A Song Everlasting

by Ha Jin

  Yet three weeks later he was notified that he had been admitted as one of Professor Wu’s four new students. He was flabbergasted and wondered what had made the old man pick him from dozens of more accomplished applicants. There was no way he’d done better than the others. After he enrolled in the graduate program, he came to learn that Mr. Wu had taken a shine to the raw quality of his voice, which the professor felt was full of joie de vivre. In his words, “Yao Tian’s singing has an earthiness that brings to mind vast grasslands and tumbling waters.” So despite his colleagues’ reservations he chose him. What moved Tian even more was that Mr. Wu had taken the extra trouble to admit him—Tian, never believing in Mao Zedong Thought and Marxism, had done poorly in the political exam, on which he had scored only a 58, two points below the passing line. Professor Wu wrote to the graduate admissions, arguing that because Tian knew English well, he had more potential than the others and would be more likely to sing foreign operas successfully. Indeed, among hundreds of applicants to the MFA program he’d scored the highest points—97—in the foreign language test. The old man argued (though his argument could have been considered specious) that over the years most of his students, unfamiliar with Western tongues, hadn’t been able to perform in classical operas professionally, and eventually just sang for public gatherings and TV plays. He insisted that Tian was rare, “like a phoenix plume.”

  His admission to the conservatory finally appeased his parents, who knew the school was a mecca of performing arts in China. They even said they were proud of him. Anji, his little sister, told him on the phone that their mother often bragged about him to their neighbors. Her pride was a relief to him.

  In every aspect Mr. Wu was a gentle, generous soul. Later when he found that Tian was not interested in performing foreign operas, he wasn’t put out and allowed him to sing whatever he liked as long as he did the graduate work. In his course he always let Tian pass with a grade higher than a B. This was how Tian gradually became an aberrant singer of sorts; he was an operatic tenor by training but mostly sang for concerts and movies. He performed in his own way—ideally, he wanted his whole being to vibrate with the song. Professor Wu often said, “Every genuine artist has a unique path to success. None can be reproduced.”

  Now as he reread the old man’s letter, recalling the time they had spent together in rehearsal spaces and concert halls, his teacher’s round face glowing with a gentle smile, Tian’s eyes filled. Then he noticed something ambiguous in the last paragraph of Professor Wu’s letter: “Of course arts have no national boundary, but every artist has a country. Tian, I know you are a faithful man. You must never do anything against our motherland.”

  His words seemed to imply that he could accept the fact that Tian had emigrated, as long as he remained loyal to China. Tian realized that Mr. Wu might have shown officials his letter before sending it to him. This also meant that his reply might be under others’ scrutiny as well, because Mr. Wu, still holding many honorific positions, would be obligated to convince the Ministry of Culture that he’d done his best to dissuade Tian. So he’d better be careful in his reply. He handwrote his letter, and in two full pages expressed his abiding gratitude and his appreciation for his mentor’s thoughts. He assured the old man that he would never let him down, artistically or ethically. Yet Tian also emphasized that he was not a nationalist but an internationalist, “a proletarian altogether” in the Marxist sense. He’d do his best to make his teacher proud.

  7

  When Tian had free time, he read a lot of modern poetry, in both Chinese and English. The Flushing branch of the Queens Public Library on Main Street was comprehensive, and he often checked out books and albums there. Long ago he had come to the conclusion that although good songs fundamentally came from unique melodies, fine lyrics were also essential. The words should be poetic in spirit and sensibility. He appreciated the poets who could write musical lines infused with subtle meanings and feelings. He loved Dai Wangshu, Feng Zhi, Dylan Thomas, Jorge Luis Borges. “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night,” which he’d learned by heart, often brought tears to his eyes. Deep in his soul, he harbored a secret ambition: When he was too old to sing onstage, he hoped to become a songwriter. Even though he might not be talented enough to produce great poems, by writing songs he might have a longer artistic life.

  When he wasn’t reading poetry, he tried to learn new songs to enlarge his repertoire. His repertoire was rich, even vast, but most of the songs were propaganda rubbish that he’d had to sing back in China. Fortunately the library carried some albums of traditional Chinese folk songs and a substantial collection of performances by singers in Taiwan and Hong Kong. He watched these as much as possible so that he could learn their stage manners, which were friendlier and more engaging than his had been. Most of those singers used a softer voice, and some merely murmured into the microphone while singing, as if they were having an intimate conversation with an individual listener. Almost without exception, they would smile from start to finish. They appeared so natural, so different from his performance back in China, where everything was strictly planned ahead. However, these styles were not what he wanted for his performance. He wanted to lean more on the strength and range of his voice, using stage manners as a supplementary component in his delivery. If he gestured, he must do it naturally, without exaggeration. At times he might sing without a microphone, letting his natural voice carry the show. More essential, he wanted to find the songs that would last. There were so many popular songs that were merely bubbles of the moment.

  In mid-January he got a call from a woman named Cindy Wong, who spoke English with a slight Cantonese accent. She represented a troupe named the Divine Grace and invited him to join them in their Spring Festival series. Although the troupe was new, they had already booked a four-city tour in the States. Most tickets had been purchased through preorders, she said, and with Tian added to their cast, their show would become even more popular.

  “I’m a big fan of yours, Mr. Yao,” Cindy told him.

  “Thank you. Your troupe has an interesting name. Do you belong to a denomination?”

  “Well, we are religious, but we’re not a cult.”

  Her defensive answer made him skeptical. He managed to say, “I have a very tight schedule, but can I get back to you tomorrow? I’ll have to speak with my manager, who knows my schedule better.”

  “Of course. Take this as a standing invitation. You’re welcome to join our troupe anytime before the holiday season starts.” By “holiday” she meant the Spring Festival, which would fall on January 27 this year. Even though the Chinese immigrants couldn’t have a long holiday season as they did back in their homeland, many of them still carried on the festive tradition, having family dinners, friendly gatherings, communal celebrations.

  That night Tian phoned Yabin and asked him about the Divine Grace, which turned out to be sponsored by Falun Gong. The troupe was composed of dancers and musicians from all over the world and was intended to counter Communist China’s artistic influence in the West. To date, it had been very successful and was growing more popular each year. Nevertheless, Yabin believed Tian shouldn’t become involved.

  “Thank you,” Tian said. “It would have been hard for me to tell who they were.” Then a thought came to him and he asked Yabin, “Why don’t you be my manager? I can pay you fifteen percent of my earnings.”

  “No, no, I can’t take money from you.”

  “Look, you’ve been helping me all along, already like a manager. I really need you to help me navigate through the hurdles and snares here. Please say yes. This will make my life easier.”

  So Yabin agreed. By now Tian had complete trust in him and believed there wasn’t a better person to represent him. Yabin was savvy about American life and well connected with its Asian communities. Best of all, he was prudent and perceptive and would be able to help him develop while shielding him from harm. Yabin seemed pleased
to be his manager and said he’d have some business cards made.

  Then he asked Tian whether they could meet to discuss a personal matter, saying it was so complicated that he’d better explain it in person. Tian agreed to see him at the Dreamland bar the next evening.

  The following afternoon he called Cindy Wong and told her he was unavailable at the moment. For any future queries, she should contact his manager directly. He gave her Yabin’s name and phone number. “Oh, I know the guy,” Cindy said. “His insurance office is on Main Street and his English name is Hugo. I will check with him every now and then.”

  Although he had declined the offer, he wanted to be cordial to Falun Gong—his mother and his sister Anji, back in Dalian City, had been involved with the religious group for years. The northeast of China was actually the birthplace of Falun Gong. Before its practice was outlawed there, Tian’s mother and sister would do the breathing exercises in People’s Square. Then they both formally dropped out of Falun Gong for fear of punishment, though Anji seemed still passionate about the religion and Tian believed she was an underground practitioner. He often pressed her to sever ties with Falun Gong altogether, but she never bothered to respond to his words. Though she would rarely raise her voice, she had always been bullheaded.

  * * *

  —

  Dreamland was crowded, as it usually was in the evenings. As soon as the two of them had settled into a booth, Yabin began to relate his problem. He wanted to propose to Barrie but had begun to have second thoughts of late. Although he loved her vivacious personality and her shapely figure and her honesty, she was not good with money. He had given her a credit card connected to his account the previous summer, and since then, at the end of every month she had exceeded the three-thousand-dollar line he had specified for her. She bought plenty of stuff for herself: purses, shoes and boots, dresses, an iPhone, a pair of jade bracelets, assorted earrings, CDs, books on the New York Times Best Sellers list. Even though some of the things she’d bought could be shared by both of them, like suitcases and wines, he found them unappealing to his taste. Imagine what it would be like if they were married. She might bankrupt him in a year or two. “I’ve been thinking whether to insist that Barrie and I split our living expenses,” he said, as if wondering aloud to himself. “But if I do that, she’ll be so upset that she might walk out on me, partly because since day one I have been picking up the bills.”

  “Maybe you should approve all major purchases from now on?” Tian suggested.

  “That might not work. For her, anything under three hundred dollars can’t be a major purchase.”

  “Or get the credit card back?” Tian was also at a loss for a sensible solution. He was amazed that Yabin would pay all the living expenses for both of them.

  “If we were married,” Yabin went on, “I would want her to be absolutely reliable—an emotional anchor.”

  “ ‘Or like a haven for a little boat,’ ” Tian quoted the line from a song.

  They both laughed. Yabin resumed, “To tell you the truth, if I can’t trust my wife with money, the marriage will be difficult. Barrie is like a safe without a lock.”

  “She’s a beautiful woman, healthy and lovely,” Tian said. “Don’t you feel lucky to have her?”

  “Well, as a girlfriend she’s fine, but I’m getting tired of dating one woman after another. I want to settle down and have more security.”

  “Then why didn’t you look for a Chinese woman instead? I’m sure that most Chinese women are more sensible with money, especially those from Shanghai, who know how to manage a household and even how to invest.”

  “You’re generalizing, Tian, and only thinking of women of the older generation, or of our age. Women in their twenties are completely different. Their values and worldviews are different from ours. Their men have to be both a protector and a rice-winner. Most of them don’t have marriage in mind and just want to enjoy life while they’re still young. I’ve dated Chinese women before and they all wanted too much from me, so I just avoid them now. One of my ex-girlfriends had more than a hundred pairs of shoes. Imagine, she was from a small city in Hubei province, but she was so enamored of brand names—she wanted to make her life appear expensive in every facet. I called her a brand-name animal. It’s so hard to find someone you can love and trust!”

  “True, such a person would be your ideal,” Tian agreed. “But where can you find her?”

  Their conversation didn’t really help Yabin. He had yet to figure out what to do about his relationship with Barrie. The only reasonable advice Tian could give him was “Don’t rush to pop the question.” Yabin agreed to wait. He was an urbane man with refined manners and long fingers and usually seemed carefree, but their conversation revealed another aspect of him.

  Tian was also beset with misgivings. He missed his family, especially at night when he felt lonely and wondered how Shuna was spending her time. He was in touch with both her and Tingting, but his daughter didn’t write him very often. Sometimes she would just drop him a few words, like “I miss you” or “love you, Dad.” She always gave him the impression of being preoccupied with something. She was a quiet child and kept a lot to herself. One night in March she wrote to him, with unusual urgency: “When are you going to come back, Dad? You have been away too long! Have you forgotten us?”

  He pressed her, asking, “What’s going on? Is your mother all right?”

  “She’s fine, but she’s out more often these days,” Tingting returned.

  “Where does she go?”

  “Out with her friends, I guess.”

  “Who are her friends?”

  “Most times with Uncle Bai.”

  “I see. Thanks, little dove.”

  He knew that Shuna was still attractive—she sometimes called herself an old woman in front of her students, but she looked thirtyish. Bai was an old friend of hers, a history professor at Beijing Normal University. They had been schoolmates at college, Shuna two years after him, and she’d told Tian that Bai had once had a crush on her. The more he thought about this, the more wary he got.

  As agreed, he would phone his wife every other day. The next night he called to sound her out. To his surprise, she told him that she had been collaborating with Bai on a college textbook on the maritime adventures in the Ming Dynasty. It was a project sponsored by the Ministry of Education and proposed to them by an academic press. They had just signed the contract. Shuna was a little gruff on the phone, saying there was no reason for him to become suspicious or jealous. Then she wanted to know how he spent his days.

  “Don’t you have many friends there?” she asked.

  “I have a few. What do you mean by ‘friends’?” he said.

  “You know what I mean. You never lack women around you.”

  “Come on, I’m struggling to survive here. If you don’t trust me, I can come back straightaway.”

  “No, I was just kidding. But promise me, you’ll never keep it from me if you meet someone there?”

  “All right, you have my word. I want you to treat me the same way, always aboveboard.” Despite saying that, he was surprised by their mutual demand. The conversation shouldn’t have turned into such a corner.

  “I’ll always be honest with you. I miss you a lot, Tian.”

  “I miss you too. But it looks like I might have to live here for a long time. Perhaps I ought to stretch my stay out until Tingting comes to America for college.”

  “That makes sense.”

  Shuna also said she’d be up for a promotion to full professor soon. Once that was done, she’d be qualified to supervise PhD dissertations. That was why her textbook was vital for her career. With another book published, her promotion would be assured. In addition to that, she might apply for a research grant from the Ministry of Education so that she could come to the States as a visiting scholar—several of her colleagues had
already received such funding and were doing research abroad. Neither Shuna nor Tian ever mentioned immigration on the phone, which was tapped in China, but they knew that it was a possibility. They treated their email communications with the same caution. Whatever they said and wrote, they assumed someone else had access to it. Yet they both understood that Tian might need to stay in America to wait for Tingting and eventually also for Shuna.

  Their phone conversation reassured Tian to a certain extent, but he didn’t feel completely secure. From April on, he began to wire one thousand dollars to his wife at the end of every month, saying that the money was for Tingting’s tuition and to help with their living costs. His income varied, but on average he could make upward of three thousand dollars a month, three times more than he had made in China, though he had no idea where to get his next check. He didn’t spend much apart from rent and groceries, so he could spare the money he sent home. It was meant to increase his presence in his family, even though Shuna’s salary was enough for her and Tingting to live on.

  8

  In late May, as the twentieth anniversary of the Tiananmen massacre was approaching, the Chinese government prepared by beefing up security all over the nation. In America, many Chinese expats and immigrants were organizing memorial observances. A group of dissidents from the Democracy Party of China asked Tian to perform in Central Park together with some artists who lived in New York. Yabin, though active in promoting the event, told Tian to be careful—he was sure that the Chinese consulate would keep a record of those involved and that Tian risked getting blacklisted if he joined them. By disposition Tian abhorred politics, but he had his principles and believed in justice and personal freedom. He remembered how he had burst into tears when he heard two boys in his high school, who had gone to Beijing to demonstrate against corruption and demand democracy, give their account of the bodies and bicycles crushed by tanks near Tiananmen Square. The killing of the peaceful civilians by the standing army was more than he could stomach. At that time, in the spring of 1989, he was in his late teens and regretted not having gone to the capital to join the demonstrators. Now, far from the clutches of the Chinese police, he had access to the censored information on the tragedy and had seen many of the horrific photographs and videos and footage that the CCP kept suppressed. If he didn’t protest this atrocity and fight the official effort to erase the public memory of it, he’d feel like a spineless coward.