Gold Mountain Blues (5 page)

Life burned brightly for Yuen Cheong in those days—the way a pile of brushwood thrown together goes up with a whoosh when a favourable wind happens along. But the fire burned hotly, and extinguished itself too soon.

The reason was Yuen Cheong's addiction to opium.

Fong Yuen Cheong smoked his opium in the most refined way. The main hall in the first courtyard of his residence was turned into his smoking room. It had a four-panelled screen covered with embroidered animals, birds, fish and flowers in the Suzhou style. All the furnishings—couch, chest and table—were of carved rosewood. Yuen Cheong's pipe was made of Burmese ivory and he smoked the highest-grade raw opium exported by the East India Company.

Mrs. Mak became expert in attending to her husband when he smoked. Just before the craving came on, she would prepare the pipe so that the opium bubbled up ready for her to put it into his hand. She had learned just the right height for the pillow, the right angle for the footstool, and the choice and arrangement of the snacks. As soon as he lay down on the couch, five little dishes would be artfully laid out on the table ready for him. Jerky strips,
char siu
pork buns, and various cakes made of green beans, sesame or lotus paste were the usual fare, together with a cup of milk. His smoking implements were rubbed until they glistened and were laid out neatly in the chest until the time came for them to be used.

Mrs. Mak was distressed to see the family fortune dissipate in the smoke from the opium pipe, but she had her own way of calculating the losses and gains. Her husband had been a vigorous and energetic man who would not stay put at home, and who spent his time eating and drinking and getting into fights. It was far better that he should be tied to the house by an opium pipe. She knew too that if she did not attend to his needs, he might go and buy himself a concubine and get her to attend to him instead. That was what men did when they had enough money.

Once his urge for a smoke was satisfied, Yuen Cheong became the mildest of men. He was not yet thirty years old, but when he smiled, there was a touch of an old man's benevolence in his expression. He spoke gently
and even with a touch of wit. He liked his wife to parade around in front of him in the clothes and finery he bought her in Canton. Sometimes this was in front of the servants, in the opium-smoking room. At other times, it was when they were in their bedroom; then he would shut the doors and windows and would use more than his eyes. Mrs. Mak minced around in an attempt to evade his groping hands, her face flushed just like in the heady days when they were young.

Not only were the jagged edges of Yuen Cheong's once-fiery temper rubbed smooth by the opium—so too were the rough edges of the wide world. He was at ease with the world and it with him. As his twinkling gaze swept over everyone around him, he had no idea that, thousands of
li
away, the Empress Dowager in Beijing's Forbidden City was desperately shoring up what remained of the Qing Empire after the onslaught by Western armies. He also had no idea that, much closer to home, his tenant farmers and household servants were stealthily nibbling away at his family's property like so many hungry mice.

When he had had his fill of opium, Yuen Cheong would make his eldest son sit beside him and, breaking off a piece of sesame or green bean cake, put it into Ah-Fat's hand. “And what did Mr. Auyung teach you today, son? Did you practise your calligraphy?” He had seen straightaway that his eldest was a quick learner. Maybe one day his son might pass the Imperial examinations. He racked his brains to see if he could remember any Cantonese operas in which a slaughterman's son passed the Imperial examinations creditably enough to achieve an audience with the Son of Heaven in the Golden Carriage Palace—but could not think of any.

Looking at the smoking equipment scattered around the opium couch, Ah-Fat said nothing but his eyebrows drew together in a worried frown. His father was used to this expression on his son's face; since the moment he was born, the boy had seemed grown up. Yuen Cheong soaked a piece of beef jerky in the milk to soften it and stuffed it into Ah-Fat's mouth, saying gently: “Isn't Daddy good to you then, son?”

Ah-Fat swallowed the morsel before it choked him: “Mr. Auyung says foreigners sell us opium to break our spirit,” he said. “If the spirit of the people is broken, then the country is broken too.” Now it was his father who could think of nothing to say. After a few minutes, he ruffled his son's
head. “How many years has your old dad got left then? After that, it'll be you the family depends on. So long as you don't smoke, you can save the family. I'll be passing the responsibility on to you sooner or later.”

Ah-Fat sighed: “Mr. Auyung says, if the young Emperor can break free of the Dowager and ascend the throne, he can use his knowledge of the West and work out a way to contain the Western powers.…” but his father quickly put his hand over his son's mouth. “Isn't he afraid of losing his head, saying things like that?” he cried. “Us ordinary folk shouldn't meddle in politics. I just want you to look after your family.”

But circumstances put a premature end to all Fong Yuen Cheong's plans for his son's future. Six years after he so unexpectedly came into his fortune, he overdosed on opium and died on his couch. In retrospect, he was lucky to die when he did. Even if he had not, it might still have been his last smoke. By the time he died, almost all the Fongs' land had been sold, and the family's remaining valuable jewellery had been pawned. All that was left was his stone-flagged residence—and the queues of creditors waiting at the gates.

That was how Fong Tak Fat, aged fifteen, became head of the household in the space of a night.

Most of the Fong compound was sold and Ah-Fat lived with his family in the first courtyard. They rented back some of the land they had sold, and Ah-Fat was the main labourer. With her bound feet Mrs. Mak could not do farm work, but she did have one special skill. Her brocaded cloth was the finest in the township. She sewed beads onto the cloth and worked it with flower designs in gold and silver thread. She made aprons, shoe uppers, hats and belts which she could sometimes sell on market day for a few cents. She was in demand in the village too, to embroider garments for weddings, funerals, births and longevity birthday parties. She did not charge a fee, but in exchange for her work the family would send a strong, young farmhand to help Ah-Fat in the fields at sowing and harvest times.

The winter that Yuen Cheong died, his youngest son, Ah-Sin, had an epileptic fit. While eating his dinner he suddenly fell from the stool and bit off a piece of his tongue. When he came to, he seemed only half there. From that day on, he had fits everywhere—in the fields, on the ground, in bed, at the table, in the toilet—all completely without warning.

Mrs. Mak wove and embroidered from morning till night. Eventually eyestrain, together with her worries about Ah-Sin's epilepsy, led to severe conjunctivitis. Her eyelids swelled up and the rims of her eyes were thickly smeared with pus. She could not sew any more and the entire responsibility for the Fong family now fell on Ah-Fat's shoulders.

To raise money to treat Ah-Sin's illness Mrs. Mak was forced to sell off her daughter, Ah-Tou, to a family who lived twenty
li
away.

Witnessed by the elders of the clan, she put her thumbprint on an irrevocable title deed. It read as follows:

Through this deed, Mrs. Fong-Mak gives her daughter, Ah-Tou, to Chan Ah Yim of Sai Village as a maid and has today received fifty silver dollars in recompense for this gift. From the day on which her daughter is given over, she shall have nothing more to do with the Fongs. Each side shall be satisfied with this agreement and there shall be no dissenting voices on either side, the signing and witnessing of this deed being the written guarantee thereof.

Signed the fifth day of the eleventh month of year four of the reign of Guangxu (1878)

Ah-Tou was sold to a family that had a small dyers business. The head of the family was fifty-eight years old, and had a wife and two concubines, but none of them had borne him a son and heir. He had a bit of money but the family was not especially well off, and he could not afford more concubines. His solution was to buy in girls from poor families, to use partly as maids, partly as concubines. All the time and effort Mrs. Mak spent teaching her daughter elaborate needlework was wasted. Ah-Tou would only be doing rough work from now on.

Ah-Tou was only thirteen when she left home. Mrs. Mak arranged to meet the Chans in town to hand her over, but fearing her daughter would refuse to go, lied to her. Ah-Tou thought they were going to market. Just before they left, Mrs. Mak put two hard-boiled eggs into Ah-Tou's handkerchief. It was a long time since Ah-Tou had had an egg to eat. “Have Ah-Fat and Ah-Sin had any?” she asked. “No, only you,” said her mother. Ah-Tou peeled one and ate it so fast that it stuck in her throat. Eventually she
managed to summon enough saliva to swallow it, after choking and spluttering till purple veins stood out on her forehead. When it came to the second egg, she cracked the shell but then gave it back: “Let's leave it for Ah-Sin,” she said, “he's just a little kid.” Mrs. Mak quietly took out a silver dollar from inside her jacket: “Keep it safe,” she said, giving it to her daughter. “Don't let anyone see it.” Ah-Tou gripped the dollar tightly in her sweaty palm and was silent. Finally she asked: “What shall I buy in the market with so much money?” “Whatever you like.” Ah-Tou thought for a moment. “I'll go to the Christian priest's pharmacy in town, Mum,” she said finally, “and get a bottle of eyewash for you. With what's left, I'll get four walnut cookies, one for Ah-Fat, one for me, and two for Ah-Sin.” Ah-Tou was the in-between child, two years younger than Ah-Fat and six years older than Ah-Sin. She had carried Ah-Sin around on her back ever since he was a baby, so she was as much a mother to him as an elder sister. Mrs. Mak turned away: “Eat it all, child, it's all for you. Don't leave any for anyone else,” she said, the tears running down her face.

When they reached the market, Mrs. Mak saw the Chans and gave her daughter a little push. “Go for a walk with Auntie Chan,” she said. “I'm going to the toilet.” She walked away a few steps, and then hid around the corner of a wall. She watched as Ah-Tou, dragging her feet behind the Chan woman and looking around for her mother, receded into the distance. Mrs. Mak felt as if a piece of her heart had been cut out.

She made her way home in a daze. It was nearly nightfall. She did not light the fire or get dinner ready, just sat staring blankly at the stove. Ah-Fat came in from the fields. “Where's Ah-Tou?” he asked. “I haven't seen her all day.” There was no answer. He persisted and she finally said through gritted teeth: “I've cut out my own flesh to feed to the dogs.” When Ah-Fat finally realized he would never see his sister in this life again, he threw down the bowl of water, ran out and squatted by the roadside. It was many years before the Spur-On villagers forgot the sounds of his sobbing. He did not cry loudly, in fact he choked the tears back until they sounded like the broken whimpers of a dying dog. Life had been terribly hard these last years and the Spur-On villagers had seen and heard enough weeping to turn their hearts to stone. But Ah-Fat's grief still brought tears to their eyes.

The next day, Ah-Fat went to say goodbye to his teacher. Mr. Auyung was stretched over the table doing calligraphy. When he heard Ah-Fat's news, he threw down his weasel-hair brush, spattering the table with ink. “There's no cure,” he said, “it's terminal.” Ah-Fat knew he was not referring to himself.

Before Ah-Fat left, Mr. Auyung chose a few books for him to take home. “Even if I can't teach you,” he said, “you should still read your books.” Ah-Fat shook his head. “If you have any books on farming and keeping livestock, you can give me a couple of those.” His teacher was silent.

Ah-Fat did not eat his dinner when he got home. In the middle of the night, Mrs. Mak was woken by a rustling, a noise like a rat nibbling at rice straw. She pulled her clothing around her shoulders and got up. By the light of the lamp's tiny flame, her son was ripping up sheets of paper. She was illiterate but she knew these were the copybooks and textbooks he used at Mr. Auyung's school. Over the years he had stored a stack of them carefully away. She nearly seized them from him, but what was the use? They had already been reduced to confetti. Mrs. Mak felt comforted too, for she could see that Ah-Fat had accepted his fate.

From that day on, Ah-Fat threw himself into farming.

Six months after Yuen Cheong died, Red Hair came home from Gold Mountain.

Ah-Fat heard about Red Hair when he was transplanting rice seedlings, with a farmhand whose help his mother's needlework had secured for him. The other villagers had finished theirs, but he had had to wait a few days for the man to arrive. The paddy water was cold in early spring, and his feet, planted in the mud, soon went numb. He was not good at farm work. Years spent at home and at school had distanced him from the land. The land knew he was an outsider and bullied him. He felt like his calves and back were bound together with wire. Every time he bent down, the wire pulled taut and cut into his flesh, giving him sharp jabbing pains. The farmhand walked in front of him, working swiftly and planting neat rows of evenly spaced seedlings, compared to his own, which were messy and crooked. When he thought of his mother's infected eyes and his epileptic
brother, his skin crawled and terror gripped him. Above him the lowering sky pressed down on him like cotton wadding.

Even though it was overcast today, he knew that sunset was a long way off. When will it all end? he wondered, with a sigh that stirred eddies in the paddy field.

“The Gold Mountain uncle! He's arrived!” the children's cries went up. Ah-Fat spotted them racing excitedly along the dyke.

Behind the children came a dozen porters, each pair carrying a trunk between them. The trunks were of camphor wood, two to three feet high, and reinforced at each corner with gleaming metal bands. They hung low from the carrying poles which rested on the porters' shoulders and creaked as they went along.