Song

by Michelle Jana Chan

  That evening Song arrived at Hannah’s house just as it was getting dark. He stumbled as he walked down the path, nervous but awash with hope. Hannah emerged from the house before he’d even put his hand up to knock. He noticed how she’d put on a clean dress and let her hair down. There were beads of sweat on her nose. She shone.

  ‘You look lovely,’ he said, overwhelmed.

  ‘You look nervous,’ she said.

  ‘I am,’ Song said, because he didn’t know what else to say. Her frankness disarmed him. He collected himself. ‘It’s because I’ve got a surprise for you. I’m not really taking you for a walk.’

  ‘You’ll remember that’s all I agreed to.’

  ‘It’s still an outing.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Hannah said. ‘We’re out.’

  ‘And it’s still a walk of sorts,’ he said.

  ‘Well that’s not much of a surprise then.’

  ‘Come with me.’ They headed down the street and took a left down to the riverbank. Tied to a post was Song’s boat. He had brought it around the point earlier in the day. There was a cushion on the seat and two bottles of soda by the paddles.

  ‘I’d like to take you on the river.’

  Song thought she looked pleased but couldn’t be sure. ‘Let’s see,’ Hannah said. ‘That’s definitely not a walk as far as I can tell. I mean, we wouldn’t be on dry land.’ She paused. ‘And you can’t drown going for a walk. But we might drown on the river.’

  ‘Don’t you want to go ?’

  Hannah softened. ‘Is it safe ? I can’t swim.’

  ‘I’ll save you.’

  Hannah looked at the boat and out into the river. ‘If I agree, you have to allow me to do one thing.’

  ‘What’s that ?’

  ‘I’m not saying.’

  ‘I have to agree without knowing ?’

  Hannah nodded.

  ‘Sure,’ Song said. ‘Anything.’

  ‘You sure about that ?’

  ‘Anything,’ Song said again.

  She made to run down the bank. ‘Let’s go.’

  Once Hannah was sitting balanced in the middle of the boat, Song pushed them off. The boat wobbled and Hannah let out a nervous laugh.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Song said. ‘Just stay still till we get going.’

  Song started to paddle slowly into the current. He looked behind him. Hannah was looking up at the sky.

  ‘What do you see ?’ he asked.

  She whispered, ‘Sky.’

  Song smiled. ‘Anything else ?’

  ‘More sky.’

  Song looked up. ‘What do—’

  ‘Shh,’ she interrupted. ‘I want to hear the river.’

  Song stopped paddling. He turned around to face Hannah and put his finger on his lips. ‘Shh,’ he echoed her. ‘Listen to the river. It has a message for you.’

  She laughed. ‘What’s the message ?’

  ‘The river’s inviting you to the sea. Far out. To the point where it meets the sky so you can see the sky close up.’

  ‘Shall we go ?’ Hannah asked. ‘Will we ever come back ?’

  ‘Never,’ Song said.

  Hannah laughed again. Song wanted to take those laughs and have Jingy put them inside the same big glass jars she used for preserving peaches so he could keep the sound forever.

  ‘So you said anything, right ?’ Hannah said.

  ‘I did ?’ Song said. ‘When did I say anything ?’

  Hannah sharply drew in a breath. ‘You lying cheating scoundrel,’ she said. She held on to the sides of the boat and started rocking the vessel. ‘My limp wet body will wash up in Trinidad and the whole island will know you lied.’

  Song laughed. ‘Anything. I said anything.’

  ‘So tell me about you.’

  ‘That’s it ?’

  ‘No. The anything’s later. Tell me about you first.’

  ‘I sense the rules are changing.’ Song asked. ‘What do you want to know ?’

  ‘From the beginning,’ Hannah said.

  ‘You first.’

  Hannah screwed up her face. ‘I was born with two different eyes. Crazy strict fierce crazy again mother. My father died before I was old enough to remember him. Maybe that’s why Mama’s so stir-crazy. We run a bakery. I do the deliveries. That’s it. Your turn.’

  Song sighed. ‘I’m not very good at this.’

  ‘I’m waiting.’

  Song sighed again. ‘I was born with two eyes. In China. Took a boat to Guiana. Worked. Taken in by Father Holmes. Moved to Bartica. Went to school. Found gold. Lost one eye. Met you.’

  Hannah blushed.

  ‘That all right ?’ Song asked.

  Hannah shook her head. ‘Why did you leave China ?’

  Song shrugged.

  ‘Don’t you know ?’ Hannah said.

  ‘There wasn’t enough to eat. I wanted to save my family.’

  ‘Did you save them ?’

  ‘This is hard to talk about.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Hannah asked. She put her hand on his hand. ‘Am I not allowed to ask you anything more ?’

  ‘You are,’ Song said. ‘Just saying it’s not easy. I want to be perfect for you.’

  Hannah smiled a soft smile. ‘So tell me where you worked.’

  ‘When ?’

  ‘Before Father Holmes.’

  ‘In the plantations. I was one of the sugar Chinese.’ Song paused. ‘Does that bother you ?’

  ‘Why should it ?’ Hannah asked. ‘Do you mind that I deliver cakes ?’

  Song smiled and shook his head. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ she said. ‘How was it ? The plantations.’

  ‘Harder than rice. Rice was all I’d ever known. Sugar was tougher and heavier. We sometimes had to work in smoke. Burning the fields. They treated us rough. I guess I learned how to fight back.’ Song’s voice had softened. ‘I made good friends there, too.’

  The river sounded louder to Song. He noticed the light was fading. ‘We should be getting back.’

  ‘Before we go there’s still the “anything”.’

  ‘And there I was thinking you’d forgotten,’ Song said.

  Hannah turned coy. ‘Please can I look under your patch ?’

  Song furrowed his brow. ‘Do you really want to ?’

  ‘Only if you don’t mind,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think it’s very nice for you,’ Song said.

  ‘I’d like to.’

  Song thought about what she wanted to do. She was taking all of him on. Song lifted the black felt so Hannah could see his scar.

  She put out her hand to touch it. ‘It’s so neat.’ She ran her fingers over the eyelid, and Song jerked back. ‘Did I hurt you ?’

  ‘No,’ Song said. ‘It’s just nobody’s touched it before.’

  ‘The stitches are so tiny. It looks like your eye’s just shut. I like it. It’s like you’re winking at me.’ Hannah leaned forward and kissed Song’s closed eye. ‘I’m sorry if I hurt you.’

  ‘You didn’t,’ he whispered. Song felt something source from so deep inside him he thought he might cry. He passed his hand over Hannah’s mismatched eyes so they closed. Then he leaned forward and took it in turn to kiss both of her shut eyes.

  CHAPTER 20

  Song asked Fowl Man to take him to Georgetown. The Marie Christine had sunk but he had a new boat called Mimi painted yellow with pink ribbons tied to the tiller.

  ‘Bigger too,’ Fowl Man said. ‘Could’ve taken all of Father Holmes’ books ’stead of doing two journeys. Bit slower, mind. Heavier wood. But in a brisk breeze mid-channel you’d be pressed to tell the difference.’

  Song thought back to the journey he and Father Holmes had taken when they moved from Georgetown to Bartica. To make a home together, that’s what he’d said, and that’s what they’d done. Now he was directing his own journey. He wanted to make a home with Hannah, in the same way.

  Good as his word, Song had inf
ormed Edward Hoare of his date of departure and the two of them travelled together. Song asked Jingy too but she said her bones were too old for travelling now except for funerals.

  ‘I’ll make a journey for the dead,’ she said, ‘but I’m not going anywhere for the living. Besides, someone’s gotta stay here and open up your room once in a while. Save the place from rotting.’ She gave Song a shopping list and forced money into his hand, refusing to listen to his protests.

  It had been nearly four years since Song’s last trip to Georgetown. That had been with Father Holmes to see him off on his trip to England. He was churning inside as they approached Parika. Wishing Father Holmes was with him today. Imagining them walking these streets together, maybe buying their own boat to go upriver, on the lookout for birds.

  The three men split when they docked. Fowl Man shuffled off to the Boathouse Bar. Edward Hoare was staying with the Stewarts. Song went to the vicarage to find Amalia. He had sent word ahead asking her to find him a place to stay. He had money in his pocket and gold still sewn in the seams of his shirt.

  ‘She’s out shopping,’ Father Francis’ wife told Song when he knocked at the door of the vicarage. Two children peered around the pleats of her long skirt. One started whimpering. ‘If you find her tell her to hurry up home. That woman talks too much.’

  Song ignored her comment. He knew where to find Amalia. He headed to Stabroek Market. As he suspected she was haggling over a price, standing among the pulses. She halted mid-speech when she saw Song and then screamed with delight.

  ‘Look at you. Taller than me now. But a good deal skinnier. And what happened to your eye ? What you been feeding yourself ? There a war on I don’t know about ? Don’t they have something called food in Bartica ?’

  ‘If you think this is bad you should have seen me a month ago,’ Song said.

  ‘Glad I didn’t. You been upriver then ?’

  ‘Of course. That’s all you do in Bartica. Go upriver. Come back for supplies. Go upriver again.’

  ‘Ready to come back to this big city ?’

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ Song said. ‘Did you find me somewhere to stay ? I’m walking around like a homeless.’

  ‘Follow me,’ Amalia said. ‘I’ve found the perfect place right around the corner. Bit pricey but you can afford it from what I hear and that’s what you get for a clean quiet place with no whores running around squealing in the middle of the night.’

  Amalia led Song to a whitewashed boarding house. ‘I’ve got you the best room,’ she said. ‘Biggest windows and a sea breeze although it might be a bit noisy early mornings with the market around the corner. I got them to swap the best mattress into this room.’

  Song was touched by Amalia’s help. He had come so far since she had cared for him those first few days at the vicarage.

  ‘Now when are you coming to eat my food. Sunday at my sister’s ?’

  Song smiled. ‘Pepper pot ?’

  ‘Still as sweet as ever,’ Amalia said. ‘I want to hear all your news and why you’re here and don’t kid me you’re moving to Georgetown with that small case and what’s going on in Bartica and the ladies and so on but we can save all that for Sunday.’

  Song didn’t waste any time in Georgetown. He knew where he needed to go first. Edward Hoare called Mr Hing ‘the finest jeweller in town’. Amalia murmured in agreement. ‘I’m not one to know much about jewels but I hear he’s one of the best. Doesn’t follow trends like some of these upstarts coming in and copying all the fashions in the magazines from England as if that’ll make us pay more, and then the next year it’s a whole ’nother thing with green stones instead of red stones.’

  Song stopped by Hing’s. There were no other customers in the shop. He did not even think Mr Hing himself was there until the man bobbed up from his low seat on the other side of the counter where a strong oil lamp hung. He was not as old as Song had expected. He had a brass magnifier pressed deep into his eye socket and he was delicately holding something with tweezers.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Hing,’ Song said quietly. ‘I was looking to buy something and I’ve heard very good things about your work.’

  Mr Hing put down the gem he was examining on a swatch of black cloth. Then he relaxed his eye and caught the magnifier as it dropped into his palm.

  ‘I was the boy Father Holmes took in,’ Song went on. ‘My name’s Song.’

  ‘Yes. I seem to remember hearing something about a houseboy done good.’ He stood up and surprised Song with his height. He was at least a foot taller than Song. His head was shaved close and he wore a crisp white shirt.

  ‘For a lady ?’

  Song hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  ‘A ring ?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I work on commission, but I have a few pieces finished you can see. They’re not for sale but it’ll give you some ideas.’ Mr Hing paused. ‘You live in Bartica ?’

  ‘Yes,’ Song said.

  ‘And you’re still alive ?’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘You a pork-knocker ?’

  ‘In a way.’

  Mr Hing smiled. ‘Pork-knocker in denial. They say they’re the worst.’

  Mr Hing pointed out some of his bespoke pieces. There were textured gold bangles for a baby; polished rectangles of jade; a silver band set with diamonds; a charm bracelet that dangled with nuggets; pendants of Chinese characters and an animal tooth with a gold setting.

  ‘How much is this ?’ Song asked, lifting a jade pendant.

  ‘None of this is for sale. All on order. That’s for Mr Ting-Lee’s wife.’

  There was a loose silver bracelet set with small pretty diamonds. It was modest enough.

  ‘White gold,’ Mr Hing said. ‘For Mrs Patel.’

  Song fumbled as he picked it up. ‘How much if I ordered something similar ?’

  ‘This is costing her twelve dollars.’

  ‘Can you make the same but two strands ? Twenty dollars ?’

  ‘Can you pay now ?’

  Song nodded. ‘If you can get it done in time. I leave in five days.’

  He waited as Mr Hing prepared a receipt. He wrote it in Chinese.

  ‘I was wondering where you source your stones ?’ Song asked.

  ‘Lebanese. On the west side of town. They send the rough diamonds to Europe to be cut. I set them. They sell them right back to Europe for a profit. Some end up in the hands of royalty, I hear. I buy a few stones for my own pieces.’

  ‘Might you be interested in a direct line from Bartica ?’ Song said.

  ‘Might be,’ Mr Hing said. ‘Are you selling diamonds ? That’s what the ladies want.’

  ‘Maybe. They say gold and diamonds run within the same soil.’

  ‘Come back to me.’

  ‘I don’t want any in-betweeners taking commissions.’

  ‘You watch yourself. It’s the in-betweeners who have all the power in this town.’

  ‘Who should I be looking out for ?’

  ‘Everyone.’

  Song took the receipt and studied the Chinese characters.

  ‘Don’t you read ?’ Mr Hing asked.

  ‘Not Chinese. I left too young.’ Song felt ashamed not to be able to read the language of his motherland. But he also knew if he’d stayed, he wouldn’t have been able to read at all.

  ‘I can write it in English if you want,’ Mr Hing said.

  ‘That’s okay.’ Song handed over the deposit. ‘Have you ever sent money to China ?’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Is it ? I once sent money back.’

  ‘It would never have got there. You either go yourself and put the money in the hand of the person you want to give it to, or you keep it in your own pocket and send them a prayer.’

  Song felt some relief at Mr Hing’s words. A man of trade, Song thought he must know the odds more than most of sending money halfway across the world.

  ‘Come back on the day you leave,’ Mr Hing said. ‘The bracelet will b
e ready.’

  ‘One more question. Is there anybody you can suggest I speak to about property in Georgetown ?’

  ‘Easy,’ Mr Hing said. ‘Mr House, that’s his nickname. No idea of his real name. Or Ian Tilby. Nobody else worth talking to.’

  ‘Mr House ?’

  ‘Houses by name, houses by nature – that’s his line,’ Mr Hing said. ‘And he’s as big as one.’

  ‘And Ian Tilby ?’ Song asked.

  ‘The rich man’s choice with access to all the right neighbourhoods. Bears a heavy grudge though. Meet Mr House first.’

  ‘Where can I find him ?’ Song asked.

  ‘Daytime I can’t be sure. By night he plays dominoes up at the sea wall.’

  Before that Song went to the next man on his list, Mr Ebenezer. He had in his pocket the letter from Old Man Kuros.

  Mr Ebenezer did not have a shop but worked from his home on the second floor of a dilapidated building overlooking Stabroek Market. Song found nobody home so he went for lunch and returned an hour later.

  Mr Ebenezer’s maid opened the door.

  ‘Good morning,’ Song said. ‘I’m here to see Mr Ebenezer. I have a letter of introduction from Mr Ashkanzi Senior of Bartica.’

  The woman sniffed. She took the letter and shut the door behind her.

  Song tried to listen through the door but could not hear anything until her approaching footsteps. He stepped back.

  ‘He’ll see you,’ she said. Song followed her through a small hallway into an office that occupied the corner of the apartment. Here was clearly another man who loved to read. There were books on every shelf: upright, leaning and flat; piled like totems on the floor; scattered like cushions on a sofa; all over Mr Ebenezer’s desk; books held open with the weight of other books or a conch shell or a brass hand barometer. On the wall was a landscape painting of a goatherd in rocky scrubland. It reminded Song of Father Holmes’ painting of the Welsh shepherd.

  Mr Ebenezer turned his chair around and motioned Song towards the cluttered sofa. ‘Make space,’ he said.

  Song gently moved some books to the side and sat on the lip of the sofa. ‘Sir, I wanted to introduce myself—’ he began.

  ‘Nanny gave me the letter. Father Holmes’ boy.’