Gold Mountain Blues

by Ling Zhang

  This time, a snort of laughter escaped Ah-Fat.

  “Thank you. But you still have not told me in the name of which god you would like to take the oath. Do you want to do what you did before?”

  This was not the first time Ah-Lam had been in court. He had been accused of pilfering clothes three months previously. His accusers were different but the offence was the same. Each man had given Ah-Lam clothes to wash and had collected them from him after washing. But each man claimed afterwards that Ah-Lam had not returned their clothes. Ah-Lam could talk the hind legs off a donkey but had not been able to argue his way out of it and the judge had fined him thirty dollars. On the last occasion, Ah-Lam had taken the oath before the portrait of Lord Kwan, but Lord Kwan had not looked after him, and Ah-Lam was damned if he was going to pay his respects to Lord Kwan once again.

  Ah-Lam scratched his head, and finally said: “Chicken’s blood.”

  The judge raised his eyebrows. His glasses dropped off the bridge of his nose and onto the table in front of him.

  “Your Honour,” said the interpreter, “solemnizing an oath with the blood of a chicken is an ancient custom among the people of the Qing Empire, and it is both commonly used and accepted. The defendant is not making fun of the court.”

  The judge ordered the court adjourned, and when it reassembled a short while later, a burly police officer, at least six foot three inches in height, strode in carrying a pure white leghorn hen. The hen’s wings were tightly bound to its body with a cord but it was surprisingly vigorous. When set down in the aisle, it scrabbled madly with its feet, squawking loudly and filling the courtroom with a cloud of snowy-white feathers.

  Ah-Lam stuck three sticks of incense into the table in front of the judge and lit them with a taper. He slumped to his knees and bowed three times. Then from behind his ear he extracted a piece of paper rolled up tightly till it resembled a cigarette, unrolled it and began to read it aloud to the judge. Ah-Fat had written his statement out for him but Ah-Lam could not read, so with Ah-Fat’s help he had learned it off by heart, word for word.

  I, Chu Ah-Lam, born in Dung Ning Lai Village, Ng Wing Town, Hoi Ping County, Guangdong Province, China, have worked as a washerman at the Whispering Bamboos Laundry at 732 Georgia Street (originally of 963 Main Street) for eight years. At the beginning of this month, Mr. Hunter brought in three garments for washing—a sweater and two pairs of trousers. The sweater was to be washed and the trousers were to be washed and mended. The lighter-coloured pair had frayed trouser cuffs and the darker pair had a cigarette burn in the pocket. The washing and mending was done by the next day. Mr. Hunter’s maid came to collect them at about ten o’clock. I wrapped them in tissue paper and gave them to her. That motherfucking baldie Hunter has stitched me up. If he’s really lost his clothes he should ask his maid. She’s the one who should be taken to court. She probably nicked the clothes and gave them to her fancy man. It’s fucking bad luck on me. I, Chu Ah-Lam, swear this on this chicken’s blood before God in heaven and my venerable ancestors and if I’ve spoken one word of a lie, may I be eaten by rats in my house and run over by a horse and cart outside it. May I choke to death on my phlegm when I lie down, may I die of purulent boils on my arse when I sit down, and when I stand, may I be struck dead by five bolts of lightning.

  Ah-Lam had begun his recitation according to Ah-Fat’s script, but he soon felt that the language was too high-flown. It sounded to him as pulpy as a frosted eggplant, so he dropped the paper and proceeded to improvise the rest. As the interpreter got near the end, he broke out in a sweat and could not go on. He mopped his face with a handkerchief, and said to the judge: “In summary, Mr. Chu Ah-Lam has enumerated many different ways in which he is prepared to die if he has told a lie.”

  The hen, which had squawked itself into a state of exhaustion, was laid on a tile. The court officer cut its head off with a heavy axe. The hen’s blood spurted onto the floor where it formed a sticky puddle. The head flopped onto the tile but the body of the hen shot upright and rushed away with great strides, leaving a trail of crimson claw prints on the floor. By the time the court officer had pulled himself together, the hen was out the door.

  Passersby were treated to a rare spectacle that day: a headless hen, its wings bound tightly to its body, racing across the lawn in front of the courthouse, its neck sticking up like a wine bottle from which gurgled bloody bubbles. A man in police uniform gave chase. He reached down clumsily to grasp it, but the hen, though headless, easily evaded his outstretched hands. The fact was, the court officer was too well-built for the job and it cost him a good deal of effort to keep bending down and straightening up. After a few attempts, he was clearly out of breath. He planted his hands on his knees, and watched as the bloody hen collided with the iron grille surrounding the fountain in the middle of the lawn, left one last grass-green dropping on the white granite steps, finally fell to the ground and died.

  The court officer returned the headless runaway to the courtroom where Ah-Lam still knelt. By now, he was growing impatient, and as soon as the hen came within reach, he stretched out his finger, scooped up a blob of congealing blood from its neck and smeared it on the paper on which his statement was written. Then he set the paper alight with the incense stick and sat back down in his seat.

  “You say Mr. Hunter sent his servant to collect the clothes. What was the servant’s name?” the judge asked Ah-Lam.

  “You’ll have to ask him that,” said Ah-Lam, pointing to the man who sat at the plaintiff’s table. “How do I know what his servants are called?”

  “Can you tell us if the servant had any special characteristics? Even if you don’t know her name, you can tell us what she looked like, can’t you?”

  Ah-Lam chewed his fingertip and thought for a while. Eventually he said to the interpreter: “These yeung fan all look the same. How the fuck should I remember?”

  The interpreter was translating for the judge when Ah-Lam suddenly piped up in a loud voice: “She had big tits. That woman had tits which hung down to her belly.”

  Ah-Fat wanted to laugh but did not dare. But when he had heard the translation, the plaintiff, Mr. Hunter, guffawed. The judge banged twice with his gavel, and pointed with a face like thunder to Ah-Lam. “This is contempt of a court of the British Empire. You’re fined ten dollars.” Ah-Lam pointed to Mr. Hunter: “He’s the one who laughed. What kind of a law is it that says you should fine me and not him?” The judge banged his gavel once more. “I’m adding five dollars to the fine.” Ah-Lam was about to protest but was quelled by a warning cough from Ah-Fat.

  The judge turned to Hunter. “What evidence do you have that Mr. Chu stole your clothes?” “Your Honour,” replied Hunter, “I only know that I sent five garments to the laundry and did not get one garment back. Isn’t that enough proof? Do you think I have nothing better to do than take this bunch of ‘celestials’ to court?”

  Ah-Lam clenched his two fists together until they cracked. In the blink of an eye, three garments had become five. He was about to start cursing, when he heard the interpreter ask him: “You say you did not steal Mr. Hunter’s clothes. What proof have you got? A signature, perhaps?”

  “You don’t sign a contract for three items of clothing! It’s not like selling your wife or your fields!”

  The judge closed his eyes for a long moment. Then he opened them and said: “The plaintiff accuses the defendant of stealing his clothes; the defendant swears that he did not. The plaintiff has insufficient evidence and so does the defendant. I do not entirely believe either of you. Therefore you will bear the costs equally. Five garments, somewhat worn, divide the value in half, that’s five dollars. Add the courts costs, that makes a total of twelve dollars. Mr. Chu pays Mr. Hunter twelve dollars. The loss of the other half of this sum must be borne by you, Mr. Hunter. Let that be lesson to you not to bring a case with insufficient evidence.”

  Ah-Lam stamped up and down in rage. “What kind of a dumb judge is he? Any blind magistrate from way o
ut in the sticks would give a more sensible judgment than that!” The judge did not wait for a translation of what he knew was a rude comment, but tugged his black robe around him and made to leave the court. Suddenly the yeung fan in the public seats stood up. “Your Honour, would you wait a moment? I have important evidence.” The man had been seated for the whole case without opening his mouth. Seeing that he was dressed like a respectable member of the community, the judge put on a slight show of civility and asked: “Who are you?”

  The man bowed. “I am Rick Henderson, deputy general manager of the Vancouver Hotel, owned by the Canadian Pacific Railroad.” The judge grunted. “The Duke of Wales and Cornwall stayed in your hotel with his wife when they came to visit and I got an invitation to the cocktail party they gave.” “Not only the Duke of Wales and Cornwall,” said Rick, “every member of royalty stays with us when they visit the West Coast. If you want to enjoy afternoon tea, British style, in the very dining room where royalty have dined, you have to book two weeks in advance. At afternoon tea on Victoria Day in May, the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra will be coming from London to play chamber music. They include two violinists who played for Queen Victoria at her Golden Jubilee. Of course, all the seats have long since sold out.” Rick took a gold-monogrammed envelope out of the pocket of his lightweight wool suit and handed it to the judge. “Perhaps Your Honour would like to verify that I am who I say I am.”

  The judge opened the envelope and took out a sheet of paper with the same gold monogram on it. He turned it over and looked at the back and gradually a faint smile appeared on his lips. He carefully put the letter away in an inner pocket of his black gown and asked: “Mr. Henderson, you have come as a witness for Mr. Hunter?” Rick shook his head. “Quite the contrary,” he said, “I have come as a witness for Mr. Chu—although he didn’t invite me.

  “Mr. Chu Ah-Lam is an employee of the Whispering Bamboos Laundry, whose proprietor, Mr. Fong Tak Fat, is also present today. In the last eight years, the Whispering Bamboos Laundry has provided laundry services for the Vancouver Hotel. For the first five years, they washed and ironed the bed and table linen, just for the ordinary guests, of course. We have specialist launderers for the rooms of our most exclusive guests. For the last three years, the Whispering Bamboos Laundry has also undertaken personal laundry and mending for our ordinary guests.

  “The Whispering Bamboos Laundry has now, I know, opened another branch in Vancouver with around twenty employees. This branch provides services for hotels and guest houses, and has very few private customers. In the last eight years, the Vancouver Hotel has not lost a single bedsheet or tablecloth. Nor have our guests made a single complaint of this nature. Of course, they have made other complaints, for example, that it’s hard to make the laundry workers understand English and so on. As I understand it, there are several hundred dialects of Chinese within the Empire of the Great Qing alone, so it’s a bit like the Tower of Babel, with everyone speaking their own language. We surely cannot expect them to completely understand the language of the British Empire, just like that, can we? But Your Honour only has to give it one serious thought, and it will become immediately apparent that a laundry business which has serviced the Vancouver Hotel for eight years is hardly likely to bother pilfering some trifling item of clothing from an individual customer. I hope that you will give due weight to my testimony, Your Honour.”

  The judge shook his head and grumbled: “Are you having a joke at my expense? Why didn’t you bring all this up when the court was in session? It would have saved everyone a great deal of trouble. That poor hen might have been spared to lay a few more eggs.” And he banged the gavel hard on the table: “The case of Hunter v. Chu is hereby concluded. The evidence of the plaintiff does not stand up in court. Mr. Chu does not need to pay any compensation to Mr. Hunter. Mr. Hunter will bear all the legal costs. The court is dismissed.”

  Rick bowed to the judge. “Your Honour, I hope that my witness statement can be kept permanently on file. It’s hard enough for these poor Chinese to run their small businesses without these people who constantly make trouble for them. If the Whispering Bamboos Laundry is ever taken to court again in a case like this, the judge can refer to my testimony, or call me as a witness.”

  Once outside, Ah-Fat could not resist asking Rick: “What the hell was written in that letter?”

  Rick looked around to check no one was listening and then muttered: “An invitation as an honoured guest to the Royal Afternoon Tea on Victoria Day. The seats closest to the orchestra.”

  If Ah-Fat’s English was rudimentary, Ah-Lam’s was even more so, and he was unable to say anything much to Rick. However, he tugged at Ah-Fat’s sleeve and said: “You did the right thing, kid, when you saved that kuai lo’s life on the railroad.” “That’s all very well for you to say. The scar’s not on your face, is it?” Ah-Fat retorted.

  Rick snapped his fingers at a carriage on the other side of the street and the driver brought it slowly over. Rick jumped in, and then turned back to Ah-Fat: “Next time customers come to pick up their clothes, get them to sign for them. It’ll save you a lot of bother.” “Right,” said Ah-Fat, with nod. The carriage creaked away but after a few paces stopped again at Rick’s command. Rick came back to say to Ah-Fat:

  “That eminent Chinese scholar of yours, Mr. Liang, is staying at the hotel. From what I hear, he’s been promoting his reform movement and planning to overthrow the Empress Dowager. He’s giving a lecture this evening. Are you coming?”

  Even though Rick broke his sentences into short sections and spoke very slowly, Ah-Lam still did not understand. “What bullshit’s he talking now?” he asked Ah-Fat. “We’ll put up the shutters early today and we’re going to the hotel.” “But Ah-Yee’s already delivered the washed and ironed linen we got yesterday. What’s the point in going back there again?” “Mr. Liang’s here and he’s staying at the hotel.” “What Mr. Liang?” “Liang Qichao, the one who plotted constitutional reform with the Emperor, and the Empress Dowager put a price on his head of a hundred thousand ounces of silver. He’s lecturing tonight.” “If you get involved with the Monarchists, and they get wind of it back home, your whole family will be killed.” “A lot of Chinese here in Vancouver have joined the Monarchists. If we don’t go shooting our mouths off, they won’t get wind of it.” “You go if you want. Me and Ah-Yee, we’re off to the Fan Tan gambling dens. Whatever party’s in power, the rich are still rich and the poor are still poor. So what if Mr. Liang’s here? I still have to wash clothes to earn a living.”

  “Bullshit,” said Ah-Fat. “If China was just a little bit stronger, would you and me have to leave our parents, wives and kids and come and work over here, and have the yeung fan make trouble for us all the time? We’ve got a young, promising emperor. He’s had a Western education, and if he can take power, he can use that knowledge to contain the Westerners and revitalize our country. Then you and I can get back home and live with our families.” Ah-Lam had married a few years before, but had not managed to raise the money for the head tax or the boat passage home, and had not seen his son since his birth. Ah-Fat had touched a raw nerve, and Ah-Lam fell silent.

  When they had put the shutters up, Ah-Fat and Ah-Lam spruced themselves up and changed into the long gowns and mandarin jackets that normally only came out for New Year. They walked to the Vancouver Hotel through the darkening streets, their blue cloth shoes kicking up fine dust which bore the faint smell of new grass, feeling an excitement which gradually rose to fever pitch.

  They arrived in good time at the hotel. At the door, Ah-Fat saw a familiar face—familiar yet strange, as if the man had changed out of his usual clothes and did not look like himself any more. Ah-Fat stared for a moment. Then the man smiled at him and a black mole at the corner of his lips migrated up his face. Suddenly he knew who it was.

  Ah-Fat lifted the folds of his gown and knelt down in a respectful bow: “Mr. Auyung! When did you come to Gold Mountain? No wonder Ah-Yin wrote and told me she coul
dn’t get in touch with you. We wanted our son Kam Shan to become your pupil last year.”

  Mr. Auyung pulled him to his feet. “Two years ago, I wrote some articles on constitutional reform and the government put a price on my head. I had to leave my home. I first went to Japan, but then I heard that Mr. Kang Youwei and Mr. Liang Qichao were in North America so I came here too.”

  Auyung pulled the two men to one side and they talked for a long time. When they finally went into the hotel lecture hall, there were no seats left and the aisles were full of people standing, both Whites and Chinese. By the time Ah-Fat and Ah-Lam had squeezed themselves into a small corner, they realized they had missed the beginning of the speech. In any case, the tenor of Mr. Liang’s speech was high-flown in the extreme; these grand, distant phrases seemed to fall like boulders in a disorderly heap. Even for a man who had some education like Ah-Fat, negotiating this boulder-strewn road cost him a good deal of effort. Fortunately, Auyung had smoothed the way for them beforehand and, having heard his simplified version, it was easier to make sense of what Liang Qichao had to say.

  It was midnight before they got home from Liang Qichao’s lecture. Neither of them could sleep, so they sat on the bed smoking one cigarette after another. The laundry boys were already asleep, and rhythmic sounds of snoring filled the room like a chorus of cicadas. In the darkness, all that could be seen was the glinting light from two pipe bowls. Ah-Lam kicked off his shoes and sat on the bed picking out the grime from between his toes. “A woman’s made herself the boss of the Emperor and the boss of our whole country. Mr. What’s-it Liang—what the hell was he going on about? I say we should simply hire someone to stick a knife into her. I’ve never heard such a boring lot of shit.” Ah-Fat did not answer. There was more swearing from Ah-Lam but then he got tired of it, and grabbing his pillow, he lay down. Immediately, his breathing became heavy.