Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [130]
The day that Ah-Fat fetched Kam Shan from the detention cell at Customs and Immigration, Kam Shan had no time to become acquainted with the marvels of Vancouver. They headed straight home. It was well into autumn by then and the fruit trees had lost their leaves. All the vegetables had been harvested and the land lay bare and bleak. A small, flimsy shack stood at the edge of the field, with a rough fence erected around it. Along the fence were a number of large, upended baskets, the “pens” for a hundred or so chickens and ducks that squawked and quacked frantically. It had just rained and, at the edge of the track, piglets rootled through the muddy puddles, flicking their tails and leaving behind piles of smelly dung on the ground. The field, the hut, the track—the entire scene was bleak and desolate in a way that Spur-On Village never was.
It was not that Kam Shan knew nothing of Gold Mountain. But his expectations had been gleaned from his father’s Gold Mountain suitcases, Gold Mountain clothing and Gold Mountain habits. That was the far-distant Gold Mountain. He had not the faintest idea that the real Gold Mountain would not live up to his dreams. The truth left him dumbstruck.
Kam Shan followed Ah-Fat to the hut without speaking. They pushed open the door. An old man sat inside, lighting a pipe. There were stools in the hut but the old man was squatting on the floor, making slurping sounds—not from sucking his pipe but from the trails of snot which ran in and out of his nostrils with each breath. It was a warm day but he wore an old padded jacket, the front of which was encrusted with bits of dried rice and sauce.
“Kneel and kowtow to your uncle Ah-Lam,” said Ah-Fat to his son. Kam Shan was taken aback; he scarcely recognized the old man. It was only two weeks since Ah-Fat and Ah-Lam had come to the detention centre to visit Ah-Lam’s wife and Kam Shan. But the death of his wife had reduced him to a feeble and senile state. A man really could not live without a wife.
Ah-Fat got Kam Shan’s bundle down from the cart, then wrung out a wet towel and gave it to his son to wipe his face and neck. “Kam Shan,” he said, “I’ve been thinking I really want to send you to school before you start working. There’s a school here on the way to the farmers’ market. I can drop you off on my way.” Kam Shan shook his head. “But Mum sent me to help you. Mum said you were only a year older than me when you got here, and the moment you got off the boat you were working to support the family.”
Ah-Fat was momentarily lost for words. He could not help remembering his arrival with Red Hair all those years ago—it was like another life. Red Hair’s bones must have turned to dust by now. He sighed: “I had no choice back then. It’s different now. The children of Gold Mountain men all go to school when they get here. And you’ve got to learn some English, haven’t you? I’m hoping you’ll soon be able to do business with the yeung fan.” “I’ve studied all I need to study,” said Kam Shan. “And I know a bit of English, the missionaries taught me. I’m not going to any school.”
Ah-Lam sniffed noisily. “And if you don’t go to school, what’ll you do?” he asked. “Work the land? Look after the pigs? Slaughter the chickens? Hardly any Gold Mountain children do that kind of heavy work. Their parents mollycoddle them.” Kam Shan was silent for a minute. Then he said: “Dad, I can go to town with you and sell the vegetables. I mean, I do speak a bit of English.…”
Ah-Fat had often heard Six Fingers say how pigheaded their son was, and decided to drop the subject for now. There would be time enough to work on changing his mind. He stifled his reservations and said: “If you don’t want to go to school, I won’t force you, son. But there’s a Protestant church about fifteen minutes from here. The old pastor comes around almost every day to collect the hired hands and take them to church. You can go there and