Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [187]
Kam Ho was used to Mr. Henderson’s jokes but this one he found offensive. A flush stained his face like vermilion ink spreading across rice paper. Kam Ho was a man of few words, but his face spoke his feelings in their stead. Mr. Henderson had seen him flush many times—sometimes from embarrassment, or alarm, sometimes for some unexplained reason. But this time it was anger, the kind of anger which he had to choke back.
Mr. Henderson roared with laughter and clapped Kam Ho on the shoulder. “When I first met your father, Frank,” he said, “he was younger than you are now, but not nearly so thin-skinned. In fact, he was as tough as old boots.” Kam Ho was still red in the face, and Mr. Henderson produced a note from his pocket and pushed it into his hand. “When you go home this weekend, take your father to the new French restaurant in the bay. Tell him it’s on me.”
Kam Ho took a quick look—he was holding a crisp, new twenty-dollar bill. This was more than half his monthly salary, and certainly enough to buy several excellent meals in any restaurant. Both Mr. and Mrs. Henderson would occasionally top up his monthly wages with a bit extra, but never with a note this big. It seemed to numb his hand with its weight. He would like to have said: “No, it’s too much. I can’t accept it.” But the words refused to come. “Thank you,” he mumbled. If only Mr. Henderson had not made that offensive comment about Chinese bilge, it would have felt dignified and right to thank him. As it was, he had made that comment and Kam Ho was still angry. He felt cheapened.
But he was in no position to nurse injured feelings. Immediately, he knew what he wanted to do with the money. He would not be taking his father to a French restaurant. In fact, he would not let him catch sight of the twenty-dollar bill. He would add it to the pile of small change he was saving, then he would turn it all into a letter addressed to his mother and sealed with the Gold Mountain government’s official stamp. He had been putting money by for the head tax. He was going to make sure that his father got the family reunion he had been denied for so many years.
Kam Ho took Mr. Henderson’s briefcase and overcoat and went to the kitchen to make coffee. A cup of strong, black coffee was the first thing he wanted when he got back home—no milk, no sugar. He liked the smell of it more than the taste, and would bring the cup, clasped in both hands, to his nose and breathe deeply as the steam curled up and misted his face. He took so long over it that, sometimes, Kam Ho thought he had fallen asleep. Once, he was on the point of taking the cup from his hands when Mr. Henderson suddenly opened his eyes and said: “Jimmy, coffee in heaven can’t be any better than this.”
When he had finally finished his coffee, he asked: “Where’s Mrs. Henderson?” “She had a headache today, so she’s just taken her medicine and gone to sleep.” He would like to have said she had just drunk that “Chinese bilge.” The note in his breast pocket warmed his chest and suddenly made him talkative. He was surprised to find he could tell a joke too—but in the end, he refrained.
“Well, when she wakes up, go and get my things ready. I’m going to Saskatoon tomorrow.” Kam Ho knew he had a supply depot there and made frequent trips every year. “Is it nice there?” he asked. “That depends on who you ask. It’s nice for cattle and horses. It’s nothing but grass and more grass.” Kam Ho smiled despite himself. “There’s another good thing about it,” Mr. Henderson went on. “The fishing’s really good. Next time I make a trip, I’ll take you with me and we can do some fishing.” “I can fish,” said Kam Ho. “When I was a kid, my brother and I used to tickle