Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [241]
“Even if I sold myself, I couldn’t raise ten dollars. You know what we spent the last few cents on.”
Cat Eyes’ restaurant had opened a new branch and Cat Eyes had been transferred there as waitress. It was a long way off and Cat Eyes was too pregnant to walk. She had spent twelve dollars on an old banger of a Ford.
Ah-Fat pointed at the dishes on the table: “I’ll just eat one bowl of rice a day from now on. That way we can put a bit by, can’t we?”
In the last couple of years, the local Chinese had sent two contingents of young men to China to join the war effort, with some receiving training in San Francisco from Nationalist airmen sent over from China. Arms and equipment cost money, and so did food supplies. The Chinese Association had passed the hat round several times, but less and less money was raised each time. Then, articles appeared in the overseas Chinese newspapers calling on every family to have one bowl less of rice every day and send the money saved to China to help the war effort.
“You’re supposed to have one bowl less every day, Dad,” said Kam Shan, “not just one bowl a day. Who’ll fight the Japanese devils if we all starve to death?” “Huh! What do singing girls care?” said his father and, folding his hands into his sleeves, went upstairs to his room.
Kam Shan had had enough schooling to recognize the lines from the old poem. He looked at Cat Eyes: “Country people can give birth even in pigsties. What makes you so precious all of a sudden?”
Cat Eyes knew this was a dig at her because she had bought a car. It was on the tip of her tongue to point out it took two to make a baby, but Kam Shan had gone out, slamming the door.
He did not come home till dinner, and Cat Eyes had gone to work by then. The house lights were blazing and his father was bent over a sheet of paper on the kitchen table, brush in hand.
It was a long time since he last got out paper and ink, and his writing hand shook badly. The ink loaded onto the wolf-hair brush meandered across the paper; in large characters, Ah-Fat had written:
Fong Yiu Mo (martial splendour)
Fong Yiu Kwok (patriotic splendour)
Fong Yiu Keung (unyielding splendour)
Fong Yiu Bon (splendour of the nation)
Fong Yiu Tung (eastern splendour)
Kam Shan realized that his father was choosing a name for Cat Eyes’ son. After “Kam,” the next-generation name was “Yiu.” The only grandson of that generation born to the Fongs was Yiu Kei, who had drowned in the No-Name River two years ago. Ah-Fat’s only remaining hope was the bump in Cat Eyes’ belly.
When Kam Shan came in, Ah-Fat threw down his brush and lit a cigarette. Ash dropped from the tip as he smoked it and burned a tiny scorch hole in the paper.
“Which name do you like? I think it ought to be Yiu Mo. We need military brilliance to save the country.”
“I need a piss,” said Kam Shan, and hurried to the toilet. He stood holding himself over the toilet but could only squeeze out a few drops of urine. His father called him but Kam Shan turned a deaf ear. Suddenly a dark thought crept unbidden into his mind. What if his father died before Cat Eyes’ baby was born? Back in their village, it was rare for a man to live past sixty. His father was seventy-eight. Surely he could not last much longer…
Cat Eyes’ shift finished at midnight and she drove the juddering old Ford home. To her surprise, Kam Shan was not at his usual post by the door. He had gone to bed.
But he was not asleep. When Cat Eyes came in, he shifted over and made room for her. Cat Eyes got in under the covers and felt her body go soft as cotton batting in the warmth. In all her years with Kam Shan, he had never before warmed the bed for her.
She was just drifting into sleep when something roused her and she sat up with a jerk. Pulling Kam Shan’s hand to her, she said: “Feel that! The little rascal’s kicking me!”
Kam Shan put his hand on Cat Eyes’ pale belly. It felt as if a puppet on invisible strings was hiding inside and kicking out its legs.
“I went to Fat Kei Herbalists yesterday and the herbalist looked at my belly