by Ted Dawe
Those were the words he remembered. He had to keep going … he was all they had.
When Jiang arrived in New Zealand the fear of westerners kept him shut in his room for the first few days. They were the people who let their children cry. His apartment, owned by the brother of a man his father knew, was nine tiny rooms just off K. Road. It had once been three bedrooms but each room had been partitioned and the living room was divided into three. The small kitchen and bathroom were the only common areas. In his room was a bed, a desk and a chair. No room for anything else. It had a window, though, which looked out on the parking lot of the school where he was enrolled. He watched the smart Japanese cars coming and going. The students meeting and smoking. There was a girl with pink hair. She sat on the bonnet of a yellow BMW next to her boyfriend while everyone came over and talked or just stood around. He saw her again on the orientation day in the library, her pink head at one of the banks of computers. She wore a red jacket with the words Lady Devil written on the back.
His lessons were difficult. The instructors spoke fast in English and he realised that all his learning had not prepared him for this. When asked to speak, his stomach clenched with shame and the words came out like a whisper. At night he returned to his room. Cooked a meal from the list his mother gave him and then went back to study. Through the window the car park beckoned. The pink hair. The yellow car.
Under his bed was a box. In this box were his university fees for the end of the year, the money for his rent and the money for his food. It was more money than he had ever seen and he could not bear to look at it.
When they arrived at E Mei he was startled by its beauty. Its grandeur. It seemed somehow wrong to climb it. Like an ant climbing an elephant. At 3,500 metres it was one of the tallest mountains in China. There was a cable car which took climbers halfway up, but it was broken so their party would have to climb the whole mountain. His heart sank. Surely it was not possible. They stayed at an inn in the village below the mountain. All through the night he went to the window to look at the gleaming peak in the distance. They rose early – it was still dark – and joined a party of about 60 who were going to climb together. There was a girl about his age. He was determined that if she could climb it, then he could too.
At first it was easy; he was always at the front of the group, running on ahead and laughing. But soon he dropped back and walked quietly beside his father. As the day progressed, the group strung out along the path and before long he and his father were climbing by themselves. They stopped often, and near midday he reached a point where his legs ached so much he couldn’t go on. His father crouched beside him, smoking and offering encouragement.
It was during one of these stops that the girl passed them. Her parents had hired a sedan chair and she bounced up the mountain carried by two chattering men. He lost the will to go on. They were not even halfway. There was a faint chanting noise in the distance. The two of them sat silently, trying to work out what it was. It grew louder, more insistent. A few minutes later a snake of young men rounded the corner. They were military cadets all dressed in white and running. They were running up the mountain! He remembered his grandfather’s words. He had to keep going. He was all they had.
After a few months it became easier. Jiang’s hard work began to pay off and his ability to understand spoken English improved too. He had made few friends during this time, having decided that study now was more important than friendship. That could come later. Each day he sat in the library and worked; at lunch time he went back to his room. The lunch room was noisy, and people tended to stay on there, often missing afternoon classes, or at least delaying their return to study. He wanted to avoid all the temptations that he saw the others fall into. All the sedan chairs up the slope. His would be a slow and difficult ascent but he would do it. On his way back to his room he always cut through the car park where the rich boys and girls hung out comparing the features of their cars. He never looked at them … he was intimidated by their confidence, and their wealth. Even when the pink-haired girl looked his way he walked past with averted eyes.
It was some time after this when he was standing at the photocopier copying old exam papers that he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned. It was her. She wanted to use his card because hers had run out. He flushed and smiled then handed it over. Her name was Shoshi, and she thanked him. After that a smiling relationship developed and sometimes, when he was studying she would come over to ask him about an economics problem. It was a little island of friendship in a sea of study.
A few days after that when Jiang was crossing the car park, she called him over to meet her boyfriend. His name was Eric. He was a student too but never seemed to go to class. He had some sort of business operating amongst the students and this kept him pretty busy. Especially at night, he added. After this Jiang kept his eye open for them and usually timed his walks across the car park so that they were there.
At the end of the year their aggregate marks were sent off to the universities. There was a tension in the college that hadn’t been there earlier. Everyone wanted an offer from AU. The other universities were seen as second best. He had come out eleventh from 278 students so when his offer from AU came through he wasn’t surprised, just quietly pleased. At last he could ring his parents and tell them E Mei had been conquered once again. All that remained for him to do was to pay his fees so he would secure his place next year and then he could return to Shanghai, after nearly 11 months away.
He looked at his father who was smiling and waiting quietly. ‘Don’t hurry,’ he said, ‘Every step taken is one fewer to climb. The mountain is just so many small steps.’
Now, more than ever, he wanted to make the top. They strode on doggedly, rarely talking. Every now and then his father stopped for him to rest even though he never asked. His father looked as fresh now as he had at the beginning. There was a steep bluff which the path traversed and from it you could see the village far below them, laid out like a map, flat and clear. As he picked his way along the path he was aware of his smallness, and how he might climb the mountain but he would never conquer it. He felt better. At the end of the sheer face he saw the top again for the first time in hours. It was just a short stroll to the top. The rest of their party was waiting for them and they all clapped him as he approached. He had never felt so proud. He was just a small boy at the top of a huge mountain. The youngest in this party to have made the top, unassisted. That was enough.
He walked down with the girl. It was a steady pace but they were able to talk and breathe easily, even in the thin air. He noticed her bouncing gait for the first time. She said it was polio. When they sat down at the halfway point she rolled up her trouser leg and showed him the metal bars. She told him how she had wanted to climb the mountain but her parents were afraid she would slow the group.
A day or so later lessons finished early for a staff meeting and he found the library closed. He had planned the pleasant task of researching courses for the next year. As he left the building he noticed Shoshi and Eric in their car. The parking area was virtually deserted. Eric flashed his lights at him and he walked over. Shoshi asked if he would like to go to the beach with her and Eric. His immediate impulse was to say no but he said yes. Later in the yellow car, on their way to the beach, he pondered this decision, trying to understand how it happened. The beach had black sand and the waves pounded in fiercely. They sat and watched the surfers. Eric suggested he have a puff on his cigarette. He refused and the other two laughed, making him feel small and provincial. Later Shoshi passed it to him and he puffed away, as if he had been doing it for years.
When they got back to the city they took him to a night club. It was full of Kiwis; they were the only Chinese there. Eric knew the Maori guys on the door and they let them in even though he was in his old clothes. Inside the music was so loud they couldn’t talk, just sat together and watched the dancers. Eric went up to the bar and stayed a while, talking to a guy with big hair. Jiang enjoyed sittin
g there with Shoshi, almost like they were a couple. She got him up on the dance floor and for a while they were like everybody else, moving with the music. After a while Eric returned with some drinks. Jiang’s was fruit juice with an umbrella in it. The club was hot and he drank it quickly.
He slept in the car on the way back and they had to help him up the stairs to his room. It wasn’t until the next day that he discovered the money was gone.
For days he searched for Shoshi and Eric but it was no good, they were nowhere to be found. He thought of the money, which his parents had been putting aside for his education since the day he was born. He thought of his father’s face as they climbed E Mei Mountain. He thought of his grandfather’s bleeding fingers, and the sound of his violin.
He took out the sculpture and looked at the figure, its face, stern and indomitable. He knew he could not tell his family. He had to overcome this himself. For the first time that year he began to trace the places where the students went, the bars and cafés, but most of all, the casino. On the third night he caught sight of Eric and Shoshi at the baccarat table. It was the $5,000 stake table and Eric looked well ahead. There was a big pile of chips on the table next to him. The area was roped off from the other games and slightly raised. It was a special area for the big players. Eric was wearing a tie and Shoshi wore a black dress that glittered. From the deferential way the dealer treated them, Jiang could tell that they were well known. He stood at the rope and stared at the couple with fierce concentration. As if some warning bell rang they both turned to look at him. He stared blankly. They turned back and continued playing. Something happened. He could sense their discomfort. They began to lose. Not gradually, but immediately. Eric kept looking back over his shoulder and then whispered something to Shoshi. She came over and asked him what he wanted.
Jiang never moved his head but just said two words. ‘My money.’ She stood next to him for a while, awkward and indecisive and then went back and whispered in Eric’s ear. They continued playing, and losing, until Eric stood up in a fury, stuffing his remaining chips into his pocket.
They spent the night at the inn before returning to Shanghai. In the morning his legs were so stiff he could hardly move them. He almost fell over climbing down the stairs to join his father for breakfast. His father saw his pain and smiled. He smiled too. He thought of his grandfather’s fingers. The excitement he felt as they reached home was the most powerful thing he had ever known. His mother and grandfather were there to meet them at the airport. As they walked down the concourse towards them his grandfather turned to his mother and said, ‘Look, it is the warrior who conquered E Mei Mountain!’ That night he went to bed earlier than usual. He was exhausted but he couldn’t sleep. He could hear the low burble of his parents talking in the next room and somewhere, very faintly, he could hear the sound of his grandfather’s violin.
He silenced Eric by saying that he only wanted one thing. Not talk, not denials, not revenge … he just wanted his money back. Eric surged past him in a rage, Shoshi at his heels. The following night he was at the casino when they arrived. He stood silently at the rope while Eric lost. And the next night. On the fourth night Eric approached him and told him that he had two choices. He could leave them alone or he could die. They lost again and left early.
On his return home there were two men waiting in the doorway of his building. He tried to run but they had surprise on their side.
It was slowly and with considerable pain that he made his way to the casino the next night. He was reminded of the ascent of E Mei Mountain. He thought of his parents and his grandfather. He had to keep going … he was all they had.
This time when he took his place at the rope barrier around the baccarat table it was not only Eric and Shoshi who stared at him. His legs were weak and his breathing unsteady. Eric’s brief winning spree stopped immediately. He and Shoshi left without a word. On the sixth night Eric brought him a suitcase. In it was a large quantity of money. He allowed himself the luxury of a taxi ride home. Three days later, AU deposit paid, he was on the plane back to Shanghai.
After lying in bed for an hour he got up and went looking for his grandfather. His parents told him that he was on the roof of the apartment and sure enough there he was, sitting on a box playing his violin. Jiang sat next to him silently and waited for him to stop playing. His grandfather turned to him and said, ‘What did you learn on E Mei Mountain?’ He knew this was the question that had been keeping him awake, but now, to his surprise, he was able to answer.
‘I learned that you don’t conquer a mountain, you only climb it. That a great climb is just thousands of tiny steps, and most of all, that to persevere is the key to victory. To persevere.’
12 PAUL’S DAY IN COURT
Court Room Three. This place was beginning to become his home. To think – after all his study, all his dreams, he ended up hanging around Court Room Three day after day, shrinking down two and three day trials to a couple of paragraphs.
It was one of those bland, airless rooms that made Paul feel claustrophobic. No windows. No natural light. The soft shhhh of the air-conditioner. Oatmeal carpet. Even the furniture had all been made in some factory that specialised in pale veneer. He remembered how excited he had been when this job had been given to him. He thought, now here is something I can really get my teeth into. The drama of the court room. Erudite arguments, citing precedents all the way back to the Bill of Rights. Judges who were fierce, who made the cringing criminals aware of the moral outrages they had committed against society. Lively interjections from lawyers, tears and anguish from the public gallery, but most of all, things proceeding at a lively pace.
The reality was quite different. Things progressed snail-wise. The judges, who looked more like retired land agents than Rumpole of the Bailey, spoke sparingly, boringly, and rarely even gave him a quotable phrase. Where was the white hot blade of truth and logic to strip away the lies and evasion?
Paul looked at the sorry ranks of the assembled. Briefs playing patience on their laptops. The cops continuing an endless mumbled story into each other’s ears. And the procession of the accused … over-dressed, under-educated and looking so exposed and feeble you couldn’t help immediately feeling sorry for them. Well, that was until you heard what they had done. Their crimes, detailed in that flat droning voice beloved of court stenographers, told of the rape of children, ambushes in the car parks of pubs, cars used as weapons of mass destruction, ‘casual arsons and erring parsons’, as the song goes.
Everyone seemed to be ready. On cue, the court clerk bellowed out ‘All rise,’ and Justice Randerson slunk in.
Randerson was famous around the court for being a man of few words. He seemed to avoid eye contact, too, so it was impossible to get any reading on the man at all. He was like a comic definition of the word ‘taciturn’. Had he heard what was said? Did he care? Was he interested?
If he had any particular style at all it was that of brevity. Single word commands were his specialty. If there had been a way to avoid speech at all he would have chosen it.
‘Proceed.’
‘Point of information.’
‘Again.’
‘Slower.’
‘Not admissible.’
Paul’s favourite: ‘Recess until two o’clock.’
Today the stage show was the principal of a large primary school. The one who had been caught with kiddie porn lurking in his laptop. It was the one of those crimes, though disgusting in its own way, which had the stain of chance and bad luck smeared all over it. The guy’s house had been burgled and the laptop stolen along with some money. Weeks later a truant officer had picked up this runaway on K. Road carrying a top of the range Toshiba laptop. From there the story darted in every direction but all of them eventually led back to Robin Masters, 29, single, principal of Pitt Street Primary School. At this point the world became interested. It seems that buried deep in everyone’s primal psychology is this desire for revenge against the school figures who were on
ce so powerful.
Robin Masters began the trial looking madly out of place. He seemed like someone whose appearance in that court was a terrible mistake. He was impeccably dressed, handsome, articulate: Paul could see at once why his rise through the ranks of teachers had been so meteoric. He was compelling. You wanted to please him. To believe him. But slowly things changed. His spotless CV revealed one dubious achievement after another. The one that undid him was his boys’ club for damaged or at-risk sub-teens. His well-publicised generosity at running a program of character-building activity at his parents’ bach on Waiheke. This – all run during his weekends and holidays – was exposed as a murky party for lost boys, with Masters as some dodgy pied piper stealing the innocence of the unloved and the unlovable. A procession of tough-looking teenagers was brought to the stand. One by one they helped to establish that the golden boy of education wasn’t all that he should be. From their monosyllabic answers Paul could guess the deals that had been done to get them to speak up. The lesson for today was betrayal. The reward, forgiveness. Forgiveness for the endless list of small and not so small crimes that they had committed as street kids over the intervening years.
Today it was to be Masters’ turn to give some sort of account of himself. Today would be the day that he would name the names that could bust this case wide open. The day that he would take down all those in his gilded circle, the ones who sat at home thinking ‘there but for the grace of God’… Paul knew that here at last would be interesting quotes. Possibly something that could get his story on the front page. Could get him onto that higher level in the journalistic food chain.