Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [105]
They drank and drank, went out the back to piss streams of yellow urine, and came back to drink some more. Ah-Lam and the boy were scarlet in the face by this time. “You two have been in Gold Mountain all these years,” the boy said. “Not like us who’ve just got here and don’t have anyone to help us out. Why’s it taken till today to pay off the debts?” “Ask him,” Ah-Lam said recklessly, jerking a thumb at Ah-Fat. “Your boss here donated everything he had, lock, stock and barrel, to the Monarchist Reform Party. That left both of us with fuck-all. We’ve been through hell. And after he gave them that huge bank draft, do you think we’ve heard shit from them?”
Ah-Fat flushed red and hurled his cup to the ground. He jabbed his finger in Ah-Lam’s face and shouted: “No wonder the Qing Empire is practically on its last legs with sonofabitch citizens like you who don’t give a shit about our country being humiliated.” Ah-Lam lost his temper and seized Ah-Fat by the front of his jacket: “You puffed-up little jerk! So I’m a sonofabitch? And you’re a high mandarin, are you? You may think you’re a Monarchist but the Emperor doesn’t even know who you are!”
The boy tried to pull Ah-Lam off. “Don’t go saying things like that, mister! If word gets back, they’ll murder your whole family.” Ah-Lam was too drunk to care and flung off the boy’s hand. “The world’s a big place and the Emperor’s a long way off. By the time they get to hear of it, there’ll have been a change of dynasty.” The boy went pale in terror at this. Grabbing Ah-Fat’s sleeve he pulled him towards the door, whispering in a trembling voice: “Mister Ah-Fat, let’s go home. It’s late.” But Ah-Fat was in no mood for caution. “Home? What d’you want to go home for?” They scuffled and the sleeve of Ah-Fat’s jacket ripped at the shoulder. Ah-Fat looked at the tear and slapped the boy’s face, furious: “How dare you, little snot-nosed kid!” The boy put his hand to his cheek and said nothing. Ah-Lam threw down his cup and joined the fray: “Ah-Fat, you’re a big man, why are you taking it out on the kid?”
They were interrupted by the sound of shouting in the street and a loud crack like a gunshot. Before they had time to recover from the shock, there was another, even louder, crack. The restaurant owner ran in bleeding heavily from the head and covered in shards of glass. “Ah-Fat, you know a bit of English, go and see what’s happening outside, will you? The street’s full of yeung fan.” Ah-Fat, who had sobered up at the noise, ran outside. There were two holes as big as a wash basin in the glass windows of the Loong Kee Café and the wind was whistling through. A dark mass of people streamed along the road, fists in the air, carrying banners, flags and sticks. There were too many of them to hear what it was they were shouting, but Ah-Fat finally made out words like “Chinaman … out.…” The yeung fan were here to make trouble.
They had come before, but never so many. The restaurant owner suddenly remembered his two children playing in the street and rushed out, to find them knocked to the ground by the marchers. He put one under each arm and ran back inside. Ah-Fat shouted to the waiter to bolt the door and put out the lights, then herded everyone towards the kitchen. Behind it was a small storeroom piled with sacks of rice. Ah-Fat made them take shelter there.
The young son of the restaurant owner had a lump the size of an egg on his forehead where he had been hit by a stone. He wailed loudly for his mum to come and rub it. Ah-Fat put his hand over the boy’s mouth. “If you keep crying, the foreign devils will get in here and kill you all,” he said in a low voice. The terrified child choked back his sobs and gave a little whimper.
Ah-Fat squatted behind the rice sacks, listening to what sounded like