by Wayson Choy
Then she used a kind of half-English pidgin and half-Chinese which usually sent Wong Suk rollicking, for he knew more English than Poh-Poh. But he was not here.
This useless only-granddaughter wants to be Shir-lee Tem-po-lah; the useless Second Grandson wants to be cow-boy-lah. The First Grandson wants to be Charlie Chan. All stupid foolish!
“In China, Jook-Liang, you no play-act anything.” She looked up at her obviously spoiled granddaughter. “In China, they tie up your feet like this—” With her hands, she made tight, bent-back fists. “—No can dan-see!”
“Well,” I said, with my best sense of dignity, mustering up the Toisanese words, “I’m only play-acting for Wong Suk.” This was a lie: I also play-acted for myself, imagining a world where I belonged, dressed perfectly, behaved beyond reproach, and was loved, always loved, and was not, no, not at all, mo yung.
I pulled at my chin and sucked in my thick cheeks to lengthen my “look,” just as Stepmother said the actress Anna May Wong always did. If Poh-Poh was going to launch into the story of “the old days, the old ways,” I wanted to escape.
IT WAS TIRESOME to hear again how she hadn’t been deemed worthy enough to have her feet bound: back in China, the village matchmaker had destined Grandmother to be sold to a well-off family, to be their house servant.
“Too ugly,” the midwife had pronounced at Grandmother’s birth. And her father, an old farmer wishing for a son, spat at his wife and left them forever.
Grandmother had come into the world a month too early, a cursed girl-child with a misshapen birth skull, pads of skin over her face, and a fold of hair around her neck.
“At ten she will be even uglier—monster ugly!” The midwife rinsed her bloodied hands in the wooden birth pan, and spat out onto the dirt floor the bad water and evil smell caught in her throat. “Get rid of this useless girl-child.”
I got off the stool and took a pose before the half-length mirror in the hall entrance. The stiff white taffeta dress I’d begged Stepmother to buy me from the Strathcona School Rummage Sale looked really pretty. Elegant, even. I knew the breeze on the porch would catch the folds and lift them like a dream. And then, as I turned and spun, lifting my arms...
Grandmother kept shaking her head.
“Maybe it rain soon,” she said, darkly. She was always saying something discouraging. I know now she was only warning me to be patient, not to tempt the gods. Poh-Poh always said the unlucky thing to bring back the luck: for example, if you worried about her health, she would say, “Maybe die soon.”
“It’s only cloudy,” I said. “Cloudy isn’t rain.”
She refused to acknowledge me. Her rocker kept its steady motion.
Poh-Poh’s mother had said, looking at the wretched baby, twice-cursed for being born ugly and a girl-child, “Maybe die soon.”
For weeks after Grandmother’s too-early birth, Father told me, Poh-Poh’s stubborn village mother fed her with a rubber syringe given to her by the Heavenly Gate Mission lady. She filled the bulb-shaped syringe with her own breast milk, sometimes mixed with three drops of ox blood saved for her by the village butcher. The mission lady brought blankets, mysterious potions, biscuits. The hard biscuits were slowly chewed into a warm pulpy spittle by Poh-Poh’s mother, and dabbed into the baby’s hungry mouth. Father told me that slowly the flabs of skin lifted up from Poh-Poh’s face, the skull grew to be normal; her coarse, black hair rose up richly to cover her head. The hideous, twice-cursed baby survived, grew up, married, had one son—my father.
In fact, Poh-poh had become quite pretty, with high cheekbones that made her seem ageless for her first sixty years. Now she was seventy-seven. And I was almost nine, getting ready to tap-dance for Wong Suk: One shuffle, kick-back, kick-side, two shuffle, step-toe, step-back... kick, kick, kick...
The Old One grew bored with my self-absorption. She had more important things to do. Carefully, she bent over to look at Sekky, now struggling to wake up. She gently rocked the crib and began cooing at him. My baby brother was her chief concern; I was a distraction, a nuisance. She was always happy to see me go off with Wong Suk.
“Rain, rain, go away,” I sang under my breath, “come again some other day...”
Poh-Poh hated English tunes that sounded like bad-luck chants. When would her mo yung granddaughter learn not to tempt the gods? She reached down to pick up Sekky; he was waking up slowly, arms unfolding beneath him, in that stupid way all babies do, even Canadian-born ones. Poh-Poh liked to whisper blessings in his ear, always whispering softly, so that Sekky could never really repeat them; softly, so that the gods could not hear; she liked to sing to him, pat his hands and back, to enchant him with stories and songs.
“Well, when is Mau-lauh Bak coming?”
“Don’t call him that,” I protested. My bandit-prince was not anyone’s Monkey Man. “Call him Wong Suk.”
“Why not?” Grandmother said, in a half-whisper, now that baby Sekky was stirring from his nap. “Mau-lauh Bak ugly like me—he Ugly One. We know world. No one spoil us.”
She got worked up and her dialects fell into a kind of controlled disorder. “No one care for us. Not like you—spoiled Jook-Liang—always play. Wong Suk and me too ugly—ahhyaiii... Git-sum! Git-sum! Heart-cramp! Heart-cramp!”
In the old pictures of Poh-Poh, even the fading sepia ones with their cracked edges taken by the mission lady, the photos where she clings to her mother’s black pants, no one would ever think her ugly. But when the village midwife had pronounced fresh-born Poh-Poh hideous, the judgement stayed. Why not? A beautiful girl-child from a poor family is even more useless than an ugly one from a rich family, unless you can sell either one for a jade bracelet or hard foreign currency. Then you can feed your worthy sons, give them educations, arrange marriages, make them proud men. But a girl-child? If no one else appreciated me, Wong Suk knew my worth: he would never desert me. I was his family. He told me so.
I shifted my weight, did a simple turn, and watched the cream-coloured skirt lift and ripple above the dancing rosettes on my patent shoes. Above the tap-tap-tap, the soft taffeta rustle embraced the silence. I’m not ugly, I thought to myself, I’m not useless. Oh, if only it would not rain, I thought, and whirled.
Above the house, the clouds broke up.
Suddenly, the light from the window brightened and poured over the crib; the sitting room and hallway became brilliant, full of sun.
My heart almost burst with expectation. I looked again into the hall mirror, seeking Shirley Temple with her dimpled smile and perfect white-skin features. Bluntly reflected back at me was a broad sallow moon with slit dark eyes, topped by a helmet of black hair. I looked down. Jutting out from a too-large taffeta dress were two spindly legs matched by a pair of bony arms. Something cold clutched at my stomach, made me swallow.
Sekky started to wail. Grandmother lifted him up into the light, whispering.
I looked down: masses of red clustered at my feet. I thought of old Wong Suk leaning on his two canes. And I danced.
three
WAITING FOR OLD WONG Suk to come and see me dance, I stood on our porch—back straight, eyes forward—and did a practice toe-tap, shuffle-kick, turn. It was my tap version of the Castle Walk. Last week, Wong Suk had asked me, in his best English, “Liang, next time show me Shirley Temple. Show me so I never to forget you, okay?”
When I got the dress and tap-shoes at the last Strathcona School Fall Rummage Sale, Miss McKinney threw in an oversized book, Professional Tap-Steps in Twenty Easy Lessons. The book cover featured Fred Astaire side-stepping with Ginger Rogers. The book came with fold-out pages stamped with shoe prints I could follow with my own feet. Like glide-one, glide-two. Otherwise, for the actual tap-steps, I imitated the movie shows that occupied my head and smiled and curtsied, just like Shirley did.
The white taffeta dress was actually a creamy white, a colour that made my skin look more canary than I liked. There was a faded raspberry stain near the collar.
“If you don’t look for it,” Fa
ther said, “you won’t notice it.”
The taffeta dress was going to be a surprise for Wong Suk, only I wished the dress had colourful polka dots, too, but it didn’t. Wong Suk loved polka dots.
Maybe the plain white dress was a sign; the raspberry stain, a sign. Poh-Poh told me there were always signs, if only one was paying attention, like the time she dreamed of me falling off the porch when I was a baby. I didn’t fall off. But I was learning to walk and I did trip and bump my head on the bannister. Even today, you can spot a tiny nick just above my left eyebrow. Poh-Poh likes to hold my head a certain way and point out to people how she foretold the scar.
Maybe I should have known it was a warning—a sign, I mean—when after Poh-Poh tied all those ribboned pom-poms on my tap-shoes, she didn’t ask me to help her rinse out the stinky pail of diapers. “Keep your dress clean,” was all that she said, throwing the rinsed diapers into the galvanized tub herself.
Everything seemed right that Saturday except Wong Suk was late. He usually appeared by eleven o’clock, latest. The spring sun overhead reminded me it was nearing twelve o’clock: the mill whistle by the B.C. docks would blow soon. The air felt wet and warm, spring and summer, though it was mid-spring. Small clouds scudded cross the mountain tops.
Wong Suk and I were, as usual, going to have a lunch of leftovers, then walk two blocks down Pender, cross Main, down to Hastings near Carrall, to the Lux movie house. Hastings Street, outside of Chinatown, was where people always stared at the two of us—stared at this bent-down agile old man with the funny face leaning on his two canes, at this almost-nine-year-old girl with her moon face—but we didn’t care.
“Look,” a teenage boy once said, loud enough for everyone walking by to hear, “Beauty and the Beast.”
His two pals giggled. Wong Suk didn’t quite understand, but I knew the English words and I knew the story from one of my school readers. I had loved Wong Suk since I was five, loved his wrinkled monkey face, so it didn’t matter what people said.
The Lux was showing a Festival of Cartoons plus two main features. Wong Suk and I stayed late to catch the newsreel. China was at war, fighting the Japanese invaders. Wong Suk liked to start the clapping whenever Chiang Kai-shek appeared on the screen. Then we would all hiss the enemy if they showed up, especially if General Tojo marched into view, or if we saw the western-dressed Japanese going in and out of the White House, chattering away with the Americans. If enough Chinatown people were there, the hissing was as loud as the clapping. Grown-up white people clapped every time they saw President Roosevelt, Chinatown people booed every time they saw the Japanese, and children cheered every time Mighty Mouse showed up. I always looked forward to the Petunia Pig cartoons and only the Shadow knows mystery serial.
The old porch creaked. I did another tap-step. Turned once. Turned twice. My Shirley Temple ringlets smelled of Stepmother’s curling iron; my hair felt floppy against my neck. No one was home except Poh-Poh, Sekky and me. My older brothers were working at Third Uncle Lew’s warehouse. Stepmother was busy in Chinatown on some errand with Father. That was, I now realize, another sign. Of course, I thought they were busy selling raffle tickets to raise funds for China’s battle against Japan.
“Stay out of Poh-Poh’s way,” Stepmother had said to me, as she stepped out of the house that morning. “Sek-Lung’s been coughing all night again. He needs extra sleep today.”
I did keep very quiet and let Sekky sleep away most of the morning. Gladly. In fact, I hardly bothered Grandmother at all, except to ask her to knot and tie the ribbons on my shoes. (Sicky Sekky still took most of Poh-Poh’s attention, though.) I myself tied the strand of red ribbon holding back my curls. I didn’t want the curls to melt away on my brow in the wet-warm morning air, especially with Stepmother away, unable to help me “freshen up” like the big girls did.
I pressed my head against one of the fluted porch pillars, leaned my clean dress against its length and listened to the birds chattering in the Douglas fir across the street. I started to daydream about my friendship with Shirley Temple. It was a fact we were both nearly nine years old. If we’d had a chance to meet, it was a fact she would have been my best friend. Besides Wong Suk, I mean. Of course, just as I got into sharing a double banana split with Shirley (and she was just about to tell me how pretty I looked), Poh-Poh’s sharp voice intruded.
“Dress all dirty now.”
Grandmother pulled me away from the pillar and with her other hand presented a large white plate before my eyes: braised chicken feet and cut-up sausage meat bumped up against a chunk of coarse bread. The bread was spread with honey and thick lard.
“Sit down.”
“I’m not hungry,” I protested. Poh-Poh spread out a clean diaper, pushed me down. I sat. She firmly tucked a tea towel under my neck and put another tea towel on my lap. Finally, she pressed the plate on my lap.
“Eat.”
I picked up the hard bread and took a tiny bite. Poh-Poh stood over me, watching. I chewed and made a big swallowing noise. I sensed her waiting for my next question. She had a grandmother’s instinct for being important.
“Where is Wong Suk?” I asked.
“Very late today,” she said, with full authority, hinting at some mystery. “Paper day for Wong Suk.”
“Paper day?”
The old woman looked at me. I had to take another bite.
“Paper, paper, paper,” she said. I was to know that each repetition explained the previous one. She gently rapped my head.
It worked: last Saturday came back into my head.
LAST SATURDAY MORNING, Wong Suk had taken off his black cloak, leaned his two canes against the wall. He and Father had sat around the oak table, pulling out neatly tied bundles of paper from a heavy brown cardboard case. I could see half-folded documents stamped CP RAILROAD, B.C. WORK PERMIT, letters from China, old bills, certificates with Chinese words in black ink, signed with red chop marks... all important papers.
“You kept so much,” Father commented. “Good. Good.”
“Never know what government do,” Wong Suk said. “One day they say Old Wong okay-okay. Next day, Wong stinky Chink.”
I picked up a paper with official-looking stamps.
“What’s this one?”
“Tell her,” Wong Suk urged Father. The two men looked at each other. Father hesitated. Wong Suk nodded, as if encouraging him.
“This certificate says that Wong Suk arrived in Canada when he was twenty—what? Not clear here,” Father said.
Wong Suk seemed disappointed. His face was still saying tell her. Another sign. Tell her. Father turned away, seemed too busy to obey Wong Suk’s plea. Father looked at the year of birth on the certificate and figured out that Wong Suk was maybe seventy-five. On another document, maybe seventy. In Chinatown, the saying went: Walk young for young job; walk old for old job. Father held up another document—a sheet that looked like the first one but gave a different birth year.
“Maybe this paper say five years younger,” Wong Suk sighed, his tell her face surrendering to Father’s fidgeting with the papers.
“Or five years more,” Father said, respectfully. The two men looked at each other, and Wong Suk gently smiled with pleasure.
Adding years, I knew, made one Honourable. The more life-years relatives and friends added to your paper-years, the more Honourable one became.
I understood all that.
For example, I had always wanted to be older—be fifteen paper-years at least—like Florence Marsden and be stuck-up and wear lipstick and rouge and pencil my eyebrows and get treated to sodas by the boys from the pool hall. Of course, Flo Marsden couldn’t pluck her eyebrows yet. That would be really grown-up.
But in all the talk about paper-years, I was baffled about how old the old man really was.
“How old is Wong Suk?”
“About the same age as Grandmother,” Father answered.
It was no answer at all. I had witnessed Poh-Poh giving different numbers to differ
ent people.
“Poh-Poh, how—?”
“Ancient,” Poh-Poh answered. Then she tried to be helpful, looked up at the ceiling to count the years flying away. “Paper-years number... maybe eighty... maybe more.”
I started thinking of my own age, my paper-years, and grew puzzled.
“Ga-ji nin—paper-years,” Father said, looking at me, “always different from Chinese years.”
The thought excited me. I started to count my fingers: nine plus five... equals... fourteen!”
“Am I fourteen?” I asked, imagining fresh apple-red gloss on my lips.
“You juk-sing years,” Poh-Poh laughed. “You Canada years.”
“You to be nine years soon,” Wong Suk said, trying to be kind. “Lucky nine.”
Father cleared his throat and all the grownups quickly turned their attention back to the papers on the table. Poh-Poh picked up a washed old bedsheet and began to scissor it into diaper-size squares.
No grownups ever gave you a plain answer, unless they were saying no. I watched Father sort out the packages and decided to look more carefully at the documents. Being in Upper Grade Four at Strathcona, and being one of Miss McKenzie’s Very Best Readers, I could figure out most of the English words. But of course I was unable to pay attention and read the signs. As Poh-Poh always warned me: Look closely... listen carefully. I stupidly thought, There’s nothing left to tell.
Wong Suk’s papers, like Poh-Poh’s, which were stored on a covered shelf in the top lid of a metal trunk, were neatly tied with twine and smelled of moth balls. Father carefully untied each package and folded out only important-looking papers. There were bundled letters with Old China postage stamps, but these he left alone. Father then read off or translated the titles of certain official papers. Wong Suk liked to hear his own history, just like Grandmother; neither of them could read, but both liked to hear what the words on the papers could say.
There were papers dated in the year 18-something that said Wong Suk was to pay back, through his labour, the steerage fare from Canton, his bonding tax, plus give back so many years of his wages for shelter, food, and the privilege of being allowed to pay interest on his debts. These contracts had been made years before I was born, signed with Wong Suk’s carved chop stamped in red, stamped and sealed way before Father and Stepmother and my oldest brother arrived in Canada. The papers documented long-term debts, now paid in full.
