Forty-two (Forty)

In the winter of 1932, Tan Yang smoothly became the accompanying interpreter for the renowned scholar Mr. Seidler during his visit to Shanghai. Mr. Seidler was to stay in Shanghai for a month and a half, rushing home before Christmas. His schedule was packed: at St. John’s University alone, over twenty lectures were arranged, each one overflowing with attendees. Besides the medical students of St. John’s, doctors from all the major Western hospitals in Shanghai gathered—truly a festival for the Western medical community.

Through more than twenty lectures, Mr. Seidler shared the most advanced knowledge of the time about pediatric internal medicine, pediatric surgery, and child healthcare. For Mr. Li, the professional interpreter, and Tan Yang, the accompanying interpreter, the workload was immense. The day before each lecture, Mr. Seidler would only provide an outline, forcing Tan Yang to stay up all night at home, poring over related medical terminology. During the lectures, when Mr. Li’s translations were clumsy or inaccurate and the audience struggled to understand, Tan Yang would pull the microphone closer and, using the customary expressions of medical practice, repeat the explanation.

In November, the great hall of St. John’s was bitterly cold. Seated to the left of Mr. Seidler, Tan Yang’s shoulder-length hair was tied with a deep brown ribbon. She wore an indigo wool coat over a white cheongsam trimmed with coffee-colored satin, sparsely embroidered with a few ochre plum blossoms, which peeked shyly from her coat’s collar—elegant, yet with a touch of youthful charm. Pen in hand, she tilted her head slightly, listening intently to Mr. Seidler’s lecture. She was a small boat adrift on the vast ocean of knowledge, immersing herself in learning and, in doing so, becoming a sight admired by others.

During the first two lectures, when Mr. Li passed the microphone to her for further clarification, her cheeks flushed before she even spoke, and her voice trembled as she began. But as the lectures progressed, she grew more composed and confident. She was one of those who could devote herself wholeheartedly to her task; when absorbed in her work, even nervousness was forgotten.

One day, after finishing his own business, Bi Qingtang stopped by St. John’s to pick Tan Yang up. When the lecture ended and they sat together in the car, Bi Qingtang, cigarette in mouth, turned to study her. “Little sister, you looked so grand up there on stage!” Tan Yang laughed and pinched his arm. “Why make such a fuss? Was I never grand before?” Bi Qingtang put an arm around her shoulders and grinned, “No, no, today you were especially magnificent—so much so that even your brother barely recognized you.” He leaned in to whisper in her ear, “You were beautiful—beautiful in a new and different way.” Tan Yang feigned annoyance, whispering, “Such glib talk.” “It’s true! Did you see how everyone in the hall looked at you? Made me want to jump on stage and shout.”

“Shout what?” she asked. “First, I’d shout, ‘Look, this is my wife!’ Then I’d shout again, ‘Stop staring, she’s already my wife!’” Tan Yang covered her mouth, giggling. “Weren’t you here to pick me up? What nonsense is this?” Bi Qingtang grew serious. “I was here for you, yes. Just popped in to take a look.” He paused, unable to suppress a laugh. “I finally saw that Mr. Seidler for myself. Bald on top is fine, but why grow the sides long to cover it up? Utterly ridiculous…” Before he could finish, Tan Yang thumped him hard. “Why are you hitting me?” he protested. “You know why,” Tan Yang replied nonchalantly.

To receive love does not mean you can guard it effortlessly for life. If you do nothing, love will be consumed by time. To make love last, one must strive ceaselessly. Love is a lesson in admiration—you wish for your partner’s love, which is, in truth, their admiration. Only by making constant effort, by being brilliant often, can love endure and marriage survive the passage of years without growing cold or distant.

After the lectures, Mr. Seidler spent the remainder of his time in Shanghai immersed in hospitals, treating children with difficult illnesses, even venturing into the city’s slums to offer free care to those who could not afford it. One night, Tan Yang assisted Mr. Seidler in surgery, returning home in the deep hours. Bi Qingtang was still in the living room, listening to a Peking opera record on the gramophone as he waited for her. In the still of night, one person, one lamp, and the lingering melodies of “The Peony Pavilion” filled the room. Tan Yang, returning late, felt her heart overflow with happiness.

She sat beside Bi Qingtang and asked softly, “Is our girl asleep?” “She’s asleep.” “Brother, today I…” “I know. Didn’t you call this afternoon about a complicated surgery?” “Then why wait up for me?” “Why wouldn’t I? What else would I do?” Bi Qingtang teased. Tan Yang’s cheeks flushed. “You can never be serious for long.”

He put his arm around her, and she nestled close. “So, the foreign priest really is that impressive?” he teased. She nodded with a laugh. “Yes, I feel what I learned in school is far too limited. There’s so much more to learn from him. When we made house calls to the poor, I realized how wonderful it is to use one’s knowledge to help others—the more you know, the more you can do. But I still have so much to improve.” Bi Qingtang listened and smiled. “You’re already remarkable. Let’s not compare you to the wealthy ladies, just to yourself. Ten years ago, when I first saw you in Tongli, you weren’t like this at all—just a little towheaded girl, haha.”

His words drew them into reminiscence. Suddenly, Tan Yang said, “Brother, if not for you, I might not have finished even primary school, let alone attended secondary school and university. Even becoming an interpreter was because you found someone to tutor me in German. If not for you, I’d never be who I am today.” Bi Qingtang looked away, his voice soft. “Fate brought us together. And I owe much to you as well—without you, I’d still be taking risks in the old merchants’ business, never building anything this grand.”

In mid-December, Mr. Seidler returned home. Life for Tan Yang and Bi Qingtang settled back into its usual rhythm. But on New Year’s Day 1933, a letter arrived—from Xu Zhizhong, absent for years. He wrote that after graduating from Whampoa Military Academy, he was sent to study for a year at West Point in America, and was now working in Nanjing, promising to visit their home in Shanghai one day.

After reading the letter, Tan Yang looked up to see Bi Qingtang with a look of grave seriousness and could not help laughing. “You laugh—what’s so funny? So he’s drunk some Western ink and become an officer. So what? Out there he may look impressive, but Shanghai is still my turf,” Bi Qingtang declared.

The winter break ended without a visit from Xu Zhizhong, but instead, a letter arrived from Germany. After reading it, Tan Yang fell silent. Bi Qingtang, playing with their daughter, noticed her quietness and asked, “What did the foreign priest say?” “He thanked me for all my help in Shanghai.” “Well, at least he’s polite.” She folded the letter along its original crease and returned it to the envelope. After a long silence, she spoke carefully: “He also said I’m welcome to pursue further studies at Heidelberg Medical School. He’s secured a master’s position for me, with a scholarship. It seems it wasn’t easy for him to arrange.”

Bi Qingtang set their daughter down, dismissive. “He thinks everyone is desperate to study so far away? He’s wasted the effort—you won’t go.” When Tan Yang said nothing, he pressed, “Will you?” She sighed. “There’s nothing I can do.” Bi Qingtang turned sharply, his tone stern: “What? Don’t tell me you actually want to go?” Tan Yang said nothing, her silence thickening the air—husband and wife now poised in opposition.

At midday in early spring, sunlight streamed through the living room’s tall windows. The spring of Shanghai was divided between the din of the city and endless drizzle, the remaining brightness hard-won—neither brash nor perfunctory. Their daughter, Yan Qin, skipped across the thick carpet, dragging a doll in a pink gauze dress. The sunlight touched her fair, rosy cheeks, her eyes squinting with her smile, two little canine teeth showing—a sprout just breaking the surface, fresh and mischievous. Watching her daughter, Tan Yang’s expression softened. She walked over, scooped Yan Qin up, and carried her upstairs.

For two days, the couple remained at odds. Then, Bi Qingtang bought her a pearl necklace. Tan Yang thanked him, saying she had always wanted such a necklace to match her clothes. She wore it, and Bi Qingtang praised her beauty again and again. Peace returned to their household.

In truth, Tan Yang did not need such a piece of jewelry, and Bi Qingtang knew it did not touch her heart—but this was their way as husband and wife. He knew when a man should act; she knew how a woman should respond. In every home, arguments are inevitable. But their feelings were genuine; they valued each other and knew how to cherish what they had. Differences and quarrels could not hurt their love. After this, however, neither mentioned studying abroad again.

Still, the matter weighed on Tan Yang’s mind. As the days passed and the semester drew to a close, and with her medical school graduation approaching, she became increasingly absent-minded and unsettled. One day, Bi Qingtang came home late from work and found her lying beside their sleeping daughter, holding Mr. Seidler’s letter, her face full of melancholy and longing. In that moment, he understood—she truly wished to go to that distant land. Since their marriage, he had done everything in his power to fulfill her wishes. Now that there was one thing he could not grant her, he felt a pang of guilt.

That weekend, Bi Qingtang took Tan Yang to Huizhong Hotel for a Western meal. At a checkered table, the two sat face to face. When the waiter brought the steaks, Bi Qingtang stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. Casually, he began, “Ten years ago, our first meal out together was right here, wasn’t it?” Tan Yang smiled, nodded, and blushed, cutting at her steak a little awkwardly. “Ten years, and I still can’t cut steak properly.” Bi Qingtang laughed and began cutting her steak for her.

“Little sister, do you remember what I said to you back then?” he suddenly asked. Tan Yang’s eyes lit up, but then dimmed as she glanced at him, replying perfunctorily, “You said you’d buy me pretty clothes.” Bi Qingtang burst out laughing and pushed the plate of steak toward her. “What a memory you have! Didn’t I say, if you did well in school, I’d send you abroad to study? And you said you weren’t that wild! Looks like you’re the one going back on your word.” Tan Yang blinked and protested, “You’re the one who goes back on his word! You’re the most shameless!” They both laughed.

On the way home, Bi Qingtang asked, “If I forbid you from studying abroad, would you still go?” Tan Yang pondered for a long time, then shook her head solemnly. “And if you don’t go, what then?” She looked out the window, her voice strained. “I’ll regret it. Deeply, I suppose.” “In a lifetime, there are many regrets. Can you live with one more?” he asked sincerely. Tan Yang turned to look at him, her eyes brimming with tears. She nodded, and the tears spilled over, one after another. Bi Qingtang reached over and held her tightly, his voice full of emotion: “Little sister, we already bear so many regrets in life. How could I bear to add another for you?”