Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [93]
The hen, which had squawked itself into a state of exhaustion, was laid on a tile. The court officer cut its head off with a heavy axe. The hen’s blood spurted onto the floor where it formed a sticky puddle. The head flopped onto the tile but the body of the hen shot upright and rushed away with great strides, leaving a trail of crimson claw prints on the floor. By the time the court officer had pulled himself together, the hen was out the door.
Passersby were treated to a rare spectacle that day: a headless hen, its wings bound tightly to its body, racing across the lawn in front of the courthouse, its neck sticking up like a wine bottle from which gurgled bloody bubbles. A man in police uniform gave chase. He reached down clumsily to grasp it, but the hen, though headless, easily evaded his outstretched hands. The fact was, the court officer was too well-built for the job and it cost him a good deal of effort to keep bending down and straightening up. After a few attempts, he was clearly out of breath. He planted his hands on his knees, and watched as the bloody hen collided with the iron grille surrounding the fountain in the middle of the lawn, left one last grass-green dropping on the white granite steps, finally fell to the ground and died.
The court officer returned the headless runaway to the courtroom where Ah-Lam still knelt. By now, he was growing impatient, and as soon as the hen came within reach, he stretched out his finger, scooped up a blob of congealing blood from its neck and smeared it on the paper on which his statement was written. Then he set the paper alight with the incense stick and sat back down in his seat.
“You say Mr. Hunter sent his servant to collect the clothes. What was the servant’s name?” the judge asked Ah-Lam.
“You’ll have to ask him that,” said Ah-Lam, pointing to the man who sat at the plaintiff’s table. “How do I know what his servants are called?”
“Can you tell us if the servant had any special characteristics? Even if you don’t know her name, you can tell us what she looked like, can’t you?”
Ah-Lam chewed his fingertip and thought for a while. Eventually he said to the interpreter: “These yeung fan all look the same. How the fuck should I remember?”
The interpreter was translating for the judge when Ah-Lam suddenly piped up in a loud voice: “She had big tits. That woman had tits which hung down to her belly.”
Ah-Fat wanted to laugh but did not dare. But when he had heard the translation, the plaintiff, Mr. Hunter, guffawed. The judge banged twice with his gavel, and pointed with a face like thunder to Ah-Lam. “This is contempt of a court of the British Empire. You’re fined ten dollars.” Ah-Lam pointed to Mr. Hunter: “He’s the one who laughed. What kind of a law is it that says you should fine me and not him?” The judge banged his gavel once more. “I’m adding five dollars to the fine.” Ah-Lam was about to protest but was quelled by a warning cough from Ah-Fat.
The judge turned to Hunter. “What evidence do you have that Mr. Chu stole your clothes?” “Your Honour,” replied Hunter, “I only know that I sent five garments to the laundry and did not get one garment back. Isn’t that enough proof? Do you think I have nothing better to do than take this bunch of ‘celestials’ to court?”
Ah-Lam clenched his two fists together until they cracked. In the blink of an eye, three garments had become five. He was about to start cursing, when he heard the interpreter ask him: “You say you did not steal Mr. Hunter’s clothes. What proof have you got? A signature, perhaps?”
“You don’t sign a contract for three items of clothing! It’s not like selling your wife or your fields!”
The judge closed his eyes for a long moment. Then he opened them and said: “The plaintiff accuses the defendant of stealing his clothes; the defendant swears that he did not. The