七部小说 · Seven Novels

第 30 章 ——《百代，清晨》

十一月十一日，礼拜四。

百代位于霞飞路与阿尔贝王路转角那栋红砖楼的二楼。这楼是百代一九二九年从俄罗斯东正教堂手里买下的。一楼曾是教区会堂，如今是母盘储藏室；后头的小礼拜堂，经孟德尔松先生一九三一年那几次不疾不徐的小修缮，已成了压片室，安放着百代一九三二年自柏林购入的埃卡特压片机。孟德尔松先生拆掉了第二面墙上的苦路图，却依自己的主意，留下第三个壁龛里那尊小小的石膏圣母。每天清晨九点半的光里，她俯瞰着这间压片室——一间压制白光、周璇与苏婉吟之歌的压片室。孟德尔松先生说，圣母并不介意。

录音室在东头。控制室在西头。压片室在南头。

我们进门时，孟德尔松先生正在压片机旁。

他穿着灰呢大衣，里头是一九三四年鸿翔西服店为他裁的蓝哔叽西装。他戴着黑呢礼帽，一见我们便取下，挂在控制室门口的木钩上。他鼻梁上架着那副圆框金丝眼镜——这副眼镜在一位五十三岁的百代录音师鼻梁上，已坐了十九年。他脸上还挂着另一种神情：一个被洛佩斯先生礼拜一夜在衣帽间告知——十一月十一日的早晨，便是他自八月第二个礼拜五晚上八点起便等候的那个早晨——的人的、平板而细小的神情。

他看着控制室门口的陆继元。

陆继元站在控制室门口。

他穿着灰呢大衣，里头是白衬衫、深色裤子、深色皮鞋。他没戴瓷面。他没戴面具。他露着脸——左半边的海岸线，右半边二十九岁男子的面颊，地峡，左嘴角被烧痕牵向上翘的弧度。他戴着黑棉手套。下午一点半时，孟德尔松先生会替他戴上、压低帽檐，以遮挡街对面那辆领事馆轿车的——那顶灰呢礼帽，此刻，九点三刻，正挂在孟德尔松先生那顶旁边的木钩上。

孟德尔松先生看着那张脸，看了九拍。

他自一九二九年十一月起，便不曾见过这张脸。

他说：我替你改了桥段第二次练习的声部进行。你坐在第二排第二座，乐谱摊在桌上。我在乐谱的旁批里，用我的德文写：Du wirst noch ein Mann werden, der etwas zu sagen hat.（你日后必将成为一个有话可说的人。）*

他伸出右手搭在陆继元的肩上。那肩没有动。孟德尔松先生在第二、第三、第四拍的停留里，并不抬手。

他说：人家告诉我你一九三四年二月死在闸北。我在一九三四年二月第二个礼拜日的《上海每日新闻》上读到的。一九三四年二月第三个礼拜日，我在音乐学院二楼、第二拱廊转角，跟另外二十三个人一起出席了那场小小的追思会。我把帽子搁在第二排长凳上。我是错的。

陆继元说：您是对的。我确实死了。砖屋里的那个人，是第二个人。

孟德尔松先生说：而第二个人，在这个礼拜四的早晨，就是控制室里的这个人。

陆继元说：在这个早晨，是的。

孟德尔松先生点了点头。他将手自肩上收回。他转身——以一位五十三岁百代录音师在这一时刻、在他控制室门口才有的那种细小而精确的转身——说：三张小小的黑胶片。

陆继元说：三张小小的黑胶片。

孟德尔松先生像照料任何一个清晨那样照料这个清晨。东头的录音室。架子中央那只 RCA 话筒。南墙边的施坦威立式钢琴——七点半时，由自温州路赶来的调音师崔先生调过音。指挥架，距话筒三英尺。乐谱架上摊着《夜上海》，第三段歌词的第二小节，用铅笔划过。北墙边的乐池上是菲律宾铜管班——洛佩斯先生中音萨克斯，阿尔梅达先生小号，匈牙利人费伦茨先生的弱音长号。吉米·金立在指挥架前。托尼先生在角落的节奏组。十点正，我们便要开机。两条。

我说：两条。

他说：第一条是第一条。第二条是第二条。留下的那条便是留下的那条。

我走进录音室。

刘小姐已在那里。一架雪松木衣杆上的木衣架上，挂着那件银线晚礼旗袍。她七点半就从永兴路她表姊的面摊上搭第二班电车来了。她穿着礼拜二的蓝棉布短衫，配小白领。她脸上还挂着另一种神情——五年零三个月来，我未曾在她脸上见过的神情——一个衣箱总管在首播之晨七点半作出决定，要做那个亲手为我盘髻的人。

我在录音室角落坐下，坐到孟德尔松先生一九三一年置下的那张小木妆台前。刘小姐用三枚钢钗，连同白珠在我一九三三年十八岁生日上赠我的那枚小银钗，将髻挽在我颈后。她挽得慢。她以白珠一九三四年——我来百乐门后第三个礼拜——在第二张椅子后、立于刘小姐肘后教过她的那一种特别的细微角度，将第三枚钗插下。彼时白珠站在刘小姐肘后说：刘小姐。阿良颈后这第三枚钗，要插在十七度的角上。这角便是这角。便插在那里。 这五年零三个月里，刘小姐都将第三枚钗插在十七度的角上。

她说：我七点半把表姊安顿在面摊上。我表姊在面摊上。我表姊还活着。我在挽髻。今晚八点。

我说：今晚八点。

她插下那枚小银钗。她退后一步。她看着镜中的发髻。

我起身。我脱下灰呢出行大衣。我脱下灰色排练旗袍。我换上鸿翔西服店一九三七年五月为我裁的银线晚礼旗袍——第二道接缝里走着银线，左胯处缀着凤凰，领口压着细黑滚边。这旗袍右胯内侧的接缝里藏着：兄长一九二七年四月八日的信；一九二五年的一缕发；龙华那方折叠的白棉布；一九三六年里有四个月，风声在第三个礼拜五留在妆台上的四张百代谱纸；林姨自十一岁起便随身携带的、一九〇〇年那张折叠的纸；他在那个礼拜四清晨于行军床上写下「半口气撑住」的那张折叠纸条；百乐门茶舞上、那位七十岁的日本老妇人——以仙台口音告诉我琥珀二字意思的——递我的那只奶白纸信封；那个礼拜五晚上八点钟，少佐与杜先生各递我的两张折叠纸条；少佐在九月第二个礼拜五给我的那张折叠纸条；以及那只在杯沿第二刻处缺了一角的漆杯。

那只缺了口的杯——八月第三个礼拜日清晨，废墟之后的那一日，在砖屋里从手袋的内袋移到旗袍内侧接缝里的——抵在右胯上有一种小小的重量。林姨生前，在挂着她自己折叠旗袍立于贵妃榻边时，她右胯上也是这样的重量。胯上的这重量，便是这重量。

左胯凤凰处的内侧接缝里，藏着十四样物件。

我走到录音室门口。

我看向控制室。

陆继元坐在控制台旁孟德尔松先生身边的椅子上。隔着十五英尺距离的玻璃，他望着我。玻璃便是玻璃。十五英尺外、玻璃后的陆继元的脸，便是陆继元的脸——左侧的海岸线，未损的右侧，嘴角的弧度，他眼里那片棕色。砖屋里的烛火，无论在哪一时辰，都未曾将这棕色清晰地照给我看——因为烛是烛，瓷是瓷。十五英尺外的这张脸，于我清晰可见。我向他颔首。他向我颔首。这一颔首并非舞台上的做派。这一颔首，是我十四个月里一直未有一张脸可以凭依而独自数到九的那一拍——这一礼拜四的清晨，这张脸交给了我。

孟德尔松先生将磁带卷装上 RCA 录音机的磁头。他按下红色按钮。控制室角落的红灯亮起。

吉米·金，操着他的新奥尔良口音的英文：Take one.

他抬手。他打下第一拍。菲律宾铜管班奏起前奏——第二小节阿尔梅达先生的小号，那一点细小、干涩的新奥尔良抑扬。这抑扬，他自一九二九年随一支美国巡演乐队在马尼拉抒情剧院演出起便一直带着。节奏组定下节奏。托尼先生的弱音贝斯；洛佩斯先生的中音萨克斯；落在中音萨克斯后一拍的费伦茨先生的长号。

我将气息调在四拍吸、六拍呼。我将口对准距话筒九英寸处——这是孟德尔松先生在十一月十一日清晨八点半，以一小截白粉笔在录音室拼花地板上划下的距离。我唱起第一段。

我唱起第二段。

我唱起第三段。

第三段里有七个名字。租界巡捕吴某，北海路，一九二七年四月十二日龙华枪决名单上的第七名。新雅的洪敬明先生的外甥，日本领事馆的薪饷簿上有他。淞沪警备司令部的华督察。闸北的印刷匠陈先生。巷口穿深色大衣的日本领事馆书记官。豫园茶馆老板庞先生。青帮姚三爷。

我唱出第七个名字。

我唱起第三段的桥段。

至桥段处，我让那一音停在作曲者所定之处。我没有，在香字的第三个音节上，按一九三六年六月那些银行家所要的那样，将那音延长。一九三六年六月，银行家要的是「明月式」的拖腔——五度以上的、卖弄的、小小的呜咽。那是一九三六年某位银行家在第三个礼拜四肯掏钱买的东西。一九三七年十月，砖屋第二盏烛芯下，作曲者说过：这是假的。放下来。再放低些。 我已将那音放低了九个月。那音停在作曲者所定之处。

那音，是一位二十九岁作曲者的音——他一九三四年二月放下了拯救安文静的重担，又在十二月第三个礼拜，在莫朗西医生的客厅里，担起了另一副。

我唱完这首歌。

节奏组收尾。菲律宾铜管班奏出末和弦。吉米·金落下手。控制室角落的红灯熄了。孟德尔松先生按下停止键。他立起身。他隔着玻璃望我。他颔首。陆继元隔着玻璃望我。他颔首。这两次颔首，便是这两次颔首。

孟德尔松先生对着内话机说：Take two.

我把《夜上海》再唱了一遍。

第二条在同一个音节、同一片胸腔、同一口气上稳住了第三段。第二条没多给那音一分，也没少给一分。第二条——孟德尔松先生开口之前我便知道——便是要留下的那一条。第一条是录音，第二条是歌。

红灯熄了。

孟德尔松先生对着内话机说：成了。进来。

我走到控制室门口。我走进去。

陆继元立起身。他将右手按在自己左脸海岸线下的衬垫上。我将右手按在那海岸线上。海岸线是温的。右手的皮肤便是右手的皮肤。孟德尔松先生没有看。一九二九年十一月，孟德尔松先生在他作决定的第二秒里，便已决定：当一位女歌手将手按在一个男子门口的海岸线上时，一位五十三岁百代录音师的副手所看的，应当是磁带的第二条。他便看着磁带的第二条。

他将第二条磁带装到埃卡特压片机的机头。埃卡特压下第一张小小的黑胶片。第一张胶片从压片机里出来时，是压片机那种小小的、缓慢的样子——第二只滚轴在第二个齿轮上转动，虫胶细小、干燥的嘶声，第三只滚轴定下第二圈。第三个壁龛里的圣母看着。第一张小小的黑胶片落在埃卡特的托盘上。

埃卡特压下第二张小小的黑胶片。

埃卡特压下第三张小小的黑胶片。

孟德尔松先生将三张小小的黑胶片置于压片室角落的桌上，用第二号笔尖，以他的英文逐张标上：NIGHT SHANGHAI / S. WANYIN / 11 NOVEMBER 1937 / PATHÉ SHANGHAI.

萨先生十二点半敲门。

他进来。他穿着阿尔梅达先生的裁缝在霞飞路与拉法叶路口为他裁的深灰西装。他右腕上挽着一只小皮箱——这是阿尔梅达先生在《马尼拉论坛报》的表兄于十月第二个礼拜五由第二只领事馆外交袋寄上来的。他右胸袋里放着一只小小的米黄信封，里头是西科斯基下午两点半飞马尼拉的机票。

他取走第二张小小的黑胶片。

他将它放进皮箱，与澳门线茨维特科夫线伪造的旅行证件、西科斯基的机票放在一起。

他以澳门式葡萄牙语说：我将，在一九三七年十一月十一日下午两点半，到虹桥登上西科斯基。我将，在十一月十二日拂晓时，抵马尼拉，携第二张小小的黑胶片。我将，在一九三七年十一月十二日上午九时，将第二张小小的黑胶片送到《马尼拉论坛报》阿尔梅达先生表兄办公室的电讯转发处。白珠说过：马尼拉正午即可印第二栏。马尼拉正午便会印。

他将右手按在我的肩上。他按了九拍。他没说 Pérola。他不必说。

他走了。

阿良一点差一刻敲门。

他进来。他穿着十月第三个礼拜的深色呢西装，胸袋内里别着白珠一九三五年第二个圣诞节赠他的那方小红绢。他右肩上挎着油布包——里头是爱多亚路与阿尔贝王路口小货运栈的铁路单据。

他取走第三张小小的黑胶片。

他将它与铁路单据一起放进油布包。

他说：火车今天下午一点自北站发车。我将，在十一月十七日拂晓时，抵重庆，携第三张小小的黑胶片。白珠是大姊。

他将手按在我的肩上。这只手，是一只属于宁波分支的远房表兄的手——一只做了白珠白宁波二十五年远房表兄的手。他走了。

哈姆斯沃斯一点钟敲门。

他进来。他穿着泰迪·哈姆斯沃斯在上海总会长酒吧穿了五年的、皱巴巴的白亚麻西装。他胸袋里别着蓝棉布方巾。他没戴帽子。

他脸上还挂着另一种神情——一个在这城里待了十六个月，写《字林西报》午后版的第二栏，却在这十六个月里未曾写出任何第三栏有分量的东西的人的、平板、疲惫的细小神情。十六个月来，这神情未曾散去。如今这神情里多了一点细小、低沉的嗡鸣——一个被洛佩斯先生礼拜一夜一点半在衣帽间告知、十一月十一日的清晨便是他等候已久的那个清晨的人的、细小低沉的嗡鸣。

他取走第一张小小的黑胶片。

他将它放进皮制采访夹，与孟德尔松先生十一点半在打字机上打好的那份文稿放在一起。文稿三页。第三页上有那七个名字。他将采访夹放在第二张桌上。

他说：今晚八点。我将凭自己的记者证，并与《大美晚报》的第二位记者埃尔斯沃思先生，以及《中法晚报》的第三位记者哈格多恩先生一起，在八点前到位于文监师路第三层二号转角的车站长廊。我将，在今天下午五点半，携那份打好的文稿，到外滩转角的《字林西报》。《字林西报》将，在礼拜五早晨之前，将那份文稿排在午后版的第二栏。我将，在十一月十二日礼拜五拂晓时，登上停泊在海关码头的沿海邮轮「亚洲皇后号」。我将，在十一月第二个礼拜日拂晓时，抵香港，携第一张小小的黑胶片。这十六个月我都在这城里却没在城里写下一字，我很抱歉。今晚，我要写。

他将右手按在我的肩上。他按了九拍。他走了。

十一月十一日下午一点的压片室，空了。

孟德尔松先生将唱针搁在桌边。那一刻，他什么也没说。他从口袋里掏出那方手帕，一方白棉布的方巾，角上绣着一个 M——那是他妻子一九〇八年在维也纳绣的。他极慢地拭着圆框金丝眼镜的第二片镜片。他将眼镜戴回。他望着我。他望着陆继元。

他以带着德语口音的英文低声说：我将，在一九三八年四月第三个礼拜六，于海耶斯的 EMI 压片厂压一张第二版母盘。我将在第二张内套的第二个署名处加上第二个名字。我不会告诉你们任何一人这第二个名字是谁。你们拿到内套时便会知晓。

他与陆继元握了右手。他不再说别的。

我握住陆继元的右手。他取下挂在木钩上的灰呢大衣与灰呢礼帽。他将礼帽压低于眉。礼帽的帽檐在左侧海岸线的上缘投下一道阴影。

我们与孟德尔松先生一同走到阿尔贝王路那扇门前。

一九三七年十一月十一日礼拜四下午一点半，阿尔贝王路与霞飞路转角的门外，街对面四十英尺远的人行道边，停着一辆黑色轿车。

那车的车牌挂着五马路日本领事馆的领事馆牌照。这车，自十一月十一日上午九点半起，便停在阿尔贝王路与霞飞路转角。

这车没有动。

我看着那车。

那车没有看我。那是一辆一九三六年的黑色日产小轿车，第二片挡泥板上压着一点细小的镀铬。挡风玻璃后，是一个三十五岁司机的平板细小的轮廓；后座，是一位四十二岁的日本领事馆官员——四十英尺外，我并不认得。

我说：少佐已经知道了。

陆继元说：自昨夜起。少佐今晚会在控制室。少佐此刻不会拦我。

我说：不会。

他说：少佐肯让我到控制室，是因为少佐已经决定要与我一同在控制室。六个半钟头。

我说：六个半钟头。

我们朝霞飞路转角的黄包车走去。胡师傅那位黄包车夫——不是胡木匠那位，是另一位胡师傅，霞飞路与拉法叶路转角的那位、托尼先生表兄的朋友——立在路缘。他点了一下头。我们登上车。四十英尺外，那辆黑轿车没有动。下午一点半的霞飞路是下午一点半的霞飞路：法国梧桐立在小小的浅色树盘里，第二座骑楼下的第二家咖啡馆，拉法叶路那第三顶难民帐篷——白珠死的那个清晨，那位三十岁的妇人曾在那里；今日，那里坐着一位约莫三十五岁、面目不同的妇人，她蹲在小矮凳上，用一只小煤油炉、一只小铁罐煮着米。这城里，十一日内，又收容了三万人。租界的园子里，能收的也都收下了。

胡师傅扛起车杠。黄包车走了。

到霞飞路与蒲石路转角时，我自黄包车后头那块小小的篷布翻盖里回望。那辆黑轿车已经发动。它怠速着——第二片挡泥板那一缕细小的灰色废气可证。距离已是二百码，它依旧未动。

我说：他会跟。

陆继元说：他会以少佐自己所决定的那段距离跟着。他不会把这距离缩短。

我将额头贴在他海岸线上端的鬓边。鬓边是温的。压在眉前的灰呢礼帽在海岸线的上缘投下阴影。胡师傅在前头拉。霞飞路便是霞飞路。两英里前那间砖屋便是那间砖屋。

六个半钟头。

Chapter Thirty — Pathé, Morning

Thursday the eleventh of November.

The Pathé studio at Avenue du Roi Albert was on the second floor of the red-brick building at the corner of Avenue du Roi Albert and Avenue Joffre that Pathé had bought from the Russian Orthodox church in 1929. The first floor had once been the parish hall and was now the storage room for the master discs; the chapel at the back had become, by the small unhurried renovations Mendelsohn had made in 1931, the pressing room with the Eckhardt press of Berlin that Pathé had bought in 1932. Mendelsohn had taken out the Stations of the Cross at the second wall and had left, by his own decision, the small plaster Madonna at the third niche, who looked, every morning at the half-past-nine light, on a pressing room that pressed the songs of Bai Guang and Zhou Xuan and S. Wanyin. The Madonna did not, Mendelsohn said, mind.

The recording room was at the East end. The control booth was at the West. The pressing room was at the South.

Mendelsohn was at the press when we came in.

He had on the grey wool overcoat over the blue serge suit Mr. Hong Xiang had cut him in 1934. He had on the black felt hat, which he set, the moment he saw us, on the wooden hook at the door of the control booth. He had on the round wire glasses that had sat on the nose of a Pathé engineer of fifty-three for the count of nineteen years. He had on, also, the small flat expression of a man who had been told, by Mr. Lopes at the cloakroom on Monday night, that the morning of the eleventh of November would be the morning he had been waiting for since the second Friday of August at the eight o'clock.

He looked at Lu Jiyuan at the door of the control booth.

Lu Jiyuan stood at the door of the control booth.

He had on the grey wool coat over the white shirt and the dark trousers and the dark shoes. He had on no porcelain. He had on no mask. He had on the face — the coastline at the left side and the cheek of a man of twenty-nine at the right side, the isthmus, the corner of the mouth on the left side that the burn had drawn upward. He had on the gloves of black cotton. The grey felt hat that Mendelsohn would, by half past one in the afternoon, set on his head and pull low at the brow against the consular sedan across the street, was, at this hour of quarter to ten, on the wooden hook beside Mendelsohn's.

Mendelsohn looked at the face for the count of nine.

He had not seen the face since November of 1929.

He said: I corrected the voice-leading at the second exercise at the bridge. You were at the second row at the second seat with the score at the desk. I wrote at the score in the margin, in my German: Du wirst noch ein Mann werden, der etwas zu sagen hat.**

He set his right hand at the shoulder of Lu Jiyuan. The shoulder did not move. Mendelsohn did not, in the second, the third, the fourth count of the resting, lift the hand.

He said: I had been told you had died at Zhabei in February of 1934. I had read it in the Shanghai Mainichi of the second Sunday of February of 1934. I had attended the small service at the second floor of the Conservatory at the corner of the second arcade on the third Sunday of February of 1934 with twenty-three other people. I had set my hat on the second pew. I had been wrong.

Lu Jiyuan said: You had been right. I had died. The man at the brick room was the second man.

Mendelsohn said: And the second man is, on this Thursday morning, the man at the booth.

Lu Jiyuan said: On this morning, yes.

Mendelsohn nodded. He took his hand from the shoulder. He turned, with the small precise turn of a Pathé engineer of fifty-three at the door of his control booth at the hour, and he said: Three small black discs.

Lu Jiyuan said: Three small black discs.

Mendelsohn ran through the morning the way he ran through any morning. The recording room at the East end. The RCA microphone at the stand at the centre. The Steinway upright at the South wall, tuned at half past seven by Mr. Choi the piano-tuner who had come down from Wenzhou Road. The conductor's stand three feet from the microphone. The score of Night Shanghai with the third verse, marked through in pencil at the second measure, on the music desk. The Filipino brass section at the bandstand at the North wall — Mr. Lopes at the alto, Mr. Almeida at the trumpet, Mr. Ferenc the Hungarian on the muted trombone. Jimmy King at the conductor's stand. Mr. Tony at the rhythm at the corner. We would, at the hour of ten, set the roll. Two takes.

I said: Two takes.

He said: The first take is the first take. The second take is the second take. The one we keep is the one we keep.

I went to the recording room.

Miss Liu was there with the silver gala qipao on its wooden hanger at the cedar pole behind the screen. She had come at half past seven by the second tram from her cousin's noodle stall on Yongxing Road. She had on her Tuesday tunic of blue cotton with the small white collar. She had on, also, a small flat expression I had not seen on her face in five years and three months — the expression of a wardrobe mistress who had decided, at half past seven on the morning of the inaugural broadcast, to be the woman who set the chignon.

I sat at the small wooden vanity Mendelsohn had put in the recording room corner in 1931. Miss Liu set the chignon at my nape with three steel pins and the small silver pin Pearl had given me at my eighteenth birthday in 1933. She set it slowly. She set the third pin with the small particular adjustment Pearl had taught her in 1934 at the second chair, the third week after I had come to the Paramount, when Pearl had stood behind Miss Liu's elbow and had said, Miss Liu. The third pin at the nape of Aliang's chignon goes at the angle of seventeen degrees. The angle is the angle. Set it there. Miss Liu had set the third pin at the angle of seventeen degrees for five years and three months.

She said: I set my cousin at the noodle stall at half past seven. My cousin is at the noodle stall. My cousin is alive. I am at the chignon. Tonight at the eight o'clock.

I said: Tonight at the eight o'clock.

She set the small silver pin. She stepped back. She looked at the chignon at the mirror.

I stood. I took off the grey travelling coat. I took off the grey rehearsal qipao. I put on the silver gala qipao Mr. Hong Xiang had cut me in May of 1937 — the qipao with the silver thread at the second seam, the phoenix at the left hip, the small black piping at the collar. The qipao had at the inside seam at the right hip: the brother's letter from the eighth of April of 1927; the lock of hair from 1925; the folded square of cotton from Longhua; the four pieces of Pathé staff paper Feng Sheng had set at the vanity at the third Friday of each of four months in 1936; the folded square of paper from 1900 that Auntie Lin had carried since she was eleven; the folded note from the cot at the Thursday morning when he had written the half-breath holds; the folded cream-paper envelope from the old Japanese woman of seventy at the Paramount tea dance who had told me, in her Sendai accent, what kohaku meant; the two folded notes from the Friday at the eight o'clock from the Major and Mr. Du; the folded note from the Major at the second Friday of September; and the lacquer cup at the chip at the second quarter at the rim.

The cup at the chip — moved from the inside pocket of the handbag to the inside seam of the qipao on the morning of the third Sunday of August at the brick room, the morning after the rubble — had a small weight against the right hip that was the small weight Auntie Lin had on her, when she was alive, at the right hip, when she had her own qipao folded over her arm at the chaise. The weight at the hip was the weight.

The inside seam at the phoenix at the left hip had fourteen objects.

I went to the door of the recording room.

I looked at the control booth.

Lu Jiyuan sat at the chair at the console beside Mendelsohn. He looked at me through the glass at the distance of fifteen feet. The glass was glass. The face of Lu Jiyuan at fifteen feet through the glass was the face of Lu Jiyuan — the coastline on the left, the unmarked right, the corner of the mouth, the brown of his eyes that the candle in the brick room had not, at any hour, shown me clearly because the candle was the candle and the porcelain was the porcelain. The face at fifteen feet was visible to me. I nodded at him. He nodded at me. The nod was not a piece of stagecraft. The nod was the count of nine I had been keeping for fourteen months without a face to keep it against, given, this Thursday morning, the face.

Mendelsohn set the roll of tape at the head of the RCA recorder. He pressed the red button. The red light at the corner of the control booth came on.

Jimmy King, in his New Orleans English: Take one.

He lifted his hand. He set the downbeat. The Filipino brass section set the opening — Mr. Almeida's trumpet at the second bar, with the small dry New Orleans inflection Mr. Almeida had been carrying since he had played at the Lyric in Manila with a touring American band in 1929. The rhythm section set the rhythm. Mr. Tony at the muted bass; Mr. Lopes at the alto; Mr. Ferenc at the trombone, behind the alto by a beat.

I set my breath at the interval of four counts in and six counts out. I set my mouth at nine inches from the microphone — the distance Mendelsohn had marked, on the parquet of the recording room floor, with a small piece of white chalk at half past eight on the morning of the eleventh of November. I sang the first verse.

I sang the second verse.

I sang the third verse.

The third verse had seven names. Constable Wu of the Settlement police, at Beihai Road, the seventh name of the firing-order at Longhua on the twelfth of April, 1927. Mr. Hong Jingming's nephew at Sun Ya, on the payroll of the Japanese consulate. Inspector Hua of the Songhu Garrison Command. Mr. Chen the printer of Zhabei. The Japanese consulate clerk in the dark coat at the corner of the lane. Mr. Pang the Yu Garden tea-house proprietor. Mr. Yao Sanye of the Green Gang.

I sang the seventh name.

I sang the bridge of the third verse.

At the bridge I let the note sit where the composer had set it. I did not, on the third syllable of xiāng — fragrant — hold the note the way the bankers in June of 1936 had wanted me to hold it. The bankers in June had wanted a Bright Moon hold, the small showy fifth-above-the-staff sob that had been, in 1936, what a banker at the third Thursday paid for. The composer in October of 1937, in the brick room at the second wick, had said: That is a lie. Drop it. Drop it lower. I had dropped it lower for the count of nine months. The note sat where the composer had set it.

The note was the note of a composer of twenty-nine who had, in February of 1934, set down the burden of saving An Wenjing and had, in the third week of December at Dr. Morancy's parlor, taken up another.

I finished the song.

The rhythm section set the close. The Filipino brass section set the final chord. Jimmy King lowered his hand. The red light at the corner of the control booth went out. Mendelsohn pressed the stop button. He stood. He looked at me through the glass. He nodded. Lu Jiyuan looked at me through the glass. He nodded. The nods were what they were.

Mendelsohn said, into the intercom: Take two.

I sang Night Shanghai a second time.

The second take held the third verse at the same syllable, in the same chest, on the same breath. The second take did not give the note any more or any less than the first. The second take, I knew before Mendelsohn said it, was the one. The first take had been the recording; the second take had been the song.

The red light went out.

Mendelsohn, into the intercom: We have it. Come in.

I went to the door of the control booth. I went in.

Lu Jiyuan stood. He set his right hand at the pad below the left side of his face at the coastline. I set my right hand at the coastline. The coastline was warm. The skin of the right hand was the skin of the right hand. Mendelsohn did not look. Mendelsohn had decided, in the second second of his decision in November of 1929, that the second hand of a Pathé engineer of fifty-three would, on the day a singer set her hand at the coastline of a man at the door of his control booth, look at the second take of the tape. He looked at the second take of the tape.

He set the second take of the tape at the head of the Eckhardt press. The Eckhardt set the first small black disc. The first disc came out of the press in the small slow way the press had — the second roller turning at the second cog, the small dry hiss of the shellac, the third roller setting the second turn. The Madonna at the third niche watched. The first small black disc was on the tray of the Eckhardt.

The Eckhardt set the second small black disc.

The Eckhardt set the third small black disc.

Mendelsohn set the three small black discs at the table at the corner of the pressing room and labelled each, in his English, with the second nib: NIGHT SHANGHAI / S. WANYIN / 11 NOVEMBER 1937 / PATHÉ SHANGHAI.

Mr. Sá knocked at the door at half past twelve.

He came in. He had on the dark grey suit of Mr. Almeida's tailor at the corner of Avenue du Roi Albert and Rue Lafayette. He had at his right wrist the small leather case Mr. Almeida's cousin at the Manila Tribune had sent up by the second consular bag at the second Friday of October. He had at his right breast pocket, in a small square envelope of beige paper, the Sikorsky ticket at the afternoon flight to Manila at half past two.

He took the second small black disc.

He set it in the leather case, beside the forged Tsvetkov-line travel paper of the Macau line and the Sikorsky ticket.

He said, in his Macanese Portuguese: I will, by the hour of half past two on the afternoon of the eleventh of November of 1937, be at Hongqiao at the Sikorsky. I will, by the hour of dawn on the twelfth of November, be at Manila with the second small black disc. I will, by the hour of nine on the morning of the twelfth of November of 1937, set the second small black disc at the wire-relay at the office of Mr. Almeida's cousin at the Manila Tribune. Pearl said: Manila at noon would print the second column. Manila at noon will print.

He set his right hand at my shoulder. He set the hand for the count of nine. He did not say Pérola. He did not need to.

He went.

Liang knocked at quarter to one.

He came in. He had on the dark wool suit of the third week of October, with the small red kerchief at the inside breast pocket Pearl had given him in 1935 at the second Christmas. He had at his right shoulder the oilcloth packet with the rail papers of the small-cargo office at the corner of Avenue Édouard VII and Avenue du Roi Albert.

He took the third small black disc.

He set it in the oilcloth packet with the rail papers.

He said: The rail will, at the hour of one this afternoon, leave from the North Station. I will, by the hour of dawn on the seventeenth of November, be at Chongqing with the third small black disc. Pearl was the older sister.

He set his hand at my shoulder. The hand was the hand of a half-cousin from the Ningbo branch who had been the half-cousin of Pearl Bai Zhu of Ningbo for twenty-five years. He went.

Teddy Harmsworth knocked at one.

He came in. He had on the rumpled white linen suit Teddy Harmsworth had been wearing at the Long Bar of the Shanghai Club for five years. He had on the pocket-square of blue cotton at the breast pocket. He had on no hat.

He had on, also, the small flat tired expression of a man who had spent sixteen months in the city writing the second column of the afternoon edition of the North-China Daily News without writing, in those sixteen months, the third column of anything that mattered. The expression had not, in sixteen months, gone away. The expression had a small low hum to it now — the small low hum of a man who had been told, by Mr. Lopes at the cloakroom at half past one on Monday night, that the morning of the eleventh of November was the morning he had been waiting for.

He took the first small black disc.

He set it in the leather press-portfolio with the typed transcript Mendelsohn had set at the typewriter at half past eleven. The transcript was three pages. The third page had the seven names. He set the portfolio on the second table.

He said: Tonight at the eight o'clock. I will, by my own press credentials and by the second journalist Mr. Ellsworth of the Shanghai Mercury and the third journalist Mr. Hagedorn of the L'Echo de Chine, be at the gallery of the station at the third floor at the second corner of Boone Road by the eight o'clock. I will, by the hour of half past five this afternoon, be at the North-China Daily News at the corner of the Bund with the typed transcript. The North-China Daily News will, by the hour of the Friday morning, set the typed transcript at the second column of the afternoon edition. I will, by the hour of dawn on the Friday morning of the twelfth of November, be on the coastal steamer Empress of Asia at the pier of the customs jetty. I will, by the hour of dawn on the second Sunday of November, be at Hong Kong with the first small black disc. I am sorry I have, for sixteen months, been in this city without writing a thing in it. Tonight I will write.

He set his right hand at my shoulder. He held it for the count of nine. He went.

The pressing room at one in the afternoon of the eleventh of November was empty.

Mendelsohn set the stylus at the edge of the table. He did not, that moment, say anything. He took out his pocket handkerchief, a square of white cotton with the embroidered M at the corner his wife had stitched in Vienna in 1908, and he wiped, very slowly, the second lens of the round wire glasses. He set the glasses back. He looked at me. He looked at Lu Jiyuan.

He said, in his German-accented English, low: I will, at the third Saturday of April of 1938 at the EMI press at Hayes, press a second master. I will set the second master at the second sleeve at the second name. I will not tell either of you what the second name is. You will know it when you hold the sleeve.

He shook Lu Jiyuan's right hand. He did not say anything else.

I took Lu Jiyuan's right hand in mine. He took the grey wool overcoat and the grey felt hat Mendelsohn had set at the wooden hook. He set the felt hat low at the brow. The brim of the felt hat set a shadow at the upper edge of the coastline at the left side.

We went with Mendelsohn to the door at Avenue du Roi Albert.

At the door at Avenue du Roi Albert, at the corner of Avenue Joffre at half past one on the Thursday afternoon of the eleventh of November of 1937, there was, on the pavement across the street, at the distance of forty feet, a black sedan.

The sedan had at the license plate the consular markings of the Japanese consulate at Wuhan Road. The sedan had been at the corner of Avenue du Roi Albert and Avenue Joffre since at least half past nine on the morning of the eleventh of November.

The sedan did not move.

I looked at the sedan.

The sedan did not look at me. The sedan was a black 1936 Datsun saloon with the small chrome at the second fender, and behind its windscreen the small flat outline of a driver of thirty-five and, in the back seat, a Japanese consular officer of forty-two whom I did not, at the distance of forty feet, recognise.

I said: The Major has known.

Lu Jiyuan said: Since last night. The Major will be at the control room. The Major will not stop me at this hour.

I said: No.

He said: The Major will let me be at the control room because the Major has decided to be at the control room with me. Six hours and a half.

I said: Six hours and a half.

We set out the walk to the rickshaw at the corner of Avenue Joffre. Mr. Hu the rickshaw man — not Mr. Hu the carpenter, the other Mr. Hu, the rickshaw man of the corner of Avenue Joffre and Rue Lafayette who had been Mr. Tony's cousin's friend — was at the curb. He nodded once. We climbed up. The sedan, at forty feet, did not move. The Avenue at half past one was the Avenue at half past one: the plane-trees in their small pale plates, the second arcade at the second café, the third refugee tent at Rue Lafayette where the woman of thirty had been on the morning of Pearl's death and where, today, a different woman of perhaps thirty-five sat on a low stool boiling rice in a small tin can over a small kerosene flame. The city had, in eleven days, taken in another thirty thousand. The Concession parks had taken what they could.

Mr. Hu lifted the shafts. The rickshaw moved.

At the corner of Avenue Joffre and Rue Bourgeat I looked back through the small canvas back-flap of the rickshaw. The black sedan had turned its engine over. It was, by the small grey exhaust at the second fender, idling. It had not, at the distance of two hundred yards now, moved.

I said: He will follow.

Lu Jiyuan said: He will follow at the distance the Major has decided is the distance of his own deciding. He will not close it.

I set my forehead at the temple at the top of the coastline. The temple was warm. The grey felt hat at the brow set the shadow at the upper edge of the coastline. Mr. Hu pulled. The Avenue was the Avenue. The brick room two miles ahead was the brick room.

Six hours and a half.