Gold Mountain Blues (77 page)

When Mak Dau had finished reading, Six Fingers said nothing. Her face looked as taut as cotton stretched on an embroidery frame. Mak Dau tried, and failed, to think of something to say. Finally, he turned to Kam Shan's letter and began to read.

His hand started to tremble with the words, and the letter fluttered to the ground like a pigeon with a broken wing.

“Well? What does it say?” asked Six Fingers. Mak Dau's lips trembled but no sound came out. “Oh, spit it out, will you?” she demanded impatiently. “And do stop looking so miserable.”

“Kam Sau's dad is dead,” said Mak Dau. “It was a stroke. There was nothing they could do.”

Six Fingers screwed up her face. Mak Dau thought she was going to cry, but she did not. Then the muscles gradually relaxed into an expression of calm as complete as water unruffled by any breeze.

Mak Dau was panic-stricken. He tugged her sleeve. “Cry,” he urged her. “It'll make you feel better.”

She turned to him but her eyes looked right through him and focused on somewhere far in the distance.

“He was an old man. His time had come,” she finally murmured.

Year thirty-five of the Republic (1946)

Vancouver, British Columbia

As thirty-six exhausted but excited troops stepped on shore, they were met by deafening cheers and the welcoming notes of the military band. This was yet another group of soldiers returning home to their families, but with one difference; every single soldier was Chinese. These young men have returned from secret missions against the Japanese in the jungles of India, Burma and Malaya. Observe their uniforms covered in the dust of foreign soil and their faces and hands burned dark by the tropical sun. They accepted their mission with the knowledge that their chances of a safe return were slim. And although America's atomic bombs put a stop to the war before they could begin their operation, they nevertheless received a hero's welcome home today, just like any other troops returning from the battlefront in Europe. This is the first-ever occasion on which the citizens of Vancouver have accepted these young people as their own. As well they should. These Chinese soldiers volunteered to fight under the Canadian flag on the battle fronts of Europe and Asia but are still not permitted to take Canadian citizenship. These men, who have fulfilled every duty owed to their country by its citizens, will soon be in Ottawa, demanding those long-withheld rights and a repeal of the 1923 Exclusion Act.

The Vancouver Sun
, 15 December 1945
After lunch, Kam Shan began to rifle through cases and cupboards for something to wear. He owned only one Western-style suit, one he had bought thirty years ago when he was running the photographic studio in Port Hope.

He found it at the bottom of a camphorwood chest and, when he took it out, the smell of old mothballs nearly made him sneeze. He used a dampened handkerchief to smooth out the creases in the suit but they were stubborn. He rubbed so hard the dye in the fabric came off on the handkerchief and he had to give up. It was something of a battle to get his arms into the jacket sleeves after all these years; he won, but the fabric tore in the process. At least the tear was under the armpit and would not show. But, no matter how hard he tried, he could not get the buttons done up.

Looking at himself in the cloudy old mirror that hung on the wall, he could not help smiling in satisfaction. Even a suit which did not fit properly was still a suit. He needed to do something about his hair though. He went to the kitchen, poured a few drops of peanut oil into the palm of his hands, rubbed them on his hair and ran a comb through it. When he next looked in the mirror, his hair was slicked back in neatly separated strands, and now it was the suit that looked shabby.

Well, it could not be helped. He would just have to go as he was.

He looked at the old wall clock. It was only half past five. He wasn't due at the Chinese Benevolent Association until seven o'clock, and the film started at eight, but, even so, he could not wait that long. His feet itched to get going. He picked up the bag he had prepared the night before and hastily left the house.

It was early spring. As he walked through the streets of Vancouver lined with cherry trees covered in blossom, he attracted more than a few curious looks. The reason was not the ill-fitting suit, or the limping gait, or even the strange-looking bag he carried in his arms, but the fact that he was muttering to himself as he went along.

He addressed a few words to the bag at every street corner.

“At the next corner, we turn east.”

“A few yards from this junction is where Yin Ling used to go to school.

“This street runs at a diagonal. When we get to the post office, we have to turn left.

“We come back the same way. If we do that, then we won't get lost.”

When he approached the Association office it was still not six o'clock, but before he even crossed the street, he could see the group of young Chinese men gathered outside.

One. Two. Three … Ten. Eleven. Counting himself, that made twelve.

They had all arrived early.

These eleven men were demobbed soldiers in uniforms and peaked caps. He could not help noticing what a uniform did to a man—it made him looking dashing, taller, and straighter, it even put a glow in his face. An irrepressible pride brimmed in the eyes of every one of them.

He had never seen Kam Ho in uniform. He did not even have one photograph, he thought with regret. When Kam Ho joined up, he was already forty years old, old enough to be the father of all these men. Had the uniform imbued his brother with the same spirit? he wondered.

The soldiers who had come back safe and sound were big news in Vancouver. Every day the newspapers carried their pictures and the radio broadcast their voices. They went from talk to talk and interview to interview. From the moment they disembarked, they were borne along on clouds, and nothing had brought them down to earth yet.

All they'd fucking done was survive, Kam Shan thought bitterly.

By comparison with these fine young men, Kam Shan felt like a bedraggled, miserable specimen.

Today they were off to a film show at the Orpheum Theatre in Granville Street. Tickets cost thirty cents if you sat in the back or to the side. If he was going to the Canton Street theatre, he would not have parted with even twenty cents, but today was different. He would have happily spent three dollars on today's show if he had to. Besides, it was Kam Ho's money.

He'd divided the lump sum payout he received after Kam Ho's death into two. He sent the larger portion to Hoi Ping. He had not told them of Kam Ho's death so his mother still did not know that what she was spending was her son's blood money. With Kam Ho and Cat Eyes both dead, there were no wage earners in the family and it would be a long time before Six Fingers received any more cheques from Gold Mountain.

The smaller portion he kept for himself. He had let the room after his father died and the rent, together with the cash he earned from selling bean
sprouts, was enough to keep him. So he put his share of the money aside for a rainy day. And for something else as well, though he did not dare admit it.

It was for when Yin Ling came back. She would be twenty-three this year. If she was still alive, she would be back when she had had enough of the wandering life. At her age, no matter how wild at heart she was, she would be thinking about getting married. The money would be just about enough to pay for a simple wedding.

The soldiers formed up and set off down the street, with Kam Shan bringing up the rear. They marched smartly in unison, the rhythm of their feet as regular as someone scything grass for pig fodder.

The street was the water and they were the ship. The water parted at the ship's approach. Right around the ship, it was especially turbulent. People wound down their car windows and tooted their horns, and passersby applauded as they marched.

Kam Shan was aware that the car horns and the applause were intended for the eleven men who marched in front of him. He was but a shadow following behind; his footsteps were out of kilter with their steady strides.

It was getting dark, and one by one the lights of Granville Street flickered on. There was no mistaking the neon illuminations of the Orpheum Theatre. It was a moon to the streetlights' stars and outshone them all. Tonight's film was spelled out in hundreds of bulbs:
Lady Luck
. Kam Shan had no idea what it was about, or who the lead actors were. He didn't even care. All he wanted to do this evening was go in and sit down.

The queue for the box office stretched down the street. The war had shattered the old, familiar world, but even when the planes were flying low over Hollywood producers' heads, you could not keep them quiet. They made films full of froth and fantasy to persuade people that nothing in the world had changed. Just so long as Hollywood was not bombed, the Orpheum Theatre could count on doing good business.

Kam Shan had heard all about the Orpheum Theatre from his brother, Kam Ho.

Many years ago, when Kam Ho was still a houseboy at the Hendersons', they had taken him there. It was a proper theatre in those days, putting on top-class orchestral concerts and musicals. Kam Ho could not remember
what the orchestra was playing that day, what he did remember was being in a rage the whole evening.

When the three of them arrived at the entrance, they were stopped by a doorman in a maroon uniform.

“Chinese are only allowed in side seats,” the man said in low tones to the Hendersons.

He did not even glance at Kam Ho.

The eleven soldiers and Kam Shan fell into place at the end of the ticket queue—but they did not stay there long. With exclamations of surprise, the people in the queue gave way before them and closed in behind. They were waved along with invitations to “Go right on in, please!” Before they realized what was happening, they were standing at the box office.

All except Kam Shan. He was spat out into the queue again like a plumstone when the fruit has been eaten. It was, he knew, because he was not in uniform.

It was not until they were already inside the building with their tickets that they realized that Kam Shan had been left behind.

Kam Shan stood for a long time as the queue snaked forward, the big bag in his arms. Finally, he got to the front. He pulled out a dollar bill and gave it to the cashier. “Give me the best seat, in the middle,” he ordered. The man shot him a look, and pushed out his ticket and thirty cents' change. Kam Shan took the ticket and left the change. “You have it. As a tip,” he said. He smiled at his look of astonishment and the smile lingered on his face all the way to the auditorium.

A man in a black suit and tie stepped out from the shadows and barred Kam Shan's way. He stretched out his hand but did not touch him, merely appearing to guide him to the side door.

“This way please.…”

Kam Shan felt his head spin. He searched in the recesses of his memory for words to suit the occasion. The much-used “Sorry” came to his lips but he swallowed it back. Instead he said “Never.” It was a word he had not used in his life before and did not slide smoothly off his tongue. In fact, he was so unused to it, he did not know what intonation to use and it came out as a bellow which frightened them both.

He began to stammer an apology. After thirty years in the country, he still spoke broken English and in moments of stress it went completely to pieces. There was nothing for it but to pull the wooden box out of his bag. The usher could not understand his English but he immediately understood the significance of the engraved box:

Private Jimmy Fong (1900–1945)

Died on French soil in the cause of freedom

The usher looked taken aback, skeptical and hesitant by turns, but his expression finally resolved itself into a friendly smile.

“Come with me,” he said.

By the time Kam Shan had settled in his seat, the lights were dimming and the film was about to begin. Before it went completely dark, he caught a glimpse of the great round dome of the auditorium above, with its host of winged cherubs and the dazzling chandelier that hung from its centre, brighter than all the stars in the sky.

“Kam Ho, you're finally in the best seats,” he said to the box in his hands.

The box contained a uniform and a military cap.