by Ling Zhang
Kam Ho imperturbably poured a glass of port for each of them and gestured to Mr. Henderson. “Ma’am wants to drink to your health,” he said, “and wish you a safe journey and a speedy return, isn’t that so, ma’am?”
Mrs. Henderson downed her port in one gulp and waved her empty glass at Kam Ho. He refilled it and she gulped it down again. She had had a severe headache all day. She had taken some opium juice but before she could settle down to a nap, Mr. Henderson returned home. She was still in her nightgown, as she often was these days: a crimson Japanese silk kimono embroidered all over with butterflies in shades of blue, green and pink. It reached to the floor but was cut low at the neck, revealing a hint of snowy-white bosom.
Kam Ho did not dare raise his eyes. He found that glimpse of white flesh electrifying. Mr. Henderson must have been crazy about her before she fell sick, he thought. How sad that he no longer felt affection for her. How sad that she kept trying to revive it. Mrs. Henderson treated her husband like a god, as Kam Ho well knew, and wanted nothing more than to cling to him for shelter. But her husband did not want anyone plucking at him or doting on him. This was obvious to Kam Ho but Mrs. Henderson still could not see it. She grasped desperately at any bit of him she could reach, until there was nothing left.
“Do you enjoy being away from home, without Jenny and me bothering you, Rick?” she asked now, waving her empty glass at Kam Ho.
Kam Ho looked at Mr. Henderson, not daring to fill it up again. Mr. Henderson took his wife’s glass from her. “That’s enough. You’ll frighten Jenny if you go on like this.” At his words, the flush on Mrs. Henderson’s cheeks rose upwards until even her eyes reddened.
“Just listen to you!” she said. “What a good daddy you are. Jenny, when was the last time your daddy got drunk? I think he must have forgotten that you were there.”
Mr. Henderson threw the glass down and stalked up the stairs. The wine dribbled along the crease in the white tablecloth as if the table had split in two and blood was oozing from the wound. “Daddy!” cried Jenny, and burst into loud sobs.
Heavy footsteps rattled the stairs as Mr. Henderson came down again. At the door, he took his coat from the closet, put it on and bent to tie his shoelaces. Kam Ho dashed after him and blocked the way. Mr. Henderson straightened up and looked at him. “I’m going to stay the night in a hotel,” he said. “Look after Jenny for me.” He brushed Kam Ho off as effortlessly as if he were a leaf, and went out. Kam Ho watched as his portly figure, carrying a small grip, was swallowed up by the deepening dusk of the street. It struck him that Mr. Henderson was looking rather stooped these days.
Jenny had stopped crying and was braiding her dolly’s hair. Kam Ho cleared away the wineglasses and mopped up the spilled wine. It was very quiet. The only sound came from the kitchen, where the stew bubbled away, its glug-glugs sounding like rich, oily farts. Kam Ho felt Mrs. Henderson’s eyes on him, needling him painfully. It was clear she wanted to talk to him, but just now, he did not feel like it. He let the needling go on.
“Do you think a man is capable of sticking by a woman, Jimmy?” she asked.
A simple question, but one that Kam Ho could not answer. He was twenty-three years old, but so far his emotional life had been uneventful, the only ripples in its gentle onward flow caused briefly by the Cantonese girl, Ah-Hei.
Behind him, Mrs. Henderson gave a short laugh. “It’s pointless to ask you, isn’t it, Jimmy. I mean, you’ve never known a woman, have you? I mean really known.…”
Kam Ho could feel drops of sweat beginning to bead his forehead and the tip of his nose. He was hot with embarrassment, the drops of sweat almost steaming. He felt the blood rushing to his face—he must have turned scarlet. Flustered, he went over to the stove and lifted the lid of the pot. It fell to the floor with a clanging noise.
“Mr. Henderson went off without any dinner,” said Kam Ho.
“Of course. But he’s not the only one. I’m hungry too,” said Mrs. Henderson.
That night he dreamed that the Hendersons’ dog had climbed in through the window and onto his bed. The dog’s red tongue began to lick him, slurping at his face. The dog was a great weight on his chest, and he could hardly breathe. He pushed and pushed at it, and finally woke himself up.
He opened his eyes and saw a pair of eyes gleaming at him in the darkness. There was a full moon, and its light filtered in through cracks in the curtains and caught the gleam, making the eyes flare blue. Kam Ho’s hair stood on end but a hand clamped itself over his mouth, stifling the cry of alarm he was about to utter. Another hand slithered through the opening of his pyjamas, exploring his chest then gliding down his belly until it finally reached the place between his legs.
Kam Ho felt as if his body was a fuse. The fingers played over him, setting him alight. The flames flickered back and forth. Between his legs, he grew rock hard. The flames licked at his thing and it grew fiery hot.
A groan escaped Kam Ho.
With an immense convulsion, he released a flood of hot liquid, startling them both.
The fire died down, leaving Kam Ho feeling drained, emptied of all energy. But a feeling of ineffable pleasure lingered. He had the vague sensation of being light, of floating like a cloud in the sky. Almost, but not quite. Because something was pulling him down. As his eyes became used to the semi-darkness, he saw it was a nightgown with shimmering butterflies. He was filled with a sense of doom, and his teeth chattered in terror.
Two soft, moist lips touched his cheeks. A breath, which smelled of spearmint, skittered across his ears, and he heard:
“Jimmy, it’s not a sin to go looking for pleasure. Don’t be afraid,” she breathed.
He slept deeply after that. When he awoke, the sun was shining hot on his face. He leapt out of bed and scrambled around for his clothes.
He was too late to prepare Mrs. Henderson’s breakfast.
Mrs. Henderson. The name made his heart thump, and memories of the night before came flooding back. That dream. It was just a fantasy, wasn’t it? He comforted himself with the thought that he had been having very strange dreams lately. But when he threw back the covers, he found a stain about the size of a Buddha’s hand. He traced its soft edges with finger. It was still wet. He slumped down onto the bed, his heart in his mouth.
It was no dream. It had happened.
He sat on the edge of the bed. The moments passed. When he could not sit there any longer, he got to his feet and, as he did so, he saw the corner of something sticking out from under the pillow. A piece of paper. On it, the crowned head of the old English Queen.
A five-dollar bill.
It seemed to burn his hand, raising a blister on his palm.
He dressed and quickly packed his belongings. There wasn’t much— three or four outfits, a pair of shoes and some letters from his mother. He still had his old bag, faded with washing. He put everything into it, tied it shut and slung it over his shoulder. How small it was.
He did not know who his next employer would be, or where his next meal would come from. He was even less certain how he was going to tell his father. But he could work that out as he went along. The most important thing was to leave without delay.
He had just stepped out of his room when he heard Jenny give a shrill wail: “Mummy!”
He threw down the bag and flew back up the stairs. Mrs. Henderson was lying on her back in the bath, her hand dangling over the edge, a fat, red worm crawling across her wrist. Kam Ho was rooted to the spot in horror. He peered at the floor. A crimson pool was spreading across it.
Mrs. Henderson’s blood.
Kam Ho tore up his shirt and tied the strips tightly round Mrs. Henderson’s wrist.
“Why? Why?”
Mrs. Henderson’s eyes were shut as if in sleep. Her nightgown ballooned in the water; the butterflies’ wings were soaked through and floated lifelessly on the surface.
“Are you trying to frighten me to death?”
Kam Ho was not aware that he was crying. But he f
elt something scouring his cheeks as painfully as a caustic burn.
Mrs. Henderson opened unseeing eyes, then shut them again.
“I know you want to go. You, Jenny, and him too. You’ll all leave and I’ll be left alone,” she murmured.
He tried to get her to sit up, gripping her wrist with its improvised bandage with one hand, and holding her by the nape of her neck with the other. But she stiffened up and gave him no help at all. His clothes were soon soaked and the water slopped over the edge of the bathtub, making puddles on the floor.
“If you sit up and let me call Dr. Walsh, I swear to God I won’t leave,” he said.
As Kam Ho walked down the street, he admired the sky overhead—it was a beautiful blue. He had not been outdoors for a month. Since Mrs. Henderson had returned from hospital, her health had declined even further. She would not let him out of her sight. Today he had finally been granted a day off to go home. Unbeknownst to him, summer was already upon them. The lilacs had come and gone, and so had the cherry, apple and pear blossoms. All along the branches of the trees which lined the street, tiny green fruits had set, looking as if they might leak drops of acid. Crows cawed as they flew overhead, but he was used to them now. They were so common here that if they really were birds of ill omen as folks said back home, disaster would befall all the inhabitants of Gold Mountain. Disaster would not single him out. Nothing was going to dampen his spirits today.
Kam Ho had one hand in his pocket, tightly clutching a heavy cloth bag. Through the thin fabric, the banknotes seemed to stick out tiny tongues which licked his palm eagerly. He had counted and recounted them. He remembered how he acquired each one. The ten-dollar bill on which someone had scrawled an obscenity was from his first wages. The five-dollar bill with a bit of one corner missing was a present from the Hendersons on his second Christmas with them. And then there was the five-dollar bill with a tiny cigarette burn at the tip of the monarch’s nose— that was the one Mrs. Henderson had stuffed under his pillow.
Over the past two years, Kam Ho had sent regular dollar letters back home to his mother, and provided his father with pocket money, but had saved every cent of what was left. His father had an inkling of what his son was doing, but had no idea that it all added up to so much. In fact, Ah-Fat often accused him of being so tight-fisted he would happily cut a cent coin in two. He also said he was cheap not to buy a present when Kam Shan’s woman had her baby. But Kam Ho held his tongue. He regarded his cloth bag as a bucket which he was filling with water drop by drop. He was biding his time until the bucket was full, then he could speak out. He had had to wait a very long time for that moment to come.
When he got to the house, only his father and Yin Ling were at home. Yin Ling, Kam Shan’s baby, was five months old, and lay snoring gently on the bed with a thin coverlet over her. Kam Shan’s woman was a waitress at the Lychee Garden Restaurant six days a week. She left Yin Ling at home and Kam Shan took her twice a day to the restaurant to be breastfed.
Kam Ho found his father leaning over the table, grinding ink. Business was always slow between festivals, so most of the time the ink he prepared each morning went unused. By noon, if no customer had darkened his door, the ink developed a hard black crust. Ah-Fat had put up with unimaginable hardships all his life, but the one thing he could not bear was idleness. It made him as bad-tempered as a bear with a sore head.
True to form, his father greeted Kam Ho with an irascible snort: “Oh, so you’ve remembered you have a family!” Kam Ho laughed: “Mrs. Henderson’s been ill, and Mr. Henderson wouldn’t let me take a day off.” “Huh!” Ah-Fat snorted again. “Why on earth would a man as capable as he is choose a wife like her? If he was in Hoi Ping, he’d have got rid of her and married again long ago.” “It’s Mr. Henderson who makes Mrs. Henderson ill,” said Kam Ho. “If he treated her a bit better, she wouldn’t be sick.”
Ah-Fat threw the ink stick down, spattering the table with black drops. “And what the hell would you know about it?”
Kam Ho was imperturbable. Nothing and no one was going to wipe the smile from his face today.
“How’s my brother? Is he a bit better?”
A month or so before, Kam Shan had been on his way to take portrait photographs in Port Hope when he was thrown from his horse and broke a leg. The bone-setter had attended him, but he was still hobbling.
His father scowled. “He was in pain all last night. He’s gone to get some ointment from the herbalist.”
Yin Ling woke up, pushed her little hands out of the blanket and broke into a wail. Babies at this age grew faster than weeds and she was much bigger now than when Kam Ho last saw her. He picked her up and, pulling a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket, pushed it into her bib. “Don’t cry, baby!” he said cheerfully. “Uncle’s going to buy you candies!”
Ah-Fat turned to look at his son. “When did you get so generous? Tripped over a pile of dollars on your way here, did you?”
Kam Ho put the baby down, then unhurriedly pulled the cloth bundle out of his pocket and put it down in front of his father.
“Yes, I did. Five hundred and twenty-nine dollars, eighty-five cents to be precise. Count them.”
Ah-Fat opened the bundle and looked at the heaps of coins and stack of dollar bills of different values wrapped around them. He was lost for words.
“I’ve saved up enough for the head tax to bring Mum here. Use that ink to write and tell her to buy the next passage.”
His father seemed to shrivel up before his very eyes. Finally he slid to the floor and wrenched at his hair as if he was trying to pull it out.
“Oh Buddha of Mercy, why do you play such cruel tricks on me? What have I done to deserve it?”
Had joy driven his father crazy? Kam Ho rushed over and tried to help him up. But Ah-Fat pushed him away. Pointing to the bed, he stammered: “Go … go and read … the paper.”
The Chinese Times lay on the bed, and someone had used a writing brush to make a big circle around an article on the front page.
The Parliament of Canada today passed a bill denying entry to people of the Chinese race or of part-Chinese descent, with the exception of consular staff, properly accredited merchants (not including owners of restaurants or laundry businesses), or university students. The family dependants of those already resident in Canada are prohibited from joining them. Current residents are required to register with the government within one year of the passing of this bill; the penalty for non-registration is deportation from Canada. Any Chinese wishing to make visits to China must return to Canada within two years. After that period, they will be denied entry. The sole permitted port of entry is Vancouver. Any boat entering Canadian waters is only allowed to carry one Chinese per two hundred and fifty tons deadweight.
When construction began in the west of Canada, the land was completely desolate. But, fearing no hardships, Chinese immigrants threw themselves valiantly into the back-breaking and dangerous work of building roads and railroads. But the government has behaved most treacherously towards the Chinese now that work has been completed, and placed numerous obstacles in our way to employment. A head tax, the first in the world, was imposed, and now this is followed by a new immigration law which, in preventing family reunions in Canada, is an insult to our country and our people. As a result, hundreds of thousands of families will be separated forever by an ocean. Our Republican government has reacted by making immediate diplomatic representations, but given its weakness internationally, these are unlikely to be effective. In the meantime, we have no option but to put up with this humiliating and bullying piece of legislation!
Kam Ho threw down the newspaper. He too, seemed to become smaller. He and his father squatted silently on the floor holding their heads despairingly in their hands, oblivious to the heart-rending wails of the baby lying on the bed. What a terribly cruel twist of fate. They had often seen such situations acted out on opera stages but they never expected to become part of the tale themselves. Kam Ho had built up his hopes,
along with his savings, over eight long years and then, just as he was about to reunite his mother and father after decades of sacrifice and separation, disaster found him after all.
From deep in his lower gut, Kam Ho felt an impulse climb up to his chest and then to his throat, presaging, perhaps, a long sigh. It changed before it passed his lips—it became a little chuckle that surged and fell and surged again until Kam Ho found himself shaking with mad gusts of laughter.
He must have been driven over the edge, thought Ah-Fat in alarm, and thumped his son on the back. Kam Ho coughed up a mouthful of phlegm and finally stopped shaking. He stood up, wiped his nose and asked: “Where’s the Benevolent Association in all this? They’re always here when it comes time to pay our dues, but you can’t see them for dust when we get clobbered.”
“They’re meeting to decide on a policy. Your brother goes every day,” said Ah-Fat. “All the branch Associations are sending representatives to Parliament to protest. It’s not just ours. Victoria, Montreal and all the rest are, too. But it’s no use. Ordinary people can never defeat the government, not their own government, and certainly not a foreign one.”
Kam Ho saw for the first time that the livid worm of a scar that crawled halfway up his father’s face had shrunk to a hair, like a crack in a porcelain bowl. Even its colour had faded. His dad was really getting old. He would never have resigned himself to this in the old days. To the young Ah-Fat, all government officials, at home or abroad, were bastards and he would not hesitate to take a machete to them.
“If Mum can’t come, Dad,” said Kam Ho, “you should go back and live with her there. In two years, you can return if you want.”
His father said nothing.
After a few moments, he reached out and took hold of the bag of money on the table and gripped it as tightly as if his life depended on it.
