Authors: Bryce Courtenay
How very much things have changed since Tommo and I arrived from New Zealand on the Black Dog. On that same day I met Maggie in Mr Smith's eating-house after I'd had my fill of his best corned beef. I recall with a smile to myself how I came here in my whaleman's rags and split boots with Maggie leaving a florin on the table to pay for my breakfast. I have much to thank her for besides the special love she has brought into my life.
While Maggie and I are not exactly the cream of society, the Sydney Morning Herald is all a-twitter about the bride and groom to be. It has suggested a wedding in the Botanical Gardens so that the general population may turn out to support the champion of the world among the spring blooms. The Herald has even reported that the military band from the New South Wales Regiment would be pleased to attend, with Sydney's mayor, Councillor John Sutherland, handing us the key to the city at a reception in the Town Hall.
Meanwhile this same newspaper has been raging on about Mr Sparrow and Fat Fred. The editor has put on a 'special' who has lost no time digging out unsavoury facts about boxing's two worst scoundrels, as he terms them! Not a single penny has been paid out to the punters who backed me. Everyone is holding onto their betting tickets which entitle them to their winnings, but to no joy. Mr Sparrow is holed up with Fat Fred in his rooms above The World Turned Upside Down and will say nothing to the newspapers except that he is 'consolidating his assets so he can pay'.
'Assets!' snorts Mary. 'I'll bet me own gravestone he declares himself skint! I know his sort. Ikey were of the same mould. What he's got, and it be plenty you may be sure, he's got stashed. There'll be no bank account with money lying about in it. He lives in rented rooms above the pub and if he owns property it will not be in his name. The Sparrows of this world travel light. They keep their fortunes portable - of the kind that can be carried away in a saddlebag on a dark night or slipped aboard ship in a suitcase.' Mary pauses. 'Blimey, I should know one when I sees one! I lived with Ikey for Lord knows how many Gawd-forsaken years. We'll have to be on our guard or our Mr Sparrow will vanish.'
There's little chance of that. Mr Sparrow and Fat Fred owe the townfolk here a fortune. There's not a single street corner, a single laneway, where eyes are not searching for them and tongues telling tales. Every kitchen maid and barman, matelot and mechanic, hackney driver and barrowman is on the lookout should they make any move to leave the pub.
Bell's Life in Sydney and the Sydney Morning Herald have both leapt to the defence of the thousands of small punters who put their money on me. It is estimated that two thousand or so punters in the gold diggings alone have placed bets, and in Sydney nearly twice as many again. These are all small gamblers who placed their money on a local hero, much against the advice of the so-called experts, and won. That they should now bear the brunt of Mr Sparrow's outrageous efforts to defraud the public is terribly unfair.
The press also declare Mr Sparrow and Fat Fred ruined for life and vow they will keep a watch on these scoundrels. If Mr Sparrow doesn't meet his obligations, declares the Herald, then he must not be allowed to operate in any part of the sporting business again. A front page headline shouts:
F. ARTIE SPARROW BANNED FOR LIFE!
The Herald is particularly keen on this idea but points out that, because prize-fighting is illegal and gambling equally so, Mr Sparrow may get away with his monstrous confidence trick. They ask that, at the very least, he should give the money he has taken to the Orphanage Fund.
At Mary's white tablecloth dinner on Sunday I propose a toast. 'We have ruined Mr Sparrow and so defeated one of the world's worst mongrels. He will never again live off the profits of greed and corruption.' I lift my glass.
'Oi, I ain't drinkin' to that!' Maggie exclaims. 'It's the poor folk what's suffered again, not Mr bleedin' Sparrow. That bastard's still rollin' in it. What about all the money he took in the betting shops? Yiz told me yerself. The newspapers reckon it were nigh on twenty thousand pounds.'
'But he is ruined, Maggie,' I protest. 'Mr Sparrow and Fat Fred must find near one hundred thousand pounds to meet their creditors. The loss of folks' gambling punts is a small price to pay.'
'Small price! Hawk Solomon, what's yiz talkin' about? Many of the folk here in the Rocks bet a week's pay-hoping to win a month or more's wages. They's skint! Their brats don't have no food. Those that can get credit won't even be able to pay it back for months! No nice Sunday dinners for them and the rest is starving.'
'We's dropped five hundred pounds ourselves,' Tommo reminds her.
'But we're still eatin' our Sunday roast dinner, ain't we?' Maggie says sharply.
'Everybody's lost. Even Mr Tang Wing Hung,' Tommo sighs, thinking of his opium no doubt.
'Tang Wing Hung? But he's Mr Sparrow's partner, surely he's not been touched?' Maggie exclaims.
'Oh, he's been touched, all right,' Tommo says. 'Ah Wong told me about it, so's I knew who I were dealin' with. Seems Tang Wing Hung's the head of some sort o' Chinese secret society, called a triad, what's thousands of years old. Most of Sydney's celestials come from the same place in North Shanghai and they owes this triad for all sorts o' favours. In Sydney, Tang Wing Hung's the head bloke, the Dragon Master, as they calls it. All the fellows here has got to pay him a percentage of their profits, including what they makes gambling. In return, he's s'posed to look after them, if you knows what I mean.'
Tommo pauses and puts up his finger. 'Now, from what I can make out, Mr Tang Wing Hung went and told all the celestials they should bet on Hawk. If Hawk had lost, like he were supposed to, then Tang Wing Hung would've shrugged his shoulders and said he made a mistake. He'd have probably told 'em he'd lost his money too.
'But now they's won and Mr Sparrow won't pay. So Tang Wing Hung must get their money for them somehow - even pay it himself out of his own pocket - or he'll lose face. It ain't done for the head of a Chinese triad to lose face. Ah Wong says it be at least a hundred years of shame brought down upon his head!'
'Tommo, can we see this Mr Tang, er, whatchimacallit?' Mary asks.
'Tang Wing Hung, Mama,' Tommo corrects. 'He's a big nob so you has to use all three names.'
'Blimey, it ain't 'arf a mouthful!' Mary exclaims. 'Will he talk to us? I mean, him being Mr Sparrow's partner and all?'
'I dunno, Mama,' Tommo shrugs. 'What's you have in mind?'
'Well it seems to me,' says Mary, 'that Chinatown and the Rocks be the same kind o' neighbourhood.'
'Not if the folks in the Rocks can help it,' Maggie interrupts. 'They hates them Mongolians.'
'Yes, I know, I've noticed,' Mary nods. 'But what if they has sudden cause to like them?'
'Mama!' I exclaim. 'However do you hope to bring that about? Folk here believe our Chinese friends caused the cholera that broke out two years ago. They blame them for spreading leprosy and every imaginable type of disease, despite the lack of evidence that it is so. And they reckon the Chinese are taking white men's jobs. They aren't going to suddenly take to the celestials and claim them as good neighbours.'
But Mary is adamant. 'I'd still like to speak with Tang Wing Hung, if it can be done,' she insists.
*
Through Tommo we are granted an appointment with the rich Chinaman the very next day. I must confess I am curious to meet the man who people say rules the life of every celestial in New South Wales.
We go to Tang Wing Hung's chophouse in Chinatown and are shown into a private room at the back. It is decorated in the Chinese tradition with opulent silks and painted lacquer furnishings showing cherry blossoms, dragons, colourful birds and peacocks. Tang Wing Hung sits on a couch of his own while we share two others of the same size. I take up almost all of one of them and Maggie must squeeze in beside me. I can feel her warm thigh, comforting against my own.
A servant brings jasmine tea which he pours into beautiful little bowls. We all watch as Tommo takes his up, sips at it politely and then puts it down. I then do the same and find that it tastes pleasant enough and refreshes the mouth.
A plate of little dumplings is brought to the table and chopsticks put about. Another plate arrives, this time bearing biscuits which look like small sea shells. The little dumplings smell delicious but we are not accustomed to using chopsticks and dare not try them. So we sit not knowing what to do.
'Them dumplings are most delicate to look at,' Mary breaks the silence at last.
The tall Chinaman smiles. 'This is dim sum - it means "touch the heart". You try, please!'
'Can't use them chopsticks,' Mary replies, forthright as ever.
Tang Wing Hung leans over and picks up a little dumpling between his fingers. He dips it into a small bowl of dark liquid. 'This soy sauce,' he says. He pops the dumpling into his mouth. 'You try, please.'
Mary takes one of the little balls and, as our host has done, dips it into the bowl of sauce. We all wait as she pops it into her mouth. 'Delicious!' she declares.
Tang Wing Hung looks at Tommo, Maggie and me, indicating the dumplings. 'Please,' he insists.
To my surprise, Tommo and Maggie pick up their chopsticks and, taking up one of the dumplings each, dip them into the sauce and bring them up to their mouths with ease. I know I could never use the delicate sticks as they have, and so I reach over and pick up one of the little shell-like biscuits. Just as I am about to put it into my mouth, it smashes to crumbs between my fingers and a piece of paper flutters to the carpet.
I am most embarrassed. Tang Wing Hung rises and stoops to pick up the paper.
'This is fortune cookie,' he explains. 'An American invention, but Chinese recipe. Very popular - mostly we have after food!' He looks at the slip of paper. 'You be very lucky, Mr Hawk. "True love will come to you!'" he reads. Then he glances at Maggie and smiles, 'I think this fortune cookie already too late, eh?'
Then Tang Wing Hung takes a cookie himself, putting his thumb and forefinger to each end and bringing it up to his mouth. He pulls his head back the moment he bites at it and the cookie falls apart in his fingers, its crumbs clinging to his mouth. He retains only the slip of paper between his lips.
'"Today a fortunate opportunity will present itself.'" He smiles at Mary. 'Perhaps we both get good fortune?' Then he calls the servant to take the plate of cookies away. Bowing, the man leaves but reappears soon enough with a plate of good English wheaten biscuits. 'You like better, I think,' Tang Wing Hung explains to me.
Turning to Mary, he asks seriously, 'Why you come to this humble place to see me? I not worthy, madam.'
'I am grateful that you would see us, sir,' Mary replies. She does not tell him that she knows of his predicament as Dragon Master of the triad. Instead she speaks about the bad blood that exists between the folk of Chinatown and the Rocks, and how both the poor celestials and the poor white folk have lost because they bet on me.
She looks up, appealing to Tang Wing Hung, her green eyes full of sincerity. 'Poor folk may have a different colour, but they have the same needs,' she pronounces. 'They are always trying to find enough money to feed and clothe their children. It is the same with Joe Chinaman as it is with Joe English. Now both have won by betting on my son. They are owed a small fortune and they stands never to be paid.'
'It is sad,' Tang Wing Hung shrugs, 'but what can I do?'
'Yiz can join us t' put the squeeze on Mr Sparrow!' Maggie blurts out.
Tang Wing Hung is somewhat taken aback by her outburst. 'How can I do this? A Chinese man cannot threaten a white man!'
'Ah,' says Mary, 'but white men and Chinese men can come together to fight a common enemy. Your people are owed how much in bets? Two thousand? Three thousand?'
Tang Wing Hung appears to be in deep thought for a moment. 'Hmmm... perhaps three thousand pounds,' he replies at last.
'Right! And we reckons the folk in the Rocks and us are owed about the same - if we don't take what we've won and only what we've bet.'
'You bet how much?' Mr Tang Wing Hung asks.
'Five hundred pounds!' Maggie answers, unable to contain herself any longer.
Mary frowns. I can see she is a trifle annoyed at Maggie. I know she feels that some things are best left unsaid but I don't know if my Maggie will ever learn this.
'Five hundred pounds! You very brave!' Tang Wing Hung exclaims, clapping his hands and affecting an expression of astonishment.
'No,' replies Mary. 'I have a very brave son.'
Tang Wing Hung nods and smiles. 'Too brave, perhaps.'
Mary ignores this. 'It were reported in the newspaper that Mr Sparrow took about twenty thousand pounds in bets and now owes one hundred thousand. Well, if he pays us - that be the folks in the Rocks and your folks here in Chinatown - back what we bet, that's only six thousand. We know he can pay us all from what he took all up.'
'There were other expenses,' Tang Wing Hung points out. 'To set up such a fight costs much money.'
Mary smiles. 'Mr Tang Wing Hung, I weren't born yesterday. I know what it takes in bribery and corruption and "miscellaneous expenses". That ain't my concern -though I'm sure he's got plenty.'
Tang Wing Hung brings the tips of the fingers of both hands together and touches the end of his chin. His lips pout slightly as he thinks. 'Madam, why I do this? I can make Mr Sparrow pay only the Chinese people - only three thousand pounds, much easier for him.'
'And a bleedin' sight more expensive for you!' Mary snaps. 'What do you think the white folk are going to feel about the Chinese folk then? They know you're Mr Sparrow's partner, or if they don't they'll soon enough be told by the newspapers. Imagine, if all the celestials get paid and none o' the Europeans. What you think's going to happen then?'
Tang Wing Hung laughs. 'You think clever like a Chinaman, missus.'
'Well, I'm plain-spoken by nature, Mr Tang Wing Hung.' Mary smiles. 'If we work together and the white folk of the Rocks know they got paid because the Chinese helped, everyone'll feel better all 'round.'