A Free Life

by Ha Jin

  After the professor’s speech, a noted dissident named Manping Liu went up and began to speak. This man in his mid-fifties had once headed China’s Central Institute of Social Reforms, but owing to his involvement with the student movement the previous spring, he had fled the country and was now living in New York City. He had a strong but lean face, and his voice sounded metallic and resonant. He talked about the necessity of developing democracy within the Communist Party, because there wasn’t yet another political force in China that could rival the ruling party, and because the country couldn’t afford to have a hiatus in governing power if the Communist rule was abolished. His argument and analyses were cogent and at moments subtle, able to hold the audience. He emphasized that China’s hope lay in reforming the Communist Party. Nan had read some of Mr. Liu’s articles and was familiar with his thoughts, but today he felt there was something unsavory in his speech that Nan couldn’t put his finger on, though he hadn’t lost his reverence for the scholar’s sincerity. Everyone could tell that Mr. Liu was speaking from his heart. Somehow Nan kept observing the old man’s hand, which was small and delicate like a young woman’s and which was gesturing as he spoke. That hand, a true scholar’s, was born to wield a pen.

  Then Yong Chu, the poet, took the microphone. He had served as an aircraft pilot in the Chinese Nationalist Army for five years, dog-fighting the Communists’ MiGs over Taiwan Strait. Though getting on toward sixty, he was the picture of health, with a dark, strong face like a peasant’s. It was said that he could drink a whole bottle of vodka at one sitting without getting drunk. His poetry often showed a kind of masculinity that was rarely found in the works of contemporary Chinese poets. Mr. Chu announced in a booming voice:

  “The Tiananmen Democracy Movement is the greatest event of mankind. It demonstrates the Chinese people’s bravery and resolve. Weilin Wang, the young man who single-handedly stopped a column of tanks, is a national hero whose image has lodged in the minds of the whole world and whose name will be recorded in history forever. In one fearless stroke he removed all the shame from my face. He showed the world that there are still courageous Chinese willing to lay down their lives for an ideal. He’s our pride and China’s pride, and so are all the heroes in Tiananmen Square who sacrificed themselves for democracy. Their immortal deeds have made our personal achievements look so trivial that I feel I have shrunk to nothing. Here I declare that the whole body of my poetry isn’t even worth one drop of the blood shed by the martyrs in Tiananmen Square…”

  The speech annoyed Nan, whose illusion of this master poet quickly vanished. He wondered why Mr. Chu had let national pride supersede the value of his poetry, as though patriotism and literary arts should be judged by the same criteria. As an accomplished poet, he should see that the function of his poetry was to transcend history and to outlast politics and that a poet should be responsible mainly for the language he used. Instead, he was haranguing like an official in charge of propaganda.

  Before the meeting was over, Nan left the auditorium with Danning, who invited him to go to his place for dinner. Danning now had a girlfriend named Sirong, a visiting scholar from Beijing. But Nan would have to get home and have some sleep before going to work that evening, so instead they went to the Harvard Science Center for coffee.

  In the cafeteria Nan took a decaf and Danning a mocha to a table. “I’m going back to China next month,” Danning told him the moment they sat down.

  “Really? Are you going to teach somewhere?”

  “At the People’s University.”

  “Does it have a physics department?”

  “They have a computer science program where I’ll teach, but I’m not that interested in teaching. I’ve been writing fiction. Actually, I had a novella just accepted by Spring Breeze. It will come out in the fall.”

  “Congratulations!” Nan was amazed despite knowing the bimonthly was a provincial literary magazine.

  “Thanks. I plan to devote myself to writing novels,” said Danning.

  “Then what will you do with your Ph.D. in physics?”

  “I’ll use it to earn a salary.”

  “That’s a good arrangement. I’m impressed, also jealous. You’re on your way.”

  “No matter where I go, I feel I’m a Chinese to the marrow. I’m terribly homesick recently, perhaps because I’m getting old and soft-headed.”

  “You’re only thirty-five.”

  “But I feel I’m aging rapidly in this country.”

  “To be honest, I don’t worry about my nationality anymore. I wear my nationality like a coat.” There was so much bitterness in Nan’s voice that his friend was startled.

  “That can’t be true. That’s just your fantasy, Nan. For example, you speak Chinese like a news anchorman, but your English will never be as good.”

  “Language and nationality are different issues. I just want to be a decent human being.”

  “Can you be that without loving your country, your homeland?”

  “China isn’t my country anymore. I spit at China, because it treats its citizens like gullible children and always prevents them from growing up into real individuals. It demands nothing but obedience. To me, loyalty is a two-way street. China has betrayed me, so I refuse to remain its subject anymore.”

  “Come now, you’re not an American citizen yet.”

  “I’ve wrenched China out of my heart.” Nan grimaced, his eyes brimming with tears.

  “You’re just angry. You know you can never do that, no matter how hard you try. I can see that China hurt you deeply. Your anger just shows you’re still emotionally bound to our motherland and you cannot remain detached.”

  “I wish I had more anger so that I could write genuine poetry. I feel crippled inside, numb here.” Nan placed his hand on his chest.

  “That’s because you’ve tried to cut yourself off from your roots.”

  “Enough of that patriotic nonsense. Patriotism is the last stick in the authorities’ hand. With it they strike whomever they don’t like.”

  “All right, I won’t argue with you about that, Nan. We’re going our separate ways from now on. But we’ll remain friends, won’t we?”

  “Yes, forever buddies. I wish you all good luck and a great success.”

  “I wish you a happy family. You have a lovely wife and a fine son. I envy you. You ought to cherish what you have.”

  “I have trouble with Pingping.”

  “I sensed that, but that will pass. If you live in this land, a stable family means everything. It’s like a sturdy boat in a rough sea, and you have to stay within the boat to cross the ocean.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Also, don’t ever talk to any Chinese like you did just now. You’ll get into more trouble. You don’t know who will turn you in.”

  “I’ll be more careful in front of others, of course.”

  On their way out, Nan said he was sick of his current job, which had turned him into a semi-coolie. Danning told him that a Chinese-language poetry magazine in New York City was looking for a managing editor, but he knew nothing about the pay and the workload. Nan was interested and got the phone number of the editor in chief from Danning. The two friends hugged and parted ways, walking in opposite directions along Massachusetts Avenue.

  PART TWO

  1

  NAN decided to take the job in New York. The editor in chief, Bao Yuan, had said on the phone that he could pay Nan only $1,000 per issue of the quarterly, New Lines, but he could also offer him a small room, rent-free. And Bao might help him find work in Brooklyn or Manhattan. Pingping supported Nan’s decision, fearing he might lose his mind if he didn’t quit his job at Hampden Park soon. Also, New York must hold more opportunities for him. Though the managing editorship didn’t pay much, Nan could use it as a foothold to get a start in something. The Wus had heard that a man from Shanghai, formerly a graduate student in anthropology at Tufts University, had gone to Wall Street and gotten so rich that he owned a huge apartment
on Madison Avenue. Pingping’s main concern, however, was health insurance, which Nan couldn’t possibly get in New York for the family. But many immigrants without any coverage at all had managed to survive, so she let him take the job, which might be his only chance to get out of his plight.

  “Daddy, I’ll miss you,” Taotao said to Nan as mother and son were seeing him off at the Greyhound station at Riverside.

  “I’ll miss you too. Listen to Mom when I’m not home, all right?”

  “I will. When will you come back?”

  “At the end of zis mons. Be a good boy. If you need anysing, let me know.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Taotao, in knee-length shorts, looked sad, pressing his face against his mother’s waist. He was two inches taller than the summer before, also a little thicker. Nan got on the bus, sat down in a window seat, and turned to his family. Taotao was waving his hand back and forth at him. Pingping smiled and blew him a kiss. Nan did the same, though his heart was sagging. Because he couldn’t find a decent job in the Boston area, his family couldn’t live in a place of their own, and Taotao from now on, without health insurance, would have to avoid taking part in sports at school in case he got hurt. If only he had been a better father. If only he hadn’t been such a failure. He hoped he’d return soon, as a more capable man.

  This was Nan’s second trip to New York. Two years ago he had gone there to meet with a friend of his who was on a delegation of educators from China. The old guard at the entrance to the Chinese consulate wouldn’t let him in even though Nan produced his passport and even though his friend stayed there. It was raining outside, and the guard insisted that no visitor was allowed to enter the interior of the building, so Nan and his friend could stand only in the doorway, which was already crowded with more than a dozen people. Outraged, Nan said to the gray-bearded guard, “You’ve made me feel ashamed of being a Chinese.” “Be an American, then! As if you could,” crowed the man, and his mouth jerked to the side. Later, Nan and his friend wandered along the Hudson in a steady drizzle without an umbrella. The memory of that miserable trip still rankled him.

  This time he went to Brooklyn directly, taking the C train after alighting at Port Authority Bus Terminal. He got off at Utica Avenue and without difficulty found his destination, a house with a stone facade painted white, on Macdonough Street near an elementary school. Bao Yuan, the editor in chief of New Lines, welcomed him warmly. He was thirtyish and squarely built with a patchy beard and long hair that fell on his shoulders. He took Nan’s suitcase and said, “I have the room ready for you.”

  Together they went up the narrow stairs leading to the attic. Bao pushed the sloping-topped door, which opened with a rat-a-tat screech. On the floor of the slanting-pitched room spread a mattress. An oblong coffee table stood near the dormer window, beside which was a lamp with a tattered yellowish shade. A strong smell of mildew hung in here. “I hope this is all right,” Bao said, licking his compressed teeth.

  “This is fine.” Nan liked that the floor was carpeted so he could sit on it and wouldn’t have to look for a chair.

  “You can use the kitchen and bathroom downstairs.”

  “All right.”

  “People living in this house share the phone in the living room.”

  “Fine, I’ll pay my share.”

  “We’ll talk about the editorial work this evening.”

  “Great. I’m excited about it.”

  After unpacking, Nan went out to buy some groceries. He was struck by the garbage accumulated under the curbs—plastic bottles, Styrofoam cups, scraps of paper, blanched beer cans. The air was still rain-soaked, and a few sepia puddles interrupted the sidewalk, too long for him to jump across, so he skirted them. He walked along Malcolm X Boulevard toward the subway station, where he had seen some shops an hour ago. He entered a small supermarket and picked up a bar of cheese, a bunch of bananas, and a loaf of sourdough bread. On his way back, as he was passing a strip club bearing a flickering sign with an electric martini and triple neon X’s, a paunchy black man accosted him, shouting, “Hey, do you have a quarter to spare?”

  Nan shook his head no and hurried away with the paper bag in his arm. He hadn’t expected to see so many blacks living in this area, but he felt lucky to have a room for himself, having heard that you’d pay three hundred a month to share a bedroom in New York.

  That evening Nan and Bao had tea in the kitchen. The living room was noisy, occupied by two other tenants, who were watching a game between the Yankees and the White Sox. Bao’s girlfriend, Wendy, sat with them at the kitchen table. She was a white woman with half-gray hair and a puffy face, almost twenty years older than Bao. She can easily be his mother, Nan thought. Why doesn’t Bao have a younger girlfriend?

  Bao didn’t seem to mind the age difference, though he was reluctant to show his fondness for Wendy in Nan’s presence. Wendy drank decaf coffee in place of the Tuo tea Bao had made. The original tea had been pressed into a lump like a small bowl, from which Bao had broken a piece and brewed the chunk of leaves in a pot. It tasted a little bitter, but Nan enjoyed it. The last time he’d drunk this kind of tea had been in Nanjing, where he attended a conference on reforming the power structure in the state-owned enterprises. That was seven years before.

  Bao got excited as he was describing to Nan the journal, which, though a quarterly, sometimes came out with five issues a year. “Have you seen the English part of New Lines?” Bao asked Nan, scratching his short beard.

  “Yes, it’s interesting.” As a matter of fact, Nan wasn’t impressed by the translations, which formed almost a third of each issue, as the last section.

  “Danning told me that your English is excellent. Do you think you can take charge of that part too?”

  “I’ll be glad to.”

  “Maybe occasionally you can translate some poems too.”

  “Sure. I’m writing poetry myself.”

  Bao looked at Nan in surprise, his heavy-lidded eyes doubtful. He went on slurping his tea and then put the cup into his left palm. He said, “Our circulation has just reached three thousand. Let’s hope we can make a profit soon.”

  “Do we have to be on our own financially?”

  “Not at the moment. I have begged around for money since I took over the journal five months ago. So far I’ve got some. Goodness knows what will happen if we don’t get funding next year.”

  Wendy yawned and said in a weary voice, “Honey, I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too long.”

  “Yes,” said Bao.

  “Are you going to come to bed soon?”

  “Yes.”

  Nan wasn’t sure if Bao understood her. Wendy shuffled a little as she moved to the door of their bedroom. From the rear, she looked baggy, more aged. Bao said to Nan, “Feel free to show me your poems.”

  Nan’s face brightened while his thick eyebrows lifted. “I will definitely do that.” He had read some of Bao’s poetry, which was experimental and sometimes made no sense to him, just an assembly of pretty, nebulous words. But Bao was well connected in the circle of the exiled artists and writers. If he was willing to help him, Nan might get a good start.

  Bao got up and went into the living room to call his sister in Shanghai, and Nan climbed back to his sultry garret.

  2

  THE PAY Nan got from New Lines was barely enough for supporting himself, and he had to find additional work. On Saturday morning he took the A train to Manhattan for job interviews. He arrived an hour and a half early so that he could stroll around a little. What was amazing about Chinatown and Little Italy was that every street corner smelled different. There were many foods being cooked and sold on the streets, at quite reasonable prices. Nan enjoyed sniffing the air, especially the smells of popcorn, fried onion and pepper, and Italian sausage, though now and then a stench of rotten fruit would pinch his nose. He noticed that most girls here were pale, slim, and pretty, often wearing perfume, especially those working in clothing stores. Walking along Canal Street, he
felt as if he were in a commercial district in Shanghai or Guangzhou. Signs in Chinese characters hung everywhere. The stands along the sidewalk displayed all kinds of merchandise for sale: embroidered slippers, tawdry jewelry, shirts, towels, hats, umbrellas, mechanic pencils, knockoffs of brand-name watches and Swiss army knives—all made in China. The seafood stalls were noisy and had many fishes on display. Salmon, red snapper, bighead carp, pomfret, sea bass, all lay on crushed ice and looked slimy and no longer fresh, with collapsed eyes and patches of lost scales. There were also crabs, oysters, lobster, quahogs, sea urchins, razor clams. Though all the fish were dead, some of the stalls flaunted signs claiming SEAFOOD, ALIVE AND FIERCE!

  The first interview was at the Chinese cultural center, which had a massive front door, dark like an ironclad gate. Nan arrived fifteen minutes early, so he stayed in the entryway and opened a copy of the white pages at a pay phone. He looked through some names in hopes of finding someone he knew. Whenever he was in a new place, he’d thumb through parts of its local white pages, dreaming of stumbling on a friend or acquaintance. Of course, the first person he’d look for was Beina Su. Somehow wherever he went, he’d fantasize he might chance on her. How wild with joy she’d be on seeing him. How firmly she’d hug him. Yes, they could always start like new. Today, despite finding no familiar names, Nan was amazed by the large number of Chinese living in Manhattan. Just under “Wei Zhang,” six people were listed.