Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [106]
“Give me back a White Canada!”
The words started feebly, seeming tentative, lacking in conviction, but as they travelled through the throats of the marchers, they gathered strength and momentum. In no time, the words had become a roar so terrifying that both shouters and listeners were stunned into temporary silence.
Ah-Fat’s legs, folded under him, went numb. He shifted his position and pins and needles shot up from the soles of his feet to his middle.
The uniforms. Oh God, the uniforms.
He suddenly remembered that Rick had given him three hundred uniforms to wash and iron. They were of the best quality, red fabric meticulously edged with gold braid, and were worn by top-level employees who staffed the staterooms and dining rooms. All three hundred had been laundered and left folded and stacked against the wall. Six tall piles, fifty to each pile. They were right by the window, and even a glimmer of light would reveal the thick gold braiding. If the window was broken, you would only have to reach in to take them. Rick had told him that only the Vancouver Hotel could afford such luxury uniforms and that they cost fifty dollars each. How much were three hundred worth?
Ah-Fat’s head felt as if it was going to burst.
Whispering Bamboos. Maybe it was the name. Maybe he should never have picked a name like that. It had nothing to do with laundries. Time and again that name had raised his hopes to the skies, and time and again, those hopes had been dashed. Three times, actually. He decided then and there that he would never, ever, fall into that trap again.
Suddenly he heard the clatter of horses’ hooves. Then, the shrill sound of a whistle. “In the name of King Edward the Seventh,” cried a loud voice, “I order you to disperse immediately!” Cautiously, Ah-Fat crawled out from behind the rice sacks and went to the door. Outside, a group of Mounties on huge horses charged. The crowd scattered in all directions under the horses’ hooves, like a receding mud flow. Then it re-formed and ran back to the centre. This was repeated again and again. Gradually, however, the flow lost momentum, broke up into ever-smaller patches of mud and then vanished.
After the sound of shouting and hooves receded into the distance, there was absolute silence in the street. Ah-Fat unbolted the restaurant door and went out into a world he no longer recognized. Every lantern outside every shop had been torn down and lay broken on the ground, flattened by marching feet. The street had had all its eyes plucked out. Every shopfront had lost both windowpanes and frames, and the dark openings gaped wide. Not a single person, or dog, was to be seen on the dark street. They were there somewhere, he knew, hiding in those pockets of darkness. There was no moon, only a handful of pearly stars to brighten the night sky. The ground was covered in heaps of glass shards, which twinkled like a thick layer of autumnal frost. Ah-Fat walked down the street and tripped over something soft. A cat. It mewed pitifully; Ah-Fat felt the animal and his hands came away sticky with blood.
He groped his way through the streets until he got to his shop. It had no door. The plank of wood had been ripped off and lay on its side across the doorway. A shop without a door was like a person