Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [104]
Your husband, Tak Fat, sixteenth of the fourth month, 1907, Vancouver
It was dark by the time Ah-Fat left his shop. As he secured the shutters, he glanced casually at the calendar hanging on the wall. It was September the seventh by the Western calendar, or the first day of the eighth month according to the Chinese lunar calendar. He took a bit of tailoring chalk and drew a circle round the date—a date which, unbeknownst to him, would find itself constantly popping up in the history books in the years to come. Ah-Fat simply marked the calendar because this day had seen him finally clear the loan he had taken out on the shop. Business was brisker now that he had hired the tailor. It had not been an easy ride but Whispering Bamboos Laundry, third time round, was now finally on a sound footing. He could almost feel the dimes in his pocket gradually coming together in the form of a boat ticket to China.
He was in a good mood and in no hurry to go home. Once he had fastened the shutters and locked the door, he said to Ah-Lam and the tailor boy: “Let’s go to the Loong Kee for some snacks. It’s on me.” What he really had his mind on was drink. He had been thinking about that drink since early morning, before even a grain of rice or a drop of water had passed his lips. The signed and witnessed document stating that the debt had been paid off lay neatly folded in his pocket, banging against him with every step he took and urging him to get a move on and get that drink down.
It was pitch dark when they started off down the street, and lanterns lit up the shops that opened late. Their hazy glow pierced the darkness with eyes of varying sizes, the biggest of them concealing the gambling and opium dens. “Fuck,” said Ah-Lam, “I’m so damn fed up with the same old faces in the tea-shacks.” “Who has time to look at a girl’s face?” said the tailor. “There’s always a long queue waiting to get in.” “If they got here last year, they’re fat old hags by now,” said Ah-Lam. “They’ve had so many men queuing up to handle them, of course they’re fat,” said the tailor. Ah-Fat aimed a kick at him. “And how come you’ve learned so fast? You’re no more than a snot-nosed kid.” Ah-Lam screwed up his eyes and looked at Ah-Fat. “And what are we supposed to think of, kicking our heels here without our women, year after year?” “Come on, let’s have a drink first. When we’ve had a skinful, then we’ll see.”
That “We’ll see” concealed within it ideas which startled even Ah-Fat himself. He did not just want to drink tonight, he wanted to do something more. The document in his pocket had set him free, but he did not know what to do with his new-found freedom. His head raced ahead of his body and, like a snake without a lair, pushed its way into all the darkest nooks and crannies of Chinatown, sliding through the cracks between windows, doors and walls and prying into whatever was hidden there. That evening, head and body ran a mad race.
The three of them went into the Loong Kee and the waiter came over. “What would you like to eat?” he asked. Ah-Fat jerked his thumb at the other two. “Ask them,” he said. He lit a cigarette and began a leisurely smoke. When they had ordered food, he said: “Bring two bottles of wine, one red, one white.” The wine came and the waiter filled three small cups to the brim. Ah-Fat promptly emptied his, and then had another and another. The wine went straight to his head and the colour gradually drained from his face. Only his scar stood out crimson against the bloodless skin, looking like a worm wriggling up his cheek.
The young boy was alarmed at the sight. He picked up a piece of the crispy-roasted pig chitterlings with his chopsticks and put it in Ah-Fat’s bowl. “Eat something, before you drink any more, mister.