Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [145]
He shut his eyes again. He did not want to die at the hands of these Redskins. It had never occurred to him when he and Ah-Lam’s wife boarded the steamship last year that they might both wind up dead in Gold Mountain. His dad had not scraped together all that money for the head tax for him to die within the year.
There was more noise in the room now, a scuffling sound which might be leather boots on the mud floor, or a knife being pulled from its sheath. There were voices too, male and female. He could not understand a word. Kam Shan knew they were gathering around him because he could feel heavy breathing on his face.
Oh help me, my Emperor … Kwan Kung … Tam Gung … merciful Kuan Yam … Jesus … Saint Paul … Saint Peter. Kam Shan summoned up all the deities he could think of. If you get me out of this, I swear I’ll make you a gold statue, I swear I won’t make Dad angry any more, I’ll write to Mum every month, I won’t steal Dad’s money ever again, I swear.…
But it was no use. He felt the knife blade on his forehead. Strangely, it did not hurt. It felt rough and scratchy, a bit like sandpaper on his skin.
If you’re going to kill me then do it with one slash, I can’t stand pain, I really can’t stand pain.…
His prayer was silent but his eyelids fluttered like moths’ wings.
“You’ve been asleep for a day. It’s time to wake up,” said a woman’s voice.
Her English was broken, but he could still understand.
His eyes sprang open. The thing that lay on his forehead was not a knife blade but a cracked and calloused hand, a woman’s hand. Her face was weathered a coppery colour, and the grime that marked its creases looked like verdigris. Next to her stood a man and the round-faced girl.
“Are you awake? I’ll bring you some water,” said the girl, not bothering to hide her excitement. When she spoke, he could see two rows of uneven, yellowed teeth, which Kam Shan somehow found calming.
She brought water and Kam Shan gulped it all down. It left a burnt, smoky taste in his mouth. He let her take the bowl back: “Is there any more?” The girl smiled. “You mustn’t drink too much at once, you’ve been dry for days. Have something to eat, then drink some more.” The girl spoke much better English than her mother, and Kam Shan had no difficulty understanding. His belly rumbled thunderously. He was so hungry he was beyond the niceties of politeness. “Is there any porridge?” was what he wanted to say, but he did not know the word in English. What he finally said was: “Can I have rice, rice with water?”
The girl looked blank but her mother gave a broad smile. “He wants porridge,” she said, using the Chinese word. “Chinese people like eating porridge with black eggs in it.” It’s pickled eggs, not black eggs, thought Kam Shan. He looked dully at her, his lips trembling, and said: “Anything’ll do.” She bent down and picked up a pair of tongs, took something from the stones in the firepit and put it in his water bowl. “It’s cooked,” she said. “Eat it up.”
Kam Shan looked at the black thing in his bowl. It smelled burnt, like roast meat. There was no salt or oil on it but he did not care. Down it went. It was fish, he realized, and it made only the smallest dent in his hunger. He remembered how his mother and grandmother impressed on him that he must never, ever, ask for second helpings when he was a guest in someone’s house, but today he did not care.
He swallowed hard a few times, enough to wet his throat and form the words “a bit more” in a parched voice. But before he could get them out, the woman had gone to the fire and came back with another piece of fish, bigger than the first, which she put into his bowl. Kam Shan ate it more slowly. There were no chopsticks so he used his fingers. His fingers felt warm, and he was aware of the girl’s eyes on them. Her gaze seemed to coat them in a layer of oil. Now that he was no longer so hungry, he began to feel clumsy and flustered.
He finished the fish, bones and all. He put down the bowl and burped loudly, filling the air around him with a strong fishy smell.
He looked around him