Song

by Michelle Jana Chan

Song whistled. ‘This town’s not got a shred of mercy.’

  ‘Didn’t have any for Tom neither.’

  ‘No PC and no DC,’ Song said. ‘Guess Bartica will run itself then.’

  ‘Like it always has done.’

  ‘And how’s business, sir ?’

  ‘Gold is just bleeding out of the earth as far as I can tell. Not that I see much of it passing through my doors.’

  ‘Who’s up on their luck ?’

  ‘It’s always the same names. I believe you’re either born with it, or not. Don’t try to tell me pork-knocking is a trade. There’s nothing to learn, not really, not as far as I can tell. It’s a lottery.’

  Song didn’t agree but he let it go. He thought it might be better for him if Mr Hoare took this line, so as not to be suspicious when there were some weeks when Song chose not to declare any gold.

  ‘I’ve got something today.’ Song reached into his pocket and opened up the shammy. It was only about a quarter of what he had on him.

  ‘I should hope so, after six months.’ Mr Hoare pushed his glasses further up his nose to have a look. He rested the amount on his scales and added lead weights to the other side. The needle moved in jerks before steadying near the number nine. ‘This should keep you off the river for a while. Or perhaps not.’

  ‘Do you have the latest price ?’ Song asked.

  ‘Latest I have is Tuesday gone. Thirty-five point three seven.’

  ‘Where’s it moving ?’

  ‘It hasn’t moved much over the past few months. Slight shifts both ways. Would you rather wait ?’

  Song shook his head. ‘I’ll cash in. I need some food in my belly.’

  Mr Hoare prepared the bill. ‘Officially you have three days to pay your tax from today’s date but I always suggest sooner. Money doesn’t last long in Bartica.’

  ‘I’ll come back this afternoon,’ Song said. ‘I’m going to hire a boat to take me to Georgetown in a few days; if you need anything or want to join me, I’d be delighted.’

  ‘I might take you up on that. Don’t get paid enough to hire a boat. And the ferry’s a bore.’

  ‘I’ll send word.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that. Are you going to get that eye seen to ?’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  Song left the office and went to Slicker’s. It was closer than Old Ivor’s. Slicker often stood outside the front of his shop, hustling for business, and he was there today. Mouthful of gold teeth and hair greased back; some say that’s how he got his name.

  ‘You buying ?’ Song asked.

  ‘Never not buying.’

  ‘How much ?’

  ‘You looking for cash ?’

  ‘What else would I be looking for ?’

  ‘Right now I got cash ’n’ diamonds.’

  ‘Cash, Slicker,’ Song said. ‘I don’t want your filthy diamonds.’

  ‘Half cash today, half tomorrow ?’

  Song shook his head. ‘We might both be dead tomorrow.’

  ‘Give me thirty minutes ?’

  ‘What price ?’

  ‘Better than Stein’s or Ashkanzi’s. Whatever they offer you, I’ll pay you point-one more.’

  ‘I can wait thirty minutes for point-one more.’ Song turned to move off down the street.

  But Mad Dog was in his way, drunk. ‘Hey, l’il Chiney boy. You still pretending you a man ?’

  ‘You still failing at being one ?’ Song snapped back.

  ‘What you been selling ?’

  ‘All I got.’

  ‘Sounds like you got something to share then.’

  ‘Slicker hasn’t paid me yet. I’m no good to you.’ Song knew he could outrun Mad Dog in the state he was in.

  Mad Dog spat on the ground. ‘You think Slicker’s gonna give you money later, you dreaming. What you doin’ trustin’ him ?’

  ‘That’s where you and me are different, Maddy,’ Song said. ‘Got to trust someone.’ Even as he said it, he wondered if he did. He remembered sharply how he had lost his trust in Chi in one mixed-up moment; the doubts he’d had that night still haunted him. He was determined to give everyone a chance to walk through his door, so to speak, like Father Holmes used to, that was the way he wanted to live.

  Mad Dog hooted with laughter. ‘Trust ? You the son of a preacher all right.’ He took a swipe at Song. Song ducked out of his way and Mad Dog fell on the ground. ‘Watch it,’ Mad Dog slurred. ‘Know what happens to people like you – getting too ahead of yourself. You the ones end up floating down the river, belly down.’

  ‘You before me.’

  Song walked on to Ashkanzi’s. Inside the shop it was very dark. There was a rotting smell in the air. He made out Old Man Kuros sitting on one side of the till in a rocking chair. He was blind but his fingers were playing with the ebony beads of an abacus. Click, click-click, click. His son Farad sat behind the table.

  ‘Who is it ?’ Old Man Kuros asked.

  ‘Father Holmes’ boy,’ Farad said.

  Old Man Kuros looked astonished. ‘He had a boy ?’

  ‘The sugar Chiney,’ Farad said.

  Song wanted to shake Farad, as if that might help shake off the tag and his history. He turned to the old man first.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Ashkanzi. I’m Song.’

  ‘Do you sing then ?’

  Song remembered what Lady had said. ‘With a name like that I bet you sing like an angel.’ He could hear her humming, her voice rising out of the folds of her hammock.

  ‘I can’t sing,’ Song said. ‘But I once knew a lady who could sing like an angel.’

  Old Man Kuros snorted. ‘Angels are for storybooks.’

  ‘Don’t disagree with that,’ Song said. It sounded like he already had something in common with the old man.

  ‘Selling ?’ The son asked. ‘Or here for a chat ?’

  Song put his leather pouch on the table. Farad felt it from the outside and purred in approval before emptying its contents. He lifted it on to the dish of his scales.

  ‘Not bad for someone so young,’ Farad said.

  ‘Young ?’ Old Man Kuros asked. He turned to Song. ‘How young ?’

  ‘Some days I feel older than you.’

  The old man snorted again.

  ‘Nearly twenty,’ Song said.

  ‘Bad rate right now, as you probably know,’ Farad said. ‘Should have come last week. Some men might hang on to it and wait for the price to climb. ‘Course it might drop. I’ll give you a good price though, since you’re new to the business. I’ll want to see all your finds first, mind. Not doing it for nothing.’

  ‘How much ?’ Song asked.

  ‘Depends what kind of deal we have,’ Farad went on.

  ‘No deal. Just a straight price. I’m going to Georgetown next week, so that’s the price you’re competing with.’

  ‘I’m not competing with next week, boy,’ Farad said. ‘Hang on to this and you’ll have a knife in your belly. I’m buying today.’

  ‘What’ll you give me ?’

  Farad plucked the larger nuggets out of the dish. He held them up. ‘See those impurities ? I can’t give you the weight but I’m feeling generous since you’re new an’ all. Ninety-eight per cent. Everyone needs a bit of help.’

  Farad started to write numbers down on a pad. The pencil was blunt and scratched against the paper. Song could hear the ticking of a clock hanging on the wall. The brass pendulum swung calmly as if it would forever.

  As Song’s eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he noticed the stuffed birds on the shelves. They were in poor condition but beautifully crafted. There was a huge harpy eagle staring down at Song with milky eyes. Cleverly stilled by the taxidermist, a golden warbler had been positioned by a nest as if it was feeding its young. They seemed alive, like Li Bai had looked when Song found him at the bottom of the ladder. Song had brushed his hand down over his face to close his eyes. Dead, yet somehow alive. That was how so many seemed to Song. Living on in some way.

  Old Man Kuro
s spoke. ‘You name the price you’re looking for. What do you want for it ?’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Song said. ‘I’m looking for a price, not calling it.’

  Old Man Kuros laughed. ‘Listen to the boy, Farad.’ He turned back to Song. ‘Talk like you been doing business all your life.’

  Song thought how much it did feel that way to him. Like he’d been negotiating since he could remember. To broker English lessons from Hai. To accompany Li Bai up on deck. To swap uniforms at the plantation. To find himself upriver with Jesus. To buy land.

  ‘Just about have,’ Song said.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve never come across a bit of kindness either,’ Old Man Kuros said. ‘We’re trying to help you.’

  ‘I don’t want help. All I want is a straight price.’ Song made out as if he was going to leave.

  ‘If it’s cold business you’re after, we can do cold business,’ Farad said. ‘One hundred dollars the lot.’

  ‘Two hundred,’ Song said.

  Both men laughed. The son’s was a grumble from his belly. His father’s laugh was up in his nose like an extension of the way he snorted.

  ‘If that’s the best you can do—’

  ‘One twenty,’ Farad said.

  ‘Not a chance,’ Song said.

  ‘Let me teach you something, son,’ Old Man Kuros said. ‘This is called negotiation. Ever heard of that ? You negotiate in this business. You don’t dig in your heels so you got nowhere to run.’

  ‘All right,’ Song said. ‘Let’s negotiate. Give me one-eighty, plus—’ he paused. ‘Plus the birds.’

  ‘The birds ? My birds ?’ Old Man Kuros said, tapping a shelf with his cane.

  ‘All of them,’ Song said.

  ‘Are you trying to tell me you think all these birds are worth,’ Old Man Kuros muttered a sum to himself, ‘no more than twenty dollars ?’

  ‘Not like this,’ Song said. ‘Not in this damp room. They’re rotting. I could smell them when I first walked in. The harpy’s eyes are milky. The warbler is off its perch. They’re filthy. They need refixing and I know someone who can do it. A man with the sharpest eye in the world for the way a bird looks and the way a bird moves. The emerald bee-eater’s lost its colour. There’s no green in its wings. Someone needs to look after these beautiful creatures.’

  Old Man Kuros’ mouth was hanging open.

  But Farad was losing his patience. ‘Leave out the birds. How much do you want ?’

  ‘You be quiet, Farad,’ Old Man Kuros said, recovering himself. ‘Who taught you about birds ?’

  ‘Father Holmes and I had several volumes of recordings. He took two to the Royal Ornithological Society in London. We identified the whiskered white-headed song warbler. These birds shouldn’t be rotting here on your shelves.’

  Old Man Kuros was silenced.

  Farad tried again. ‘How much ?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Old Man Kuros said to his son. ‘Who do you know that can fix them up ?’

  ‘A friend of mine called Jon Swire. He’s no taxidermist but he’s the finest illustrator in British Guiana and his speciality is birds. He works in Georgetown. He worked on the books with me. He can draw any bird in the country – how the light reflects off their feathers, how they raise their wings to fly, if they lift their head to sing. He has delicate hands and a sharp eye. He’d bring life back into these.’

  ‘I wasn’t a taxidermist either . . .’

  Song was taken aback. ‘You did these ?’

  ‘Of course I did these,’ Old Man Kuros said.

  ‘They’re beautiful.’

  ‘A minute ago they were rotting,’ Old Man Kuros said.

  Song smiled. ‘I didn’t know they were your handiwork. They are rotting, but they are also beautiful.’

  ‘Glad to find someone who appreciates them,’ Old Man Kuros said. His voice was sharp and directed at his son. ‘Give the boy the money, Farad. Two hundred. The birds aren’t for sale.’

  ‘If you give me two hundred, sir, I’ll get them fixed up for you for nothing. I’ll take them to Georgetown and get Jon to work on them. You might have to wait a while, but he’s meticulous.’

  Old Man Kuros mumbled a reply. ‘I can’t even see them.’

  ‘You can feel them when they’re done,’ Song said. ‘Like this you can’t. They’re falling apart. Jon would do a fine job.’

  ‘All right,’ Old Man Kuros said. ‘Take them then, if it makes you happy. But take them one by one. Don’t like to think of all of these shelves empty. Pay the boy, Farad. Take the harpy, if that’s the one you want. Fix his eyes. Don’t like to think of anything else not being able to see.’

  Farad had stopped listening and was adding a column in his ledger. ‘You’ve made me lose count,’ he said, irritably.

  ‘I said pay the boy,’ Old Man Kuros said more loudly.

  ‘One eighty, was it ?’ Farad said.

  ‘Two hundred,’ Old Man Kuros said.

  ‘Two hundred! That’s the profit for the month gone then.’

  ‘Just pay him,’ Old Man Kuros snarled.

  Farad counted out the money, a first time, a second time backwards and a third time along the width of the notes. He pushed the money across the table.

  Song took the money and counted it once. There was a twenty missing. He counted it again. ‘It’s short,’ he said.

  ‘Is it ?’ Farad counted more slowly a fourth time. ‘Funny that. You sure you didn’t slip a note in your pocket by mistake ?’

  Song didn’t reply.

  ‘I’ll make it up this time,’ Farad said. ‘You remember that. Don’t forget where you got your start. Two hundred dollars. Everything you asked for. You remember where you got your start when you find that goldmine. We buy diamonds too.’

  ‘And the harpy,’ Song said, pointing at the bird.

  ‘Which one ?’ Farad said.

  Old Man Kuros snorted in the corner. ‘There’s only one.’

  ‘Be careful with it,’ Song said, as Farad brought it down from the shelf.

  ‘You watch yourself,’ Farad said. ‘Don’t you forget who’s on which side of the table.’

  Song picked up the bird off the counter. It weighed little more than its feathers but it was a mighty size.

  ‘Bring it here to me first,’ Old Man Kuros said.

  Song carried it across to the old man. He took up Old Man Kuros’ hands and put them on either side of the bird’s wings. He watched as his arthritic fingers sunk into the feathers. ‘It’s facing me,’ Old Man Kuros said, feeling the direction of the feathers.

  ‘Yes,’ Song said.

  ‘It’s looking at me about as well as I can look at it,’ Old Man Kuros said. He spoke tenderly. ‘Take her with you then. Bring her back with her eyes cleared up.’

  Song picked up the bird and went out into the hard sunlight. There was no one in the street. He paused at Slicker’s but the merchant still did not have the money.

  ‘Next time, Slicker,’ Song said.

  ‘What’s a few hours ?’ Slicker called out. ‘I’m just saving you from getting drunk quicker.’

  ‘I’m not here for liquor. I came back for the music.’

  Dr Foo stared at Song’s left eye. ‘We can stitch it up and patch it,’ he said. ‘Or you can get a glass eye in Georgetown. They’re good from a distance. Close up I don’t think they’re the best looking things.’

  ‘Stitch it up if you would, Doctor,’ Song said. ‘I’d rather patch it.’

  ‘Closing it up won’t be pain-free but it’s an easy procedure when the wound is clean and dry. Come back every day this week so I can change the dressing. Then we should be able to close it up.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry I can’t do any better. I could have saved your sight but not this late, not in this state.’

  So this was the cost of finding gold. An eye for an eye. Another thing he had to give up, another thing he had to lose.

  ‘It was worth it,’ he said, trying to convince himself.

  ‘Worth the loss of an eye
? Not sure I would give up half my sight for anything. And you be careful with the other eye. You need to rest it from time to time. You can lose your sight completely after an injury to only one side. They act like a pair.’

  ‘Strange that,’ Song said.

  Dr Foo shook his head. ‘Not really. It often happens like that in the body. Like when one half of a couple dies and the other dies straight after. They live like one and die like one.’

  CHAPTER 18

  Song had seen a bee-eater on the roof above Louis’ store. He was pleased to know he could still notice birds so sharply, in spite of his injury. The wound had healed well, albeit slowly. Dr Foo had spent nearly three weeks changing the dressings every day. When it was finally clear of infection, he stitched the eyelid closed and Song began wearing a black patch. Song observed how his field of vision had been halved and how it was harder to see depth and distance, but he was relieved the other eye had not been affected. He could live with this, he thought. Perhaps his patch would help shut out everything he didn’t want to see in the world.

  ‘What happened to your eye ?’

  Song swung around to see who was addressing him. It was a young woman who’d stopped to talk to him, legs straddling her bicycle. She was heavy-set with wide hips, as if she had already borne children. But her face was that of a child’s, soft and rounded and unblemished. A few strands of hair had come loose. Song felt flustered – trying to think where he had seen her before. Then he saw the cake trays tied on the back and remembered. The one with the icing sugar down her front. Clumsily letting cakes fall to the ground. The daughter of Mary Luck of Mary Luck’s Lucky Bakery.

  Song looked at her eyes. One was green, like the wings of the bird he had been watching. The other was pale brown.

  ‘I lost it,’ Song said.

  ‘Forever ?’

  Song smiled at her question. ‘I guess so. Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry. What were you looking at just now ?’

  ‘An emerald bee-eater. It’s a bird.’ Song looked up again. ‘It was on the roof but it’s gone now. Its feathers are the same colour as your left eye.’

  ‘That’s nice. So you noticed my eyes are different colours then ?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I better be on my way. Am running late. See you around.’ The girl smiled and pedalled off.