A Superior Man Page 3

  “Did you see the guards at the docks?” asked a third man. “Bigger than Shandong men! No one gets by them.”

  No one dared voice the biggest complaint. Why didn’t the bigwigs put in more of their money? All they did was sit and brag about their farts while scraping profits off the backs of coolies.

  Of course, anyone who challenged those tyrants would get no help from Council should he ever land in trouble. The merchant who represented him on Council by virtue of surname or home ties gave a twisted warning: “If redbeards see that we China men don’t stand as one, then for sure they will kick us even harder.”

  The business kings never figured that the rail hands would turn around and use that same phrase to extort food and shelter from them.

  Mister Secretary, the old boor, was on duty. In the streets, he chased men for whom he might pen a letter or explain its words from far away. For him, any other fellow who could read and write was a deadly rival. He always chortled and asked for my teacher’s name, well aware that my small-town tutor was known only as “Teacher.” Mister Secretary bragged about his learned bloodline being centuries long and studded with royal appointments.

  “Clever boy, Hok!” A sly smile wormed out of his face. “You gained a son and saved the bride price.”

  “The woman ran before I could ensure he was truly mine.” I held out two dollars, keen to leave, tempted to wave in his face my other wad of cash, just amassed for the trip home.

  “Where’s the boy?” He rested his brush and leaned back. He enjoyed making us wait; it was the only time a scrawny scholar held sway over the rabble.

  “Mission School.” I pointed at the lineup. “Hurry, here’s my two dollars.”

  He took a sip of tea. “Didn’t the Pastor tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “That Pastor is a coward.” Mister Secretary stretched his words. “You have three choices. To leave the child at the Mission School, you must pay it fifty dollars. If you want to save your money, then you take the child to China, or return the child to the mother. If the latter, you must bring back a letter witnessed by a manager of a Tai Yuen store.”

  “Fifty dollars? That’s a man’s life!” I turned to the men behind me. “You ever hear of this?”

  “Council and Mission School work jointly now,” Mister Secretary said. “You won’t get a receipt until you settle matters about the boy.”

  “Dogs don’t chase mice! The child is none of your business!”

  He dismissed me with a wave of his hand.

  “I just bought passage from Wet Water Dog!” I protested. “My ship leaves tomorrow.”

  The old man pushed himself up. He stroked the straggles under his chin. I wanted to use them to bounce his head like a ball on the table.

  “We Chinese are a refined people,” he said for all to hear. “It’s best to not mix with lesser races, but if men cannot control themselves, then they must shoulder the burden of sons and daughters born in foreign lands. Council aims to restore order for everyone here; therefore all those children must be cared for.”

  Pompous ass. Before reaching the front door, I knew exactly how to sidestep him.

  2

  A SUPERIOR MAN MOVES SWIFTLY (1885)

  The sternwheeler passed so close to the rocky islands between Victoria and the mainland that I almost shouted to the captain on the bridge. But no redbeard in a uniform would heed a China man squawking like a hen on the butcher block.

  At the clang of the boat’s bell, sea lions on pebbly beaches rose up on flippers to watch us. The giant slugs were strange creatures, bulb eyes of an ox, nose and whiskers of a wise cat, and gleaming planks for legs. I didn’t fear them; they couldn’t move fast enough to catch me.

  A redbeard retched at the railing. My never-sick stomach did me proud. Me, I was born under Earth, so my stomach stood rock-solid. Peter likely emerged under Water, setting our Elements to war and foretelling a life-long battle between us. Earth blocked and soaked up Water, but floodwaters swept away months of backbreaking work on land. Worse, Earth created Metal while Water nurtured Wood, two more deadly rivals. Metal chewed into wood, but wood wore down steel edges. Water moved faster than earth, but when the boat reached Yale, I planned to drug the boy with Rainbow’s sleeping potion, dump him with his people, and then buy the needed letter from Tai Yuen store.

  I was hardly the first or only man to heave his mix-blood offspring onto the Native mother. Men—Chinese, redbeard, African—all with proud names and upright cocks, prowled this land like wolves. They came from far away, where their mothers set standards high above the talents of local women. Low-level clerks like Mister Secretary shouldn’t snigger. He and his Council superiors polished the boots of the redbeards, trying to make Chinatown shine. They wanted the Jesus men at churches to announce this scheme to help mix-blood children so that white ladies of standing would visit the fancy-goods shops of Chinatown.

  When we left Victoria, the boy stayed close to me, as if he had guessed my plan. We took clean air at a side door, away from the murky stink of cattle. Wind spat stinging spray at us. The laden boat rode low and let the brat squat over the unending rush of white bubbles. For once he made no trouble. In Victoria, we had taken beds at Uncle See’s store. But the brat chased the mouser and yanked its tail; the cat ran off and never returned. The brat tracked mud over the just-washed floor and stole fruit from the patron god’s altar. Uncle See whipped him with a bamboo switch and muttered, “Young, he pilfers hens; old, he pilfers gems.” I watched for a while, pleased, but broke them apart before the boy got hurt.

  Peter darted away to the middle of the boat. I shouted for him to stay. Nothing. He hadn’t said a word to me. Maybe he was mute, with secret ways to tell things to his mother. His sulky mouth worked fine, bolting meals at the cookhouse. Thank Heaven he hadn’t wailed for his mother; I would have wrung his neck, quick as killing a hen. In fact, he ate quickly, letting us escape our fellow diners and their rubbish talk.

  “Give the boy to Rainbow! Your whore has no other way to get a child.”

  “He’s got Hok’s eyes and nose. Grandpa will smile, even if the boy is darker.”

  “Look at him gobble rice! In China, he can grow all he can eat!”

  The boy stroked the calves that tottered on skinny legs and chafed at their ropes. Cables ran from the walls to the animals’ throats, pinning them in the boat’s centre. Too bad the brat wasn’t tied down the same way. Two cows bellowed and he joined in. Beasts on the other side of the boat answered. On the deck, redbeard cowhands played cards with a scrawny China man, probably their cook. A blotch of rough red skin marred his forearm, as if hot oil had scalded him. All morning he avoided my eye, fearful that I might join his game and raise the stakes beyond his reach.

  The flat grey sea hinted that my coming trip to China might be smooth, but I knew better. On my trip over, rough waves rose up to delay meals—no great loss, given the slop that was served as food. Smells of shit and vomit swirled as gamblers bickered and fought. Scorpion “brotherhoods” harassed feeble men to extort cash. There were even one or two deaths. The trick was to spot the bodies before their fragrance seeped into the bunk as a lasting stink. Typhoons churning through the China Sea almost overturned the ship. In a month’s time from now, when I reached Hong Kong, there would be hurly-burly crowds at the docks and in the streets. For Grandmother and Younger Sister, I needed to buy gold earrings, heavy enough to impress the neighbours but not too costly.

  I didn’t want to buy a gift for Younger Brother or answer his questions. I planned to ignore them. The sojourners who returned to our village never talked about life abroad. Instead they chased local news. Who died? Whose sons and daughters got married? Which fields changed hands and for how much money? What new shops opened in town?

  Day after day, they asked the same questions, as if checking for liars, as if they trusted no one to tell the truth, as if what played out in front of them wasn’t real life but a scene from the opera. The comforts of lon
g-ago lives were lost. They had been coolies abroad but came home with no honours. They squatted in the market and waved at people, no matter how slight the acquaintance, or joined the tail end of conversations. Me, I planned to tell lofty tales to impress loyal followers.

  This Fraser River, for example, swallowed harmless landlubbers as well as mangled corpses hurled overboard by boiler explosions. Hot-headed captains ordered stokers to shovel in fuel in order to fight the current, to brag about new records for speed of passage. But too much coal burnt too quickly, and boilers failed to contain the rising pressure. Villagers would laugh to hear about redbeard stupidity.

  At the river’s mouth, the sudden rush of water almost spun the boat around. The giant circle of paddles beat faster as black clouds burst from the smokestack. The brown river held trees with tangled roots, planks green with mold, lopsided branches, even a heavy wooden wheel. The debris floated past miners who mumbled to themselves as they shovelled river sludge into sluice boxes, sifting for grains of gold. These grizzled China men refused to believe that the gold was all gone. Truth was, if any treasure was left, then you would see greedy redbeards working right beside them, cursing and belching.

  Flocks of ducks and geese lifted like dark nets, honking over the marshes. Along both shores, Native people landed fish with spears and nets, and hung the orange meat on racks. Dugouts with soaring prows were beached beside nimble canoes. Every summer, vast numbers of Native men and women passed through Victoria heading for these fishing grounds. They stopped again on their way home and were welcomed by redbeard and Chinese merchants alike. At New Westminster’s waterfront, sailboats brought in gleaming fish. Fearless seagulls swooped down to the canneries to feast on the bloody, stinking offal. This was odd about Gold Mountain: no one should starve amid its abundance, yet jobless rail hands were too weak to fish and too poor to buy the needed tools.

  At the foredeck, the boy waved and called to Native children on the shore helping to fish and picking berries. Toddlers skipped out from makeshift lean-tos, clutching food to their mouths. At least I knew now that my son could speak. Too bad it was not Chinese. He wanted these would-be playmates to turn sour on themselves and envy his travel. To their credit, they stared back, unmoved, and watched the upper decks of the boat where redbeard men flaunted brocade vests and ladies swayed in hooped skirts. I waited for a gust of river wind to snag those cloth bells, lift the women like kites, and show everyone their underpants.

  A piercing whistle trilled over a train’s steady chugging. Its long black engine swung into view, spewing smoke while pistons thrust and fell at the wheels, stroke after stroke, pushing and pulling the spokes. The cars that trundled behind were square and flat, meek as slaves cowed by a tyrant master. A train grew longer when cars were added, then shrank when they were removed. It was a snake that could not be killed, even after being hacked to pieces. After the train vanished around a bend, its dark fog lingered.

  “Don’t attack a snake if you can’t kill it,” Grandfather had warned. “It will tail you for a hundred years.”

  “Hey, you!”

  A cowboy waved at me. His cigar hung over a grey beard, flecked with bits of straw.

  His friend, sullen from losses, stomped away. Grey Beard grinned through his bushy whiskers. He took me for an ox-skin lantern, dim and thick. I had watched them from afar and seen no cheating. I went over and squatted into the smells of machine oil, fish, and redbeard sweat.

  “Watch out!” he shouted.

  I turned. The boy had fallen off. Grey Beard hurled himself across the deck. His friends leapt up and yelled at the bridge.

  A bell clanged.

  Grey Beard tore off his boots and dived into the river.

  The boat lurched and slid backward at downriver speed. Sharp hooves clattered as cows bellowed. Passengers on the middle deck gripped their fancy hats, leaning out for a better view. Crewmen ran onto a ledge and launched a small boat.

  I flattened myself against the wall. No swimmer, I was useless as a fart. Did the redbeards know the boy was mix-blood? The dogs at their feet got treated better. They were idiots to think they were saving one of their own. They would complain that I fooled them and then demand payment for the bother.

  “Couldn’t you watch your boy?” demanded the cook. “I was winning.”

  Mister Secretary and the Council in Victoria would laugh at me if I told them about my boy drowning, even though children fell off boats all the time and this river was known for death. In Gold Mountain, mud smothered even honest stories.

  The boy lived by clinging to river debris. Passengers cheered the rowboat’s return, waving hats and handkerchiefs as if the sailors were a winning army. Then they swung around as one to send me a look of fused disgust. In Mary’s absence, I soaked up the blame.

  In China, no one ever panicked about river drownings. People might throw out a rope, but no one ever leapt into the water. They feared how fierce ghosts under the surface tugging at a thrashing victim might grab the would-be rescuer and pull him down instead.

  “Bring a wet dog to shore and it will bite you!” Grandmother had told us children many times.

  A crewman thrust a bottle of whisky at Grey Beard and pointed to the upper deck. Men raised their flasks and hollered praise. Grey Beard yelled back, laughing, as the sternwheeler resumed its trip.

  The sailors brought me the brat, wrapped in a coarse blanket. I clenched my fists to keep from slapping him. My faults were exposed in public. I had lost face. I had failed to watch my child and failed to rescue him. I didn’t know how to swim. I was a shining example for the redbeards’ claim that China men brought no value to Gold Mountain.

  The brat couldn’t avoid trouble for half a second. The blanket belonged to the boat. It needed to be returned. He would go ashore naked.

  He cried and whimpered, burying his face into my neck. I wanted to push him away but sat and held him. The China man brought a mug of hot water and told me to keep the boy warm, as if I had no common sense. He asked who the mother was and where we were going. I didn’t answer, knowing he would dash into Chinatown’s teahouses to shout this tale with his big cannon mouth.

  Yale’s China men would shake their heads. “A redbeard risked his life to rescue a China man’s mix-blood child? You’re dreaming! Those people hate anyone who’s not their colour.”

  I went and thanked Grey Beard, who was also wrapped in a stiff blanket. He offered his bottle to me, but I shook my head and looked for signs of madness in him.

  The brat seemed fated to live. Or maybe some cruel god had toyed with him, providing a bit of luck for now that would only be yanked away later. Maybe the boy’s stepfather had taught him how to stay above the river. I was truly grateful to Grey Beard. If the boy had vanished into the water, then I would be doomed to spend the rest of my life glancing over my shoulder for the lad’s half ghost, half shadow. At any time, a young man could stop at my table at a teahouse, kneel, and cry “Father!” to claim his birthright. If this happened in front of my trueborn children or my wife’s family, then my face could never be recovered.

  I carried the boy off the boat into the swampy reek of fresh fish. Crates of shiny salmon, their blue-grey eyes stilled, were waiting to be loaded onto a steamer. The same dull gaze clouded the eyes of Chinese rail hands who squatted nearby. They were as thin and pinched as their fellow Chinese in Victoria. Loose rags hid bony frames. Some wore flimsy straw sandals. Here, living near forest and river, these men enjoyed one small benefit. They could go shoeless without townsfolk looking down their noses and calling them savages.

  They didn’t turn to watch me carry a naked Native child in my jacket. Those who crouched by the main road lifted grimy palms, seeking alms. I strode by without stopping. These fools needed to see that this town was too small, too poor to help them. Yale had been the hub of railway work but the road was finished. Soon skies would darken with rain and snow. The cold of a Gold Mountain winter crept in as quiet and deadly as an assassin. At least our Victori
a merchants were pompous enough to seek help from China’s Consul stationed in San Francisco. I doubted they would succeed: the emperor didn’t sit high enough to see across the ocean.

  A swirl of familiar voices and smells swept me to Chinatown. We bumped against giant draft horses pulling wagons over gouged roads. Flat roofs shot out from shops and saloons to shelter pedestrians from the weather. Windows were boarded over, and the paint on many walls and signs was faded and peeling. At a cookhouse, the sizzle of oil and garlic and black beans made my mouth water and brought China to mind. I wanted to dump the boy in a back alley and dash back to the boat.

  Men rushed onto the road, hooting and shouting. They pointed to a second-floor porch with a wooden sign painted in black, red, and gold.

  Clouds Clear Tower was Soohoo’s building.

  Soohoo last year brought in a woman who sparked a storm of dizzy glee, even in distant Victoria. Men dubbed her, in awe, Goddess. Her fame was due to her perfection. Raised since childhood in Guangzhou’s most lavish brothel, she had been dismissed from the ranks of the elite courtesans after the Governor accused her of laughing at his “little precious” with her friends. At that time, Goddess’s skills were not mature; otherwise her owners never would have banished her. Like the rest of us, she too was second-rate goods sent abroad.

  Her secret talent was being able to sense when a man approached climax. She then forestalled it. She shifted her grip. She stroked his eggs. She twisted away. She kept his hands from gaining release. The detour was always blissful. Then she smiled and re-engaged, extending the session until the man gasped and begged for mercy. Men left Clouds Clear Tower beaming and smiling because no spurting meant keeping the male yang essence that prolonged life and produced sons.

  The men in the road yelled and pranced like schoolboys at end of term. A woman emerged in bright silks but her bound feet tottered away from the broken railing. I craned my neck and caught a glint of golden jewellery. The brat’s wriggling stopped me from seeing. Her tinkling voice teased us but vanished under a torrent of lewd remarks.