by Ling Zhang
Ah-Fat looked at his son and tears welled up in his eyes.
“I sent you out to work the minute you got off the boat. I never gave you the chance of an education. Your brother never wanted to study but you’ve had to work too hard to study. If only you had, you would understand how things work here and you could have kept all these people from hounding me.”
Ah-Fat did not want to go back to Hoi Ping in the state he was in now.
He sold the only thing he still possessed—the house he had lived in for over a decade—and moved back to Vancouver. When he left the place that had caused him so much trouble, he was only a few months short of his sixtieth birthday.
Ah-Fat did not get a lot for the house in New Westminster and could only afford a very small house in Vancouver. He did his best to find work. But his cooking skills were limited and he could not work in a kitchen. He asked in laundries but as his sight was failing, he could not do the mending or ironing. He got a job in a general store, helping to unload goods but sprained his back on the first day. In the end the only thing he could do was turn his own house into a little shop and set up in business writing letters, Spring Festival couplets, marriage announcements and purchasing contracts. However, demand for his services was negligible because, unlike in the old days, there were plenty of young people around who could read and write for themselves.
Ah-Fat realized to his consternation that at the age of sixty, he was completely useless. He could not even support himself.
One day Kam Ho said to him: “Get Kam Shan to come back and live with you, Dad.” It was all so long ago since Kam Shan had run off with the girl prostitute and the Spring Gardens brothel had been closed for many years. There would not be any trouble if he came back to Vancouver. Kam Ho had made this suggestion before and his father had always been set against it. This time, however, he said nothing. Kam Ho took his silence as agreement.
Kam Ho knew why his father had given in: Kam Shan’s woman was going to have a baby. This was her first. Her former profession had damaged her health and for years she was unable to conceive. Ah-Fat was getting on in years and longed to hold a grandchild in his arms, so his heart finally softened. After ten years of estrangement, Kam Shan and the woman left Kamloops and moved in with his father in Vancouver.
Jenny squatted under the tree, watching the ants. The dog sprawled next to her, watching her watch the ants. There was not a sound to be heard, not even that of a leaf tumbling from the tree. The schoolchildren had gone to school; the office workers had gone to work. The street seemed as still and lifeless as a pricked bubble. Kam Ho looked up at the sky, then down at the ground. It was nearly midday and the shadows were thin.
Why haven’t they come? he wondered to himself.
It was not warm enough for the crickets to start chirping but he was beginning to sweat. He could actually have chosen a cool, shady corner in which to pluck the chicken clean but he preferred to sit where he was, with no shelter from the sun, because he got a better view of the street from one end to the other.
A faint sound reached his ears and he leapt up from his stool. It was a bell, a cart-horse bell. There were plenty of hawkers who sold their vegetables house to house but only one hung a bell around the horse’s neck. Kam Ho shaded his eyes with his hand and, as he peered into the distance, black dot came into view around the corner at the end of the street.
Kam Ho’s heart began to thump so loudly anyone in the garden could have heard it. He threw down the chicken, pulled off his apron and buttoned his shirt up to the neck. He had long ago grown out of the Chinese-style tunics and trousers he had on when he arrived. Instead, Mrs. Henderson bought his clothes for him: a Western-style outfit of waistcoat, shirt, trousers and leather shoes. And at last there was solid muscle and flesh inside them too. If it had not been for the ridiculous apron, no one would have imagined that this well-dressed, good-looking, strapping young man was actually the servant in the fine house behind him.
Kam Ho flew to the gate and then felt he had been too impulsive. He was just about to go back and wait in the garden when the dog shot past him into the street and set up a furious barking. The dog was old and jowly by now but his bark was as formidable as ever and the sound bounced off the walls of the houses. Kam Ho knew that the vegetable hawker’s daughter was afraid of dogs and would not get down if it was loose. He yelled at the animal but, bossy as ever, it gave an answering bark. It sounded as if man and dog were having an argument. The man finally got the upper hand and the dog skulked back into the garden with its tail between its legs.
As the cartwheels rolled nearer, Kam Ho heard a man’s hoarse voice shouting in a strong Cantonese accent: “Vegs, fresh, come!” The broken English reminded him of himself when he first arrived at the Hendersons’. He suppressed a smile. This was the girl’s father. Her English was a bit better than her dad’s, but he knew she was too shy to shout.
A handful of women emerged from the neighbours’ houses with baskets in their hands to cluster around the cart. Then Kam Ho heard her voice, thin and timid but floating clear above all the other voices. He listened as she and her father bargained, took the money and counted it, and gave back the change.
His heart hammered wildly in his chest. His money was damp from being clutched in his sweaty palm. Anxiously, he rehearsed his order as he waited his turn. Mrs. Henderson had turned all the housekeeping money over to him now and he was in sole charge of the food shopping. Kam Ho did not want to talk to the hawker’s daughter in front of this scrum of women and waited his chance to catch her on her own.
The chance finally came. The women dispersed and there was quiet around the cart. The girl sat down on an empty basket, pulled out a handkerchief tucked into her front and wiped her forehead. She was wearing a blue cotton tunic, buttoned slantwise, and wide-legged trousers. Her hair was tied with a red ribbon. Her garb was typical of a country girl from Canton, and he would have found it a little unrefined on anyone else. His tastes had become more discriminating in the years he had been at the Hendersons’. On her, however, he felt it was just right.
She had come three times with her father to sell their produce, always on a Wednesday morning. He did not know her proper name, or how old she was, though he had heard her father call her Ah-Hei. He reckoned she was about seventeen or eighteen and had been in Gold Mountain a year or so. Girls who had been here a long time dressed in Western clothes and new arrivals could not speak English.
She spotted him standing on the street. She tucked her handkerchief away and grinned. After a moment Kam Ho realized she was smiling at him. He went weak at the knees. He wanted to smile back but found the muscles of his face frozen into immobility.
The few paces up to the side of the cart seemed like an endless journey. His face was red with exertion by the time he got to her.
He passed over the sweaty money and as he drew his hand back, felt something hard and angular scratch the skin on the back of his hand. It was the calluses on her palm. Like him, she had had a life of hard toil. She held the money in her hand and waited silently, looking at him. Finally she gave a little laugh and, pointing at the vegetable baskets, asked: “What do you want?” He suddenly woke up. He had not given her his order. The blood rushed so violently to his face that he thought his head was going to explode.
Keep your voice steady, his brain urged his lips, but his lips took no notice. They bounced and shook like spring rice being beaten in a mortar so his words ended up pounded to shreds.
“A handful of radishes … a head of broccoli … two hearted cabbages … just two.…”
She deftly bundled them up and gave them to him. “Anything else? You always get these.”
He was startled. She remembered him, and what he bought every time. He felt himself grow calmer, and the plan he had been turning over in his mind for a week began to come together.
He needed to find the right moment to speak to her father. He wanted to tell him that his father had been a fruit and vegetable hawker himself a
nd that he knew the wholesaler who offered the best prices in Gold Mountain. Then he could casually ask where they lived … and say that he would get his father to introduce them to the wholesaler.
There was a grain of truth in what he was planning to say. He really did want his father to go to the girl’s house, but not to discuss vegetable prices. He wanted his father to be quite direct and discuss Kam Ho marrying the girl.
The head tax had gone sky-high in recent years and most migrants could only afford to bring their sons. Very few brought daughters. As result, almost no Chinese girls were to be seen on the streets of Gold Mountain. His father had said more than once that he wanted his mother to arrange a match for him back in Hoi Ping but Kam Ho was not enthusiastic, although he found it hard to explain why to his stubborn father.
“I don’t want to marry like Mum and you, with me here and her over there, neither of us knowing when we can be reunited.”
As soon as the words were out, he knew he had said the wrong thing. His mother and father should have had that reunion by now, only Kam Ho had taken her place on the boat and come instead. But on this occasion Ah-Fat did not lose his temper. He just sighed and said: “So you want to be a bachelor for the rest of your life?” Kam Ho felt like sighing too but he could not bear to see his father looking so glum. He put on a smile instead and said: “Wait till I’ve earned enough for three head taxes and I’ll go back and get married and bring out Mum and my sister and my wife.” His father laughed: “By the time you’ve earned that much, there’ll be no point in bringing them out here. You might as well go back to Hoi Ping for good, and enjoy life.” Kam Ho felt there was some truth in what his father was saying, but all the same, Kam Ho had been in Gold Mountain for years, and there were good things about living here. Only, he could not say that to his father.
But now, this young Cantonese woman—Ah-Hei—seemed to be God’s answer to Kam Ho. They were on the same side of the ocean, which made things much easier. And he had seen her face so there would be no unpleasant surprises when he lifted the red wedding veil. She did not come to him embellished by the matchmaker’s silver tongue but stood right in front of him, in the flesh. He would not have to raise the money for the head tax, he only had to gather the courage to reach out a firm hand and take hold of her.
“It’s always the women who come and buy from us. Isn’t there a woman in your house?” asked her father, sweeping the debris of old leaves from the floor of the cart. The girl had been brushing the mud off the front of her jacket but now she paused and he knew she wanted to hear what he would say.
“I’m in charge of the housekeeping,” he said boldly after a moment’s hesitation.
The first sentence was the most difficult, and after this the words came fluently.
“The master of the house is the boss of Vancouver’s biggest department store, the Hudson’s Bay Company. When the English emperor came on a visit, the master was invited to tea. The mistress is always going out to dinner parties with him so I’m in charge of the house.”
This was the longest answer that Kam Ho had ever given in his life and when he finished he was surprised at himself. It was so much easier than he ever imagined.
The girl’s father tut-tutted in astonishment. “No wonder they live in such a grand house,” he said.
“Have you ever seen the English emperor?” the girl asked him as she looked up.
He found it difficult to answer. He could not bring himself to lie boldly and say, yes, he had seen the emperor. But neither did he want to say no, because he was basking in the sparkling look of admiration she gave him. Then the words slipped off his tongue. He smiled slightly: “We ordinary folk can’t meet the emperor. But I’ve seen a photograph that the master brought home. He’s quite young and handsome.” Kam Ho felt satisfied with the way he had put it. It did not sound in the least boastful, but still impressive enough.
“Jimmy! Jimmy!” Mrs. Henderson was calling him.
Kam Ho was not about to answer immediately but his chain of thought had been interrupted and he found he had dried up. He picked up the vegetable basket and said: “Could you bring some beans next week?” Before the father could reply, the girl nodded her head. Kam Ho knew he would see her again next week.
“Jimmy! Jimmy!” the call came again.
Kam Ho had to go. Though he had said a lot, still he had not time to say what he really wanted to. Still, there would be next Wednesday.
As he went through the garden gate, Kam Ho suddenly stopped, put down the basket in his hand and looked for a sharp pebble. He cut the stem of a rose and ran up to the cart. Throwing the rose onto the basket where she sat, he said: “It smells nice. Have a smell.” He really wanted her to put it in her hair but he did not dare suggest that. He was afraid, not of her, but of her father. The man stood between him and her and he had not yet worked out a way of sneaking past him.
When Kam Ho climbed the steps to the house, he nearly collided with Mrs. Henderson; the doorway was dark as he went in out of the sun’s glare, and he did not see her.
“Mr. Henderson’s coming home early today, and he’s taking Jenny to Stanley Park to see the sailing boats. Go and make us a picnic lunch, and of course you’re coming with us too.”
Kam Ho said, “Yes, ma’am,” but he had no idea what he was saying yes to, because he was not listening. He had left his eyes and ears outside. Far away down the street, he saw more women coming out of their houses and going up to her cart. He heard her timid voice like a leaf brushing his ears. “Fresh greens. Just harvested from the fields. Our own crops, no bugs in them,” she said in answer to each of the women’s questions.
“Was it prickly, Jimmy?” asked Mrs. Henderson.
“What?”
“The rose,” said Mrs. Henderson with a slight smile.
He looked down, almost burying his head in the cleanly plucked chicken in his hand. He could not answer because he knew that as soon as he opened his mouth, he would blush. This summer, very strangely, his blood would sometimes, without any provocation, start to ripple like oil in his face.
Mrs. Henderson put the vegetables Kam Ho had bought into a basin and picked up the basket. She walked across the garden, out into the street and then along until she got to the cart. She exchanged greetings with the other housewives and then handed the basket to the Chinese girl.
As she did so, she whispered something into the girl’s ear. The girl’s eyes suddenly lost their shine. It was as if a film of rust covered them. The rust spread, stiffening her face, and then travelling down her neck until her whole body was rigid.
“My servant,” Mrs. Henderson said, “the Chinese boy, forgot to give you back the basket. Poor lad, he’s not all there. He often forgets things.”
The next Wednesday, the cart did not come.
The Wednesday after, it came but the girl was not on it. Her father and brother came instead. After much stammering, Kam Ho finally asked about her.
“She’s gone to Edmonton to live with her aunt, who’s going to send her to school there,” said her father. “Her auntie says Gold Mountain girls should go to school too.”
Kam Ho paid for his vegetables but went away without them. He went in through the garden gate, up the steps and across the hall. Jenny called him, Mrs. Henderson called him, but he heard neither of them. He went straight to his room, shut the door and sat down on his bed.
Ah-Hei had gone.
Ah-Hei was a spark from a fire, momentarily lighting his way, before going out and leaving him in darkness once more. It was a different darkness than before—and he could not bear it.
He sat for a long time in his room. He heard a clattering downstairs: Mrs. Henderson was in the kitchen making coffee and toast, and preparing a salad for lunch. Getting lunch was the servant’s job, he should be doing it himself. But he felt completely drained of energy, unable to move muscle. He would sit there until the world ended and the sky fell in.
Mrs. Henderson opened the door. He heard her footsteps but h
e did not turn around. Ah-Hei had let him down, her father had allowed her to go; all heaven and earth were against him. He had let himself down and now he had nothing more to live for.
A pair of arms went around him from behind and held him tight. His neck melted in their soft warmth. The warmth lapped over him and he wanted to pull free but did not have the strength.
Let me drown, then, he thought to himself, and be done with it.
“Poor child. Poor, poor child,” came Mrs. Henderson’s whispered voice. Kam Ho’s tears began to flow.
That night, he had a dream. He dreamed his mouth was full of rose thorns. He kept trying to spit them out, and then discovered that what he was spitting was not thorns but his own teeth, handfuls of them, red and white, like persimmon seeds.
He awoke covered in sweat. Then he remembered something his mother had told him as a child.
“If you dream your teeth are falling out, it means someone in the family is to die. If it was the top teeth, then it would be an old person. If the bottom teeth, it would be someone young.”
He racked his brains but could not remember which teeth he had lost.
Year eleven of the Republic (1922) Spur-On Village, Hoi Ping County, China
In the middle of the fourth month it began to rain and did not stop until the Dragon Boat Festival at the beginning of the fifth. When it stopped, the ground was covered with a pebbly carpet of mushrooms and the banana trees had burst into luxuriant growth. Inside, the walls of the houses were covered in snail trails.
Ah-Choi, the cook and a servant were busy at the stove preparing to boil leaf-wrapped rice dumplings for the festivities. When the water boiled, the cook threw some ash into it. After the harvest, they burned the rice stalks and stored the ash. Now, sprinkled into the water through a fine sieve, the ash gave the dumplings a flavour all of their own.
