Authors: Jen Sookfong Lee
End of East, The (6 page)
In his mind, he sees Shew Lin and their two daughters, one of whom he has never even met. They are small, almost indistinguishable from each other. He had not yet decided whether he would return to China to retire or whether he would bring his family here. Few men have been able to bring women over at all, most preferring to save the passage and head tax money to bring young men and boys who can work and repay the debts they owe. Women are money-losers.
Still,
he thinks,
we could have built something here, lived in a house, walked through Stanley Park together.
Still,
he thinks,
we could have built something here, lived in a house, walked through Stanley Park together.
He hears someone running up the stairs, heavy shoes hitting the wooden steps with force great enough to shake the walls.
“Seid Quan! We must go. They’re calling for you at the clan association to read the papers out loud! Come!” Jimmy pounds on the door.
He stands up. Already, he can hear an elevated buzz coming through the windows from the streets of Chinatown. He follows his roommate and walks toward it.
As Seid Quan unfolds the letter, written on thin, tissue-like paper, he sees that Shew Lin’s writing, despite his hints to her that she should practise, has not improved. Her characters are big and open, like the eyes of a child seeing cotton candy for the first time. She writes deliberately, one character after another, each painstakingly drawn, thought in every stroke.
“Dear Seid Quan,” she writes. “There isn’t any point in waiting, so I will tell you now. I would like it very much if all of us could come to you. I know this isn’t possible, but still I wish it. The other women are saying the Japanese are in the north, although I do not know how this will affect us. I do not like to be a woman alone with female children in such times, especially now that Yun Wo will be turning fifteen. If we cannot come to you, you should come to us.”
Seid Quan folds up the letter, stuffs it back into its envelope. He stares at the photograph of Shew Lin and his two daughters in the garden of their home. If he looks carefully, he can see the dying vines of the winter melon curling around his wife’s feet. He stands up, scraping the chair along the unfinished floor.
He walks the streets of Strathcona, just east of the produce markets and butcher shops that line Keefer Street. He thinks
about going to the barbershop, but it is seven o’clock already, and if he were to go in now, he would simply be standing around or cleaning something that doesn’t need to be cleaned again. Instead, he walks along the residential streets, looks at the front porches and gardens, the children playing in the street after dinner.
about going to the barbershop, but it is seven o’clock already, and if he were to go in now, he would simply be standing around or cleaning something that doesn’t need to be cleaned again. Instead, he walks along the residential streets, looks at the front porches and gardens, the children playing in the street after dinner.
Men have been going back to China in droves, scared that the Japanese will soon begin a war and this will be their last chance to visit before the borders are closed. Some stay with their families, forgoing the money they make in Canada that keeps their wives and children well fed and well clothed. Seid Quan stuffs his hands into his empty pockets and continues walking.
A few days ago, he heard a young white man who, for some reason, was waiting for Seid Quan to give him a haircut, say that this was a ghetto, a place where the city lets all the poor and unwanted live so that they don’t contaminate the nice neighbourhoods. The young man had snorted mightily. “I’d rather live with you lot than be rattling around in one of those new stone mansions in Shaughnessy. A whole lot of rich snobs there, if you ask me.”
Seid Quan had only murmured a noncommittal agreement, nodding like the good Chinaman this white man expected him to be.
As he walks, he can identify each house by the family who lives there. There is the Jewish house. The Italian family who shouts all the time lives in the yellow house with the red trim. And here is where the Gins live, complete with wife and daughters. There aren’t many Chinese children, but the ones who do live here are now out playing in the streets, chasing balls, skipping rope. Seid Quan watches the little boys with
their short Western pants and unruly hair. He would like to join in on their games but does not have the least idea how to play them, so he marches on, the setting sun on his back.
their short Western pants and unruly hair. He would like to join in on their games but does not have the least idea how to play them, so he marches on, the setting sun on his back.
A young boy with hair the colour of sand and freckles all over his broad, pale face, stands in front of Seid Quan. His smile is crooked, and Seid Quan can see that there are chips broken off his front teeth.
“Hey, mister,” he says. “Are you Peter Wong’s dad? He still has my set of jacks, and I need them back for Saturday.”
Seid Quan stops and smiles. “No, I’m Mr. Chan. I run the barbershop down there.”
The little boy looks disappointed. “Oh. I’m Pat. I thought you looked like Peter.” He puts his hand on his hair. “But I’ll tell my dad about you, and maybe you can cut his hair. Maybe mine too, one day.”
Seid Quan hears a woman’s voice from down the street.
“That’s my mom. She’s calling me in because today is bath day. Yuck. I’d better go though. Nice meeting you, Mr. Chan.” He runs down the sidewalk just as Seid Quan reaches out.
He draws his hand back to his side, not knowing what he is reaching for, but knowing that he shouldn’t; the boy could have been embarrassed or angry or both. Then what would Seid Quan do? He turns around and walks back to his rented house to write a letter to his wife as the sun disappears behind a line of steeply angled roofs.
We must have a son, he
thinks
, so I will go back, maybe for the last time, no matter how long it takes or how much it costs
. He blinks, cursing under his breath.
We must have a son, he
thinks
, so I will go back, maybe for the last time, no matter how long it takes or how much it costs
. He blinks, cursing under his breath.
As usual, he walks to work, his three-piece suit carefully pressed and cleaned. A misting winter rain has just started and is dotting his fedora with tiny drops of water. He holds his face
up and feels the water graze his forehead. He passes a house shaking from the noise of a mah-jong party still raging from the night before. He glances in and sees several men he knows, all now in their undershirts, swearing furiously at each other as tiles move swiftly back and forth. One man walks out and stands on the front porch with a cigarette.
up and feels the water graze his forehead. He passes a house shaking from the noise of a mah-jong party still raging from the night before. He glances in and sees several men he knows, all now in their undershirts, swearing furiously at each other as tiles move swiftly back and forth. One man walks out and stands on the front porch with a cigarette.
“Seid Quan! You’re out early.”
“Hello, Jimmy. Still going at it, eh? You didn’t come home last night.”
“Well, I can’t bear to lose. Listen, I was just listening to the radio in the kitchen for a break. They say the Communists and Nationalists are united against the Japanese. Nothing about occupation, other than in the far north, so the south and the villages by the Pearl River are probably safe. But still.”
“I hope no war breaks out.”
“Yes.” Jimmy lowers his voice. “I’m thinking of going back and fighting with the United Front. I don’t know how yet, but I can’t stand it here anymore. They could still use me, I think. I’m only twenty-eight.”
“We’re raising money, you know, with the penny drives and that banquet tonight. Let me see if I can talk to the treasurer—we might be able to pay for your passage back.”
Jimmy grins. “You’re a good man. Never an obstacle for you, is there? Well, I’d better get back inside. You never know—the food might run out, and then they might start eating each other.”
Seid Quan unlocks the door to his barbershop and changes his jacket for his white barber’s coat. He sets up his shaving kit, boils some water for hot towels and checks to make sure all the disinfectant jars are topped up. The doorbell tinkles and, not even turning around, Seid Quan says,
“Mr. Mah, you’re right on time. Every week, like clockwork.”
He hears a strange voice behind him. “A telegram for you, sir.”
He sees a young white man with a sneer on his face staring at the instruments.
Probably wondering if he’ll get an infection just from standing here,
Seid Quan thinks. He hands the messenger a few coins and watches him leave and carefully wipe his hands on his pants as he walks out of the shop.
Probably wondering if he’ll get an infection just from standing here,
Seid Quan thinks. He hands the messenger a few coins and watches him leave and carefully wipe his hands on his pants as he walks out of the shop.
Seid Quan tears open the envelope carefully. When has anyone ever sent him a telegram? He feels his stomach drop.
“CHO LAI HERE STOP SON BORN DECEMBER 14 NO NAME YET STOP EVERYONE WELL STOP NO JAPANESE IN SOUTH.”
He sits down in one of the customer chairs, the telegram crumpled in his hand. It took him over two years to save the money to visit his family all those months ago. Cho Lai, one of his sisters’ husbands and a tea merchant in Guangzhou, must have worked for hours to send this message in English. Seid Quan can feel the corners of his eyes start to sting. He dabs at his face with a corner of the telegraph.
Mr. Mah pokes his head through the doorway. “You open for business?”
Pon Man,
he thinks
, that will be his name.
he thinks
, that will be his name.
“Come on in, Mr. Mah. You’re always right on time.”
The letters are intermittent. No one is sure if the money they’re sending back home is arriving. Their wives may claim to be fine, but many of the men are suspicious that the Japanese have taken control of the post and are now censoring or doctoring every letter that is sent out. The accounts of how badly the war is going change every day, and no one
knows what to believe. Old Mr. Wong’s three sons have left to fight for Canada, and others sign up daily. They pour into Seid Quan’s shop to have their heads shaved.
knows what to believe. Old Mr. Wong’s three sons have left to fight for Canada, and others sign up daily. They pour into Seid Quan’s shop to have their heads shaved.
He touches their heads gently, as if they are as breakable as eggshells, knowing that they will not be touched with care again for a long, long time. He listens to them talk, sometimes shout, in excitement, their hands fluttering under their smocks.
“It’ll feel good to shoot up those Japs.”
“My father doesn’t want me to go, but you understand, don’t you, Uncle?”
“They say we’ll be used for special assignments, like spies.”
“I can’t just sit here and wait. I have to do something.”
He nods, brushes the hair off their necks and shoulders, gives them coffee if he sees that their hands are shaking. When they leave, their white scalps show through the stubble, a vulnerable white—the white of baby skin, the white of raw nerves and new bodies.
Seid Quan scours the newspapers every day for news about the occupations, asks every customer in his shop if they’ve heard anything from family in China and Hong Kong. Walking down the street every morning to work and every afternoon home, he is beset by images of Japanese soldiers raping his wife and stealing his children, sleeping in his home in the village, torturing the old men. Months pass. The Japanese occupy Guangzhou and the rest of the province. He receives a single letter from his wife.
“The children are fine. I am afraid that someone is intercepting the mail and taking the money you send home. But I have been poorer than this, so we are managing. Yun Wo will be marrying a young man whose family name is Gin. He has consented to live with us here, as protection. We are being like mice—quiet and unseen. Do not worry.”
And so he cuts hair, glued to the radio, glad, at least, that he has had practice in waiting.
He runs through the crowd. People shout and throw things—hats, gloves, pieces of paper—in the air. He pushes his way through, steps on newspapers with the headline “VICTORY! JAPAN SURRENDERS!” Men slap him on the back as he goes by. He hears old Mr. Wong yelling, “I knew that our sons and friends leaving to fight for Canada wouldn’t be for nothing! The government can’t deny our citizenship anymore. We’re going to get the vote now, brothers! And then we’ll see change. Our wives will come, our children too!”
Seid Quan reaches the doors of his barbershop and stumbles in. He closes the door behind him and collapses on the low windowsill. Outside, the celebration rages on, and Seid Quan is sure he will find broken and empty whisky bottles on his front stoop in the morning. He catches his breath and walks to his office in the back room.
He opens the safe quietly (his habit even if no one is there—you never know who might be listening) and pushes the papers and legal documents aside. He reaches into the very back and takes out a pile of money, carefully organized into stacks bound by rubber bands. And he starts to count.
When he finishes and each stack is snug in the back of the safe, he sits at his small, yellow-varnished desk. He writes a list.
Shew Lin
Pon Man
Min Lai
He stares at the list. His wife, well into her middle age, his young son and his unmarried daughter. He calculates their passage money in his head, the cost of a house to fit them all,
the head tax if the government continues with it. It is far more than the amount in the safe.
the head tax if the government continues with it. It is far more than the amount in the safe.
He sits back in his chair, his eyes closed. There are nights when he is so hungry for his wife that he thinks he will crack in two. During the day, he thinks of buying her a house and giving her the kind of garden she always wanted. The idea that he might soon see her makes him catch his breath; he inhales slowly, holding the air in his chest until his head and heartbeat settle.
By the time he opens his eyes again and stands up, he knows that it is his son—the boy he has never even seen—who must come first.
He walks up the courthouse steps, reaches with his hand to touch the cool, stone-grey columns. His heart is beating faster and faster with every breath he takes. He stops, rummages in his jacket pocket and pulls out a piece of paper.
You are hereby notified that, in pursuance of your petition for a decision, you are qualified and fit to become a Canadian citizen, delivered to me dated the 22nd day of December 1949.
His Honour Judge Boyd will hold a sitting at the Court House of Vancouver on the 25th day of March 1950, at the hour of 11:00 in the forenoon for the purpose of considering such petition, and you are required to be present at my office, together with two sponsors, on that date to be examined by the presiding judge with respect to the matter set out in your petition.
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