by Ha Jin
“That’s old news, Tian. She broke up with the Russian guy when he went back to Vladivostok. Now she’s my rep in my beverage business on the mainland, where American wines and beers sell very well. Freda gets commissions from the sales there. I know she hates me at heart, and I wish I didn’t have to use her, but she’s indispensable for my business.”
“I can’t imagine how you two can work together if you don’t get along.”
“In the beginning I tried to be nice to her, but it was hard going, like a cracked bowl—no matter how well you mend it, the crack is always there. So far we have managed because there’s money to make.”
“Does that mean you two can’t have a real relationship like before?”
“Well, like I said, she’s difficult. But to be fair, she said you’d made the right decision to marry Funi.”
“Really? My daughter told me she said I had no taste in women.”
“That was what she thought in the beginning. She gradually came to see that you and Funi suited each other well. She also said even if she loved you, she couldn’t have been as devoted as Funi, and she would have tried her best to bring you back to China. She believed your ex-wife had betrayed and ruined you.”
That reminded Tian of the same headstrong Freda, who would never change her conviction. He asked Yabin, “Will she come back to the States eventually?”
“I don’t think so. She claims her roots are in China and she won’t leave our motherland. She’s the same crackpot and more of a braggart now, plus a little pinko,” said Yabin, dropping the term for a young patriotic zealot.
Tian said, “As long as she’s there, she can be more useful to you.”
“She has become a first-rate businesswoman. But she’s also an old maid now, a typical ‘leftover lady,’ and seems to hate men categorically.”
Tian felt that was overstated, but he didn’t counter his friend.
On the distant beach two teenagers, a boy and a girl, were flinging a scarlet Frisbee. Beyond them the bay was still and boatless. Thick cumulus clouds floated above, some gliding and some bouncing.
Before Yabin left the next morning, he gave Funi a small envelope containing twenty hundred-dollar bills as a wedding gift. He told her, “I have no idea what you and Tian really need, so let me leave you this as a present. Please take good care of Tian. He’ll be a model husband for you and will make you proud.”
She nodded and thanked him.
50
As long as you have no regrets, you shouldn’t be afraid of death. That was what Tian had learned in the period of struggling between life and death. But he did have his regret, a deep one. He still wanted to sing, but his voice was no longer strong enough. This often made him ponder what to do.
Teaching his young voice students was a different kind of work. There wasn’t the transcendent feeling of performance; he sang only to demonstrate techniques to his students. It was just routine work, though he was glad he could make a living. He charged each of them seventy dollars an hour. Their parents were pleased about the price, especially after seeing the progress their children had made. Among his students there was a teenager named Walter Lucero, whose mother was Chinese and father Dominican. Walter had a big deep voice and sang in a church choir, but his mother insisted he study with Tian in hopes that he would become a professional. That was the boy’s ambition too. Tian was fond of Walter and paid extra attention to teaching him, expanding the range of his voice and developing his ability to sing various styles. Walter came to his lessons punctually and prepared without fail.
Sometimes Tian felt restless with his yearning to sing at full pitch, but he dared not. Dr. Rabb had advised him not to strain his voice—if he had to sing, he should sing moderately to avoid hurting his lungs. Thanks partly to his itching desire to perform, he began to write song lyrics, which might be set to music if they were good enough. He didn’t know much about composition but he knew enough songs to sense what might work well.
He was a novice in songwriting, but as an experienced singer, he could tell what words would sound best. Sometimes he could write two songs in a day. He wanted his songs to have an edge, with words that had teeth, socially resonant and relatable. One of them bore the very title “Edges.” It went:
How is even my last edge gone?
I tighten my belt every day
But my waistline keeps growing.
My face has lost its youthful color.
Heavens, why is it so pudgy
With all the sharp angles dulled?
Since when did I become a round man,
Every part of me smooth like a ball,
Even my tongue glib with words
Of caution and rules?
From today on I will master the art of hunger
And let myself shrink to my original size.
I will shed all the extra weight
To make my limbs move with ease.
All my edges will surface again.
He sent some of his lyrics to Yabin and Tan Mai. Mai was impressed by them and offered to set a few to music. This pleased him greatly—she was one of the best composers he had known. She loved his short song “The Ostrich Spirit,” though he had misgivings about how to sing such a sardonic piece:
When trouble is coming
I turn around and bury my head in sand.
My eyes cannot see in the dark,
My ears hear only silence.
Let others run the danger
So I can survive unharmed.
Ow, don’t kick my rump!
Don’t cut my neck with your machete!
Good man, I am too thin for your plate,
Not enough for a hamburger.
He also wrote some lyrics with the current global situation in mind. China had grown so strong economically in recent years that Western democracies had begun retreating from their fundamental principles so that they could make more profits. Some Western dignitaries were now being paid a quarter of a million dollars to speak at Chinese conventions, and, as a result, personal interests undermined their moral integrity. It was time to remind people that democracy must not retreat any further, or the Chinese government would export its system of digital autocracy to control and dominate the world.
Another song he was proud of also had some social resonance. It was called “Wings of Butterflies” and Tan Mai found it quite evocative. It went like this:
In the eyes of the powerful
We are just a swarm of butterflies,
Feeble without a voice
And no harm to anyone.
Now is the time to flap our wings together.
From our tiny motions a storm is gathering
And it will cross the ocean to throw
A hurricane on another shore.
Oh butterflies, go on flapping your wings.
Your little motions will shake
Many evil kingdoms far away
And topple them one after another.
Tan Mai assured him that she’d do her best to create appropriate music for the lyrics, and she also encouraged him to work to gain his voice back. She hoped that eventually he could perform his own songs. But to his mind, his own performance was less important than the songs themselves. If made well enough, they would find singers on their own wings.
* * *
—
Tan Mai came to visit. She hadn’t yet met Funi, and she wanted to come and show her friendship and support for Tian’s new marriage. She and Tian also had some business to discuss—the music she’d composed for his lyrics. In her music she often drew on the traditional Chinese teahouses in the countryside of the Yangtze delta; at those small public gatherings, comedians and storytellers entertained a familiar audience. Mai wanted to convey the lively atmosphere in her music, to
make it irreverent and funny. She put in a small gong that would produce a crisp, jolly rhythm. The playful elements she created suited his comic lyrics well. Hearing her hum the melodies and beat the gong she’d brought along, he could tell that the music would animate his lines, infusing them with more drama.
As he and Tan Mai were comparing notes in the living room, Funi brought in lunch in foam boxes, which contained crepes stuffed with various fillings: chicken, fish, beef, vegetables. She’d bought them from an eatery inside Kam Man Food. Funi very much liked Tan Mai, who had presented her with a set of stainless-steel pots, five pieces in total, as a wedding present. Tian was amused to see such an accomplished artist concerned with cookware. Tan Mai must be a good mother and a devoted wife. He respected her all the more for those roles as well.
“You should eat while the food is still warm,” Funi told Tan Mai and Tian. Then she took four cups out of the dishwasher and turned to the refrigerator for orange juice and cider.
His daughter happened to be in his room, so he called her out for lunch. Tingting came over and helped Funi place napkins and plates on the table. As they munched on the crepes, Tan Mai seemed to enjoy every bite, but Tian still couldn’t eat chicken and was having fish instead. During his chemotherapy, he’d eaten only chicken sandwiches for lunch in the infusion room, and as a result, he couldn’t tolerate the taste of chicken now.
Tan Mai and Tingting started chatting about American campus life. Tan Mai, looking like a typical auntie now, had two sons in college, the older one at Carnegie Mellon majoring in finance, and the younger one a freshman at UCLA. Tian was afraid Funi might feel left out, so from time to time he tried to bring her into their conversation, but his efforts only felt intrusive.
“How old are you?” Tan Mai asked Tingting.
“Almost twenty-one,” his daughter replied, smiling.
“My older son is twenty-two, a senior. How about being my son’s girlfriend? I’d love to have you as my daughter-in-law someday.”
Tingting blushed and dropped her eyes. “Well, Mai,” Funi said, joining in at last, “it’s so nice of you to say that, but Tingting already has a boyfriend, an excellent guy.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, Tingting,” Tan Mai said. “My son has a girlfriend actually, but I’m sure they won’t be together for long. That girl is too pampered, like a princess. She won’t lift a finger to help me in my home, and my son must dance to her whistle. Worst of all, she came here from Shanghai originally when she was seven, and now she only speaks English. I really hope my son marries someone who speaks Mandarin so he can learn it too. Right now, he can’t even communicate with his grandparents!”
“You shouldn’t interfere too much with your son’s life,” Tian said cautiously.
“I’m his mother and ought to be worried about him. If you come to New York, Tingting, please visit us.”
“I will, Auntie,” said the girl.
Tan Mai was staying with her uncle in Newton. She was even driving the old man’s car. As Tian went down to see her out, she said to him, “I’m so happy for you, Tian. Undoubtedly Funi loves you and will make you a good wife. Don’t you feel like you’re getting a second life?”
“I do,” he said. “It’s also because of you, helping me as a composer.”
“We’re a team. I make music for your lyrics because I love them.”
“Thank you!” He couldn’t say more. Instead he placed his hand on his heart and let it remain there.
“I like your daughter. You’re lucky to have two young women around you.”
“Well, you could say that.”
Tan Mai slid into her uncle’s Lincoln and pulled away. It was good that she had driven over rather than taking the train, because lately a heavy snowstorm had partly disabled the train service. For almost a week the Red Line was replaced by buses from Quincy Center to downtown Boston. Every sidewalk was banked with snow, some places as high as seven feet. People, especially senior citizens, had been talking about moving south to escape the New England winter and ice.
Tian often reflected on his partnership with Tan Mai, feeling it might be something preordained by a mysterious power beyond his perception. Over the years he’d met numerous accomplished musicians and composers—how come Tan Mai was the only one who had become a close friend and collaborator? This was a great stroke of fortune for him, like a miracle. By any means he had to cherish and nurture their friendship, now so essential for his artistic survival and growth. He hoped he would be able to collaborate with her for a long time to come.
* * *
—
He’d been taking turmeric and vitamins and fish oil religiously every day. Whenever he had pain in his body, Funi would give him cupping to relieve it. They’d found a new way of doing this, after watching on YouTube a doctor of traditional Chinese medicine in Guangzhou. The woman pierced the skin of her patients’ sore spots so that the cups could improve the blood circulation in those areas more effectively. Funi performed cupping on Tian in a similar fashion, which bit by bit drew the extravasated blood from his body. He believed that this also prevented excess fluid from building up inside him, which could be a fatal symptom for victims of internal cancer. He told Dr. Rabb and Samantha about his cupping treatment. They remarked that the great swimmer Michael Phelps, among other American athletes, had used cupping to relieve his muscle pain and fatigue, so they didn’t disapprove, as long as it reduced Tian’s symptoms.
His most recent checkup showed that his cancer was in remission. The tumors were dead, having left only scars, and there was no new growth. Dr. Rabb told him, “From now on, you will have a checkup every six months. Your condition is stabilized and I must say that your family has done a great job.”
Indeed, without Funi and Tingting and Jawei, he couldn’t possibly have survived the treatment. He asked Dr. Rabb, “Does this mean I’m cancer-free now?”
“You’re on your way to that goal. We will keep a close eye on you. You will be all right.”
Tian often traded information with Mr. Bao, whose liver cancer was completely under control; he was down to a single annual checkup now. He told Tian on the phone, “When they give you only an annual checkup, that means your cancer is basically cured. They call you someone ‘with a history of cancer.’ ”
Tian asked, “Does that mean cancer-free?”
“Not really. It means you are no longer a cancer patient. Tian, you must take heart. I bet, now that you’ve looked death in the eye, you are a wiser man than two years ago, and you know how to live a better life.”
That was true. The life-and-death experience had given him clarity, and finally he could see what was really valuable. He was no longer worried about small gains and losses and wanted to live a meaningful life on his own terms.
CODA
51
The next spring he and Funi bought a new apartment in Quincy Center. It was a renovated condo in a former nursing home that had fallen into disuse long before. They liked the brick exterior and the solid structure of the building, so they decided to buy the unit when it was up for sale. It was small, less than seven hundred square feet, but enough for the two of them. Funi and he had come up with the down payment together. In fact, they had a joint bank account now. Every time he got a paycheck, he would hand it to her. She handled their financial matters—compared to him, she was better at balancing books and making budgets work. In every way they lived like an established couple. Their life had become uneventful.
Meanwhile his songs had gained popularity—some were now widely performed in the Chinese diaspora. Both Tan Mai and he were listed as the songwriters, she the composer and he the lyricist. Thus far, they had been selling sheet music mainly. Recently a recording company had approached them and offered to produce an album of the songs, twelve in total. He agreed to sing just one of them, “Wings of Butterflies.” He would keep writing to the
very end of his life in hopes of making a few great songs.
What pleased him more was that Tingting and Jawei were no longer talking about going back to China—the young man’s father had urged him to stay on after college. The old man had lost his think tank, disbanded by the government on the grounds that the institute had “harbored many pro-Western thinkers,” some of whom even ran websites for foreign NGOs. Jawei would pursue graduate work in biochemistry in the States, probably toward a PhD. Tian told them that he hoped they would both immigrate. Since he was a U.S. citizen, Tingting was qualified for immigration as long as she was unmarried. She and Jawei agreed to start the process without delay. Once she had a green card, they’d marry so that he could apply for it too.
Tian continued to work on his singing. His memory was improving and he could sing an entire song without pausing to recall the lyrics. Yet he could see that he couldn’t possibly become a professional singer again. This awareness made him more determined to write better songs. He translated some of his songs into English, hoping they’d reach a wider audience. His teaching was going well. There were more applicants than he could accept. Right now he had seven students and would maintain such a number. Walter Lucero had been with Tian for one and a half years now and had just formed a small band of his own—they mainly played rock. In addition to singing, he also strummed the guitar and piped the bamboo flute. Tian could tell he was a well-rounded talent. Sometimes his band performed at local bars and community gatherings.
One early summer day Walter invited Tian to attend the opening of a bar in the South End. His band was going to play there, and he said Tian’s presence would mean a lot to him and his bandmates. Tian agreed to come and even sing for them. Usually he went out alone or with a friend or two in the evenings—Funi disliked mixing with others at bars and public gatherings. Probably she also meant to give him more freedom. He had once joked that he might hit on someone without her around, but Funi only said, “I wouldn’t mind if you have another woman. As long as she’s good to you I’d have no problem with that.”