by Ha Jin
“All right, I’ll think about it,” she said halfheartedly.
22
The local communities quickly learned about Tian’s move to Boston—in no small part because Yabin and Laura had spread the word. Sampan, a biweekly based in Boston’s Chinatown, called and did a short interview with Tian. It was done in English, the only language Tian had in common with the Cantonese-speaking reporter. Tian had seen Sampan available at grocery stores for free. It was bilingual, the same articles printed in both languages. This format was intriguing to him—it enabled readers to compare the same news reported in both English and Chinese so as to learn either language.
When the reporter asked him why he had moved to Boston, he answered that he had a good friend here and liked this city a lot, which he had indeed visited five years before. To him, Boston was the most European city in the States and gave him a strong impression of culture and order. It also brought to mind a big village—it had a country ambience that he liked. After the interview ran, people began to ask him to sing at celebratory events and festive gatherings. Several universities’ student associations approached him—Boston University, MIT, Brandeis. He accepted every offer, more eager to perform than ever before. He’d been practicing new ways of singing to make his voice warmer and more intimate. He wanted to do more than just belt out songs to demonstrate his range and stamina like most professional singers in mainland China—he wanted to sing as if speaking to a few people in a small room.
By the lunar calendar, the Spring Festival fell on January 23 this year, less than two weeks away. He went to see the venues at the universities that had hired him, and he rehearsed with their bands. Most of the musicians were students, all quite skilled, and the organizers were very enthusiastic about promoting the holiday events, posting flyers everywhere and putting ads in the campus newspapers. They’d be paying him five or six hundred dollars, but unlike regular professional performances, all the events were free to the public, so there’d be no income from the ticket sales. That was fine for Tian. He just wanted to sing.
The next Sunday evening, outside the Tsai Performance Center at Boston University, more than four hundred people gathered in the lobby, having drinks and chatting while waiting for the holiday celebration to start. Trays of appetizers, held by servers in black tie, floated through the chattering crowds. Tian wouldn’t mix with them, needing to stay focused before he took the stage, but he saw the caterer’s delivery van parked behind the colossal classroom building and people carrying food in foil pans and large cartons into the lobby for the reception. He wished he could join the party like a regular attendee, but he didn’t want to be recognized. The event, he was told, was organized by various student associations with the support of the university’s Asian studies program. The sight of the large gathering moved him; there were even small children running around among the adults.
The evening’s entertainment program was quite unusual to Tian, and various groups of students went up to perform. He watched from the side of the stage. A team of young men from Chinatown did a lion dance—four dancers were to play two lions, imitating the animals’ frisky movements. Two men formed a pair, acting together as one lion in a brightly-colored costume, one playing the animal’s head and the other its rear end. One of the lions onstage was wearing red and the other yellow. They pranced and frolicked briskly. By accident the red lion fell on its side and brought out laughter from the audience. Following the dancing animals, there was a show performed by the Monkey King, who held a golden cudgel and somersaulted at will, as he is believed capable of flying through clouds like a god. The dapper performer seemed to have fans among some of the girls in the audience, who cried out and waved their arms as he danced and sprang around. Then a team of young women from Taiwan gave a fashion show, each raising a tiny umbrella. Tian enjoyed seeing them wearing the traditional cheongsams and various types of gowns. A few of them donned the small caps and dresses of colorful fabrics like the minority women in Taiwan. He imagined his daughter among them in a couple of years, and his eyes misted over briefly. Then eight young men and women in knee-high boots did a Mongolian dance, each brandishing a phantom whip as if riding a horse in the vast steppe.
Tian liked the relaxed atmosphere onstage. A real holiday celebration should be like this, fun and folksy and spontaneous, and he felt more confident about his new way of singing. When his turn came, he stepped on the stage and turned to the applause. He began to sing a movie song he had just learned, while keeping his voice relaxed so that it could become softer. It was a sort of love song, titled “So Many Things”:
So many things never go away
From my memory. I want you to see
How the past still flows in circles
Around us. Now, tell me
What is your new favorite—
Cappuccino or a colored cloud?…
He had expected that the audience would respond to this song warmly—many of them had doubtless seen the movie Let Me Catch Sight of You Again, in which it was repeated twice. But when he was done, the applause went up halfheartedly. People seemed uneasy about his new way of singing.
A woman, a thirtysomething wearing a pink anorak, rose on the upper floor and cried in earnest, “Teacher Yao, please sing ‘In Praise of Our Motherland.’ ”
That was a patriotic song immensely popular in China since the mid-1950s, and it expresses some anti-American sentiment. The demand threw Tian, but he managed to reply, “I only like the first half of the song’s lyrics, but not the second half. Also, the sentiment of that song goes against this festive occasion, so I’m sorry I can’t sing that song here. Besides, my feelings for our homeland have changed too—I love China, but not unconditionally. Let me sing a fishing song instead.”
The song was one of his early hits, so it was enthusiastically received. He was relieved that the song helped him salvage the faux pas he’d made with the first piece, though he didn’t respond to the calls for an encore—he simply bowed twice to the audience, then left the stage.
A movie, The King of Masks, made by the mainland director Wu Tianming but acceptable to the audience of different backgrounds, was shown after the performances. Tian slipped out halfway through, realizing he didn’t have the energy to mingle afterward. He left the building and hopped on a Green Line train headed back toward Quincy. It was snowing, fat flakes swirling in the wind as lights on both sides of the railway track flitted by. After the train went underground, it moved with ease, clanking rhythmically. It stopped service at Park Street, where he switched to the Red Line. Five or six stops later, the train surfaced into the open air. The night was gray and shimmered dimly as the train ran slowly alongside I-95. On the highway, vehicles floated back and forth like small boats in a black channel on a white sea. Due to the snowstorm, lights along the track went haywire and flashed red randomly. Whenever the train stopped, the sounds of the traffic, muffled by the snow, droned faintly, and the night turned eerily serene.
When Tian opened the door to his apartment, a wave of warm air surged up to greet him, like tiny fingers stroking his face. The sensation was comfortable and familiar—he remembered that as a teenager, he’d been greeted by the same kind of warmth in the wintertime when he stepped into his family’s home in Dalian. His parents’ old apartment building had central heating, so it was kept very warm during the winter, at times even too hot. Some of their neighbors went to complain about the overheating, but the head super told them, “It’s always better to keep you warm than let you freeze. You ought to appreciate that we can provide enough heat for you. Uniform heating is a virtue of our socialism, don’t you see?” In fact, there was simply no way they could adjust the temperature in the individual units, so all the apartments in the four residential buildings had no choice but to receive the same amount of heat, though in reality some had too much and some too little.
Now it dawned on him that he’d forgotten to
turn down the heat when he left for Boston University that afternoon. This meant there’d be extra dollars on the utility bill. He hurried over to turn the thermostat down to sixty degrees. His own negligence upset him.
He’d been mindful about budgeting so that he could send money to Shuna every month. The holiday season was a kind of boom time for him, although he also sang at the community center in Chinatown for free. They had approached him through Yabin but said they didn’t have extra funds for this year to pay Tian. Tian accepted the invitation anyway because the center had welcomed his arrival in Boston and seemed ready to help him as best they could. Besides Sunday school at the community center, they provided other services for new immigrants and senior citizens—affordable housing, evening English classes, daycare, weekend Bible studies. When he went to sing for them, his performance—mostly folk songs—was better received there than it was at the colleges, where students were more interested in what was popular at the moment.
Toward the end of February, a Chinese cultural association in New Zealand invited him to participate in a series of three concerts in their country for a fee of fifteen thousand U.S. dollars. He was stunned by the sum, never having been paid so generously. Their letter stated that they had recently obtained substantial funding and were therefore able to organize international concerts. They didn’t specify the kind of songs he should sing. What pleased him even more, as he scanned the tentative program they’d sent him, was that he was one of only two singers they had invited. They had also engaged some Chinese instrumentalists, including Tan Mai, the pi-pa player.
Tian took Yabin and Laura out for dinner to celebrate the offer. They ate at Quincy Dynasty, which had an excellent buffet. He liked the assorted seafood there, mostly fried, crispy and fresh. As they sat down to eat, Laura said, “If you can get three or four engagements like this a year, you won’t need to do any other work.”
Tian smiled and said, “Do wish me luck so that more offers like this one will come.”
She went on, “Of course. Pretty soon you’ll make money more easily than my dad.”
“Come on, your father is an official. He must rake in bribes and kickbacks regularly,” he joked.
That set them all laughing. She corrected him with blushing cheeks, saying, “Actually, my dad is not a high official. He’s a middleman, an agent of sorts, in a state-owned bank.”
“What does he do exactly?” Tian asked.
“He helps companies secure loans and land acquisitions.”
“See,” he said, “without a lot of pull, he couldn’t possibly do that kind of work. Definitely he has been making tons of money.”
Yabin, who had been smiling quietly, piped in at last, “To be honest, Tian, even though this is a great opportunity, I’m not entirely comfortable about you going to New Zealand. That country might not be safe.”
“What do you mean?” he asked in perplexity.
“Do you know Hao Nian, the historian based in Chicago, who often appears on New Tang Dynasty Television?” Yabin said.
“Not personally, but I’ve seen him on TV. He’s very smart and erudite, an eloquent speaker.”
“He has made statements that the Chinese government often tried to lure him to Asia and Australia so they could nab or eliminate him there. That’s why he has refused to go to those parts of the world. At most he’ll go to Canada and to certain European countries.”
That was news to Tian. Unsettled, he asked Yabin, “Do you think the Chinese government might hurt me if I go to New Zealand?”
“I’m not sure. Don’t be too disconcerted. I’m just sharing my misgivings with you. But if you decide to go, you must be very careful when you are there and avoid going out alone. Is the mainland government involved in funding the concerts?”
“I don’t think so,” Tian said. “I’m told that the funds are from Hong Kong.”
“That’s good. It can be messy and nerve-racking if you make money from the mainland—at any moment you might run into difficulties.”
“I’ll avoid dealing with the mainland, of course,” said Tian.
“As far as you can, never get close to it.”
For days Tian thought about Yabin’s warning, but believed it unlikely that the Chinese government would take him out now. There were so many more serious troublemakers for them to handle. In addition, fifteen grand was such a large sum to him that he was willing to run the risk, and he didn’t think it so dangerous to go to New Zealand, a free country ruled by law. He mustn’t be too timid.
23
With a green card in hand, Tian could return to the States without trouble when he traveled abroad, but as a Chinese passport holder, he had to obtain a visa in order to enter New Zealand. His host would help him expedite the process, though he had to file the application online, pay a two-hundred-forty-dollar fee, and wait three weeks for processing. It was expensive, but he viewed this trip as an avenue to more opportunities. If the concerts were successful, he believed that more international offers would come.
But half a month later he again heard from the New Zealand cultural association. In an email, they informed him that they were regretfully obliged to revoke their invitation: The Chinese government had been pressuring them to drop him from the program, or else the sponsor, a Hong Kong businessman, wouldn’t deliver the remaining half of the promised funding. The woman in communication with Tian apologized, saying they had no option but to comply. He was outraged and devastated, having built so much hope on this trip and on the illusion that he would soon be able to sing internationally so that he could earn enough without worrying about his livelihood. Now he felt like a fool.
When he told Yabin what had happened, his friend said he should always shun any project involving the Chinese government, because the Party would try to control the source of your income once you entered their orbit. That’s their way to run your life. In their words, “If you eat our rice, you can’t smash our pot.” So Tian had to avoid making money from any projects supported by them. He saw that more obstacles might lie ahead of him. He’d better stop dreaming of performing outside the States from now on.
Yet his prospects in America didn’t look heartening either—it was time to consider finding other kinds of work. He spoke with Yabin about his construction connections. His friend smiled and said, “I’ll speak with Frank. He and his wife are fans of yours and will be happy to help, I’m sure. Are you positive you can do manual labor, though? Home renovation takes a lot of muscle and sweat.”
Tian reminded Yabin that he had done this type of work before and had truly enjoyed it. Before college, he had worked at a construction site for a distant uncle of his, carrying bricks up the scaffolding, transporting mortar in a wheelbarrow, tying up rebar with steel wire, digging holes in the front and the back yards for aspen and linden saplings, paving driveways with asphalt. Even though the work made his muscles sore at the end of the day, he relished it. It gave him a physical sense of how common laborers earned their livelihood: Every sack of rice and every piece of clothing came from sweating work. Before leaving for college in Beijing, he handed to his father the money he’d made. His grandmother had died before he left home, so his wages covered the expenses of her funeral—otherwise his parents would have had to borrow. His father was so pleased about Tian’s “largesse” that he often mentioned his son’s “filial disposition” to his colleagues and friends.
Tian was sure that home renovation in Quincy couldn’t be as heavy and dangerous as the job in his uncle’s construction team. As long as he was careful about exposure to fumes and particles that might harm his vocal cords, he should be up to the work.
As Yabin had promised, he spoke with Frank Chu about Tian’s need for work. Frank was in his mid-forties, with bright eyes and a booming voice that was slightly nasal. His dark skin was reddish and exuded health. Yabin had been working for Frank’s company, a small operation called Para
mount Home Improvement. Through Yabin, Tian had met Frank and his wife, Sami, before, though briefly. By now he knew quite a bit about the couple. They had run a small Cantonese restaurant up in Maine for five years, cooking and waiting tables together. Once they had saved some money, they sold the restaurant, moved down to Quincy, and embarked on a business in home renovation, since Frank was very handy and hardworking. Several of the workers Yabin had originally recruited for his cousin had started to work for Frank after the real estate developer had left for Las Vegas. With these capable hands joining him, Frank’s business kept booming. Many real-estate agents began to refer their customers to him when their homes needed repairing. But Frank knew very little English and couldn’t communicate with Americans directly. That was where Yabin’s service was needed. As Frank began to receive more job orders than he could handle, Yabin helped him farm work out to others: electricians, plumbers, carpenters, masons, roofers, painters, floor setters. Most of these workers were Chinese, and some Hispanic; Yabin helped facilitate their communication with their customers too. He had even learned a little rudimentary Spanish. Some workers simply called him “Second Boss.”
Probably to avoid hurting Tian’s feelings, Frank didn’t assign him work directly and simply let Yabin find him suitable jobs on an ad hoc basis. It was still winter and only some small indoor projects were under way. Since Tian had no special skills, Yabin put him into a group of cleaners, who were charged with sprucing up the renovated homes. Tian began by washing carpets with a heavy-duty cleaning machine. He had never used such a thing before, and it took him several floors to master pushing and pulling the machine with some ease. He liked the work and was paid $9.50 an hour. Though Tian had a Social Security Number, Frank still gave him cash.
