Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [13]
When he had had his fill of opium, Yuen Cheong would make his eldest son sit beside him and, breaking off a piece of sesame or green bean cake, put it into Ah-Fat’s hand. “And what did Mr. Auyung teach you today, son? Did you practise your calligraphy?” He had seen straightaway that his eldest was a quick learner. Maybe one day his son might pass the Imperial examinations. He racked his brains to see if he could remember any Cantonese operas in which a slaughterman’s son passed the Imperial examinations creditably enough to achieve an audience with the Son of Heaven in the Golden Carriage Palace—but could not think of any.
Looking at the smoking equipment scattered around the opium couch, Ah-Fat said nothing but his eyebrows drew together in a worried frown. His father was used to this expression on his son’s face; since the moment he was born, the boy had seemed grown up. Yuen Cheong soaked a piece of beef jerky in the milk to soften it and stuffed it into Ah-Fat’s mouth, saying gently: “Isn’t Daddy good to you then, son?”
Ah-Fat swallowed the morsel before it choked him: “Mr. Auyung says foreigners sell us opium to break our spirit,” he said. “If the spirit of the people is broken, then the country is broken too.” Now it was his father who could think of nothing to say. After a few minutes, he ruffled his son’s head. “How many years has your old dad got left then? After that, it’ll be you the family depends on. So long as you don’t smoke, you can save the family. I’ll be passing the responsibility on to you sooner or later.”
Ah-Fat sighed: “Mr. Auyung says, if the young Emperor can break free of the Dowager and ascend the throne, he can use his knowledge of the West and work out a way to contain the Western powers.…” but his father quickly put his hand over his son’s mouth. “Isn’t he afraid of losing his head, saying things like that?” he cried. “Us ordinary folk shouldn’t meddle in politics. I just want you to look after your family.”
But circumstances put a premature end to all Fong Yuen Cheong’s plans for his son’s future. Six years after he so unexpectedly came into his fortune, he overdosed on opium and died on his couch. In retrospect, he was lucky to die when he did. Even if he had not, it might still have been his last smoke. By the time he died, almost all the Fongs’ land had been sold, and the family’s remaining valuable jewellery had been pawned. All that was left was his stone-flagged residence—and the queues of creditors waiting at the gates.
That was how Fong Tak Fat, aged fifteen, became head of the household in the space of a night.
Most of the Fong compound was sold and Ah-Fat lived with his family in the first courtyard. They rented back some of the land they had sold, and Ah-Fat was the main labourer. With her bound feet Mrs. Mak could not do farm work, but she did have one special skill. Her brocaded cloth was the finest in the township. She sewed beads onto the cloth and worked it with flower designs in gold and silver thread. She made aprons, shoe uppers, hats and belts which she could sometimes sell on market day for a few cents. She was in demand in the village too, to embroider garments for weddings, funerals, births and longevity birthday parties. She did not charge a fee, but in exchange for her work the family would send a strong, young farmhand to help Ah-Fat in the fields at sowing and harvest times.
The winter that Yuen Cheong died, his youngest son, Ah-Sin, had an epileptic fit. While eating his dinner he suddenly fell from the stool and bit off a piece of his tongue. When he came to, he seemed only half there. From that day on, he had fits everywhere—in the fields, on the ground, in bed, at the table, in the toilet—all completely without warning.
Mrs. Mak wove and embroidered from morning till night. Eventually eyestrain, together with her worries