A Song Everlasting

by Ha Jin

  To his surprise, Yabin decided to leave New York in the late fall. A cousin of his from Jiangsu province had recently bought a piece of land, twenty-seven acres, in Braintree, Massachusetts, and had asked Yabin to help him set up a new construction business. His cousin was a developer and planned to build more than thirty homes on the land he had just acquired, which was close to the train station. Tian was amazed that a small businessman could be so bold, given that the man hardly knew any English and had never stepped foot in North America. He had clinched the land purchase from his home city, Nantong, through an agent based in Boston’s Chinatown. Tian was somewhat demoralized by Yabin’s decision to leave and asked him why they’d begin to build houses in the cold weather—it was already early November now. Yabin said he was needed for all the paperwork and the preparations that his cousin had to complete before the construction started in the spring.

  Yabin’s departure saddened Tian. Yabin had been a good friend, a man-about-town, full of buoyancy and always ready to give him a hand. But he didn’t show his feelings in front of Yabin. Yabin assured him that if he found New York too difficult, he could join him in the Boston area. “My cousin is rich, friendly, and generous,” he told Tian. “You’ll like him.”

  In his emails to Shuna, Tian couldn’t help lamenting the loss of Yabin. She tried to console him, saying he’d surely find new friends and new ways of improving his life in New York. “Friends come and go,” she wrote. “If friendship is not based on shared interest, it doesn’t always last. You shouldn’t be too upset about Yabin leaving.”

  He didn’t tell Shuna about the woman Yabin had left behind—Freda, who was still working for him. By now he had stopped teaching. In December, the Divine Grace embarked on its performing season, so he again traveled with them. He was contracted to sing with them in eight cities in a period of ten weeks. For this seasonal work he’d be paid eight thousand dollars, which he didn’t have to share with Freda since his agreement with the troupe had been made long ago. Freda also booked some engagements for him, and his work began to get into full swing again. She worked diligently and seemed to enjoy representing him, probably because, without a boyfriend now, she had more time. She even printed some business cards for herself, as his manager. Though they spoke on the phone almost every day, he rarely saw her in person. While he was on tour, she would call him around eleven p.m., after the show was over and he had returned to his hotel. Little by little he began to expect to hear from her at night. After they’d gone over the business arrangements she was making on his behalf, she often talked about a microeconomics course she was taking at Hunter College (besides a dance class) in order to keep her student status, and about her parents back in Shenyang City. She often asked after his wife and daughter, as if she knew them personally.

  Like Shuna, Freda was curious about whether he’d met any women on tour. She also mentioned the elegant young dancers in the Divine Grace and once teased him, saying, “They’re so beautiful. Are you not attracted to any of them? If I were a man, I’d do my damnedest to sleep with every one of them.”

  Annoyed by her crass flippancy, he said, “Then you would be below the average man who thinks of nothing but food and sex all the time. I have to save my energy for work.”

  Later she explained that nearly all the men she had known regarded sleeping with a pretty woman as an achievement. Even Yabin had told her that whenever he went to bed with a girl, he felt like he’d accomplished something. Tian laughed and told her, “For me, love comes from the mind more than from the body. I’m more attracted to a woman’s personality than to her physical beauty.”

  “Well, that makes you different, above the average man, I guess,” she said blandly.

  He wasn’t sure whether she was mocking him, but he let it pass.

  When the Divine Grace tour ended, he returned to Flushing and resumed his everyday life. In April Freda came down with a nasty flu, coughing persistently; her nose was so blocked that she had to blow it hard every few minutes. She was running a fever and claimed she couldn’t lie down at night because of her cough, and was forced to nap sitting up on a sofa. As a result, she slept only three or four hours a night. More troublesome, she had no medical insurance (her part-time job didn’t provide benefits), and dared not go to the hospital. She asked Tian whether he knew a good doctor of Chinese medicine.

  He happened to know an herbal pharmacy on Union Street in downtown Flushing, which had a physician who saw patients for ten dollars per visit. It was called Lasting Health and offered hundreds of medicinal herbs. Tian had been there twice to buy medicines for cold and a sore throat. He had also gotten an herbal ointment for the blisters on his fingers, which would mysteriously appear every two or three years. Freda asked him to accompany her there, afraid they might take advantage of her if she went alone. He agreed, though privately he felt her worries were groundless.

  A tall, gaunt woman at the counter greeted them warmly. She remembered Tian, calling him Mr. Yao. He told her that Freda was ill and needed to see Dr. Liang. The woman went into the rear quarters of the pharmacy to see if the old physician was there. Without delay Dr. Liang came out and led them into a back room. He had thin shoulders, one higher than the other, but he looked sturdy given his age, which he claimed was ninety. Tian was impressed by his alert looks, wrinkled eyes, and graying beetle brows, his wide jaw still clearly contoured. In every way he was well preserved.

  The doctor placed four fingers on Freda’s wrist and closed his eyes to listen. Then he asked her to stick out her tongue. Tian saw her tongue thin and agile, its underside covered with purple veins like filaments. Dr. Liang shook his full head of white hair and told her, “You have too much fire in your liver, and your kidneys lack water.”

  “You mean I’m sick?” she asked.

  “Yes, very sick.”

  “How serious is it?”

  “I’m going to prescribe a set of herbs. They should help. If you don’t get better in a week, come back to see me again.”

  He opened a notebook and wrote on a lined page the names of a dozen or so herbs in the Chinese characters and the amount for each one. He tore off the sheet and told Freda, “Go to the front counter and get the herbs from Mrs. Siu.” He handed Freda the prescription.

  “Do I need to boil the herbs in a clay pot?” she asked.

  “People don’t do that anymore. We have the extract of every herb, so you can mix the powders and pour boiled water on them. You drink the concoction like tea. Very easy.”

  That pleased Freda, who took her leave and went to the front to get the prescription.

  “How about you?” the doctor addressed Tian, slitting his eyes.

  “I’m well.”

  “You don’t look well. Let me check on you.” He lifted his hand, his fingers wiggling.

  “How much will you charge me for a diagnosis?” Tian asked.

  “Ten dollars, everybody’s the same.”

  “All right.” He turned and called, “Freda, I’ll join you in a moment.”

  He let Dr. Liang feel his pulse, which throbbed stronger under the pressure of his fingertips. The old man’s face was expressionless, as if he was concentrating his mind.

  A moment later he breathed a sigh and shook his head. He said, “Your kidneys are very weak and you must do something to enhance their functions.”

  “I haven’t indulged in alcohol or sex. How could my kidneys have deteriorated so much?”

  “In fact, to have sex from time to time can keep your organs functioning normally. There’s no need to live like a monk or eunuch, given that you’re still young.” Liang smiled, his eyes almost disappeared. Then he added, “Don’t you often get up to pee at night?”

  “I do,” Tian admitted.

  “How many bathroom trips do you make a night?”

  “Three or four.”

  “Is there froth in your urine like be
er?”

  “Yes, there is.”

  “See, you pee protein. You definitely have kidney problems.”

  “What should I do about them?” Tian suddenly became anxious, though still not fully convinced.

  “I can prescribe a set of herbs for you. They should help. If you don’t feel stronger, come see me again.”

  The doctor wrote out the names and the amounts, and Tian took the prescription to the front counter. He didn’t read the names carefully, but he noticed schisandra fruit, a kind of wild berry that folks in northern China used as a condiment for cooking meat, while the other herbs were just common items in Chinese medicine—goji, fo-ti, tang kuei. Tian didn’t take the whole thing seriously and picked up the prescription just for the heck of it. Those herbs were nothing but natural plants and would do no harm.

  Mrs. Siu kept Freda’s and Tian’s prescriptions for her records. He was surprised they couldn’t take their sheets with them. He guessed that must be the pharmacy’s way to get patients to return, but he didn’t mind. For a week’s supply, Freda’s herbs had cost about twenty-six dollars, his a few dollars more. Freda was pleased and said the prescription should help her shake off the nasty flu.

  16

  As expected, Freda got well in three days. She called and told Tian about her quick recovery, raving about the magic effect of the medicinal herbs. He’d been taking his herbs too. Although he didn’t feel his kidneys getting stronger, his body as a whole seemed to be gaining strength and he got up to pee less often at night. In the early morning, while lying in bed, he’d feel his blood circulating more vigorously around his groin, which made him full of desire. He missed Shuna and imagined caressing and kissing her continuously. Now, physically, he understood why poems spoke about burning love, about aching with desire.

  To thank him for recommending the herbal doctor to her, Freda offered to take him out for dinner at Village Fish and Crab. He declined, saying that dining at a seafood restaurant would cost her too much. He’d be happy just to have lunch with her at a noodle joint or a kebab house. Then she mentioned she had been learning tea art lately and could show him what it was like. He was curious, never having seen anyone practice it. It sounded more like a Japanese thing, he pointed out, but Freda said her teacher was from Kaohsiung and it was also an ancient Chinese art, quite popular on the mainland now. So he agreed to have her over on Sunday afternoon to make the tea.

  “Should I prepare something?” he asked her.

  “No, I’ll bring what I need.”

  Still, he thought it would be nice to have a snack to offer her. He went to the grocery store and picked up a bag of mini-dumplings stuffed with pork and shrimp and chives. By custom, one should avoid drinking too much tea with an empty stomach, so he’d share them with Freda before the ceremony.

  Around midafternoon on Sunday she arrived with a stuffed tote bag and a jug of Poland Spring water. He told her to wait. First they should share a bite, then have the tea. She liked the idea and asked if she could help in the kitchen. “Just relax,” he said. “I’ll get everything ready in a few minutes.” The pot was already boiling, so he poured the dumplings into the water. As they were cooking, he opened a jar of spiced bamboo shoots and peeled four preserved eggs so that there would be two cold dishes besides the dumplings. He sliced the eggs and dripped some rice vinegar and a touch of sesame oil over them. He also made a soup with shredded shiitake mushrooms and chicken broth.

  Freda went over to the window and plucked a string of Tian’s guitar hanging on the wall. It zinged. She said, “You can play the guitar?”

  “Yes. But I haven’t touched it for a long time,” he said, and kept stirring the soup in a pot.

  She was impressed when everything was placed on his round dining table within twenty minutes. Together they began eating. The meal was just simple fare, but she enjoyed it so much that she went on about how she wished she could eat like this every evening—she never had any appetite when eating alone after a long day’s work. He was pleased to see her relishing the meal. Then she asked if he had wine. He took out a bottle of cabernet and poured her a glass and only two fingers for himself—he told her that he rarely drank. This bottle was a gift from a fan when he had performed in Philadelphia. He used to give to Yabin all the wines and liquors that he’d received from others.

  After dinner, when he’d done the dishes, she set about preparing the tea ceremony. First, she went into his bedroom and changed into a white silk gown. Then she took a piece of green fabric out of her tote bag, spread it on the dining table, and placed a whole set of tea things on it: a clay pot, two bowls, a jar, four cups, and a tin of High Mountain oolong from Taiwan. She filled his enamel kettle with spring water, put it on the stove, and waited for it to boil. When the water was ready, she started the ceremony. Her arms and hands moved slowly, with deliberate grace, as if she was appreciating each one of her movements and gestures. Her body and limbs seemed to be following some kind of rhythm. He asked her if this ceremony included music. She answered in a whisper, “There’s usually a flute in the background, but we don’t have it here. But don’t talk. We’re supposed to be quiet, like in a Zen meditation.”

  He wanted to laugh but caught himself. He would rather be pouring boiling water into a teacup or heating a mug of water in the microwave, as he normally did. He saw no need for such elaborateness, transferring the tea from bowl to bowl and from cup to cup, as if each step would increase its fragrance. Yet, as he watched her perform, her eyes half closed and her cheeks shining, he began to grow attentive and enjoy the way she treated the ceremony as a genuine art, like something sacred.

  Finally the tea was ready. “Try this,” she said softly, and lifted a cup with one hand supporting its bottom.

  With both hands, the tea-ceremony style, he held the cup and took a sip. It was indeed delicious, quite different from the tea he always brewed. “This is great,” he said.

  “See, I told you I was good at it.” She jutted her chin and smiled, her eyes glowing. She turned her head, and he noticed she looked much prettier in profile.

  “Is this a special kind of tea?” he asked.

  “No, it’s a fine oolong from Yushan Mountain in Taiwan. You can get it from the gift store on Roosevelt Avenue, near Queens Coffee. Here, we have a whole pot. Enjoy it slowly.”

  The supper and the tea had made the atmosphere warm and intimate. He put his cup on the table and said, “I really don’t know much about you, Freda. You seem quite extraordinary.”

  “In what way?” she asked.

  “Like that day at the shooting range. How come you’re so skilled with a gun?”

  “I told you—I was on a shooting team at college.”

  “But for sports you would use small-caliber rifles and pistols, wouldn’t you? At the shooting range you fired a handgun like a soldier.”

  “Oh, I didn’t explain everything clearly. In my junior year we were sent to an army barracks in Shandong province to do military drills for a semester. It was awful—”

  “You mean that was part of your college education? I went to college a decade before you, but I didn’t go through any military drill.”

  “My school was special. All the students had to go through some military training as a way to make us understand our soldiers better and become more sympathetic to them. In our program they picked five girls to form a shooting team and trained us extensively—they planned on sending us to the national sports meet for college students. We also had a team for throwing grenades, which was also an event at the tournament. Every day they made us aim at targets with bricks hanging from our handguns. We had to practice more than eight hours a day.”

  He allowed himself to accept her explanation. He asked her, “Did you compete at the sports meet?”

  “No. When we got back to Beijing, I smuggled some albums of Teresa Teng’s songs and got suspended briefly for selling them to
my schoolmates. The university’s Party committee believed the music was too decadent and banned it on campus.”

  “Really! But I always heard her songs everywhere.”

  “They couldn’t keep up with the ban for long, of course.”

  “So you were a troublemaker!”

  “Sort of. In the school leaders’ eyes I was a troubled girl.”

  He boldly decided to change the subject. “Tell me, Freda, why are you working for me? You can hardly make money from being my manager. Have you been keeping tabs on me for someone?”

  “What do you mean?” Her eyes widened at him playfully.

  He lowered his head and smiled, then looked her in the face. “Didn’t some Chinese official hire you to spy on me?”

  She tittered and rubbed her thin nose with the knuckle of her forefinger. “Do you think they trust me? Oh, I remember a man at the newspaper funded by the mainland, The China Dispatch, who once asked me whether there was a woman living with you.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said, ‘No, Yao Tian is living alone. He’s very discreet about his private life. He loves his wife.’ ”

  “That was all?”

  “Yes. He asked me to report to him if you did something unusual, but I’ve had no contact with him after that. I wouldn’t betray a friend, you know.”

  She stared at him boldly, as if to challenge him to prove anything untrue in what she’d said. As they were gazing at each other, he felt disturbed. She locked eyes with him, as though she’d been waiting for such a moment. Finally he tore his eyes away.

  She leaned in and placed her hands on his shoulders. “I’m very fond of you, Tian,” she murmured. “You are a nice man.” She rested her head on him while her hand moved down to his belly, caressing him.

  The warmth of her voice and her fingers aroused him. He put his arm around her and kissed her. Their mouths turned and stuck together.

  She stayed with him that night. Something was roiling inside him—he was so wild that he couldn’t stop making love to her. He touched and kissed every part of her, her toes and ears, as if with a woman for the first time. She engaged him with total abandon and at moments cried ecstatically, saying no man had loved her like this before and he’d made her feel like a young girl again. He took her words to be merely her bed ravings. Yet he was surprised he could be so passionate and have such stamina that he didn’t let her sleep until midnight.