Gold Mountain Blues

by Ling Zhang

  They had made up the dumplings the night before. There were four kinds—sausages, sweet bean paste, salted egg and dried shrimp. Kam Sau squatted on the floor tying them up with reed, into bunches of five. Each bunch would be tied with one other so that ten were boiled together. She was in grade two at the local school and would go up into the third grade when the summer was over. The school, funded by Gold Mountain men, was in the nearest town. The children boarded there during the week and came home on Sundays, but since this was the Dragon Boat Festival, they had an extra day’s holiday and Mak Dau had fetched Kam Sau and Ah-Yuen home. Ah-Yuen was Mak Dau’s son and just four months younger than Kam Sau. When Kam Sau was enrolled at the school, Six Fingers enrolled Ah-Yuen too. He would be a friend and company for Kam Sau.

  Six Fingers was burning sagebrush to fumigate the house. When she reached the passageway, she came upon Mak Dau cleaning a revolver he had purchased from a local militiaman a few weeks ago. He was sitting on the floor, having placed it on the stool. When Kam Ho’s last dollar letter arrived, Six Fingers gave half to Mak Dau to buy it. Mak Dau said it was lightweight and convenient, and could be tucked discreetly into his waistband on long journeys. Six Fingers was a thrifty woman but she did not mind spending money on guns, since her husband and sons were away. A household without men looked weak and defenceless and a defenceless house was a target for robbers. The guns were her defence. This revolver was the third they had bought; the other two were shotguns.

  “When you’ve bought it, wrap it in red silk and lay it on top of the box. We’ll celebrate its arrival with firecrackers,” ordered Six Fingers. Although she was keen to avoid attracting unwelcome attention to the family’s wealth, she was perfectly happy to show off the acquisition of a new weapon.

  “You put it back together exactly the way you take it apart,” Mak Dau instructed his son. “Anyone can take a gun apart but you have to have good head on your shoulders to be able to put it back together.”

  “Why ever are you teaching things like that to such a little kid?” Six Fingers scolded him.

  Mak Dau chuckled. “It’s a wicked world,” he said. “Anything a boy can learn about defending himself is going to come in useful.”

  Six Fingers squatted down with them. “What new subjects are you going to study when you go up into the next grade?” she asked Ah-Yuen. The boy coughed and spluttered from the sagebrush smoke. He took handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his nose before answering: “Nature, geography and music, and we’ll carry on doing Chinese, math, English and history like before.” Six Fingers looked at the boy approvingly. “He wipes his nose on his handkerchief,” she said to Mak Dau, “not on his sleeve the way you do.” “We’ll be doing etiquette too,” Ah-Yuen piped up. “What to wear, and how to eat and behave, and we’ll get marked on it too.”

  Mak Dau tapped his son on the head. “An empty kettle makes the most noise,” he admonished him. “You don’t want the Missus laughing at you.” Six Fingers threw down the brushwood. She began to comb Ah-Yuen’s hair with her fingers, lost in thought.

  Mak Dau knew she was missing her own sons. He checked there was no one around before lowering his voice and asking: “Have there been any letters?” She shook her head. “Not since last New Year. That’s more than twelve months. Not a single one. Has something happened that they’re keeping from me?”

  “What about the two young masters? Why don’t they write?” “You know what a temper he’s got,” said Six Fingers. “Both the boys are afraid of him. Neither of them would dare write and tell me if he doesn’t want them to. Kam Ho has written, but just to say that Kam Shan is back in Vancouver and has moved in with his dad.”

  “Don’t worry, Missus,” said Mak Dau. “The dollar letters keep coming. I’m sure nothing’s happened to the master. You must miss the boys, though … one gone twelve years, the other seven years. I miss them too.”

  Six Fingers bent her head and tears fell on her shoes. With sole responsibility for a substantial household, she could never let herself go in front of the servants. She knew how easy it was to appear weak before them and so buttoned her feelings up tightly. If she cried, it was only in front of Mak Dau. Mak Dau felt unsuccessfully in his pocket for a handkerchief, then pulled out Ah-Yuen’s, folded it with a clean bit uppermost and gave it to Six Fingers. She wiped her eyes and said with a faint smile: “Kam Shan wrote to say his woman is pregnant and no matter if it’s a boy or a girl, he’s bringing the baby home to meet Granny.”

  “You’ll be a granny in no time at all, Missus,” said Mak Dau. “But to me you still look as young as a new bride.” Six Fingers gave a little snort. “You’ll have wasps sticking to that honeyed tongue of yours if you don’t look out! And don’t you dare make fun of me!” Mak Dau felt so aggrieved that the veins bulged on his forehead. “Oh no, Missus!” he exclaimed. “I’d never be so bold as to make fun of you. It’s really true—you haven’t changed. You look just the same as when I first entered the household.” Six Fingers’ eyes had a faraway look in them: “I made the bridegroom’s shoes for Ah-Yuet to give you. It seems like just yesterday. But look how big the kids are now. In all this time, of course I’ve changed.”

  There was a loud knocking from the ceiling above—Mrs. Mak’s walking stick, signalling to Six Fingers that she wanted to come downstairs. “I’ll come and carry you down, Mum,” she shouted. But as the tempting smell of dumplings wafted up the stairs, the old woman became impatient. “All that wealth my son’s earned,” she wailed fretfully, “and I haven’t even had a bite. You’d rather feed the rats than me.”

  “What a way for the old Missus to talk to you, Missus,” Mak Dau said disapprovingly. “It sets a bad example to the servants.” Six Fingers only smiled. “She gets confused sometimes. But sometimes she’s as bright as a button.” “Then let me carry her,” said Mak Dau. “She’s too heavy for you.”

  “No, I can carry her. She’s as light as a feather nowadays.” Mak Dau sighed.

  “You have such a lot on your shoulders, Missus. I’m just a rough sort and I can only do heavy work, but do let me help you out in any way I can.” Six Fingers was touched, and did not trust herself to speak for a few moments. Then she said: “The thing is, I’m the only one she’ll let carry her.” Mak Dau gave one of his dazzling smiles. “Just watch how I do it then,” he said and stomped off up the stairs.

  After a moment, there was more stomping, heavier this time, as he came downstairs again with Mrs. Mak on his back.

  Six Fingers fetched a wicker chair for Mrs. Mak to sit on. The dumplings were ready, and the old woman sniffed: “You didn’t put enough ash into the water.” Six Fingers smiled: “No one’s got a nose sharper than you, Mum.” She got out a large dish and a small dish. “Ah-Yuet, put two of each flavour into the big dish, nice neatly made ones. And one of each flavour into the small dish.” The larger portion was an offering to the ancestors, the smaller one was for Kam Sau’s great-aunt upstairs. She was a widow now. The great-uncle had died a year ago and she shared her rooms with her son and his wife, as her daughters had married and left home. After the old man’s death, she began to suffer from heart trouble and was too frail to come downstairs.

  Ah-Yuet was ladling oil into the large bowl when her hand slipped. The bowl dropped with a crash to the floor. It was a porcelain offerings dish which Ah-Fat’s father had bought in an antique shop in Canton when he became rich overnight—it had been in the family for a long time. There was an appalled silence in the room. Mak Dau smacked his wife across the face. “I’ve never seen a clumsier woman than you!” he raged. “You’ve been with the Missus all these years, and you still haven’t got any better!”

  Mak Dau often corrected Ah-Yuet but only behind closed doors. She had never before been disgraced like this in front of the rest of the household. Mutely, she held her hand to her cheek and her lips trembled like leaves. Six Fingers frowned at Mak Dau. “It doesn’t matter how clever you are, you should never hit your wife in front of the old Missus.” At
that, Ah-Yuet burst into noisy tears. “It’s just an old dish!” shouted Six Fingers at her. “What are all these tears about? Hurry up and clear it up and bring another one.”

  It was obvious to them all that these words were meant for Mrs. Mak’s ears; since she was blind, she could not see which dish had been broken.

  Mrs. Mak smiled scornfully and beckoned Kam Sau to her side. “Yes, Granny?” Mrs. Mak took the little girl’s hand in hers. “Stay away from her,” she said. “She’s got it in for our ancestors.” There was an embarrassed silence; the “she” must surely mean Six Fingers. But to everyone’s surprise, Mrs. Mak went on: “Huh! That mole’s an evil omen … blood-soaked it is.…” The mole was on Ah-Yuet’s chin, and indeed, it was bright red.

  Six Fingers went to her. “Mum,” she said shakily, “can you see Ah-Yuet’s mole, really?” Mrs. Mak did not reply. Instead, she looked Six Fingers up and down. “Can’t you find something nicer to put on to honour the ancestors? Hasn’t Ah-Fat bought you anything?” Six Fingers had not had time to change out of her plain grey, black-trimmed cotton tunic.

  When they had recovered from their astonishment, there were cries of “The old Missus can see! She can see!” Kam Sau stretched out two fingers. “How many fingers is that, Granny?” she asked. “Don’t you make fun of me, you little madam! With my heavenly eye, none of you can ever hoodwink me!”

  Six Fingers shot a glance at Mak Dau and they left the room. Making sure no one was following them, Six Fingers wiped the sweat from her face and said to him: “Things are not looking good for the old Missus. Get her burial shoes from the funeral shop and be quick!”

  Mrs. Mak died at noon that day, still clutching a half-eaten bean paste dumpling in one hand.

  She had lived for seventy-four years.

  For the last twenty of them, she had been alternately lucid and confused. One last drop of oil kept the lamp of her days alight for a long time before it went out. In the end, she exhausted not only her own reserves but her daughter-in-law’s as well. When Six Fingers sent Mrs. Mak on her way to the next life with the most ostentatious funeral that Spur-On Village had ever seen, she was forty-five years old.

  When the wake was over, and the last of the guests had been seen out of the diulau, Six Fingers bolted the iron door and went upstairs. She sat on her bed and gently wiped the dust from the dressing table mirror. In a piece of clear glass the size of a palm-leaf fan, she looked at her face. She wore no powder. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes and cheekbones were puffy with tears. The white flower she wore in her bun hung crooked. She pulled it out, then put it back in again straight. She would have to wear the white flower of mourning for some time yet, but she did not mind. It made the grey hairs less obvious.

  “Twenty-eight years ago, you promised that I would join you in Gold Mountain, Ah-Fat. Now, finally, you can fulfill that promise,” Six Fingers murmured to herself.

  Year twelve of the Republic (1923), Vancouver, British Columbia

  When Mr. Henderson pushed open the garden gate, Jenny was standing on tiptoe under a tree, talking to a robin that sat in the branches.

  “Do you go to sleep with your eyes shut or open?”

  The bird gave a tweet, which might have meant yes or no. Jenny was annoyed and screwed up her nose: “Hasn’t your mother taught you to speak properly?”

  Mr. Henderson burst out laughing and went over to his daughter. He was about to give her a bear hug, but thought better of it, and instead stroked her face. Jenny had been ill almost continuously this year, with measles and a cold that led to bronchitis. She had a long-festering infection where she had fallen and hurt herself, too. Her body seemed as frail as tissue paper. Just touching it would make a hole. They had made progress though; the dribbling had stopped and she no longer wore the bib, but kept it in her apron pocket.

  He took her hand and they went to the front door. It was locked and he had to use his key to open it. He almost had it open when Kam Ho came running out of the kitchen, looking flustered. Mr. Henderson sniffed: “What’s that burning smell?” he asked. “Did you boil the footbath dry?” Kam Ho wiped his hands over and over again on the apron and stammered: “It could be the … the Chinese medicine the Missus takes.” “Good God!” exclaimed Mr. Henderson. “My wife swigs your Chinese bilge like there’s no tomorrow! Why don’t you invite the witches and wizards from Chinatown over too.”

  Kam Ho was used to Mr. Henderson’s jokes but this one he found offensive. A flush stained his face like vermilion ink spreading across rice paper. Kam Ho was a man of few words, but his face spoke his feelings in their stead. Mr. Henderson had seen him flush many times—sometimes from embarrassment, or alarm, sometimes for some unexplained reason. But this time it was anger, the kind of anger which he had to choke back.

  Mr. Henderson roared with laughter and clapped Kam Ho on the shoulder. “When I first met your father, Frank,” he said, “he was younger than you are now, but not nearly so thin-skinned. In fact, he was as tough as old boots.” Kam Ho was still red in the face, and Mr. Henderson produced a note from his pocket and pushed it into his hand. “When you go home this weekend, take your father to the new French restaurant in the bay. Tell him it’s on me.”

  Kam Ho took a quick look—he was holding a crisp, new twenty-dollar bill. This was more than half his monthly salary, and certainly enough to buy several excellent meals in any restaurant. Both Mr. and Mrs. Henderson would occasionally top up his monthly wages with a bit extra, but never with a note this big. It seemed to numb his hand with its weight. He would like to have said: “No, it’s too much. I can’t accept it.” But the words refused to come. “Thank you,” he mumbled. If only Mr. Henderson had not made that offensive comment about Chinese bilge, it would have felt dignified and right to thank him. As it was, he had made that comment and Kam Ho was still angry. He felt cheapened.

  But he was in no position to nurse injured feelings. Immediately, he knew what he wanted to do with the money. He would not be taking his father to a French restaurant. In fact, he would not let him catch sight of the twenty-dollar bill. He would add it to the pile of small change he was saving, then he would turn it all into a letter addressed to his mother and sealed with the Gold Mountain government’s official stamp. He had been putting money by for the head tax. He was going to make sure that his father got the family reunion he had been denied for so many years.

  Kam Ho took Mr. Henderson’s briefcase and overcoat and went to the kitchen to make coffee. A cup of strong, black coffee was the first thing he wanted when he got back home—no milk, no sugar. He liked the smell of it more than the taste, and would bring the cup, clasped in both hands, to his nose and breathe deeply as the steam curled up and misted his face. He took so long over it that, sometimes, Kam Ho thought he had fallen asleep. Once, he was on the point of taking the cup from his hands when Mr. Henderson suddenly opened his eyes and said: “Jimmy, coffee in heaven can’t be any better than this.”

  When he had finally finished his coffee, he asked: “Where’s Mrs. Henderson?” “She had a headache today, so she’s just taken her medicine and gone to sleep.” He would like to have said she had just drunk that “Chinese bilge.” The note in his breast pocket warmed his chest and suddenly made him talkative. He was surprised to find he could tell a joke too—but in the end, he refrained.

  “Well, when she wakes up, go and get my things ready. I’m going to Saskatoon tomorrow.” Kam Ho knew he had a supply depot there and made frequent trips every year. “Is it nice there?” he asked. “That depends on who you ask. It’s nice for cattle and horses. It’s nothing but grass and more grass.” Kam Ho smiled despite himself. “There’s another good thing about it,” Mr. Henderson went on. “The fishing’s really good. Next time I make a trip, I’ll take you with me and we can do some fishing.” “I can fish,” said Kam Ho. “When I was a kid, my brother and I used to tickle trout in the river. Will we go with the missus?”

  “Huh! Go with her? If the sun’s too hot, she gets a h
eadache. If there’s a wind, her knee throbs. She can’t walk because her feet hurt. If it’s overcast, she can’t see where she’s walking and if it’s bright, the sun gets in her eyes. Look at Jenny. She’s growing up to be just like her mother, too fragile to touch.”

  Kam Ho heard a slight creaking on the stairs. He had wanted to warn Mr. Henderson that his wife was on her way down but could not stem the outburst. Mrs. Henderson appeared behind her husband, and with a slight smile, she said: “I’m not really so delicate, am I, Rick? And I suppose Bridget was more robust than me?” Bridget was Mr. Henderson’s first fiancée, but she had died of heart failure before they married.

  Mr. Henderson looked embarrassed, then laughed and said: “Don’t lock the door when Jenny’s playing in the garden.”

  Mrs. Henderson did not reply. “Take Jenny to wash her hands,” she told Kam Ho, with a meaningful look at him. “It’s time to eat.” The glance meant that he should prepare drinks for them. Mr. Henderson’s job meant that he was often out in the evening and rarely ate with his family. When he was at home, his wife liked them to have a drink before dinner.

  Kam Ho took Jenny to wash her hands and then fetched a bottle of ten-year-old port from the cellar. Mrs. Henderson’s taste for port, acquired as a young woman in England, had followed her to Canada. Kam Ho put two long-stemmed glasses down in front of them. Mr. Henderson frowned and glanced at Kam Ho. He did not like wine, regarding it as a lady’s drink. His tipple was whisky, sometimes on the rocks, sometimes straight. Anything else he did not dignify with the name of “a drink.”

  In the eight years that Kam Ho had been with the Hendersons, the greatest skill he had learned was to read their expressions. The problem was that their expressions were often at odds, and Kam Ho found himself forcibly pulled to one side. Even when he understood what they each wanted, he did not know how to act. In the beginning, he often felt bruised by the conflict. Then he learned to interpose his own energy between their conflicting energies, making three forces instead of two. This protected him from being crushed.