A Good Fall

by Ha Jin

  “Master Zong, I worked for you for more than two years and never made any trouble. Now that you fired me, you should give me at least my salary so I can go back and clear the debts I owe.”

  “We’ve provided lodging and board for you. This is New York, where everything’s expensive. As a matter of fact, we paid you a lot more than fifteen hundred a month.”

  “But without some cash in hand I can’t go home. I spent a fortune to get this teaching position, bribing the elders in charge of international exchanges at my monastery.”

  “We have no money for you.”

  “Then I cannot leave.”

  Zong picked up Ganchin’s passport and inserted it into his robe. “I can’t let you have your papers if you stay on illegally. From now on you’re on your own, and you must move out tomorrow. I don’t care where you go. Your visa has expired and you’re already an illegal alien, a lawbreaker.”

  Zong got up from the floor and went out to the backyard, where his midnight blue BMW was parked. Ganchin was still sitting cross-legged in the room as the car pulled away. He knew the master was going home to Long Island, where he had recently bought a house in Syosset. Zong and his woman had just had a baby, but they couldn’t marry because as the master of the temple he dared not take a wife openly. He’d kept his former residence, a town house in lower Manhattan, where he often put up his friends and the friends of his friends.

  The temple felt deserted despite the tiny halos of candles on the rows of small tables in the service hall, at the end of which sat a tall statue of the Buddha smiling serenely, with his hands resting palms up on his knees. Ganchin closed the windows and bolted the front door. Since he had become ill, he had been more afraid of the night, when he felt more desolate and homesick. Originally he’d thought that by the time his three-year stint here was over he could return loaded with gifts and dollars. But now, penniless, he couldn’t imagine going back. His father had written that some creditors had shown up to pester his family. The old man urged him not to rush home, not until he made enough money.

  Ganchin cooked himself some rice porridge and ate it with two preserved eggs. After the meal he forced himself to drink some boiled water to keep down the acid gastric juice that was surging up into his throat. He decided to call Cindy, who had once learned martial arts from him when she visited Tianjin City, where his monastery and kung fu school were located. She was an “ABC” (American-born Chinese) but could speak Mandarin. Ever since she’d met him again in Flushing, she had been friendly and often invited him to tea downtown.

  They agreed to meet at Lovely Melodies, a bar at the northern end of Alexis Street. It was an out-of-the-way place where few could recognize Ganchin as a monk of Gaolin Temple. On arrival, he didn’t go in, but waited for Cindy because he had no money. Within a minute she showed up. Together they entered the bar, found a table in a corner, and ordered their drinks. There were only about a dozen customers, but the music was loud. A young man near the front was belting out a karaoke song as if heartbroken:

  What I miss most is your big smile

  That still sweetens my dreams.

  Although I run into you all the while,

  Your face no longer beams …

  “He really meant to get rid of you?” Cindy asked Ganchin about Master Zong, sipping her margarita with a straw.

  “No doubt about it. I’ll have to move out tomorrow.” He gave a feeble sigh and set his glass of Sprite on the table.

  “Where are you going to stay?”

  “I have a friend, a fellow townsman, who might agree to take me in.”

  “You know, you can always use my place. I’m on trips most of the time anyway.” A small-framed woman of twenty-five with a sunny face, she was a flight attendant and often flew abroad. Sometimes she was away for a whole week.

  “Thanks. I may be able to stay with my friend for the time being. To be honest, never have I felt this low—I can neither stay on nor go back.”

  “Why can’t you live here?”

  “Master Zong said I was already an illegal alien. He kept my passport.”

  “You shouldn’t worry so much, sweetie. If worse comes to worst, you should consider marrying a woman, a U.S. citizen.” She snickered, gazing at his lean face, her big eyes warm and brave.

  He knew she was fond of him, but he said, “I’m a monk and can’t think of anything like that.”

  “Why not return to this earthly life?”

  “Well, I’m already trapped in the web of dust. People say the temple is a place without strife, worry, or greed. It’s not true. Master Zong lives like a CEO. I guess he must spend more than ten thousand dollars a month just for his household expenses.”

  “I know. I saw him drive a brand-new car.”

  “That’s why I am angry with him, for not paying me my salary.”

  “How much would be enough for you to go back?”

  “At least twenty thousand dollars. He owes me forty thousand.”

  “I’m afraid he might never pay you that much.”

  Ganchin sighed. “I know. I’m upset but can’t do a thing. He has a lot of pull back home. A cousin of his is the head of the municipal police. Sometimes I wish I were an illegal coolie here, so that I could restart my life and wouldn’t have to deal with any crook. But I’ve never worked outside a temple and don’t have any skill. I’m useless here.”

  “Come on—you can teach martial arts.”

  “For that I’ll have to know some English, won’t I?”

  “You can always learn it.”

  “Also, I’ll need a work permit.”

  “Don’t worry so much. Try to get better. Once you’re well, there’ll be ways for you to get by here.”

  He didn’t want to talk more, unable to imagine making a living in America.

  When they were leaving the bar, she asked him to contact her whenever he needed help. She was going to fly to Tokyo and would be back the next week. The night was slightly hazy and most shops were closed. Some young couples strolled along the sidewalks hand in hand or arm in arm. A car honked about two hundred feet away. At the blast a linden sapling nearby shuddered a little, its leaves rustling. Ganchin had a fit of wheezing coughing and wiped his mouth with a tissue. Cindy patted him on the back and urged him to rest in bed for a few days. He grimaced, his face wry. They said good night, and in no time her sylphlike figure in its orange skirt faded into the dark.

  Fanku wasn’t really Ganchin’s friend. They had come to know each other about six months ago at a celebration of the Spring Festival. Ganchin had been delighted to find the man to be a fellow townsman, from the same county. Fanku worked as a line cook at an eatery. When Ganchin asked to stay with him for a few days, Fanku welcomed him, saying he was proud to help a friend.

  His studio apartment was in the basement of a nine-story tenement, close to downtown Flushing. It had a tiny bathroom but no kitchenette, and was furnished with only a cot and a pair of metal chairs standing on either side of a narrow table. When Ganchin had arrived, Fanku pulled a bundle out of the closet and spread the thin sponge mattress on the floor. “Here, you can sleep on this,” he told the guest. “I hope this is all right.”

  “Very good, thanks,” Ganchin replied.

  In the morning he would roll up the mattress and stow it in the closet again. The sleeping arrangement satisfied both of them, but Ganchin’s hacking cough troubled Fanku, who asked him several times about the true nature of his illness. Ganchin assured him that it was not tuberculosis, that he must have hurt his lungs during his kung fu practice, and that the illness had been aggravated by the anger and anguish he’d gone through lately. Even so, Fanku often examined the water in a pickle bottle—into which the monk spat—to see if there was blood. So far he’d found nothing abnormal. Still, Ganchin’s constant coughing disturbed him, especially at night.

  Fanku let his guest use whatever food he had in the studio for free, while he himself ate at work. There were a few packs of ramen noodles and a half sack of
jasmine rice in the cabinets, and he urged Ganchin to eat something more nutritious so that he could recuperate, but the monk had no money. He asked Fanku for a loan of two hundred dollars, but Fanku was almost as broke as Ganchin. He’d overstayed his business visa and had to pay horrendous attorney’s fees, as he had been trying to get his illegal status changed. He lent Ganchin sixty dollars instead. Fanku often brought back food for Ganchin, a box of rice mixed with pork roast, or a bag of fish croquettes, or a bunch of egg rolls and spareribs. By now, Ganchin had started eating meat and seafood; it was hard to remain vegetarian when he had no idea where he would have his next meal. Fanku said he could get those food items at a discount, but Ganchin wondered if they were leftovers. Yet whenever the thought popped into his mind, he’d push it aside and remind himself to be grateful.

  Then one morning Fanku said, “Look, Ganchin, I don’t mean to pressure you, but I can’t continue paying for the food I bring back. My lawyer asked me to give him thirty-five hundred dollars by the end of this month. I’m totally broke.”

  Lowering his eyes, Ganchin said, “Please keep a record of the money you’ve spent on me. I’ll pay it back.”

  “You misunderstood me, brother. I simply don’t have enough cash now. Goodness knows if my lawyer really can help me. A girl at Olivia Salon has spent more than eighty thousand dollars for attorney’s fees but still can’t get a green card. Sometimes I’m so desperate for cash that I feel like mugging someone. You know, I have to send money to my wife and daughter back home as well.”

  “Can you help me find work at your restaurant? I can wash dishes and mop floors.”

  “You’re so ill, no place would dare to use you. The best you can do is rest well and try to recover.”

  Ganchin turned silent for a few seconds, then replied, “I’ll try to get some money.”

  Fanku said no more. He yawned, having slept poorly since Ganchin had been here. Fanku was only forty-one but looked wizened like an old man with a pimpled bald crown. He must have lived in fear and worry all the time. He spread his hand towel on a clotheshorse in a corner and left for work.

  After breakfast, which was two cold buns stuffed with red-bean paste and a cup of black tea, Ganchin set out for Gaolin Temple. His legs were a little shaky as he walked. A shower had descended the previous night, so the streets were clean and even the air smelled fresher, devoid of the stink of rotten fish and vegetables. He turned onto a side street. On the pavement seven plump sparrows were struggling with spilled popcorn, twittering fretfully and hardly able to break the fluffy kernels. Regardless of humans and automobiles, the birds were all working hard at the food. Approaching the temple, Ganchin heard people shouting and stamping their feet in unison inside the brick building. A new coach was teaching a kung fu class.

  At the sight of Ganchin, Master Zong put on a smile and said, “You’ve gained some color. I hope you’re well now.” He led him to the back of the building, walking with a slight stoop.

  Seated on a bamboo mat in the meditation room, Ganchin said, “Master, I came to see if there’s some way you can pay me my salary. I can’t stay on illegally—you know that—and neither can I go home without enough cash to clear my debts.”

  Zong’s smile didn’t stop, displaying a mouth of gleaming teeth, which had often made Ganchin wonder what kind of toothpaste the master used. Zong said, “Let me repeat, our temple doesn’t owe you a thing.”

  “Master, you’ve pushed me to the edge of a cliff—I have no way out now and may have to follow Ganping’s example.” Ganping had been a monk at the temple, who, after three years’ work, wouldn’t go back on account of the unpaid salary. Master Zong had ordered him to leave, but the monk went to a park and hanged himself instead.

  “You’re not like Ganping,” Zong said calmly, his fleshy face sleek. “He was insane and stupid, couldn’t even do a clean job of hanging himself. That’s why he is in jail now.” People had spotted Ganping the moment he dangled from a piece of cloth tied to a bough of an oak, his legs kicking, and they’d called the police, who brought him back to the temple. Soon afterward he was sent back to China. But he went crazy because his girlfriend had taken a lover during his absence. He strangled the woman, with whom he ought not to have started a romantic relationship in the first place.

  Ganchin felt like weeping but took hold of himself. He said, “Don’t underestimate me, Master. If life is no longer worth living, one can end it without remorse.”

  “You have your old parents, who are looking forward to seeing you home. You shouldn’t think of such a cowardly way out.”

  “If I went back empty-handed, I’d be a great disappointment to them. I’d prefer to die here.”

  “Don’t talk about death. We monks must cherish every life. Life is given us only once, and it’s a sin to destroy it. You know all this; no need for me to dwell on it.”

  “Master, farewell. See you in the next world.”

  “Stop bluffing. To be honest, according to my agreement with your monastery, I’m responsible for sending you home, but I won’t force you. You can choose what to do.” The master let out a huge burp.

  “I only hope my soul can reach home. Good-bye now.” Ganchin got up from the bamboo mat and made for the door.

  “Pighead,” Zong said.

  Ganchin stepped out of the temple. Forks of lightning cracked the sky in the south, where dark clouds were billowing, piling on one another. The wind was rising as shop signs along the street were flapping. Pedestrians were rushing back and forth to avoid the thickening rain, a stocky woman running with a newspaper over her head, but Ganchin just strolled back to Fanku’s place. Big raindrops pattered on tree leaves and on his face while his robe fluttered.

  Cindy came to see him the next afternoon. His cough had turned harsher, thanks to the rain that had drenched him. He was also thinner than the previous week. She took him to Little Pepper, a Sichuan restaurant, and ordered a vegetarian firepot for both of them.

  He had no appetite for vegetables and would have preferred meat or seafood. He spoke listlessly while she tried to cheer him up. “Don’t think you’re down and out,” she said. “You’re still young and can always restart.”

  “How do you mean?” He looked at her heart-shaped face blankly.

  “I mean it’s foolish to think you’re done for. Lots of people here are illegal aliens. They live a hard life but still can manage. In a couple of years there might be an amnesty that allows them to become legal immigrants.” She cut a cube of tofu in two with her chopsticks and put a half into her mouth, chewing it with her lips closed.

  “I really don’t know what to do. I hope I can go home soon.”

  “Continue to be a monk?” She gave a pixieish smile.

  “I’ve never been someone else since I grew up.”

  “You can always change. This is America, where it’s never too late to turn over a new page. That’s why my parents came here. My mom hated her ex-mother-in-law—that’s my grandmother—and wanted to restart her life far away from the old woman.”

  He grimaced again, having no idea what to say. He thought of borrowing money from Cindy to clear the debt of sixty dollars he owed Fanku, but refrained. He would prefer to leave her only good memories of him.

  “You look better with your crew cut, you know.” She pointed at his head, which used to be shaved bald.

  “I didn’t mean to keep it this way at all.”

  “You should let your hair grow longer. That will make your face look stronger—more masculine, I mean. Are you okay at your current place?”

  He took a bite of a fake meatball made of minced mushroom and soy flour and answered, “It’s all right for now. I don’t know how long I can stay with Fanku. I might already be a burden to him.”

  “Keep in mind you can always use my place. I live on planes and in hotels these days.”

  “Thank you.” His eyes went moist, but he averted his face and squeezed his lids. “If only I had been born here,” he sighed.

  “
Except for the Indians, nobody’s really a native in the United States. You mustn’t think of yourself as a stranger—this country belongs to you if you live and work here.”

  “I’m too old to change.”

  “How can you say that? You’re just twenty-eight!”

  “But my heart is very, very old.”

  “You still have fifty years to go, at least.” She giggled and patted his hand. He smiled and shook his head as if to admit he was beyond help.

  After talking with Cindy, he realized that Master Zong had kept his passport with an eye to preventing him from changing his status, because illegal aliens had to produce their papers when the U.S. president issued an amnesty. It would be impossible to apply for a green card in good time if you couldn’t prove your country of origin and your date of entry into the United States. Zong must be determined to get him back to China.

  Fanku told Ganchin to stay in the next morning, because the superintendent of the tenement would come around eleven to check the smoke detector. Ganchin promised not to go out before the man showed up. He was lying on the cot, thinking about whether he should ask for a smaller amount of cash from Master Zong, say twenty-five thousand, since apparently the temple had never paid any monk a salary. How he regretted having tried so hard to come here! He’d been misled by the people who bragged about the opportunity found in America and wouldn’t reveal the hardship they’d gone through here. They all wanted to appear rich and successful in their hometowns’ eyes. Silly, how silly. If he went back, he would tell the truth—the American type of success was not for everyone. You must learn how to sell yourself there and must change yourself to live a new life.

  As he was musing, someone knocked on the door. He got up to answer it. The instant he opened it a crack two men burst in. One was Master Zong and the other a brawny young fellow Ganchin had never met. They grabbed his arms. “Don’t resist,” Zong hissed. “We won’t hurt you. We’re just helping you go home, to keep you from deteriorating into a bum.”