by Ha Jin
Also by Ha Jin
Between Silences
Facing Shadows
Ocean of Words
Under the Red Flag
In the Pond
Waiting
The Bridegroom
Wreckage
The Crazed
War Trash
A Free Life
The Writer as Migrant
A Good Fall
Nanjing Requiem
A Map of Betrayal
The Boat Rocker
A Distant Center
The Banished Immortal
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Ha Jin
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pantheon Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.
Pantheon Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Name: Jin, Ha, [date] author.
Title: A song everlasting: a novel / Ha Jin.
Description: First edition. New York: Pantheon Books, 2021
Identifiers: LCCN 2020047331 (print). LCCN 2020047332 (ebook).
ISBN 9781524748791 (hardcover). ISBN 9781524748807 (ebook).
Classification: LCC PS3560.I6 S66 2021 (print) | LCC PS3560.I6 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at lccn.loc.gov/2020047331
LC ebook record available at lccn.loc.gov/2020047332
Ebook ISBN 9781524748807
www.pantheonbooks.com
Cover images: (birds) Hibrida13 / Getty Images; (background) Roc Canals / Getty Images
Cover design by Jenny Carrow
ep_prh_5.7.1_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Also by Ha Jin
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part Two
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part Three
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part Four
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Part Five
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Coda
Chapter 51
Acknowledgments
A Note About the Author
For Lisha
PART ONE
1
The evening’s performance had been a success. After the finale, Yao Tian and his fellow performers from the People’s Ensemble gathered onstage and bowed to the six hundred people in the auditorium. As he was making his way down the side stairs, he caught sight of a tall man at the end of the front row. The man stood there, smiling at him, while the crowd filed out the back and side doors. Soon he approached Tian. “Teacher Yao,” he said in English, his voice warm. “I’m so delighted to see you in New York. Your voice is as spectacular as it was a decade ago!”
Now Tian recognized him. “Han Yabin, what a miracle!” Without thinking, he cried out in English, which he could speak well.
He paused, hesitant to hug his friend, aware of his colleagues observing them in amazement. Some of them might make a mental note of his warm greetings to this local man and report it to their leaders back home. So, instead, Tian held out his hand. Yabin shook it, then leaned in and whispered, “Can we have a drink nearby, Teacher Yao?”
By rule, Tian could not accept such an invitation without permission from the head of his troupe, so he excused himself and went up to Director Meng. “I just ran into an old friend,” Tian began. “Can I spend a little time with him tonight? I’ll be back to the hotel soon.”
Meng’s heavy-lidded eyes fixed on him, alarmed. Obviously he felt uneasy to let anyone in the troupe go out of his control here. Still, he said, “That’s fine, but don’t be gone too long.”
“I’ll be back before midnight for sure.”
Out in the streets of downtown Flushing, the air smelled of rainwater. It was already nine o’clock. Pedestrians rushed past Tian and Yabin as they walked down Roosevelt Avenue together. Around them, people wove brazenly through traffic to cross the street, heedless of the honking cars. The ground trembled as a semi-trailer rolled past, its side printed with Chinese characters: fresh vegetables and fruits.
“Heavens, this is like China,” Tian said. “It’s like in the middle of a provincial town.”
“Flushing is like a big county seat, isn’t it?” Yabin laughed and got hold of Tian’s arm to guide him through the bustling thoroughfare.
The laugh reminded Tian of when they were both young in Beijing. Yabin had been dashing, energetic; he organized private concerts, poetry readings, literary salons, art exhibitions. Before his cultural activities were banned by the police, he had often invited Tian to sing at his events, paying him promptly and generously. He’d been one of the few young Chinese in Beijing who could mingle easily with foreigners. His handsome looks opened many doors, and his two years’ studying at Oxford (sponsored by the Ministry of Education) taught him to speak English fluently, with a British flair, like a well-educated gentleman from Hong Kong. Americans and Brits had often assumed his accent was an affectation, and some even mocked him, saying, “Your beautiful English puts me to shame.” But Yabin didn’t bother to acknowledge their slights, and never changed his way of speaking. Last Tian had heard, his old friend had quit his English lectureship at his university because he was not allowed to keep a relationship with a foreign woman teacher and he had gone abroad again, but Tian hadn’t known he had come to New York.
Yabin still looked elegant. He was living here in Flushing now, he told Tian. He’d lost his Beijing residential status—it had been canceled by the police.
In no time the waitress returned, holding a tray loaded with their orders, a bottle of beer and four fingers of the sorghum baijiu in a squad glass. She closed the door with her hip and then served their drinks. A thin platinum band flashed on her finger as she placed a bowl of mixed nuts on the table.
When she’d left, Yabin said, “Now we can relax and enjoy ourselves.”
Although Tian was eager to hear about his friend’s life in New York, he was also tired, and nervous about spending too much time with him. He feared that his director might suspect he had an ulterior motive in meeting with a local. Quite often, members of cultural delegations—consisting of artists, musicians, actors, writers, scholars—had stolen away while visiting foreign countries, joining relatives or friends there so as to avoid returning to China. Now their troupe, a group of twenty performers from the People’s Ensemble in Beijing, was on the last leg of its five-city tour in the States. Thus far, everything had gone well, so Director Meng seemed anxious, afraid they might fall short of a complete success if someone walked away on their final night. At this very moment Meng was probably fretting about Tian’s absence, restless like an ant on a hot pan.
Yabin gave Tian his business card, which stated that he had earned his MBA from Fordham University and was an insurance broker now, with an office on Main Street in Flushing. Tian commended him, saying this was extraordinary, a model of success. “Obviously America is a land of opportunities,” he said, though aware how stale those words were.
Yabin shook his head. “That’s just a myth, Teacher Yao. Opportunities are mainly for the rich and powerful here, the same as in China. I’m no different from other FOJs—fresh off the jet. We all have to struggle hard to get anywhere.”
“Please, just call me Tian,” he said. He was thirty-seven, only one or two years older than Yabin, and preferred the American way of addressing someone by their first name.
“All right, Tian. The truth is, I’m just like most people here who have to work their asses off.”
“Still, you’re free and there’s no one lording it over you.”
Yabin laughed, as if Tian had said something vacuous. As Tian was wondering what he wanted from him, Yabin revealed his intention, saying, “There’ll be a celebration of the National Day on October 10, organized by the Great China Cultural Association. Will you be able to sing a couple of songs for them?”
Tian was surprised, uncertain how to respond—that is Taiwan’s National Day, not a holiday in the People’s Republic, whose National Day was October 1. Few people on the mainland even know Taiwan’s National Day, which is called “Double Tens” (October 10). Tian asked, “Who’s sponsoring the celebration? The Taiwanese government?”
“Not at all. Some Chinese immigrant communities in New York and New Jersey are sponsoring it, though a lot of the people are from Taiwan. If you can sing for them, I can negotiate a fee of four thousand dollars for you.”
Tian knew that Yabin was good at delivering what he promised. Four grand was almost a quarter of Tian’s annual salary, and his daughter Tingting was about to apply for an international prep school in Beijing, which required him to pay twenty thousand yuan as the first installment of the tuition—nearly three thousand dollars. The money Yabin offered was significant, worth the risk. He agreed to sing for them.
“Great, they’ll be thrilled to hear this,” Yabin said. “They’ve never had a singer of your caliber before.”
Tian knew they’d surely use his name to promote the event, but there was something else that needed arranging. He said, “Look, Yabin, I can sing for them, but my return flight to Beijing is already booked for tomorrow. I’m not sure I can change it. And also, I’d need a place to stay until the event on Saturday.”
“I’ll ask my secretary to rebook a flight for you. Rest assured, it will work out. You can stay with me after you check out of your hotel.”
“Thank you so much, Yabin. I’m not sure I can get permission from my director, but I’ll do my best.”
Tian had his flight information on his phone, which he took out and sent to Yabin’s phone. They agreed that Yabin would hear from him early the next morning for the final answer. His friend was elated, saying he hoped they could collaborate more often in the future. He told Tian, “Chinese immigrants here are too materialistic and should have more cultural life. Your appearance will make a difference.”
What Yabin said pleased Tian. He promised to consider Yabin’s future offers.
Stepping out of the bar, they said good night. Tian walked back toward the Sheraton, where he and his colleagues were staying. The neon sign glowed atop the hotel building and made it appear more imposing than it did in daylight. Beyond its domed roof a single star was flashing and glittering against a vast constellation.
* * *
—
Director Meng was taken aback when Tian told him that he’d agreed to sing for the local cultural organization. “You can’t do this to me, Yao Tian!” he said. “We’re flying back tomorrow. If you stay behind, I’ll be the one who gets in trouble. And you might be viewed as a transgressor of our travel rules.”
“But I’ll stay behind just two or three days,” Tian said, his temper flaring.
“You can’t control people’s tongues, can you?” Meng said.
“Give me a break! The Chinese communities here need me and I’m obligated to sing for them, to promote the cultural life of the immigrants. Please let our ensemble’s leaders know I’m going back, just by another flight. I’ll show up at work next Monday, like everyone else. Besides, there’re more than two hundred employees in our ensemble and nobody will notice my absence. Why make such a big fuss? It’s not like I’m going to defect or something.”
“Comrade Yao Tian, you don’t understand politics.” Meng pointed his stubby forefinger at Tian’s lean face. “You’ve been behaving willfully and breaking the rules. How can our leaders trust you in the future? Besides, who can help you if you get mugged or kidnapped here?”
“I’ll be responsible for myself. I’m an adult.”
“No, I am responsible for you.”
“Please let me be in charge of myself for a couple of days.”
They went on arguing for a few more minutes. When Meng realized Tian wasn’t giving in, he relented some. “All right, you’ve already started to change your flight, and I might not be able to stop you. But you must promise me you’ll show up at work next week as usual, or I might have to let our leaders know.”
“You have my word.”
“To be honest, Tian, if I were you, I wouldn’t run such a risk. People might think less of you if they knew you stayed behind to make money. Nobody is supposed to take a side gig like what you’re doing.”
“Then please don’t let them know.”
“I can cover for you only for two days.”
They shook on that, though the director’s face was still sour. He must have felt he had no choice but to grant Tian permission, because Tian was their premier soloist. Yet seeing Meng so frustrated, Tian added, “Director Meng, don’t take this too hard. My wife and daughter are in Beijing, where I have a nice home and a ris
ing career. How could I possibly go elsewhere? I just bumped into an old friend who offered me an opportunity to sing. Doesn’t our country encourage more cultural exchanges with Taiwanese people as preparatory work for the national unification?” He offered this as a possible explanation to their leaders if Meng had to answer their inquiry, though Tian knew people could see through him—he was staying behind to make money.
“Fine, I can see your point,” Meng said tiredly. “Just don’t overstay, and make sure to get back early next week. Keep in mind that I don’t approve of what you’re doing, but I simply cannot dissuade you.”
Tian nodded, realizing that this was the excuse Meng would expect him to make if any trouble cropped up.
To be fair, Meng had never acted like a boss. He respected the members of their troupe and said he felt lucky to work with them—many of the singers and instrumentalists and dancers had national reputations. Tian knew that from Meng’s point of view, his change of flights was unlikely to signal a defection. If Tian had truly meant to flee, he wouldn’t have bothered to speak to him about staying behind. Meng was already sixty-two; in three or four years he would retire, and there was no reason for him to be strict and rob Tian of this opportunity. He didn’t ask Tian how much he was making for the October 10 performance, but Tian understood that he owed Meng a generous gift when he got back.
