A Superior Man

by Paul Yee

  According to witnesses, Sam returned to town alone later that day and resumed gambling. When police questioned Sam, he claimed that Shepard had repaid him and regained his penknife. Yet it was not found on the body.

  “Wasn’t this your man?” Wet Water Dog was shaking his head. “They’ll hang him.”

  I was breathing through my mouth, trying to take in the news. The story had far too many twists of fate to be believed. How could it be that Sam, of the hundreds of people in Yale, would have been gambling against the man who would come across us on the trestle? I cursed Heaven as I touched the penknife, heavy in my pocket. I had thought it would make a fine gift for Grandfather.

  I dragged my sack to the other side of the dock. Fist followed. Across the harbour, clapboard houses painted in bright colours dotted the green hills that rose from the shoreline. A scow drifted by, riding low with a heavy load of crates. Two Native men paddled a dugout from the village across the way toward the city. Seagulls hurtled by so close that the flapping of their wings vibrated in my ears.

  “You’re safe,” Fist said. “Nobody knows about you.”

  “I should kill you,” I said. “You know. I know. As do Heaven and Earth.”

  I braced my legs and shut my eyes and tilted my head back. How many damned ghosts were following me?

  “Isn’t this good news?” Fist was cheerful. “No lawman will ever ask about us. Everyone is safe, everyone can sleep, even Bookman Soon.”

  I didn’t answer. Fist tugged at my bottle and told me to take a drink.

  I shook my head.

  “Are you still thinking about that son of yours?”

  I jerked away, but he grabbed me. “Don’t go back.” The smell of his tobacco was strong. “They will hang you.”

  “Sam is blameless.”

  “You didn’t kill that man,” Fist said. “It was me.”

  “I forced you onto the bridge.”

  “Don’t you want to see your people?”

  “Of course.”

  “Even if you save Sam, what life can he have? He is mix-blood.”

  I shoved my ticket and receipt into Fist’s pocket. I thrust the jug of wine and my sack of food at him and ran from the docks.

  If only I had looked for Sam that night in Yale. If I had found him, then we might have left together the next morning on the sternwheeler. Sam could have been standing on the docks beside me. We could have sailed off as two free men.

  It was raining when the sternwheeler reached Yale. I went to see Soohoo at Clouds Clear Tower. Only the brothel keeper would have enough clout to get me into the jail. He greeted me warmly, thinking I wanted more time with Goddess. He had no idea where I had been. I told him I’d come to see Sam.

  “Not involved in that fall, are you?” he demanded

  I chose my words with care. “Sam could not have killed anyone. He is a good man.”

  “The story goes against him.”

  “Will the Council help him at trial?”

  “Why? He’s no China man.”

  “He’s half—. He helped me on my trip.”

  “What if the police arrest you too?”

  “They have no reason for that.”

  “You are Sam’s friend. They can say you helped him.”

  “Has anyone visited him?”

  “Only his grandmother.”

  Soohoo took me along as he spoke to bigwig redbeards at stores and offices. Finally we went to the sturdy log cabin that served as jail. The constable was not there, only his Native helper. Soohoo spoke to him and then to me.

  “Be careful. If anything happens to you, it may be hard to get you out.”

  Sam’s cell had a heavy wooden door with a tiny barred slot. I lit the candle that Soohoo had given me and peered in. It was daylight outside, but the small room had no windows. The stink reminded me of our time in Boston Bar’s jail. When I called Sam’s name, the figure on the ground stirred.

  “Yang Hok,” he murmured. “Going back to China?”

  “Sam, come here.”

  “Limp off.”

  “Did they beat you? Do you need liniments?”

  “Limp off.”

  “I came from Victoria. I was boarding my ship when the news came.”

  “You have money to waste? Didn’t you lose everything?”

  “I brought water and food for you.”

  There was the clank of a heavy chain as Sam shuffled over.

  I shoved a slim bottle of cold boiled water through the bars. He drank eagerly. Then I passed through rice and meats wrapped in cloth.

  “Go piss against those walls.” I brought the candle close and showed him the penknife. His eyes flickered for a moment.

  I shoved it back in my pocket. “You didn’t kill that man,” I whispered. “I did.”

  Sam’s eyes were dull. “What does it matter?”

  “I’ll tell the police. Then they will free you.”

  “You think they’ll believe you? You’re a China man!”

  “The knife proves I did it. I’ll show it to them.”

  “You stupid shit-hole fiend. They’ll say we killed that man together. They’ll put a rope around your neck and hang you too. People saw us together, here, at the start of the trip.” He pulled at the blanket around his shoulder and turned away.

  “This isn’t right,” I said. “You didn’t kill anyone.”

  “You hear the shit leaking from your mouth?”

  “I want to help you.

  Sam returned and clutched the iron bars. “Go help Peter. Who’s his father?”

  “You,” I said. “He likes you better than me.”

  Sam shook his head. “You fool, you can swear by all your ancestors’ names that you killed that man, but the redbeards will never free us. One of us killed one of them.”

  “Peter isn’t mine any more. He’s with your grandmother.”

  “I heard. She said she took him for me. But I will die soon, and same for her.”

  I reached for Sam’s hands, but he walked away. The iron bars were warm where he had clutched them. My hands were wet, from tears.

  “Do what you want,” Sam said. “You never listen to me, but this time you should.”

  “Should I take him to China?”

  “Do whatever you want.”

  “And you? What do you want?”

  “What I want has never mattered.” He paused. “Don’t weep like a woman. Do you want to be the boy’s father? Yes or no? After that, thinking about China will be easy.”

  Then he vanished into the darkness.

  From:

  Provincial Archives of British Columbia

  Connaught Library

  Parliament Buildings

  Victoria, British Columbia

  Blanshard 5 - 0672

  For Immediate Release

  Mr. Willard Ireland, British Columbia Provincial Archivist, and Mr. Kong Hay Wong, President of the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association of Victoria and Chair of the Chinese Subcommittee of the B.C. Centennial Committee, will unveil a pioneer Chinese treasure at the Provincial Archives on April 16, 1958.

  This is one of the Provincial Archives’ extensive program of events marking the centennial of the birth of the province.

  Mr. Hok (“Hank”) Yang of Boston Bar was a pioneer immigrant to B.C. and worked on the building of the Canadian Pacific Railway, which took place from 1880 to 1885. For years he ran the Tai Hing General Store in Boston Bar. Before his death in 1938, Mr. Yang presented the Yale and District Museum with his 300-page memoir.

  Since that time, the memoir has not been read. The gift came with a restriction: it could not be opened until 1958, 100 years after his birth.

  “I only know that it’s written in Chinese,” says Mr. Ireland. “It’s invaluable; we don’t have many records from the Chinese.”

  Mr. Wong will do on-the-spot translations during the unveiling, which will also feature colourful dances from China’s 2,000 years of tradition, performed by the Chinese Public School
dance troupe.

  Confirmed guests at the unveiling include Lieutenant Governor Frank Mackenzie Ross, CMG, MC; Mr. Lawrence J. Wallace, Deputy Provincial Secretary and Chairman of the B.C. Centennial Committee; as well as Mr. Hok Yang’s son Peter and Peter’s children and grandchildren. Members of Mrs. Peter (Jeannie) Yang’s extended family from the Kopchitchin Indian Reserve will also attend.

  When queried about his father’s memoir, Mr. Peter Yang revealed, “Pop wanted to tell the truth of why he stayed here and didn’t go home to China, but he didn’t want to embarrass anyone.”

  ####

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This author acknowledges that the story “The Transformer” belongs to the Nlaka’pamux First Nations people of British Columbia’s Fraser Canyon and that unresolved issues remain around the use of traditional Native stories. First Nations assert that such stories told by their people may not enter the public use domain the same way as stories told or written by white people.

  The version of the story used here was collected by James Teit, an anthropologist working from Spences Bridge in the early twentieth century. As pointed out in Our Tellings: Interior Salish Stories of the Nlha7kápmx People, compiled and edited by Darwin Hanna and Mamie Henry (UBC Press, 1995):

  “Without the aid of a tape recorder, however, he [Teit] had to rely on his memory. As a result, his records are mere sketches of the original telling. He also had to submit his collections to the editorship of his mentor, Franz Boas. Because Boas was more interested in composite than in individual stories, he eliminated many of the names of the individual tellers and communities. On reading Teit’s published collections today, one is left wondering exactly whose works and whose stories are being represented.” (p. xiv)

  I urge readers of this book, and of “The Transformer” tale, to recognize the many outstanding issues confronting the First Nations of British Columbia and to lobby their political representatives to move toward addressing these matters to the full satisfaction of all parties involved.

  In writing this book, I received help from friends, family, and colleagues. Wayson Choy, SKY Lee, and Jim Wong-Chu commented on earlier portions of the book. Prabha Khosla, Dr Keith Lowe, and Dr Lisa Yun provided insights on the term “coolie.” Susan Safyan, editor at Arsenal Pulp Press, noticed the glitches in my manuscript and proposed solutions. My brother Vernon and his family hosted me on my research trips to Vancouver. Dr. Andrea Laforet provided advice on traditional First Nations stories. Most important of all, my partner Mohamed Khaki had unshakeable faith in this writing project despite its long gestation. His sister Jenny provided delicious meals far beyond the call of duty. I gratefully acknowledge funding from the literature programs of Canada Council for the Arts and the Toronto Arts Council.

  PHOTO: M. Wong Photos

  PAUL YEE was born in Saskatchewan but grew up in Vancouver’s Chinatown. He is the author of nearly thirty books, including the Governor General’s Award-winning novel for young people Ghost Train and Saltwater City: An Illustrated History of the Chinese in Vancouver, winner of the Vancouver Book Award. He lives in Toronto. paulyee.ca