Beautiful Shanghai

Author: Peng Xiaolian
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-05-01
Features: The large row of courtyard villas on Huashan Road were demolished, but my childhood memories remain as vivid as ever. When my younger sister returned from the United States, she ran to that place intending to visit her old classmates. But to her eyes, it was just a stretch of green space, and she turned around and left. It was as if her first love had passed away, or perhaps she had been deceived. In an instant, all her enthusiasm vanished. The memory of Shanghai no longer exists; this green space feels more like a graveyard to her—it’s neither peaceful nor elegant. The clothes hanging on the balconies, the small flowers by the windows—how they simply disappeared. Where did all my childhood classmates go? How do they live now? In the past, they all came and went through the back door of the kitchen. The tiles on the floor were large and adorned with colorful patterns. The kitchen was as big as the living room, and group activities were always held in someone’s kitchen. Everyone lived nearby, making gatherings easy, and the large kitchens under the houses were shared. Thus, all the children could freely lie on someone else’s eight-immortals table to do their homework. They shouted and ran around. The lane was deep, but they were full of energy, running from the front lane to the back lane. This became their spacious playground. At the entrance of the lane, there was an old man who repaired bicycles. He would cut off the worn-out inner tubes of bicycles one by one and use them as rubber bands for the girls. How kind that old man was! Is he still alive? Or has he gone back to the countryside? There are no traces of the past left; only a stretch of greenery winds through the darkness. In the end, they could no longer recognize the place where they once lived. People would pass their own homes without even realizing it. If one of the buildings in front was being renovated, everyone would stop and look there, but in front of their own homes, they were somehow ignored, completely unaware that their home had been left behind.
During the demolition, dust flew as excavators, large trucks, and cranes rumbled into action. It was like a war. The old houses collapsed one by one, like a weak woman who wept not and screamed not, just helplessly sinking under the pressure, bit by bit. Rain still fell drop by drop, but it was already late autumn, yet there was no feeling of cold. The dense trees shaded the streetlights, casting a cold, dim light through the leaves onto the ground, illuminating the reflections in the ponds. Only the drops of rain falling onto the water could be seen, creating a damp sensation, yet no chill was felt.
A little further down Huashan Road, there were still a few red-tiled houses made of real materials, though not many. These were the old-style garden villas built in the concessions in the past, still standing before demolition. At least fifty buildings lined the entire street, all French-style small villas from the early 20th century, each with a spacious garden. The street was only about twenty meters wide. The small villas on the south-facing side had their garden gates always locked, except for various small vehicles entering and leaving. Their fences were constantly being repaired—sometimes the walls were raised, sometimes sharp shards of glass were inserted on top, and sometimes climbing vines were planted on the walls. Now, the walls of a few houses had been completely knocked down, replaced with iron grates that allowed "green to pass through." Behind the iron gates with intricate patterns, the gardens were kept clean, with flowers blooming and the small villas freshly painted, hidden among the trees and flowers, appearing and disappearing. Birds chirped "," like the houses of the seven dwarfs in a fairy tale, truly enchanting. It was truly depressing—just a turn of the street, and the north-facing small villas on this side of the road offered nothing but a courtyard with bamboo poles and ropes, where messy clothes and bedding were hung all year round, devoid of any charm. The neighboring courtyard even had their lawn torn up to plant vegetables, with vines crawling into the neighboring yards, leading to frequent arguments between the two.
"They’re saying the vines have strangled the trees in their courtyard," one side would complain. "They’ve even picked the loofah gourds and cooked them for food." "What kind of era is this? We’re still lacking vegetables? You can give me the vegetables, or even pay me for them, I don’t want to eat these old gourds." "You’re so bold! Why are you still living here? Buy a bigger house!" "I love living wherever I want, what’s it to you?" The arguments eventually escalated, with neither side caring about the gourds anymore. The words grew harsher, and it seemed they might even come to blows. Fortunately, they were separated by a wall, and they could only shout and curse for a while before it ended. In short, the north-facing side was gradually declining.
The road was being paved higher and higher, while their walls grew lower and lower. The iron gates rusted, with a few small holes, seemingly provided for those who forgot their keys. Just step on the holes with your feet, climb up, and jump inside, stepping on the deadbolt before shrinking your neck and landing safely. They never remembered when their houses and courtyards on this side of the road were last repaired. But the rent still went up every year, paid monthly, yet when the houses were damaged or the roofs leaked, no one came to fix them.
In the summer, when heavy rain fell, all the pots and pans were placed in the driest spots to prevent the balcony from flooding. The road was no longer flooded, but the water gathered in the courtyards. So, the residents placed one brick after another, laid planks on top, and wobbled as they walked in and out, as if walking on the "Courage Course."
Watching the changes across the road, the people in the north-facing houses had no complaints. This showed the changes of an era, and even the desire for envy was forgotten.
The people living across the road were high-ranking officials, with only one family per building. This was a building with 72 tenants. The small villa, combined with a garage, had 10 rooms, but 12 families lived there because the garage was large and divided into two rooms.
Sometimes, when a filming crew came to scout locations and chose their building, the deal always fell through. Once their large crew arrived, the generator roared, and their 12K spotlights lit the street as bright as day. Before the director could even shout "/," the police arrived. They said, "The high-ranking officials called, saying this is disturbing their rest, and more importantly, their safety—the leader’s safety! Who would take responsibility if something happened?"
At that moment, the producer rushed out, pulling the police aside and shouting, "We’ve already informed the Public Security Bureau and the neighborhood committee in advance!" "Don’t try this with me," the police said. By then, the lighting crew had already started packing up. Everyone knew it was a lost cause. The producer must have been shouting loudly in private while secretly trying to bribe the police, but he was rejected. You think, who would dare to provoke these high-ranking officials? Not even money could help.
But the crowd was lively. The people in the north-facing houses would come out to join the excitement, defending the producer because they had received some benefits. At that time, the police stood firm on "principles"—they couldn’t risk their careers for small gains. With their old faces, they refused to budge, saying, "It’s not going to happen, it’s not going to happen, there’s no room for negotiation."
There was nothing they could do but pack up. The residents who had received benefits still had the nerve to say, "It’s all for show."
Across the road seemed mysterious. Sometimes, the gate to the courtyard would suddenly open, and a young man who looked like a troublemaker would rush out, strong and heavy with gold jewelry around his neck and wrists. He pulled his belt, holding two fierce wolf dogs. When he appeared, everyone moved to the other side of the road, clearing a path. The young man didn’t speak, and the dogs didn’t bark. They ran swiftly down the street. The people on this side stood in a line, watching silently. Perhaps they couldn’t find the words to say. The young man was bathed in sunlight, as if chased by stage spotlights, shining brilliantly. Looking back at the north-facing side, the light was dim, casting a large shadow on the ground. Everyone stared straight ahead, watching.
At that moment, the small street truly became a stage—some were performing, and others were watching seriously. Orderly, no need for ushers. Joy, humility, and envy flowed in the breeze. Leaves rustled above people’s heads, stirring up all their emotions. Everyone breathed heavily, feeling an urgent desire from the edge of their bodies.
The closed gates of the small villas were too tight-lipped, so no one knew the stories inside. But with us, in the north-facing houses, the stories of each family were mundane yet thrilling.