by Ha Jin
Tian mixed well with his fellow workers, but he felt uneasy about having not sung publicly in recent months. Although he tried to do some vocal practice early in the mornings before leaving for work, he missed singing onstage. He became restless, as if his skin were too small and too tight and as if something in him were continually clawing, desperate to get out. Fortunately, he liked the work of home renovation and the labor at the old factory house easily exhausted him by the end of the day.
After dismantling the interior of the house, they began to partition the floors into small units. A lot of steel was used for the walls in place of wood. They joked that it was like building prison cells—every way you turned, you ran into steel studs. They often talked about why the Cantonese businessman wanted a steel structure for every massage room—it cost so much more than wood. “Maybe his mistress is an expensive woman and she’s gonna be the madam of this place,” a fellow worker said. That brought out laughter among them.
Still, most of them agreed this was a smart way for the proprietor to transfer his wealth to the States, a popular haven for corrupt officials and businesspeople to shelter their money and wealth. The dollar was strong and the legal system reliably protected private property. But Songbing, a spare, bespectacled man who had been a bridge engineer back in Hunan province, gave a brown-toothed grin and said he would rather acquire a liquor store or a gas station instead—a massage parlor was such a dubious business. Tian could see his point. Songbing was in his early sixties, smart and sophisticated, but he was in poor health, suffering from gout and high blood pressure, and spoke no English, so he was the only part-timer among them. He planned to work for half a year to make some money, then go back to Changsha to retire.
In spite of the hard work, Tian was pleased to have stable employment now. The winter holiday season had come again, but the Divine Grace had yet to contact him. He had phoned Cindy Wong to see if they might invite him again, but to date he hadn’t heard back.
Ever since the fight with Shuna over the gravestone, Tian had resumed sending her one thousand dollars a month. This was more than he could spare, given that he made only $9.50 an hour. Frank didn’t pay overtime—none of the Chinese construction companies did. There was no way Tian could earn more, and his savings were almost gone. His only option was to cut his living costs. He sometimes felt trapped by his situation—at times he even regretted having married and fathered a child. Now no matter what, he had to find a way to support his daughter. Finally he saw why so many young people preferred to remain single. Indeed, why should one worry about carrying on one’s family line? Life must have things more meaningful and important than providing for a family and raising children.
In mid-December Funi’s roommate moved away to Silicon Valley, and she was having trouble finding a replacement during the holiday season, when few people wanted to move. Funi knew that Tian’s lease had expired long ago and that he was a tenant at will, so she tried to persuade him to take her old roommate’s spot. She also said that since they were both working at the Waltham site now, such an arrangement could make it easier for them to travel together to and fro. At first he felt it would be ridiculous for a young woman to have a man as her roommate, but Yabin and Laura laughed at him, saying it was common for men and women to share an apartment, especially in expensive cities. Tian gave thought to this and came to see that it made sense. If he moved in with Funi, he could cut his rent by half, and his utility bills would be reduced greatly too. Better yet, her place was very close to the public library on Washington Street, which he often used. So he agreed to take the room. Funi was pleased, telling him, “Your life will be easier once we’re living together.” She was not yet twenty-nine but acted like an expert in homemaking.
Her words unnerved him a little, but he managed a smile and said he would appreciate any help she could give him. After he settled his last month’s rent with his landlord, Funi drove over and helped him move. He had few things, just a pair of suitcases, some tableware and utensils, about a hundred books and a few dozen albums. Funi’s former roommate had left behind some furniture, including a mattress, so Tian needed to bring only his chest of drawers with him. Funi was strong enough to help him carry the chest to her car after he had removed the drawers.
Her apartment was much better than his. It was clean and bright, well kept in every way. Here he would have to take off his shoes and wear slippers whenever he came in. He reminded himself to be careful, not to place anything randomly, not to bring in any dirt with his shoes. To celebrate his arrival, Funi made beef wontons. He kneaded the dough but didn’t offer to prepare the stuffing, unwilling to show he was a decent cook. Yet he took part in wrapping the wontons. Dinner was delicious—he hadn’t eaten such a homey meal for a long time. Funi stopped him when he was about to wash the dishes, saying she could do it. He didn’t want to overstep, so he retired to his room early, checking his emails and reading the news online. There was a Canadian Chinese-language site called Creaders.net that he liked very much—its news tended to be more objective, often reported from a third party’s perspective.
Being Funi’s roommate made his life easier indeed. Every morning he left for work with her, and sometimes she also prepared lunch for him, saying she had extra bread and meat to spare. At lunch breaks the two often shared the food they brought along. Their company was making progress with the massage parlor, but the work wasn’t proceeding smoothly. They often had to stop and wait for other contractors to complete the jobs farmed out to them before they could continue. During the holiday season, which starts before Christmas and ends after the Spring Festival, roughly from late December to mid-February, some of the workers couldn’t come every day, having to join their families far away, so Funi and Tian became the most regular hands on the site. Because the electricians hadn’t yet installed wires and sockets for the lighting and heating systems, the rooms, still without walls, remained cold and drafty. On their breaks, the two of them often got into her car and set the engine running so that they could keep warm. Funi avoided smoking during those breaks to let Tian feel more comfortable. They also began to have lunch and tea in her car. She kept a thermos bottle for tea, strapped in a corner of the backseat.
The Spring Festival was close at hand. On the weekend before the holiday, Funi offered to do the shopping with him. They lived about a mile away from Kam Man Food, where many immigrants in South Boston got their groceries. Some Americans would go there for fresh vegetables and seafood too. Tian was about to go with her but changed his mind. He feared they might run into people who would recognize him and think that Funi was his new girlfriend or mistress. He couldn’t afford another scandal. So he said he had to get to a rehearsal and asked her to pick him up two tins of luncheon loaf, a small jar of kimchi, and four bags of dumplings stuffed with pork and cabbage and chives.
He’d been invited to sing at only three local celebrations this year. Usually February was his busiest month. Perhaps his way of singing was no longer popular. Or perhaps, in the eyes of the public, he was still the man who had abandoned his family and battered his mistress, making groups like the Divine Grace reluctant to hire him. For a whole year he had worked hard in the home renovation business and hadn’t done a lot of vocal exercises in his spare time, so he was worried that his voice might have suffered. He didn’t share his concerns and conjectures with anyone, not even with Shuna. He reminded himself that once his life became stable again, he must spend more time improving his singing, to make it warmer and livelier. He mustn’t remain in the home repair business for too long.
Frank threw a dinner party for the few workers who hadn’t left for the holiday. One of his tenants was a chef at China Pearl, a newly opened restaurant at President Plaza, so they gathered there. The place was well known for its dim sum, and on weekends it had so many customers that parking was difficult despite the large lot in front of and beside the restaurant.
The dinner was a multicour
se banquet, cooked specially for them. In spite of the delicious seafood and the excellent meat dishes, Tian couldn’t work up any appetite or holiday cheer. He missed home, missed Shuna and Tingting. Yabin and Laura were in Toronto, visiting her cousin. The others at the table were loud and exultant, but Tian felt like sobbing. He tried to suppress his sadness and misgivings about his immigration. Rationally, he knew that he ought to feel fortunate—many people never had an opportunity to get out of the rut of their lives. Unlike them, he could turn a new page, but never had he expected it to be so hard and so precarious and so lonesome.
Funi picked fish and shrimp and duck for him, urging him to eat more. He accepted whatever toasts others proposed and downed one shot cup after another of Five-Grain Sap, a strong liquor. Soon he got tipsy and began to see double. A thin fog was rising before his eyes, and every face at the table was blurred. Then his stomach churned and convulsed and he threw up on the floor. He was too drunk to feel embarrassed. A waitress came over immediately with a broom and a dustpan, followed by a stocky waiter holding a mop, while two of Tian’s coworkers helped him to a long bench in a corner and left him supine on it. He began dozing away as the people at the table continued regaling themselves noisily.
Afterward, Funi drove him back and supported him all the way upstairs to their apartment. She pulled off his boots, put him to bed, and threw a duvet over him. Before she stepped out of his room, she flipped off the lights and said, “Sleep well, Tian.”
29
“I can teach you how to drive,” Funi told Tian one morning on their way to work.
“I don’t have a car,” he said, wondering whether to accept the offer.
“You can use this one.” She patted the steering wheel. “Cars are cheap here. For two or three thousand dollars you can get a decent used car. Don’t you feel hampered, unable to drive?”
She was right—he always felt incapable when he tried to go to a place inaccessible by public transportation. Back in China he had never owned a car, and neither had he learned how to drive. He realized he should accept her offer. “Sure,” he said, “it would be great if you could teach me.”
The highway ahead was dappled with salt, and a cluster of office buildings appeared on the right. One of them was under construction, its windows still without panes. Tian knew that down the road he might need to be the driver for his family after Shuna and Tingting came, since they couldn’t drive either.
That weekend, Funi took him to the seaside cemetery to practice. She said Frank had taught her how to drive in this quiet place, where there was no traffic and no cops. Still, he had to take care not to hit a tombstone or a tree.
He liked driving in the cemetery, and, to his relief, it wasn’t too hard to handle the car. He began to cruise slowly with ease along the narrow winding paths, but Funi insisted he take the practice as seriously as though he were driving on an actual road. This meant that at every crossroads he had to stop as if encountering a red light or a stop sign. He thought she was overreacting—they were in the territory of dead souls, after all. But Funi wouldn’t relent, saying, “If you don’t develop good habits, you’ll cause an accident once you’re on the road.”
“I’ll be more careful,” he muttered.
She got surprisingly hot-tempered the moment she assumed the teaching role. She barked instructions at him and even yelled at him if he made a mistake. Even after he got his learner’s permit, she still treated him as though he were ignorant of traffic rules, a complete newbie. This nettled him, but he tried to be patient and took her instructions without protest. He once talked to Yabin about Funi’s temper. His friend smiled and said people were inclined to have a short fuse when teaching others how to drive. As a matter of fact, Yabin had lost a girlfriend when she took driving lessons from him. “A car can be like a gunpowder chamber if you’re teaching someone to drive—you can get touchy and ready to erupt,” he said, shaking his head of wavy hair. Hearing Yabin’s words, Tian tried to be more tolerant with Funi when she was crying out orders at him from the passenger seat.
Another spot they often went to was the shopping plaza off Falls Boulevard. In the evenings, after nine o’clock, it was almost deserted, so it was safe to practice three-point turns and parallel parking there. Funi wanted to make sure he mastered all the skills required for the road test, and he practiced as much as he could. Once in a while, at dusk, he even drove alone in the cemetery. Since she didn’t accompany him to that place nowadays, he went there and came back alone only by small traffic-less streets. He promised her that he wouldn’t get on any busy road without her beside him, and he never broke his word.
Then one evening, as they were heading back to Quincy Center along Furnace Brook Parkway, for some reason he kept crossing the yellow line that divided the blacktop. There were no other vehicles in view, so he cruised between the lanes with ease. Suddenly Funi grabbed the steering wheel and swerved the car back into the right lane. He was irritated and demanded, “Why did you do that?”
“It’s dangerous to drive like that.”
“Don’t be a smartass,” he said.
“You think you’re about to get your license and become a good driver? Let me tell you, if you’re not careful, you might get others and yourself killed.”
“I’ve been careful and will be more careful, all right?”
“Damn it, Tian, once you develop a bad habit, it will creep up on you.”
“You always think so highly of yourself. Ever since I started taking driving lessons from you, you’ve been snapping at me. Enough is enough!”
“Such a dope!” she spat out.
He pulled up and got out of the car and slammed the door shut. “Good night—I don’t want to see your face for now.” He strode onto a side street that led to a shortcut to Quincy Center.
Without missing a beat, Funi slid into the driver’s seat and drove away. “Fuck you, Yao Tian!” she shouted through the half-down window. He was shocked that she would leave like that.
It was warm, a stir of spring in the air, and the tree branches were furry with sprouting leaves, waving in the fitful breeze. As he was walking along, he felt like singing, so he swung south to the deserted quarry, where a chorus of frogs was rising and expanding from the water. A broad-winged hawk coasted away and faded into a bank of indigo clouds above the shadowy woods of junipers and tamaracks. He entered the dark ground and began to bellow a song, garbling the lyrics in places. He sang with gusto and at moments only scatted. Without an audience to watch him, he just chanted freely. Yet as he was doing this, all the frogs turned quiet as if to give him an ear. He went on singing for almost an hour.
* * *
—
It was nearly midnight when he returned to the apartment, and the lights were all out. Without washing up or brushing his teeth, he crawled into bed and slept soundly.
The next morning, while he was still in bed, Funi called to him from the living room: “Tian, time to go to work!”
He got out of bed and pulled on his jeans and rushed to the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he came out, rubbing his face with a towel, Funi said, “We’re gonna be late. Hurry up.”
The moment he got into her car, she took out an egg sandwich with bologna on a bagel and handed it to him. “Your breakfast,” she said evenly.
“Thanks.” He took a bite. It was delicious, the fried egg still warm and the smoked meat spiced just right. He munched on the sandwich ravenously.
“I’ll tell you what, Tian,” she went on. “You don’t know what’s good for you. Don’t assume because you used to be a celebrity, you’re entitled to favors from others. If I were teaching someone else to drive, they’d need to pay me at least twenty dollars an hour.”
That was true—she had refused to take money from him even though he had offered. She was entrusting him with her car, and he ought to be grateful. A rush of shame came over him, keeping him s
ilent all the way to the work site.
Starting the next day, she let him drive them to work and back. This meant that every day he drove at least thirty miles on the highway, and his confidence grew by the day. The road test was in late April, just two weeks away, so he had to practice more, especially parallel parking.
He passed the test without incident and Funi was impressed. She confessed it had taken her three tries to get her license. He treated her to dim sum at China Pearl. She loved chicken feet and steamed crayfish. He enjoyed the exquisite dumplings enfolded in semitransparent wrappings, stuffed with vegetables or shrimp. The dim sum at China Pearl was more traditional, more authentically Cantonese, than what he was used to, and some of the items were exotic and dainty to him. He and Funi sat at a window table. Whenever a food cart passed by, he stopped it and urged her to pick something more. They also had Budweiser and Pu’er tea.
As they were eating, Funi confessed this was the first time a man had taken her out to a restaurant. Her confession surprised Tian. True, she wasn’t a stunning beauty, but she was capable and healthy, with a sunny face and bright eyes and abundant hair; her youthfulness and vivacious manner should have drawn some man’s attention.
“Haven’t you had a boyfriend?” he asked.
“I’ve had two, but we lived in the countryside. If we went out, we just ate at a food stand—a bowl of rice noodles or a few pork buns. Poor folks don’t eat in real restaurants, you know.”