The Man Game (68 page)

Mrs. Alexander held up her wool skirts as she ran through the streets to catch up with the men. She didn't know what she thought she was doing. There was a cool fog in the air and her grey hairs kept blowing in her eyes. She ignored it and held tight to her skirts, watching the sidewalk for loose boards or a slippery patch of moss that might take out her footing. She cursed her husband. She cursed him loudly and prayed under her breath. Turned the corner, saw the men swarming around the bound prisoners, reared up on her heels and paused to build up her druthers. Throwing her back into it as she rushed them, screaming at her most authoritative: Stay away from those Chinese.

If her husband couldn't muster the courage, she would stand in his place and put an end to this folly once and for all. She forced her way through the men, kicked their legs, yoinked them back by their collars if she had to. Young belligerent woodsmen shook her off, saying: 'The fuck—, and got a slap across the face for using profanity in her presence as she chirped at them like the fiercest mother Heaven ever sent. The waddles of her neck trembled as she screamed. Inside her navy-blue Anglican wool dress her big motherly rump started behind her breasts and went halfway down her legs. She waddled in front of it, slashing her hands in the air, talking crimes and punishments.

Move aside, young man. Where's your head? I don't want to hear none a your back talk; why, you're old enough to know never to talk that way to a lady thrice your age. I'll have you all thrown in the mews if you don't watch yourselves. I'll drag you in one by one by the ears, and just watch me.

Her hair was pulled into a solid sphere at the back of her skull, the white moon of her scalp making the dark craters around her eyes all the more unsettling. Her eyes were wet ponds inside those depressions. She had their attention but they didn't know what to do with her. She understood immediately that the Chinamen's predicament was serious, and asked the crowd what they intended to do with their prisoners now that they had them. Quickly enough she'd separated them all from the Chinamen, who had nowhere left to go.

None of the faces showed any ideas, and naturally the cowboy RD Pitt spoke up and said: We're shipping them off to Victoria tomorrow on the next ferry, back where they came from.

You aren't going to lay a hand on these men, she said.

No, ma'am, Pitt said. We aimed to ship them back whence they lived before they got hired to come here, is all.

Where's the po-lice?

Pitt shook his head subtly to the left, where in the darkening distance the po-lice stood, mute statues.

Why haven't they arrested you all? Shall I go call them over and see to it myself?

Everything's under control, Mrs. Alexander, said Pitt. Look around. No one's harmed.

Don't think I'm budging till someone lugs the po-lice over here to arrest you all. If you so much as
touch
these men. Absolutely unacceptable behaviour from supposedly civilized gentlemen—one would hope you'd want to set an example. Show some manners for our Chinese visitors. No, instead look at you. Are you all Darwinists? Am I among animals and atheists? Are you God-fearing men or has Indian skookum got hold a you completely?

She bawled them out for what seemed the first time since they were children. She knew just the words to strike
deep. Some of them had never had a mother to speak of. And some of them didn't know what to do but huff sadly under their breath, under their hats, under the cover of dark, under the wishing stars, under the ceiling of God's business. It was only smoke, it was a flick of dirt. It was anything but sorrow.

When the po-lice finally arrived she bawled them out too, and there was nothing to do but apologize.

We're sorry, the po-lice said.

Where were you all this time? Look what these men have done. What is your excuse? They met in City Hall, for the love a—

W-we were protecting the mob from getting too frisky, said Constable Miller, tipping his hat.

What are you trying to say, sir? Are you all nothing but cowards? Didn't want to confront this mob, eh? Really. I'm deeply troubled by this lack a perspective. Look at me, a simple old dame. What, now society requires its elderly to end disputes? Must I stand up and take action? Do you see a badge on
my
chest? If I were you, I'd watch over these men and see no harm comes to them. If I hear any a you leave your post and these Chinamen go missing, boots start showing up like last year? I'll see to it that every one a you gets a black mark and never works in Vancouver again, understand me? She turned her attention back to the cowboy Pitt. Am I making myself clear, young man? she said. There's going to be no more cowboy tactics. This is Vancouver, sir, not Calgary. We are the Queen's rarest jewel. Treat your fellow men as you would Lady Victoria herself, and make Britain proud a her Columbia.

Yes, ma'am. We're sending them on the boat for Victoria, said Pitt, trying to regain his stones after the squashing her matriarchal presence had inflicted on the men. They came here from Victoria, and alls we want is for them to deal with their own problem. We don't want their Chinamen. They go back to their homes to-morrow morning.

I don't see what good it does you. The boats return as frequently as they go.

The rioters stood there. A whiff of Mrs. Alexander's civet remained even after the lady left. Scoldings upon scoldings. The words burned. Was it her lingering perfume or her acid condemnations that stung their eyes? Some of them were too wild to know better.

What're you got planned for us to do now? said Sproat.

To-morrow we come back here, said Pitt, and make sure they're deported one and all. For now, let us get down to the business—who's with me for taking down this undeserving village a illegal squatters, say Aye.

Aye, said the men.

The whores looked more upset than the po-lice. No one was sure how to stop it from happening. It was as if they'd all forgotten about Mrs. Alexander, who was barely out of earshot. The po-lice saw the men proceed down the street and quickly take to dismantling the shantytown, lighting fires, wrecking the haystacked yurts, the shakewood teepees, the log cabins. The po-lice just stood there while dozens of men descended into the mudflats where homes had been erected even on the skewback. The tide was a dark creeping gloom of ink. It was late February, and although unusually warm, snow still lay on the ground in places. Here, beside Toronto's foot, was a clump of it stuck to the northern peak of a cutbank. It melted quickly as the bonfire caught its wind.

SIXTEEN

It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks.

–
ACTS IX. 5.

'The fuck is Pisk? bellowed Daggett, wiping his mouth after saying the cursed name.

As many as a hundred of the Chinamen in the audience at the man game this evening lived on the mudflats where RD Pitt and his gang were presently rocking and axing their shanties apart, dousing sackcloth in alcohol to speed the burning of the pyre. Another three hundred from the established part of Chinatown were at the man game as well. Only thirty-forty Whitemen were on Dupont Street causing all the trouble while just north, across Hastings Street, Whitemen at the man game already numbered in the thousands. Included among the melee were plenty of RD Pitt's early supporters, more interested in seeing the game than causing a ruckus. That was all. They wore shabby leather suspenders and dungarees with steel-riveted seams because that's what Furry and Daggett wore. They were the dogs of men, not the wolves.

You think I came here to be stood up by this bastard? said Daggett. I'm talking to you, Litz. Where is he? Or maybe it's true what we hear, that he's dead.

Unless your plan's to disrobe, there's no point conversating, said Litz. His arms were crossed over his bare chest. His eyelids were coolly sluggish, the thick lashes and thicker brow concealing the intensity of his focus. He stood at the foot of the steps to the Hastings Mill store with a silent band of loyal supporters.

If there's no Pisk, we'll tear an extra strip off you, how's aboot that?

Calm your heart, bellowed a familiar voice, I'm right here.

It was Pisk's voice, heard by unshaven men in the audience who could not locate his whereabouts, looking this and that a-way, looking for where, where. He came from inside the mill's store, swinging himself towards his rivals on a set of handmade maplewood crutches. Litz kept his eyes on the crowd, which he estimated to be huger than any previous man game. As Pisk eased himself down the stairs to the street the audience collectively gasped to see his feet wrapped in thick hives of white bandage. That's right, take a gander, you bohunks. Never seen a fucking injury before?

This doesn't satisfy no contract we had to be here.

I'm here, said Pisk, leaning heavily on his crutches.

No way you can play like that.

Our deal was if you win at the man game we leave town, said Pisk. But you know how we play. Each crew picks a first. Your first is Campbell, right?

That's right.

And I'm our first, said Litz. If any one a you
poltroons
can beat me, go right ahead and battle Pisk. Be my guest.

But no one here, said Pisk, expects any a you dick-biters is going to beat Litz. And if by chance or cheat you do, I can whip every one a you five-nothing standing on my hands the whole fucking time, and you know it, so don't pretend you're balls-out swaggering today.

You're saying if any one a us beats Litz, you'll play? said Campbell.

'The fuck, you deaf?

The audience erupted into debate. Furry & Daggett's crew tossed their hands in the air and threatened to leave that very minute, but Clough calmed them down using grandiloquent gestures, slashing his one arm back and forth as he spat out reasons to stay put. It was theatrical; there didn't seem to be any
chance of anyone going anywhere. Whitemen were still laughing and making jokes at Furry and Daggett's expense, but nothing so disrespectful as to warrant a belt-whipping, more as cajoles and pleas for them to stay, stay and play. The Chinamen laughed and hugged each other, shook little fists at the competitors and made noise in their language. They all kept one eye on the bets.

Pisk's beard was longer, thicker, and much greyer. It was trouble for him getting down the stairs, hobbling on no toes, and his clothes hung off a thinner body, a shallower chest, no bulging gut, dehydrated musculature. The feet were serious. He was on crutches. He couldn't play. No one in the crowd today was going to bet Pisk could play. Calabi was surrounded by Chinamen with questions. Hoss was surrounded by Whitemen with demands.

Clough separated himself from Furry & Daggett's crew, stood in the empty space awaiting two players, and addressed the audience: What fool believes Litz can beat all a Furry & Daggett's crew single-handedly?

If I can't get a rematch with Pisk, then I definitely want a piece a Litz to take home with me today, Campbell said, unjacketing. He shucked off his clothes with practised quickness, seeming to wave his hand across his body and be undressed. He threw them to Clough who folded them casually and rested them on the stump of a thousand-year-old cedar.

You seen me play, said Litz, but you never played me.

Who's your coach, Litz? bellowed Vicars, a character Litz was only beginning to recognize, a late-coming popularist of the man game, along with his friend Terry Berry.

I thought you were, Litz said, pushing his jaw to the side with the palm of his hand and cracking his neck.

Better not be me, said Terry Berry, cannily, or I'm betting on Campbell.

Campbell showed more professional demeanour this time around, or was terribly nervous, partaking in none of the ribaldry. Stepping away from the pile of his woollen calicos,
there was none of the self-consciousness that had lost him his match back in January. He walked with a different strut, and different still when he was undressed. It was as if in disrobing he'd chosen to speak a foreign language, one that gave him a greater versatility of expression than his workaday vocabulary. His arms no longer swung rigidly at his sides. They hung rather more loosely now, along with a newly trained footstep that was as sure as it was elastic and racy. He had more sinew where there had been cumbersome bulk, and his skin had a gingery burnish from exposure. His breath steamed in dragon gusts.