A Song Everlasting Read online

  Before going to bed, he called his wife, Shuna, and told her about his delayed return. She was pleased to hear about his opportunity to pick up some cash, but urged him to be cautious and avoid making any public statements.

  2

  After he checked out of the hotel the next morning, Tian walked to Yabin’s apartment on 45th Avenue in Flushing. He hadn’t expected to find Yabin living with a girlfriend, Barrie, a white woman who worked as a nurse at a hospital in Queens. She was not in when he arrived, but Yabin pointed at a photo of her and said she was his girlfriend and they were living together. Tian had always thought of Yabin as a perpetual bachelor. Now it felt intrusive to be staying in their one-bedroom apartment. Apart from impinging on their privacy, he needed his own peace and quiet, to focus on the performance ahead. Based on the fee they’d pay him, he had proposed a two-song set for the celebration: “At a Faraway Place,” a 1930s love song, and “Song of the Plateau,” a theme song of the movie A Visitor from an Ice Mountain, which originally appeared in the early 1960s. It had an Islamic melody, lively and exotic. Both might be known to some older overseas Chinese who were nostalgic about the fine old songs. Taiwanese immigrants often couldn’t stomach the propaganda songs popular on the mainland, and also Tian wanted to avoid the current Hong Kong and Taiwanese hits because they might already be too familiar. Yabin passed Tian’s choices on to the event organizers so that, if they approved the songs, they could have an appropriate band arranged for him.

  As soon as Tian sat down in Yabin’s living room, he told his friend that he didn’t want to invade his and Barrie’s privacy. He wondered whether Yabin could find a motel for him nearby. Yabin smiled and assured him, “There’re a good number of family-run hostels in this area and I know one just a block away.”

  He made a phone call and then told Tian that it was settled—the cost for the room was seventy-five dollars a night and he could check in anytime. Yabin assured him that he could pick up the bill for him. After lunch at a restaurant called Red Chopsticks on Kissena Boulevard, they set out for the hostel. Tian liked the place, owned by a Korean-Chinese family. It was a two-story brick building, and his room, clean and quiet, had three beds in it. He seemed to be the only guest there, the adjacent rooms all vacant. The low occupancy made the place very peaceful. The hostel even offered homemade breakfast.

  On Saturday evening, Yabin drove him to Chinatown in lower Manhattan, where the venue was on Eldridge Street. Tian was surprised to see a full-size auditorium instead of a dining hall. Chinese immigrants often liked to combine entertainment with a banquet, so usually such a celebration would be held in a place with dozens of dining tables. Tian was glad that this event would have nothing to do with eating. The auditorium looked expensive and a little solemn. Yabin said with a knowing smile, “They moved the event to this bigger venue because of you. When I said you had agreed to sing for them, they all went into raptures. Many of them had seen you sing at the CCTV’s Spring Festival’s gala, so they feel honored by your presence here.”

  Together they got into a greenroom behind the stage, where some of the performers were already gathered. A pair of flat monitors was pinned to the walls in the lounge, allowing everyone to watch the performances as they happened. He was to close the show, so for now he could relax. He greeted the others in the room, who were mingling around a table spread with soft drinks, tea and coffee, pastries, cheese, and fruits. Among the performers there were a few dancers and musicians. A fortyish woman sat alone. She wore a loose outfit—a peach tunic with long sleeves and beige slacks. Her seemingly casual clothes belied her well-proportioned figure, which showed when she stood and went over to the table to pour a cup of coffee. She had an oval face and shoulder-length hair. As Yabin introduced Tian to her, her eyes sparkled. She said, “I’m Tan Mai, a pi-pa player. It’s an honor to meet you in person, Mr. Yao.” Her crisp accent indicated that she must be from the Yangtze delta.

  Tian had heard of her and knew she had gained some recognition in North America, but he wasn’t sure how accomplished she was. He mumbled a few polite words and then sat down in an armchair. He rested his head on the back of the chair and closed his eyes. He tried to doze while the others were chatting. But from time to time he glanced at the monitor on the right—the show was already under way.

  A spindly official from the Taipei Economic and Cultural Office in New York, which was somewhat like Taiwan’s consulate here because there was no formal relationship between the U.S. and the island state anymore, went onstage and spoke in refined official Mandarin about the significance of the National Day to the Chinese diaspora: Whether one supported unification or Taiwan’s independence, they were all Chinese sharing the same language and culture. Indeed, the audience was composed of people from many parts of the world, but mostly from mainland China and Taiwan, and some were American-born. The official then read out a letter from President Ma Ying-jeou, who congratulated the Chinese in America for their love of peace and for their achievements in life and work.

  Then the show began. First a children’s choir came on the stage, all the boys in navy suits and striped ties and all the girls in red skirts and white shirts. They were from a local church and sang two hymns; their singing was sweet and serene, yet quite passionate. Tian had rarely heard Christian hymns like those, whose swelling melodies he enjoyed. It was refreshing for him to hear the religious songs at such a secular gathering. The next act was a solo piece of traditional Chinese music played on the erhu, a two-stringed violin of sorts; the player was very young, probably under twenty, but clearly he had many years’ training and played vigorously, with bravado. But the music was sad, even heart-wrenching. Indeed, Tian couldn’t recall having ever heard an uplifting composition for the erhu.

  After the erhu player came a pair of young acrobats, a man and a woman, each riding a tall unicycle while the band was playing a brisk tune to urge them on. Having circled a few laps around the stage, they stopped to start tossing bowls onto their heads with their feet. They kicked up the bowls one after another, all landing atop their heads. In spite of the extraordinary skill and cheerful spirit, it was just a standard Chinese acrobatic routine, of which Tian had seen plenty when he was a young boy. It bored him.

  Tan Mai appeared onstage next. She sat on a chair and held her pi-pa, a strummed lutelike instrument with four strings. She explained that the piece she was about to play was called “Night Thoughts,” an ancient composition by a Buddhist monk in the ninth century. Recently she had stumbled upon fragments of this sheet music in an ancient temple outside Hangzhou, and she was still trying to restore it, or “put it together,” as she told the audience. Tian was amazed that she would perform something still in the making. But once she started to play, he felt a gentle force transporting him to a remote tranquil landscape, where there were woods and valleys and babbling streams, a bright moon hanging over a mountain ridge. The music was slow, at ease, but full of texture and small surprises, completely different from anything else he’d ever heard on the pi-pa, which usually produces rapid and crisp notes. As he listened with rapt attention, he realized this was a genuine piece of ancient music, deep and peaceful, infused with passion and memories. Beyond any doubt it was a masterpiece! He was touched, his eyes turning misty and his nose stuffy. But the audience didn’t respond warmly when Tan Mai finished, and the applause was sparse.

  She seemed to expect the lukewarm response. She said she was going to play another piece, which was livelier and her own composition. “It’s called ‘Leaves Flying in Autumn,’ ” she told the audience.

  She began to play. It was a lovely and joyful piece, typical of pi-pa music, full of energy and verve, so different from the traditional piece about fallen leaves in autumn, a season that suggests the decline of vitality and the twilight of life. As she was plucking away with all five fingers of her right hand, her body seemed to become part of the instrument and her head swayed with the rhythm. Her face grew more ani
mated and her smile turned radiant and at moments mysterious. Tian could tell that she was a virtuoso, a unique artist. He wished he had seen her perform before so that he could have talked with her and found out more about her. Surely her kind of mastery must have resulted from a great deal of hard work.

  The audience went wild when she was done. She stood and bowed. They called for an encore, but she said she was sorry and couldn’t stay any longer. After another bow, she hurried off the stage, hugging her pi-pa.

  Tian could hardly focus on the act that followed, an umbrella dance, which was rather traditional and performed by a troupe from a local arts school. The dozen dancers were elegant, their limbs supple, and the choreography well done, every movement poised and graceful. The whole stage was transformed into a scene from a rainy day, pedestrians raising umbrellas and walking in misty streets. But Tian’s mind was still with the pi-pa player, who he’d heard had lived in America for many years and was probably teaching at a college or contracted with an orchestra.

  When his cue came, he went onstage, stood in front of the microphone, and began to sing. He hadn’t often sung the old love song “At a Faraway Place,” but, good at folk songs, he managed to do this one naturally. While singing, inspired by the lyrics, he imagined a young man on horseback stopping on a mountain ridge and chanting to his beloved far away. He could feel his voice cascading and, at moments, holding the audience under its spell. The next piece, the movie song, was in his regular repertoire, so he sang with more ease. Still, both felt like routine work to him, similar to his performances back in China, though the audience here responded with fervent applause. As he was about to leave the stage, a middle-aged man in a back row stood up and called, “Hey, Yao Tian, sing for us ‘A Happy Song Flying from the Green Fields’!”

  Tian was rattled—he hadn’t sung that song in a decade. It had been one of his hits. It was a piece of sheer propaganda, filled with insipid lines like “Let us work hard to modernize our great country. / There are heroes everywhere.” For years Tian was known for this song, which was broadcast every day in schools and factories and even in military barracks. He used to think that song was his lucky charm that had brought him fame and opportunities. Then in the late 1990s the song faded from public life, probably due to the change of people’s interest and taste. Tian felt deeply ashamed to be associated with it now. In fact, he’d given much thought to this change of public acceptance, to the vicissitudes of popularity. Isn’t it tragic to see your signature song die before you do?

  Unsure whether the man standing in a back row was serious or just heckling him, Tian shook his head and waved at him, trying to convey that he couldn’t sing that song anymore, and that he begged for his understanding. He hurried back to the greenroom, flustered, his face hot.

  But he couldn’t stay in there for long. Yabin came and beckoned to him, saying, “Tian, the sponsors, the organizers, and the other performers all would like to take photos with you. Please honor their wish.”

  Tian got back onstage again for the group photograph. A handful of reporters from the local Chinese-language media were there too, and shot a number of pictures. It looked like one or two of the shots would appear in the Chinese newspapers.

  Yabin drove him back to Queens. The immense Manhattan Bridge over the East River looked more striking at night, glowing with torrents of automobiles. When the water was behind them, most of the streetlamps were wrapped in orange halos, some shining against damp foliage and some against the shimmering sky. Remembering Tan Mai’s performance, Tian said to Yabin, “That pi-pa player is already a master—how come I had never seen her play before? Are you sure that people didn’t come to the show mainly for her?”

  “Do you think I was lying when I said the organizers changed the venue for you?” Yabin asked teasingly.

  “I’m sure she must be quite famous,” Tian said, feeling a twinge of envy as he often did when he met a truly accomplished artist, even though he viewed himself as an artist.

  “She does have an excellent reputation and she performs all over the world. But the Chinese here are not familiar with her music yet, and don’t know how to appreciate her because she plays differently from the traditional pi-pa players. Many of them came tonight mainly to see you.”

  “I was very impressed by the way she played.”

  “Me too. In my opinion she’s absolutely an original, but she’s not as famous as you.”

  “I loved her first piece more than her second one. It’s a piece of genuine ancient music. It touched me. I respect her more for not catering to the audience by playing it. How long has she lived in America, do you know?”

  “About fifteen years, according to her bio.”

  “It’s phenomenal that a Chinese musician like her could thrive here. I’m sure she’ll become a star.”

  “Her reputation is on the rise indeed. She’ll grow into a major figure in the music world.”

  “She’s someone to watch.”

  Yabin didn’t want to pay Tian by check, afraid he might not be able to cash it here or deposit it in Beijing. Tian actually had an account at the Bank of America, but he still preferred banknotes. Yabin told Tian that he had the four thousand dollars in cash, which they should stop at his place to pick up. Tian was more than willing to go with him.

  Barrie was at home, just having returned from a long shift at the hospital. Her sky-blue poncho was hanging on the top of the closet door in the short hallway. At the sight of Tian, she said, “Welcome! It’s an honor to have you here.”

  He replied in English, “It’s very nice to meet you. You have a lovely home.” Indeed, the apartment was elegantly furnished, the faux-antique furniture brand-new, and there were two vases of flowers, one of jasmines and the other of striped orchids, the blooms like butterflies.

  Seated on the puffy sofas, they chatted idly. Barrie was also an immigrant, from Argentina, a blonde with green eyes. She spoke flawless English—Tian assumed she must have grown up in the States. She said she had listened to one of his albums and was very fond of his songs. He wasn’t sure which songs she was referring to. In the U.S., his albums were mostly pirated by Hong Kong poachers. Barrie crossed her long-calved legs, her feet in flip-flops. Her ankles were shapely and muscular, and so were her arms and hands. He wondered how she and Yabin got along. Barrie seemed more like a country girl, while Yabin was urbane. Back in Beijing, he’d been known for having fine taste in women and for changing girlfriends frequently.

  Barrie told Tian, “Yabin was over the moon that you were performing tonight. Everyone was thrilled to have you.”

  Yabin uncorked a bottle of white wine and poured a glass for each of them. Tian touched his with theirs as they said, “Congratulations on a successful performance!”

  Tian took a mouthful and then set the glass down. By habit he avoided drinking.

  His flight was early the next morning, so after Yabin handed him a thick kraft envelope stuffed with cash, Tian stayed for a few more minutes, then took his leave. It was raining again, and Yabin drove him back to the family hostel. He told the owner’s wife to give Tian a wake-up call at five a.m.

  “Of course,” she promised. “We won’t let him miss his plane.”

  3

  At JFK Airport the next morning, Tian bought a jar of Krönung instant coffee for Director Meng. Meng had grown fond of coffee in recent years and frequented Starbucks in Beijing, but like most Chinese coffee drinkers, he didn’t know how to brew it at home. Tian paid almost thirty dollars for the jar, the most expensive kind in the duty-free shop. He’d go and see Meng as soon as he got back, to show that he had kept his word.

  But when he arrived at work on Monday, he found Meng disconcerted. The man looked startled as he raised his big head to see Tian stepping into his office, which was deep inside a rehearsal hall. “Well, surprise, surprise!” he said in jest, rubbing his eyebrows. “I thought you’d disappeare
d on the American continent.”

  “I’m back without leaving behind a hair,” Tian said, and placed the jar of coffee on his desk. “This is for you.” He twisted his shoulders, still sore and stiff from the long flight back.

  “Thanks, Tian. This must be gourmet stuff.”

  “It’s a genuine German product—you’ll like it.”

  Meng put the present into the bottom drawer of his desk. He said in a low voice, “I have to tell you that you might be in trouble. There’ll be a meeting about you this afternoon, in our conference room, and all the leaders will be there.”

  Tian was surprised, because their ensemble, a state-owned work unit, had more than ten leaders above Meng, who were all Party members and had been put into office as “salary drawers” without the ability to contribute anything. He asked, “Why? Am I supposed to attend? Look, I’m back on time and there’s no reason to make such a fuss.”

  “They don’t know you’re back yet. I’ll call Secretary Niu right away and let her know this was a misunderstanding. For some reason word got around that you wouldn’t come back anymore. Of course most people take it as a mere rumor at this moment.”

  Niu was their Party boss, so Tian was stunned, then begged Meng, “Please tell them I was just trying to pick up some extra cash for my daughter’s tuition. Don’t make this political. You know me—I’ve never been political. I’m just a singer.”

  “Boy, now you’re scared—you look like you’re about to pee your pants. What did I tell you back in New York? Didn’t I say not to run the risk?”

  “How did they come to know I was delayed in my return? Did you reveal my plan to somebody?”

  “Tian, I’m not that low, not that stupid. If I had squealed on you, that would’ve amounted to turning myself in. I gave you the approval and would be held accountable if anything happened to you.”