Gold Mountain Blues

by Ling Zhang

Year one of the Republic (1912)

  Spur-On Village, Hoi Ping County, Guangdong Province, China

  As she dressed, Six Fingers realized she had put on weight. She had had her jacket made the previous autumn and now she could hardly get the buttons done up. The fabric cut into the flesh under her armpits and over her belly when she bent down. She knew it was because she had taken little exercise lately. Mrs. Mak had kept a close eye on her since the kidnapping two years before. Even though they had hired half a dozen strapping bodyguards to protect Six Fingers and Kam Ho round the clock, Mrs. Mak would not allow Six Fingers to take a step out of the house. Since she could not go out, Six Fingers shut herself in her room and practised her calligraphy and painting. Both, she felt, had markedly improved.

  Six Fingers opened the window and heard Kam Ho reciting his morning lessons in the reception hall. A new teacher had just been engaged.

  As for the way autumn takes shape, in colour it is bleak, the fog lifts and clouds begin to dissipate; the atmosphere is fresh and clear, with the sky high above and sunlight crystalline. The weather becomes cool, chilling men to the bone; it conveys desolation, amidst deserted mountains and rivers. Thus as it produces sound it is chilly and cutting, crying out in great anger. When luxuriant grasses are bright green they struggle to stand out; when the beautiful trees are lush it is easy to enjoy them. But as the grasses meet autumn their colour changes, and as the trees meet autumn they shed their leaves. The reason for this destruction and falling is the excess harshness of all its breath.

  Six Fingers leaned against the window listening quietly. It sounded familiar. Maybe as a child she had learned the text in class with her nephew, young Loong. Wasn’t it from the “Rhapsody on Autumn Sounds” by the Song dynasty poet Ouyang Xiu? She should ask Kam Ho when he finished his class.

  Kam Ho sounded so unlike Kam Shan, she thought to herself. Kam Shan had been gone two years now. Even before he left, Mrs. Mak was so sad she could not say his name without heaving a sigh that filled the reception hall like a draught. If Six Fingers tried to comfort her, Mrs. Mak would say she did not miss her men, not even her own flesh and blood. But if Six Fingers said nothing, Mrs. Mak would accuse her of wanting to take the whole family to Gold Mountain—leaving her, a lonely old woman behind, just waiting to die. So no matter what she said, she could not get it right. Mrs. Mak’s grief was so great, Six Fingers almost forgot that it was she who should be weeping and grieving over her son’s departure.

  The year that Kam Shan left, he grew as fast as a moulting silkworm. His voice suddenly became gruff, and he croaked like a drake. When Ah-Choi washed his hair for him, she said: “The young master’s growing a beard!” At fifteen, the boy was already as tall as Mak Dau. Last New Year, in the gown and jacket he put on for the ancestral rites, he looked like a proper adult, although he still behaved like a headstrong kid. Kam Shan had never suffered a day’s illness in his life. He was as sturdy as a giant bamboo, as unyielding, and as impervious to blows. When the two brothers stood side by side, there was not the slightest likeness. Ever since birth, Kam Ho had been a sickly and accident-prone child. He had not yet begun to fill out but remained small, like a stunted shoot. He was so slender that he looked as if you could snap him in two. Even the voice in which he recited his lessons sounded like the whine of a mosquito; it had nothing of Kam Shan’s forcefulness.

  When Six Fingers had heard enough of Kam Ho’s lessons, she leaned out of the window, and saw that the clump of bamboo which grew against the wall in the corner of the courtyard had changed colour. It was no longer green and yellow but was speckled with white. When she went out to look, she realized it was covered with a fine layer of flowers. Her heart skipped a beat.

  Bamboos lived from a few decades to as much as a hundred years, she knew. They were evergreen and vigorous growers. But once they flowered, they died within a short time, so country folk regarded them as a portent of disaster, like the fall of a dynasty. The Qing dynasty had indeed fallen, the Emperor had stepped down and they now had a Republic. Was this “state of the people” really of the people? In regions remote from the capital, nothing had changed—they were as bandit-ridden as ever. Last market day in Chek Ham, dozens of college students and their teachers had been kidnapped by bandits in broad daylight. If the Emperor had been unable to keep control of the regions, then neither could the Republican government. The old dynasty had gone, yet the bamboo was in flower. What did it portend? Had an accident befallen Ah-Fat or Kam Shan? Feeling alarmed, she went back into her room to write them a letter.

  She spread the paper flat but the words would not come and her brush remained poised in the air. There was much on her mind yet she could not tease out the end of the thread in the tangled skein of her thoughts. Ah-Fat, Kam Shan and Kam Ho, Mrs. Mak—they were all there in her thoughts. So too was the diulau. She could write and tell him family news, skimming the surface of things like a bamboo ladle collecting duckweed from the surface of a pond. But there were other thoughts too, lying like stones at the bottom, which she could not get a grip on.

  Since the day two years ago when Mak Dau had rescued her from the bandit Chu Sei, not a single member of the household had asked what happened to her during her captivity. Although they did not ask, their suspicions were writ large on their faces. Mrs. Mak spoke less and less, but she sighed more and more. She had different kinds of sighs: there was one which came from her nostrils as a kind of snort, which Six Fingers knew was meant for her ears. There was one which slid off her tongue, which was meant for the rest of the household; then there was one which lay quiescent in her heart before finally slipping between her lips, and that sigh was for Mrs. Mak’s own ears only.

  Whenever Six Fingers walked in the courtyard, she felt the servants’ eyes on her back. Every corner and every room of the Fong residence seemed to be filled with chatter. But as soon as she walked into a room, the noise would cease abruptly and the world would be plunged into silence.

  Taken all together, these silences were nothing compared to Ah-Fat’s. True, he had written more frequently in the last two years, but his letters were all about the petty details of the construction. From the Roman-style columns under the roof to the decorative carving at the front entrance, Ah-Fat was tireless in explaining exactly what material should be used, down to the last detail. What he never mentioned was Six Fingers’ abduction. He never even came near to touching on it in his letters. His silence on the matter was impenetrable. Six Fingers could handle the others. She would use her own steadiness to fend off their suspicions. But Ah-Fat’s silence she found far more alarming. She did not know where its edges were, and she felt suddenly out of her depth.

  Just then, Mak Dau come running in, his face gleaming with sweat. “Missus, I’ve carried out your instructions.” He did not look at Six Fingers as he spoke but kept his eyes fixed on the tops of his blue cloth shoes. He was referring to the position of the shrine for the ancestral tablets; in the original plans, these had been positioned under the roof so that their protection would extend to the entire building. However, Six Fingers, knowing that her blind, elderly mother-in-law would never manage all those stairs when she wanted to light incense and worship the ancestors, had ordered the builders to move it down to the second floor. The builders had not been very happy about having to go back down and make changes.

  “Did you see Mr. Lau from the Sincere Company?” asked Six Fingers. “Yes.” “Did you talk about the alteration?” “Yes.” “Did Mr. Lau agree to it?” “Yes.” “Did Mr. Lau say when the work would be finished?” “He said, as soon as possible.” “Keep an eye on it, will you? The completion date is fixed. It’s the last market day of the first month next year—that’s the twenty-second. It’s an auspicious day for moving home, and it was fixed when the groundwork was started on the building last year. The Daoist monk has been paid the retainer to sacrifice to the ancestors and drive out evil spirits that day.”

  Mak Dau said nothing.

  Six Fingers laughed shortl
y. “Has the cat got your tongue? Normally you can’t stop talking.” Mak Dau carried on staring silently at his toecaps. After a moment, Six Fingers went on: “Is there anyone who trusts me in this house? You’re just the same as the rest.” Mak Dau reluctantly looked up, and saw a film of tears in Six Fingers’ eyes. A wave of tenderness flooded over him and his tone softened. “Has she given in about moving to the diulau?” he asked. Six Fingers knew he was talking about Mrs. Mak who, even though the fortress home was her son’s initiative, was refusing to budge.

  She was quite clear about her reasons. She said she had lived in this house for decades and this was where she had waited on her in-laws and cared for her children. She was used to it, and she had no intention of moving. Besides, the diulau was too high, how would a blind old woman with bound feet climb all those stairs? Six Fingers said she would hire someone specially to carry her up and down on her back. There was moment’s silence, and then Mrs. Mak retorted: “I’m not like you. I don’t let just anyone carry me around.” Six Fingers’ heart sank. She realized that her mother-in-law had other, hidden reasons for not wanting to move.

  Since the groundwork started the previous year, Mrs. Mak had not been well. Hers was a strange illness: she had no vomiting or diarrhea, no fever, no ague or pain. But she had no appetite and spent all day dozing. She grew thinner and thinner. They had called in a number of herbalists and she had drunk dozens of decoctions, but nothing made her better. As she got worse, she was alternately lucid and confused. When she was lucid, she would stare silently at the ceiling; when she was confused, she talked on and on. Two days ago, she had eaten breakfast and then sat up, her hair in disarray, and thumped the bed, swearing at Ah-Fat. “I’m going to take you before the county magistrate, you disobedient, undutiful son of mine, you blackhearted wolf! You never came home for my sixtieth birthday!”

  Six Fingers hurriedly helped the old woman back onto her pillows. “Mum, Ah-Fat’s money’s all gone on the new house, but he’s built it to make you happy.” Mrs. Mak gripped Six Fingers’ palm, digging her pointed fingernails in. “He built that house for you, not me,” she said, “and that’s why he has no money to come home. If you hadn’t been kidnapped, he would have spent the money on buying land. Why would he want to build a diulau?” “Mum, once the family’s moved, we can sell the old house and buy fields with the money,” said Six Fingers.

  Mrs. Mak opened her sightless eyes wide and stared dully at Six Fingers. Finally, she said fiercely: “Pah! And who is your family? Do you dare call yourself a Fong after coming back from Chu Sei?” Six Fingers flung off the old woman’s hand. She felt as if a crevasse had opened up beneath her feet, and she was being drawn deeper and deeper down into it. Mrs. Mak was not in the least confused; she was just acting that way to speak her mind freely.

  A drop of Mrs. Mak’s saliva had fallen on Six Finger’s cheek. She wiped it with the front of her jacket and walked unsteadily from the room. Some of the servants were outside but no one looked at her. They simply carried on with what they were doing, but Six Fingers knew they must have heard. Among them she spotted Mak Dau; he was mending a hole in a woven basket used for rice. He looked wild-eyed and, throwing down the strips of bamboo, he knocked his head against a pillar in frustration: “Missus, please let me tell them! Why won’t you let me tell them?”

  “Are you getting sick in the head just because the old Missus is?” snapped Six Fingers. “Don’t talk such rubbish! Get on with your work, all of you!” The servants scattered.

  From that day on, Mak Dau would stiffen like a fighting cock every time he saw Six Fingers, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

  Finished with her letter writing, Six Fingers put the writing materials away and posed a question to Mak Dau: “How old are you this year? Is it twenty-five or twenty-six?” “My birthday’s at the end of the year, Missus, so you can call me either.” “You should be getting married by now, shouldn’t you?” Mak Dau said nothing. “What do you think about Ah-Yuet?” Ah-Yuet was Ah-Fat’s aunt’s servant. She was eighteen this year so she was of marriageable age too. Mak Dau still said nothing. When Six Fingers pressed him, he said reluctantly: “She waddles like a hen.” “She’s hard-working and honest. Not bad-looking either. You don’t have to look at her from behind. Look at her front.” Mak Dau had to laugh, and his teeth lit up the room. “Even if I’m trying not to look at her, I can’t avoid her if she’s walking in front of me.” “I think she’ll suit you,” said Six Fingers. “If you marry someone in the family, you’ll be in the same position as Ha Kau—you’ll be able to live here for the rest of your life.”

  Mak Dau stood there looking blank. After a long silence, he said: “If you think it’s right, young Missus, then I’ll do it.” “Good. In a couple of days, I’ll get Third Granny to bring you the proposal.”

  Mak Dau turned to leave, his head down. Then he turned back and said hesitantly: “Why won’t you let me speak, Missus? I feel bad that you’ve been wronged. When the Master comes home from Gold Mountain, he’ll believe all that gossip, and then what will you do?” Six Fingers smiled: “If he wants to believe it, then telling him a hundred times won’t make any difference. The truth will be out in any case, whatever you say.” Mak Dau said nothing and went out. Six Fingers leaned out of the window and ordered: “Go and see if it’s time for the teacher to have his tea. If it isn’t, don’t disturb him. If it is, tell Kam Ho I want him.”

  A few minutes later, Kam Ho trotted in. “Your father’s spent all this time and money building us a fortress home and Mak Dau’s overseen all the work. I’ve never set eyes on it and it’ll be finished at the beginning of next year. Let’s go and take a look.” Kam Ho looked doubtful. “What about Granny? We’re not allowed out.”

  Six Fingers smiled dryly. “Chu Sei couldn’t keep me locked up and neither can anyone else. Don’t worry, my time hasn’t come yet. When the Grim Reaper comes for me, it doesn’t matter whether I’m at home or out, there’s no avoiding him. But if it’s not my time, then even a knife at my throat won’t harm me.” Kam Ho was as fed up as his mother with being confined to the house and had been trying to find an excuse for an outing. Her words gave him courage.

  They were on their way out when they bumped into Ah-Choi. The servant stammered: “The old Missus.…” but Six Fingers fixed her with a look and Ah-Choi hurriedly fell back. All she could do was to look meaningfully at some of the bodyguards, indicating that they should stick close by Six Fingers and Kam Ho.

  Six Fingers walked down the steps of the house and reached the sandy roadway at the bottom. It had just rained and the sky had not completely cleared. A few rays of sunshine filtered through the clouds. The road was wet and the moisture seeped through the soles of her embroidered cloth shoes. When Six Fingers looked up, the sun’s rays hurt her eyes. The wild banana trees at the roadside were covered in fat white blossoms. The flowers and leaves stirred in the breeze, looking almost ghostly. Six Fingers thought she would like to go closer, but although her head willed it, her legs felt weak. She had not gone out for nearly two years. The road, the sun, the breeze all seemed to be ganging up on her.

  She walked unsteadily for a few more paces and then caught sight of the new building. The position originally chosen for it by the fengshui master was a piece of high ground at the entrance to the village, a propitious place for the dragon to show off its pearl, but there were protests that building such a tall house there would block the good fortune of the other villagers. They were forced to choose a piece of wasteland at the other end of the village next to a stand of wild banana trees. To reach it they needed to walk farther, but they could see their new house from where they stood. “House” was how Six Fingers referred to it to herself, but all she could actually see at this stage was bamboo fencing. This was to prevent others from seeing it before it was finished and to give shelter to the builders if it was wet or windy.

  She could at least see how tall the building was. She knew they had only reached the fourth floor but its height
still frightened her. She had never seen such a tall building. It made everything else nearby dwindle by comparison. The few feeble rays of sunlight that had broken through the clouds seemed to shine right down onto the roof of their new house. Six Fingers put her hands to her heart and gasped in astonishment. “Oh, Ah-Fat!” She could think of nothing more to say.

  “This must be the tallest building in the whole township area, mustn’t it?” she said to her son.

  “Mum,” said Kam Ho, “we’ve never been inside the Emperor’s palace but this is definitely the tallest building in the township. Even the church in Yuen Kai has only two storeys.”

  Gradually Six Fingers’ eyes brightened as if lit by the sun’s rays. She gave a small sigh. “Kam Ho, when you grow up, you must go to Gold Mountain like your big brother and help your father. Life’s been so tough for your dad.” “When’s Dad coming to get me?” asked Kam Ho. “When you’re a big boy. Will you miss your mum when you leave?” Kam Ho did not answer. He was only twelve, and did not understand what separation meant. His mind was on something else. After a pause, he asked Six Fingers: “Mum, is Gold Mountain really paved with gold?” “Of course not. Your father scraped together enough to build this by saving every cent, and it’s taken him decades.” “But people who live here save up every cent too, so why don’t they build a diulau like this?”

  Six Fingers had no answer to that.

  “Missus! Missus!” Ah-Choi shouted, running towards them.

  “The old … old Missus!” she stammered, out of breath.

  Six Fingers stood rooted to the spot as Ah-Choi panted like an ox. There was no point in pressing her when she was flustered. You had to give her time to calm down before she could get the words out.

  “The old Missus, she’s spitting blood!”

  By the time Six Fingers and Kam Ho got back to the house, the herbalist had finished taking the patient’s pulse and was putting his medicine chest in order. Mrs. Mak lay in the bed, her face deadly pale, with just a crimson spot on her lips where the blood had not been wiped off. Her breathing was very faint. Ah-Fat’s uncle and aunt were there, wailing as if she had already died.