A Free Life

by Ha Jin

  “How often did you go to the bathhouse?”

  “Usually once a week. There’s too many people everywhere.”

  “Where did you live—I mean, in what kind of housing?”

  “We have one room.”

  “Like a studio with a kitchenette and a bathroom in it?”

  “No, just one room.”

  “Really? Do most Chinese live like that?”

  “Some people.”

  “My goodness, I guess my house can accommodate a hundred Chinese.” Heidi tittered, a hacking noise in her throat.

  “Not true,” Pingping said, coloring. “Nan’s parents live in four-bedrooms apartment, and my younger brother have three huge rooms for his family.”

  “I was just kidding.” Heidi smiled, rather embarrassed. She sloshed the wine around in her glass and took a mouthful.

  Nan was amazed that Pingping, despite her preference for American life, would be so sensitive about Heidi’s casual remark. She and he often complained about China in harsh language between themselves, but to Pingping, others mustn’t say anything unjustifiably negative about their native land without giving offense. If only he and his wife could break off with China altogether and squeeze every bit of it out of themselves!

  Heidi turned to Nan. “What’s the major difference to you?” She narrowed her eyes as if sleepy.

  “In China every day I wanted to jump up and fight wiz someone. On buses, in restaurants, and in movie theaters, anywhere I went, I wanted to fight. Zere you have to fight to survive, but here I don’t want to fight wiz anyone, as eef I lost my spirit.”

  “It’s true,” Pingping put in. “He’s real fighter in China.”

  “I don’t understand.” Heidi shook her fluffy, slightly grizzled head. “You mean you’re more peaceful or more oppressed here?”

  “I can’t tell for sure,” he said. “Back in China I knew how to deal wiz bad guys, so I eizer confront them or avoided zem, but here I can’t fight anyone. I’m not sure how far I can go, where to stop.”

  “That’s strange.”

  Pingping added, “What big temper he used to have. He’s more like gentleman now. Some Chinese men are mean, think themselves superior than women. They treat their wife like house servant.”

  “A lot of American men abuse women too,” Heidi said.

  Nan didn’t comment, lost in thought. What good would fighting and yelling do here? Who cares what noise I make? The louder I shout, the bigger a fool I’ll make of myself. I feel like a crippled man here.

  Pingping kept on, “I glad Nan stopped mix with his Chinese friends. When they’re together, they talk nothing, only politics. How to save the country, how to run government, how to take Taiwan back, how to beat Japan, and how to deal with USA. Everybody like prime minister or something.”

  Heidi tittered while Nan grimaced, knowing his wife wasn’t totally wrong. Heidi had by now emptied the whole bottle of wine. Before dinner she had heard from Pingping about the factory’s imminent move, so she asked Nan, “Are you going to look for another job?”

  “Of coss.”

  “You have a master’s, don’t you?”

  “Yes, just got it.”

  “Do you want me to talk to the principal of West Oxford? I’ve known him for a number of years. They might need someone to teach Chinese.”

  Nan hesitated, unsure if he should express his interest. He didn’t have a degree in Chinese, and that preparatory school might not consider him at all. He had looked for a teaching position in the language before and had been turned down again and again on the grounds that his specialty was political science. Pingping said, “Thank you, Heidi. I don’t think Nan should teach little kids. He has best mind in our generation, a published poet in China. People know him like scholar.”

  Nan remained silent, moved but also abashed. He thought about his wife’s words. She talked as if they were still in China. They were in America now and had to compromise.

  He looked at Pingping and then at Heidi. His wife kept a straight face, blushing up to the ears, while Heidi, tipsy, simpered vaguely.

  11

  A LETTER from Nan’s parents arrived two weeks after Thanksgiving. His father wrote that Nan shouldn’t be too paranoid and that they had indeed found in the envelope a thick hair, which they could tell belonged to nobody but their oldest son. This verification enraged Nan, because in fact he had not enclosed a hair in his letter at all. The mail examiner must have put in a substitute. Now, Nan was convinced that he was blacklisted. Unsettled, he tried to recall his conversation with Danning from a few weeks earlier so as to grasp the implications he might have missed. He was afraid that his trouble with the authorities might affect the careers of his siblings back home, one of whom, his younger brother, was a reporter at an official newspaper.

  In the postscript his father wrote:

  My son, I hate to reiterate this, but I ought to say it again. At home you could depend on your parents, but in America you are on your own and should make as many friends as you can. Remember, one more friend is one more way of survival. Don’t put on airs and insulate yourself. Try to befriend as many people as possible. You don’t know who may hold out a helpful hand in your hour of need.

  The old bugger is full of crap! Nan said to himself. Here we’re alone and can’t possibly depend on friends for our survival. Besides, all the Chinese here have changed and become self-centered and won’t share time and resources with others. Everyone is struggling to keep himself from sinking. It’s not like in China, where you can attach yourself to a high-ranking official and live in a network of friends snugly as long as you make no waves and don’t get ahead of others.

  Nan had never been close to his father, who had looked down on him because as a college instructor, Nan couldn’t get decent housing for his own family and had to live in a room borrowed from his father’s beverage research institute. The old man often said to Pingping that Nan at most had a second-rate mind, but Pingping would counter, “He’s better than you. He’ll be a professor someday.” Her father-in-law would hoot, far from offended, though he still called Nan “a born loser.” On his fifty-sixth birthday five years before, the old man had excluded Nan from the dinner party because he had invited some important guests and was afraid that Nan, gauche and absentminded, might make a gaffe. Nan’s younger brother Ning, smooth-tongued and more outgoing, kept their father’s friends company at the party. That hurt Nan. He didn’t respect the old man, who lived in a network of officials and was nothing but an empleomaniac, foolishly perusing the histories of various dynasties, particularly the Ming and the Ching, to learn statecraft (or political trickery); this despite the fact that the old man was in charge of a department of only ninety people and was already close to retirement age. In private Nan called his father “a lifetime lackey.”

  The letter from home disturbed Pingping as well. She advised Nan to forgive his father and not to be annoyed. She even ventured, “He might have a point. You shouldn’t continue to live like this.”

  “What can I do, eh?” asked Nan.

  “Maybe go to school again?”

  “To study what? Law or business or computer science?”

  “I didn’t say any of those. Why can’t you specialize in something you like? You write in English better than most people. Why not put that to good use?”

  “I need money for tuition. Nowadays there’re so many Chinese students in America that schools don’t give as many scholarships as before. After the Tiananmen massacre, who still wants to admit students from that ruthless country?”

  “But it won’t hurt to try.”

  They did have some savings, which both of them had agreed not to touch—they must keep some cash on hand in case of emergency, now that their child was with them. “I want to be a writer, to write many books,” Nan muttered.

  “In Chinese?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ll have no chance if you do that.”

  “Why do you say that?”

>   “Where can you have your writings published? Besides, you can’t get along with those Chinese writers living in this area. Some of them are plain scoundrels. You’re a different type and can never find acceptance among them.”

  “You worry too much. I don’t need to befriend anyone to be a writer. If my work is good, of course someone will publish it. My problem is that I have to make a living as well, have to secure a regular income. That I don’t know how to do.” He grasped the chest of his olive green turtleneck and shook it. “Never have I felt so useless. I don’t know how to sell myself here, I don’t know how to sell anything, I can never be a salesman! Oh well, as I’m already worthless, I’d better not dream of making a salary.”

  Pingping fell silent. Nan’s state of mind troubled her. How could they live decently if he indulged in writing poetry? She wasn’t even sure whether he had talent for that, though he had published about a dozen short poems back in China, all in small magazines. She knew that if he studied any subject in the humanities or social sciences, he might become a scholar eventually. But somehow he had just lost interest in academia, though he was still a dreamer and read a lot every day. True, he had always worked since coming to America, but he seemed to be getting nowhere and had never held a real job. Among some of his compatriots at Brandeis, Nan had a nickname, Mr. Wagon Man, because he had once quoted Emerson at a party—“Hitch your wagon to a star”—in an attempt to dissuade a linguist from switching to the field of economics. A historian, an arch-browed man from Henan Province, admonished Nan not to “parrot that so-called New England sage” who was a racist and always despised the Chinese.

  Nan let out a sigh and told Pingping, “Don’t worry. I’ll figure out a way. I’ll make certain Taotao will live a life better than ours.”

  “Sure, that’s why we are here.”

  She said no more, not wanting to pressure him. In a way, she was pleased to know he still wanted to write, which indicated that he hadn’t lost his spirit, though at the same time she feared he might blunder into a blind alley. She had no idea what she could do here. Compared with her, Nan was far more capable and should be able to lead a full life if he found his way. In any case, he mustn’t remain wobbly too long; this family depended on him.

  12

  “I’M YOUR FRIEND. You can trust me,” Nan said to Pingping two days later.

  They were sitting on the sky blue carpet in Nan’s bedroom while their son watched television in the other room, letting out peals of laughter from time to time. Pingping understood what Nan implied—no matter how he tried, he couldn’t love her wholeheartedly. Accustomed to his confessions of this kind, she murmured while looking away and choking back her tears, “Still, I love you.”

  He sighed. “If only I could go somewhere nobody can find me. I’m so tired.”

  “You always want to walk out on us!”

  “No, I’ve never thought of doing anything like that.”

  “Fine. I want a divorce so you’ll have to support both Taotao and me.”

  “You know I’ll never have enough money for the alimony. Divorce will make matters worse, unless you marry a rich man.” He forced a smile.

  “I hate you! You’ve turned me into your servant, your slave!”

  That silenced him. He dared not continue—more exchange on this subject would make her more distraught. She might even go to the lawyer’s office next to the bank at the town center and file for divorce. He regretted having brought it up again.

  It was true that he didn’t love her, but it was also true that he had always cherished her as his wife, determined to be a decent husband and father. He felt for her, knowing she loved him devotedly. Many times she had said that death would be a great relief for her, and that only because Taotao was still so young did she have to live, to raise him. She’d accuse Nan of having a heart of stone—however hard she tried to please and comfort him, he’d be as impassive as before.

  The truth was that, exhausted emotionally, he was incapable of loving any woman. Ever since his first love, Beina, had abandoned him eight years before, his heart had remained numb. Soon after that ill-fated relationship he had met Pingping, who had also been crossed in love, jilted by a naval officer. Nan married her soon afterward because they enjoyed spending time together and both were tired of dating, and because he assumed that the marriage would help him heal quickly, at least forcing him to forget the heartless Beina. He knew he didn’t love Pingping passionately, but now that he was too tired to look for another woman, why not marry her to help her out? Also, love could always be developed and nurtured after they married. Afraid of hurting her feelings, he had told her he loved her and wanted to live with her for the rest of his life. She adored him, saying he was the most honest and intelligent man she had ever met, although he appeared a little absentminded and was so kindhearted that some people would take advantage of him.

  If only he could pluck Beina out of his heart! Now and then this scene would rise behind his eyes: He was standing in a cold drizzle and drenched through, in his arm a bouquet of carnations that had turned fresher and crisper in the rain. In the distance, horses’ hooves were clattering on an asphalt road, the sound mixed with a muffled jingle of harness bells; a horn boomed from a ferryboat in the north as if to announce a solemn ceremony. He had been waiting more than three hours, but that wild-eyed woman never showed up. He guessed she must have gone to a beach resort to celebrate her twenty-sixth birthday with another man. How Nan was crushed! Why? Why? Why? His heart writhed with endless questions. He felt maimed, as though all of a sudden drained of lifeblood. When he met her two days later, she said with that impenetrable smile on her plump lips, “I just didn’t feel like coming out on that wet day. Didn’t I tell you it was over between us?”

  “Then why did you hint you were expecting a birthday present?”

  “That’s not what I meant.” She laughed that ringing laugh and swung her waist-length hair. “I just said, ‘A real man should be fierce like an eagle and gentle like a dove. Give me a man like that. That would be a real gift.’ I didn’t mean I wanted something from you.” She kept her eyes up to the starlit sky as if speaking to someone up there.

  Too sick to listen to her anymore, Nan strode away and left her alone waiting for the bus to go home. For a long time afterward he lived in a daze, his heart often gripped by paroxysms of pain. Later he learned that Beina’s new lover, a translator of Japanese who worked in the same information office as she, often went to Japan on behalf of their sewing machine factory and brought back fancy merchandise. The man had presented her with a red Yamaha scooter, which she rode to work, catching envious eyes on the streets. By contrast, Nan couldn’t even buy her a new bicycle. Never had he thought she could be bought that way. He felt as if she had stolen his heart, crushed it, and dumped it somewhere he couldn’t find it. If only he could shut her out of his mind. If only he could get her out of his system!

  Two years later, after his son was born, Nan ran into a former classmate who talked at length about the wild Beina, who had recently gone to Beijing to take a test for an English interpreter position at the UN but hadn’t even made the first cut. Nonetheless, that impressed Nan, and coming home, he couldn’t help but confess to his wife that he still missed his ex-girlfriend terribly. Pressed by Pingping, he admitted he had married her not out of love but out of convenience and compassion. “No,” he confessed, “I have no strong feelings for any woman except for Beina. If only I had never met her.”

  Wordlessly Pingping turned her face away. Tears, as if forced up from her constricted chest, rolled down her cheeks. His confession upset her so much that her breasts, swollen with milk, went dry the next day.

  After coming to America, Nan lived alone during the first one and a half years. He assumed that the distance of an ocean and a continent might help develop his affection for his wife into love, since sometimes he did miss her, but the numbness in his heart never went away. He also thought he’d forget Beina; yet she wrote to ask him to hel
p her pay application fees at some American universities. He did that, but afterward he never heard a word from her. Obviously no graduate school admitted her. Somehow even her failure gave him more pain.

  Every once in a while he felt attracted to women, especially if they had red hair, but he knew he couldn’t love anyone ardently. He had desire, yet little passion. So he didn’t try to know any woman. As a matter of fact, as far as desire was concerned, he was normal and strong. Pingping often said he was good in bed, yet he knew that wasn’t the reason she had stayed with him: it was because of their child. And he was grateful for that, since he too wanted an intact family for Taotao. In this place neither he nor she had another person to turn to. They were stuck together and had to depend on each other to survive.

  If only he were able to love her passionately! If only he weren’t so sick at heart! He was tired, and this emotional fatigue had been sinking deeper and deeper into his being. Yet strangely enough, these days the desire for writing often stirred him and demanded an instant release. At work in the factory he wrote several poems, none of which turned out promising, so he put them aside and spent his time poring over Frost’s Selected Poems.

  13

  EVER SINCE Don had told him about the factory’s move, Nan had been looking for a job. He had also been reading books on poetry writing. Sometimes at night he tried to write poems, but the words he put on paper ended up seeming flat and incoherent. Usually the beginning would be strong, but then the lines would sag as the poem proceeded, as if there were a leak that sank the speaking voice. Nan was afraid he no longer had the youthful energy for making poetry. A decade ago, when he had just fallen in love with Beina, he had written more than a hundred poems, all of which came with ease. At times he had poured out two or three pieces a day; every part of her became his subject—her lamplike eyes, her peachy face, her pearly teeth, her dainty hands, her swift mind, her quivering hips, above all her fearless spirit. But after she had jilted him, he burned the notebook containing all his love poems. If only he could be possessed by that kind of head-over-heels feelings again. In contrast, though the desire to write frequently spurred him on, every line now was a big struggle, marred by diffidence and sluggishness.