One is first struck by the European cast of Shanghai. Apart from Its residents, the city seems scarcely Asian. Its broad streets are clean, Its traffic evenly paced. Its muted colors suggest the coolness of Northern Europe, a Scandinavian city perhaps, a provincial English factory town. From an outlook high above Nanjing Donglu, our first and only night in expensive tourist hotel, one looks down on Dutch-like red-tiled roofs of brick two-story buildings. Hong Kong satellite channel, interview in progress with Gordon Wu of Hopewell Holdings: Beyond, an international but hardly stylish upgrowth of high-rise towers has about it a quality of making do. MR. WU: “The economy is definitely overheating and in need of restraint.” Nor does the new scene differ much from the old. “Nonetheless there are three areas in which China should not hold back:” Across the way a grey stone, brick-interlaced clock tower. “Agriculture, transport and energy.” Stolidly handsome after a fashion, it might be something from Pittsburgh, Chicago, Cincinnati. “China needs a lot of money for infrastructure.”
On the streets, as viewed from above, things move along rather dully. “And they haven’t got that money.” The sidewalks of the fashionable district are crowded but lacking in fashion. “This creates A tremendous opportunity for the private sector.” Though one had expected something new, the clothes are all predictable. STAR TV: “How much have you invested in the new superhighway and how Much more are you planning to spend?” Red, grey and blue are favorites. MR. WU: “Our equity in it is 200 million.” Not only for women’s wear but for vehicles too. STAR TV: “When do you plan to pay off your loan?” As author speaks. MR. WU: In the street below: “The schedule says we should pay it off eight years after completion.” Three red taxis and a grey van negotiate the uncrowded afternoon side street. ”But actually I think we can pay it off in five years.” Joined now by a blue lorry.
Lobby photo captions. Following late-afternoon walk down Nanjing Donglu we take seats at a fenced-off refreshment stand, opposite the imposing granite structures of Shanghai’s pre-war financial district. “Despite the trials and hardships of more than 50 years, The Park Hotel has preserved its reputation for dependability at home and abroad.” The stare brigades are out in force, their curiosity, not to say rudeness, apparently inexhaustible. Author brushes plant leaves away from second, black and white, photo: These massive buildings are not characterless, they are simply dated: “The 24-story hotel, originally the Joint Savings Society, had not been built.” The Polish-Chinese Joint Shipping Company looks like a 1930s bank in Omaha, Nebraska. “In Shanghai Race Course, now People’s Park.” Like the buildings behind them, the passersby have an air of stolidity. “On the left is the Young Men’s Christian Association, now Shanghai Physical Culture and Sports Commission.” Unlike the middle-class window shoppers of Nanjing Donglu, the strollers on the Waitan are lower class: “On the right is the China United Building, now the Overseas Chinese Hotel.” Money-changers, clerks and custodians, bus drivers, waitresses, secretaries. Another view: “During renovation, the building was covered with scaffolding made of Oregon pine.” Lower-middle-class families stroll with their children, their little girls dressed in too-fine finery.”In addition, fences were provided every three stories to prevent workers from falling.” Girlfriends in too-short skirts tag along behind seedy young men. A final photo: “The Joint Savings Society.” Tourists too pass in their awkward ménages. “By Autumn 1934 construction of the building was complete.”
*
Out into Nanjing Xilu for pre-8:00 am stroll-observation, bicycle traffic heavy and random, filled with the sound of bells. The buses are packed, passengers leaning out open windows from their standing positions. Author passing a white rabbit three stories tall in a park-like setting, two bunnies pictured beneath, one standing beside a mushroom. On past “The Shanghai Bird and Flower Shop,” whose display includes cheap ceramic Buddhas. On past “Shanghai Sports and Life Preservers,” whose display includes a “Neat” model lawn mower,”Quantum” brand, atop which a stuffed pheasant. An elderly woman in grey passes, pushing a baby-less stroller.
Once across Chengdu Lu, author enters a coffee shop, surveys scene to see what might be available. Determining that woman behind counter is not about to serve him, he notices cashier at her station, proceeds to pay for ticket. Cashier gestures him toward hole in wall, where service person obliges by pouring coffee, into which she deposits a scoop of ice cream. The coffee is very weak. Before long author is joined by a woman of 60, mother of five, who engages him in a long conversation. She too is having an ice cream-filled coffee. She has brought with her into the restaurant an omelet-wrapped bread stick, part of which she breaks off and shares.
Back out on avenue, neighborhood become more metropolitan, author approaches a large, five-way intersection. From high overpass he observes traffic below: electric buses as they continue on up Nanjing Xilu, non-electric buses as they turn northward, passing through the slow circulation of taxis and bicycles. An army jeep makes its way across the thoroughfare, followed at once by a three-wheeled army motorbike, officer driving, wife behind, mother in cab.
Nanjing Xilu continuation. In process of demolition, a bas relief: two Communist girls in bright ceramic tile, red jackets, red lips, red ties. Opposite, also in tile, a single gold star superimposed on a torch, a three-pronged red flame issuing out of it. Slated for destruction, the building’s glass paneled doors have been stacked in the forecourt, where three workers lie, two asleep, one, in baby blue safety hat, reading the paper.
Author pauses in front of photo-processing shop, portraits of movie stars pasted on an aquamarine Venetian blind, cut out letters above it proclaiming Tian Di (Heaven and Earth). In the window, a sign reads ”FUJI,” in green, orange and white. Tending the photo-processor, a short-haired girl glances out at author. The photos, treading their way upward, are upside-down. Abruptly the girl stands, her skirt very short, her legs very shapely. Taking out an envelope, she fills it with photos, placing it in a plastic crate. Made nervous by author’s attention, she reconsiders, picks out the envelope, puts it in another crate. At her side a turquoise electric fan cools the photo machine. A second girl, in short white skirt, yellow tee shirt, steps to the first girl’s side to regard author activity.
Moving along, he pauses next at an open window where bamboo steamers are stacked a dozen high. A white-capped woman of 35 looks down compassionately, her forehead beaded in sweat. With the back of her hand she brushes at a roached hairdo.
At the next intersection in mid-stride a woman pauses to adjust the strap of her white high-heeled shoe. Her coppery evening dress, its skirt belled and pleated, has shoulder pads. Another woman, in blue top and white silk pantalons, passes, the click of her heels audible. A clear plastic bag in her hand, she glances at an observation booth, within which a policeman stands talking on the phone. Behind him, among the shop-fronts, author pauses before a bakery, whose window contains a three-foot high painted cookie. Pieces of crackers sculpted from clay hang from it by threads, three boxes of biscuits arrayed beneath them: ”Crispy Snack,” “Creamy Chocolate,” “Sultana.”
All along the street demolition is in progress.
*
Post office, 10:14 am, purchasing fast mail envelope for letter to Sichuan, balding postal employee stopping work to converse with companion/author, to engage colleagues in comment. At the middle of the lobby, a porcelain bowl filled with gooey paste, perches atop a stanchion. Postal worker at last begins to process parcel, stamping it three times in quick succession. Behind the counter, a very pretty girl, long strands of hair blown across her cheek, silently observes. Now another delay, as postal worker labors to make change. Opening drawers, rummaging about, he finally places two silver coins atop two tattered bills. Patiently waiting in line, two other postal patrons converse, a man in grey shorts, a woman in yellow polka dot dress. Departure imminent –but receipts must be prepared, passport, visa supplied for further documentation. Through barred lobby windows, Nanjing Xilu: its leafy foliage, intersecting traffic, passing pedestrians. A girl of twenty, her dark feet shod in white sandals, a bright green ribbon in her hair. Postal employee opens a drawer, takes out a dating stamp, adjusts its date. Lining up the three receipts, he stamps them all: red, pink, white. It is 10:28. Transaction complete, postal employee tosses fast-mail envelope onto the floor behind him.
A new neighborhood, Huoshan Lu, restaurant interior, 1:30 pm, author, companion eating boiled peanuts, awaiting arrival of rice bowls, cold chicken, pigskin tofu. To the right: a small, tiled, glass-enclosed area, platters of chicken displayed through window; above which, two aquaria, one filled, one empty; a green icebox, over which a poster of a red-hatted lavender-veiled girl.
Cold chicken plate arrives, delivered by boss’s wife. Stylishly dressed, she politely expresses interest in the foreigner. Companion proceeds to engage her in conversation, as author studies view through glass-paneled door, past backward-reading simplified characters. In the window, facing inward, a poster of two kittens, flowers at their feet, a white picket fence behind them. In a gesture of hospitality boss’s wife starts up air-conditioner. Two other customers sit talking quietly in the back. The small restaurant begins to cool. The boss’s wife has taken a seat in the front booth, only the top of her hairdo showing above the leatherette seatback. Across the street, an academy for teachers, its brick front elaborated in Roman arches, pilasters of white stone.
Two customers arrive, the boss’s wife standing to greet them. She opens a bottle of beer. A man in a blue shirt quickly passes on a bike. Having taken customers’ order, boss’s wife exits front door. Two girls, fourteen, fifteen, in rapid conversation, stroll past at a more deliberate pace. Bearing the plate of tofu, prepared next door, she reappears. A woman returns from the market, walking down the middle of the street. Motioning to the boss’s wife, companion reminds her to bring us our bowls of rice; is assured they’re on the way. Seated outside in a lawn chair, the boss stands up, steps next door, retrieves another customer’s order.
A family of four cycles past, the little girl on the father’s handlebar, the little boy on the mother’s. The door to the restaurant opens; boss enters bearing dishes. Two fancy women, one in black, one in purple, stride past. In undershirt and khaki shorts, boss sets to work removing the empty aquarium. Tall, masculine, crew cut, he wears a wedding ring, a wide gold watchband, a beeper. As he exits with the heavy tank, he leaves the double door open.
The room is filled with sunshine, the honking of horns more audible. Across the way a man selling watermelons wipes the surface of one and begins to slice it. Next to him sits a balding merchant smoking a cigarette. In lavender shirt and black pants a boy pedals by. The boss reenters. Opening the icebox door, he rattles the bottles of beer and takes out two. A taxi passes, horn honking loudly. Having served the new arrivals, the boss takes a seat with his wife in the front booth. Finishing her share of tofu, author’s companion joins them for conversation, author still waiting for bowl of rice.
Companion assures boss and wife that we are here with friendly intent. An older woman, short hair plastered with water, strolls past, nervously glancing from side to side. Companion explains nature of author’s activity. A short woman, frowning, her grey hair tousled, picks her nose, crossing the street as she passes. Boss’s wife asks about jobs in Taiwan. A woman in dark glasses walks by, her gold earrings dangling. Author’s companion discusses the Taiwanese restaurant business. A woman with her ten-year-old son in hand stops balding man. Boss and his wife discuss the Shanghai restaurant business. Together mother and son inspect merchandise. The rice bowls have not yet arrived. Declining to purchase, woman and son move on to the watermelon stand.
Only now does author realize: there is no rice.
*
Third Shanghai morning, 6:30 market scene, view below stretching for some 200 yards, perhaps 1000 shoppers and merchants on the street. Staples, herbs, live chickens; brown potatoes, green beans, red tomatoes; seven crates of eggs in different colors; a table of silvery fish. A blue truck pushes its way past five piles of silk shirts: yellow, pink, turquoise, gold, black. Having reached a position below author’s window, seven stories above, it continues to honk, slowly forcing pedestrians toward the curb. In its cargo bay: three small brown parcels, a grey tarp, a spare tire.
Author balances tea cup on ledge to regard row of buildings across the way, their windows all thrown open. On the roof of one, in a red plastic basin, a man does his laundry. Below, a light breeze blows through the tops of the plane trees. Beneath them, two chickens protest, as a customer inspects them. The pavement is mottled with moisture from a light rain. Within a courtyard opposite a man of seventy practices his elegant sword routine.
Shoppers, many of them older women, mill past the hundreds of wares displayed, as the first of the two chickens meets its fate in a caged device for beheading. The merchant begins to weigh the headless chicken, she and customer haggling over price so loudly their voices can be heard by author. Bargain finally struck, merchant fishes in her basket for change. Departing customer, chicken slung over shoulder, glances back in a final gesture of protest.
After a brief downpour author descends into street for closer inspection, past cigarette packs adorned with butterflies, monkeys, flowers; past live geese, cut-up chickens, roasted ducks; past thin green onions beautifully bound together; past long eggplants side by side, bamboo roots in a barrel, chestnuts in a pile. Past the butcher, the cabbage salesman, the gourd merchant, his products curving back upon themselves. Past the eel merchant slicing his merchandise lengthwise. Past a fish merchant, his fish so long it has to be cut into sections. Past the live fish merchant, his wares leaping out of reach, as he tries to catch them beneath the murky surface of the Huangpo River water that fills their bright pink bathtub-shaped basin.
Out into the greyer reaches of our district. International Herald Tribune, Wednesday, August 11, Hong Kong. Passing Shanghai Biochemical Pharmaceutical Factory. “China’s industrial growth rate slowed in July.” Strolling through ordinary middle-class neighborhoods. “As Beijing’s measures to cool economic overheating began to take effect.” Stopping at grocery store. “But nonetheless remained at a torrid 25.1 per cent.” Where, above cans of Lacovo, “a delicious drink, a complete food,” two enormous photos: “Said a Chinese news agency Tuesday.” One of Mount Fuji. “Meanwhile an official newspaper reported.” Another of a European lane. “Imports of key raw materials to China soared by more than 100 per cent in the first half of the year.” Bordered by magnificent oak trees. ”Though economic officials insisted China’s partial austerity program would ease shortages.” Beneath them both a piece of traditional popular Chinese art.
Back on the street we turn the corner into Dalian Lu and enter a government specialty store offering imported products as well as domestic. “China imported 360 per cent more steel in the first six months of this year than it did in the same period last year.” We linger for conversation, with a lively woman behind the counter and a relative eating his noodles. “Bringing total steel imports to 11 million tons.” She puts her bowl of watery rice aside to discuss with us every manner of thing. “The state-run China Daily reported.” “We speak Mandarin more quickly here,” says the relative. “Imports of twenty-two other essential raw materials.” “You in Taiwan speak it more slowly.” “Such as coal, petroleum and cement.” We conclude our friendly transaction. “Jumped by 120 per cent in the same period.” With an exchange of money. “The China Daily said.” Renminbi for dollars.
We return through a neighborhood of shipping companies, past the Shanghai Second Compressor Works, on into a residential area, where a group of kaffee-klatschers sits in their folding lawn furniture. Thence to our own neighborhood, where we take a seat in the park across from two other benches. On one a beggar is sleeping, on the other, his son. Before long a man in his mid thirties appears, a malcontent, slightly disturbed, who stands before us to recount his experience. Mid-afternoon television fare: “All that you see in Shanghai,” he says, “is superficial.” A sentimental Chinese movie on Channel 1. After graduation from high school he encountered difficulties. “Antony and Cleopatra,” with Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor, dubbed into Chinese, on Channel Having opposed the Cultural Revolution, he is still unable to find work. A Japanese movie, including a white actress. He lives with his mother in a hut. On Channel 9. “When it rains, the water comes in.”
*
5:30 am temple outing, survey of surround, a return to the China of a hundred and fifty years ago: small wooden houses in narrow alleyways, a sign with a single character indicating something to eat. Before long we have reached the entrance to a formal market, an ornate, gilt portico above, a red banner floating over green marble panels. We enter a preliminary courtyard bordered on either side with elaborately carved doors and windows.
We pass beneath a second portico. In the middle of the courtyard, a woman of 65 is dancing her morning exercise routine, a pink cloth trailing from her hand. We pass through another entranceway into the temple city.
Here, through an opening to the left, a vista of the adjacent neighborhood in process of renovation, its vast expanse a battlefield: mounded trenches, twisted beams, debris wrenched from the earth. Two drilling rigs in dirty yellow stand against a grey sky, as a crew of workmen tugs at the hoses used in draining the site.
We continue along a flagstone path, small courtyards opening onto larger, until we enter the central plaza, bounded by higher buildings. Within the huge rectangular space is a lake, at the middle of which sits a teahouse, approached by a zigzag elevated walkway. We pass many exercisers standing six deep before their instructor. Negotiating the walkway past mothers with babies in strollers, we arrive at a high- gabled, five-sided wooden building on stilts. Communicating from room to room through an inner maze of passageways, we traverse smaller chambers into a large salle that faces onto three sides of the plaza.
About hardwood tables inset with marble slabs sit men in late middle age. Conversation is animated. Small porcelain cups encircle an earthenware pot on each table. The room hangs heavy with early morning fog, cigarette smoke, a general languor. Out the window, over moat and balustrade, the early morning exercisers perform their slow tai-ji gestures, joined now by many matrons, hands clasped before them in prayerful posture, all beneath three lavender globed lanterns a-sway in the breeze.
In a window seat, a small table before him, sits a green-jacketed grandfather, at his feet, an eight-year-old granddaughter seated on a footstool. As she plays with her jade necklace, twining its red string about her fingers, the grandfather opens the financial pages of the paper. Now she crosses her legs, dangling a plastic sandal, as she pretends to read her part of the paper.
At an adjacent table a twosome of middle-aged men are joined by a third, who, before he can take his seat, is offered a cigarette. Noticing author, he smiles broadly, revealing a mouthful of silver. Out another window the pond, on whose surface algae move in swirling eddies. Over the black tile cap of an enclosing wall a pine tree languorously extends a branch. The dancers have taken up red fans, whose outer edges trail a fringe of fabric. They move rather gracefully, the older women joined by women in their thirties. Together they kick their legs, touch their forearms with their free hands, turn the red fans over, pull them back horizontally.
Within the teahouse a woman, chopsticks inverted in her hand, steps into an alcove to adjust the water cauldron, whose massive girth hovers above a small flame. With kettle in hand a black shirted attendant exits past her to refill the earthenware pots. As scores are reckoned, patrons depart, others entering simultaneously.
After a half hour’s pause at a curbside breakfast stand – a young man, unemployed, reclining in a lawn chair, bare from the waist up, tending an adjacent melon stand; the female boss actively receiving guests, making change, seated on a straight chair, her legs spread behind her narrow counter; an older man, well versed in many things, lecturing us on recent Chinese history, Shanghai under the French, under the Japanese – we are back out into Renmin Lu, the main avenue of this working class neighborhood.
Lighted cigarettes in hand, people are setting out on bicycles for work. It is 8:30. In a neighborhood neither impoverished nor very luxurious, the faces are absent-minded, sad, a little grim. On the sidewalk there is less curiosity about the foreigner, more dull resignation attendant upon his passage. The air is heavy with humidity and smog. A pedicab passes bearing three large sections of tree trunk, cut and trimmed. Another stacked with iron bars makes a tortuous U-turn. Yet another, bearing plastic coat hangers tied with pink ribbons, enters the stream of traffic. We pass a metal supply shop bursting with flanges, valves, fittings; a clothing store about to open, its doors wide, its interior still dark. On the sidewalk under a plane tree Chinese tourists congregate to examine a map of Shanghai.
By a circular route we re-arrive at the temple district, proceeding again from outermost to inner to innermost plaza. Two twins, eighteen, dressed alike, smile identical smiles at author. The plaza is filled with morning shoppers, mothers with their daughters, fathers with young sons. A man at a narrow doorway washes string beans, using two aluminum basins.
We pause at the window of a dumpling restaurant, where two white- uniformed workers, chopsticks stuck into their sausage fund, take from a pan clumps of dough to mold into dumplings, then to insert the meat with their chopsticks. A white-uniformed supervisor takes a position between them. She smiles, as all three converse pleasantly. Meanwhile, two more workers remove huge lumps of dough from a large machine, dumping it onto a table, where another worker kneads it, a second rolls it, a third breaks it off into clumps the size of dumplings, before shunting the pan along to the first two workers.
Once more we circulate through the plaza where earlier the fan-dancers, earlier still the early-morning elderly exercisers had stood. Photographers, having set up their stands, are offering their services, displaying pictures taken earlier. Passing by the teahouse entrance again, we continue across the small lake, the balustrade filled with tourists taking pictures of themselves. As we exit, an exercising man stands in a motionless posture.
We arrive at the portal to the Yu Garden, where a tour is in progress, the guide explaining the history of two bronze lions who guard the inner recess. From a seat on the railing the scene unfolds: a pond, beneath whose murky surface goldfish are barely visible; an arched bridge, moss encrusted; a small pagoda, its peaked, tiled gables knifing into the foggy ambiance. In between, rank upon rank of rockery, among which yews and other tended shrubs, over which umbrella trees that give the scene its shade.
Leaving the other tourists behind, we take a path whose floor is imbricated with tiny flat stones, bordered in octagons of wood. We traverse a narrow courtyard and enter the Hall for Gathering Grace, a single-story wooden structure. It was here that the Garden’s Ming proprietor sought his literary solitude. Air-conditioned and filled with artifacts, the scholar’s retreat has been converted into a tourist shop. The hostess, in bright yellow jacket, floral taffeta skirt, low pink Shanghai stockings, rises to greet us. As author converses with her colleagues – a man from Shandong, a woman from Sichuan, a woman reticent about her origins – four Japanese tourists arrive, to be given a tour by the hostess, whose lecture in Japanese she orchestrates with appropriate bows and gestures. Exiting, author joins companion, engaged outdoors in conversation with another attendant, who tells us the pavilion we have visited was not the master’s home. He lived elsewhere, she says, she doesn’t know exactly where.
We proceed to another vista, off which an octagonal veranda, where more Japanese tourists join us, their guide full of humorous comment. We penetrate to the inner octagonal room, said to be “like a boat floating not on water but on land.” Four Japanese couples, an unusually cultured group, inspect its octagonal space. “You may feel that it is moving along a shore,” the inscription continues. The Japanese pairs, each with a camera, form themselves into an octagon, man and wife taking turns to photograph one another.
We continue our tour, past The False Mountain, The Hall of Exhibition, The Hall of Reception. In and out among stone gardens we move, crossing bridges, looking into pools, entering through open doors to gaze back out through windows also thrown open. We visit The Hall of Heralding Spring, where we are joined by two pretty girls from the Mainland. In matching summer dresses, they step over the sill together. Behind us, in English, a guide explains that the Ming proprietor lived in the Garden.
We proceed to another large square hall filled with elaborate chairs made of gnarled banyan roots. “It faces the mountain with a running stream at its back, making it cool in summer and warm in winter.” An attendant steps to our side to explain that the chairs are not of single natural growth but have rather been assembled from different pieces of wood. She leads us out of the hall and around the corner to show us evidence of “vandalism”: a rock broken off from an artificial “mountain.” “It just goes to show,” she says, “how people behave these days – that rock could not have fallen off by itself.” The Tower for Beholding the Moon was originally much higher than the other buildings of Shanghai, she explains. “Mounting this cliff-face then would have been like climbing into the clouds.” Author asks if she herself would like to have lived in the Ming dynasty. “Oh, no,” she replies, “that was long ago.” In her view the proprietor did not live here. “He lived outside the Garden,” she says with some assurance.
Midday return through business district, where spirits are higher, young women prettier, people returning from lunch with shopping bags in hand. We are passing China Mechanical Engineering, Shanghai Global Metals, Gemstone Handcraft. Opposite looms an office building, its lower two stories composed of huge granite blocks, followed above by a classical frieze. A portly Indian businessman passes us in the street. Moving down Sichuan Zhonglu, the flood of approaching cyclists thickens.
As we pass Shanghai Balance Instrument, one of the towers of the Waitan emerges into view, slightly obscured by the haze and the maze of crossing electric lines. We pass The Foreign Trade Restaurant, its entrance overarched, a businessman, keys attached to his belt, exiting through it, portfolio in hand. We pause before a large sandstone building in the French style. In its refurbished window a red sign, freshly lettered in gold, announces the opening of a new shop.
We enter Shanghai Construction Engineering Materials, strolling among its counters, its sales personnel all eager to engage us. We linger for half an hour’s conversation, the young clerks crowding about, wanting to know how much they could earn in Taiwan, how much an American car costs.
We resume our journey, crossing northward over Suchow Creek, turning into Huochang Lu, whose shops are doing a lively business. Before long we arrive at the stock market, men in shorts leaning against its glass doors, peering through them at the big board. We enter and mill about amongst a noisy crowd. As we leave, one of the men in shorts asks author whether he understands what is happening inside.
We continue on, past the Perfume Restaurant, its neon Japanese characters not yet lit, on into more residential areas. At curbside, naked from the waist down, a baby boy is being pampered. As we come to the corner, a man in a red over-painted Changan van holds up our progress. At the next intersection a whole row of elderly men, almost identically dressed, sits on the sidewalk watching life go by.
It is only mid-afternoon, but traffic has increased and the level of smog with it. A long line of buses fills the avenue. We turn into Shangyang Lu, where two yellow uniformed traffic attendants are lounging at curbside, an old man standing with a flag in his hand, a middle-aged woman sunning herself in a bamboo chair. A twelve- year-old girl sits struggling with “Concept English.”
Exhausted, we have almost arrived at our destination. Ahead of us a worker trudges along, a heavy bag of tools slung from his shoulder, their weight ripping its cloth strap. A little boy approaches, his tee shirt reading “We are Happy.” A man on the way home from work crosses the street, a parcel of groceries in one hand, an unopened bottle of beer in the other. We turn into Baoding Lu, our own street now in sight. Seated at the corner, a little girl and her brother argue over cards, she leaning in to instruct him, he picking up a card to explain his point.
Mid-afternoon replay of evening program on desert conditions, wind control, water supply problems. We visit a family in Shaanxi province with 35 members, accompany them to plant trees in a desert adjacent to the Long Wall, which is here almost covered with dunes. Thence to Gansu province, where we travel by camel into a desert landscape. We must pause, as the winds begin to rise. [Sounds of winds howling.] We don goggles, parkas, facemasks. Finally our progress ceases altogether, even the camels huddling together against the wind. [Inset of sandstorm invading Beijing the same day, this a national, not a local, problem.]
And on to Samarkand to encounter a wall-face of sand. In a village we witness a grandmother tending goats with her granddaughter, the grandmother shearing the goat, the granddaughter imitating her. The family does not want to leave the village, does not want to leave its herd of goats behind, despite the worsening conditions. Beside a well a blue-suited, blue-capped farmer draws water, filling plastic canisters. His wife, in interview, begins to cry. She rubs her eyes. Tears roll down her cheeks. We cut to a view of the farmer with his twenty or thirty camels, pull back, the camels dwarfed by the surrounding sands of the desert. As we take our leave from her adobe home and courtyard, the woman is still crying.
Author reclines on bed in air-conditioned room. Beyond, the misty grey-white-beige Shanghai skyline; within, a decor of earth colors: beige blankets, tan walls, blond vanity. Two peaches, bought in the market below, sit beside the TV set, next to them a tall silver thermos replenished during the night.
*
At the foot of Gongping Lu solitary author boards ferry for crossing to Pudong, where a high grey crane with double pulleys, another lower bird-shaped affair, yellow with orange prow, rise above the dwellings of factory workers. The motor starts up; we ease out, turning to head upriver. Seated on deck, his bicycle beside him, a young man, foot slipped out of his sandal, is reading a letter. We have reached the channel, where a cool breeze dissipates the fumes of our own diesel, fanning author’s sweat-soaked arm as well. Passing the river’s midpoint, the captain cuts his throttle, starts his glide into port, turns our bow to face downriver. Over the dock stands a painted sign: in red, the character for city; under it, green half circles to indicate water.
Debarked, author quickly enters the stream of exiting passengers: a tall man in a French shirt with a fancy bike; a little girl jostled by other pedestrians, her matching blouse and shorts in yellow Watermelon designs. We head down an alleyway out past rusted boilers, blue tractors, red and yellow derricks. Once into the street, a motorcycle cabby solicits a fare. Declining at first, author reconsiders, asking how much it will cost. Told “nothing,” he takes his seat on the back of the bike.
We move past cyclists, past buses parked along the road, past the wall of a factory, which author indicates he would like to visit. Reaching its entrance, motorcyclist tries to enter, but the guards stop us. Asked for identification, author shows passport, but that is not enough. If he wishes to enter, he must telephone and get permission. A crowd begins to form. “Let’s go elsewhere,” he proposes; cabby wants to know where exactly; author’s response is too vague. Workers, passersby, other officials nose in. Author offers to pay cabby, everyone watching as he takes out his wallet. The fare, cabby announces, is ten Renminbi. Author turns to crowd, tells them cabby originally wanted nothing, now wants money. They all laugh. “How about five?” says author to cabby. “Five is enough,” says the crowd.
Author sets out on foot to explore this burgeoning district, its boulevards lined with new high-rise towers, not all yet occupied. At street level The Green Island Coffee and Bar; across the way Heaven’s Pleasure Restaurant, an abstract pastel landscape in its huge windows, a red neon welcome sign within. At the entrance stand two hostesses, their red silk dresses slit to mid thigh.
Author continues his progress, from avenue to street, from street to avenue, reaching at last Dongchang Lu, at the end of which, so says a man standing at the corner, he can catch a boat and return to Shanghai proper. Leaving behind the high-rise avenue, he heads on toward the wharf, past Shanghai Pudong Goods and Materials, past a state run grocery store, past a woman at curbside selling sound tapes, her volume turned up louder than her stereo can bear. Dressed in a white uniform, a man with a set of bathroom scales counts his meager earnings, then returns them to a pouch in his apron.
Stepping aboard the ferry, author takes inconspicuous seat at stern, where he is nonetheless observed by a middle-aged man standing on the pier smoking. Two girls of fifteen, highly dressed for a city outing, also board, one in a pony tail glancing back at author. The man on the pier finishes his cigarette, crushes it with his shoe and, just as the boat is departing, steps aboard. We veer across the river, the buildings of the Waitan once more swinging into view.
On the Shanghai bank we debark into a working-class neighborhood, industrial buildings interspersed with stuccoed houses, some of which have recently been razed. One, only half destroyed, displays its occupants as though through the open walls of a giant playhouse. Author turns into Fuxing Donglu, whose frame dwellings all lean in the same direction, scarcely a timber or panel still at right angles. A man at a third-story window smiles down, ginkgo trees beneath him casting their shade on the sidewalk. Through an open doorway: a single pallet; a dark pot over charcoal stove; a kitchen table, three children seated with an old woman at mahjongg. On the wall beside the door front, in graffito, a round-faced Chinese beauty.
Turning into Zhonghua Lu, author heads north. At curbside, a card game is under way, the dealer’s hat reading “China.” On the sidewalk behind him three new cars. “Welcome” read the double glass doors of a KTV, Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck in decals pasted on its panels. Author continues, turning once more into Renmin Lu.
Arrived at the Shanghai Museum, he encounters three floors of exhibits: on the first, a great collection of bronzes; on the second, ceramics and porcelain (a gorgeous high-hatted Tang polychrome equestrienne, a red under-glazed Ming bowl of chrysanthemums). On The third, calligraphy and painting (a hitherto unknown Southern Sung scroll: gnarled trees on outcrop of rock against misty background). For several hours he studies the ancient ink brush masters.
He exits into cooler weather, smokier skies, more monochromatic buildings. A secretive landscape by Pu An, its figured world indistinguishable from its atmosphere. A white cab with black horizontal brushstrokes passes. “Riding on a Donkey in a Winter Forest,” by Ni Zan, anno aetatis 64, its depicted waters smoky, shale-like. Touches of color come into play: A clear, brilliantly outlined gumbo flower (Southern Sung). A beige building, an ocher car, a russet dress.
Across from the museum’s entrance, a curved facade in stone and brick, its windows reflective blue. Ma Wan, “Landscape at Dusk.” A top hat in outline neon, “Gentlemen Restaurant” in gold. Its hollows filled with bluish-grey stones, foliage overlapping them. Three sailors in white jackets, blue pants, their caps a-stream with long black ribbons, examine a map. Jiao Yuan, “A Thatched Cottage beside a River.” They cannot be over eighteen. A servant holding an oar, conversing with poet draped in salmon-tinged cape. Up the street a stately building in white pilasters, orange brick, high green shutters. Ma Lin, “Moon and Balcony.” On its first floor “Meili Hua Jituan.”
Exiting the museum after author: a family of Chinese tourists, father in mauve shirtsleeves, mother in greige top, son in salmon jacket. Dai Jin, “A Farewell at Jintai.” Author departing for People’s Square, ahead of him three long-haired girls in identical yellow shirts and black pants. The light has turned green. Cyclists flood pedestrian crosswalk, bearing down on author, staring intently into his face. We have entered Henan Zhonglu, both sides railed in silver. “Mountain Trees” by Jin Fu. High overhead, hung out to dry: a blue spread, a yellow blouse, a red towel.
At the first intersection a large grey-paneled building front, red lozenges inserted in it. “A Farewell at Jinkou,” by Shen Zhou, two barges alongside one another on the river’s far bank, its steep side rendered in elegant axe-strokes. A man in a grey shirt, a maroon bag slung from his shoulder. On the near bank the branches of trees, black- accented, stand out in three dimensions. Passing, at the end of an alleyway, a white trolley car. A “Bamboo” by Sha Chang, its leaves almost in motion. Ahead, a woman in red top, black pants, prances by, her long hair swishing from side to side.
Stacked along the street are packages wrapped in yellow, orange, and red. A crystalline Wen Zhengming, “Lofty Mountains,” in the green-and-blue style, a delicate counterpoint of foliage, elaborately swirled clouds among pines through an open gateway. A branch of dried leaves, fallen from above, lies on the purple sidewalk tiles. A massive Zhou Chen, “Mountain Village in Summer,” replete with rock formations after Li Tang, its sky suffused with haze, cloud, ether. A small bookstore, many beige parcels at its entranceway.
On impulse author enters “Shanghai Paper Products.” “To Appreciate Chrysanthemum” by Tang Yin. On the counter a clipboard of pink, purple and mauve receipts, carbon interfilled. “Bamboo and Sparrow” (Southern Sung). A display case full of watches, fountain pens, magic markers. Author dimly reflected in the glass of the case, the bamboo motionless, author a-sway. A woman in yellow stands behind the counter. Chou Ying, “A Study in Chinese Parasol.” At her fingertips a huge black-framed, red-beaded abacus. A poignant quail (Northern Sung, anonymous). Moistened, atop the counter, a green and white towel.
Author back into the street, where, on the wall of a shop, flapping in the breeze, a yellow map of the world, centered on the East China Sea. Wen Zhengming’s nephew. A boy swinging a bamboo cage. Wen Poren. A bird balanced inside it. “Spring in Dumen.” In the windows of a new department store: a basketball telephone, a ladybug telephone, golf ball, banana, hamburger telephones. At the next intersection, Fuzhou Lu, two policemen are inspecting a flower shop. Wang Shimin, “Landscape after Da Zhi.” A big-breasted girl, her tee shirt reading “Holiday,” has her arm around her boyfriend’s back. Wang Hui, “Ferry by the Fishing Village.” “Elle Paris” read the letters on a glass door-front.
Turning a corner, People’s Square finally emerges into view, huge billboards lining one side of the avenue: an ad for Elegant Garden Suburban Housing, its background a blocky, broad-brushed, roughed-in Shanghai street scene. Chen Shichong, seated at his wide long table in a grass-thatched hut. Two men are putting up an ad, one painting over the old, the other sketching the new. One of the two wears the uniform of a manager: An inlet to cross. A white nylon shirt. A spectral gateway. Grey pants. A fluorescence of clouds. Maroon socks. Onward up a shelf to a high knoll. In gum-soled shoes. From which a prospect of distant peaks.
And on to People’s Park: middle-aged chess-players sitting at tables, men in their thirties fishing a crud-filled pond with bamboo poles. Dong Qichang’s brilliant album amplifications: An elderly man fanning himself, in his other hand an umbrella, its point in the sandy soil. In ocher and pale turquoise, a never seen, never-to-be-seen landscape. This hilly, planted expanse is well suited to wandering, for once one has entered one cannot clearly make one’s way. A black-and-white interface. Over the foliage, across bordering Nanjing Donglu rises the tower of the Park Hotel. A salmon and pale blue study with rocks in orange and beige. Above which the sun’s white disk hovering moon. A final panel in grey wash, a mighty miniature.
Author wanders higher, the flagstone path turning to concrete. Li Liufang, “Opening the Mind to Higher Elevations.” Atop the knoll sit necking couples, one man holding a lighted cigarette behind his girlfriend’s back. Wang Yuanqi, “Mountains and Rivers in the Glow of Twilight.” Author re-descends to the Park’s middle reaches, the hotel tower once again emerging into view. Wang Jian, “Permanent in Summer Mountains.” “TOSHIBA,” reads the single word atop it. Exiting park, a sign at street level: “Shanghai Video.” Lan Ying, “Landscape after the Ancient Masters.”
*
Out into smoggy Shanghai evening to see if we can find seats for the Russian-Chinese soccer game. We hail a cab. Through many turns, many hairbreadth escapes, many close calls with cyclist and pedestrian, horn blaring, we proceed on into the night. Our inexperienced driver is overly inventive. Encountering a traffic jam, he turns around to pursue another route. On the second such venture he heads up an interdicted street; reaching a boulevard, he enters a barricaded bicycle lane, only to confront a white-hatted policeman, skinny but confident that his outstretched hand will stop us. The young driver argues vehemently but to no avail. As the palm-sized ticket is written, the carbon copy given, the fee paid, bystanders gather, several peering into the back seat in search of the ultimate cause of this scandal.
We are off again, the nighttime drive through Shanghai full of monstrances, illumination so limited that reality is constantly coming into view only to fade quickly, suddenly disappear. We pause before the construction site for a large apartment building, atop which two single beams shine out like the eyes of an alien, the whole structure shrouded in mist.
Finally, we locate the road that should take us to the stadium. It is filled with many taxis, all stalled in heavy traffic. Headlights turned off, we inch forward, guided only by the taillights of the cars ahead. At pedestrian pace we pass by fast food restaurant, clothing store, beauty shop. Destination at last in sight, we descend amidst ticket sellers knocking their boxes with wooden cubes. The arena’s bright lights have curdled the sky.
The game has begun, but we as yet have no tickets. At the roar of the crowd, spectators rush the gates. Companion reenters street to negotiate with scalpers, leaving author behind to observe the plaza, where an eight-foot cartoon duck in bathing suit and cap, webbed fingers raised, little tail erect, greets the arriving fans. Companion returned with tickets, we enter the portal, emerge into the bowl, where we take our seats in the bleachers. Ahead of us, three empty places, ahead of those a father, his nine-year-old daughter and eight-year-old son leaning in against him.
It is Russia against the Shanghai team, the latter now mounting its first attack. The daughter, in pigtails, grabs her daddy’s arm. A shot past goal. She is dressed in her best skirt and blouse. Another open-field Chinese advance. She is wearing her new shoes. A Chinese player has been tripped. Turning to daddy, she wants to know what is happening. The injured player will kick from the corner. Here it comes: attempt to head it to no avail. A foul is called – against Shanghai.
Again the Chinese team presses; is forced out; inbounds the ball. Behind the advertisements that ring the playing field sit a dozen little boys. Another foul. All dressed identically in white shirts and blue shorts. Another penalty kick, this one from 30 yards out; it sails far wide of the mark. The little boys sit patiently on stools, waiting to retrieve the ball. Another scoring threat: a kick, the ball is up, the goalie bats it down. High above the second rank of bleachers, lightly fluttering, the flags of the five countries entered in the tournament: China, Russia, Korea, Belgium, Ghana.
The first half ends, the score still tied 0-0.
During halftime a party arrives to take the seats in front of us: an only son, seven years old, his father and uncle. The “little prince” is placed between the two adults. In yellow brocaded smock, classically laced at the ribs, he cavorts, pinching his uncle’s ears, putting his hands in his father’s face, turning around to bother the foreigner, touching companion’s toes.
The second half begun, temperature dropped a notch or two, smokers throughout the stadium light up their cigarettes. Collective puffs produce multiple clouds, which the wind swiftly sweeps away. The tournament’s two major sponsors, Marlboro cigarettes and Agfa film, represent the two principal Chinese vices, smoking and taking pictures.
Shanghai mounts another attack, but it quickly fizzles out. The breeze has picked up and buffets the flags into horizontal positions. Meanwhile, Shanghai mounts yet another exciting but futile attack. Another puff of smoke goes up. Now it is Russia’s turn to press, their first shot on goal caught handily by the Shanghai goalie. In the process the Russian striker is tripped and lies fallen, as though on a battlefield.
Before long, action resumes: a penalty kick, headed off by a Shanghai player. A sprint the length of the field. A Russian penalty kick, the ball up and past the goal. Another squandered Shanghai breakaway, disappointed groans from the crowd. As inattentive author is musing, suddenly Shanghai scores! It leads now 1-0, the local fans nervously turning to the scoreboard for confirmation. Another Shanghai shot on goal, the Russian goalie leaping to shunt the ball out of bounds. Next a Russian breakaway, a lone player traversing most of the field only to meet an aggressive Shanghai goalie, who, leaving his crease, encounters the attacker twenty yards upfield. The collision leaves the heroic defender writhing on the grass. Trainer, coach, doctor arrive, players also attending his agony. Slowly, amidst applause, he struggles to his feet.
*
8:40 am, seventh day in Shanghai. This afternoon we will board a plane for Chongqing and follow the course of the Yangtze over Jiangsu, Anhui and Hebei to land in Sichuan.
But now it is raining. Author steps to hotel entrance for last look at scene. The downpour begins in earnest. A man in a yellow parka, shorts, bare legs, having packed up his wares, stations his rusted bike beside them. Nothing, however, dampens the loud voices of the marketplace. Author approaches hotel gate, taking his station beneath a portico. The rain continues, wafted past in the form of breeze-borne drizzle. The merchants continue to shout, cars continue to honk, the customers continue to argue.
A woman holding a pink umbrella passes in grey galoshes.
Section 3: Congqing and Che Wang