China Dog (6 page)

Hua Fan watched the
lo fon
stranger leave, the brown package tucked at a cocky angle under his arm. As soon as the door closed, he spat into an enamel spittoon in the corner of the room. Then he picked up the iron and slammed it on the surface of the ironing table. He took a deep breath as he pushed back the memories of humiliation that now covered him like a coat of slime. The blow of ice against his mouth, drops of blood on snow. The memory of those blue eyes filling him with anger again and again. He dreaded walking into town, hearing those strange sounding words, taunting, full of hate –
Ching, Ching, China-man
. He was sick of always ingratiating himself to these white devils. Again he reminded himself,
This is not my real life
. In his mind he saw himself back in the village, dressed like a gentleman in fine clothes as he presided over the operations of his teahouse chatting with a few select customers, amazing them with stories about the Gold Mountain, laughing as he told them about the
lo fons –
the big-nosed hairy giants. Yes! It was true that their hair grew not only in different colours, but all over their bodies and half their faces.

Hua Fan thought about the letter from the village schoolmaster. He thought about his sick mother. He knew that Elder
Uncle would be asking for news. He sucked in the right corner of his mouth. How to tell Elder Uncle that he would be leaving. How could he tell without seeming ungrateful?

He reached under the counter and pulled out a sack of laundry and emptied it on the floor. Squatting beside the pile, Hua Fan saw how mechanically his hands sorted the soiled clothing, indifferently picking up dirty socks and underwear. He no longer even noticed the smells. When he finished he stood and stretched, then walked over to the ironing table. A quick glance at the basket filled with rolls of wrinkled laundry told him that they should be finished by two the next morning. He absent-mindedly picked up a shirt from the basket. He blew into the spray can and cast a fine mist over the shirt. Then he picked up an iron from the pot-bellied stove, pressed it on the table and checked the heat with the palm of his hand. Hua Fan chuckled silently to himself as he remembered the first time Elder Uncle showed him how to iron the
lo fons
’ shirts. First the cuffs and sleeves, then the shoulders, last the body. But it was the folding that had seemed the most mysterious. Although Elder Uncle’s fingers were thick and calloused, they moved as quickly and deftly as a magician’s. Suddenly the shirt was a tidy rectangular package with the front tabs overlapping and the buttons straight down the middle. It had taken Hua Fan several weeks to be able to duplicate the result, with half the speed.

Elder Uncle opened the back door, letting a rush of spring air into the laundry. He poked his head inside and called excitedly,
“Hua Fan, Hua Fan, come outside and look.” Hua Fan stood the iron in an upright position and walked into the backyard.

Elder Uncle was crouching in the garden, examining the seedlings. He loved the garden. As soon as the snow started to melt, he looked forward to the ground warming up, then turning over the soil. After he finished digging, Elder Uncle would take several deep breaths, inhaling the rich spring smell of the earth. He proudly pointed out to Hua Fan how the Chinese method of gardening was superior to the
lo fons
’. The soil was piled up into raised rectangular beds. The seeds were then scattered, covering the entire area. In contrast, the
lo fons
planted in long rows separated by paths. A wasteful use of space. Elder Uncle had saved the seeds from last year’s plants. There were beds of
bak choy, toy tchlem
, mustard greens, and snow peas. The snow peas climbed up a framework of twigs along the west side of the garden.

“Look, Hua Fan, look.” Elder Uncle was inspecting a winter melon plant. Hua Fan walked carefully between the beds and bent down. He gently lifted the young dusky-green leaves and saw a tiny green flower bud attached to the vine. Hua Fan looked at his uncle and smiled.

“We’ll have to take good care of this, eh, Hua Fan. Make sure it’s covered when the nights get cold.”

“Yes, Elder Uncle, yes.”

Elder Uncle moved to a second winter melon plant. He tenderly parted the leaves, like a loving parent loosening the grip of a baby. There was another tiny green bud. Beaming with satisfaction, he looked at Hua Fan. “If we take special
care with these plants, we can look forward to winter melon soup even in December.” Hua Fan nodded silently, stood up, and quickly turned to go inside.

That evening as they were finishing their evening meal, Elder Uncle said to Hua Fan. “You have become like a son to me. You are not a big man, but you are hard-working and honest. You know how to endure life in
Gam Sun
, how to eat bitter. When I die this business will be yours.”

“Elder Uncle, I owe you a great deal, but you mustn’t talk about such matters. You still have lots of time.”

Elder Uncle had been here so long that he rarely talked about going back. His wife was getting old, beyond child bearing. His two daughters were married, now the responsibility of other men. There was nothing more for him to do but work and send money home. But not Hua Fan. He would not stay in the Gold Mountain. He would return home. He would be rich enough to marry the prettiest girl in the village, be respected by everyone who lived there. He wanted to know that if he claimed “number two richest man in the village” no one would claim number one.

“But Hua Fan, I’m getting old. This business is all I have. Now, tell me what news is there in the letter from China.”

“Not much,” responded Hua Fan and right away he knew that
Gam Sun
and Elder Uncle would be harder to leave than he had ever dreamed.

The next Sunday, Hua Fan and Elder Uncle walked to a stream at the edge of town. They each carried a round bamboo basket and a knife. When they came to the edge of the stream, they stopped. The clear water sparkled, flowing over a riverbed of rocks and mud. Along the banks and into the middle of the stream grew thick beds of watercress, like clumps of dark green curly hair. Hua Fan sat down on a large rock, took a deep breath of late spring air, and looked up at the cloudless blue sky. Silhouetted against the blue were dark tree branches, sprouting tender green leaves. Elder Uncle already had his shoes and socks off and was rolling up the legs of his trousers.

“Hua Fan, don’t sit and do nothing. Start moving. There’s lots of work back in the laundry. You’re wasting time.”

“All right, all right,” said Hua Fan good-naturedly, and he started to remove his shoes and socks as he watched Elder Uncle wade gingerly into the stream.

Elder Uncle gasped,
“Eiiiyah!”

“Is it cold?” called Hua Fan.

“Freezing,” shuddered Elder Uncle.

Hua Fan slowly stepped into the stream of clear, fast-moving water, feeling all at once the hard rocks and the soft, sinking mud. Both men bent over to grasp bunches of the dark green plants with one hand and slice the bases of the stalks with the other.

Hua Fan was thinking about the taste of watercress soup, the first bowl of the season, when suddenly he felt a shower of stones pelting him on the back. He and Elder Uncle looked up and saw a group of boys standing above on the riverbank.
They were laughing as they threw their stones. “Look! The chinks eat grass!” Hua Fan ran up the slope with his knife still in his hand, the blade glinting in the sun. The boys turned and ran.

Elder Uncle called out, “Hua Fan, stop. Don’t be foolish. What chance have you got?” He walked toward Hua Fan and handed him his basket of watercress, his shoes and socks. Hua Fan took everything and stomped on ahead, cursing under his breath. Elder Uncle sighed and followed behind.

That night Elder Uncle simmered the watercress in a stock of pork bones. Hua Fan savoured the flavour of the soup in his mouth. It was rich and tangy with a slight clear bitter edge. But it was not enough to erase the smouldering anger that he still felt toward the white devil boys. He couldn’t understand how Elder Uncle never seemed to let it affect him. It was as if he had wrapped himself in some kind of impenetrable shell that no
lo fon
would ever be able to pierce.

“Hua Fan, stop thinking about those devil boys. Remember, this is not our home. One day we will leave and go back to China.” This was the opening Hua Fan had been waiting for. “Elder Uncle, my mother is ill. The village schoolteacher wrote and told me.” But before he could continue, Elder Uncle interrupted.

“Yes, Hua Fan, I know. I am going back. I must go home to China.” He put down his rice bowl and chopsticks and looked steadily at Hua Fan. “As head of the family, I must return to China. My own wife is getting old. Your mother, my dead brother’s wife, is ill. And I, too, am old.”

Hua Fan stopped eating and stared at his uncle. “But it’s my mother who is sick. I must see her before she dies.”

“Hua Fan, she may recover. Anyway, when I return I will tell her all about you, how you’ve been like a son to me, how hard you have worked. And if it is meant to be, I will see that she dies in peace.”

“But Elder Uncle, how will I manage without you? I couldn’t manage all by myself.”

“You’ll be fine. What is there to know about washing clothes? I will find someone in the village to come and join you. You will not be alone for too long.”

“Elder Uncle …”

“You are still young. One day you will return and take a wife. Don’t you see
Gam Sun
is our only chance for a better life? For the future generation? I have been a luckless man. My life has been nothing but hard work. Maybe yours will be different, who knows? But if you work hard, for certain your children will have something better.”

Hua Fan couldn’t believe his ears. He wanted to scream,
No! I have no intention of staying! Don’t you understand how much I hate it here. I’m not like you. I don’t want to be like you! I need to go home
. But he felt as if his vocal chords had been slashed, dangling uselessly inside his throat. All along he had assumed that he would be the one to return. It had never occurred to him that Elder Uncle might also want to go back. The old man seemed so adjusted to life in
Gam Sun
, to being an outsider.

Elder Uncle pleaded, “Don’t you see? If I don’t go back now, it might be too late?”

Hua Fan’s lips felt dry as he opened his mouth and swallowed another spoonful of soup. He looked at the rows of wooden troughs along one wall, the stacks of bamboo baskets in a corner. In the middle of the wooden floor stood the washing machine, a looming, silent water buffalo, a sentry standing on guard, preventing escape. As he looked again at Elder Uncle, Hua Fan saw no hint of triumph. Instead he saw a bottomless depth of sadness. For the first time he saw the heavy lines in the old man’s face, the mouth set in a line of grim resignation, the sagging corners of the eyes with a tiny flicker of hope. His heart wrenched; surrendering, he understood Elder Uncle’s loneliness in this land of strangers, his silent dream of returning home to rest, to die.

“Yes, Elder Uncle,” Hua Fan swallowed. “I see.”

ACCORDING TO MAY-YEN
Lum, all the illnesses of the Western world could be traced to the consumption of cold food. But whenever she said to her daughter, “You shouldn’t eat so much cold food. You know, ice cream, potato salad. Very bad. Very hard to digest. Sit in the bottom of your stomach. Turn to mould,” Su looked at her and smiled dismissively. Even when May-Yen shouted after her, “Oh, I know, just because you’re young and strong now. You can fight those bad effects. You just wait until you’re older. Then you’ll know.” Su still didn’t really listen.

May-Yen was sitting in the living room of the apartment that she shared with her stepson, Kenny Lum, and his family. It was above his restaurant, the Lucky Star. Her daughter, Su, was sitting across from her on a gold vinyl stool, their knees just touching. Su spoke slowly with careful concern as she leaned toward her mother and stroked her hand, feeling the swollen, arthritic joints. The conversation had already been
repeated several times. “Mah, try not to worry too much about the cancer in your breast. The doctor said it hasn’t spread. He can cut it out and that will probably be it.” Secretly, Su was hoping, “If I can just move her along, with any luck I’ll get home with enough time to finish Jason’s psychological assessment.” Jason, the frustratingly bright kid who was in grade four and could barely read.

May-Yen looked at her daughter. The soothing tone of her voice, her eyes overflowing with understanding when she didn’t really understand, was so frustrating. May-Yen knew that she should be grateful that her daughter spoke English so well and was so willing to look after her needs at the hospital. But she just couldn’t help being annoyed with Su, who was so confident of the
lo fon
doctors, with her daughter who had such faith in
lo fon
medicine. “It’s not cancer, you know. The doctors here don’t know.”

“What are you saying?”

“I know what’s really wrong. My body is mouldy inside. It’s from eating all that
lo fon
food, that Canadian food, especially the cold stuff, you know, ice cream, cold meat, potato salad.… ”

“Mah, I really think you should listen to the doctor. He knows.… ”

“Dock-tah! Dock-tah! What does he know? I know. I haven’t been careful enough. And now I’m all mouldy inside.”

Su took a deep breath and patted her mother’s hand again. She was working hard to suppress a smile as she imagined her mother’s stomach all woolly with minute blue and grey fungi.
“Mah, just try and relax. Try not to worry too much. Let me take care of everything.” May-Yen turned her head away from her daughter. She clenched her lips tightly, not allowing a word, a sound, to escape.

Su got up and returned to the packing. She vacuumed up the dust and finished stacking the cardboard boxes, old vinyl suitcases, and green garbage bags into a cohesive pile, while May-Yen sat forlornly on a green chesterfield, watching her daughter’s every movement, wringing her hands like a set of giant worry beads.