Fu Ping, by Wang Anyi (chapter 5)

Fu Ping

A Novel

Wang Anyi Translated by Howard Goldblatt

Chapter Five

GIRLS’ SCHOOL

FU PING’S

family lived in a lane that intersected Nainai’s. The

considerable distance between it and the parallel lane in front was given over to the athletic field of a girls’ middle school. That crossing lane was accessed at the eastern entrance to the next lane over. The buildings were both older and taller than those on the opposite side of the athletic field in Nainai’s lane, four stories high with brick walls. The schoolhouse was on the eastern edge of the athletic field, a building much like those on the crossing lane, and was accessed through the same lane entrance.

Many city-run elementary and secondary schools had once been privately owned, usually a couple of buildings in the middle of a residential area. This particular school was limited to middleschool students—no high school component—and was neither the best nor the worst of such schools. The students were average, many if not most of them daughters of ordinary citizens who lived in the small byways off the busy main street. At seven

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each morning, girls in school uniforms swarmed to the lane.

Then at three or four in the afternoon, the same swarm emerged from the lane and dispersed in all directions. They were an odd group. Whether alone or in clusters of two or three, they were restrained and well-behaved on their way to and from school, eyes looking straight ahead, faces taut. But the minute they walked into the schoolhouse they went crazy, making a racket, giggling and arguing, all but levitating the building. That was why girls at this middle school were considered “foolish” in the community, by which people meant “wild.” It was not a compliment. At a nearby coed school, formerly run by French Catholics and anointed as one of Shanghai’s key middle schools, the students were mostly from middle-class families, and the quality differed, naturally. These girls preferred short navy blue or checked cotton skirts, over white knee-length socks and white sneakers or black leather shoes with straps. The tips of their short braids and bangs were curled to be fluffy. Even if they wore their hair short, they still preferred to keep it that way.

Most of the boys wore glasses, Western trousers, and leather shoes, and carried oversized leather briefcases. Many of their families engaged piano or English tutors, and some of the students were members of the school’s drama club, which had a long history and had gained a measure of fame in Shanghai.

They had performed Shakespeare in the original version as well as Dumas fils’s La Dame aux camélias. These students clearly looked down on the students at the girls’ school as beneath them, girls who shrank in their company.

The girls’ school students were relatively unsophisticated.

They favored garish clothes and carried book bags made from

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patterned cloth with ruffles. As for hair, long braids tied off with flowery hairclips were the fashion. Yet given the large numbers of girls thrown together, inevitably a few were more polished than others, but even they did not attract much attention. During recess, instead of opening books or playing games, they took out crochet hooks or wooden knitting needles and worked on sweaters. One of their favorite after-school activities was posing for thumbnail pictures in costume at a photo studio. On holidays or at special commemorations they performed on a stage erected on the athletic field, with a curtain, lighting, and a microphone, one class hard on the heels of another. Group or individual songs were the staples of such performances, along with standard operatic moves and gestures. On one occasion, a pair of girls performed a comic dialogue dressed as boys. The shorts one of them wore actually made her appear more feminine than ever, but sort of tawdry. These girls tended to look older than other students their age, and in fact, were almost womanly. In nearly all school activities, from calisthenics to flag raising to standing in formation and P.E., they went through the motions, doing no more than was required. For more strenuous activities, such as parallel bars or working out on the pommel horse, they shrank back, pushing each other forward with a bit of “idiotic� laughter. The P.E. teacher manifested little interest in the girls, and instead of forcing them to try harder, he pretty much let them do as they pleased. His lack of interest spoiled the fun, so they approached the equipment, one at a time, with the teacher standing to the side to ensure their safety, and they came off the bars or dismounted from the pommel horse with red faces. When they read aloud in class their

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voices were flatter than those of the coed students, producing a sultry, lackadaisical sound, as if they knew there was little future for them in schoolwork, and they were just marking time. Thus, most observers assumed that student life for them had no appeal, that it was tasteless, insipid, and lacked promise. But who could say? It was entirely possible that they found pleasure in it.

The athletic field was separated from the lane by a six-foot bamboo fence that was painted black and smelled like paint and rotting bamboo. While only splintered views of the field were offered by gaps in the bamboo, the entire yard was visible from second- and third-story balconies. On student performance evenings, the front windows in houses in the crossing lane and rear windows in the front lane were thrown open so their occupants could lean out and enjoy the show. On some nights, open-air movies were shown on a large screen set up on the field, turning the occupants of the lanes in front and in back into movie buffs.

Truth be told, though the field was not very big, it created quite a sight when filled with hundreds of schoolgirls. With all those youngsters in one place, even when they weren’t talking, a buzz-buzz rose from the site, replaced by a shwa-shwa when they moved their feet—marching or exercising. Just imagine how it would have sounded if they’d all made noise at the same time. After morning calisthenics, once the students had left, the field had a lonely, deserted air, left to the sparrows, which hopped around looking for food and ingesting sand. That was when Fu Ping started work. She arrived with a wooden tub filled with diapers, soap, and a washboard, sat by the fence, and began scrubbing. A row of athletic apparatuses for high and

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long jumps stood in sandpits on the other side of the fence. During gym class the P.E. instructor would lead a class of girls out to the pits to work on parallel bars, jumps, and the like. An array of sounds entered Fu Ping’s ears from beyond the fence: screeches, secretive giggles, whispers, and the soft thuds of jumpers landing in the sand, all punctuated by trills from the P.E. instructor’s whistle. These sounds, neither loud nor annoying, brimmed with life. Fu Ping occasionally turned to look at the fence, though she could not see much through the gaps, little more than flashes of color from the girls’ clothing.

On this, of all days, a gate opened in the fence. So there had been a gate all along, but it was always locked—until today, that is. After the flag raising and calisthenics, instead of going into the classrooms as usual, the girls ran noisily over to the gate and into the lane. They had started out in neat formation, four to a row, but that lasted for only a hundred feet or so. Now it was every girl for herself as they surged into the crossing lane like a flood tide, then into a perpendicular lane, and from there onto the main street. Arms flailing, legs churning, they laughed wildly, as if this was the most fun ever. Pandemonium erupted in lanes where peace and quiet normally reigned, shattering the morning peace and quiet on the street, all caused by the slaps of shoe soles on pavement and the clamor of uninhibited laughter. People out walking stopped to stare. Students from the girls’ school, they were thinking, acting like idiots! But did that bother the girls? No, look all you want, we don’t care! Once they came together, they were a force to reckon with, running down the street like a ragtag mob, arm in arm or arms around shoulders, grabbing and clutching as they entered the school lane;

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then, back on the athletic field, they spread out like loose sand and whooped it up.

Forced to stand, Fu Ping moved her basin and stool up to the fence and pressed herself against it as the students ran past, filling the air with their shouts, so startling her she could only gape open-mouthed. All those faces, one after another, flashing past created a blur, no single one distinguishable from the others. No difference either in what they were wearing. Windows up and down the lane flew open as people who were not at work or in school stuck their heads out to gawp at the students running by. A few of the bolder girls looked up at the observers and cried out, Hey! causing an explosion of laughter from her friends. But now that their neighborhood run was over, the gate in the fence was shut and locked behind them, then further secured with wire. From start to finish, the whole episode had lasted no more than half an hour, though it felt to everyone that an army—thousands of men and horses—had passed by. A measure of quiet returned, spoiled only by the faint sound of students reading aloud in the classrooms. Here and there, black bobby pins dotted the ground in the lane, plus a coil of red cellophane ribbon.

A philatelic market stood at the entrance to the girls’ school lane, a bustling corner where idle passersby mingled with stamp collectors. Afternoons were always the busiest, when school let out and the students threaded their way through the traders’ stalls. It was not the neatest or cleanest spot in the area. The lane itself was fairly dark, thanks to high brick walls that had stood for many years, letting in little sunlight and creating an ideal spot for moss to grow. The commodious, old-style Western

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houses, topped by high roofs, had marble walkways and stairs off of which every spoken word and footfall echoed. They were occupied by old-fashioned families who lived secluded lives.

Adults and children alike had a noticeable pallor and a weak constitution. By contrast, the school’s athletic field was bright and airy, full of life. The girls’ wild laughter drove away much of the lane’s gloomy, moldy atmosphere. There was an unsophisticated edge to their girlishness, a countrified air that stood out on the modern street, though it had a fresh quality and stood in defiance of the hoary, stale nature of the lane. How many dismal things must have occurred in the darkened buildings behind them. Since no communal lights burned at night, when all the gates were shut and barred, an inky darkness consumed the vestibules, footpaths, and staircases. The school would be deserted by then, its classroom building dark, but not necessarily the athletic field, which faced windows in the lane behind it. Lights also burned in rear windows in the lane in front and emerged from west-facing windows on the wall between neighbors in a distant crossing lane—people were awake there. And so, you could stand on the athletic field and see light on at least three sides, serene light emitting the warmth of family life in the lanes. A weak glow overlaid the sandpits. From this vantage point the moon and stars were clearly visible, their light gentle, soft, and tranquil.

Fu Ping went to work at the house in the front lane every day, emerging with a wooden tub to sit with her back against the fence as she scrubbed. Rustling noises filtered through, and sometimes a couple of the girls would rest against the fence on the other side, making it move slightly. Rhythmical bounces

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against the fence accompanied whispered conversations and produced gentle nudges on Fu Ping’s back. Keeping her head down, she did not interrupt her scrubbing by turning to look.

But when the fence stopped moving and all was still—no more whispering on the other side— she experienced a mild sense of isolation. One day she heard someone call out, Big Sister! Not thinking it could be for her, she paid it no mind. But when it was repeated, and again, she turned and saw a face pressed up against the fence, offering a slight profile in order to see through a gap with one eye. Big Sister! This time Fu Ping knew she was being called. She stood up and gazed at the exposed eye, but said nothing, just responded with a questioning look. Big Sister, the eye said, toss that shuttlecock back to us, would you?

Fu Ping looked around and spotted a shuttlecock on the ground.

It was a copper coin wrapped in thick felt, with feather ducts housing three Plymouth Rock chicken feathers. She walked over, bent down, and picked it up, and then tossed it over the fence. The eye immediately backed away from the fence and spun around. Fu Ping could see the splintered outline of a figure and a pair of long braids dancing in the air. She went up to the fence and looked through one of the gaps, where she saw students kicking the shuttlecock back and forth, but with little passion: a couple of kicks, and they stopped to talk; a couple more kicks, another stop, and more talk. Other students were moving around farther off, in groups of three or four, taking advantage of the ten o’clock recess. Morning sunlight blanketed the field—bright and beautiful— creating a soft yellow background in sandpits atop which the girls’ figures presented the image of a flower garden. A bell sounded.

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The girls picked their shuttlecock up out of the sand and headed back to the classroom building, as did the other girls on the field. It took hardly any time for it to clear out—the wind had blown the flowers away.

From that day on, Fu Ping delighted in looking through the fence to watch the girls do calisthenics or run or just explode in laughter. She discovered that the sandpits were among their favorite gathering places, for they were farthest from the classroom building and from other girls on the field, a quiet corner where two or three of them could talk and play games. When school let out, a few of the girls would come to the sandpits with their best friends, hang their colorful book bags over one of the parallel bars, and play together. By then the other students had left for home, while an occasional shout or two from the middle of the athletic field made this corner seem especially quiet.

Fu Ping never quite figured out if different groups congregated here, or maybe just a bunch of regulars. Since she had no clear view of their faces, to her they all seemed pretty much alike: vibrant clothes, long braids, and garish book bags with ruffled edges. They kept their voices low in this corner of the field, soft as fine bird songs, whispering back and forth, as if exchanging momentous secrets. One day, when their talk grew serious, a girl discovered the presence of Fu Ping, who was leaning against the fence spying on them. With a meaningful look, she put her arm around her friend, and they walked off together, casting backward glances. Fu Ping was too embarrassed to actually watch them after that, but that did not stop her from keeping tabs on what was happening on the other side, for the lively activity lessened her isolation.

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Praise for WANG ANYI “One of the most critically acclaimed writers in the Chinese-speaking world.”

—FRANCINE PROSE, NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW

Fu Ping is a keenly observed portrait of the lives of lower-class women in Shanghai in the early years of the People’s Republic of China. Wang Anyi, one of contemporary China’s most celebrated authors, explores the daily lives of migrants from rural areas and other people on the margins of urban life. In shifting perspectives rich in detail and psychological insight, she sketches their aspirations, their fears, and the subtle ties that bind them together. In Howard Goldblatt’s masterful translation, Fu Ping reveals Wang Anyi’s precise renderings of history, class, and the human heart.

“Like Eileen Chang at her best, Wang Anyi’s Fu Ping—expertly translated by Howard Goldblatt—uses a network of characters linked by fate and happenstance to provide an unconventional portrait of midcentury Shanghai ‘from below.’”

—CARLOS ROJAS, TRANSLATOR OF THE MAN BOOKER INTERNATIONAL PRIZE-SHORTLISTED NOVEL THE FOUR BOOKS BY YAN LIANKE

“Fu Ping celebrates the enduring values of China’s vast underclass through the story of an orphaned housekeeper who insists on her own choices. Deftly translated by Howard Goldblatt, this love song to Shanghai continues Wang Anyi’s evocation of women’s struggles for individuality and sensual freedom and further establishes her as one of the world’s great writers.”

—DOUGLAS UNGER, AUTHOR OF LEAVING THE LAND AND VOICES FROM SILENCE

“Cast with ordinary people and steeped in lyrical simplicity, Howard Goldblatt’s superb translation of Fu Ping commands a disarmingly quiet beauty. It is as if Sherwood Anderson’s Winesburg had miraculously resurfaced, not in the cornfields of Ohio but in the shadows of Shanghai.”

—YUNTE HUANG, EDITOR OF THE BIG RED BOOK OF MODERN CHINESE LITERATURE

WANG ANYI grew up in Shanghai and began her career as a writer in 1978 after being sent to the countryside during the Cultural Revolution. Her books in English include The Song of Everlasting Sorrow (Columbia, 2008), a finalist for the Man Booker International Prize. She is a professor of Chinese literature at Fudan University.

HOWARD GOLDBLATT, a Guggenheim Fellow, is an internationally renowned translator of Chinese fiction, including the novels of Mo Yan, the 2012 winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature.

WEATHERHEAD BOOKS ON ASIA Cover design: Milenda Nan Ok Lee Cover photo: Back Lane, 1960. Photograph by Fan Ho. © 2018 by Themes+Projects / Modernbook Editions

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