Ha Jin - A Good Fall

Fanku wasn’t really Ganchin’s friend. They had come to know each other about six months ago at a celebration of the Spring Festival. Ganchin had been delighted to find the man to be a fellow townsman, from the same county. Fanku worked as a line cook at an eatery. When Ganchin asked to stay with him for a few days, Fanku welcomed him, saying he was proud to help a friend.

His studio apartment was in the basement of a nine-story tenement, close to downtown Flushing. It had a tiny bathroom but no kitchenette, and was furnished with only a cot and a pair of metal chairs standing on either side of a narrow table. When Ganchin had arrived, Fanku pulled a bundle out of the closet and spread the thin sponge mattress on the floor. “Here, you can sleep on this,” he told the guest. “I hope this is all right.”

“Very good, thanks,” Ganchin replied.

In the morning he would roll up the mattress and stow it in the closet again. The sleeping arrangement satisfied both of them, but Ganchin’s hacking cough troubled Fanku, who asked him several times about the true nature of his illness. Ganchin assured him that it was not tuberculosis, that he must have hurt his lungs during his kung fu practice, and that the illness had been aggravated by the anger and anguish he’d gone through lately. Even so, Fanku often examined the water in a pickle bottle — into which the monk spat — to see if there was blood. So far he’d found nothing abnormal. Still, Ganchin’s constant coughing disturbed him, especially at night.

Fanku let his guest use whatever food he had in the studio for free, while he himself ate at work. There were a few packs of ramen noodles and a half sack of jasmine rice in the cabinets, and he urged Ganchin to eat something more nutritious so that he could recuperate, but the monk had no money. He asked Fanku for a loan of two hundred dollars, but Fanku was almost as broke as Ganchin. He’d overstayed his business visa and had to pay horrendous attorney’s fees, as he had been trying to get his illegal status changed. He lent Ganchin sixty dollars instead. Fanku often brought back food for Ganchin, a box of rice mixed with pork roast, or a bag of fish croquettes, or a bunch of egg rolls and spareribs. By now, Ganchin had started eating meat and seafood; it was hard to remain vegetarian when he had no idea where he would have his next meal. Fanku said he could get those food items at a discount, but Ganchin wondered if they were leftovers. Yet whenever the thought popped into his mind, he’d push it aside and remind himself to be grateful.

Then one morning Fanku said, “Look, Ganchin, I don’t mean to pressure you, but I can’t continue paying for the food I bring back. My lawyer asked me to give him thirty-five hundred dollars by the end of this month. I’m totally broke.”

Lowering his eyes, Ganchin said, “Please keep a record of the money you’ve spent on me. I’ll pay it back.”

“You misunderstood me, brother. I simply don’t have enough cash now. Goodness knows if my lawyer really can help me. A girl at Olivia Salon has spent more than eighty thousand dollars for attorney’s fees but still can’t get a green card. Sometimes I’m so desperate for cash that I feel like mugging someone. You know, I have to send money to my wife and daughter back home as well.”

“Can you help me find work at your restaurant? I can wash dishes and mop floors.”

“You’re so ill, no place would dare to use you. The best you can do is rest well and try to recover.”

Ganchin turned silent for a few seconds, then replied, “I’ll try to get some money.”

Fanku said no more. He yawned, having slept poorly since Ganchin had been here. Fanku was only forty-one but looked wizened like an old man with a pimpled bald crown. He must have lived in fear and worry all the time. He spread his hand towel on a clotheshorse in a corner and left for work.

After breakfast, which was two cold buns stuffed with red-bean paste and a cup of black tea, Ganchin set out for Gaolin Temple. His legs were a little shaky as he walked. A shower had descended the previous night, so the streets were clean and even the air smelled fresher, devoid of the stink of rotten fish and vegetables. He turned onto a side street. On the pavement seven plump sparrows were struggling with spilled popcorn, twittering fretfully and hardly able to break the fluffy kernels. Regardless of humans and automobiles, the birds were all working hard at the food. Approaching the temple, Ganchin heard people shouting and stamping their feet in unison inside the brick building. A new coach was teaching a kung fu class.

At the sight of Ganchin, Master Zong put on a smile and said, “You’ve gained some color. I hope you’re well now.” He led him to the back of the building, walking with a slight stoop.

Seated on a bamboo mat in the meditation room, Ganchin said, “Master, I came to see if there’s some way you can pay me my salary. I can’t stay on illegally — you know that — and neither can I go home without enough cash to clear my debts.”

Zong’s smile didn’t stop, displaying a mouth of gleaming teeth, which had often made Ganchin wonder what kind of toothpaste the master used. Zong said, “Let me repeat, our temple doesn’t owe you a thing.”

“Master, you’ve pushed me to the edge of a cliff — I have no way out now and may have to follow Ganping’s example.” Ganping had been a monk at the temple, who, after three years’ work, wouldn’t go back on account of the unpaid salary. Master Zong had ordered him to leave, but the monk went to a park and hanged himself instead.

“You’re not like Ganping,” Zong said calmly, his fleshy face sleek. “He was insane and stupid, couldn’t even do a clean job of hanging himself. That’s why he is in jail now.” People had spotted Ganping the moment he dangled from a piece of cloth tied to a bough of an oak, his legs kicking, and they’d called the police, who brought him back to the temple. Soon afterward he was sent back to China. But he went crazy because his girlfriend had taken a lover during his absence. He strangled the woman, with whom he ought not to have started a romantic relationship in the first place.

Ganchin felt like weeping but took hold of himself. He said, “Don’t underestimate me, Master. If life is no longer worth living, one can end it without remorse.”

“You have your old parents, who are looking forward to seeing you home. You shouldn’t think of such a cowardly way out.”

“If I went back empty-handed, I’d be a great disappointment to them. I’d prefer to die here.”

“Don’t talk about death. We monks must cherish every life. Life is given us only once, and it’s a sin to destroy it. You know all this; no need for me to dwell on it.”

“Master, farewell. See you in the next world.”

“Stop bluffing. To be honest, according to my agreement with your monastery, I’m responsible for sending you home, but I won’t force you. You can choose what to do.” The master let out a huge burp.

“I only hope my soul can reach home. Good-bye now.” Ganchin got up from the bamboo mat and made for the door.

“Pighead,” Zong said.

Ganchin stepped out of the temple. Forks of lightning cracked the sky in the south, where dark clouds were billowing, piling on one another. The wind was rising as shop signs along the street were flapping. Pedestrians were rushing back and forth to avoid the thickening rain, a stocky woman running with a newspaper over her head, but Ganchin just strolled back to Fanku’s place. Big raindrops pattered on tree leaves and on his face while his robe fluttered.

Cindy came to see him the next afternoon. His cough had turned harsher, thanks to the rain that had drenched him. He was also thinner than the previous week. She took him to Little Pepper, a Sichuan restaurant, and ordered a vegetarian firepot for both of them.