The Red Thread (8 page)

Hanging his head over the edge of the cot, he whispered, ‘Thunder boy, are you awake?' He had given Zhen this nickname when he had seen the thunder character for his name. This was not his real name, but an assumed name. Zhen had told Qian that he had been given it by a lady friend because of his extraordinary sexual prowess, but Qian did not believe him. Qian had learned something of Zhen's Taoist philosophy, knew he had spent time in a Taoist monastery and that thunder was one of the eight
kua
, the elemental forces that made up the hexagram of the
I Ching
oracle. But it didn't matter to Qian. His own nickname, given to him by his elder sister when he had been a sick young boy, meant ‘modesty', and Zhen had made fun of him for its girlish overtones. Qian did not mind this, either.

Zhen grunted, turned face upwards and yawned. ‘Morning, miss, is it daylight?' he mumbled between stretches. Qian put on his straw sandals and climbed down from the cot. He ran quickly along the narrow corridor to the air well and looked up. Nothing but a gloomy light was visible but, to his delight, it was raining. He ran quickly back and waved to Zhen to come.

In the air well, the rain fell with raging force, bouncing off the stone walls and gurgling down a drain that was rapidly becoming overwhelmed. They looked up, and the water streamed off their faces and over their bodies, soaking them within seconds. Zhen motioned to Qian to wait and ran back to the kitchen area. When he returned, he called to Qian to take off his clothes. The rain was so strong he had to yell over its din. Pulling him to the side, he rubbed his back with the wood ashes and oil he had mixed in a bowl and put a big dollop in Qian's hand. Then he tore off his own filthy clothes and rubbed himself from head to toe in the mixture. Qian rubbed his back, and then they both stood, faces upturned to the force of the rain as the dirt ran away down a hole in the floor. They stamped on their dirty clothes.

For the first time, Qian saw Zhen's body. In comparison his own looked puny, although he was not weak. Zhen's arms and shoulders were strong and muscular, his chest broad and smooth narrowing to a flat abdomen and slim waist; his limbs were long and well shaped. To Qian's eyes, he was as perfectly formed as a man could be, and Qian felt momentarily envious. He noticed the pale red, blue and black tattoo of Guan Di on Zhen's chest. On the road to Amoy, where they had met, eating, not bathing had been their first priority. On the junk no one undressed, no one washed—unless getting doused by volumes of seawater or standing in the rain could be considered washing. For the moment they were both lost in the happiness of this unexpected and refreshing downpour.

Other men were coming now, and before they could be swamped by human bodies, they scooped up their clothes and ran naked, whooping and laughing, up the corridor and jumped on their wooden cots.

As they dried off with small cloths, Qian watched the play of muscles under Zhen's back and buttocks and, to his horror, found himself becoming aroused. He rushed to throw on his only other cotton trousers and loose top and sat back against the wall, quietly drying his queue. Zhen had noticed nothing and, dressed now himself, was hanging up their wet clothes around the cots, where they steamed quietly. His face was strong jawed, his forehead unblemished and perfectly formed, but there was something indefinably pretty in his face too, his lips perhaps. They all combined to make him a good-looking man, and Qian knew Zhen turned women's heads. Qian's own forehead was bumpy, and he knew his ears were too pointed, making him look a bit like a weasel. Zhen's eyes were not so narrow as his, more almond-shaped, but in moments of anger they became dark slits, making him appear hard and cruel.

Zhen set off to the kitchen for soup, rice and tea, which the coolie bosses supplied until the men could be moved on to work either on the island or, in most cases, in the tin mines of Malaya or further afield. Qian contemplated his slowly dwindling erection and what it could mean. He wasn't a virgin; he'd been with several women. He hadn't enjoyed it very much but doubted any young man did in the beginning, especially with the wrinkled old crones who sold their services in the nearby village. He shook the mental image of that encounter out of his head, and by the time Zhen returned, had recovered his poise.

Having finished their meal, they attended to each other's hair. Since they had met they had both discovered a common concern with their personal hygiene. Zhen was almost obsessive. His father had been a practitioner of Chinese medicine, a scholar who had taught his son to read and write and given him knowledge of plants. Health and cleanliness had been drummed into his brain since he was a boy. Until his father had fallen under the spell of opium, Zhen had been his apprentice, choosing the roots and leaves, blending the herbs, mixing the potions. The night before, he had picked up a broom and booted two coolies into action to clean up the hallway to his satisfaction. Now from his sack he took a porcelain bottle of a green, oily mixture and, having unpicked their long queues, they both combed a small amount through their hair. This concoction had served to keep them both free of the awful hair bugs which infested other men. Relieved that touching Zhen's hair in this mindless routine had no physical effect on him, Qian relaxed. Finally, when they had finished replaiting, Zhen rose.

At the door, Zhen shook Pock Face, who was sitting on the floor dozing.

‘Oi, it's late. Get up. We are going to the temple to give thanks, remember?' he said, holding his yellow handkerchief balled in his hand.

Pock Face grunted and stretched. Then, taking a large key, he unlocked the front door. They stepped gratefully out into the fresh air of the street. Zhen knew that Pock Face couldn't have made the decision to let them out and calculated that someone higher up might be waiting for them at the temple.

After a few minutes they found themselves before its doors. Pock Face motioned them to enter, and they stepped up over the great log which formed the entrance, went between the Fu lions and into the inner courtyard. Rain fell steadily, but the large, ornate double-roofed incense holder gave off a heady perfumed smoke. This temple was tiny compared to the great Kaiyuan Temple in Quanzhou, but it smelled like home.

A large statue of the Sea Goddess, Ma Chu, golden and red, stared down on them impassively through her beaded headdress. Her faithful companions, red-faced wind-favouring ears and green-faced thousand
li
eyes, stood on either side of the altar. They lit incense and gave thanks for a safe arrival.

When they had finished, a small figure appeared from the back of the temple and approached. Dressed in loose black trousers and a white jacket, he held his hands in front of his waist, fingers intertwined but for the index fingers, which were bent and connected at the first knuckle, and the thumbs which were touching each other. It was a
kongsi
brotherhood sign for peace. Zhen drew his right arm across his chest, making the sign for heaven by holding the thumb, index and middle finger pointed upwards, the two others remaining curled against his chest. He bowed and motioned Qian to do so also. Then all three went into a side room of the temple. Pock Face slumped down by the door and immediately fell asleep.

‘Welcome, brother,' the man said to Zhen and looked quizzically at Qian.

‘I am Zhuang Zhen of the Green Lotus Kongsi in Zhangzhou,' Zhen said. ‘This is Lim Qian, from Yangshan village in Quanzhou prefecture. He is not a brother yet. We seek the protection of the
kongsi
here and your help to find work in Si Lat Po, where we know no one.' Zhen took from his cloth sack a paper, unfolded it and handed it to his interlocutor.

‘I see,' said the man examining the paper, then eyeing them both shrewdly. Their first names were made up, of course. He knew this. Almost no one used their given names.
Singkeh
newcomers often sat around on the junk inventing names for themselves. He had known
singkehs
who called themselves dog-ugly, donkey, banana-head, stone-balls or monkey's arse. It had something to do with their feeling of impermanence here. Make money, go home, throw off the name, the temporary identity and, at the same time, jettison the fears and loneliness of this enforced exile.

‘I think we can help you. You can both read and write?' They nodded. ‘Good, good. First must come the initiation ceremony for your friend, and you must swear again also. Until then nothing can be done for you. Do you agree?'

He looked at Zhen. Taking back his paper, Zhen looked directly at the man.

‘We are in the coolie house, it is not a clean place, is there no other until this matter is sorted out?'

The man looked back at him steadily. They were all alike, these bloody
singkehs;
give them half a chance and they wanted more. Even if this one had interesting credentials, he would have to discuss this with his superiors. But he had to be a little wary. From the paper he had seen that Zhen had been a feared
honggun
, red rod, chief disciplinarian of his guild, albeit probably a small one if it was in Zhangzhou. The Heaven and Earth Society here was a widespread confederacy of many thousands. It was the only resort for the penniless Chinese workers who turned up each month. The
kongsi
was like a piece of China far from home. It offered them a temple, comfort and work, medicine when they were sick and assurance of a decent burial. Without it they would perish. It connected them to people who spoke their language, knew their villages. Here in Si Lat Po, the Ghee Hin Kongsi, the main branch of the society, was much more powerful than any local guild. For twenty years it had operated with efficiency and impunity under the headman, Inchek Sang.

Still, it paid to be careful, and he was a careful man.

‘I am a
hujiang
, tiger general. You know very well I must speak to my superior. For now the coolie house; maybe in a few days you will go to the plantations, work there until the ceremony, then we see. This is not my decision.'

He called Pock Face, who came running at a trot, rubbing his eyes, and instructed him, ‘Take good care of our friends.'

He gave Pock Face some coins. ‘For some food and refreshment. They will stay at the coolie house, but find them cots near the street. Tonight they may go out with you, but do not leave them alone. We do not wish them to get lost.' He looked fiercely at Pock Face, who shuffled uncomfortably.

Zhen and Qian bowed and followed Pock Face back to the street. The rain had stopped, and the heat had begun to rise. Pock Face looked at his two companions with renewed respect. Coins for some good grub, out on the town. Whatever this fellow had said had had some amazing effect. Qian, too, couldn't believe their luck. He wanted to quiz Zhen, but that would wait.

They wandered along the bayside towards the market area, with its distinctive red double octagonal roof. On its outskirts they stopped an itinerant hawker carrying his stove, bowls and ingredients slung from two poles. Pock Face ordered noodles, and they squatted, eating and looking out over the sea and its continuously moving ships and boats, along the crowded street and into the market building bustling with tradesmen and wares. Qian felt as if a great weight had lifted from his shoulders and, as they slurped their noodles, which tasted of home, he realised the extent of his emotion and gratitude towards Zhen. A dark-haired, dark-eyed woman wrapped in a cloth of purple and yellow came sauntering by, carrying a tray of fruit and nuts on her head. They gawped at her. For the first time in many months, they ate their fill. Even Pock Face was enjoying this unexpected feast, and they chatted amiably about home, basking in the clean salt air from the sea.

Then Zhen saw her: the black-haired Ch'ang O from the barbarian ship. She was with a white man. They were wandering about the marketplace, and the man was pointing out things now and then and talking animatedly. From time to time he put out his hand for hers and led her somewhere else. Zhen watched them with narrowed eyes, an odd heavy feeling in his chest. For a moment he thought she looked in their direction. He thought they might come towards him, willed them to do so. More than anything else at that instant, he wanted to see her close up. But they turned and left the market.

‘ Snatch the joys of life as they come and use them to the full

Do not leave the silver cup idly glinting at the moon'

He watched the place where she had been for a long time.

6

Incheck Sang sat alone, cross-legged, on a large tiger skin in the middle of the room. Strewn around this skin on which he slept were coffers and chests of varying sizes. Other than these objects, the room was bare. This was his sanctuary and his treasury. The only other person who ever set foot inside this room—and then only under his fierce gaze—was his eldest daughter. She came in to clean the room, change his clothes and bring him food. He entrusted these duties to no one else, not even his wives. The windows were barred, behind shutters which were rarely opened. The only air that penetrated came from a band of open decorative porcelain bricks that ran around the room on three sides under the ceiling. It was humid and hot, but Sang did not mind. Sometimes he would open one of his chests and draw a long, curved fingernail over its silvery contents. The little finger on one hand was missing from the knuckle, the stumpiness of this finger emphasising the length and boniness of the others. He had cut it off himself after a spectacular loss in the gambling den, as a painful reminder to stop this obsessive habit. It had made no difference. Gambling was in his blood.

Sang was cutting his toenails. He was a superstitious man. After each snip he would dexterously pick up the clipping with his long fingernails and place it carefully in a dull metal box which sat atop the tiger's head. When the job was finished to his satisfaction, he closed the box, took a small key on the long cord around his neck and locked it. Opening a silver embossed chest, he placed the box inside and locked it. He was a small man, bird-like and wrinkled. His face drooped slightly to one side, the results of a stroke he had suffered five years before. He was over seventy years old, but his eyes were clear and his mind was sound. He wore a long black coat with a silk skullcap. His beard and droopy moustache were grey, and real. The thick black queue attached to his head was not.