Shanghai Sweetheart
It’s raining today and the sky casts a pale grey overtone onto the deep maroon walls of my reading room. I’m trying to finish today’s paper, but my mind keeps wandering, making me reread the same line over and over. I get up and adjust the thin gold frames on my nose to look outside the rectangular window situated awkwardly in the middle of my wall, to the oak tree outside whose branches stretch out like a large cobweb. If I had to guess, the tree had a few years on me, but maybe I say that to make myself feel better– I’m nearing 64.
I reach out to touch the frosty glass, thinking to myself about how my hands resemble the ridges of the oak tree more than they do my hands. Did I always have this many wrinkles? The thought makes me feel a little sad, but I smile anyway and wonder how many other admirers the oak tree had before me.
It’s quiet at home today and my wife is busy tending to the plants in the living room, her feet shuffling across the sterile tile floor like sandpaper. We never had much to talk about, so we keep occupied most of the day until dinner time where we mainly focus on eating. On days like these, the silence echoes a little louder through the hallways and it makes me feel uncomfortable.
I don’t want to think about this and shut my eyes to focus on the way the wind whispers through the oak tree, its slight sigh wrestling with the gentle footsteps of the rain. These sounds bring the nostalgia of a particular day, one I haven’t thought of for years since it happened.
It was the summer of ‘77 back in Guangzhou when I first arrived in the city from my home, Kaiping, naive and bullish. It was nearing the end of typhoon season and the humidity weighed on me so awfully that I would feel tired walking from class back to my dorm. Because of this, I’d often make a stop at the small park behind my university and rest on the stone benches in the quaint sitting area. It was an awkward-looking enclave with three benches positioned in a semicircle, and a stone walkway that led to its centre surrounded by a small collection of uninspired trees and greenery that felt out of place from its parasitic cement surroundings.
It wasn’t very popular this time of the year, so I often found myself alone for hours talking into the air trying to adjust my awkward Kaiping accent to match the ‘proper’ Canton intonation.
On really humid days I’d sit there paralyzed by the heat which somehow made my senses feel sharper. I remember that day: I was slick with sweat, laying down, trying to press my whole body against the bench in an effort to cool myself down and savour the warm breeze that would occasionally move through the frail trees. The sky was a deep shade of grey and I was so sure it was going to rain that day. I heard the faint taps of someone walking closer, half-singing, and half-humming a pitchy tune.
I closed my eyes so I could focus on the melody and the louder the footsteps became the better I could make out the tune: “You asked me how deep my love is for you. I love you to the utmost.” Each word curled slightly at the ends and dragged on a little longer than it should have. At first, I thought it was a Beijing accent, but her words rolled off her tongue a little softer than that.
When I opened my eyes again, she was seated across from me.
She was slim, her pale skin contrasting her ebony, chin-length hair that framed her face with bangs that just grazed her eyebrows. She wore a cotton white polo t-shirt tucked into her deep-red polyester skirt that wrinkled between the pleats, falling just above her knees. Her thin, pale pink lips rose into a crescent shape as she focused her gaze on me and– her eyes. I can’t remember them at all. But her voice is still etched deep in my memory.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” she said in Mandarin.
“Me? I guess you wouldn’t have, I only end up here on days with shit weather.”
I said those words with a little more emphasis than I expected, my accent coming out stronger than I had practiced. I felt my cheeks get hot.
“Where are you from?” she laughed.
“Kaiping,” I responded, “how about you?”
“Shanghai.”
Her last word hung so heavy in the air I could almost touch it; closing the distance between us as we both sat in silence and listened to the sounds of the wind weaving through the greenery. It felt intimate and I almost asked for her name, but something stopped me.
I didn’t want to taint what remained of her Shanghai accent.
She began to hum again. The same tune as before and I felt myself curl into her voice as they gently rocked me to sleep. I woke up when it was almost pitch-black outside, and she was gone. I felt embarrassed and hurried back to my dorm. The air was unusually cold that night.
I visited the park a few more times after that but never saw her again. I carried a strange and growing sadness with me for a long time and eventually stopped going back.
I look down at the rusted silver watch on my wrist to check how long I’ve been standing here.
I’m not sure why I thought of her all of a sudden today. Maybe the oak tree reminded me of all the time that passed since that day; maybe I’m sad about my hands.
But I feel her absence as I walk to the door, calling out softly for my wife.
I searched over and over but somehow left each time with less than I came with. It was almost like I lingered longer in that moment each time I returned.