A Superior Man (34 page)

I went to work briskly to ensure that if I died tomorrow, then at least the people who recovered my body would find something to admire about me. The caked mud dropped off in clumps. The tear in the leather was longer. I rubbed in generous amounts of blacking. My shoes were the only things of value that I would take back to China.

When Sam's grandmother entered the laundry, then I knew for sure that the gods were watching over me. As she and Yang spoke, I heard Sam's name and the word “China.” The boy stared at the floor and fidgeted. He mumbled a few times. The washman told me that the boy said he didn't want to go to China. He wanted to stay here. They would send word to Mary in Cache Creek about the boy's new situation. She might want to do something.

“Did he ask why I was going away?” I asked.

The washman shook his head.

On the way to Tai Yuen store, Yang and Sam's grandmother took the boy's hands between them.

I trailed behind. My letting-go helped everyone. Now Sam had a son who was just like him. The boy wouldn't be a water buffalo driven from the temple. And he would likely see his mother again.

Yang said I needn't enter the store. The manager knew both him and Sam's grandmother. He added, “To sell your son, don't touch his head. Touch it and you'll weep a ton.”

“Don't worry about me,” I snapped.

I almost hurled myself into the air and somersaulted. This was the earlier me, relieved of fatherly duties, free to dance, released to dash in whatever direction I wanted. Every man in the game hall feared me. The hands of the clock had been magically turned back by a week. I was in Victoria, where Rainbow opened her soft white arms to me.

Mary never found me in that teahouse.

That mix-blood named Sam Bing Lew? Never heard of him.

Had there been a fire in Lytton? Don't ask me.

Giddy with glee, I reached into my stockings, hoping that my bankroll was still there. But they were empty, so my gloom returned. I crossed the road and crouched behind some crates. I had to clutch my shoulders and press my arms into my chest to stop its sudden heaving.

What had my father felt when he saw me that last time at our final parting? He had spent hundreds, maybe thousands more days with me than I had spent with Peter. Hadn't he gripped my fingers tight in his rough hands to pull me through a temple crowd?

Could he recall my face or a shared meal? He had scolded me for spilling rice on the table, for failing to brush the mud off his clogs, and for dragging my spoon bottom against the lip of the soup bowl.

He had walked away and sailed far beyond my reach so now I could do the same to Peter.
Father steals a steamed bun; son does arson
.

Two days ago, I had decided to take the boy to China. That made me a superior man. Now a new way to change my fate had sprung up, something far better than entering America.

I hardly knew the brat. We had spent six, seven days together, squabbling the whole time. I was sure he hadn't wailed so much in a long while, stuck with a cheerless fellow who spanked him and threw him about like a bushel of potatoes. I was gruff and impatient. In Victoria, I ignored Chinatown's few children. I sneered at men who fawned and crooned lullabies to call over the little darlings so they could pinch their cheeks and then press sweet treats into their hands.

I never knew this boy when he was a baby.

When did he take his first steps? Had they been on a dirt floor or on some smooth stones?

What blessings were received at his full-month banquet? Did he get any tokens of gold?

How was his name chosen?

When the boy emerged from Tai Yuen, he and Sam's grandmother licked happily at sticks of hard brown sugar. An envelope with a broad red strip on it poked from Yang's pocket.

A tear slid down my cheek. The boy and I couldn't even speak to one another. He never obeyed me and had no inkling how a son ought to behave.
A sampan and a war junk sailed at each other, strong winds behind each
. They could crash and drag each other to the ocean bottom.

The washman took his leave from the others and headed toward me. I scrambled back but hit a wall. How did he know where I was? He must have seen me from the window.

“Why squat there?” He held out the letter. “What do you cry for? You're not a woman.”

I didn't go back to the washhouse. I had seen a China man with a lopsided grin stroll from a shack, a hodgepodge of salvaged planks and boards with no windows. I found its door heavy, but it had an oiled hinge that let it swing quietly. The sweet burnt smell of opium hung in the air. Small lamps flickered on the floor where customers muttered and dozed.

The owner asked if I wanted to lie on something solid or soft. Solid meant less risk of fleas and mites. The fumes warmed my chest and relaxed my stomach.

Birds are chirping in the tree. Underneath, Grandmother and Mother squat at a portable clay stove and dish out rice and flavourings. They give me chopsticks and a covered bowl and send me to deliver it to Grandfather. I skip over cobbled paths that survived battle and fire. Now I can see the distant hill. Before the war, the walls of the perimeter houses used to block my view. Those burned buildings were knocked down, so the village is being reconstructed.

A sense of hope warms the springtime air. Everyone who survived the wars came back. Everyone says I'm lucky because Father is working abroad. His money lets us build a new house.

At the site, men pound the earth into a hard floor. Grandfather perches on a high ladder, setting a beam into the frame of the house. He tells me to wait. I sit on a pile of bricks under some shade. My friend Kai has a cage with two crickets. I poke at them but keep looking up at Grandfather. On one of those upward glances, I find him gone. I scramble to my feet, panicked.

“Where's my Grandfather?” I shout.

“At the dike.”

I hurry off, clutching the bowl. At several turns, I find my path blocked by the rubble of fallen houses. Several detours later, I'm on my way to the river.

“Hok, taking food to your Grandfather?” Granny Three asks. “What a good boy you are.”

Men use ropes to pull old boulders from the water. During the war, the enemy toppled the dike and let the river wash away the road. Now the wall must be rebuilt and the water drained. Grandfather is in chest-high water. I call to him and he tells me to wait. I squat and keep an anxious eye on him. After I come back from peeing, he's gone.

“Where's my Grandfather?” I ask the rock men.

“Went to town for roof tiles.”

I run without watching the road. Sharp rocks cut into my feet. I stumble but hold the bowl. If I drop it, then Grandfather will rap his knuckle on my head.

“Hok, your Grandfather just went by,” Fourth Uncle yells. “You're a good boy.”

At the tile factory, a crowd plugs the entrance. Many people are rebuilding. Grandfather tells me to stand aside and wait. I vow to pay attention until he eats his food. Street vendors pass, touting sweet treats and dried plums. I ignore them.

Grandfather pushes a wheelbarrow heaped with the clay tiles. I beg him to eat. He says to wait. We take the shortcut along the river. But the wheel sinks into mud and the wheelbarrow tips over, spilling the tiles into the water. Grandfather jumps down to retrieve them: gulps air, ducks under the surface, and then hands them to me. I want to join him. Grandfather says it's too deep. He goes under for another load. I wait, but Grandfather doesn't return. I look for bubbles in the muddy water. I call out. Louder. I scream and slide down the muddy bank, but I don't jump in. My body trembles. Then Grandfather leaps up, grabs me, and pulls me into the water to play. We are both laughing, a sound that is rarely heard.

It will be good to see him again.

17
17

A
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(1885)
A
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MOOTH
(1885)

Fist entered the laundry and bid us a loud good morning. He was late. Through the door I saw railway workers with lunch pails hurrying to the station and travellers standing outside the hotel, waiting for horses and buggies. A man walked by, shaking out a heavy apron.

“Ropes and explosives?” I demanded.

“Not going,” he said.

I glanced outside. No packs were there.

He was pointing at Yang. “Does he know?”

I nodded, having told him everything when he demanded to know about my ties to Fist. “Did you wet your bed all night?”

“The road is new and strong. You can't bring it down.”

“
A new latrine is fragrant for three days
.”

“Then it's time to go home.” He reached for the door. “As you told me.”

“Die now!” I grabbed his neck and slammed him to the wall.

“Screw!” His eyes bulged as he clawed in vain at me. “You're dead too.”

I expected him to crumple to the ground and weep like a girl.

“I'm a bandit chief.” I squeezed his throat harder. “Your life is nothing. You will never see China.”

Yang must have climbed onto the counter and leapt, because he crashed from above and knocked us over. We hit the floor and I lost my grip.

He pressed an axe into my chest. “Stop this.”

Fist was curled into himself, taking deep breaths. Yang dragged him away. I barred the front door and kicked the bench against it.

In the back room, Fist leaned on the wall, rubbing his neck.

I hefted the axe. “You run and I'll chop your head.”

He looked away as I spoke. “On my way home I thought, ‘Why not do a nice thing? Let me take His Holiness's words to Fist.' So I made a detour and went all the way to your camp. For this, I even dumped my son.”

“You wanted the brat gone,” he spat out.

I slammed the axe into the table. He jumped.

Yang brought battered mugs with steam rising. “Drink tea and talk slowly.”

“Why can't I leave?” Fist cried out.

I stretched out my arms. “I'll beat you softer than cake. We agreed on this; we're just two men doing a job.”

“My uncles shouldn't get fragrant so early.”

“You don't care about them; they've run off already. Wrecking the trestle was your idea.”

“It was talk, stupid talk.”

“One Leg is laughing right now. He's waiting for you to crawl back, head bowed, tail between your legs. You gutless dog.”

“No one can fix things here. Men are stiff or gone home. Or crazy as One Leg.”

His body was shaking. At any moment, he would start to weep.

Yang draped an arm around Fist's shoulders. “Young man, walk away and your name will stink forever. People in China will hear about the ruined graves; your entire family will be shamed.”

“Screw you. They're so far away, nobody will know.” Fist shook him off. “It was idle talk, a man letting off steam.”

“You could go home where cheering crowds lift you to their shoulders as if you single-handedly kicked all the redbeards out of Hong Kong.”

“I could fall off the trestle and get nailed.” He stared at the floor.

“Do this for your sons and daughters.” The washman poured more tea. “When your children crowd at your feet and ask what you did in Gold Mountain, what will you say? You will lower your head and mutter, ‘I was a coolie.'

“‘What's a coolie?' they'll shout.

“‘Redbeards kicked me around,' you'll mumble.

“‘Did you kick back?'

“‘I ran away,' you'll moan.”

Yang thumped the crate and added, “If your own children don't respect you, you'll get fragrant at a young age.”

“There won't be children,” snapped Fist. “No woman will marry a pock face.”

“You go home a hero, and matchmakers will fill your door like beggars at New Year. Gentry families use famous sons-in-law to make great profits.”

We heard the eager clucking of chickens as the neighbour cooed and started to feed them.

When Fist shook his head defiantly and looked away, I said, “Give me the explosives and ropes. I'll go myself.”

“Indeed,” exclaimed Yang. “If Fist can't do it, then let him back out. This cage has no lid; men come and go as they want. Why stop others from doing what must be done?”

“You're not going to be the rock brain who blocks the way, are you?” I said.

When Fist failed to reply, I sensed his mood shifting. “You're right,” I said, “no one knows about you. You can go back to One Leg this very moment. You will be safe forever. Your mother will be pleased to see you.”

He shook his head.

“Go ahead to Yale, then,” I said. “What about this? You come along and be my sentry.”

Fist looked up.

“You think we can do this?”

“I'm going home alive,” I told him. “My grandfather and I, we're very close. We have much unfinished business.”

He stood. “I'm crazy to follow you.”

I clapped him on the back. “I saw how you shaved and cleaned up after seeing the damaged graves. You thought clearly then; do the same now.”

The sky was grey and dark; the air hung cool and damp. Rain would
slow our trip and stop the fuses from doing their job. We needed to walk fast. The clouds were sliding east, a good sign. The packs were bulky but not heavy, tied with ropes stretched helter-skelter. I watched Fist closely. Without knowing which sack held what, I had not moved fast enough to grab the explosives.

As we trekked away from town, trying to look unhurried, he said, “Know what I was thinking last night? What if Bookman Soon betrays us?”

“He gave us the explosives!”

“He's a Company man. You think he really wants to damage the iron road? That bastard is a boss, through and through. He tells the Company that you and I stole the explosives. He says he heard our plans to explode the iron road but doesn't know where we hid the explosives. He sets a trap for us at the trestle.”

“Isn't he your friend?”

“He wants to be a hero to the Company.”

“You aim your piss at your own stupid stories.”

“Don't say I didn't warn you.”

I didn't know what to think. Was he crazy or was he trying to turn me around? There was no time to ponder. I was a Buddha with a stuffed nose, one who couldn't smell lies. It was easier just to keep going.

We walked in silence to Spuzzum village. At our parting, Yang had handed me a cigar box full of Chinese domino tiles. “For your son,” he said, rattling the package. “Give him something to remember you by.”

I had wanted to kick myself for not thinking of a memento. I should have taken time to figure out his Chinese name.

“Go visit your little precious.” Fist squatted by the path. “I'll wait here.”

“Not going.” If he ran off with the explosives, then I would be a fly with no head.

“You have a gift for your son.”

“He doesn't know me.”

“Don't trust me, do you? And you think you're such a big stick. Go! You want to see him; otherwise you would have left the dominos with Yang.”

I hadn't paid full attention when Yang had led me here earlier, so I stumbled around in a panic looking for the cabin. Even away from the damn forest, I was lost. Good thing Sam's family had that messy, crowded porch that I could recall.

When I banged on the door, it opened quickly. Sam's grandmother stepped forward and pulled the door shut, as if she had been expecting me. Could she have known I was leaving this morning? She wasn't dressed for the day yet; her long white hair was tousled, uncombed. Before I could speak, she pressed her palms together and raised them to her right ear, tilting her head to mimic sleeping. And then she flicked her fingers at me, ordering me to leave. Her eyes were firm.

I paused before giving her the cigar box. “For boy.”

She nodded and turned away.

I wanted to storm into her house.

I backed away, scolding myself: I should have gone home with them yesterday for an inspection. Did she have a stove inside? A fireplace? How far away was the latrine? Did Peter have his own bed? How many windows let in the light? I should be a better man
than my shit-hole father, who hadn't spared a thought about me. The village in China had plenty of kin to look after its children.

I could always send money here.
Eat dung, shit out rice!

Fist wasn't where I had left him. I spun around, peering into the bushes and cursing. There hadn't been time for him to get far, even if he ran like a deer. But which way?

The ropes on my back were useless now. I should have insisted on carrying the explosives.

I turned and Fist was there, panting and looking scared.

“Someone walked by,” he said. “So I ran to hide.”

“Nobody was here,” I snapped. “I would have heard.”

“Native people move like wind. You see your son?”

“He was sleeping.”

I walked away. They said a man wasn't an adult until he had raised a child. I thought that crossing the ocean was a far bigger step. At home, women gathered happily around a child: mothers and grandparents, sisters and aunts. I had a son here, but no one wanted him, as if he had been born a diseased bastard who brought shame into the clan. But he was no such thing. I was his father, but I had walked away from him. He was a dream of the future, thrust into my face. But dreams made in Gold Mountain could not be real. Wet snot leaked from our noses; I turned and emptied mine onto the ground.

That stowaway ride on the train had sped me through this region; now nothing looked familiar. On both sides of the track were rock walls, so close that they formed a second skin, like that of a snake, for the passing trains. My eyes followed the two lines of telegraph cables, rising and falling like a railway in the sky. The redbeards laid claim to everything—land, water, and now the air. Building the railway
had felled millions of trees, yet the Company had replanted a line of shaved tree trunks, all the same size. The cables ran high above the tracks, but at some spots drooped near the ground when poles were planted below grade. We knew of telegraphs in China, where lines had been strung between the chief cities of the north. Here, words moved instantly from one station to another, telling of trains going and coming. News of our blast would travel quickly, so we needed to do the same.

“You want to be a big hero in China, don't you?” said Fist.

“In China, we go separate ways. We won't see each other again.”