Such strong surf makes it impossible for ships to get any closer to the island than thirty or forty yards. So loaders in the depot shovel the guano into chutes of wood and canvas, each as large as an oversized barrel and sufficiently long to reach beyond the rocks, the worst of the surf.
When emptying my basket or wheelbarrow, I’m less than ten feet from these loaders. But there’s almost as much guano in the air as on the ground, and the only way I can distinguish loaders from diggers is by the flash of their shovels slicing through the murk, their muffled summons for us to come close:
“Venga aquí!”
“Aquí!”
“Aquí!”
EVERY DAY, AS the blood-red sun sinks into the sea, devil-drivers thunder, “Venga aquí,” from the doors of our sleeping sheds. Since laggards are rewarded with the lash, I hurry as best I can to obey.
Inside, perfumed incense from a small shrine mingles with the stink of guano. Some diggers, too exhausted to plod down to the beach to wash, already lie senseless on their beds. There are also beds that will stay empty, their occupants struggling to fulfill their quotas or under punishment or dead. The rest of us shuffle through the slivers of space between beds until we reach our own, collapse, sit, squat, or stretch out, light our pipes.
The sheds housing loaders and drivers are as ramshackle as ours. Their doors, however, have no bolts on the outside to lock them in, and despite the huge stretches of hard-packed guano separating our ten sheds from the loaders’ two and the drivers’ one, delicious aromas from their outdoor cooking fires soon filter in, spurring many a digger to pull his blanket over his face. But the shed is still baking from the day’s heat; the foreign wool is scratchy and harbors fleas that suck our blood as greedily as the devils. So I blot out the smells the same way I smother my hunger—by puffing harder on my pipe, returning to Chufat’s escape from the plantation.
CHUFAT CHOSE A night when no moon silvered the cracks in his sleeping shed’s walls. Faking sleep, he waited until the rowdy gaming stopped, talking dwindled into the occasional murmur, faded into silence, and no fresh pipesmoke threaded the shed’s stale air. Then he burrowed under his blanket and, making as few movements as possible, undressed, hacked off his queue, wrapped and knotted it around his jacket and pants, creating a compact bundle he could bury beyond the cane fields. Just as carefully, he slipped on his stolen clothing, rolled over onto his belly. Finally, he sliced through the vines binding the lengths of cane that formed the wall behind his bed, seized the bundle he’d made, and slid out.
Invariably, Chufat pauses here when telling his story, beckons the indio or mixed-blood cholo who has rowed him over from North Island and is squatting nearby. In a few strides, the boatman is standing beside Chufat, and it has been my observation that the indios have generally been darker, shorter, and more square than Chufat, while cholos have often had higher noses, more facial hair, and rounder eyes. But there’s always enough of a resemblance in coloring, build, and features between boatman and merchant that no digger has ever disputed Chufat’s boast: “Not one man-catcher gave me a second glance.”
Many diggers, especially those who were decoyed by relatives or friends, have difficulty believing Chufat wasn’t turned in for a reward by any of the indios or cholos from whom he sought food and shelter, those who gave him refuge. When these diggers say as much, Chufat retorts, “Had I been betrayed, I’d either be cutting cane or dead.”
True. Unless Chufat was never a pig and is pretending in order to ingratiate himself, to win our admiration and respect. After all, we know from his tireless tongue that in Peru’s capital, Lima, there is a colony of free Chinese large enough to have merchant guilds, and even in small towns, there are emigrants from Gold Mountain as well as home who come because of the money that can be made from running stores, restaurants, and rooming houses. There are also former pigs: Most were cast adrift by their masters after they became too broken for hard labor, but some survived harsh periods of indenture without breaking, or had the rare honest and fair master, or are successful runaways. Chufat could have borrowed his story whole or in bits and pieces from them.
Regardless, it’s clear that had I slumped on the deck of the devil-ship as if I were too weak to stand, I’d have landed in a fatteninghouse on the mainland from which I could have escaped, then found work among Callao’s Chinese and begun earning silver instead of scrip.
Can I apply Chufat’s plan here?
OUR SLEEPING SHEDS are so poorly built that the weakest among us could wedge an opening between planks with his bare hands and slither out.
But the devil-king—relying on brokers in Callao to supply him with diggers—never leaves this island, and his palace, situated on an outcrop of rock, overlooks the beach, the depot, the ships at anchor, all traffic between the moorings, islands, and mainland, ensuring no one sets foot on or off this island except on his authority.
Devil though he be, however, the king surely has to sleep, and I doubt he can see in the dark. So on a moonless night, couldn’t a digger slip past him and any guards he’s posted?
Yes!
But starting in the late afternoon, the beach and every rock surrounding the island, indeed most of the dunghill, is taken over by thousands of birds and sea lions settling for the night, making it impossible for anyone to reach water without going through them, raising a ruckus that would bring the devils running.
Then again, wouldn’t my flight be hidden by hundreds, thousands of birds taking wing?
Of course!
And I’d be as certain to topple over a cliff ’s edge as a deliberate suicide.
FEW DAYS PASS without a digger ending his misery by making a dash for a cliff ’s edge, then leaping off. No matter where these suicides jump, they don’t land in water, but upon the jagged rocks below. Few die immediately, and despite their howls, vultures swoop down to tear at their flesh until the surf drags their remains into the sea.
Diggers who die chained to the punishment rock or skiff are similarly devoured. But those who fail to wake in the morning or die under the lash are buried in shallow graves at day’s end by the first diggers to meet their quotas.
“Three years is the life expectancy of a digger,” Chufat says, pulling his face long as a mourner’s. “And there’s no hope of escape for a digger like there is for pigs on the mainland. That’s why I’m willing to sacrifice my own comfort for yours.”
Elaborating on these sacrifices, Chufat likes to dwell on how desirable india, chola, and black women find Chinese men because of their enterprise, the money they make.
“I can assure you from experience that the women are desirable, too. Why else would most former pigs choose to settle here instead of going home?”
Whether the women in Peru are desirable, I do not care. I only want Bo See. But I can see from the varied features, hair, and shades of skin color on drivers as well as boatmen that there is much mixing among different peoples, and Chufat has, over time, described in vivid detail more than one woman in Pisco on whom he’s set his sights.
Always he concludes, “With the losses I’m suffering on your account, what woman will want me? I’ll be lucky if I don’t have to sell my gold teeth one by one.”
Once, a burly fellow a few feet from Chufat made a fist and shook it at him, saying, “You’ll be lucky if I don’t knock out the lot to make up for what you’re stealing from us!”
“You know I’m not the thief. As for my being lucky, haven’t you heard me make that claim myself?” Chufat offered the threatener a lump of rock sugar. “And by sweetening your misery, I’m sharing some of that luck with you.”
How far would he be willing to extend himself in sharing that luck, I wonder.
I WAIT UNTIL Chufat’s sold everything he’s brought and we are alone except for his helper, who’s piling up empty baskets. Then, sidling close, I feel Chufat out by asking for goods he’s never had: paper, brush, inkstick, and inkstone.
“Here,” he says, tearing the used pages from his r
ed-covered account book.
He tips his head in the direction of his brush, inkstick, and inkstone. “You can have those as well, and seeing as how none of these items are new, I’ll even give you a discount.”
The man would probably sell every stitch of the clothing he’s wearing were there money to be made from it. So as I take scrip from my pocket, I continue in a plaintive tone, “I’d like to write my fam—”
Breaking in, Chufat reminds me that the boat which brings him from North Island ties up in a sheltered cove directly below the devil-king’s palace. Then he and his boatman have to carry his baskets and bundles up a series of flimsy ladders that creak and rattle against the craggy cliff face. Landing on the beach would be easier. Safer. But the devil-king would have to descend from his palace or rely on others to match the scrip turned in against the merchandise landed, and the devil forbids it.
“Really, I’m at the devil’s mercy almost as much as you,” he finishes, deftly plucking all six pieces of scrip from my hand.
His cloaked refusal isn’t a surprise. Yet disappointment swells. Hoping I can turn him around through flattery, I fawn, “Master Chufat, you know everything. Should the envelope have Canton, China in Spanish—”
He cuts me off with a harsh, “Dui! I’ll speak plain. I won’t send a letter for you.”
Under his angry outburst, hope shrivels. Clearly Chufat would never risk his skin to save mine.
IN THE SLEEPING shed, I drop my purchases, myself onto my bed. At each thump, there’s a puff of guano dust flecked with fleas. Spiders and small lizards that have been hiding under my blanket scurry out, disappear.
From the bed to my left, Ah Kam’s arm shoots over and snags my book. “You’ve not stolen Chufat’s accounts have you?” Riffling the pages, he sees they’re blank, jeers, “I didn’t think you were the daring type.” He eyes the brush, inkstick, and inkstone. “What are you going to write? Chufat’s story? You’ve certainly listened to him often enough to have it memorized.”
Men in nearby beds snort, guffaw.
“Nah. He’s going to write to our devil-king.”
“What? Ask for better food?”
“Reduced loads?”
“Freedom! He’s going to petition for our freedom.”
“Wah, our very own Fook Sing Gung.”
Their banter underscores my defeat, and I curl up like a baby, the baby Bo See and I might have made together but didn’t.
NIGHT AFTER NIGHT, whether I am staring into darkness or have stumbled at last into thin, fitful sleep, my arms sweep the bedmat for Ah Lung—only to embrace air.
Neither of us had been in a hurry to share our bed with a baby, to give up the freedom of reaching for each other whenever our blood thickened with desire. Now, lying alone, I mourn the seed we used to deliberately waste; my fingers trace the shapes of babies on my belly.
Finally, I quit bed and sleeping room for the wormhouse. On the shelves are dozens of small squares of paper, each with five-hundred eggs the size of fly specks. Naturally sticky, the eggs hold fast to the papers, and I bind these eggsheets to my chest and belly and back with a long cloth.
Encased in eggsheets, I am careful not to splash while drawing water from the village well. I try not to bend so I won’t crumple the paper. I will myself not to hurry despite the whispers of women and girls waiting their turns.
“Bo See’s been looking like a ghost. Now she’s turned stiff as wood.”
“Didn’t I say she’d lose her self-control and go mad from grief?”
“You weren’t the only one to make that prediction.”
“And no wonder! Have you ever heard of a pig returning?”
“I’ll wager Ah Lung is dead.”
“I blame Bo See. Remember how she tumbled out of her bridal sedan?”
“You think that is the reason for the Wongs’ misfortune?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe. Don’t you pity Bo See anyway?”
“Because she’s so young a widow?”
“A childless widow.”
“She could take a child to raise as her own.”
“Don’t be absurd! How can a madwoman be a mother?”
WHILE WAITING FOR their cargo, those on board the guano ships must endure the same relentless stink and heat we do. During loading, they’re swathed in yellow clouds of dust as thick and choking as the worst we suffer. Not surprisingly, the moment the last shovelful is in, the hatches battened down, the decks washed clean, the sailors on the lucky ship hoist their national flag, then light torches.
Watching them, listening to the sailors cheer and the crews on the other vessels respond in kind, I always erupt in envy. Even after we’re locked in for the night, I cannot stop myself from staring through the gaps between planks in the wall facing the sea, the flashes of red, blue, and yellow from the rockets and flares set off in celebration. And when the devil-drivers release us at dawn, my heart wrenches at the unmistakable clack-clack of anchor chains, the sound of sailors chanting to its beat.
The mist is too dense for me to see further than a few feet, but I imagine myself on board the ship: Its anchor raised, its sails unfurl; wind whistles through the rigging, filling the canvas; the prow cuts through the sea, flinging back great wings of water. . . .
Devil-drivers bellow, shattering my dream. The sailors’ song fades. There is only the sound of the surf, diggers cursing, hawking spit, the clatter of our pickaxes, shovels, screens, and wheelbarrows.
Through the thinning mist, the ships at anchor look like a mysterious village under leafless trees, and the stretch of water between dunghill and anchorage is too great for me to ever clearly see the people on board. If the surf is low and the sea lions and birds have not wakened yet, however, I sometimes hear voices. Not just of men, but women and children.
This morning, a woman’s angry shrill is swiftly followed by a child’s shriek, and I am reminded of Old Lady Chow, our near neighbor in Strongworm when I was a boy, swooping me up like a hawk, my instant and fierce resistance.
A whip cracks. I pick up my pace, sense a general quickening in our ranks. How well schooled in obedience we’ve become in our captivity!
No, not in captivity. Not me. Since proper order demanded my parents punish me for resisting Old Lady Chow, any elder, including my brothers, I long ago learned unquestioning obedience, and it cost me my natural wit and courage, then my family.
AFTER I RETURN home with the day’s water, Ma lights incense. The family bows and prays for Heaven’s protection, for a letter from Ah Lung, for proof he’s alive. I edge away from the altar so the fragrant smoke can’t seep through my clothing and taint the eggs.
Second Sister-in-law plucks my sleeve. “Bo See, are you unwell?”
I snatch for an acceptable excuse. “A little faint.”
“Sit down. I’ll bring you some white flower oil.”
Alarmed at the injury such a pungent oil would inflict, I grip Second Sister-in-law’s arm.
“It’s not necessary.”
The others notice, fuss.
“Go lie down,” Ma urges.
That, though, would crush the eggs on my back and, mumbling it’s fresh air I need, I dodge out the front door.
IN THE SLEEPING shed, some of the stronger men gather and, using scrip, the promise of future rations, a load towards the next day’s quota, place wagers on games of dominoes, fan tan, checkers. Fragrances drifting in with smoke from the drivers’ cooking fires loosen the tongues of men sprawled in their beds.
“They’re stewing the pigs’ feet I hauled up from the beach this morning.”
“Nah, it’s that fatty porkback.”
“Yeah, fatty porkback fried with spicy peppers.”
“Corn, too.”
“Mmmm, roasting in the fires’ wood ash.”
My need growing greater than my shame, I flatten my palms on my bedboards, ease my knees down onto the narrow strip of guano floor between beds, fumble for my manhood, and wet the inkstone’s shallow depre
ssion with a splash of piss, then grind my inkstick into it as I would a pestle and mortar.
Little light reaches me from the lantern over the gamblers, but it is enough. Opening Chufat’s book, I dip my brush into the ink and pour out my anguish.
“Let’s tell our Fook Sing Gung the dishes we want cooked for us from now on,” Ah Kam suggests. “I’ll take roasted sweet potatoes.”
“Give me the webbing on duck’s feet.”
“That’s good and chewy alright.”
“Honey-sweet, yet salty.”
Behind me, bedboards creak. Moments later, my light is blocked by Ah Kam leaning over my shoulder.
“Too bad we can’t eat the chicken intestines you’re producing.”
Recoiling from his invasion, his sour breath, I dip my head closer to the paper, shielding the rows of characters, my nose.
“Aw, what a shy bride,” he teases.
“Bride? He’s supposed to be our God of Luck.”
“Maybe he’s a lucky bride.”
“Alas, no.” Ah Kam snatches the book, reads in a mocking tone:
“Savages have taken me prisoner.
I strain my eyes
Looking for my dear ones,
But my dear ones do not appear.
I . . .”
He chokes to a halt. No one scoffs or teases. Gently, one man urges him on, then another. And when Ah Kam does take up where he broke off, it is clear he is lamenting from his heart.
“I strain my ears
Listening for my dear ones,
But I do not hear their voices.
Alone among strangers and barbarians,
My sorrow is bigger than a mountain,
My tears fall like rain.”
As Ah Kam chants, the gamblers stop their play; every man in the shed falls silent. Even after Ah Kam, head bowed, closes the book, the only sounds are ragged breaths, stifled sobs.
God of Luck Page 12