Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [240]
He had never been so rough with her before and Yin Ling was taken aback. While she was wondering what to say, Johnny, not looking at her, felt in his jacket pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. The cigarettes were damp from the snow and he wasted several matches before he could get one to light. He smoked one, then lit another from the butt, and smoked that, and then another. After the third, Yin Ling said: “Are you trying to set the room on fire?” Johnny got another two cigarettes out without speaking and lit them. He put one in his mouth and gave the other to Yin Ling.
“You have a go.”
She put it in her mouth like Johnny did and breathed in. The first mouthful of smoke cut a hole in her throat. The second did the same but the knife seemed less fierce. By the third breath, the blade was blunt and just tickled her throat.
Johnny looked at her. “You know, Yin Ling,” he said, “you do everything with such style. Even if it’s your first time you act like you’ve been doing it all your life.” Yin Ling watched as a perfect little smoke ring issued from between her lips, grew fat and fluffy as it rose to hit the ceiling and collapsed like a soap bubble.
“Like what?”
“Like smoking. Or running away from home.”
“Huh! You’re making fun of me, I can tell.” But Johnny turned to face her and said emphatically: “Listen to me, Yin Ling. I’ve never made fun of you. You are the most interesting woman I’ve ever met.” “Because my dad’s French?” she asked, and they both laughed.
Johnny gripped Yin Ling’s shoulder: “I know you miss your family,” he said. Yin Ling shook her head vehemently but the tears came anyway. In two days’ time it would be New Year’s Eve. There would be five chairs round the table for the New Year’s Eve dinner, and two of them would be empty. No amount of complaining from her mother could fill them, though perhaps the new baby would make up for that.
Johnny did not want sex from Yin Ling that night. Instead, he cradled her in his arms as if she was a baby. He held her tight for so long that he began to get a cramp. Yin Ling slept soundly, dreamlessly. When she woke up, the room was dazzlingly bright; she could not tell whether from the sun or the snow. Dust motes danced in the light like a myriad of silver specks. Yin Ling stretched out an arm but Johnny’s pillow was empty. Instead her hand fell on a letter.
She opened the envelope. Inside were a ten-dollar bill and a scribbled note.
I’ve been sacked by the boss because the customers say we’ve spoilt the “feel” of the town and they don’t want us around. I’ve got to get on the road but I don’t know where the next stop will be. Use this money to buy yourself a train ticket to Vancouver. If you’re quick, you might make it home for New Year. The skating life’s not for you. I’m sorry, I really am.
After the fall of Hong Kong there were no more letters from China. There were still fearless folks in Chinatown risking their lives travelling to China to visit their families. They brought back the news that Wai Kwok had been killed in a Japanese bombardment. When he heard, Ah-Fat took to his bed and refused food and drink for two days.
On the third day, Ah-Fat got up of his own accord, helped himself to a big bowl of rice from the pot, added some pickled cucumber and scarfed it all. He put the bowl down and said to Cat Eyes: “Get out ten dollars and tell Kam Shan to take it to the Chinese Benevolent Association.”
Cat Eyes pulled a face: “We donated ten dollars last time.”
Ah-Fat’s eyes bulged from their sockets. “Are you waiting till the Japs raze Hoi Ping to the ground before you do anything?” he shouted.
Age had made Ah-Fat apathetic, and it was a long time since they had seen him so fired up. Kam Shan tried to catch her eye, but she looked away. He tugged at her