Gold Mountain Blues (26 page)

Ah-Fat had flattened himself so that he could squeeze into a narrow crack between one person and the next. All his bulk was in his shoulders, while the lower part of his body was feather-light. Still, every now and then, he caught muttered curses from his neighbours as he trod on their toes. In the bright sunshine the horizontal banner across the ceremonial arch was clearly visible to him: “Welcome to Your Excellency Li Hongzhang,” but the characters on the four vertical banners were much smaller, and Ah-Fat had to force his way halfway along the street until he was close enough make them out.

The Great Li Hongzhang bestows honour on all the places he deigns to visit

The Great Li Hongzhang has journeyed far at the Emperor's orders, to establish friendly relations with neighbouring nations The Great Li Hongzhang, in speeding across the Pacific Ocean, shows us the loving concern he feels for the Emperor's subjects who live in foreign lands

When Your Excellency returns home, we hope His Majesty will suitably reward his loyal elderly minister

He read them several times over from start to finish, until he had rough idea what they meant. Then he heard the sound of stringed instruments, and people singing:
With a golden palace towering over, and the grand Purple Pavilion….
It sounded like nothing he had ever heard before, something you might chant to the ancestors or in a temple, with a serene and solemn tune. Much later he found out it was called “Li Hongzhang's Anthem.” Li commissioned lyrics for the music, and it made do as a Great Qing National Anthem, so they had something to sing to the foreigners.

The carriage came through the arch and drew near them. It was drawn by two fine Mongolian ponies with red harnesses, looking from a distance as if they had been painted gleaming black. Their sturdy hooves kicked up dust and pebbles as they trotted along. They set off sporadic bursts of cheering as they passed by, too. But the ponies had been well trained; they were used to ceremonies like this and took no notice.

Ah-Fat could now see the occupants of the carriage more clearly. There were four of them, two facing forward and two backward. Three of the four were
yeung fan
, so the Imperial official at the back on the left was, without any doubt, Viceroy Li. The hat on his head seemed to be very heavy and he leaned slightly forward under its weight, propping his arm on the side of the carriage. He had bags under his eyes so droopy they might have contained two walnuts. His chin trembled continuously as if he was trying to master a cough which might burst out at any moment. He held a silver cup in one hand which he used as a spittoon. In the other hand he held a pipe. Ah-Fat had heard somewhere that the Viceroy was a heavy smoker. But the Viceroy did not smoke Chinese-produced tobacco; instead, his pipe was filled with the tobacco used in American cigars.

If you stripped him of his gorgeous attire and took off his ornate feathered hat, Viceroy Li was just a man who had reached an advanced age. The process of aging was gradual—a wrinkle here, a white hair there—and
was impossible to tell on which morning, or after which evening meal, a particular wrinkle or white hair had appeared. But when observed together, all of the details of aging suddenly made a person old. After the sea battles of the Sino-Japanese War, Viceroy Li had aged into a truly old man.

Old people like this could be found all over the place in Hoi Ping, sprawled dozing with their heads resting on the customary “stone pillow” in summer or sitting in a cane chair enjoying the sunshine when the weather got colder. Grimy sweat lodged in the multiple folds of their necks, grains of rice and drops of soup from past meals stuck to their chins, and they hissed through the gaps in their teeth as they talked.

But Viceroy Li was different. Court dress and an official hat meant that getting old was regarded as acquiring dignity, slowness of mind was regarded as profoundness and sloth as solemnity. A peacock feather created a gulf between the nobility and the marketplace which could not be breached. Viceroy Li stood on the other side of the gulf, and even in old age, he was separated by thousands of
li
from the marketplace.

His train of thought scared Ah-Fat.

There was a ripple among the people crowded around Ah-Fat, and he saw the wheels of the Viceroy's carriage rolling past.

“Peace to Your Excellency!”

Around the carriage, the crowds dipped low like a rice paddy blown by the wind. Some bowed, others lifted the hems of their jackets and knelt on the bare ground. Suddenly the view opened up before Ah-Fat and he saw, or rather felt, the Viceroy's eyes from behind those thick lenses, boring painfully into his cheek. Out of the thousands of people milling around, Li Hongzhang's gaze had fastened on this swarthy scar-face who was still standing.

Ah-Fat made a low bow.

“Please, will Viceroy Li convey our best wishes to the Emperor, and wish His Majesty good health. May the Great Qing rise again,” he shouted at the carriage.

His words had scarcely left his mouth when they were swallowed up by the general clamour. Perhaps the Viceroy heard, perhaps he did not. In any case, he signalled to his driver and the carriage slowly came to a halt. A wave of people surged towards it but was stopped by policemen who rushed
up and linked arms to form a protective human wall. The water lapped at the foot of the wall but did not break through. Gradually calm was restored and the wave of people rested where it was, peering through the stalwart shoulders of the police at the carriage which had halted so close to them, and the elderly man who sat in it.

“Do you live well here?” the old man asked with a languid gesture towards Ah-Fat and the men standing around him.

They all looked at each other, wondering how to answer and not daring to speak. Eventually someone mumbled: “We're fine.” “That's rubbish,” said someone else, pulling at the speaker's sleeve. Ah-Fat glanced at the Mayor, then said: “Your Excellency, times are hard for us here. We can't get decent government jobs. We can only do dirty jobs the Whites don't want to do, and we earn half of what they do. If we open up a small business, we have to pay high taxes so there's precious little profit left at the end of the year.”

As Ah-Fat spoke out, the men plucked up courage. A young man pushed himself through until he stood right in front of the carriage. “The Canadian government is discussing a bill to raise the head tax. We won't be able to afford it even if we save every cent for years. We'll have to spend our whole lives as bachelors and never have a wife and family.”

An older man interrupted: “I'm married but what good has it done me? I can't raise enough for the head tax so my wife can't join me. I might as well be single. When do I ever get a leg-over?” Some of the men sniggered at the coarse language. The expression on Viceroy Li's face tightened. “I see,” he said. Then he shut his eyes and fell silent.

The carriage wheels creaked and the ponies set off, their hooves stirring up little eddies of dust which filled the air with a haze.

In the blink of an eye, the autumn day had grown old.

Ah-Fat watched as the carriage receded into the distance, and gave little sigh.

Year twenty-six of the teign of Guangxu (1900) Spur-On Village, Hoi Ping County, Guangdong Province, China

Six Fingers got up and dressed, and pulled back the bamboo curtains. She startled at the sunshine which streamed into the room. They had had five continuous days of rain that seeped into their houses and through their clothes until it felt as if everything was coated in layers of slime. Yet now, without warning, the weather had suddenly cleared, revealing a perfectly cloudless sky. There was not a breath of wind. The sun shone on the raindrops so that the banyan tree in the courtyard appeared to be covered with glistening golden gems. Autumn had roared in like a lion this year, but in weather like this the cicadas still filled the trees with their fullthroated calls.

Her mother-in-law, Mrs. Mak, had been up for hours, and sat neatly dressed in the courtyard, fanning herself with a cattail fan. “Have you bought the moon cakes for tonight?” she asked Ah-Choi. The servant had just finished the washing and was giving the drying poles a wipe before hanging out the clothes. “The young mistress got them in yesterday,” she said. “There are four kinds: double-yolk lotus cakes, milk cakes with coconut flakes, walnut and apricot cakes, and jujube paste and osmanthus cakes.”

Kam Shan had been squatting by the tree, pouring a big bowl of water into an ants' nest. When he heard the word “cake” he dropped his bowl with a clang and flung himself at Ah-Choi. Grabbing the front of her jacket, he begged loudly for cakes. “These are cakes for the Moon Festival,” she told him. “I don't give them out. You'd better ask your granny.” He pushed her away and threw his arms around Mrs. Mak's knees. “I want a cake, Granny!” he shouted. She wiped the sweat from her five-year-old grandson's forehead with her jacket and shook her head. “These are Mid-Autumn Festival mooncakes. You can't have them till this evening when Old Lady Moon comes up.” “How long will that take?” Kam Shan asked. “The time it takes to have two more meals,” said Mrs. Mak. Kam Shan opened his mouth and wailed, the tears running down his face like
two rows of peas. The sound of his crying grated painfully on a tender spot in Mrs. Mak's heart. She grasped her walking stick and stood up. Holding the little boy's hand, she felt her way to the kitchen.

“You can have a piece of double-yolk cake, and that'll fill you to bursting. You won't need any lunch or dinner.”

Kam Shan immediately stopped crying and his face lit up in a radiant smile.

Six Fingers tried to keep a straight face. Mrs. Mak normally had a flinty exterior, she thought to herself. It was only that naughty Kam Shan who knew how to worm his way into her heart.

Six Fingers sat down on the bed and leaned over to look at Kam Ho who was sleeping sweetly. The evening before, he had puked up his milk, and she had not got him to sleep till after midnight. When Kam Ho was asleep, he frowned so that a small pink knot formed between his eyebrows. A knot like a skein so tangled you could not find the end of the thread. Six Fingers went to smooth it out gently with her finger, but withdrew her hand hurriedly when the baby jerked awake. Kam Ho gave a few quavering cries of protest and gradually quietened again until his little snores filled the room like the buzzing of a fly.

Kam Ho was so different from his elder brother, Kam Shan, they were night and day. He was just over a month old, but he seemed to be brooding about something all the time.

Six Fingers sat at her dressing table and began to brush her hair.

It was long and thick and spilled in an untidy dark mass over her shoulders and down her back. Not that anyone else ever saw her hair like this— only Ah-Fat. Six Fingers always wore it combed into a bun. She took bone comb, dipped it in hair oil and began slowly to pull it through her hair. Then she plaited it tightly and wound it into a thick bun at the nape of her neck. The village women usually used water in which tung-tree wood shavings had been steeped to dress their hair, but Six Fingers had Luk Mui brand hair oil which Ah-Fat bought her in Hong Kong. It was made by a Dutch company and had a faint flowery fragrance. She fastened a red felt flower onto one side of the bun and looked in the mirror. Her face shone back at her in the silvered glass. She put the mirror away, opened a small drawer in the dressing table and took out a finely carved sandalwood
box. It had a brass ring fastening the two halves together and looked like the sort of box a wealthy lady might keep her jewellery in.

Six Fingers gave the ring a little twist and opened it to reveal a stack of closely written sheets of paper. In the box she carefully hoarded all the letters Ah-Fat had ever written to her. The one on top dated from more than a year ago. Ah-Fat had written it just before boarding the steamship to come home. He had stayed a whole year this time and had gone back last market day. He would still be on his way back to Gold Mountain and she could not expect another letter from him for another two or three months. She opened his last letter and read it again. She had folded and refolded it so many times that it had begun to fray at the folds. She could recite by heart what it said. When she got to the words “after so many years apart, my heart flies back like an arrow, and all I desire is to rest in the arms of my beloved,” her face grew hot. She was secretly thankful that her mother-in-law could not read. Every letter from Ah-Fat had parts meant only for her. She skipped over them when she read the letters aloud to Mrs. Mak.

On his return this time, Ah-Fat had raised enough money to pay the head tax and his original intention had been to take Six Fingers and Kam Shan back with him. He went to ask his mother's permission. What Mrs. Mak's response was, Ah-Fat never said. Six Fingers saw Ah-Fat coming out of his mother's room with a face like a thundercloud. He never mentioned his plan again.

So Six Fingers thought she would write and ask Ah-Fat what he was going to do. If the post was fast, the letter might even get to Gold Mountain before Ah-Fat himself. She laid out a sheet of writing paper, carefully ground the ink in the ink stone, smoothed the wolf-hair brush and had just written the words “My dear husband” when she felt a gush of milk soak the front of her jacket. Kam Ho's birth had been quite different from Kam Shan's. He had popped out with hardly any effort at all on her part, as easy as a hen laying an egg. In fact, he was already halfway into the world by the time Ah-Choi got back with the midwife. Ah-Fat had hired an old woman whose sole job was to attend to her during the month after the birth. Three meals a day, with generous helpings of chicken, duck and fish had given her a plentiful supply of milk, enough to feed three Kam Hos and still have some left over.