by Ling Zhang
He dropped the whip, and before he could retrieve it Ah-Fat snatched it up and thrashed him ferociously. The lashes fell upon his back and shoulders, again and again, though not on his head. He felt a stinging heat, as if he had rubbed pepper in his eyes. The real pain came later.
When Kam Shan was little, his mother had beaten him for all kinds of misdemeanours. She thrashed him with the bamboo canes they dried clothes on until he rolled around on the ground in pain. Although his mother had inflicted many such punishments on him, he never feared her. His mother’s wrath had boundaries which were set by his grandmother. The current of his mother’s anger might run strong and swift, but it would always be contained within the riverbed of his blind grandmother’s authority.
The punishment inflicted by his father was a different matter. He had never experienced it before and he did not know how far his father’s anger would take him.
Kam Shan made no sound. He knew that he was kneeling at the threshold of adulthood. If he cried out, he would be denied entry. If he could endure this whipping, he might become a man.
“How dare you steal from the mouths of your mother and grandmother,” Ah-Fat yelled.
“Did you go to the gambling den?
“Did you? Tell me!”
Ah-Fat had not intended to whip his son so viciously. Kam Shan had worked hard since his arrival in Gold Mountain. Even though he had no particular aptitude for farm work, he ploughed, planted, collected eggs, cut up the meat, loaded up the cart and sold the goods at the market, just like the hired hands. The only difference was that he, unlike the others, received no wages, not a single cent.
The money Ah-Fat made, he carefully divided into two parts, sending one to Six Fingers and keeping the other for himself. He could not stint by a single cent on the portion he sent home because he knew that a dozen or more people waited, mouths agape, for the food he dropped into them. Their lives depended on those dollar letters. And he tried as hard as he could to limit the amount he kept for himself. This money had to stretch far, and in many directions.
He had borrowed from several people to build the diulau fortress home and the debt had to be paid back. His mother was over sixty and in poor health. When she passed on, then Six Fingers could come and join him in Gold Mountain. So he had starting saving to pay the head tax for Six Fingers.
He had something else in mind too: Kam Shan’s marriage. The boy was nearly sixteen. Back in Spur-On Village, all boys of that age would be betrothed. It’d be too late to wait until the matchmaker knocked on your door to save up for wedding presents.
He had not told anyone of these plans, not even his wife or his son. He just kept a tighter and tighter grip on the money he kept back. Every time he paid the hired hands their wages, he would turn away and try not to look at Kam Shan. His son’s eyes had a naked yearning in them. Ah-Fat could only pretend not to notice.
Ah-Fat knew that the small change his son filched from the accounts was insignificant compared with the wages he had denied him. Besides, they lived in a remote place, with no neighbours apart from a few yeung fan. Kam Shan, like any kid of that age, was filled with lively curiosity, yet he had not a single companion to amuse himself with. It was normal that he should go looking for a bit of fun in Vancouver. When Ah-Fat was Kam Shan’s age, Red Hair had taken him to explore all of Chinatown’s darkest corners.
As he whipped his son, he waited and prayed for Kam Sham to say something: a denial, an excuse, a protest, even an accusation. More than anything, he wanted Kam Shan to speak so that the beating could cease, so that he could accept his son’s plea or apology and save face. Then he would fetch the sausage-and-chicken rice he had kept warm all evening, and eat a late dinner with his son. He had had nothing to eat while he waited for Kam Shan’s return.
But Kam Shan said nothing. He did not make a single sound. The boy gave in to the gathering tide of rage which rose in his father. Kam Shan did not try to put even the smallest barrier in its way, and now that rage threatened to sweep away all before it.
“Is it daylight already? Why haven’t the cocks crowed?”
Ah-Lam emerged sleepy-eyed from inside the house carrying a small oil lamp. He was wearing a tattered old jacket which exposed his bare legs in the dim lamplight. His flaccid penis drooped between them, looking like a brown pipe begrimed by years of use.
Ah-Fat threw down the whip and frantically pushed him back into the house. Grabbing the lamp from him, he pulled a pair of trousers from the bed and threw them at him. “What’s all this nonsense? It’s still evening. You should be ashamed of yourself, parading around like that in front of Kam Shan.” Ah-Lam looked at him in a daze: “If your son’s here, why hasn’t Ah-Tak got here?”
Ah-Tak was Ah-Lam’s son. He was still in a village in Hoi Ping County. Ah-Lam had planned to scratch together the money for the head tax on Ah-Tak after his wife arrived, only he never expected his wife to die before she left the detention centre. Ah-Fat was alarmed at the dazed look in Ah-Lam’s eyes and attempted to calm him: “Put these trousers on and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll write to Ah-Tak for you and tell him to buy passage on the next boat.”
Ah-Lam bent over the trousers, trying unsuccessfully to get one leg in. Finally he sighed: “It’s too late for that. And if Ah-Tak doesn’t come, who’ll take my bones back home?” His lucid words saddened Ah-Fat more than his confusion. He helped the old man back to bed. “Don’t worry. If Ah-Tak doesn’t come, Kam Shan’ll take your bones and mine back home, just you see if he won’t.” It occurred to him that Kam Shan was still kneeling outside. He was dismayed by the thought that if Ah-Lam had not blundered out when he did, his wrath might have caused injury that no amount of remorse could heal. Ah-Lam was, perhaps, sent by Buddha to save his son.
Ah-Fat carried the lamp outside to where his son still knelt on the ground. The back of his jacket was shredded by the whip lashes; he could not see if he had drawn blood. Kam Shan stiffened when he heard Ah-Fat’s footsteps and did not look round. In the oppressive silence, Ah-Fat felt himself shrinking. The atmosphere was as prickly as a ball of thistles and thorns capable of stabbing you painfully wherever you touched it. He knew that he and his son were within a hair’s breadth of straining each other’s forbearance to the breaking point.
Ah-Fat turned and went into the kitchen. He got two bowls and two pairs of chopsticks and laid them on the table, then brought out the iron pot filled with the sausage-flavoured rice. He could not make up his mind whether to fill two bowls or one. His hand quivered in indecision. He served only himself and sat down.
He was ravenous and the smell of the sausage made his belly shriek with hunger. But he could not eat. The grains of rice seemed to turn to sand in his throat. He felt his son’s eyes boring into his back, needling him just enough to make it impossible for him to settle in his chair.
He slammed the bowl down on the table.
“Do you want me to spoon-feed you?” he snarled.
There was a rustling behind him as Kam Shan got up. It sounded as if the boy tottered for a moment before finding his feet. Then he came over, filled a bowl for himself and sat down silently to eat. Ah-Fat looked up and suddenly saw a thread of congealing blood in his son’s nostrils. The blood was inky-dark in colour. Ah-Fat almost retched, and felt the rice grains which had stuck in his throat wriggle upwards like maggots. He made as if to give his handkerchief to his son; his hand was already in his pocket, his thumb and forefinger had hold of the fabric. But his hand suddenly flagged. The handkerchief felt like a lead weight and he could not move it.
Oh, Ah-Yin, he groaned silently, feeling close to tears. He and Kam Shan were like two ancient, flint-hard rocks pressed together under the weight of a mountain. Six Fingers could have kept them apart, he thought, prying open a tiny crack. That little space would be life-giving; without it, he and his son would be condemned forever to a stalemate.
He suddenly missed Six Fingers terribly.
From that day on, Ah-Fat sent Loong Am wi
th Kam Shan when he went to market and impressed on him that he was to stick with Kam Shan every step of the way. Kam Shan got up early and came home early, and the money he brought back more or less added up. Ah-Fat secretly felt that he could do with a few thrashings, it made him a man. He gradually relaxed.
He was soon to discover how wrong he was.
The patch of land he had bought two years before, through the crops it grew and the beasts it pastured, had brought him several surprisingly fat bank drafts. And when, in spring, his Italian neighbours decided to sell their property and to live with their son in the Prairie region, he was able to buy them out at the kind of knock-down price he had only dreamed of. His new purchase gave him a property several times bigger than before. He could stand at the field edge and not see the far boundary. Today he stood looking across the land; it had just rained and the leaves of the crops drooped low, covering the ground in an unbroken carpet of green. This was not last year’s green, it was the fresh green of the new year. Ah-Fat sighed comfortably. What a vast place Gold Mountain was. A piece of land this big could have fed many people back in Hoi Ping. Even the biggest landlord there did not have this much.
And there was the house too, of course. The Italians had done a good job building it. The upper floor was of wood, but the ground floor was solidly constructed of red brick. It would have been hard to find even one sturdy, well-built house like this in the whole of Chinatown. It would not stay empty for long. He would write to Six Fingers, reminding her to get the matchmaker to find a bride for Kam Shan. In the not-too-distant future, this would be Kam Shan’s new home.
But just for once, Ah-Fat did not send the money left over from buying the house and land back to Six Fingers. He put it aside for Ah-Lam, who was now a broken old man. Only the husk of the man remained; he was rotting away on the inside like a worm-infested apple. Who knew how much longer he might last? He did not want Ah-Lam to die in Gold Mountain so he planned to take him home after the coming harvest, and to get Kam Shan betrothed at the same time. He would use the leftover money for Ah-Lam’s passage and pocket money. Without it, Ah-Lam would lose the respect of his son and grandchildren forever. Ah-Lam had not had an easy life, and if he could, he would ensure that Ah-Lam died in peace and dignity.
Then, just as Ah-Fat had carefully constructed his plans, a whirlwind reduced them to a heap of sand. There was absolutely nothing Ah-Fat could do to gather them up—no matter how big his hands.
It happened a week later.
Ah-Fat went to the farmers’ market in Vancouver that day, taking a pig and a sheep and some eggs. Selling his goods was not his sole intention. He planned to take Kam Shan on a trip to Vancouver. When he was not at the market, or eating or sleeping, his son sat by the stove in their shack, scooping handfuls of pumpkin seeds into his mouth. He already had little nicks in his front teeth from cracking them. He said little to his father, and sometimes went for days at a time without uttering a single complete sentence. Ah-Fat was beginning to worry that he might be growing ill. Today’s trip was intended to give Kam Shan a day out.
Ah-Fat had planned the day carefully. They would sell what they could in the morning market, and then leave. The weather was not so hot that the meat and eggs would spoil. Any leftover meat could be salted down and the eggs pickled for them to eat at home. The market was not far from the city centre and they could be there in under half an hour. He would not bother with Chinatown; they would go and look around the yeung fan part of town instead. They were meeting Rick for lunch at a fish and chips restaurant near the Vancouver Hotel.
He had not seen Rick since he left Vancouver. According to Rick, the restaurant was run by Irish people and the food was not bad. Ah-Fat did not have much faith in this recommendation because yeung fan and Chinese tastes in food were a million miles apart. He guessed the fish would probably have cheese and onions in it, as this was the sort of ranktasting stuff that was added to all yeung fan food, and that they would get two tiny slices of fish reposing on a thick layer of greens, only enough to fill a bird’s belly. All the same, Ah-Fat was willing to eat it, however disgusting it was, because Kam Shan had not yet tried foreign food. Nor had he met Rick. Ah-Fat packed two pork ribs with a nice mixture of fat and lean, and a basket of eggs as a gift for his friend.
It did not matter if they did not get enough fish to eat. Ah-Fat was going prepared—with a bottle of tea wrapped in a thick cloth to keep it warm, and some green bean cakes, so that his son would not go hungry. After lunch, he planned to take Kam Shan to the Hudson’s Bay Company Department Store. If a couple of things took Kam Shan’s fancy, so long as they were not wildly expensive, Ah-Fat could buy them for him.
The pig and the sheep had been butchered the night before. The piteous squeals of the pig and the bleating of the sheep grated on Kam Shan’s ears as painfully as a nicked and rusty knife and he could not get back to sleep. Father and son could not have been more different: Ah-Fat, as a boy, would sit without moving a muscle, his eyes glued to the knife as his father did his butchering, but Kam Shan always refused the meat from the animals his father slaughtered.
Kam Shan smelt the reek of blood the minute he dressed and stepped outside that morning. It was no longer fresh but just as pungent, and there were suspicious patches of a dark brownish colour under the walnut tree outside the door. Kam Shan gave an almighty sneeze. Acid came up from his empty belly, and he squatted at the edge of the path, retching violently.
“If you don’t get going right now, we’ll be selling salted meat instead of fresh!” Ah-Fat shouted at him.
Ah-Fat was appalled at his own words. He had intended to say something like “Let’s go. When we’ve sold the meat, I’m taking you for a treat.” But those words died in this throat. Off his tongue rolled something completely different—strange, icy and wounding. He wanted to take it back the moment he said it. He did not know why his mouth fought his mind every time he talked to his son.
Kam Shan said nothing. He went into the house, brought out an old quilt, and threw it into the cart. Spring nights were still cold hereabouts and if by any chance a cart wheel broke on the way home, the quilt could save their lives. Kam Shan leaned against the rolled-up quilt and handed the whip to his father—every time father and son went out together, Ah-Fat took the reins. He was convinced Kam Shan was hotheaded and drove the horse too hard. It was an old horse, no longer as sure-footed as it had been, and Ah-Fat felt sorry for it.
The road was lined with silver birch, the dark trunks blurring into one another against the glazed blue of the sky, as they passed. A great flock of crows flew up, darkening the sky with their wings and cawing loudly. “The Cantonese call people who say unlucky things ‘crows’,” commented Ah-Fat. “And back home the caw of a crow is considered a bad omen. In Gold Mountain, the cities are full of crows and no one gives a shit when they caw.”
Kam Shan grunted but said nothing.
“I’ll take you to the department store after lunch, shall I? What would you like me to get you?” said Ah-Fat, keen to get the conversation going. Kam Shan was making a paper bird, a sparrow hawk, out of some scrap and, without looking up, said: “Whatever you say, Dad.” “What about if I get you a pair of leather shoes?” Ah-Fat tried again. Kam Shan had been wearing the cotton shoes Six Fingers made for him ever since he arrived. But fashionable young Chinese in Gold Mountain wore yeung fan leather shoes.
Kam Shan finished folding the bird but its wings were floppy and would not fly. He pulled it apart and folded it again. “Whatever you want, Dad” was his only reply.
“Would you like to buy Pastor Andrew a box of chocolates?” asked Ah-Fat. “He’s taught you English but you’ve never converted, have you?”
Kam Shan finally finished folding his paper bird and opened it out gently with two fingers. Its wings flapped up and down.
“Whatever you like, Dad.”
Looking at Kam Shan’s apathetic expression, Ah-Fat found his patience wearing thin. With difficulty he bit back an angry ret
ort. He knew that if he spoke he would give his son a thorough tongue-lashing, and he was not going to quarrel today. So he swallowed the bitter words—and felt them turn to gall inside him.
Kam Shan tired of the paper bird and, with a wave of his hand, let it go. It was a fine day and the bird glided easily for some distance on the breeze.
“Dad, can we buy Mum a ring? A ‘grandmother green’ emerald one? Pastor Andrew’s wife has one. Her mother left it to her,” he said.
Ah-Fat was taken aback. The bitterness that filled him dissolved like water. His son had been apart from his mother for months. Fathers give sons courage; mothers give sons love, thought Ah-Fat. A life without motherly love was a comfortless one. Poor Kam Shan missed the old days, his home and his mum. And if he missed his mother, then he was not a lost cause. Six Fingers would come to Gold Mountain one day, and Kam Shan would have both courage and love. And he would no longer feel like a stranger to Ah-Fat.
Ah-Fat could not bring himself to say that the money he had in his pocket was not enough to buy even one corner of an emerald ring. So he just laughed and said: “One day, we will, one day.…” He suddenly felt much more cheerful. Nine suns seemed to be shining down on him, making the roadway glint and sparkle. As the cart rolled on, he found himself humming a little song. He had forgotten some of the words and sang out of tune, but his happiness gave it a rollicking rhythm.
You say words of love, but love must be sincere
Do not spread your love all around
The snares of love have fallen … ta-ta, ta-ta
You’ve got to … ta-rum, ta-rum … wake up
They arrived at the market to find business unusually brisk. Within an hour or so, they sold all their produce. They still had some time before they were due to meet Rick, so Ah-Fat took his son to Chinatown, where they could buy some pastries to take home. Ah-Fat went into the cake shop to choose. “Dad,” said Kam Shan, “I want to go and read the papers at the stand.” Ah-Fat let him go, knowing how much his son loved the newspapers. “Just don’t be long. I’ll wait for you here.”
