Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [58]
The villagers trailing behind the dust cloud saw them put down their burdens in the Fong family courtyard. Blind old Mrs. Mak sat on a low stool feeling the lion’s-head lock in the centre of each case as it was put down. One. Two. Three. Three cases were piled on top of each other and there were seven piles, the last of which only contained two cases.
So there were twenty trunks, Mrs. Mak muttered to herself, and her wizened lips parted in a gap-toothed smile.
“Off you go and cook your dinners,” she ordered the crowd of onlookers. “Ah-Fat will fix a day when every one of you, young and old, will be invited over for a banquet to celebrate his homecoming.” She kept waving her handkerchief, but her attempts to send them away were futile. An ever-increasing number of people anxious to see Ah-Fat pressed in, as impossible to brush off as stove ashes stuck to a bean cake.
She tried again: “Ah-Fat’s been on the boat home for weeks and he hasn’t had a single good night’s sleep. He fell asleep as soon as he got here, without even waiting for dinner. He needs a good rest in the comfort of his own bed. Leave him be and come back tomorrow and you can greet him properly.”
The crowd finally began to disperse.
Mrs. Mak went into the house, elbowed the bedroom door open and felt her way over to the bed. Knocking the tip of her walking stick on the floor a few times, she said: “Ah-Fat, what are you frightened of? You still count as a Gold Mountain man, even if you’re a scar-face. Those twenty cases prove what a man you are. How many people have been able to do what you’ve done? Tomorrow we’ll go out of the house together. Everyone’s got to see you sooner or later.”
There was no movement from the bed. After a few moments, Ah-Fat gave a chuckle. “Mum, how did you know I’m a scar-face?”
Mrs. Mak smiled too. “I pushed you out of my belly and you can’t lift a leg without me knowing what kind of fart’s coming out. From the moment you came into this house, you haven’t looked at me when you spoke.”
Ah-Fat sat up with an exclamation of surprise. “Mum, you may be blind but your eyes are still sharper than everyone else’s. I can see all the servants are neat and tidy and the way they speak and behave, it’s obvious they’ve been well taught.” “Your aunt takes care of all that,” said his mother. “I can’t see anything and I can’t be bothered with overseeing the servants.” “That young woman you got to hang the scrolls up, she’s prettier than all the others, and smarter too.” “Huh,” said his mother. “Leave her out of it. She’s not a servant. That’s Six Fingers, Red Hair’s wife’s little sister. All the calligraphy and the paintings in the house were done by her.”
Ah-Fat’s eyes filled with astonishment at her words. Now he had so many questions on the tip of his tongue, he just had to find a way to ask them. Finally, he thought of a way to begin:
“She’s quite grown-up now! Who taught her to write and paint?”
His mum sighed. “She’s had a hard life. Writing and painting is the only thing that keeps her alive.”
Six Fingers had come to live in Red Hair’s house along with his bride, Mrs. Kwan. She was much younger than her sister—only three when their son, Loon, was born. Before Red Hair went back to Gold Mountain for the second time, he impressed on his wife that she must get a private tutor to come and teach Loon to read and write when he was old enough. It was several years before the news of Red Hair’s death reached his wife’s ears. She was not unduly worried because, although there were no letters from him, every now and then bank drafts would arrive. It was only much later that she found out that it was Ah-Fat who had been sending them.
When Loon was six or seven years old, his mother duly found a tutor for the boy. Six Fingers was always