Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [78]
The objects they found in their search revealed only the hazy beginnings of a story. It was as if they had taken the first steps into a deep cave and were blanketed in dense, unfathomable darkness. What they had found might be of some interest to folklorists but Amy needed something more than that.
What she wanted was history. A sentence. A piece of paper. A letter which could nail their conjectures by providing incontrovertible proof. A photograph that could quell doubts and turn them into solid reality.
But there was nothing … not the smallest clue.
They picked up the briefcase and camera and prepared to go downstairs.
“Those few old things in the house we found, leave them on display,” Amy told Auyung. “I’ve photographed them for myself. And the place must be restored to its original condition. You can have gaps in history, but you can’t have substitutes. Add that clause to the contract, otherwise I won’t sign it. You can bring me the modified contract to sign at the hotel this evening.”
Auyung did not reply. After a little while, he said with a smile: “It was a marvellous feeling.”
“What feeling?” “That hug.” They both laughed.
They went down the stairs. As they turned a corner where one of the treads had collapsed, Amy missed her step and twisted her ankle. She took off her shoe and sat on the stairs to give it a rub. As she bent her head, she found herself looking at a pair of shoes. They were lying upside down in the recess at the back of the stair and she hooked them out. They were a man’s cloth shoes with hand-sewn layered soles. They seemed never to have been worn—there were no traces of mud on the soles—but the fabric on the uppers had lost the sturdiness once provided by the interlocking rows of stitching. The shoes were stuffed with cloth bags. As Amy touched the bags they fell open, to reveal a thick pile of papers rolled up inside.
They were letters.
Letters densely covered with lines of Chinese characters written with a brush.
Carefully, Amy pulled the yellowing sheets out of their envelopes and spread them out on the floor.
“Hold the magnifying glass over them,” she ordered.
“Good heavens above!” exclaimed Auyung in delight. “These haven’t been written with a fountain pen. Otherwise, the writing would have completely faded.”
Amy’s eyes lit up. “My great-grandmother? But why would she have hidden these letters back there?”
“Your great-grandmother spent her whole life waiting. First for a boat ticket to Gold Mountain, then for someone to come and collect these letters. She’s waited all these years for you to come. Don’t you believe in spirits?”
Amy suddenly recalled the pair of eyes she had seen floating in the wardrobe mirror two days before. A strange feeling crept over her and seemed to flood her heart.
It was pain, she realized finally. What she was feeling was pain.
“Auyung, I’d like to be alone with my great-grandmother for a while,” she said.
Years twenty-one to twenty-two of the reign of Guangxu (1895–1896)
Vancouver, British Columbia
My dear Ah-Yin,
Many months have passed since I left and much has happened. My address has changed several times and things have not gone smoothly so I have not been able to send dollar letters home regularly. The day you saw me off on my journey with Kam Shan in your arms, he was too small to understand but you were plunged into such deep sorrow that I can never forget it. If it were not for the weakness of the Great Qing Empire and the impossibility of making a living, people like me would never have left our homes and families. You have so many responsibilities now that I am gone—my mother, our child and the management of the fields. For my mother’s eyes, you should consult a doctor in Canton. There is an Englishman called Dr. Wallace