Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [91]
Six Fingers found herself unable to answer either yes or no. Myriad ants seemed to be crawling over her skin. She was torn between being happy at Ah-Fat’s fidelity, and worried about how Ah-Fat was coping in the face of such hardship. She could not bear the feeling of Mrs. Mak’s blind gaze, or rather the eyes behind her blind eyes, boring into her. She finally muttered: “Yes, Mum.”
Mrs. Mak got up and went out. When she got to the door, she turned and said: “Six Fingers, I know what you’re thinking. Every wife finds it hard to accept her man taking a second wife. When Ah-Fat’s dad was alive, I was dead against him having a concubine too. But Ah-Fat can’t go on year after year without someone to look after him. Unless of course you’re thinking of leaving your old mum-in-law here all alone and going off to Gold Mountain to be with him.”
This last statement had a distinct rise at the end of it, so that it sounded more like a question. Mrs. Mak finished speaking but did not move. Leaning on the door frame, she seemed to be waiting for an answer. Six Fingers knew that if she did not give it, her mother-in-law could stand there forever.
“I’d rather stay here, Mum, and attend to you for a hundred years,” Six Fingers said. She did not look at her, dared not look at her. Mrs. Mak’s blind eyes could see through her all too clearly.
Mrs. Mak’s stick tapped away into the distance, then halted.
“Ah-Choi, put eight of the best moon cakes, two of each kind, in a nice decorated box and take them to Auntie Cheung Tai. She deserves them, for taking in the young mistress when she was little. It can’t have been easy.”
The old woman’s words echoed sibilantly around the courtyard.
Year twenty-nine of the reign of Guangxu (1903) Vancouver, British Columbia
“Name”
“Ah-Lam.”
“Surname?”
“Chu.”
“So Ah is your first name, and Lam is your middle name. Is that right, Mr. Chu?”
Ah-Lam looked at the interpreter. “Are you talking Chinese? I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
Ah-Fat clenched his teeth together, and bit back the laugh which threatened to escape like a fart.
The public seating area was of moderate size, just ten rows of seats with a gangway down the middle. Ah-Fat was seated on one side, and there was a yeung fan on the other. The yeung fan held a Provincial News, and had “Name?” already leafed through it a number of times. Now he was perusing the advertisements, in particular a small one outlined in red ink:
The Whispering Bamboos Laundry announces the opening of a new branch, situated opposite the Vancouver Hotel in Georgia Street. The Whispering Bamboos Laundry has over a decade of experience in washing, starching, ironing and mending, and has more than twenty employees. We are at the service of hotels and individual customers. Prices are reasonable and your satisfaction is guaranteed.
The interpreter was a short man dressed in a neatly pressed three-piece suit. Holding his hat in his hand, he stood ramrod straight, reminding Ah-Fat of the clothes prop in the back room of his laundry.
“Yes, Your Honour. Chu Ah-Lam says that is the case.”
Bald-headed traitor, Ah-Lam swore silently to himself, disrespecting your ancestors, cutting off your pigtail and eating out of the White man’s hand.
“The case of Hunter v. Chu is hereby convened. Mr. Hunter, will you swear in God’s name that today you will tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”
Mr. Hunter was the plaintiff in the case against Ah-Lam. He took thick, black, leather-bound book from the judge, raised his right hand and rattled something off. When he had finished, the interpreter took the book and passed it to Ah-Lam.
“I’m not swearing on any black book. I don’t believe in that Long Beard god of yours.”
“What does he say?” the judge asked the interpreter.