by Ha Jin
“Where are you taking me?” Ganchin gasped.
“To the airport,” Zong said, as they hauled him away. Ganchin was too weak to struggle and so he obeyed them.
They shoved him into the back of the BMW, buckled him up, and dropped on his lap two paper napkins for his phlegm. Then they got into the front seats, and the car pulled away. In a placid voice Zong explained to him, “Don’t be upset. I bought the plane ticket for you and will give you some cash for your travel expenses. When you check in at the counter, I’ll let you have your passport.”
“You’ve kidnapped me. This is against the law.”
The men both guffawed. The squint-eyed young fellow said, “Please don’t accuse us like this. You’re a Chinese and soon will board a plane for China.”
“Yes, you can grouse as much as you like to the elders of your monastery,” Zong told him.
Realizing it was useless to argue, Ganchin clammed up the rest of the way, though he was thinking hard about how to break loose.
They parked in a garage and then took him to Air China. A large uniformed black woman stood at the entrance to the ticketing counter; Ganchin wondered if he should shout to get her attention, but thought better of it. The three of them entered the zigzag cordoned lane filled with people. This wasn’t personal, Master Zong kept telling him. They just didn’t want to sully China’s image by letting an ocher-robed monk roam the streets of New York. That would tarnish the temple’s reputation as well.
What should Ganchin do? He could get rid of his robe as he had slacks underneath. Should he go to the men’s room and see if he could find a way to escape from there? No, they would see through him. How about calling to the fully armed security guards with the big German shepherd near the checkpoint? No. Master Zong might still be able to get him on the plane, claiming he was mentally ill, dangerous like a terrorist, and must be sent home for treatment.
As he was wondering, a passenger cart with three rows of seats on it was coming up, an old couple sitting in the first row. Ganchin glanced at his kidnappers—both of them were looking at the counter, where two young women were lugging a family’s baggage onto the conveyor belt. Ganchin lifted the blue cordon beside him, slunk out of the lane, and leapt upon the last row of seats on the cart, then rolled down into the legroom. He pulled in his feet so his kidnappers couldn’t see him. The battery-powered vehicle was running away when he heard Zong shout, “Ganchin, Ganchin, where are you?”
“Come here, Ganchin, you dickhead!” another voice barked.
“Ganchin, come over, please! We can negotiate,” Zong cried.
Ganchin realized they didn’t know he was on the vehicle, which veered off and headed for another terminal. He stayed put, letting it take him as far away as possible.
Finally the cart stopped, and he raised his head to look around. “Hey, this is for disability only,” the black driver told him, flashing a smile while helping the old couple off.
Ganchin didn’t know what the man meant, and just said, “Thank you.” That was all the English he had besides “goodbye.” He got off and went into a men’s room, where he shed his robe. He dumped it into a trash can and came out wearing black slacks and an off-white sweatshirt.
• • •
He managed to get back to Flushing by a hotel shuttle, following the suggestion of a middle-aged Taiwanese woman. Terrified, he could not return to Fanku’s place. Evidently that man and Master Zong were in cahoots. Where to go now? Where was a safe place? Never had Ganchin imagined that Zong would resort to force to fly him back. A pain tightened his chest and he coughed again.
He still had a few dollars in his pocket, so he slouched into Teng’s Garden, which wasn’t far from Gaolin Temple. A trim little man in shirtsleeves, apparently the owner of the restaurant, greeted him and, raising his forefinger, said heartily, “One?” He was about to take him into the interior.
“Just a minute. Can I use your phone?” Ganchin asked.
“There’s a pay phone down the street. Why not use that one?” The man waved in the direction of the temple.
“I don’t know how to use a pay phone.”
“Similar to a regular one—drop in a quarter and dial the number you want to call. We’re talking about a local call, right?”
“Actually, I don’t have to use a phone. I’m Ganchin, a monk of Gaolin Temple, and I’d like to leave a word for Master Zong there. Can you pass it for me?”
“I don’t know you.”
“Look, this is me.” Ganchin produced a laminated photo and showed it to the man. In it Ganchin, wearing black cloth shoes, struck a pose like an eagle about to hop off; above his shiny shaved head a golden banner was floating in a breeze; he looked like a movie star, a hero, full of spunk.
The little man squinted at the picture and then at him. “Yes, it’s you. What do you want me to tell your master?”
“Tell him to say prayers and make offerings for my soul tomorrow morning before sunrise.”
“What are you talking about? Like you’re already a ghost.”
“I’m going to die soon. Tell Master Zong to pray to redeem my soul before six o’clock tomorrow morning, all right?”
“Young brother, you shouldn’t think like this. You mustn’t give up so easily. Come with me, let’s talk and see if this old man can be any help.”
Ganchin followed him into an inner room; in its center stood a round dining table with a revolving, two-level tray on it. Apparently this was a place for banquets. The moment they sat down at the immense table, Ganchin said he’d decided to kill himself today. He was sick and penniless, while Master Zong tried to send him back to China without paying him the salary the temple owed him. The little man listened, wordless. The more Ganchin rambled, the more heartbroken he became, until he couldn’t continue anymore and collapsed into sobbing.
The restaurant owner sighed and shook his broad head. He said, “You wait here and I’ll be back in a minute.”
By now Ganchin had calmed down some, though was still tearful. He believed this was his last day on earth. Thinking about his old parents, he felt his insides writhing. How devastated they would be by his death! And without him, their only son, how miserable their remaining years would become. But he simply had no way out. If he died here, at least some of the creditors might take pity on his parents and forgive the debts. Oh, this was the only way he could help his family!
The little man came back with a large bowl of rice topped with sautéed seafood and vegetables. He said to Ganchin, “Young brother, I can see you’re hungry. Eat this and you might think differently afterward. Gosh, I totally forgot you’re a monk, a vegetarian! Sorry about this. I’m gonna—”
“I eat seafood,” Ganchin said.
“Then eat this. Keep in mind, yours is not the worst sorrow. Life is precious and full of wonderful things in spite of all the bitterness and sufferings.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” he mumbled. “I will put in a good word for you when I meet the Buddha in the other world.” He broke the connected chopsticks and began eating.
Oh, it tasted so good! This was the most delicious meal he’d had in recent years, and he picked up the shrimp and scallops one after another and swallowed them as if they did not require chewing. The snow peas were crisp, the bamboo shoots crunchy, and the portabella mushrooms succulent, perfectly done. He ate and ate, and in no time finished the whole thing. Then he lifted the bowl, about to drink up the remaining sauce, but caught himself and put it down.
“Uncle,” he said, “I know you’re kind and generous. You gave ear to a stranger’s grievance, you didn’t ask me but guessed I was hungry, and you have a compassionate soul. Here’s a bit of cash. Please keep this.” He pulled all the money out of his pants pocket and left it on the table, one five and three singles.
Waving his stubby fingers, the man protested, “I didn’t mean to sell you any food. I don’t want your money. Just think about all the good things in this life, okay? Don’t let your grief crush you.”
Where should he go? He wanted to find a building out of which he could jump and kill himself. How about the temple? No, it had only two stories. Too low. How about the elementary school? No, his ghost might frighten the children if he died there, and people would condemn him.
Having crossed Northern Boulevard, he saw a brick building to his right, partly boarded up. He took a brief measure of it—it was high enough, five stories. Also, this was a deserted spot and his death might not disturb many people in the neighborhood. So he decided to use this building, which must once have been a factory and still had metal ventilators on its roof.
As he was laboring up the sagging stairs, a flock of pigeons took off, their wings flickering explosively, and a few bats flitted about, catching mosquitoes while emitting tinny squeaks in the glow of the sinking sun. The distant houses and the spires of the churches were obscured, half hidden in the golden smog. At a landing the floor was strewn with needle-less syringes, takeout containers, cigarette butts, beer cans. He wondered if some people lived in here at night. Well, if they did, they shouldn’t continue using this place when it got cold. On the top floor he leaned over a few unboarded windows to survey the base of the building. Down there in the empty parking lot a lone seagull with black wing tips was wrestling with a paper bag, dragging out balled-up napkins and plastic cups and plates to pick up bits of fries. Ganchin decided to use the backyard to avoid the traffic on the front street. He propped two thick boards on a windowsill that had lost its wood and was just lined with bricks. He pictured himself running all the way up the boards and springing out of the building headfirst. That would do the job for sure. He backed up a dozen steps, ready to dash.
Suddenly his stomach churned and sent up a chunk of scallop and a few rice grains that he hadn’t chewed thoroughly. Oh, they still tasted good! He swallowed the morsel while tears were trickling down his cheeks. He started running, up and up, until he hurled himself into the air. As he was falling facedown, somehow all the years of training in martial arts at once possessed him. His body instinctively adjusted itself and even his arms spread out, swinging to ensure that he wouldn’t hurt himself fatally. With a thump his feet landed on the ground. “Ow!” he yelled, thunderstruck that he had just cheated death. A tearing pain shot up from his left thigh while his right leg twitched.
“Ow, help me! Help!” he hollered.
How ludicrous this whole thing turned out! He kept yelling, and some people came over, most of them high school students playing basketball nearby. A man dialed 911 and another comforted him, saying, “Don’t move. Everything’s cool, man. I know this hurts, must hurt like hell, but help’s on the way.”
“Oh, let me die, let me finish myself!” Eyes shut, Ganchin was screaming and shaking his head, but nobody understood his Mandarin.
In addition to a broken leg, the doctors found, he also suffered from tracheitis. No wonder he was running a temperature and coughing nonstop. They kept him in the hospital for three days until his fever was gone. Meanwhile, his attempted suicide had become news in the Chinese communities across North America, reported by numerous small newspapers; a charitable organization offered to pick up his medical bills; and even the owner of Teng’s Garden got famous for a week, having appeared twice on local TV. Everyone knew that the master of Gaolin Temple had exploited young monks and pocketed their salaries. Many declared that they would never donate anything to the temple again. A pretty thirtysomething named Amy Lok, running for a seat in the state senate, paid Ganchin a visit and told him to contact her office if he needed any assistance. Several lawyers called, eager to represent him in a lawsuit against the temple. All the notoriety befuddled and unnerved Ganchin.
Cindy took him in after he was released from the hospital with a pair of crutches, and she persuaded him to let her speak with the attorneys on his behalf so that they might not take advantage of him. She urged him to use Jon Mah, an older man who spoke both Mandarin and Korean and was known for handling this kind of case. Ganchin was worried about the legal fee, but Mr. Mah told him, “You don’t need to pay before you get the damages from the defendant.”
Cindy said to Ganchin, “They’ll get a third of the money the court awards you.”
“This is America,” Mr. Mah resumed, “a land ruled by law, and nobody is entitled to abuse others with impunity. Rest assured, you’re in safe hands.”
After the attorney left, Ganchin was still antsy. He asked Cindy, “What will the INS do to me? If they deport me, can I get enough money for the debts back home?”
“Now there’ll be ways for you to avoid deportation—you can apply for political asylum, or marry a citizen or a legal resident. You know, you’ll be rich, but not filthy rich like a millionaire who doesn’t have to work.”
Amazed, Ganchin thought about her words, then sighed. “I guess I’m not a monk anymore, and no temple will ever take me in.”
“That also means you’re free to date a girl.” She giggled, rubbing her nose with a knuckle.
“Well, I hope that’s something I can learn.” He gazed at her and smiled.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m grateful to the American Academy in Berlin for the Mary Ellen von der Heyden Fellowship for fiction and to Boston University for a sabbatical leave. The generous support from both institutions enabled me to complete this book.
I would like to thank Dan Frank for his comments and suggestions and Lane Zachary for her enthusiasm.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ha Jin left his native China in 1985 to attend Brandeis University. He is the author of the internationally best-selling novel Waiting, which won the PEN/Faulkner Award and the National Book Award, and War Trash, which won the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction; the story collections The Bridegroom, which won the Asian American Literary Award, Under the Red Flag, which won the Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction, and Ocean of Words, which won the PEN/Hemingway Award; the novels A Free Life, The Crazed, and In the Pond; three books of poetry; and a book of essays, The Writer as Migrant.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Ha Jin
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pantheon Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Pantheon Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
The following stories have been previously published: “A Pension Plan” in Asia Literary Review; “Children as Enemies” in flatmanCrooked; “In the Crossfire” in Granta; “The Beauty” in Michigan Quarterly Review; “The House Behind a Weeping Cherry” in The New Yorker; “Temporary Love” in Shenandoah; “Shame” in Weber: The Contemporary West; and “A Composer and His Parakeets,” “Choice,” and “An English Professor” in Zoetrope: All-Story. “A Composer and His Parakeets” also appeared in The O. Henry Prize Stories 2008, edited by Laura Furman (New York: Anchor Books, 2008); “The House Behind a Weeping Cherry” also appeared in The PEN/O. Henry Prize Stories 2009, edited by Laura Furman (New York: Anchor Books, 2009).
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jin, Ha, [date]
A good fall : stories / Ha Jin.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-37869-9
1. Chinese—United States—Fiction. 2. Flushing (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3560.I6G66 2009
813′.54—dc22 2009008638
www.pantheonbooks.com
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