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84 (81) Fleeting Years

That morning, while Xu Zhizhong was still in his office with several colleagues, summarizing the latest reports from the front lines, his uncle, Director Xu, appeared before him, travel-worn and seething with anger.

In that spacious, sunlit office, Xu Zhizhong sat in silence, his eyes fixed intently on a somewhat grimy deep blue glass ashtray on the conference table. Standing before him, Director Xu unleashed a torrent of reprimands, his measured, resonant voice echoing through the quiet and empty room.

“During the New Year, you called me and said you had a girlfriend—an old schoolmate, a lady doctor who studied abroad. I was so pleased, truly happy for your parents who have passed. You’re not young anymore, finally willing to settle down and start a family. Then you told me her surname was Tan, the very girl whose photo you always keep with you. I realized then that this was someone you truly liked, and I was genuinely glad for you. But why didn’t you tell me the truth?” Director Xu raised his voice several degrees, “Why didn’t you tell me this Miss Tan was a divorced woman with a child? Fortunately, I have friends in both Beijing and Shanghai. I asked about you, and when they hesitated to speak, I became suspicious and had someone investigate. Look at what you’ve done—even outsiders are embarrassed to mention it to my face!”

Director Xu’s eyes widened as he roared, “There are so many well-bred ladies, girls from fine families, all eager for you to choose from. And you—of all people—bring back a woman like this. Not only has she had a husband and a child, but she’s also the notorious former wife of a Shanghai gangster. You’ve always had principles and good judgment—how could you degrade yourself like this? What will you say to your parents’ spirits in heaven?” With a crash, Director Xu grabbed the ashtray and hurled it to the floor, shards of glass scattering. Seeing Xu Zhizhong remain unmoved, Director Xu, beside himself with fury, bellowed, “You ungrateful child—say something!”

Xu Zhizhong looked up at his uncle, his eyes calm as still water, gentle yet resolute, neither arrogant nor servile. Those eyes were strikingly like his mother’s. Director Xu, even in his rage, was suddenly overcome with a strange sorrow. Lost in thought for a moment, he suddenly shouted, “Linzi!” Adjutant Lin entered with a sharp salute. “Sir!” “Go, bring that Miss Tan here!” Lin hesitated, glancing back at Xu Zhizhong for direction. “Chief of Staff, shall I take your car? Should I call Miss Tan before going?” Xu Zhizhong waved him off. Understanding, Lin stood at attention, then left the room.

Director Xu, grinding his teeth in frustration, his voice trembling with anger, spat out, “Fine! You’ve all grown wings and think you can do as you please. I don’t need your help—I’ll go myself! I want to see for myself just how shameless this woman is, clinging to you like this!”

“No, Uncle, you can’t go like that,” Xu Zhizhong finally spoke, his tone unwavering. “Our relationship is still fragile. I’m afraid if you speak too harshly, she’ll reject me. I don’t want all my efforts over the past year to be wasted.” He looked at his uncle with helplessness. “Actually, she’s not clinging to me—if anything, I’m the one clinging to her.”

Director Xu stared at his nephew in disbelief, and after a long pause, retorted in anger, “Nonsense! Have you lost your mind?” Xu Zhizhong smiled faintly. “Perhaps I have—ten years now, and it shows no sign of fading. I fear I’ll carry it to my grave.” He leaned back in his chair, his voice melancholy, “What can I do? I admire her, just as you once admired my mother.”

Director Xu was shaken by these words, instinctively taking a step back, flustered and defensive. “Wh-what are you saying?”

Xu Zhizhong sighed lightly. “Everyone in Wuxi knows the tale of how Miss Wang met the second son of the Xu family at the Lantern Festival through a riddle, only to end up, by a twist of fate, marrying the legitimate heir. It’s no secret. I was six when my father died suddenly, and you, newly married to my aunt, came home for the funeral. On the day you left, you came to say goodbye to my mother. I’d never seen such a farewell—no words at all, just two people gazing at each other from afar, in tears of heartbreak. I was young, but I understood the ways of the world. Because of this secret, I was deeply troubled at the time. As I grew, I only felt more strongly—harboring feelings for a married woman is not the conduct of an upright man. So, privately, I looked down on you.”

“A few years later, my mother died of grief. I refused to go to Beiping with you, partly because of this grudge—I didn’t want to live with you day in and day out. But fate is cruel. When I was at Jingye Middle School, I fell for a girl. Before I ever met her, I was touched by her writing; after we met, I was smitten by her beauty and charm. As we spent time together in the same class, I grew to admire her speech and character. As I nursed my secret love, unable to extricate myself, I discovered she was already married. I don’t know what came over me, but when I visited her home with classmates and saw her daughter, I found myself wondering, as if possessed, that if I’d met her first, she would have been my wife, and the baby in her arms would have been my daughter.”

“It was then that I began to understand you, even sympathize with you, feel for you more deeply. That’s why I went to university in Beiping, to live by your side, to accept all you gave me—because I knew it was not only your affection for your nephew, but the projection of your unfulfilled longing.”

Director Xu turned away and stood facing the wall for a long time. Xu Zhizhong said nothing more. After a lengthy silence, Director Xu raised his head and noticed a framed calligraphy piece on the wall—a quote from Wang Yangming, the master of the School of Mind: “If this heart is bright, what more need be said?” The large, bold characters were written with ease and flair, exuding a spirit of open forthrightness. The sight brought a measure of solace to Director Xu’s grieving heart. He glanced instinctively at the seal in the corner, only to be taken aback by the name engraved there.

Pointing at the calligraphy, Director Xu turned around in astonishment. “This—this was written by her?” Xu Zhizhong nodded solemnly, a look of undisguised pride on his face. Director Xu frowned, muttering, “I thought it was a man’s writing.” Xu Zhizhong responded with a knowing smile.

For thousands of years, and for a hundred years to come, how many women believed that a pretty face and a few honeyed words from a man in love would secure them a place in a great family, a life free from worry? But if you’re not so high yourself, how can your marriage rise so high and remain secure?

Love may be blind, but marriage must be sensible.

Director Xu lingered in Shanghai for several days. During their time together, uncle and nephew tacitly avoided family matters, speaking only of current affairs, literature, and history.

One evening, as Director Xu prepared to return to Beiping the next day, he visited the military compound. As his car entered the courtyard, he heard faint music drifting from the building—a melodious, winding tune, unmistakably the sound of the ruan, occasionally accompanied by the intermittent notes of a flute. That long-lost music seemed to flow from the depths of memory, awakening in the aging Director Xu the feelings and recollections he had long sealed away.

He climbed slowly upstairs. Outside Xu Zhizhong’s well-lit office, the golden rays of sunset streamed through the wide glass windows, casting light on the floor. In the center of that glow, a woman in a blue and white cheongsam sat with her back to the door, playing the ruan. The golden light wrapped around her slender figure, and the graceful, lively music flowed gently from her fingers, its refined sweetness soothing the sorrow in Director Xu’s weary heart. Across from her sat Xu Zhizhong, holding a flute, listening intently. When the piece ended, Xu Zhizhong looked up, saw his uncle at the door, and quickly set down the flute, standing to introduce, “Yanyan, this is my uncle!”

Tan Yang wasn’t sure if her eyes deceived her, but the elderly man with graying temples, upon seeing her turn around with the ruan in her hands, quickly averted his face and wiped tears from the corner of his eye.

On a cool summer night, Tan Yang sat under the lamp reading pediatrics, when Xu Zhizhong came looking for her. He didn’t go in, but stood at the door with a smile, calling, “Still reading? Come, take a walk with me!” “At this hour? Where to?” Xu Zhizhong, holding the stair rail, answered as he went downstairs, “Home.”

The house wasn’t far from Tan Yang’s hospital. Stepping through the gate led into a neatly arranged Western-style garden, with a freshly whitewashed villa standing in the center. The scent of lime lingered in the air, a faintly sharp hint of newness. The house was clean and beautiful, much like its owner—spacious, airy, unsullied by even a speck of dust.

Against the garden wall leaned a large plaque, covered in red velvet. Xu Zhizhong looked at it and asked softly, “Yanyan, can you guess the name of my humble abode?” Without thinking, Tan Yang laughed, “Xu Residence, of course. You’re so old-fashioned—you’d never call your home a mansion.” Xu Zhizhong reached out to lift the cloth, but at her words he drew his hand back, feigning annoyance. “Others may call me old-fashioned, but you? Aren’t you even more traditional than I am? My uncle, before leaving, remarked that we truly are a rare pair—two born of spirit and genius.” Tan Yang smiled but said nothing. Xu Zhizhong led the way, grumbling, “I don’t even want to talk to you anymore. The name of my house is even more old-fashioned than Xu Residence!”

Inside, Tan Yang couldn’t help but smile at the thoroughly traditional décor—rosewood tables, chairs, and cabinets. The Western-style layout meant the floors were lacquered wood, the walls bright white, adorned with a large, colorful painting. Several electric lamps made the room bright and clean. The arrangement captured the essential spirit of Chinese furnishings—upright and grand—yet used a Western framework, avoiding the mustiness and gloom of old houses. This blend of East and West was truly admirable—a model of the new era’s fusion.

When she first came to Shanghai, she was young and loved Western furniture for its novelty and comfort. Now, nearing thirty, Tan Yang found herself increasingly drawn to these old-fashioned rosewood pieces, their steady presence exuding calm and reassurance—just like her childhood home in Tongli, familiar and comforting.

The largest room upstairs was the study. All four walls were lined with display shelves, holding antiquities and calligraphy. In the center stood rows of tall bookcases, complete with a ladder, reminiscent of a Western library. By the window was a desk for writing and painting, with another writing table beside it. Clearly, Xu Zhizhong had put great effort into this room, and he asked with pride, “Yanyan, how do you like my study?” Tan Yang nodded, “It suits you—it’s just like you.” “Oh? And what am I like?” he pressed, amused. Tan Yang thought carefully, looked straight into his eyes, and replied earnestly, “Learned in both East and West, gentle yet upright!”

Xu Zhizhong was taken aback, then burst out laughing, unable to contain his delight. “I was going to act modest, but you’ve made me so happy I won’t sleep tonight!” He left the study, still smiling, muttering to himself, “If the house and its master are held in such high regard, it must mean you’re fond of them.”

As they were about to leave, Xu Zhizhong opened a door opposite the downstairs sitting room, revealing a surprisingly large hall, empty except for a row of chairs along the wall. He led Tan Yang inside and asked softly, “Can you guess what this room is for?” Tan Yang glanced at the deep red velvet curtains drawn across the far wall and joked, “Such rooms are usually for dances, but you hate dancing. Perhaps you keep maps behind the curtains and use this space for meetings.” Xu Zhizhong sighed, “So that’s how boring I am in your eyes.”

He pulled over a chair, seating Tan Yang, then walked over and drew back the curtains. Behind them stood four tall glass doors, which he opened one by one, revealing the entire rear garden—a Chinese landscape of pavilions, bridges, rockeries, and ponds. Before the doors was a high platform draped with lanterns, casting a bright glow through the summer night. It was less a pavilion than a stage, where the breeze sent lantern light swaying, shadows flickering among the flowers and stones—a scene just waiting for a performance of “The Peony Pavilion.”

Resting his hand on the back of Tan Yang’s chair, Xu Zhizhong said in a relaxed, gentle voice, “This is for private opera gatherings.”

As they left, Tan Yang got in the car first, and Xu Zhizhong casually pulled the red cloth off the plaque. As the car turned out, the headlights flashed across the green characters on the red sandalwood base—“Suiyuan.” The calligraphy was Tan Yang’s, copied from her old practice sheets.

Xu Zhizhong was a rare man of intelligence. In his relationship with Tan Yang, he gradually found the right balance—neither too eager nor too distant, he subtly maintained control over their romance.

After dining at Fushouzhai, Bi Qingtang once again crossed paths with Tan Yang. Their interactions were cordial enough; when Tan Yang picked up her daughter, they would chat and even laugh together. On Yan Tan’s birthday, the three of them even went out for a meal. During this time, Bi Qingtang made many efforts and created numerous opportunities, yet all his attempts yielded little. Between him and Tan Yang stood a thick glass wall—so close, yet utterly unreachable.

Bi Qingtang decided to send Yan Tan to school. The main reason was the sight of his daughter spending her days alone, playing and talking only to a cat—so pitiful. It was also something Tan Yang wanted, and he hoped to please her by agreeing. Moreover, he now worried about Yan Tan barging into his room at all hours. By chance, Bi Qingtang found a suitable school—a proper church elementary school, staffed entirely by foreign teachers, with only about a hundred students, half of them foreigners, the rest children of prominent Chinese families. The school was heavily guarded, so safety was less of a concern.

On her first day, Bi Qingtang and Tan Yang watched their daughter being led inside by a tall Englishwoman, the child’s small hand in her teacher’s grasp, looking especially tiny and vulnerable. Over the past two years, Yan Tan had grown more sensible—a clever, well-behaved little girl. Though she was reluctant to enter this unfamiliar world, she did not cry or fuss, but walked away obediently, turning back at every step to look at her parents, her face full of grievance and compliance, which only made them more heartsick.

Before she even entered the building, Bi Qingtang regretted his decision. He thought it was a foolish idea, and rushed forward to thump on the iron gate, but Tan Yang caught his sleeve. “What are you doing? We can’t live a hundred years! She’s a child now, but one day she’ll have to live on her own. Sooner or later, we must see her as an adult.” Bi Qingtang listened, but stubbornly retorted, “You always have a reason for everything. Just don’t teach her to be like you—afraid of nothing and no one!” He forced a smile and, turning back, clasped Tan Yang’s hand as she still clung to his sleeve. “If only you weren’t so headstrong.”

Tan Yang silently withdrew her hand, turned away and grasped the iron gate, then let out a bitter laugh. “Isn’t it all because I’m so headstrong?” Bi Qingtang was startled. True, he would never have been content to marry a meek, indecisive wife, and it was precisely Tan Yang’s resolve that led her to marry him against all odds. Now, it was that same spirit he found himself resenting.

He stood behind her for a long time, then turned and left. Tan Yang, recovering from her emotion, soon began to worry about her daughter. She waited anxiously at the gate, but saw no sign of Yan Tan. Before long, Bi Qingtang called out from behind, “Little sister, come with me!”

Tan Yang turned to see him following an elderly nun, beckoning her along. She hurried to catch up. The nun led them along the wall, unlocked a small gate at the back of the school, and let them in. Bi Qingtang, well-versed in the ways of the foreign concessions and able to speak some English, thanked her warmly. The wrinkled, stern-faced nun even managed a smile for him.

“I thought this school was stricter than the Presidential Palace, and outsiders couldn’t enter?” Tan Yang asked in confusion. Bi Qingtang shrugged with a self-mocking smile. “My greatest talent is finding ways—especially with women. But then, you’re probably not a woman.”

Through the classroom window, they saw Yan Tan sitting on a bench, her back to them. Class hadn’t started yet, and the twenty or so children were playing in small groups—except for Yan Tan, who sat alone in a corner, motionless. That tiny figure tugged at her parents’ hearts, filling them with a sour ache, as if they themselves had suffered some great injustice.

A group of little girls were playing with a ball. A brown-haired girl accidentally lost her grip, sending the ball rolling to Yan Tan’s feet. She hesitated, then picked it up and handed it back, standing nearby to watch. The little girls played another round, then the brown-haired girl passed the ball to Yan Tan, who clumsily bounced it—twice before it slipped away. The brown-haired girl ran to fetch it, and the two girls exchanged shy smiles.

Outside, Tan Yang and Bi Qingtang both heaved a sigh of relief and shared a smile.

Children, forever braver and more resilient than you expect. Carrying these mixed feelings, they sat in the car on the way home, comforted yet wistful. Bi Qingtang counted on his fingers, “She’s eight now, counting the year she was in your belly, she’s only been away from me once—when I sent you to study in Germany. From now on, it’ll be different. I won’t even see her during the day!” Tan Yang smiled, “She’s growing up. Maybe she’ll go abroad to study someday.” Bi Qingtang snorted, “No way, I can’t let that happen!” “Why not? If you’re worried, I’ll go with her for a couple of years.”

At her words, Bi Qingtang’s heart twisted with sorrow. “If only I could go too!” Tan Yang tried to comfort him, “With such a big business in Shanghai, how could you ever leave?” But he refused to let it go, pressing her anxiously, “But what if I could? If I could give it all up, could I go with you?” Tan Yang shook her head with difficulty, turning to look out the car window, tears welling up in her eyes. Bi Qingtang saw her shake her head, and the pain in his heart was indescribable. The chasm between them was simply too wide—no amount of love or time could ever fill it.

He leaned back in his seat, gazing out at nothing. At that moment, the car passed a brand-new villa, over whose entrance hung a plaque inscribed with two large characters—“Suiyuan.” With nowhere to vent his stifled anguish, Bi Qingtang blurted out, “There’s a new girl at Sister Fangya’s cabaret—she sings beautifully, pestering me to fund her movie debut. I told her, why should I make you a star out of nowhere, and she pouted and said, ‘Then why don’t you be my big brother?’” He turned, as if in defiance, “Little sister, should I agree?”

Tan Yang, clutching her wrist, tried several times to answer but could not find her voice. Just as Bi Qingtang was about to reach out to embrace her and say, Little sister, I only want you, only you, Tan Yang suddenly spoke. “Whatever she does, whatever her nature, as long as she’s devoted to you, that’s enough.”

He would rather bear the pain himself than see her lonely for the rest of her life. And wasn’t she the same?

When Tan Yang got out at the hospital, she saw that the oleanders in front of the little building across the street were in full bloom—the same flowers as at the Bi residence. Another year had passed. In her heart, Tan Yang gradually became clear: in the gentle, unremarkable years to come, she would one day sit in Suiyuan to watch an opera, while her elder brother would have a lovely, charming woman at his side.

It was the height of summer, the end of June, 1937. A few days later, on July 7th, the Japanese army in China launched the “Marco Polo Bridge Incident,” marking the beginning of the full-scale War of Resistance. This conflict shattered the illusion of tranquil times and altered the destinies of countless Chinese people.