A Superior Man

by Paul Yee

  As we trekked away from town, trying to look unhurried, he said, “Know what I was thinking last night? What if Bookman Soon betrays us?”

  “He gave us the explosives!”

  “He’s a Company man. You think he really wants to damage the iron road? That bastard is a boss, through and through. He tells the Company that you and I stole the explosives. He says he heard our plans to explode the iron road but doesn’t know where we hid the explosives. He sets a trap for us at the trestle.”

  “Isn’t he your friend?”

  “He wants to be a hero to the Company.”

  “You aim your piss at your own stupid stories.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I didn’t know what to think. Was he crazy or was he trying to turn me around? There was no time to ponder. I was a Buddha with a stuffed nose, one who couldn’t smell lies. It was easier just to keep going.

  We walked in silence to Spuzzum village. At our parting, Yang had handed me a cigar box full of Chinese domino tiles. “For your son,” he said, rattling the package. “Give him something to remember you by.”

  I had wanted to kick myself for not thinking of a memento. I should have taken time to figure out his Chinese name.

  “Go visit your little precious.” Fist squatted by the path. “I’ll wait here.”

  “Not going.” If he ran off with the explosives, then I would be a fly with no head.

  “You have a gift for your son.”

  “He doesn’t know me.”

  “Don’t trust me, do you? And you think you’re such a big stick. Go! You want to see him; otherwise you would have left the dominos with Yang.”

  I hadn’t paid full attention when Yang had led me here earlier, so I stumbled around in a panic looking for the cabin. Even away from the damn forest, I was lost. Good thing Sam’s family had that messy, crowded porch that I could recall.

  When I banged on the door, it opened quickly. Sam’s grandmother stepped forward and pulled the door shut, as if she had been expecting me. Could she have known I was leaving this morning? She wasn’t dressed for the day yet; her long white hair was tousled, uncombed. Before I could speak, she pressed her palms together and raised them to her right ear, tilting her head to mimic sleeping. And then she flicked her fingers at me, ordering me to leave. Her eyes were firm.

  I paused before giving her the cigar box. “For boy.”

  She nodded and turned away.

  I wanted to storm into her house.

  I backed away, scolding myself: I should have gone home with them yesterday for an inspection. Did she have a stove inside? A fireplace? How far away was the latrine? Did Peter have his own bed? How many windows let in the light? I should be a better man than my shit-hole father, who hadn’t spared a thought about me. The village in China had plenty of kin to look after its children.

  I could always send money here. Eat dung, shit out rice!

  Fist wasn’t where I had left him. I spun around, peering into the bushes and cursing. There hadn’t been time for him to get far, even if he ran like a deer. But which way?

  The ropes on my back were useless now. I should have insisted on carrying the explosives.

  I turned and Fist was there, panting and looking scared.

  “Someone walked by,” he said. “So I ran to hide.”

  “Nobody was here,” I snapped. “I would have heard.”

  “Native people move like wind. You see your son?”

  “He was sleeping.”

  I walked away. They said a man wasn’t an adult until he had raised a child. I thought that crossing the ocean was a far bigger step. At home, women gathered happily around a child: mothers and grandparents, sisters and aunts. I had a son here, but no one wanted him, as if he had been born a diseased bastard who brought shame into the clan. But he was no such thing. I was his father, but I had walked away from him. He was a dream of the future, thrust into my face. But dreams made in Gold Mountain could not be real. Wet snot leaked from our noses; I turned and emptied mine onto the ground.

  That stowaway ride on the train had sped me through this region; now nothing looked familiar. On both sides of the track were rock walls, so close that they formed a second skin, like that of a snake, for the passing trains. My eyes followed the two lines of telegraph cables, rising and falling like a railway in the sky. The redbeards laid claim to everything—land, water, and now the air. Building the railway had felled millions of trees, yet the Company had replanted a line of shaved tree trunks, all the same size. The cables ran high above the tracks, but at some spots drooped near the ground when poles were planted below grade. We knew of telegraphs in China, where lines had been strung between the chief cities of the north. Here, words moved instantly from one station to another, telling of trains going and coming. News of our blast would travel quickly, so we needed to do the same.

  “You want to be a big hero in China, don’t you?” said Fist.

  “In China, we go separate ways. We won’t see each other again.”

  “Fine by me.”

  “Don’t want you at my side, telling people who did what or how things happened. I’ll tell the story any way I want.”

  “Even lies.”

  I saw excited teahouse diners banging their fists on tables and fighting for the honour of paying my bills. Clerks in the Gold Mountain shops that handled our remittances dropped their pens and abandoned their ledgers in favour of hearing me talk. I brought the truth about the men that they had dispatched across the ocean, the men whose families came to town each month to get the cash sent to them. Even in death, those men in Gold Mountain enjoyed no peace, not when their bones were stripped of names and home destinations. Clerks would bow to me with respect, for they had never heard a tale like mine. I wanted to get fussy welcomes to high-class brothels where, this time, the fawning women urged me to amuse them. We would go to bed later and linger far longer.

  “What if someone arrives while we are on the trestle?” asked Fist.

  “We say we’re railway workers.”

  “I’ll be sentry and stay atop the trestle while you go down.”

  “Fine. Few people go north today. We need to be quick, that’s all.” So far we hadn’t met any travellers.

  “What time does the train leave Spuzzum?”

  “Noon. We have lots of time. People fishing will hear the bang and stop the train.”

  “What if the explosives don’t go off?”

  “Then Boss Soon will laugh so hard that he’ll die.”

  After a while, I took out some food. Yang had chopped leftover meat, put rice around it to make a ball, and rolled oiled cloth around it. Fist didn’t eat. I almost called out for the boy but recalled that he was gone. Peter would have enjoyed the rice balls; the white grains would have stuck to his chin like snow. Old Yang had flavoured the rice with soy sauce and vinegar, and the boy’s people liked the strong sour tastes of China.

  We reached the high trestle, the one that I had sneaked across on a train.

  Fist went ahead. I reminded myself of how easily the trains rolled and how heavy they were, made from tons of iron and steel and pulling carloads of coal. I emptied my mind of worry, gazed at the distant mountains, and marched like a soldier, thinking ahead to my triumphant return to China, hearing drums and di-da horns inside my head. I almost slammed into Fist, who had suddenly stopped at the middle.

  “Go to the edge, bend over, and look underneath the trestle,” he said.

  “You’re insane.”

  “Show me.”

  “Let me pass.”

  “You’re afraid.” His eyes hardened. “Push me aside.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” I wanted to slap him.

  “One Leg is wrong. I’m no coward.” He went to the edge, dropped to his knees, leaned forward while gripping the ties with his hands, and tucked his head under.

  It looked as if he wanted to roll forward and somersault into the air. He looked off-balance. His hands and shoulders had
to be strong, to hold on while the bag of explosives rested on his back.

  I hurried off the trestle, cursing all the way. He could turn around and go back, for all I cared. The fellow was a three-legged chicken. If he got himself stuck in the middle of the trestle, I wasn’t going to help him.

  When at last he strolled forward, I raced away, feeling much lighter. It was hardly odd that he had a troubled soul. I had yet to meet a rail hand without one. Some bore open injuries; they limped and dragged one foot. Dark scars gouged their faces. Cloth patches covered lost eyes. Other men swaggered to conceal their loss of fingers, hearing, or power to laugh. They cursed the bosses, damned the Company, and went home with no savings. People whispered darkly behind those men’s backs: the rail hands had signed on for the job of their own free will. Not one of them had been coerced, not like the coolies kidnapped and taken to South America. The only ones to blame here were their own stupid selves, and that pained the railway men the most. They just wanted to forget.

  Fist had fallen behind. I called out, waited, and fretted, and then returned to the bend in the road. No one. I cursed and hurried further back. I should have tied a rope to him as I had done with the brat. Fist was sitting on a log, his sack at his feet. I sat and handed him a rice ball.

  His eyes were downcast. “Last night, at the store, they used dominoes for fortune-telling. I played too.”

  “Someone had the book?” I wanted to grab the explosives. With them in hand, I could leave behind this shit-hole fiend.

  “My reading wasn’t good. Played three times, all were bad.”

  “A man I knew had a reading. It predicted a long life. The man died two days later. It’s the truth, I swear.”

  He pulled the sack onto his lap and wrapped his arms around it, a toddler hugging the family ox.

  “You stay here,” I said. “Give me the explosives and the ropes. I’ll go alone.”

  Fist shook his head.

  “Why stop me?”

  “I’ll go with you. Just give me time.”

  Birds chirped in the trees. Leaves and branches rustled. From a distance came the low rush of the river. I needed a rumble of thunder, and then a bolt of lightning to strike Fist and jolt him into action. Where was the fire, the one blazing in his eyes when I saw him yesterday?

  After a while, he asked, “Did One Leg tell you? We moved earth and rock to change the slope of the land. Big horses dragged weights to flatten the ground. One day a horse cried out. I turned and my workmate fell onto me. A horse had reared up and struck his head. We hit the ground together.”

  I stayed silent and let him continue.

  “I didn’t see that he was dead until I stood up. There were no bruises, no blood. He looked asleep. I called and shook him. I never went near a horse again. People laughed at me.”

  “Horses here are bigger than oxen. We’re not used to them, that’s all.”

  “A man fell off a cliff and landed on rocks. I was small, so they dropped me down by ropes to fetch the body. I got dizzy. My arms went stiff. I couldn’t move, halfway between heaven and earth. The men yelled and yanked my ropes, but I clung to the bushes. Finally they lowered another man to fetch me.”

  “We all get scared. No one flees that.”

  “No one flees his own memories.”

  “Make new ones.” I stood. “Wreck the trestle, and you’ll be reborn. The past won’t matter. I promise you, we can succeed.”

  I reached for the sack of explosives, but he swung it away.

  I grabbed his arm. “I can flip you over and crush you. I can put you in so much pain that you will want to die.”

  “Why don’t you go without me?”

  “Then give me the explosives.”

  “No.” He clutched the sack even more tightly.

  “See? You do want to do this. Let’s go.” I pointed to the sky. “It’s going to rain.”

  He heaved the bag onto his shoulder and took a few steps. Then he scurried back to sit on the log, head over his knees as if squatting to shit.

  “Didn’t you smoke any opium last night?” I demanded.

  We heard the clanking and rumbling of iron wheels approaching, but it was the light, fast sound of a handcar. Whenever one of those cars passed me on the tracks, I always thought of Monkey’s ghost story from years ago. I wanted to believe that two men cranking at four wheels could out-run angry ghosts.

  “Keep your head down,” I said. “Don’t show your face.”

  I glanced up after it passed. Three redbeards filled the handcar’s tiny deck. Two workers pumped at a seesaw lever. The third man wore a suit, gripping the car frame while clutching a small box with three long wooden legs. It was the take-picture man.

  I pulled Fist to his feet, jabbering with new fervour. “Heaven has sent us a big chance. That man will go take pictures of the trestle, and then take even more pictures after the blast. He will sell them everywhere and get famous. If they printed drawings beside Boss Soon’s letter in the newspaper, the whole world will hear of us.”

  “Take pictures?”

  “The Company took pictures of every tunnel and bridge. They took pictures of the trains, the bosses, and the cliffs. But no pictures of us China men.”

  “I heard of that,” he replied. “Screw the Company.”

  I hustled him along and tried to boost his spirits. “What will you do in Yale?” I asked.

  “Visit Goddess.”

  “Be careful of people asking where you came from.”

  “Nobody knows about us.”

  “You might see Sam Bing Lew. He knew I went to see you.”

  “You owe him money?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?” He pestered me until I said, “He wants to go to China with me.”

  Fist burst out laughing. That gave me hope.

  At the trestle, the handcar and take-picture man were nowhere to be seen. They had coasted through. Damn them. The grey sky left the iron road looking dull and solid. The beams and logs still carried a scent of fresh-cut wood. It was a steep drop to the beach below, littered with planed timber and debris. Luckily, no fishing stations occupied this stretch of the river, so no one was watching.

  “It’s as solid as a fortress wall!” Fist pulled back. “This won’t work.”

  “Wooden stilts, that’s all.” I grabbed him. “When one log falls, it brings down everything else. Don’t you remember trees falling in the forest?”

  “Redbeard workers fell to their deaths building these trestles.”

  “They weren’t afraid. Are you guarding the way or going down?”

  He didn’t move, so I added, “Redbeards built this, but it won’t stand forever. Even the Great Wall at home was breached. You know that, don’t you?”

  He swallowed hard. “I’ll go down.”

  I stopped him from heading out. “We don’t unpack out there. Too risky.”

  We uncoiled the stiff ropes and tested their strength. I didn’t ask where they had come from. Never disturb rice that’s bubbling and half-cooked; you will ruin it. I made a noose at one end and tied the other end around my waist. Fist did the same. We tied the dynamite into bundles of six, loosely coiled their long fuses on top, and fastened them to our backs.

  “Once we reach the middle,” I said, “loop the noose over the end of a tie. The steel rails sit over the ties, so they won’t pop up. At the other end of the tie, let yourself down along the outer leg. I will be two legs away, on the same side. Watch me and do what I do. We each fasten explosives to three legs. Down-up, down-up, three times. Can you do it?”

  Fist nodded, his face pale.

  “Before you go down,” I said, “tie one end of the fuse to the steel and let it unwind as you go down. That way we know how far to go. Simple, no?”

  The rush of the river seemed louder as Fist’s voice faded.

  “We have to be fast,” I reminded him.

  “Where’s the middle?”

  “No time to measure.”

  “What if the
rope breaks?”

  “Why would it break?”

  Fist shrugged.

  We lugged the sack of explosives onto the bridge and hurried forward. At least two more men were needed, one to stand at either end to keep people off. No good plugging leaks when the boat is midstream.

  I dropped over the side and fought to get a grip on the under structure. Luckily, the bridge’s legs were angled out and we could clamber onto them. But their slopes were steep, and the Company had used planed timber at the top, not rough logs. Each time I slid my hand down, slivers pierced my flesh. I felt the rope at my waist. I knew better than to look down. Fist hugged his beam, trying to slide down. Given his slow pace, I would need to do most of the work. There was a tug on my back; the fuse stretched no further. I was still very high up, having come down less than a quarter of the leg’s length.

  “Hey!” someone shouted. It was a voice we hadn’t heard before. It wasn’t friendly.

  I looked up to where my rope met the steel. A man’s bushy head and wide shoulders hovered there, dark against the sky, darting back and forth. We hadn’t seen anyone all morning, and now this.

  “Go up!” I screamed. Fist should have stood sentry.

  He reversed and scurried up, arms flying hand-over-hand up the rope, feet fighting to grip the wood. Now we were lucky that he had dawdled closer to the top.

  I clawed upward too and saw a glint of metal flashing around the ties. The man was trying to sever my rope. He must have looked into the sack. I wrapped my arms and legs around the beam. Just in time. Something whisked by my face and then the rope around my waist tugged from below. I tightened my grip around the wood and looked for Fist. He wasn’t under the bridge. I prayed he had climbed over the top.

  “Be careful!” I yelled. “He’s got a knife!”

  The wind dissolved my words. I heard voices but saw nothing through the underside of the trestle.

  A short scream of terror.

  “Fist, are you there?”

  Had someone fallen over? Who? Should I go up?

  I glanced at the sky above. Our gods had abandoned us, halfway between Heaven and Hell. Damn them.