A Free Life

by Ha Jin

  The day before the Wangs returned, the Wus moved out of the bungalow and set up their residence at 568 Marsh Drive.

  17

  NAN remembered noticing a sly, gleeful look passing Mr. Wolfe’s face when the contract was signed at the Shang Law Office two weeks before. He couldn’t figure that out until his neighbor Alan Johnson talked with him. Alan, an engineer of fifty-three who worked for General Motors, was rearranging the worm fence on his lawn. At the sight of Nan he stopped to greet him. The two men chatted about the schools in this area. Recently the districts in the county had been redivided and the older teenagers on Marsh Drive had begun attending Parkview High, a top school in Gwinnett County, so their parents were all pleased. This also meant the houses on the street would appreciate more in value. As their conversation went on, Alan switched the topic and said, his chunky face grinning, “Have you spoken to Gerald?” Gerald’s house was next to the Wus’.

  “No, about what?” asked Nan.

  “You should make him keep his property nice and clean. John, the former owner of your house, used to have an exchange of words with him every once in a while and even tried to take him to court once.”

  “For what?”

  “Gerald is lazy. He’s the shame of this neighborhood. People are mad at him. Look at the mess he’s made of his property.” Alan pointed at Gerald’s house and yard. Indeed, the mailbox, flagless and partly squashed, sat on a stack of building blocks as unsteadily as if it could be swept down by a gust of wind. Numerous brown patches marred the lawn, on which stood a few spindly pines almost choked by wild vines. The front porch of the house was half shielded by plywood, and on it was piled all kinds of stuff Gerald had brought back from construction sites where he had worked as an electrician: bundles of rubber-sheathed wire, cans of paint, scraps of rug, buckets of plaster, bricks, ceramic tiles, boxes of nails and screws, broken fans, even a used air conditioner. On the east side of the house was parked a truck, its windshield and a front wheel missing, and it was propped up with wood blocks. Although the Wus had noticed the sorry state of Gerald’s house, they hadn’t been concerned. The idea that the mess would affect the appearance and value of their property hadn’t crossed their minds, because they had never owned any real estate before.

  “What happened to him?” Nan asked Alan. “Out of work?”

  “No, he makes good money. His wife divorced him two years ago and he has to pay child support.”

  “He has children? I haven’t seen zem.”

  “He has a boy and a girl, nice kids. It’s a shame the family fell apart.”

  Nan thought of asking him about John’s wife, but held back. Why had there been so many broken marriages in this neighborhood? Wasn’t this a bad omen? The other day he and Pingping had talked with Gerald, who said he made sixteen dollars an hour but had to pay so many bills that he couldn’t have his roof replaced. Indeed, its brown shingles looked decayed, already bleached by the sun and partly damaged by hailstones. There was even a family of squirrels living in the roof, who had gnawed off the tip of the northwestern eaves and used a missing louver board on the west side of the roof as an entrance.

  The Wus had noticed the junk cars, the oil drums, and the piles of firewood and plastic pipes in Gerald’s backyard, in the middle of which sat a large trampoline. Toward the lakeside all the trees were entwined by vines, almost blocking the view of the water and giving a swampy impression. One pine had fallen into the lake; against its root leaned an overturned canoe, which Gerald had never rowed. Goby, the kinky-coated collie Gerald kept, was tethered to a fence post by a long chain all the time, and his doghouse looked like a chicken coop. Gerald never walked him, and the confinement seemed to have maddened the dog, who often gasped and coughed. Goby had angry eyes and yowled a lot, sometimes furiously in the dead of night, triggering the crescendo of baying as about a dozen dogs at the houses around the lake joined in. From the day the Wus moved here, Goby would growl and woof at them, even though Taotao tried to appease him with scraps of food over and over again. Once Pingping saw a white man enter Gerald’s backyard to read the water meter, and the dog made no noise whatsoever. Indeed, Goby wouldn’t bark at Caucasians, neither neighbors nor strangers. “That dog is racist,” Pingping said. Both Nan and Taotao agreed.

  The Wus weren’t really bothered by the messy state of Gerald’s home, and they didn’t intend to talk with him as Alan had urged them to do. Instead, they felt sorry for him and decided not to pressure him like the other neighbors. Similar to Gerald, they viewed themselves as poor people.

  Nan now understood why Mr. Wolfe had smiled secretively when Pingping handed him the check—the old man must have believed nobody would want to live with a neighbor like Gerald, whose wretched house would make the adjacent homes depreciate in value. The Wus didn’t mind having such a neighbor, since they wouldn’t be selling their house anytime soon. Their only regret was that, had they mentioned Gerald’s house in the negotiation, they could have haggled down the price considerably with Mr. Wolfe.

  18

  IT SNOWED on Saturday night a month after they had settled into their new home. This was rare in Georgia. The three-inch snow on the ground excited the children in the neighborhood, some of whom came out the next morning, riding on makeshift sleds, frolicking on the white lawns, and throwing snowballs while shouting war cries. Owing to the weight of crusted ice, some branches, especially of pines, had snapped and fallen to the ground. Electrical wires were mangled here and there, and workers were busy repairing them. The din raised by chain saws came from everywhere. In the Wus’ backyard icicles still hung on the sweet gums at the waterside, having expanded and thickened the shadows cast by the trees on the lake. The waterfowl were all out of view and nestled in the bushes on the other shore to keep warm. From time to time they let out lethargic cries.

  Taotao, accustomed to being alone, didn’t join the kids of the neighborhood and instead played with his mother on their own lawn. Through the sliding glass door Nan watched his wife and son in the backyard; both of them were in the winter gear they had worn in the Northeast—leather gloves and tall boots. Pingping donned a flesh-colored stocking hat and a quilted coat that came down to her calves. Taotao wore a blue parka. Together mother and son were pushing a snowball already two feet across, while their breath clouded before them. The boy wanted to save some snow, so they were rolling the snowball around. Observing them, Nan was moved by the tranquil sight. His wife and son looked so happy and intimate. Suddenly Pingping took a pratfall, having stepped on one of the terrazzo tiles set a yard apart to form a curved path toward the lakeside. Taotao broke out laughing and clapped his gloved hands while his mother picked herself up from the ice-crusted grass. Nan chuckled over his tea mug.

  Although touched by the peaceful scene, he still felt a lingering pain in his heart. The previous night he had again dreamed of his first love, Beina. In his sleep the two of them walked outside the campus of their old college. Moonlight filtered through the aspen grove and was shimmering on the snow grayed by thawing. For some reason, they quarreled again, and angrily she hurried away to the entrance of her dorm building. He shouted, “Beina, Beina, wait a second, let me explain!” She wouldn’t listen and faded into the darkness of the doorway. His friend Danning appeared from behind a thick birch and dragged him away, saying, “She’s not worth your love. Forget her. My friend, you must save yourself!” Somehow later Beina embraced him at a train station and wept wretchedly. After he woke up, he mused about her tears but couldn’t guess why. He hoped her husband hadn’t treated her too badly. She had looked colorless and must have been ill. Why had Danning Meng, the man who had studied physics at Brandeis and returned to Beijing two years ago, appeared in his dream? Nan was positive that Danning and Beina hadn’t known each other at all. What a bizarre dream.

  Peals of laughter came from outside and brought Nan back to his wife and son. He went on observing them, happy to see them in such buoyant spirits. He had just finished reading A House for M
r. Biswas and still vividly remembered the struggle the protagonist waged for having his own shelter in his own corner of land. He felt fortunate that he might achieve such a goal in just a few years. Though their mortgage was unpaid, he was on his way to becoming an independent man. His heart was filled with joy and gratitude. At long last he was hungry for making money, a lot of money, so that his family could live in peace and security.

  With the back of his hand he touched his face, which wasn’t hot today. Ever since the outset of the winter, he had often run a low fever. He had lived in cold climates all his life, and now in the mild Georgia winter his body was ready to resist cold, of which there wasn’t any. Small wonder, bugs abounded here in the summertime. Any insects could easily survive a mild winter like this. Nan had noticed that a lot of roaches hibernated in the firewood left by Mr. Wolfe, stacked along their western steel fence. Just now as he talked with Gerald, Gerald had told him, “This snow’s killing all them bugs. There’ll be a bumpa peach crop nex’ summa.” If only there were more cold days like this one.

  On such a crisp morning Nan felt energetic and clearheaded. He was in the mood for writing a poem about the scene in the backyard, about the joy and serenity of life, but he couldn’t decide how to begin. He thought a good while about such a poem, which should start with a line like this: “Snow has been falling in the Southeast,” but he didn’t know how to proceed from there. In an hour or so he’d have to go to the restaurant, where there were chickens to cut up, flounder to clean, and spring rolls to wrap. It was always busy on Sundays, and he had to get everything ready before noon, the opening time. So he returned to his room and lay down on his bed to rest some more before setting out for work.

  19

  NOWADAYS Taotao no longer stayed at the restaurant after school. Their house was so close by that he could walk back and forth. If he was at home alone, Pingping would call to check on him. Sometimes she’d go back to see if he was doing his homework. Nan had bought him a cheap computer because Taotao said he would build one by himself eventually. The boy knew two older kids who had just assembled their own computers, and his parents agreed to buy the parts for him. Both Nan and his wife felt fortunate about the way things had worked out. They were eager to get rid of their debt, though Pingping insisted on keeping a tidy sum in the bank as a backup fund. The economy was still in recession despite the start of a slow recovery. She wanted to make certain that they could have enough money for the monthly payment even in a lean time. On average they managed to pay Mr. Wolfe $1,500 a month.

  Luckily the Gold Wok continued thriving. To increase its food variety, Nan added steamed dumplings and several kinds of noodles, such as noodles sautéed with beef and snow peas, or with shiitake mushrooms, or with dried shrimp and scallops. The new offerings helped fetch more customers. Their Yangzhou Rice had become a favorite choice for lunch, loved by the Mexican workers at the construction site of an apartment complex off Lawrenceville Highway. Nan had been wondering how to make the restaurant more profitable, but it was too small to expand further. Yet there was an obvious way, namely to install a bar. Alcoholic beverages were lucrative, but neither Nan nor Pingping knew how to mix drinks. The Gold Wok did have a license for alcohol, yet to date it had offered only a few bottled beers and wines. For weeks the Wus had been wondering whether they should set up a bar, which meant they’d have to hire a barkeep. That would cost a lot.

  When working in New York, Nan had heard a good deal about bars in Chinese restaurants. Many of them were tended by Caucasians, because most Asians couldn’t communicate with customers well enough in English. ABCs, American-born Chinese, didn’t take bartending as a real profession, so they wouldn’t man bars. In a Chinese restaurant, all too often there was unspoken contention between the barman and the waitstaff. At some places the bars even offered appetizers, directly taking business away from the dining tables. It was commonplace that a barman often acted like a lord in a Chinese restaurant and was feared by waiters and waitresses, because he could create trouble for them by slightly altering the drinks ordered by their customers. If a complaint came up and their boss intervened, the barman could simply say he couldn’t understand the English used by the waiter or waitress who had placed the order. Worse yet, it was almost impossible for the boss to follow the sales at the bar, so the barkeep could give favors freely to barflies, especially to young women, and some barmen even pocketed the money that was supposed to go to the cash registers. In short, a bar could be a bonanza but also a major bugbear.

  Pingping didn’t know what a bar would entail, so Nan explained everything to her. He even thought of finding a Chinese fellow, sending him to a bartending school in Atlanta and then hiring him afterward. But Pingping was adamantly against setting up a bar, which she said would throw their business out of kilter. Since physically the restaurant couldn’t be expanded any more, there shouldn’t be a bar that might destroy their peace of mind. What they needed most was a stable clientele, which didn’t even have to be large. Nan agreed.

  For months Nan had been working at least fourteen hours a day, sometimes without seeing the sun for a whole week, as he had to go to the Gold Wok early in the morning to get things ready. He’d slice beef, cut chickens, boil the bones to make stock, heat up a samovar for tea, chop broccoli and scallions, steam rice, deep-fry pork and chicken cubes. In the afternoons his legs often felt heavy and bloated; he’d sit down whenever he could, even when working at the wok, so as to avoid developing varicose veins. The restaurant had fully occupied his body and mind. Even at night he often dreamed of greeting customers and cooking their orders, his head full of the din of the kitchen while his limbs remained hot and sore as a result of the long working hours. His hands, always marked by nicks or burns or blisters, would throb a little whenever he woke up in the morning. Despite the hard work, despite his fatigue, he felt content and was determined to succeed. At long last life had become simple and clear to him, as if all the confusion and uncertainties had never befogged his mind.

  One afternoon Pingping handed Nan a letter. “It’s for you.”

  “For me? From whom?”

  “How can I know? Must be from a secret lover of yours.” She tittered, seeing his eyes flash with annoyance.

  He hadn’t expected that Sam Fisher would write back. A month earlier Nan had sent the poet a letter to inform him of his move to Georgia. He told Sam about the Gold Wok and his intention to continue to write poetry, which he had almost stopped doing, actually. He just meant to keep in touch with Sam in case he might consult him on the craft of poetry writing. Besides telling Sam that he loved his book Fire Sutra, he also took the occasion to send his greetings to Dick Harrison, the tall young poet, who had been friendly to him when Nan was in New York. In his reply Sam Fisher encouraged Nan to write more poetry, saying that he had talent and should persevere to develop it, and that what was fundamental was “to sustain a great sentiment” in his heart. Sam also mentioned that he had lately fallen in love with some of Tu Fu’s poems, which he hoped he could translate someday.

  The letter touched and upset Nan at the same time. He had been so devoted to making money lately that his desire to be a poet was almost gone, though he still read poetry before going to sleep at night. He was very fond of a thick anthology called Great Poems, especially the short explanatory essays before each poem, and he pored over the book whenever he had time. He knew some of the poems, but some he had never read before. He wrote back to Sam Fisher and offered to help if Sam did embark on translating Tu Fu.

  20

  THE WUS knew very few Chinese living in this area. Neither had they gone to any Chinese church or visited the community center in Chinatown. They just wanted to lead an undisturbed life and didn’t mind their isolation.

  However, one afternoon in mid-March, two Chinese, a young man and a woman in her mid-thirties, came to the Gold Wok. They ignored Tammie’s greetings and went straight to Pingping and Nan at the counter. The woman, who had a bony face, glossy skin, fierce eyes,
and permed hair, introduced herself as the wife of a graduate student at Georgia Tech, whereas the man said he was a leader of the Chinese student association of that same school. They had come here to solicit a donation for the flood victims in mainland China. Nan wasn’t interested and said he had no money.

  The woman, named Mei Hong, persisted, “Look, Mr. Wu, you’re from China, aren’t you? Even if you’re a rich American businessman now, you shouldn’t forget your ancestors and homeland. Think about what you can do for your country.”

  “China is not my country anymore, and I’m not a rich man,” Nan said. “I’ve been working my ass off day in and day out to keep this place alive. Besides, you shouldn’t parrot that JFK crap here. Every citizen has the right to ask what my country can do for me.”

  Stumped, she stared at him for a moment, then kept on, “Do you know how much damage the Yangtze flood did last autumn?”

  “I know, but it’s over. It’s spring now.”

  “No. Seventy million victims are still suffering from the aftermath of the calamity. Tens of thousands of them are homeless and waiting for your help. Eighteen provinces are still struggling to recover from the losses—”

  “Give me a break! How can I be a savior of so many people? We’ve separated ourselves from China long ago, and for good. We don’t owe it anything.”

  The young man tugged at Mei Hong’s elbow, saying, “Let’s go. It’s no use arguing with such a miser who has forgotten his roots.” His eyebrows were tilting as he kept pushing his flat nose with his knuckle.

  Pingping said to Nan, “Why not give them a few dollars and send them away?”