Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [197]
Most humbly, your wife, Ah-Yin, ninth day of the first month, eighteenth year of the Republic, Spur-On Village
Year nineteen of the Republic (1930)
Vancouver, British Columbia
Business was dismal at Ah-Fat’s café that day, no more than four or five customers, ordering just small portions of sausage-flavoured rice. The cook spent all afternoon propped against the stove asleep. He woke up, crammed down a large bowlful of sausage-flavoured rice, wiped the grease from his mouth, then cut himself a fat slice of cooked pork and wrapped it in a lotus leaf to take home with him. Ah-Fat had it on the tip of his tongue to tell him to put the meat back in the fridge, that it would do for tomorrow too, but he felt that would sound too harsh. He was silent for a long moment and finally pretended he had not noticed. Instead he turned his anger on himself for being so feeble.
Ah-Fat cleared away the remaining food, then went to hang a yellow silk flower in the doorway. Tomorrow was Dominion Day in Canada. It was also the seventh anniversary of the Chinese Exclusion Act. The Benevolent Association had instructed all Chinese immigrants not to mark Dominion Day with the Canadian flag, since that would be humiliating, but had distributed badges with the character for China on it. Ah-Fat always wore the badge and made his sons do the same. But nothing ever changed, though the Association held protest meetings every year and articles appeared regularly about the exclusion of Chinese.
Ah-Fat was losing heart.
Just as he was about to put up the shutters, a woman came in and ordered roast-duck noodles. Ah-Fat pulled out the meat and noodles again and prepared her order. The woman looked around for a place to sit and eat. Ah-Fat’s café was small and most customers took their orders away, so there were only two small tables and four rickety wooden chairs. She chose a clean chair, sat down and, taking a handkerchief from her pocket, wiped the table clean.
She wore a black skirt and a grey blouse, faded with much washing, and fraying at the cuffs, but still neat and clean. She appeared to be in her forties and her hair was streaked with grey. The sleek bun at the nape of her neck was adorned with a sprig of jasmine. She was extremely thin and sat perfectly straight. She wore a Benevolent Association “China” badge on her blouse. But she looked different from the usual regulars in Chinatown— and since there were very few new arrivals now, Ah-Fat knew all the women by sight. He did not recognize her.
He took the bowl of noodles and a cup of soy milk to her. “Have you just arrived in Vancouver?” he asked her politely. The woman nodded but did not speak. She wiped the chopsticks with her handkerchief and began to eat. She ate slowly, picking up the individual noodles as carefully as if she were doing embroidery. She seemed preoccupied and her ears trembled like a startled rabbit.
Ah-Fat was in a hurry to get home but it would be impolite to rush her. He brought her a second cup of soy milk when she had almost finished the first and took up his position behind her. The woman waved the milk away. “I won’t charge you, you’re the last customer,” Ah-Fat reassured her. “I’ll have to pour the rest down the drain otherwise.” She accepted it and unhurriedly continued with her meal.
“Where is it from?” she asked.
Ah-Fat thought she meant the soy milk. “Ah-Wong’s shop next door,” he said. The woman laughed. “I meant the opera music.” It occurred to Ah-Fat that she was dawdling over her meal because she wanted to listen to it. He kept a record player on the kitchen cupboard so he could put opera records on when there were no customers in the shop. The machine was old, the records extremely scratchy, and every now and then the needle would jump a groove.
“It was given to me many years ago by a friend,” Ah-Fat said. “Do you like opera?”
The woman