Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [86]
His train of thought scared Ah-Fat.
There was a ripple among the people crowded around Ah-Fat, and he saw the wheels of the Viceroy’s carriage rolling past.
“Peace to Your Excellency!”
Around the carriage, the crowds dipped low like a rice paddy blown by the wind. Some bowed, others lifted the hems of their jackets and knelt on the bare ground. Suddenly the view opened up before Ah-Fat and he saw, or rather felt, the Viceroy’s eyes from behind those thick lenses, boring painfully into his cheek. Out of the thousands of people milling around, Li Hongzhang’s gaze had fastened on this swarthy scar-face who was still standing.
Ah-Fat made a low bow.
“Please, will Viceroy Li convey our best wishes to the Emperor, and wish His Majesty good health. May the Great Qing rise again,” he shouted at the carriage.
His words had scarcely left his mouth when they were swallowed up by the general clamour. Perhaps the Viceroy heard, perhaps he did not. In any case, he signalled to his driver and the carriage slowly came to a halt. A wave of people surged towards it but was stopped by policemen who rushed up and linked arms to form a protective human wall. The water lapped at the foot of the wall but did not break through. Gradually calm was restored and the wave of people rested where it was, peering through the stalwart shoulders of the police at the carriage which had halted so close to them, and the elderly man who sat in it.
“Do you live well here?” the old man asked with a languid gesture towards Ah-Fat and the men standing around him.
They all looked at each other, wondering how to answer and not daring to speak. Eventually someone mumbled: “We’re fine.” “That’s rubbish,” said someone else, pulling at the speaker’s sleeve. Ah-Fat glanced at the Mayor, then said: “Your Excellency, times are hard for us here. We can’t get decent government jobs. We can only do dirty jobs the Whites don’t want to do, and we earn half of what they do. If we open up a small business, we have to pay high taxes so there’s precious little profit left at the end of the year.”
As Ah-Fat spoke out, the men plucked up courage. A young man pushed himself through until he stood right in front of the carriage. “The Canadian government is discussing a bill to raise the head tax. We won’t be able to afford it even if we save every cent for years. We’ll have to spend our whole lives as bachelors and never have a wife and family.”
An older man interrupted: “I’m married but what good has it done me? I can’t raise enough for the head tax so my wife can’t join me. I might as well be single. When do I ever get a leg-over?” Some of the men sniggered at the coarse language. The expression on Viceroy Li’s face tightened. “I see,” he said. Then he shut his eyes and fell silent.
The carriage wheels creaked and the ponies set off, their hooves stirring up little eddies of dust which filled the air with a haze.
In the blink of an eye, the autumn day had grown old.
Ah-Fat watched as the carriage receded into the distance, and gave little sigh.
Year twenty-six of the teign of Guangxu (1900) Spur-On Village, Hoi Ping County, Guangdong Province, China
Six Fingers got up and dressed, and pulled back the bamboo curtains. She startled at the sunshine which streamed into the room. They had had five continuous days of rain that seeped into their houses and through their clothes until it felt as if everything was coated in layers of slime. Yet now, without warning, the weather had suddenly cleared, revealing a perfectly cloudless sky. There was not a breath of wind. The sun shone on the raindrops so that the banyan tree in the courtyard appeared to be covered with glistening golden gems. Autumn had roared in like a lion this year, but in weather like this the cicadas still filled the trees with their fullthroated calls.