Excerpt: Eileen Chang Novel

Eileen Chang

Eileen Chang was the best Chinese female novelist of the 20th century. The movie will be out in 2007.

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A N E XC E R P T F ROM T H E S TORY

“ R E D RO S E , WHITE RO S E ”

I N LOVE IN A FALLEN CITY

B Y E I L E E N C H A N G

Copyright © by the Estate of Eileen Chang; translation copyright ©

2007 by Karen Kingsbury. All rights reserved.

On the day he was to move in, Zhenbao left work just after

dusk. He and his brother were busy supervising the coolies as

they carried the trunks in, and Wang Shihong was standing

arms akimbo in the doorway, when a woman walked in from

the room behind. She was washing her hair, which was all lathered

up with shampoo, the white curls standing high on her

head like a marble sculpture. “While the workmen are here,”

she said to Shihong, holding her hair with her hands, “have

them arrange all the furniture and things. It’s no use asking our

majordomo to help: he’ll just make excuses—if he’s not in the

mood he won’t do anything.”

“Let me introduce everyone,” said Wang Shihong. “Zhenbao,

Dubao, my wife. I believe you haven’t met yet?”

The woman withdrew her hand from her hair to shake

hands with the guests, but seeing the shampoo on her fingers,

she hesitated. She nodded and smiled instead, then wiped her

fingers on her dressing gown. A little shampoo splashed the

back of Zhenbao’s hand. Instead of rubbing it off, he let it dry

there. The skin puckered up slightly, as if a mouth were lightly

sucking at the spot.

Mrs. Wang turned and went back into the other room.

Zhenbao directed the workers as they moved the bed and

wardrobe, but he felt troubled, and the sucking sensation was

still there. His mind wandered as he headed to the bathroom to

wash his hands, thinking about this Mrs. Wang. He’d heard

that she was an overseas Chinese from Singapore who, when

she was studying in London, was quite a party girl. She and

Wang Shihong got married in London, but Zhenbao had been

too busy to attend the wedding. Seeing her was much better

than hearing about her: under her white, shampoo-sculpted

hair was a tawny gold face, the skin glistening and the flesh

so firm that her eyes rose at a long upward slant, like the eyes

of an actress. Her striped dressing gown, worn without a belt,

hugged her body loosely, and the black-and-white stripes

hinted at her figure, each line, each inch, fully alive. People like

to say that the wide, long-sleeved gowns of former times didn’t

flatter curvaceous beauties, but Zhenbao had just discovered

that this was not the case. He turned on the faucet. The water

wasn’t very hot, though the water heater downstairs was certainly

on, and yet the lukewarm stream seemed to have a lighted

wick running through it. Twisting and winding, the water ran

from the faucet, every inch of it alive, while Zhenbao’s mind

went running off to who knows where.

Wang Shihong heard the sound of running water and came

into the bathroom. “Do you want to take a bath? The water

never comes up hot in this bathroom. The hot water pipe wasn’t

connected properly. That’s one bad thing about this apartment.

If you want to wash, come into our bathroom.”

“Oh no, please don’t bother,” Zhenbao said. “Isn’t your wife

washing her hair?”

“She must be finished by now. I’ll go and have a look.”

“Oh, really, it’s not that important.”

Wang Shihong went to speak with his wife, and his wife

said, “I’m just finishing. Tell the amah to draw him a bath.”

A little later,Wang Shihong told Zhenbao to bring his soap,

towel, and clothes into their bathroom. Mrs. Wang was still in

front of the mirror, struggling to get a comb through her tightly

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permed hair. The bathroom was full of steam, and the night

wind blew in through the open window. On the floor, clusters

of fallen hair swirled about like ghostly figures.

Zhenbao stood outside the door holding his towel and

watching the tangled hair, in the glare of the bathroom light,

drifting across the floor. He felt quite agitated. He liked women

who were fiery and impetuous, the kind you couldn’t marry.

Here was one who was already a wife, and a friend’s wife at

that, so there couldn’t be any danger, but . . . look at that hair!

It was everywhere. She was everywhere, tugging and pulling

at him.

The couple stood in the bathroom talking, but the water

filling the tub was loud and Zhenbao couldn’t hear what they

said. When the tub was full, they came out so he could take

his bath. After his bath, Zhenbao crouched down and started

picking up stray hairs from the floor tiles and twisting them

together. The permed hair had turned yellow at the ends; it was

stiff, like fine electrical wire. He stuffed it into his pocket. His

hand stayed there, and his whole body tingled. But this was too

ridiculous. He extracted the hair from his pocket and tossed it

into the spittoon.

E I L E E N C H A N G LOVE IN A FALLEN CITY