七部小说 · Seven Novels

第 35 章 ——《灌录》

一九三八年三月十二日，礼拜六。

九龙界限街 EMI 大楼的门房并不唤我苏小姐。他是一位五十岁的广东人，着绿色哔叽制服，戴黄铜帽檐；这礼拜六上午九点半，他替我和继元拉开门，用广东话道：太太。先生。

界限街的广东早晨有一种亮，往南五条街、旺角的弄巷里寻不到。街阔。法国梧桐比霞飞路的梧桐年轻些，是一九二八年由本港工务局二处所栽，树皮上那些苍白的小斑片才刚刚翘起。太阳越过对街第三家屋顶，正合三月早上九点一刻——它已如此越了十五年；三月里的太阳，是香港冬末最后一周那种温吞的鹅黄。今早，这块殖民地有洗衣街口面摊飘来的伊面气味，亦有第三个街角圣保禄修女会小后园里飘出的茉莉气味。香港三月的茉莉，与上海五月先施公司三楼第二个柜台上的茉莉是两种茉莉。香港的茉莉底下有一缕微甜的姜韵。自十一月三十日我们乘 Lyngen 号在天星码头第二号渡口登岸至今四个月，我便一直在学这些茉莉之间细小而特别的差异。

我穿着林先生在十一月三十日下午四点半于海关码头替我装进皮箱里的那件藏青府绸。身上无首饰，只腕上戴着林姨给的小银镯，髻在颈后，三枚钢簪，一枚是一九三三年我十八岁生辰白珠送的小银簪。左腕自十二月第二个礼拜二下午四点一刻在铜锣湾法国医院起，便嵌着刘大夫上的那枚钉。腕上那枚钉，便是那枚钉。

继元穿的，是斯坦尼斯瓦夫大夫留在蒲石路安全屋后室木衣架上的蓝哔叽西装，灰呢大衣，灰毡帽压在眉前。他不戴瓷面具。他露着脸。

他亦带着一种小心翼翼的神色——自十二月第二周在铜锣湾刘大夫诊所里听了那番话起便如此：十一月十一日射进第二肋的那一弹，伤及第二肋第三关节，第二年里不会全愈。第三关节便是第三关节。这四个月里继元学会了一种小小的、特别的起身姿势——从椅上立起时，第三关节但凡哪一月不肯深吸一口气，便会给出第三关节那种小而锐的一顿。礼拜六上午九点半，他便以那种小小特别的姿势，在门房面前立起身。五十岁的门房并不察觉。五十岁的门房做了十三年的五十岁门房，做这一行学会的本事，就是不去察觉。

门房并不别开眼。他道，先生；继元道，早；我们进去。

EMI 大楼的门厅地上铺的是一九三一年洗衣街第二条小巷里陈师傅所砌的小块青砖，转角一张雕花柚木台子，四十六岁的门差邓先生坐在那里守账册，台子第二层搁一只小小的深色无线电，极轻地放着早上第三档香港台。无线电正放到上海时代曲那一组的第二支——自一月第二个礼拜五起，殖民地里几家电台便轮播这一组；这一支是周璇一九三五年的《卖花》，是第二版翻录里那把温润中音。邓先生抬眼。他唤，苏小姐；我唤，邓先生；我们走向电梯。

电梯是一九三一年 EMI 大楼里那种小小的木板镶嵌笼子，门顶上小铜箭头停在第二格上。我们上二楼。

录音棚在二楼：录音间在东头，正中支着 RCA 麦克风，南墙立一架施坦威立式钢琴；控制室在西头，里头是控制台和英国录音师亨利先生。亨利先生四十一岁，灰呢马甲套在白衬衫外，不着外套，戴 EMI 录音师那种圆框金丝眼镜——正合九点三刻这个九龙礼拜六的早上。一九二五年起他在 EMI 总厂海耶斯压片部做录音师，至一九三七年八月第二个礼拜一调来九龙棚——彼时海耶斯派他来开第二座香港分棚。他乘印度皇后号同来，携三十八岁的太太和十二岁的女儿。女儿在旺角拔萃女书院读第二级。太太在铜锣湾英国基督教女青年会第二分会。

苏小姐，他用他那口英国官话唤。这是一个学了八个月官话的人的第二层官话。官话好。官话非母语。是一位每早听邓先生那座无线电三十分钟的英国人的官话。

亨利先生。

十点上带。两版。

两版。

开始。

我脱下林先生替我装的那件灰呢大衣，挂上录音间门边的木钩。继元把灰毡帽挂在旁边的钩上，进控制室，坐到亨利先生身旁的椅上，隔着玻璃看我。十五呎玻璃外的继元的脸，便是继元的脸——左半边那道海岸线、那道地峡、左边嘴角，未受伤的右半边。这张脸我看得见。我对他颔首；他对我颔首。

我立在 RCA 跟前。我把呼吸调到四拍吸、六拍呼。我把嘴定在距麦克风九英寸处——这是上午八点半亨利先生用一小截白粉笔在录音间地板的拼花上画下的距离，与十一月十一日上午八点半门德松在百代灌音棚阿尔贝王路那间录音室拼花地板上画下的方法一模一样。距离便是距离。粉笔便是粉笔。

亨利先生把母带上到录音机头上，按下红钮，控制室角上的红灯亮起。第一版，他对着对讲说。

我唱《夜上海》——第一段，第二段，第三段。第三段第七小节，我唱出那七个名字。到桥段，我让那个音停在作曲人安的地方。那个音便是那个音。我唱完。

第二版，亨利先生说；我再唱一遍。他录完第二版，戴耳机听过第二段、第三段、桥段、第七小节与终止和弦，把耳机放下。好，小姐，他对着对讲说。成了。

是。

他按下停止钮，红灯熄。

我把麦克风搁回支架，穿过录音间，推开玻璃门进控制室。继元立起，朝我转过身。我把右手覆在他脸左半边那道海岸线上。海岸线是温的。亨利先生看见我的手按在那道海岸线上，并不说话，转头去对控制台。我把左手覆在那道烧伤往上扯出来的左边嘴角上，用我的上海话道：

继元。

阿良。

明朝去寻一架降 D 更准的钢琴。

整整九拍，他不出一声。然后他笑了——一个二十九岁的人，对着九龙一个礼拜六上午录音室里、一个把左手按在闸北弄堂房顶一九三四年扯出的那道嘴角上的二十三岁歌女，所发出的那种笑。

那笑，是头一声笑。

我把额抵在他额上，闭起眼；他赤着的右手覆在我的鬓角。鬓角是温的。笑沉下去。笑过后那一秒里，我想，这是十四个月砖屋里加四个月香港里，他对我未发过的第二种声响。第一种声响，是一九三六年九月一个礼拜五木桌上一支笔合盖时那种小小的干响。第二种声响便是这一声。他对我发过的声响清单——气息、沉默、第四指第一关节那种光滑的小小一抿、九拍的沉默、笔合盖的小小干响——今早，添上了第二声笑。第二声笑，便是第二声笑。

亨利先生从录音机上取下母带，装进控制台角上的硬纸套里，从马甲口袋里抽出一支铅笔。小姐，他道。标签。您的名字。封套上的名字。

我看继元。继元看我。

S. Wanyin，我说。

S. Wanyin，亨利先生说，用他的英文写：S. Wanyin / Night Shanghai / Take 2 / 12 March 1938 / EMI Kowloon.

我接过铅笔，在 S. Wanyin 旁，用我自己的手——用一个二十三岁的歌女藏在牙齿后头、不让这座城碰到的那个名字的上海拼音——写下：Shen Aliang.

亨利先生读了。苏小姐，他道。封套上我写的是 S. Wanyin。您写的是 Shen Aliang。压出来的唱片上将印 S. Wanyin，在海耶斯压片部，至四月第三个礼拜六。Shen Aliang 这个名字，则留在母带上，留在封套里，留在海耶斯的库房里。

是。

苏小姐。

Shen Aliang。

沈小姐。

亨利先生。

多谢。又道：明朝。那架降 D 更准的钢琴。

继元又笑了一声。第二声比头一声短——一个在第二声笑里、刚学会怎样再笑的人，那种小小干干的第二声笑。在第二肋第三关节那点暗黑的小小算术里、今早之后他还得以与我共度的四年零七个月里，我会再听到这种笑两百零四次。一九四二年十一月第二个礼拜二，湾仔一间小屋后室、西墙边搁着第二张小床的地方，我会听到他最末一声笑。最末一声笑便是最末一声笑。头一声笑，便是今早。

我把铅笔交还。继元从钩上取下灰毡帽，我从旁边的钩上取下灰呢大衣，我们出去。我们经过案前的邓先生。邓先生颔首。第二格上那座无线电已由第二支歌换到了《何日君再来》，用的是第三版翻录里那把温润中音。绿色哔叽制服、戴黄铜帽檐、五十岁的广东人替我们拉开门。太太。先生，他用广东话道。

唔该，我用广东话答——自一月第三周起，每礼拜二弥敦道的发型师便教我这几句。发型师是一位四十岁的妇人，姓黄，每礼拜二她在第二个洗头盆边、给我吹第二道波浪、上第三枚发针那个空当里，教我香港早晨那几句细小特别的话头。继元也用广东话道，唔该——他亦在每礼拜二跟界限街转角第二排骑楼里的张茶商学，刚学到第二声调。

祝您今日顺利，门房道。

是。

我们走进九龙的早晨。三月十二日礼拜六十一点差一刻的界限街上，太阳便是太阳。这街今早有九龙三月礼拜六上午那种小小特别的动静——第三个街角第二辆送奶车，洗衣街口面摊那只小小的铃铛，第三条线的第二班电车正向北开往深水埗。我把右手扶在继元左袖上，扶在他第二肋伤口下三英寸处——那道伤是一九三七年十一月十二日下午，极司菲尔路 76 号后院里大日本帝国海军宪兵的子弹钻进去的。

阿良，他唤。

继元。

他与我说那架钢琴。昨日，他散步走到弥敦道与佐敦道转角，又走到佐敦道与庙街转角，在调音师蔡先生铺子里寻见了那架二手琴：一九二九年的贝希斯坦立式，蔡先生说那架琴的降 D，便是降 D。礼拜二蔡先生说过，这架一九二九年的贝希斯坦，原是一位沙俄贵族遗孀的琴——她一九三三年自哈尔滨来，把琴搁在弥敦道转角的小公寓里，每礼拜日下午四点，便在那架贝希斯坦上弹萧邦第二首夜曲、第三首夜曲，按这个次序弹。遗孀于一九三八年二月辞世。公寓出租。琴归了蔡先生。

我已听继元描述钢琴听了十四个月。这十四个月里，我从未听他描述过一架是他自己走着寻见的钢琴。这一个走字，在第二个一秒里，是一桩小小新的事实。一个第二肋上有第三关节的人，哪一月里都不会随便走的。他在三月一个礼拜五的下午，走了弥敦道与佐敦道的转角、佐敦道与庙街的转角，替我寻到了第二架贝希斯坦。走，便是走。

明朝下午两点半，我们去寻蔡先生，把它买下，再寻一间向东开窗的公寓，把贝希斯坦搁在角上，唱。

好，我道——这是一个用自己的手把名字写在母带封套标签上的女人。

门房未唤我苏小姐，也未唤我婉吟。他唤我太太，我应了，因为此刻在九龙界限街上、三月一个礼拜六上午——一个二十三岁的女人，挽着那个左手第四指无第二关节的男人、那张被一九三四年闸北弄堂房顶塑成那副模样的脸的男人、那个在控制室里把笑笑成了笑的男人——这便是配她的称呼。「太太」二字不是我的名字。名字在硬纸封套里，在海耶斯的库房里。名字是 Shen Aliang。

我握住继元的手。他握住我的手。我们朝南走，去佐敦道，去蔡先生那间铺子——一九二九年的贝希斯坦立式琴在那里，那琴有降 D。

我们走得慢。我们以一个第二肋有第三关节的男人和一个左腕有钉子的女人的第二档步速走。我们走过洗衣街口的面摊。卖面的——一个四十八岁的男人，白布对襟褂，白布小帽——自清早五点起便守着摊子。他看着我们。他颔首。我亦颔首。第二只铜钵里的伊面正在三月晨光那小小平阔的光里冒热气。这香气是香港早晨的香气。这香气不是先施公司三楼第二个柜台上茉莉花露水的香气；不是百乐门第二层冷库的气味；不是虹口第二条小巷转角瓦砾堆的气味。这是另一种香气。这是一九三八年三月十二日礼拜六上午十一点差一刻、九龙一家面摊上伊面的香气。香气便是香气。

我们转过街角。

太阳从对街第二与第三家屋顶之间那条小缝里漏下来，落在第二块石板上。石板暖暖的，温意透过自十二月第二个礼拜二起嘉连威老道那间小铺子替我做的皮鞋的薄薄鞋底，浸上来。这温度是九龙三月早晨的温度。

一九三八年三月十二日礼拜六上午十一点差一刻，界限街的太阳，便是太阳。

太阳一直是暖的。

Chapter Thirty-Five — The Take

Saturday the twelfth of March, 1938.

The doorman at the EMI building on Boundary Street in Kowloon does not call me Miss Su. He is a Cantonese man of fifty in a green serge uniform with a brass cap, and at half past nine on this Saturday morning he opens the door for me and Jiyuan and says, in his Cantonese: Madam. Sir.

The Cantonese morning at Boundary Street has a particular brightness it does not have in the lanes of Mongkok five blocks South. The street is broad. The plane-trees are younger than the plane-trees of Avenue Joffre, planted in 1928 by the second Public Works Department of the colony, with the small pale plates at the bark only just beginning to lift. The sun comes over the third roof of the building opposite at quarter past nine on a March morning in the way it has been doing for fifteen years, and the sun is, in March, the gentle yellow of a Hong Kong winter at its last week. The colony, this morning, smells of yi mein from the noodle stall at the corner of Sai Yee Street and of jasmine from the small back-garden of the Sœurs de Saint-Paul-de-Chartres at the third corner. The jasmine of Hong Kong is, in March, a different jasmine from the jasmine of the Sun Sun department store at the second counter on the third floor in Shanghai in May. The jasmine of Hong Kong has a small sweet ginger undertone. I have been learning, in the four months since we came in on the Lyngen at the second pier of the Star Ferry, the small particular differences of the jasmine.

I have on the navy poplin Mr. Lin packed into the suitcase at the customs jetty at half past four on the thirtieth of November. I have on no jewellery but the small silver bracelet from Auntie Lin at the wrist, and the chignon at the nape with three steel pins and the small silver pin Pearl gave me at my eighteenth birthday in 1933. The left wrist has, since quarter past four on the second Tuesday of December at the French Hospital in Causeway Bay, carried the pin Dr. Liu set. The pin at the wrist is the pin.

Jiyuan has on the blue serge suit Dr. Stanisław left at the wooden hanger in the back room of the safehouse on Rue Bourgeat, the grey wool overcoat, the grey felt hat at the brow. He has on no porcelain mask. He has on the face.

He has on, also, the small careful look of a man who has, since the second week of December in the parlor of Dr. Liu at Causeway Bay, been told that the round at the rib of the eleventh of November had taken the third joint of the second rib and would not, in the second year, fully heal. The third joint is the third joint. Jiyuan has learned, in the four months since, the small particular way one stood up from a chair when the third joint did not, in any month, take a deep breath without giving the small sharp catch of a third joint. He stands up at the doorman's door at half past nine with the small particular way. The doorman of fifty does not notice. The doorman of fifty has been a doorman of fifty for thirteen years and has, by trade, learned the discipline of not noticing.

The doorman does not look away. He says, Sir, and Jiyuan says, Good morning, and we go in.

The lobby of the EMI building has a small green tile floor laid by Mr. Chan the tile-setter of the second lane of Sai Yee Street in 1931, and a small carved teak desk at the corner where Mr. Tang the porter of forty-six sits with a ledger and a small dark wireless on the second shelf playing, very softly, the Hong Kong frequency at the third hour of the morning. The wireless is at the second song of the Shanghai shidaiqu set the colony's stations have, since the second Friday of January, been playing in rotation — Zhou Xuan's Selling Flowers from 1935, in the warm contralto of the second pressing. Mr. Tang looks up. He says, Miss Su, and I say, Mr. Tang, and we go to the lift.

The lift is the small wood-panelled cage of the EMI building lifts of 1931, with the small brass arrow above the door at the second mark. We take it to the second floor.

The recording studio is on the second floor: the recording room at the East end, with the RCA microphone on its stand at the centre and a Steinway upright at the South wall; the control booth at the West end, with the console and the English engineer Mr. Henley. Mr. Henley is forty-one, in a grey wool waistcoat over a white shirt, no jacket, the round wire glasses of an EMI engineer at quarter to ten on a Saturday morning in Kowloon. He has been an EMI engineer at the Hayes press at the second floor since 1925, and at the Kowloon studio since the second Monday of August of 1937 when EMI Hayes had sent him out to set up the second Hong Kong satellite. He came on the Empress of India with his wife of thirty-eight and his daughter of twelve. The daughter is at the second form at the Diocesan Girls' School at Mongkok. The wife is at the second branch of the British YWCA at Causeway Bay.

Miss Su, he says, in his English Mandarin. The Mandarin is the second Mandarin of a man who has been learning it for eight months. The Mandarin is good. The Mandarin is not native. The Mandarin is the Mandarin of an Englishman who has been listening at Mr. Tang's wireless every morning for thirty minutes.

Mr. Henley.

We set the roll at ten. Two takes.

Two takes.

Go.

I take off the grey wool coat Mr. Lin packed and hang it on the wooden hook at the door of the recording room. Jiyuan hangs his grey felt hat on the hook beside it and goes into the control booth and sits at the chair beside Mr. Henley and looks at me through the glass. At fifteen feet through the glass the face of Jiyuan is the face of Jiyuan — the coastline on the left side, the isthmus, the corner of the mouth on the left, the unmarked right. The face is visible to me. I nod at him; he nods at me.

I stand at the RCA. I set my breath at four counts in and six counts out. I set my mouth at nine inches from the microphone — the distance Mr. Henley has, at half past eight, marked on the parquet of the recording room floor with a small piece of white chalk, the same way Mendelsohn marked the parquet of the recording room at the Pathé studio at Avenue du Roi Albert at half past eight on the morning of the eleventh of November. The distance is the distance. The chalk is the chalk.

Mr. Henley sets the roll at the head of the recorder and presses the red button, and the red light at the corner of the booth comes on. Take one, he says into the intercom.

I sing Night Shanghai — the first verse, the second, the third. In the third verse, at the seven measures, I sing the seven names. At the bridge I let the note sit where the composer set it. The note is the note. I finish the song.

Take two, says Mr. Henley, and I sing it again. He sets the second take, listens at the headphones to the second verse and the third and the bridge and the seventh measure and the final chord, then sets the headphones down. All right, Miss, he says into the intercom. We've got it.

Yes.

He presses the stop button, and the red light goes out.

I set the microphone at the stand, walk across the recording room, and go through the glass-paned door into the control booth. Jiyuan stands and turns to me. I set my right hand at the coastline on the left side of his face. The coastline is warm. Mr. Henley looks at my hand at the coastline, says nothing, and goes back to the console. I set my left hand at the corner of the mouth on the left side that the burn had drawn upward, and I say, in my Shanghainese:

Jiyuan.

Aliang.

Tomorrow we find a piano with a better D-flat.

For the count of nine he does not say anything. Then he laughs — the way a man of twenty-nine laughs at a Saturday morning in a recording booth in Kowloon at a singer of twenty-three who has set her left hand at the corner of a mouth a lane-house ceiling at Zhabei drew upward in 1934.

The laugh is the first laugh.

I set my forehead at his and close my eyes, and he sets his bare right hand at the side of my head. The side of my head is warm. The laugh settles. I think, in the second after the laugh, that the laugh is the second sound I have not heard him make in fourteen months at the brick room and four months at Hong Kong. The first sound was the small dry sound of a pen capping itself on a wooden desk on a Friday in September of 1936. The second sound is this. The list of sounds he has made for me — the breath, the silence, the small clean smoothness at the first joint of the fourth finger, the count of nine, the small dry rasp of the pen — has, this morning, taken its second laugh. The second laugh is the second laugh.

Mr. Henley takes the master tape from the recorder, sets it in the cardboard sleeve at the corner of the console, and takes a pencil from his waistcoat pocket. Miss, he says. The label. Your name. The name for the sleeve.

I look at Jiyuan. Jiyuan looks at me.

S. Wanyin, I say.

S. Wanyin, says Mr. Henley, and writes it in his English: S. Wanyin / Night Shanghai / Take 2 / 12 March 1938 / EMI Kowloon.

I take the pencil from him and write, beside S. Wanyin, in my own hand — in the Shanghainese romanization of a name a singer of twenty-three had kept behind her teeth where the city could not reach it: Shen Aliang.

Mr. Henley reads it. Miss Su, he says. I have written on the sleeve S. Wanyin. You have written Shen Aliang. The pressed record will carry S. Wanyin, at the EMI press at Hayes, by the third Saturday of April. The name Shen Aliang will be on the master tape, in the sleeve, in the vault at Hayes.

Yes.

Miss Su.

Shen Aliang.

Miss Shen.

Mr. Henley.

Thank you. And then: Tomorrow. The piano with the better D-flat.

Jiyuan laughs a second time. The second time is shorter than the first — the small dry second laugh of a man who has, at the second laugh, learned how to laugh again. I will, in the four years and seven months he is, by the small dark mathematics of the third joint at the second rib, given to me after this morning, hear the laugh another two hundred and four times. I will, on the second Tuesday of November of 1942 at a small back room of a house at Wanchai with the second cot at the West wall, hear the last laugh. The last laugh will be the last laugh. The first laugh is this morning.

I hand the pencil back. Jiyuan takes his grey felt hat from the hook, I take the grey wool coat from the hook beside it, and we go out. We pass Mr. Tang at the desk. Mr. Tang nods. The wireless at the second shelf has, by the second song, moved to He Ri Jun Zai Lai in the warm contralto of the third pressing. The Cantonese man of fifty in the green serge uniform with the brass cap opens the door. Madam. Sir, he says, in his Cantonese.

Thank you, I answer, in the Cantonese the hairdresser on Nathan Road has been teaching me on Tuesdays since the third week of January. The hairdresser is a woman of forty named Mrs. Wong, who has been teaching me the small particular phrases of a Hong Kong morning at the second basin while she sets the second wave in the second chignon at the third pin. Jiyuan says, Thank you, in the second tone of a Cantonese he has been learning, also on Tuesdays, with Mr. Cheung the tea-merchant at the second arcade of the corner of Boundary Street.

Have a good day, the doorman says.

Yes.

We go out into the Kowloon morning. The sun at Boundary Street at quarter to eleven is the sun. The street has, this morning, the small particular Saturday-morning movement of Kowloon at March — the second milk cart at the third corner, the small bell of the noodle man at the corner of Sai Yee Street, the second tram of the third line going North toward Sham Shui Po. I set my right hand at Jiyuan's left arm, at the sleeve, three inches below the rib where the round of the Imperial Japanese Navy MP at the rear yard of 76 Jessfield Road on the afternoon of the twelfth of November of 1937 went in.

Aliang, he says.

Jiyuan.

He tells me about the piano. By his walking yesterday at the corner of Nathan Road and Jordan Road, he found it second-hand at Mr. Choi the piano-tuner's shop at the corner of Jordan Road and Temple Street: a Bechstein upright of 1929, and Mr. Choi says it has, at the D-flat, the D-flat. The Bechstein of 1929 was, by Mr. Choi's word at the second Tuesday, the piano of a Russian widow of the Tsarist line who had come from Harbin in 1933 and had set the piano in a small flat at the corner of Nathan Road and had played, every Sunday afternoon at four, the second nocturne of Chopin and the third nocturne of Chopin, in that order, on the Bechstein. The widow had died in February of 1938. The flat had been let. The piano had come to Mr. Choi.

I have been listening to Jiyuan describe pianos for fourteen months. I have not, in those fourteen months, ever heard him describe a piano he had found by walking. The walking is, in the second second, a small new fact. The walking is a fact a man with the third joint at the second rib does not, in any month, do without consideration. He has, on a Friday afternoon of March, walked the corner of Nathan Road and Jordan Road and the corner of Jordan Road and Temple Street and found the second Bechstein for me. The walking is the walking.

Tomorrow at half past two we will go to Mr. Choi, and we will buy it, and find a flat with an East-facing window, and set the Bechstein in the corner, and sing.

Yes, I say — the woman who has, in her own hand, set her name at the label on the master tape.

The doorman has not called me Miss Su, and has not called me Wanyin. He has called me Madam, and I answer to it, because at this hour it is the word for a woman of twenty-three on Boundary Street in Kowloon on a Saturday morning in March, walking with the man whose left fourth finger has no second joint, whose face is the face the ceiling of a lane house at Zhabei made in 1934, whose laugh in the control booth has been the laugh. The word madam is not my name. The name is in the cardboard sleeve, in the vault at Hayes. The name is Shen Aliang.

I take Jiyuan's hand. He takes mine. We go South toward Jordan Road and Mr. Choi's shop, where the Bechstein upright of 1929 has the D-flat.

We walk slowly. We walk at the second pace of a man with the third joint at the second rib and a woman with a pin at the left wrist. We pass the noodle stall at the corner of Sai Yee Street. The noodle man — a man of forty-eight in a white tunic and a small white cap — has been at his stall since five in the morning. He looks at us. He nods. I nod back. The yi mein in his second copper bowl steams in the small flat morning light. The smell is the smell of a Hong Kong morning. The smell is not the smell of jasmine eau de toilette at the second counter on the third floor of the Sun Sun department store; it is not the smell of cold-storage at the second basement of the Paramount; it is not the smell of the rubble at the corner of the second lane in Hongkou. It is a different smell. It is the smell of yi mein at a noodle stall in Kowloon at a quarter to eleven on a Saturday morning in March of 1938. The smell is the smell.

We turn the corner.

The sun comes through the small gap between the second roof and the third roof of the buildings opposite, and falls on the pavement at the second slab. The slab is warm under the small thin sole of the leather shoes the small shop on Granville Road has been making for me since the second Tuesday of December. The warmth comes up through the leather. The warmth is the warmth of a March morning in Kowloon.

The sun at Boundary Street at quarter to eleven on the Saturday morning of the twelfth of March of 1938 has been the sun.

The sun has been warm.