A Superior Man (5 page)

The brat couldn't avoid trouble for half a second. The blanket belonged to the boat. It needed to be returned. He would go ashore naked.

He cried and whimpered, burying his face into my neck. I wanted to push him away but sat and held him. The China man brought a mug of hot water and told me to keep the boy warm, as if I had no common sense. He asked who the mother was and where we were going. I didn't answer, knowing he would dash into Chinatown's teahouses to shout this tale with his big cannon mouth.

Yale's China men would shake their heads. “A redbeard risked his life to rescue a China man's mix-blood child? You're dreaming! Those people hate anyone who's not their colour.”

I went and thanked Grey Beard, who was also wrapped in a stiff blanket. He offered his bottle to me, but I shook my head and looked for signs of madness in him.

The brat seemed fated to live. Or maybe some cruel god had toyed with him, providing a bit of luck for now that would only be yanked away later. Maybe the boy's stepfather had taught him how to stay above the river. I was truly grateful to Grey Beard. If the boy had vanished into the water, then I would be doomed to spend the rest of my life glancing over my shoulder for the lad's half ghost, half shadow. At any time, a young man could stop at my table at a teahouse, kneel, and cry “Father!” to claim his birthright. If this happened in front of my trueborn children or my wife's family, then my face could never be recovered.

I carried the boy off the boat into the swampy reek of fresh fish. Crates of shiny salmon, their blue-grey eyes stilled, were waiting to be loaded onto a steamer. The same dull gaze clouded the eyes of Chinese rail hands who squatted nearby. They were as thin and pinched as their fellow Chinese in Victoria. Loose rags hid bony frames. Some wore flimsy straw sandals. Here, living near forest and river, these men enjoyed one small benefit. They could go shoeless without townsfolk looking down their noses and calling them savages.

They didn't turn to watch me carry a naked Native child in my jacket. Those who crouched by the main road lifted grimy palms, seeking alms. I strode by without stopping. These fools needed to see that this town was too small, too poor to help them. Yale had been the hub of railway work but the road was finished. Soon skies would darken with rain and snow. The cold of a Gold Mountain winter crept in as quiet and deadly as an assassin. At least our Victoria merchants were pompous enough to seek help from China's Consul stationed in San Francisco. I doubted they would succeed: the emperor didn't sit high enough to see across the ocean.

A swirl of familiar voices and smells swept me to Chinatown. We bumped against giant draft horses pulling wagons over gouged roads. Flat roofs shot out from shops and saloons to shelter pedestrians from the weather. Windows were boarded over, and the paint on many walls and signs was faded and peeling. At a cookhouse, the sizzle of oil and garlic and black beans made my mouth water and brought China to mind. I wanted to dump the boy in a back alley and dash back to the boat.

Men rushed onto the road, hooting and shouting. They pointed
to a second-floor porch with a wooden sign painted in black, red, and gold.

Clouds Clear Tower was Soohoo's building.

Soohoo last year brought in a woman who sparked a storm of dizzy glee, even in distant Victoria. Men dubbed her, in awe, Goddess. Her fame was due to her perfection. Raised since childhood in Guangzhou's most lavish brothel, she had been dismissed from the ranks of the elite courtesans after the Governor accused her of laughing at his “little precious” with her friends. At that time, Goddess's skills were not mature; otherwise her owners never would have banished her. Like the rest of us, she too was second-rate goods sent abroad.

Her secret talent was being able to sense when a man approached climax. She then forestalled it. She shifted her grip. She stroked his eggs. She twisted away. She kept his hands from gaining release. The detour was always blissful. Then she smiled and re-engaged, extending the session until the man gasped and begged for mercy. Men left Clouds Clear Tower beaming and smiling because no spurting meant keeping the male
yang
essence that prolonged life and produced sons.

The men in the road yelled and pranced like schoolboys at end of term. A woman emerged in bright silks but her bound feet tottered away from the broken railing. I craned my neck and caught a glint of golden jewellery. The brat's wriggling stopped me from seeing. Her tinkling voice teased us but vanished under a torrent of lewd remarks.

She was a prize tale for home, for men in teahouses, for idlers squatting around the market. Returned sojourners would revisit
moments spent in her bed, summon memories to restore saliva to their now dry mouths. She alone soothed years of anguish in Gold Mountain because coolies could never afford a woman of her high calibre in China. Her day was just starting; the bed-sheets and her wit should be fresh.

I had to find a place to dump the boy.

She withdrew and a road packed with men's jutting hopes emptied out.

Any worm would gladly watch the boy for a few pennies, but a smart one might sell the boy for thirty cents.

The dry goods store was dark as a latrine with a dank, airless smell. Pricks of light glowed from incense sticks. The house gods stood duty on their gilded altar, calmly watching the piled-up canvas, stacked blankets, and shelves of dishes and tools. By the door, when I hefted a grindstone, its shadow left sharp lines in the thick dust. What did this fool storekeeper think he was doing? Hoarding rice until a famine came along to raise his prices?

He prodded us to the back, crowing that no other shop in Chinatown sold children's clothing. “All Native people come here because redbeard shops scorn their business. Look at those people: lots of children running everywhere.”

I used Mother's words to show my expertise. “Only well-sewn clothing, with room for growing.”

“This your son?” The merchant beamed. “Strong ox, tall horse.”

“I take him to his people.”

“A superior man!”

“No choice.” I mentioned Council's new rule.

“They're not the emperor.” He would boost me onto his shoulders and wipe my shit-hole if asked to do so.

The brat shook his head at the shirts and pants that the merchant put against him. He grabbed brighter colours with thicker cloth and higher prices.

“How can I find his mother?” I asked. “She is near Lytton.”

“Native people are angry there. Redbeards steal their land.”

“Who can help me?”

“Everyone is leaving.”

“And Soohoo?”

“He has time to die but no time to get sick. Go see Goddess and enjoy yourself.”

Too bad I had just made a solemn vow to the boy, during the last leg of the boat trip. It was an about-turn. I planned to learn where Mary lived and take the boy there.

Not right away. My pole bobbed up at the prospect of Goddess. Good thing I wore snug western pants. If not, everyone would have seen my jut and known my eagerness.

“You can trust me.” The merchant grinned. “Native women leave their children here while they visit the other stores.”

I went off.

When the brat had napped on the boat, I didn't lay him down for fear of waking him. His breath was soft and steady as a maid fanning a tyrant mistress. He kicked and stirred in his sleep, thick eyelashes twitching. He smelled of river mud and fish. In China, village grannies used colourful sashes to sling grandchildren on their
backs with heavy, dozing heads. The women stayed in the shade and avoided the river.

My son, my bone and flesh, would be dead if not for Grey Beard. That cowboy saved a life; he acted as a superior man.
When places lack law, heroes emerge tall
.

The redbeards here owned no dogs that would lick up smelly shit. Instead, they found scrawny cats like us for the dirty job. They claimed that fleas with diseases leapt from our clothes to infect everyone. They hated how we ate pickles from China instead of chewing local beef. They called us heathens for bowing to ancestors instead of singing songs to their Heavenly Father. They said our lower wages cheated redbeards of their rightful jobs.

Screw their mothers, we told ourselves. Our people had rules for trade and business, clan and country. Redbeards prospered in China; why shouldn't we do the same here? We knew hard work, and how to open a shop with scraped-together capital.

But, when Grey Beard had jumped overboard, all such thoughts flapped off like a startled bird. Up to that moment, I was set on getting rid of the boy. Even if I had known how to swim, I would have backed away and muttered good riddance. That brat had entered my life suddenly; he could leave it in the same way.

Now, I needed to become a superior man and soar with the gods. Had I learned nothing from five years in Gold Mountain? Did I want to bring home nothing but the shit stains inside my pants? Didn't I want to be better than the shit-hole redbeards? This would be the best story to tell, the one with a great surprise. The boy must be raised well, safe from spiteful stepmothers. He shouldn't be taunted about his Chinese father. He ought to be embraced by those aunts
and uncles who loved him. He should be fed well, and have warm clothes to wear. The best and only person to do this was Mary.

The merchant proved honest about Goddess but not his child-minding skill.

“He ran off! I rushed outside but didn't know which way to go. His people live over there!”

China men were leery of Native villages, fearful of sudden death, or worse, being outsmarted by the locals. I hurried around cabins and plots of vegetables. A black chicken with a bright red comb scuttled through fresh laundry hanging among wood smoke. At weather-beaten sheds I smelled straw and dung, heard horses stirring. The village was quiet. People were fishing at the river. Maybe the boy had come here with his mother and knew people he could hide with.

I called out.

Did the brat even know that he had an English name? Good thing it was one that I could pronounce.

An old woman sat in front of a house, weaving a basket. A nearby dog barked and lunged at me, but its sturdy leash held.

I greeted the woman in Chinook. She calmed the dog and dismissed me with a wave.

By the river, I spotted the red and blue of Peter's new clothes. Children were pitching pebbles into a ring of white stones. With every toss, a child shouted.

I went from behind to nab the brat with one swoop and avoid trouble. His shoulder was thin as paper; his shirt was gritty with sand.

“We go eat.” I spoke in Chinook, cheerful as possible.

He pulled away. His dark eyes hardened.

“We go to Mother,” I said. “Go home.”

I scooped him up. He screamed and punched my face. I twisted my head from side to side, wanting to slam him to the ground. How dare he hit an adult? Was he loose in the brain? This demon!

A man ran up, shouting in Chinook. “Put down! Let boy go!”

“My son,” I declared.

“Boy not China.”