Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [158]
The red lanterns from the year of his arrival were still there, although they had grown increasingly yellowed and tatty at the edges. But the New Year couplets were different. The old ones had been worded and written by his father:
May those back home enjoy a favourable end to the old year;
May we in Gold Mountain reap bumper crops in the new year.
And across the top, Peace to the whole family.
The lines he saw today looked as if they had been bought ready-made from Chinatown. The paper was gold-flecked and the writing was neat, but the message was trite:
Building the family with hard work; Blessing the children with longevity.
And, across the top, May the new year be auspicious.
Why had his father not written the couplets? He had never bought New Year couplets written by anyone else before—he thought no one else wrote in a decent hand. Had something happened to him?
Kam Shan went weak at the knees at the thought. He managed to prop himself against the door jamb and knock.
Please God, let it be Dad who opens the door. Please let him be all right. If he’s all right, I won’t just walk in, I’ll kneel down in the doorway and knock my head on the ground a hundred times to show how remorseful I am.
He had to wait a long time before someone finally came to the door.
It was the hired hand, Loong Am.
When Loong Am saw Kam Shan, he leapt back and slammed the door shut. Kam Shan was nonplussed. Then he realized that Loong Am must think he was a ghost. He thundered on the door, shouting: “I’m Kam Shan! I’m alive! Come and touch my hand. It’s warm. Dead people are cold!”
There was no sound from the other side of the door.
Kam Shan tried again. “Loong Am, if I was a ghost, why would I need you to open the door for me? Come and look through the window. Can’t you see my shadow? Ghosts don’t have shadows.”
After a long pause the door finally opened, and Loong Am cautiously emerged, his hair almost standing on end with fright. He looked Kam Shan very carefully up and down before asking: “Where have you been, Kam Shan? Your dad was frantic. He searched high and low; he practically went to the gates of hell for you. And why have you still got a pigtail? The Republic was set up a while ago.”
Kam Shan did not answer. “Where’s my dad?” he asked.
Loong Am sighed. “Your granny was very ill. Your dad went back to Hoi Ping. He’s not been gone a month.”
Kam Shan’s bag dropped to the floor with a thud. He stared blankly in front of him. Loong Am, alarmed at the look on his face, hastily asked: “Have you eaten? There’s some porridge in the pot. Shall I heat some for you?” Kam Shan stood rooted to the spot, still wordless. Finally, he pulled himself together and said: “Ink stone.” Loong Am did not understand until Kam Shan gestured wearily: “Get me dad’s ink stone.” Loong Am hurriedly fetched the ink stone, paper and brushes from the other room. “Good thing you’ve come back,” he said. “I haven’t had anyone to write for me since your dad left. When you’ve finished writing to your dad, you can write a letter home for me.”
“Where’s Ah-Lam?” Kam Shan asked as he ground the ink and prepared to write.
“Dead. The month after you left. He got very confused. He used to wander off into the fields without any trousers on. The yeung fan were so scared they called the police. In the end, he started to piss and shit any time, any place he felt like it.”
The brush poised in mid-air as Kam Shan fumbled for words which failed him.
Kam Shan pulled the curtain to one side.
The curtain was black. It was padded with cotton wadding, and was very thick, though lumpy and uneven. It was covered in marks and shiny grease stains. It had been used to wipe hands after shitting, mouths after eating, and noses after blowing. Every mark told a story and the curtain wore them all like a badge of shame.
Today he was seeing Chinatown in all its nakedness. Kam Shan’s heart thudded in his