Lalu, waiting for her turn to come before the customs officer, caught the contagion of nervous excitement, and she felt the same thrill, bright and sharp as lightning, that had shot through her when the Madam had told her she was going to America, the Gold Mountains at the other end of the Great Ocean of Peace.
“I have never been there, but Li Ma, the woman for whom I bought you, says there is gold everywhere. On the streets, in the hills, mountains, rivers, and valleys. Gold just waiting to be picked up. . . .”
“Gold that will make me rich. So rich, no one, not even Old Man Yang, will dare speak against me if I go home,” Lalu had whispered, ignoring the rest of the Madam’s words.
Hugging herself inwardly, she had pictured her parents’ and brothers’ faces when she gave her father the gold that would make him the richest man in the village. The pride they would have in her, their qianjin. And she had held fast to this picture, as to a talisman. First, when the Madam had turned her over to Li Ma, the crotchety, foulmouthed woman who would take her to the Gold Mountains. Then, during the long voyage, when only the men’s talk of gold had kept alive her dream of going home. And now, as she folded and refolded the forged papers Li Ma had given her. For the demons who ruled the Gold Mountains wished to keep their gold for themselves, and in order to gain the right to land, Lalu must successfully pretend to be the wife of a San Francisco merchant.
Over and over, during the long weeks crammed in the hold of the ship, Li Ma had forced Lalu and the other five women and girls in her charge to rehearse the stories that matched their papers, sternly warning, “Pass the examination by customs, and you will soon return to China a rich woman, the envy of all in your village. Fail, and you will find yourself in a demon jail, tortured as only the demons know how.”
Could the torture be worse than the journey she had just endured? Lalu thought of the sweltering, airless heat and thirst that had strangled the words in her throat, making her stumble when she recited for Li Ma, earning her cruel pinchings and monotonous harangues. The aching loneliness that came from homesickness and Li Ma’s refusal to permit the girls to talk among themselves. The bruising falls and the tearing at her innards each time the ship rocked, tossing her off the narrow shelf that served as bed, knocking her against the hard wood sides of the hull. The long, black periods of waiting for the hatch to bang open as it did twice each day, bringing a shaft of sunlight, gusts of life-giving salt air, the smell of the sea. The struggle to chew the hard, sour bread and swallow the slop lowered down as though they were pigs in a pen.
Lalu tossed her head, straightened her jacket, and smoothed her hair. That was all over. Behind her. No more than a bad dream. She was in America, the Gold Mountains. And soon, just as soon as she gathered enough gold, she would go home.
“Next.”
Lalu felt herself shoved in front of the customs officer. She had never been close to a white man before and she stared amazed at the one that towered above her. His skin was chalk white, like the face of an actor painted to play a villain, only it was not smooth but covered with wiry golden hair, and when his mouth opened and closed, there were no words to make an audience shake with anger or fear, only a senseless roaring. Beside him, a Chinese man spoke.
“Your papers. Give him your papers,” Li Ma hissed.
“My papers?” Lalu said in her native Northern dialect. “I’ve . . .”
She stopped, horrified. How could she have been so stupid? True, Southern speech was still strange to her, but during the long voyage, Li Ma had taught her the dialect, for the majority of Chinese immigrants on board came from the Southern province of Guongdong, and her papers claimed her as such. Now she had betrayed herself, proven her papers false. There would be no gold on the streets for her and no homecoming, only jail and torture.
Li Ma snatched the papers from Lalu. “Don’t mind the girl’s foolish rambling. You’ll see everything’s in order. Here’s the certificate of departure and the slip with her husband’s address here in the Great City.”
Gold flashed as she passed the papers up to the Chinese man beside the demon officer. “A respected tradesman he is. Could have his pick of beauties. Why he wants this simpleton back is anyone’s guess. Should have let her stay on in China when she went back to nurse his old mother. But you know how men are. So long as the woman satisfies that muscle below their belt, they don’t care about anything else.”
The Chinese man laughed. He passed the papers to the customs officer. Again gold flashed. They talked between them in the foreign tongue, their eyes stripping Lalu, making her feel unclean. Finally, the demon officer stamped the papers. Smirking, he thrust them down at Lalu. Her face burning with embarrassment, she hugged the precious papers against her chest and followed Li Ma past the wooden barricade. She was safe.
“Look,” Li Ma barked, pointing to the huddle of waiting women and girls. “Some of them are only ten, eleven years old. Children. Yet they showed more intelligence and good sense than you. Now you mark my words. That’s the first and the last time I put out good gold to save your neck, so watch yourself, do you hear?” Cuffing Lalu’s ears for emphasis, she herded her charges together and out onto the wharf.
Lalu, weak from lack of nourishing food and exercise, felt as if the boat were still pitching and rolling beneath her feet. But she walked briskly, not wanting to provoke another storm of abuse from Li Ma who was speeding past heaps of crated produce, sacks of flour and beans, and stacks of barrels. Above her, she heard the screech of seagulls, and beyond the wharf, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the creak and rattle of wagons, voices deep and shrill. But she could see no further than Li Ma’s back, for the same thick fog which had shrouded the Gold Mountains when they disembarked enveloped them, its cold dampness penetrating, leaving the salty taste of tears. Lalu swallowed her disappointment. She would see the mountains soon enough. Meanwhile, she would look for the nuggets the men said lay in the street.
Beneath the sickly glow of street lamps, she saw horse droppings, rats feasting on piles of garbage, rags, broken bottles. Metal glittered. A discarded can or gold? Stooping to grab it, Lalu did not see the rock until it stung her cheek. Startled, she looked up just as a mud ball splashed against Li Ma’s back.
Li Ma whirled around. “You dead girl,” she screamed at Lalu. “How dare you!”
She broke off as high-pitched squeals and cries burst from the girls around her. Through the heavy mist, Lalu made out white shadows, demon boys, hurling stones and mud, yelling, words she did not understand but she could feel.
“You dead ghosts,” Li Ma cried, shaking her fist at them.
Giggling, the boys concentrated their missiles on the short square woman. Without thinking, Lalu picked up the stones that landed nearest her, flinging them back at the boys as fast as they could throw them. Years of playing with her brothers had made her aim excellent and the boys soon fled.
Li Ma fell on Lalu. “Stop that you dead foolish girl or you’ll have the authorities after us.”
“But they started it.”
“Are you so dim-witted that you don’t know you’re in a demon land? The laws are made by demons to protect demons, not us. Let’s just hope we can get to Chinatown before they come back with officers or we’ll find ourselves rotting in a demon jail.”
Shouting, pushing, and shoving, she hurried them up steep cobbled streets with foul smelling gutters, past wagons pulled by huge draft horses and unwashed demon men loafing on upturned barrels until they reached narrow streets crowded with Chinese men. Chinatown. Even then, she did not permit the women and girls to rest. But the warm familiar smells and sounds soothed Lalu’s confusion, and she barely felt Li Ma’s parting cuff as she herded them down a flight of stairs into a large basement room with more young women and girls like herself.
“Those with contracts come over to this side, those without go stand on the platform,” an old woman in black lacquer pants and jacket directed.
Lalu held out her papers. The old woman took them. Sh
e pushed Lalu in the direction of the women without contracts.
“No, I belong over there,” Lalu said, trying to take back the papers.
The old woman snorted. “What a bumpkin you are! Those papers were just to get you into the country. They have to be used again.”
“But Li Ma said . . .”
“Don’t argue girl, you’re one of the lucky ones,” the old woman said. She pointed to the group of women with contracts. “Their fates have been decided, it’s prostitution for them, but if you play your cards right, you may still get the bridal chair.”
A shocked murmur rippled through the group of women. One of them took a paper from an inner pocket. “I have a marriage contract,” she said. “Not what you suggest.”
“And I! And I!” the women around her echoed. The old woman took the contract from the young woman. The paper crackled as she spread it open. “Read it!” she ordered.
The young woman’s lips quivered. “I can’t.”
The old woman jangled the ring of keys at her waist. “Does anyone here read?”
The women looked hopefully at each other. Some shook their heads. Others were simply silent. None could read.
“Then I’ll tell you what your contracts say.” Without looking at any of the papers, the old woman continued, “For the sum of your passage money, you have promised the use of your bodies for prostitution.”
“But the marriage broker gave my parents the passage money,” the young woman persisted.
“You fool, that was a procurer, not a marriage broker!” She pointed to the thumb print at the bottom of the paper. “Is that your mark?”
Sobbing quietly, the young woman nodded.
“Well then, there’s nothing more to be said, is there?”
“Yes there is,” a girl said boldly. “I put my mark on one of those contracts, and I knew what it was for.” Her face reddened. “I had to,” she added.
“So?” the old woman, hands on hips, prompted.
“The contract specifies the number of years, five in my case, so take heart sisters, our shame will not last forever.”
“What about your sick days?”
“What do you mean?” the girl asked.
“The contract states your monthly sick days will be counted against your time: two weeks for one sick day, another month for each additional sick day.”
“But that means I’ll never be free!”
“Exactly.”
Like a stone dropped in a pond, the word started wave after wave of talk and tears.
“Keep crying like that,” the old woman shouted, “and by the time your owners come to get you, your eyes will be swollen like toads.”
“What difference does it make?” a voice challenged.
“Depending on your looks, you can be placed in an elegant house and dressed in silks and jewels or in a bagnio.”
“Bagnio?”
“On your way here you must have seen the doors with the barred windows facing the alleys, but perhaps you did not hear the chickens inside, tapping and scratching the screens, trying to attract a man without bringing a cop. Cry, make yourself ugly, and you’ll be one of those chickens, charging twenty-five cents for a look, fifty cents for a feel, and seventy-five cents for action.”
Slowly the sobs became muted sniffles and whimpers as stronger women hushed the weaker. The old woman turned to Lalu’s group. “Now get up on that platform like I told you.”
Silently Lalu and the other women and girls obeyed. When they were all on the platform, the old woman began to speak.
“This is where you’ll stand tomorrow when the men come. There’ll be merchants, miners, well-to-do peddlers, brothel owners, and those who just want to look. They’ll examine you for soundness and beauty. Do yourself up right, smile sweetly, and the bids will come in thick and fast from those looking for wives as well as those looking to fill a house.
“When the price is agreed on, the buyer will place the money in your hands. That will make the sale binding, but you will turn the money over to me. Do you understand?”
The women and girls nodded. A few murmured defeat.
The old woman pointed to some buckets against the wall. “There’s soap and water. Wash thoroughly. You will be stripped for auction.”
“Stripped?”
“Women in the Gold Mountains are scarcer than hen’s teeth and even a plain or ugly girl has value. But when a man has to pay several thousand dollars for a woman, he likes to see exactly what he is buying,” the old woman said.
She grabbed a tight-lipped, thin, dark girl from the back of the group. The girl stared defiant as the old woman ripped off her jacket and pointed out scars from a deep hatchet wound, puckered flesh the shape of a hot iron. “Look carefully and be warned against any thought of disobedience or escape.” She threw the girl’s jacket onto the floor. “It will be the bagnio for you. If you’re lucky.”
She pulled the women closest to her down from the platform and herded them toward the buckets of water. “Now get going, we’ve wasted time enough.”
All around her, Lalu could hear the sounds of women and girls preparing themselves for auction, but she made no move to join them. It had taken all her concentration to make out the words that had been spoken in the strange Southern dialect, and she was only just beginning to feel their impact.
She had been duped, she realized. By the soft voiced, gentle Madam, a cormorant who had nothing to give except to its master. By Li Ma, the foulmouthed procuress charged with Lalu’s delivery to the auction room. By the talk of freemen whose dreams could never be hers. For the Gold Mountains they had described was not the America she would know. This: the dingy basement room, the blank faces of women and girls stripped of hope, the splintered boards beneath her feet, the auction block. This was her America.
Through a haze as chilling as the fog that had surrounded her at the wharf, Lalu became aware of warm breath, an anxious nudging. It was the thin, dark girl the old woman had exposed as warning.
“Didn’t you hear what the old woman said? You’re one of the lucky ones.”
“The Madam in Shanghai said that too.”
“But it’s true. There are women far worse off than you. Like those smuggled into the Gold Mountains hidden in padded crates labeled dishware or inside coal bunkers. Many of them don’t survive the journey or arrive so bruised and broken they cannot be sold.” The girl leaned closer and lowered her voice still further. “Those women are taken straight to the same ‘hospitals’ as slave girls who have ceased to be attractive or who have become diseased. There, alone in tiny, windowless cells, they’re laid on wooden shelves to wait for death from starvation or their own hand.” She brightened. “But you made the journey with papers and a woman to look out for you. You’re thin, but beautiful and sound.”
“What does that change except my price?”
The girl took Lalu’s hands in hers, holding them tight, quieting their trembling. “You must learn as I have to let your mind take flight. Then you won’t feel, and if you don’t feel, nothing anyone does can hurt you.”
ELEVEN
On the auction block, Lalu closed her eyes against her own nakedness and the men who milled around, poking, prodding, and pinching. Bids fell like arrows. Gold pieces, cold, hard, and heavy, dropped into her outstretched palms.
A woman’s harsh voice ordered her to dress and Lalu knew she had not been purchased for a wife. She no longer cared. With the heavy lethargy of a sleepwalker, she pulled on jacket and trousers and followed the woman up the steps into the same dirty, narrow streets she had walked the day before.
As they retraced the journey to the wharf, Lalu’s nose wrinkled at the stink of garbage and manure, the splatter of mud, but she made no effort to look for promised gold or dodge the stones of demon boys, the drunken leers of demon men.
Vaguely, she realized the vessel they boarded was smaller, less crowded than the one that had brought her across the Ocean of Peace, that the journey was shorter, and Portla
nd, their destination, a sunnier, less hostile demon city. Dimly, she heard a young, handsome Chinese man greet them, felt him take her from the woman and place her on a mule.
He had a packstring of ten mules, eight loaded with supplies, one which he rode, one for Lalu, and as her mule jogged beside his, he attempted to draw her into conversation. He was Jim, he said. A packer Lalu’s master, Hong King, had commissioned to fetch his slave.
He spoke kindly and in Lalu’s same Northern dialect. But the fragile cocoon she had spun around herself was too warm, too comforting to break with talk, and she did not respond.
Nine days’ travel through thickly wooded trails brought them to Lewiston, a strange town made up of tents, makeshift houses of canvas stretched across wood frames, and buildings so new Lalu could smell the rawness of the wood.
“All mining camps look the same,” Jim said, guiding the packstring through rutted dirt streets crowded with freighters and horsemen shouting and cracking their whips. “There’s a main street, dusty in summer, muddy or snow covered in winter. A few saloons. A dance hall. Two or three stores. A jumble of wooden shacks and tents where everything has to be kept in tins for protection from mice and rats. And Warrens, the mining camp where you will live, is just like that.” His arm made a sweeping movement. “Like this. Only smaller.”
Languidly, Lalu’s eyes followed the sweep of Jim’s hand. Hogs rooted in piles of empty tins, potato peelings, old hambones, eggshells, and cabbage leaves. Chickens, pecking and clucking, strutted on and off the boardwalks and around broken pots, shovels, worn-out kettles, boots, and other rubbish, breaking up clouds of flies that covered clumps of stinking manure. A rat burrowed in the spilled-out entrails of a dead dog. From the buildings and tents lining the street came music, raucous laughter, bursts of gunfire, and breaking glass.
Thousand Pieces of Gold Page 6