Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [137]
Kam Shan smelt the reek of blood the minute he dressed and stepped outside that morning. It was no longer fresh but just as pungent, and there were suspicious patches of a dark brownish colour under the walnut tree outside the door. Kam Shan gave an almighty sneeze. Acid came up from his empty belly, and he squatted at the edge of the path, retching violently.
“If you don’t get going right now, we’ll be selling salted meat instead of fresh!” Ah-Fat shouted at him.
Ah-Fat was appalled at his own words. He had intended to say something like “Let’s go. When we’ve sold the meat, I’m taking you for a treat.” But those words died in this throat. Off his tongue rolled something completely different—strange, icy and wounding. He wanted to take it back the moment he said it. He did not know why his mouth fought his mind every time he talked to his son.
Kam Shan said nothing. He went into the house, brought out an old quilt, and threw it into the cart. Spring nights were still cold hereabouts and if by any chance a cart wheel broke on the way home, the quilt could save their lives. Kam Shan leaned against the rolled-up quilt and handed the whip to his father—every time father and son went out together, Ah-Fat took the reins. He was convinced Kam Shan was hot-headed and drove the horse too hard. It was an old horse, no longer as sure-footed as it had been, and Ah-Fat felt sorry for it.
The road was lined with silver birch, the dark trunks blurring into one another against the glazed blue of the sky, as they passed. A great flock of crows flew up, darkening the sky with their wings and cawing loudly. “The Cantonese call people who say unlucky things ‘crows’,” commented Ah-Fat. “And back home the caw of a crow is considered a bad omen. In Gold Mountain, the cities are full of crows and no one gives a shit when they caw.”
Kam Shan grunted but said nothing.
“I’ll take you to the department store after lunch, shall I? What would you like me to get you?” said Ah-Fat, keen to get the conversation going. Kam Shan was making a paper bird, a sparrow hawk, out of some scrap and, without looking up, said: “Whatever you say, Dad.” “What about if I get you a pair of leather shoes?” Ah-Fat tried again. Kam Shan had been wearing the cotton shoes Six Fingers made for him ever since he arrived. But fashionable young Chinese in Gold Mountain wore yeung fan leather shoes.
Kam Shan finished folding the bird but its wings were floppy and would not fly. He pulled it apart and folded it again. “Whatever you want, Dad” was his only reply.
“Would you like to buy Pastor Andrew a box of chocolates?” asked Ah-Fat. “He’s taught you English but you’ve never converted, have you?”
Kam Shan finally finished folding his paper bird and opened it out gently with two fingers. Its wings flapped up and down.
“Whatever you like, Dad.”
Looking at Kam Shan’s apathetic expression, Ah-Fat found his patience wearing thin. With difficulty he bit back an angry retort. He knew that if he spoke he would give his son a thorough tongue-lashing, and he was not going to quarrel today. So he swallowed the bitter words—and felt them turn to gall inside him.
Kam Shan tired of the paper bird and, with a wave of his hand, let it go. It was a fine day and the bird glided easily for some distance on the breeze.
“Dad, can we buy Mum a ring? A ‘grandmother green’ emerald one? Pastor Andrew’s wife has one. Her mother left it to her,” he said.
Ah-Fat was taken aback. The bitterness that filled him dissolved like water. His son had been apart from his mother for months. Fathers give sons courage; mothers give sons love, thought Ah-Fat. A life without motherly love was a comfortless one. Poor Kam Shan missed the old days, his home and his mum. And if he missed his mother, then he was not a lost cause. Six Fingers would come to Gold