Gold Mountain Blues (41 page)

Ah-Fat had planned the day carefully. They would sell what they could in the morning market, and then leave. The weather was not so hot that the meat and eggs would spoil. Any leftover meat could be salted down and the eggs pickled for them to eat at home. The market was not far from the city centre and they could be there in under half an hour. He would not bother with Chinatown; they would go and look around the
yeung fan
part of town instead. They were meeting Rick for lunch at a fish and chips restaurant near the Vancouver Hotel.

He had not seen Rick since he left Vancouver. According to Rick, the restaurant was run by Irish people and the food was not bad. Ah-Fat did not have much faith in this recommendation because
yeung fan
and Chinese tastes in food were a million miles apart. He guessed the fish would probably have cheese and onions in it, as this was the sort of ranktasting stuff that was added to all
yeung fan
food, and that they would get two tiny slices of fish reposing on a thick layer of greens, only enough to fill
a bird's belly. All the same, Ah-Fat was willing to eat it, however disgusting it was, because Kam Shan had not yet tried foreign food. Nor had he met Rick. Ah-Fat packed two pork ribs with a nice mixture of fat and lean, and a basket of eggs as a gift for his friend.

It did not matter if they did not get enough fish to eat. Ah-Fat was going prepared—with a bottle of tea wrapped in a thick cloth to keep it warm, and some green bean cakes, so that his son would not go hungry. After lunch, he planned to take Kam Shan to the Hudson's Bay Company Department Store. If a couple of things took Kam Shan's fancy, so long as they were not wildly expensive, Ah-Fat could buy them for him.

The pig and the sheep had been butchered the night before. The piteous squeals of the pig and the bleating of the sheep grated on Kam Shan's ears as painfully as a nicked and rusty knife and he could not get back to sleep. Father and son could not have been more different: Ah-Fat, as a boy, would sit without moving a muscle, his eyes glued to the knife as his father did his butchering, but Kam Shan always refused the meat from the animals his father slaughtered.

Kam Shan smelt the reek of blood the minute he dressed and stepped outside that morning. It was no longer fresh but just as pungent, and there were suspicious patches of a dark brownish colour under the walnut tree outside the door. Kam Shan gave an almighty sneeze. Acid came up from his empty belly, and he squatted at the edge of the path, retching violently.

“If you don't get going right now, we'll be selling salted meat instead of fresh!” Ah-Fat shouted at him.

Ah-Fat was appalled at his own words. He had intended to say something like “Let's go. When we've sold the meat, I'm taking you for a treat.” But those words died in this throat. Off his tongue rolled something completely different—strange, icy and wounding. He wanted to take it back the moment he said it. He did not know why his mouth fought his mind every time he talked to his son.

Kam Shan said nothing. He went into the house, brought out an old quilt, and threw it into the cart. Spring nights were still cold hereabouts and if by any chance a cart wheel broke on the way home, the quilt could save their lives. Kam Shan leaned against the rolled-up quilt and handed the whip to his father—every time father and son went out together,
Ah-Fat took the reins. He was convinced Kam Shan was hot-headed and drove the horse too hard. It was an old horse, no longer as sure-footed as it had been, and Ah-Fat felt sorry for it.

The road was lined with silver birch, the dark trunks blurring into one another against the glazed blue of the sky, as they passed. A great flock of crows flew up, darkening the sky with their wings and cawing loudly. “The Cantonese call people who say unlucky things ‘crows',” commented Ah-Fat. “And back home the caw of a crow is considered a bad omen. In Gold Mountain, the cities are full of crows and no one gives a shit when they caw.”

Kam Shan grunted but said nothing.

“I'll take you to the department store after lunch, shall I? What would you like me to get you?” said Ah-Fat, keen to get the conversation going. Kam Shan was making a paper bird, a sparrow hawk, out of some scrap and, without looking up, said: “Whatever you say, Dad.” “What about if I get you a pair of leather shoes?” Ah-Fat tried again. Kam Shan had been wearing the cotton shoes Six Fingers made for him ever since he arrived. But fashionable young Chinese in Gold Mountain wore
yeung fan
leather shoes.

Kam Shan finished folding the bird but its wings were floppy and would not fly. He pulled it apart and folded it again. “Whatever you want, Dad” was his only reply.

“Would you like to buy Pastor Andrew a box of chocolates?” asked Ah-Fat. “He's taught you English but you've never converted, have you?”

Kam Shan finally finished folding his paper bird and opened it out gently with two fingers. Its wings flapped up and down.

“Whatever you like, Dad.”

Looking at Kam Shan's apathetic expression, Ah-Fat found his patience wearing thin. With difficulty he bit back an angry retort. He knew that if he spoke he would give his son a thorough tongue-lashing, and he was not going to quarrel today. So he swallowed the bitter words—and felt them turn to gall inside him.

Kam Shan tired of the paper bird and, with a wave of his hand, let it go. It was a fine day and the bird glided easily for some distance on the breeze.

“Dad, can we buy Mum a ring? A ‘grandmother green' emerald one? Pastor Andrew's wife has one. Her mother left it to her,” he said.

Ah-Fat was taken aback. The bitterness that filled him dissolved like water. His son had been apart from his mother for months. Fathers give sons courage; mothers give sons love, thought Ah-Fat. A life without motherly love was a comfortless one. Poor Kam Shan missed the old days, his home and his mum. And if he missed his mother, then he was not a lost cause. Six Fingers would come to Gold Mountain one day, and Kam Shan would have both courage and love. And he would no longer feel like a stranger to Ah-Fat.

Ah-Fat could not bring himself to say that the money he had in his pocket was not enough to buy even one corner of an emerald ring. So he just laughed and said: “One day, we will, one day.…” He suddenly felt much more cheerful. Nine suns seemed to be shining down on him, making the roadway glint and sparkle. As the cart rolled on, he found himself humming a little song. He had forgotten some of the words and sang out of tune, but his happiness gave it a rollicking rhythm.

You say words of love, but love must be sincere

Do not spread your love all around

The snares of love have fallen … ta-ta, ta-ta

You've got to … ta-rum, ta-rum … wake up

They arrived at the market to find business unusually brisk. Within an hour or so, they sold all their produce. They still had some time before they were due to meet Rick, so Ah-Fat took his son to Chinatown, where they could buy some pastries to take home. Ah-Fat went into the cake shop to choose. “Dad,” said Kam Shan, “I want to go and read the papers at the stand.” Ah-Fat let him go, knowing how much his son loved the newspapers. “Just don't be long. I'll wait for you here.”

But Kam Shan did not come back.

Kam Shan had not been to Chinatown on his own for a while. There were some new broadsheets on display on the stand. His eyes raked over every item—art and culture, wars, home and overseas news—looking for a particular name, Freedom Fung. It was not there.

Two long articles took up almost all of the politics pages—the Monarchists and the Revolutionaries were waging a rhetorical war. The article from the Revolutionaries' perspective was by a supporter he did not know; he read it cursorily but thought little of it. It was disjointed and crudely expressed. The only person who could write a decent piece of this sort was Mr. Fung, thought Kam Shan; his articles were lucidly argued, and no matter whether he was expressing indignation or sarcasm, they were all powerful stuff.

He left the newspaper stand to return to the cake shop to meet his father. Halfway there, he passed a sign for the offices of the
The Chinese Times
, and found himself stepping inside. An old man who did odd jobs around the office shouted over to him: “Kam Shan! We haven't seen you for ages! Been making your fortune, have you?” Kam Shan did not answer the question, but asked instead: “Where's Mr. Fung?” “He's not here today. He's got guests.” “They must be very important guests if he's not writing for the paper any more!” exclaimed Kam Shan. “Without his articles, the paper's no good for anything except wiping your arse with!” The old man burst out laughing. “Don't let the boss catch you talking like that or he'll wallop you,” he said. Then he pulled the boy aside and whispered: “The Cudgel's here from the States, he's raising money for some big plan of his, and he's taken Mr. Fung around with him on his lecture tour.” The Cudgel was boss of the Hung Mun, a Chinese secret society.

Kam Shan knew everyone at the
Times
. After reading Mr. Fung's articles, Kam Shan had been filled with curiosity and admiration and had gone to pay his respects to Mr. Fung at his office. Later still, when he heard the man expound his views on the political situation in East and West, he grew to believe that Mr. Fung was the only man in Gold Mountain worthy of his respect and friendship. From that moment on, every time he went into Vancouver to sell their produce, he sent Loong Am off to the theatre and took himself to the
Times
to see Mr. Fung.

Mr. Fung was not only highly educated, he was eloquent and charismatic as well. As he put it, the Manchu (Qing) dynasty took resources that properly belonged to the Chinese people and used them to appease the Western powers. The dynasty's days were numbered. According to Mr. Fung, the most important task facing them—destroying the Manchu
barbarians and returning China to the Chinese—could not be accomplished without the support of overseas Chinese living all over the world. Mr. Fung's eyes blazed like two lanterns on a dark night when he spoke, and his impassioned speeches set Kam Shan on fire.

Though Kam Shan read the newspapers, he did not fully understand Chinese national politics. He did not doubt, however, that Mr. Fung's campaign was brilliantly clever. He started to filch small change from the proceeds of the produce to put in the collection box at the newspaper office. Mr. Fung always counted Kam Shan's donations carefully, wrote him out a receipt for the “loan” and told him that he would get double the amount back once the revolution succeeded. Kam Shan smiled but his thoughts were not on repayment. He gave because Mr. Fung inspired him. The revolution was a far-off, hazy prospect for Kam Shan, out of sight and out of mind. Mr. Fung made him feel as if he could reach it, but the vision dimmed as soon as he stepped out of the
Times
office and into the street. As the sweat-stained receipts filled his jacket pocket, he wondered how he could ever explain to his dad where the money had gone.

Kam Shan knew that Mr. Fung was a Hung Mun secret society member, and that the
Times
was a Hung Mun newspaper. If the head of the Hung Mun, called the Cudgel, had come to Vancouver that meant something significant was going to happen. “What's the Cudgel's name?” he asked excitedly. “Sun Yat-sen,” said the old man. Kam Shan remembered having read the name frequently in Mr. Fung's articles. “Where are they now?” he asked. “Giving a lecture in the theatre in Canton Street. There are thousands of people there.” All thoughts of meeting his father at the cake shop immediately went out of Kam Shan's head, and he pushed open the door and raced off down the street.

As he hitched up his gown and ran, he did not notice the dense clouds massing like cotton wool above his head. The wind blew up eddies of dust, tickling his nostrils. But Kam Shan ran on, unaware that fate was drawing him deep into an abyss, trapping him in a predicament for which he was completely unprepared.

When he got to the door of the theatre, the sky opened. All of a sudden, it poured down so intensely that not even the most agile of passersby could avoid the deluge. One of Kam Shan's feet was over the threshold of the
theatre when the rain started, but the rain caught his back foot, and by the time it crossed the threshold to join the first, his gown was drenched. It was of rough blue cotton, stoutly sewn, but the dye was not fast and the rain made the colour run. As the rainwater dripped from it, Kam Shan left river of blue water behind him. Once inside the building, Kam Shan dropped the hem of his gown and wiped the rain from his face with one hand, smearing it a ghastly indigo as he did so.

The theatre was full to bursting with people standing in the aisles, but they all fell back as this blue apparition approached. So Kam Shan squeezed his way through, and found a place to stand near a pillar. He rested against it, and suddenly felt cold. The wet gown seemed to encase him in a layer of ice which needled him all over. Very soon, he felt an urgent need to piss.

The urge impinged on his consciousness, bluntly at first, but then gradually became more and more acute until he could stand it no longer. He was overcome by a fit of shivering—and then something seemed to snap. He felt a warm dampness in the crotch of his trousers. If I go just a tiny bit, he thought to himself, then it'll let up and I'll be able to hang on.

But once unlocked, the floodgates opened; all he could do was cross his legs tightly as the warm urine ran down his legs to his ankles, and then dripped from his trouser cuffs onto the floor. The cloudy yellow of the urine mixed with the indigo dye and trickled in a zigzag down the aisle. It reeked to Kam Shan, but when he looked around, he was relieved to see that none of his neighbours, engrossed in the speeches, had noticed.

He could relax now, though he was still cold. If he stood on tiptoe, he could see the whole stage. On it stood half a dozen men, all of whom were in Western dress except for one, who wore a gown and jacket. Kam Shan recognized Mr. Fung on the stage. He had never seen the others before. The man in the middle was speaking. He was a bit older, of middling height and sported a thick, black moustache. Next to him stood a strapping figure with a gun at his waist, probably his bodyguard. He spoke in Cantonese, so that everyone understood, and was giving a fiery, rabblerousing speech.