China's Son by Da Chen

wanted to learn that instrument, but how?
    Once again, Dad came through like a champ. This time he contacted a young man named Soong, originally from the city of Putien. He was the son of a Christian dentist who had died in jail, and he had taken over his father's old practice. The family had been labeled counterrevolutionaries because of their dogged belief in God and had been sent to live in exile in Heng Tang, a tiny village near Yellow Stone.
    Dad had heard of Soong on one of his visits to a patient who was a neighbor of Soong's and who had complained often about the strange, foreign music the young man played at night.
    Having met with Soong, Dad reported that the young man had readily agreed to teach me the basics if I was willing to walk there every day during the summer vacation.
    The fifth grade finished without the expected finals and report cards. Everyone graduated. But whether I was going to high school remained a mystery. Politics was in; grades were out. My fate stood undecided, wavering in the wind like a blade of grass along the Dong Jing River.
    Heng Tang was nestled at the foot of Hu Gong Mountain. When the sky was overcast, the village floated like a mirageamong the clouds. When it rained, it totally disappeared. During the summer, it was hidden under the thick foliage of persimmon trees, but in spring the village blossomed like a wild garden.
    I finally arrived at Mr. Soong's dental office, in an old temple at the edge of the village.
    “Da, right?” Soong greeted me warmly, taking off his surgical mask.
    He had just finished with a teary-eyed young boy who was being comforted by his mom.
    “Mr. Soong. How did you know it was me?”
    “The violin.” He smiled and revealed the whitest teeth I had ever seen. I supposed it came with the business.
    I smiled back, hiding my teeth, regretting not having brushed them again before coming. I studied him as he washed his hands and hung up his white coat. He was in his twenties, fair-skinned and good-looking, with long hair that touched his collar. He wore a pair of tight bell-bottom trousers and a silk shirt. A city dude to the bone.
    “A barefooted violinist?” he said, smiling at me. “Let's see what you've got there.”
    I took out the violin and he plucked a few notes on it, adjusted the pegs, redid the bridge, tightened the bow, then cradled it between his neck and shoulder. He closed his eyes and a soothing melody flowed out of my instrument. His fingers ran quickly along the strings, up and down, and the bow jumped, making curt sounds. I was amazed at his skill and was falling in love with the music when he stopped suddenly.
    “You got a great violin here.” He put it down carefully. “Smoke?” I shook my head.
    “Want to be an artist?” I nodded, not knowing where he was heading.
    “Then take one.” He threw me a filtered cigarette and lit it for me with a lighter. I puffed on it and inhaled deeply. “I'm no teacher. Don't call me
Teacher
or anything, but I could use a friend like you.” He looked out his small window, then at a pile of dentures lying on his messy desk. “It's boring here. In fact, if you want to be a dentist, I can teach you that as well. I have plenty of time on my hands and all these teeth need to be filed to fit into patients' mouths.”
    “I'll do the violin first,” I replied, “but I can help with your work during my break.”
    “No need, I was joking.”
    It didn't take me long to like him.
    The next few days I spent walking around his office, holding my violin between my shoulder and neck and practicing bowing. It was a painful experience that made my neck swell and left my shoulder raw, but he kept saying I was making progress. He showed me pictures of stone busts of Beethoven and Mozart and told me stories about them, amazing stories.
    I practiced constantly and was making fast progress, which Mom and Dad noticed with considerable pride. To thank Soong, Mom would sometimes ask me to bring fruit and meat to