of Shen Aliang at the hollow of his shoulder and the porcelain mask on and the gloves on and the diary at the lacquer box at the third crate with three sentences and three marks for the living — slept.

He slept for the count of forty minutes.

He woke at quarter past three.

He had not moved.

He listened to the breath of the singer of twenty-two at the hollow. The breath was the breath of a singer of twenty-two grieving in her sleep, and also, by the slow rise at the interval of four counts in and six counts out, the breath of a singer who had been doing in her sleep what he had taught her to do at the bandstand. The breath had become the discipline he had given her. The discipline had become the sleep he had given her. He noted that, in the small unhurried way he noted things, and he understood that it was not a gift. It was the only gift he could, in this room, in this lifetime, ever give her: a way of breathing that would not, when the room got loud, stop.

He said, in his private grammar: I have set down the burden of saving you. I have taken up another. The other is the one at the hollow of my shoulder. The other is what is left. Brother. I have, on the second Friday of August at the eight o'clock, sent half the names out. I will, at the second week of October or November, send the other half. The other half will be the third verse. I am sorry it has taken three years. The third verse is at the second crate. I did not know you. I knew, in 1929 at the diary, the list of the seventh name. I did not, in 1929, know that the seventh name was the older brother of a singer of thirteen at the Bright Moon at the rehearsal hall at the corner of Avenue Joffre. I knew, in 1936, the singer. I knew, on the second Friday of August of 1937, that the seventh name was at the inside seam at the right hip of the silver gala qipao the singer was wearing. I am going to do for the seventh name what the seventh name's sister has been asking me, since quarter to three on the second Saturday of August at the brick room, to do. I will give the third verse the room it needs.

He set his right hand at the curve of her hip at the grey blanket. He set the hand there for the count of nine. The count of nine was, in his private grammar, the count of permission. He gave himself permission.

He said, in his private grammar, to himself: And I will be visible to her when I do it.

He closed his eyes a second time.

At the hour of quarter to four on the morning of the third Sunday of August of 1937, he slept again.

He dreamed.

He dreamed, briefly, of a classroom at the Conservatory at half past three on a Wednesday of November of 1929, in which a visiting professor of harmony from Hamburg corrected his voice-leading and said, in the German of a visiting professor: Lu Jiyuan, du wirst noch ein Mann werden, der etwas zu sagen hat. — Lu Jiyuan, you will yet become a man who has something to say. The professor had laid a hand at the back of his shoulder and the hand had been heavier than he had expected the hand of a Hamburg professor to be. He had, in the dream, the same surprise he had had in 1929. He had, in the dream, also, the small additional knowledge that the professor had been a Jew of Hamburg and would, by the autumn of 1933, have left Germany for Shanghai and would, by the autumn of 1938, be at this same EMI Hayes press where the third verse would, by the third Saturday of April of 1938, be a black disc pressed in shellac at thirty-two thousand copies for the Empire and the Commonwealth and the wire-relay at Hong Kong.

He had not, in 1929, known that.

He had not, in 1934, known that.

He had, in 1937, in this dream, known it.

He woke at twenty past four to the sound of the singer of twenty-two at the hollow saying, in her sleep, in her own Wuxian Suzhou: Jiyuan.

He pressed the porcelain at the side of her head. She did not wake. She went back to sleep. He did so also. He did not, in the second sleep, dream.

The candle at the wall ledge above the second-to-last step had burned to the third mark.

The diary at the lacquer box at the third crate held three sentences for the living, with three marks.

The brick room was the brick room.