Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [98]
Having relieved the pressure on his bladder, his mind was free to think of other things and he became aware of the rank smell coming from his jacket. He and Ah-Lam had started work at six o’clock in the morning and had spent the whole day washing and gutting fish. Of course they wore aprons but his knee-length jacket still got spattered in fish scales and blood. Since selling his laundry business two years previously, he had worked at the fish cannery. The workers were all Chinese and Redskins, the former all men, the latter all women. The men washed the fish and cut them up, while the women packed the cooked fish into cans of various sizes. The men’s work was very dirty, the women’s a little less so. When Ah-Fat and Ah-Lam started there, they used to wash the fishy smell off their clothes every night when they got back home. You felt like a different person once you had poured a basin of water and washed your hands and face with carbolic. But the smell of fish gradually impregnated their clothing, the pores of their skin, even seeped into their veins. Nothing could wash it off. Ah-Fat thought that even his phlegm smelt like fish.
Still under the tree, he took off his jacket and shook it out vigorously. There was a rustling as the fish scales fell to the ground. It was midsummer and the evening breeze still held some of the warmth of the day. Ah-Fat wore a thin white cotton undergarment next to his skin. It was buttoned down the front and Six Fingers had tied a piece of red string to the button over his solar plexus. She had done the same for all his undergarments, to ward off evil. He turned the jacket inside out and folded it into a square, then tucked it under his arm and walked back to the gambling den. The light from the lanterns grew closer and the darkness of the night was left behind. Now that he had his jacket off, his arms bulged visibly, the muscles as prominent as ridges in a freshly ploughed field. He pinched his biceps between thumb and forefinger but there was no superfluous flesh. He may have been forty-two years old, he thought, but he was still in his prime.
He bought two green bean cakes and a cup of cold tea from a peddler and wolfed it all down sitting on the steps of the gambling den.
“Has the performance begun?” he asked the man.
“No, the troupe has only just gone in, and they haven’t got their costumes on yet.”
Ah-Fat relaxed.
His belly had been empty for so long that the cakes dropped into it like pebbles into an expanse of water—they did not even ripple the surface and he could not tell when they reached the bottom. He took out a few more coins and bought a dish of chicken feet in briny gravy. With the first bite, he realized he had made a mistake. Chicken feet were for people to nibble as they sipped liquor on a full belly. Hungry as he was, he lacked the patience for such tidbits. He bought half a roast duck and two char siu dumplings, and after downing these, finally began to feel himself once more.
He pushed open the gambling den door and was immediately engulfed in a wave of noise. Today was payday and the place was full. A sea of dark heads crowded three deep around each of the dozen or so tables where games of mahjong and pai kao were played. Players and spectators alike were absorbed in the game. Hawkers with small baskets hung from their necks squeezed themselves through the mass of bodies with hoarse cries of “Tobacco! Candies! Pumpkin seeds! Olives!”
Ah-Fat squirmed his way through the solid mass of bodies, making straight for the stage in the back room. A troupe had been invited to perform—though to call them a “troupe” was overstating it