Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [157]
It was several months old and had passed through many hands, each of which had left its mark on it. Kam Shan started to read it in minute detail, character by character. But then his eyes fell on one small item of news, and everything else in the newspaper receded into the background.
Chinatown’s barbers have recently been doing a roaring trade. The success of the revolution means an end to pigtails and the Chinese have wasted no time in shaving their heads in preparation for the celebrations of the first New Year of the Republic.
The Chinese Times, 12 February 1912
He put down the newspaper. His first thought was to get hold of a pair of scissors. When finally, several weeks later, he managed with some difficulty to borrow a pair from a Redskin, he hesitated. It should be his father wielding those scissors, he decided. Not him.
Dad. Oh, Dad.
The words filled Kam Shan with a sense of urgency. Home. He must go home immediately.
It was not an easy journey. It was a hard winter and the snow was deep. The cloth shoes his mother made him were soon worn through, but he had managed to buy a pair of thick deerskin boots from a Redskin. The rivers were frozen over so there were no boats; he had to make the journey on foot. Whenever he came to a market, he took photographs of people and taught the Redskins how to make charcoal. In return, he asked not for money but for food and warm clothing. His cowhide bag was sometimes stuffed to overflowing. On occasion, he could not reach a village before nightfall and had to take shelter in a hollow tree or a cave, but he kept his spirits up with the thought that every night brought him closer to home.
On the last stage of the journey, he hitched a ride on a cart going to Vancouver. When the man put him down in Chinatown, he went on impulse to the office of the The Chinese Times. All the staff were new, and only the old man on the door recognized him. “Where’s Mr. Fung?” asked Kam Shan. “Gone back to China. Been gone a long while.” “Has he got himself a job in the Republican government?” “Job? No fucking way! The Hung Mun members mortgaged their properties and gave the money to Mr. Sun to go back and seize power in China. But once the Cudgel got what he wanted, he forgot about the Hung Mun. They haven’t seen hide nor hair of him.”
Kam Shan said nothing. Mr. Fung was a raging torrent, and he, Kam Shan, was a mere grain of sand dragged along in its wake. In the process, Mr. Fung had let down the brethren of the Hung Mun, and he had let down his mum and dad.
He would not let his parents down ever again by going near that raging torrent. From now on, the revolution was not his business.
From now on, his parents would be his only concern.
These last two years, Dad, I haven’t earned a cent to send to Mum and Granny. As he walked, Kam Shan rehearsed what he would say when he saw his father. You’ve had to save every cent to pay back the debt from building the diulau. But starting today, you just watch me. Starting today, it won’t be you and Uncle Ah-Lam who do the muck-spreading, it’ll be me and Loong Am who do all the heavy, dirty, stinking jobs. Except for killing pigs, that is. I can’t kill pigs. You can be my helper from now on, and I’ll be the roof beam that holds up the family home. I’m going to make good use of my camera from now on. The Redskins give me a couple of days’ food for every photograph, and I’ve heard you can charge two dollars for picture in the city.
Oh, Dad, I promise you I’m going to earn enough money to keep Mum and Granny and my brother, and us over here as well. Do you believe me, Dad?
Kam Shan got to the outskirts of New Westminster at dusk. As he went up the cracked stone steps to the front door, he felt an ocean of pent-up tears threaten to overwhelm him.