desk, Peiqin was at a loss. She leafed through one book after another until a black and white picture caught her eye: a picture of Ailing, a Shanghai novelist rediscovered in the nineties, wearing a florid mandarin dress in the thirties. In a recent TV show, Peiqin recalled, a young girl strolled musingly along Huanghe Road, as if stepping about on the clouds of fashionable nostalgia, and pointed at a building behind her. “Perhaps it is here, from this quaint building, Ailing would walk out, blossoming in a mandarin dress she herself had designed. What a romantic city!”
A self-proclaimed fashion critic, Ailing had drawn a series of sketches of Shanghai-style clothing, which was reprinted at the end of the book. But Peiqin became more interested in the personal story of Ailing. Ailing started publishing early and became well-known for her stories about Shanghai. She endured a heartbreaking marriage with a talented womanizer, who later made a small fortune by writing about their ill-starred marriage. After 1949, she went to the United States, where she married an aged, impoverished American writer. As in a Tang dynasty poem, “Everything turns out sad for a poor couple.” The biographer diagnosed her marriage as self-deconstructive. After the death of her second husband, she shut herself up in her apartment in San Francisco, where she died alone. No one was aware of it until several days later.
Peiqin read the tragic story, hoping to gain insight from a historical perspective into the popularity of the mandarin dress. By the end of two hours’ reading, however, she had learned little. If anything, her research only confirmed her earlier impression that it was a dress for well-to-do or well-educated women. For someone like Ailing, but not for a working woman like Peiqin. Tapping on the book, she absentmindedly noticed a tiny hole in her black wool sock.
She was intrigued by the biographer’s analysis on the “selfdeconstructive” tendency of Ailing. Chen, too, was engaged in a so-called deconstructive project, she had heard. She wondered what the term meant.
There was a knock on the door. She looked up to see Chef Pan standing in the doorway, carrying an earthen pot in his hands.
“A special pot for you,” he said.
“Thank you.” She did not have the time to clear away the books displaying an array of mandarin dress pictures.
“What are you reading, Peiqin?”
“I’m trying to make a dress for myself. So I’m comparing designs.”
“You are really a capable woman, Peiqin,” he said, putting the pot on the desk. “And I’ve been meaning to mention something to you. We’ve been losing money for almost half a year. The socialist system has gone to the dogs and people are talking about the new management system.”
Peiqin took the lid off the pot and smiled. “Wow, wonderful,” she said. “The food, I mean.” It was the chef’s special: the carp head covered in red pepper on a bed of white garlic at the bottom.
“The pot keeps things warm for a long time. It’s still very hot,” Pan went on, rubbing his hands. “A middle class is rising fast in China. They come to a restaurant for something special, not for homely dishes they can cook themselves. So we need to change too. How about you taking over the management? I’ll back you up. Socialist or capitalist, this restaurant is ours.”
“Thank you, Pan. I’ll think about it,” she said, “but I may not be qualified for the job.”
“Do think about it, Peiqin,” he said, backing toward the door. “We never know what we can do until we try.”
Helping herself to a spoonful of the soup, she thought to herself that she might indeed be able to do a better job for the restaurant—or at least a more conscientious job than the current management was doing. But what about her family? Qinqin was studying hard for the college entrance examination. For his future, a first-class college was a must. Yu, too, had reached a critical stage in his
A self-proclaimed fashion critic, Ailing had drawn a series of sketches of Shanghai-style clothing, which was reprinted at the end of the book. But Peiqin became more interested in the personal story of Ailing. Ailing started publishing early and became well-known for her stories about Shanghai. She endured a heartbreaking marriage with a talented womanizer, who later made a small fortune by writing about their ill-starred marriage. After 1949, she went to the United States, where she married an aged, impoverished American writer. As in a Tang dynasty poem, “Everything turns out sad for a poor couple.” The biographer diagnosed her marriage as self-deconstructive. After the death of her second husband, she shut herself up in her apartment in San Francisco, where she died alone. No one was aware of it until several days later.
Peiqin read the tragic story, hoping to gain insight from a historical perspective into the popularity of the mandarin dress. By the end of two hours’ reading, however, she had learned little. If anything, her research only confirmed her earlier impression that it was a dress for well-to-do or well-educated women. For someone like Ailing, but not for a working woman like Peiqin. Tapping on the book, she absentmindedly noticed a tiny hole in her black wool sock.
She was intrigued by the biographer’s analysis on the “selfdeconstructive” tendency of Ailing. Chen, too, was engaged in a so-called deconstructive project, she had heard. She wondered what the term meant.
There was a knock on the door. She looked up to see Chef Pan standing in the doorway, carrying an earthen pot in his hands.
“A special pot for you,” he said.
“Thank you.” She did not have the time to clear away the books displaying an array of mandarin dress pictures.
“What are you reading, Peiqin?”
“I’m trying to make a dress for myself. So I’m comparing designs.”
“You are really a capable woman, Peiqin,” he said, putting the pot on the desk. “And I’ve been meaning to mention something to you. We’ve been losing money for almost half a year. The socialist system has gone to the dogs and people are talking about the new management system.”
Peiqin took the lid off the pot and smiled. “Wow, wonderful,” she said. “The food, I mean.” It was the chef’s special: the carp head covered in red pepper on a bed of white garlic at the bottom.
“The pot keeps things warm for a long time. It’s still very hot,” Pan went on, rubbing his hands. “A middle class is rising fast in China. They come to a restaurant for something special, not for homely dishes they can cook themselves. So we need to change too. How about you taking over the management? I’ll back you up. Socialist or capitalist, this restaurant is ours.”
“Thank you, Pan. I’ll think about it,” she said, “but I may not be qualified for the job.”
“Do think about it, Peiqin,” he said, backing toward the door. “We never know what we can do until we try.”
Helping herself to a spoonful of the soup, she thought to herself that she might indeed be able to do a better job for the restaurant—or at least a more conscientious job than the current management was doing. But what about her family? Qinqin was studying hard for the college entrance examination. For his future, a first-class college was a must. Yu, too, had reached a critical stage in his
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