A Song Everlasting

by Ha Jin

  This year the troupe was much stronger, joined by several accomplished musicians and a large group of young dancers from an arts school in Taipei. Tian once suggested to Cindy that they invite Tan Mai as well, but Cindy said, “Ms. Tan won’t play for us and says she’s fully booked. I think she’s afraid to make any kind of political statement.”

  Unlike him, Tan Mai must have drawn a line between her politics and her professional life. He couldn’t blame her. But his association with the Divine Grace had personal reasons. He felt insulted and injured by the power that had destroyed his sister, and he resolved to protest its atrocity. In front of such savagery he couldn’t simply cower and remain silent.

  In mid-January, after joining for a few rehearsals, he began to travel with the troupe. They went to D.C., Boston, Providence, Chicago, Philadelphia. Their show was usually sold out before they’d even arrived. The performances were well received and rave reviews appeared in major newspapers, which gushed about the traditional Chinese choreography, the elegant dancers in long-sleeved costumes, the beautiful sets. Many American critics, who hadn’t seen such a show before, even said that they were surprised by its genuine beauty and deep passion, that “every detail was perfect and every movement effortless and marvelous.” Some said they would come back to the show next year, since the troupe would perform every winter from now on. Tian’s songs were better received by the Chinese in the audience. He always sang two pieces, one composed by Falun Gong to celebrate their beliefs and another of his own choice, usually a folk song. The religious song was clunky, too didactic and flat, but he sang it with zest. Still, he couldn’t summon up a lot of emotion for lines like these:

  We came down to look for the Way

  And be cleansed of our sins

  So we can form our divine bodies anew

  And return to Heaven in perfection.

  As he sang, he pictured his sister as a young girl, innocent and full of life, with a small, mild voice and a delicate, birdlike frame, as a child who shone in recess games, shuttlecock, and jumping rope. The memories gave a sorrowful edge to his voice, and at moments he even turned tearful.

  Chinese-language newspapers published photos of his performances, and one even ran the phrase “the Prince of Songs” in the headline, which gave him mixed feelings. Such publicity made him uneasy, because to perform with a Falun Gong troupe could be viewed as degradation by his brainwashed colleagues back in China, but he wanted to sing for the Divine Grace as a kind of grieving for his sister. From time to time, after a performance someone would come up to him and ask to take a photo, which he usually agreed to. A young man once presented him with a bottle of wine as a token of gratitude. Tian didn’t drink but accepted the gift, which he later passed on to Yabin.

  His travels with the troupe began to agitate Shuna, however. She saw photos online of the Divine Grace’s performances, which showed many pretty young dancers. Again she assumed he was surrounded by women when on tour. At night he would phone her because it was six or seven times cheaper for him to call China than vice versa. One night Shuna even said, “I won’t mind if you spend time with someone there as long as you don’t catch disease and take good care of yourself.”

  “Why did you say that?” he asked. “You know I’m not that kind of a man and can’t trust any woman here.”

  “You might feel lonely and need some company.” She tittered, somewhat nervously.

  “How about you?” he asked, thinking of Professor Bai.

  “I’m fine…I can manage. I mean, I have so many friends and colleagues here that I don’t feel lonely or isolated. I’m worried about you, though. Don’t work too hard. You don’t need to send us money every month.”

  He was moved. Deep inside, he could trust Shuna. What he told her about his uneasiness with other women was true. Even when he found a woman attractive, he usually felt too uncomfortable in her presence to act on it. Some women here reminded him of Yabin’s girlfriend, Freda, who could easily unnerve a man.

  He asked Shuna to keep an eye on his mother. Shuna promised to go see her at least once a month, to give her money and make sure she was managing on her own. His mother still refused to go to Beijing, bent on staying with her fellow Falun Gong practitioners. Shuna said that the local police might simply leave his mother alone, fearing that she might die on their hands if they took her in. It was said that their superiors were instructing them, above all, to prevent people from going to the capital to air their grievances against the local government, so every day a policewoman stopped by his mother’s to see if she was in. Other than that, they avoided her, afraid she’d demand a clear answer to the cause of her daughter’s death and the names of those who had received Anji’s organs. She seemed to have become a dreaded nuisance to the local police, who always claimed they hadn’t been involved with Anji’s death at all.

  13

  After the Divine Grace tour ended and Tian had returned to New York, a man from the Chinese consulate called him. He introduced himself as Guo Fen, a new vice consul in charge of cultural affairs. He’d been following Tian in the news and was wondering why he had suddenly become so active, performing in various cities with the Divine Grace, which the Chinese government viewed as a subversive association abroad.

  “Can we meet in my office tomorrow afternoon?” the vice consul asked.

  Aghast, Tian managed to say, “I have another engagement tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I can be very flexible about time,” Guo went on. “How about the day after tomorrow?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “There’s been some misunderstanding between us, which has been exploited by people with ulterior motives. We’d better have direct communication to sort things out, don’t you think?”

  Considering he might have his passport renewed in the near future, Tian agreed to come and see the diplomat in two days, though he was disturbed by the invitation. He called Yabin and shared his concerns with him—he feared that once he entered the consulate at the western end of 42nd Street, he might not be able to come out. Yabin chuckled and said they were unlikely to detain someone like him, because that would make news. Tian was still nervous and uncertain about the visit.

  After a pause, Yabin said, “I can accompany you to the consulate and wait for you at the entrance. If they don’t let you out, I’ll contact the media.”

  “That’s very generous of you. Thank you so much, Yabin. I wouldn’t know how to manage without your help.”

  “That’s what friends are for, and I’m glad I’m available.”

  Two days later, they took the 7 train into Manhattan. To their surprise, the guard at the entrance to the consulate, a middle-aged man with a beardless equine face and a nasal voice, would not allow Yabin to stay in the tiny lobby. Yabin waved at the man dismissively, then told Tian, “I can wait outside. Try to speak as little as possible and just let the official do the talking. Remember, don’t lose your temper or make any promises.”

  “I’ll remember,” Tian said, and headed toward the elevators.

  Vice Consul Guo’s office was on the third floor. Tian was led in by a young woman. There was nobody in the spacious room; one of its windows looked out on the Hudson. An opened laptop, swathed in a pool of sunshine, was sitting on a desk beside another window. He sat down on a maroon pleather sofa and took a sip of the tea the woman had poured for him. The tea was Dragon Well but tasted a little bland, no longer fresh and maybe already two or three years old. An acrid smell hung in the room and made him wonder whether someone had been smoking. On the wall was a horizontal scroll of calligraphy, which declared: “Man’s Role Is to Try!” Left out was the second half of the ancient motto: “Heaven Decides.”

  Vice Consul Guo stepped in, stretching out his hand. He was smiling, the ends of his eyes tilted up. The official was in his late forties and looked smooth and intelligent, the hair at his temples graying. Tia
n shook his hand, which oddly felt callused, like a carpenter’s. “Sit down, sit down,” he urged Tian.

  Tian looked at his watch: 3:15—Guo was a quarter-hour late.

  “We have time,” the vice consul said. “Sorry about being late.”

  “My friend is waiting outside. He was not allowed to enter the building.”

  Guo smiled understandingly. “We won’t take long. I was with Ambassador Zhou and couldn’t excuse myself sooner.” He lifted his tea and drank a mouthful.

  He insisted that they simply make friendly conversation and that he meant to help Tian. Indeed, he sounded like an older brother with more experience of life. Tian tried to remain quiet, to listen and not speak.

  “To be honest, I question the wisdom of your leaving China,” Guo continued. “It was a rash move, to say the least. See how hard your life is here. Back in our motherland you never needed to stoop to random gigs. Wherever you went, you were in the limelight. Look how you have reduced yourself—you must be living from hand to mouth now. Doesn’t it feel terrible not to be able to draw a monthly salary anymore? As a longtime admirer of yours, I feel sorry for you.”

  “True, there’s a lot of uncertainty here, but I’m free at least,” Tian said, unable to remain silent any longer.

  The vice consul tipped back his head and laughed. “Freedom is largely an illusion. At most it’s merely a feeling, perhaps not even a healthy feeling. Freedom is always contingent on the agency you have. A beggar might have freedom but no dignity. His freedom is worthless when his stomach rumbles with hunger pangs. In China you’re famous and can have all the opportunities others can only dream of. Why abandon everything and start from square one here? If I were you, I wouldn’t forfeit all the advantages you’ve had.”

  “Well, I know freedom is a different kind of suffering away from tyranny, but I am willing to suffer for it.”

  Guo didn’t seem to understand Tian’s words and went on, “Come to think of it: You were already well ahead of the multitudes back in China. Why should you restart your life here and have to compete with Americans?”

  “I don’t see anyone as a rival here—no competition to speak of.”

  “Still, you’re striving to get ahead of others.”

  “You ought to think differently from the typical Chinese mindset.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To put it more candidly, many of our compatriots have this as their goal of life: to live above others. That’s a typical Chinese way of thinking, but that’s not what I want for my life.”

  “What would you like to achieve, then?”

  “To be an artist following my own heart.”

  “Do you think you can do that by joining the Falun Gong troupe?”

  “I’m not a practitioner of Falun Gong, but my younger sister was a believer, and she died in prison outside Yingkou because she wouldn’t renounce her belief. There’s no clear explanation of her death. The prison authorities told my mother that my sister had died of kidney failure, but she had no history of kidney problems. So the government owes my family an explanation and an apology.”

  “This is news to me,” Guo said, looking genuinely astonished. After a pause, he resumed, “But if your sister was a Falun Gong practitioner, she broke the law and was incarcerated for that. That is clear.”

  “China’s constitution says clearly that every citizen has the right of free religious expression. The government had no right to imprison my sister in the first place.”

  Guo lowered his head wordlessly. Tian continued with tears of anger in his voice, “It’s also said that my sister was executed so as to supply organs for important recipients in Beijing.”

  “You can’t buy that kind of malicious slander. Our country would never commit such an atrocity.”

  “Then we need a clear explanation all the more. Can you look into this for me? I simply can’t stop mourning my sister. That’s why I have been performing with the Divine Grace.”

  Vice Consul Guo said he would file an inquiry about Anji’s case, but he made clear that this might be beyond the power of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, so he couldn’t promise answers. He also emphasized that no hospital in China would engage in harvesting organs, so Falun Gong’s report on the use of his sister’s kidneys was a downright lie. Tian didn’t argue with him. He thanked him, but repeated his position that unless the government gave him a reasonable explanation, he would continue to mourn his sister’s death. Their conversation ended on a somewhat agreeable note. Guo Fen appeared concerned and considerate, but he also conveyed the official stand that Tian must come back to China as soon as possible so that he could salvage his career and resume “a more normal life.” Guo even showed some pity for Tian’s current state, which to him was a terrible waste of his talent. To him the Divine Grace was like a joke, an absolute degradation for Tian. The vice consul assured him that once he returned, he could perform anywhere in China, provided that he cut all ties with Falun Gong. Tian thanked him again but did not accept his offer, knowing that once he was back, he wouldn’t be able to leave. Also, in China he’d have to sing more propaganda songs. He wanted to develop a new career here, though he wouldn’t say this openly to the official. Nonetheless, he had to confess he liked Guo Fen’s mild manner. If Guo hadn’t represented the government, Tian might have been willing to get to know him better.

  * * *

  —

  Yabin was sitting on a bench on the other side of the street on the Hudson near the Intrepid, the old aircraft carrier on display, whose deck was lined with red-tailed white fighters. He seemed to be skimming a copy of The New York Times. The afternoon sun showered patches of light on the sidewalk. A young woman in a navy sweatsuit jogged by, holding the leash of her black schnauzer. Beyond her, a mother was pushing a stroller. At the sight of Tian, Yabin stood up and crossed the street to join him. As they rounded the corner of the gray building, Tian saw a camera flash twice on a pole about three hundred feet away. Apparently visitors to the consulate were recorded visually by the FBI or the CIA, but this didn’t bother him. There must be numerous cameras concealed in this area.

  Together the two of them headed east toward the subway station. In spite of Tian’s composed appearance, his meeting with the vice consul had unsettled him. What the man said about his opportunities and privileges back in China was by no means groundless. To some extent, Guo was correct to point out that his coming to America had reduced him considerably. Now Tian had to take his livelihood into his own hands, responsible for every meal and every bill, though freedom he did have, which he had realized was essentially a willingness to be responsible for himself.

  On the train back to Flushing, he remained reticent, his mind heavy with reflections on his situation. When Yabin asked him about his meeting with the vice consul, he answered succinctly, saying the official had tried to persuade him to return to China but he had refused.

  That evening Tian took Yabin to dinner at Little Taipei on 39th Avenue. He liked the food there, which wasn’t too spicy or greasy. The place usually offered live entertainment, a small band with a guitar and a mandolin, sometimes an oboe, but this evening there was no music. They ordered four dishes: squid cabbage, sautéed watercress, a steamed white fish, and shredded pork with bamboo shoots. They each had a tall bottle of Tsingtao beer.

  The tasty dinner loosened them both up, and Yabin became more talkative. He said that these days he was having trouble getting along with Freda. She expected him to do something with her on every holiday, in both the Western and the lunar calendars. He couldn’t imagine continuing to live with such a troublesome woman.

  Tian hadn’t known they were living together now. “Are you not scared of her?” he asked Yabin jokingly. “It must be nerve-racking to have a sniper in bed.”

  “Not really. She went through firearms training in college. That doesn’t bother me. She can be tender a
nd sweet, even caring, but she has a hell of a temper and is always jealous. She might have had some bad experiences with men in the past.”

  “She seems quite smart.” Tian took a swallow of his beer.

  “She’s capable but obstinate.” Yabin picked up a tiny stout squid with his chopsticks and put it into his mouth.

  “Don’t you want to settle down and start a family soon?”

  “I’ve thought a great deal about that of late,” Yabin admitted, “but it’s hard to imagine marrying a woman like Freda.”

  “How old are you now?”

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “So you still want to date around?”

  Yabin laughed. “It’s just because I haven’t met a woman I can love wholeheartedly. I can be very devoted, but I won’t compromise on the matter of love.”

  Tian remembered Yabin quoting the line from Yeats: Love pitches its tent in excrement. Apparently Yabin still believed in love after all. Tian told him, “If you want to break up with Freda, you should do it soon. Otherwise she’ll think you’ve been misleading her and wasting her time.”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking too. I have to be careful with her, though. At any moment she can go off like a firecracker.”

  No one but Yabin would share his innermost thoughts with him like that, so Tian confessed that he missed his family terribly. But Yabin shook his head and said, “If I were you, I’d find a woman here. It must be very lonely to stay single like you.”