White Jade Tiger

by Julie Lawson

  How dismal it was, this place they called Victoria. Where was the warmth? “They want us to come,” he had been told. “They will make us welcome.”

  As he groped his way from the wharf to the street, he knew it wasn’t so. He wasn’t wanted. White people on the boardwalk stared at him with loathing. He couldn’t simply dismiss them as “foreign devils”, barbarians that aroused one’s curiosity, for now he was the foreigner, the unwelcome stranger in their midst.

  Two white youths shouldered past, pushing him into the dusty road. Insults were hurled at him, ugly words he had first heard from the sailors on the ship.

  What was it his mother had said? “The stranger must be invisible.” Oh, if only it were so. He had never felt so vulnerable or so alone.

  Those who had signed on as labourers for the new railroad were already on their way to construction camps in the Fraser Canyon. For now, his job was to find his father. Then he would work on the railroad and make enough money for them to return home, away from this chilling place. Although that would mean another long sea voyage.

  He shuddered at the thought. As the ship sailed out of Hong Kong, he and the others had tossed grains of rice into the water so that the gods would give them a safe voyage. And safe it was—at least they weren’t wrecked at sea. But how awful! Five weeks below deck, hundreds of them packed into cramped quarters, often with the hatches closed. Every two days they were allowed on deck for a few moments of fresh air and exercise while their quarters were cleaned. Everyone was seasick. And the food! Very little rice, no fresh fruit or vegetables. Many became so ill they —

  “Aiee!” he cried, as a stone hit the back of his head. He turned to see a group of boys laughing and jeering. Another stone hit him in the arm.

  Keung’s face burned with humiliation. The shakiness in his legs made it difficult to stride purposefully, but he straightened his shoulders and quickened his pace, hoping he looked braver than he felt. The taunting voices followed, and echoed painfully in his mind long after the boys had gone.

  Gradually, Keung became aware of changes. Buildings of brick and stone gave way to a jumble of wooden shacks. The number of white people lessened, and the sound of his own dialect filtering through open doorways lifted his spirits. Feeling more confident, he approached a group of Chinese men chatting on the corner. “Elder Uncles,” he said, “I’ve just come off the ship. My name is Chan Tai Keung and I’m looking for the one they call Dragon Maker.”

  They clustered around him eagerly, anxious for news from their homeland. Finally one of the men said, “Leave him be. Can’t you see how tired he is? Come, boy. I’ll take you to Dragon Maker. But are you sure that’s where you want to go?”

  Keung took out the letter. “Dragon Maker wrote this for my father, three years ago.” As the man read it, his brow creased and the scar on his cheek twitched horribly. “Chan Sam is your father? And this was the last you heard from him?”

  “Yes,” said Keung. “Do you know him?”

  The man shrugged. “Perhaps. So many come and go.”

  “He came to make money so we could buy our land. My mother’s afraid something has happened, since he hasn’t written for so long. It was decided I should come and find him. And I must find—” A crafty look on the man’s face made him stop short of mentioning the white jade tiger.

  “Go on, what must you find?”

  Keung grinned sheepishly. “Only my fortune.”

  “Do you have money?”

  “No, all our money went for my passage. But I’ll make money.”

  “It may not be so easy.” He paused. “You could come and work for me.”

  “For you? But -”

  “I’m Blue-Scar Wong, a merchant in Chinatown. I own some shops and a restaurant.”

  Keung was amazed. So it was true! One could come to this strange land and make a fortune. Gratefully, he accepted Blue-Scar’s offer.

  They walked along a narrow alley and entered a warren of ramshackle shanties, thrown together with lumber of all shapes and sizes. Two or three were piled on top of each other, with rotting steps leading to the upper storeys. Blue-Scar Wong led the way up a steep staircase and knocked on a faded red door, the only door that was painted. “Dragon Maker, you have a visitor,” he called loudly. “It’s Chan Tai Keung, looking for his father.”

  Cautiously, the door opened. Two bright eyes peered through the crack.

  “That’s Dragon Maker,” said Blue-Scar. “He’ll let you stay here for the night. Tomorrow morning you start working for me. Tomorrow you start making your fortune.” Chuckling softly, he descended the rickety stairs.

  “I have to—” Keung began, but Blue-Scar was already out of sight.

  “Never mind, Chan Tai Keung.”

  He turned at the sound of the deep, resonant voice. An old man stood in the doorway, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I am Dragon Maker,” he said. “Come inside.”

  Keung gasped as he entered the tiny room. Painted dragons stared at him from every corner and every shelf. A table stood in the centre, covered with dragons in various stages of completion. Jars of brushes and pots of glaze spilled over the table in splashes of red, yellow, blue and green.

  “Tea?” Dragon Maker cleared a spot on the table and filled two chipped cups.

  “Please.” Keung slipped the bamboo pole off his shoulder and collapsed on an overturned crate.

  “You may stay as long as you like,” Dragon Maker said, “but your father is not here.”

  Keung groaned with disappointment. How could he have been so stupid, thinking it would be easy, thinking his father would be here, waiting for him to arrive. “Do you know where he is?”

  “They come and they go.” Dragon Maker sighed. “I knew your father, Chan Sam. A good man. I wrote the letter for him and sent it to your mother. Some time after that he had...difficulties, and left for the railroad camps.”

  Keung’s heart sank. “What difficulties?”

  “Time enough for that,” Dragon Maker replied. “You do not want to carry too many burdens so soon after your arrival.”

  “I’ll leave tomorrow and begin my search along the railroad.”

  Dragon Maker shook his head. “That would not be wise.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have agreed to work for Blue-Scar Wong. And he is not a man you want to displease.”

  Chapter 7

  It was raining the day of the Chinatown trip, a heavy rain that splashed the pavement with neon reflections and made the street shimmer. “I’ll meet you at Fan Tan Alley at 2:00,” Val said as the school bus arrived. “Here’s a note for your teacher.” She gave Jasmine’s braid a tug. “You look terrific,” she said. “Have fun.”

  The class spilled off the bus and gathered in excited clusters in front of the restaurant. A spattering of red sweaters brightened the sidewalk, along with shirts emblazoned with dragons and Chinese writing.

  “Hi Jasmine,” said Krista, giving her a friendly wave. “Where did you get the clothes?”

  “From my aunt. It’s what the Chinese wore when they came to build the railroad.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Becky. “You look great. But don’t you feel like, weird?”

  “No,” Jasmine replied. The question surprised her. “I feel right at home.”

  “Figures,” Becky said with a grin. “You always like to be different. But you can sit with us anyway, OK?”

  “Sure.” Becky’s words stung. Was there an edge to them she hadn’t noticed before? Was she hearing things differently, or was she just too sensitive?

  They’re still my friends, she thought as they trooped up the stairs. Even though I’ve gone quiet on them. But something was missing—the easy warmth, the feeling of being accepted. She paused by the aquarium at the top of the stairs. Was she really so different? And if she was, so what? It didn’t matter.

  “Fish for abundance and prosperity,” Becky said. “Right, Jasmine?”

  “I think so.” There
were so many symbols: a chicken for happiness, a cricket for good luck, a tortoise for long life. It was because of the language, Mrs. Butler had explained. If a word had the same sound as another word, then it took on the same meaning. Like the word for pear. Don’t share a pear with a friend, because pear has the same sound as the word for departure. Had she shared a pear with her dad? No, neither of them liked pears anyway.

  And red was supposed to bring good luck. She had tied a red ribbon around her braid, hoping her dad’s flight would be cancelled. Or maybe he’d have an accident—just a little one, just enough for him to be sent home.

  No sooner had they sat at the round table than the waiters began bringing food. Deep fried egg rolls, steamed dumplings stuffed with pork. Chop suey with water chestnuts, bamboo shoots and beef. Bite-sized portions of pork drenched in sweet and sour sauce. A plate of chow mein, heaped with diced chicken, fried noodles and vegetables.

  “This is hard to eat,” Jasmine said, as the beansprouts slipped from her chopsticks.

  “You can come here with your aunt,” Krista said. “You’ll get lots of practice.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” Jasmine took out the note and handed it to her teacher. “My aunt’s meeting me at Fan Tan Alley at 2:00, wherever that is.”

  “It’s one of the stops on your scavenger hunt,” said Mrs. Butler. “You’ll find it easily enough.”

  At the end of the meal, the fortune cookies arrived. Becky read, “You will travel a great distance.You should’ve got this one, Jasmine, since your aunt’s driving you to Sooke every day. What does yours say?”

  “Someone from your past will soon reenter your life.” Good, she thought. Maybe Dad won’t stay in China after all.

  Mrs. Butler was handing out the scavenger hunt lists. “Mark off the items as you find them. I’ll meet everyone in front of the restaurant at 2:00.”

  By the time they left the restaurant the rain had turned into a thick fog, enveloping them in the exotic atmosphere of Chinatown. On both sides of the street, shops displayed huge earthernware jars and vases painted with phoenixes or dragons. Outdoor stands offered a variety of fruits and vegetables, from lemon grass and winter melon to long stalks of sugar cane. Red posts topped with pagoda-shaped lanterns lined the street; even the telephone booth had a pagoda-like roof. At the end of the block was the gate Jasmine had seen the night before, a brilliantly painted structure flanked by two stone lions. She checked it on her list: the Gate of Harmonious Interest.

  Every doorway opened into a different world. “Look at this,” Krista said. She held up a bulky packet of paper money, used for burning on ancestors’ graves. “When it burns, the smoke rises to heaven. Then the ancestors have money to spend.”

  They checked off pickled jellyfish, bins of white rice and black rice, tins of shark fin soup, fluttery black mushrooms, fish dried and flattened as thin as parchment.

  In the herb shop they gasped at the overpowering smell of dried fish and lizards, animal parts and strange plants used to treat ailments and allergies. “How do people eat them?” Jasmine wondered.

  “Put them in stew or soup, or boil them in water and drink like tea,” the herbalist said. He held up a dried seahorse. “You want to try?”

  “No thanks,” they said.

  In another store they found ink sticks and chopsticks, a poster showing the Great Wall covered with snow, and jade figures in all shades of green. But no white jade, Jasmine noticed. And no jade tigers.

  “Here it is,” Becky said suddenly, pointing to a signpost. “Fan Tan Alley. Isn’t this where you’re supposed to meet your aunt?”

  “Yes, but I’ve still got 15 minutes. I haven’t even bought anything yet.”

  “Come on, you guys,” Krista said excitedly. “This store is really neat.”

  The entrance was jammed with paper chains and streamers cascading from the ceiling like papery pagodas, brightly coloured in red, turquoise, green and gold. Jars and boxes crowded the shelves, stuffed with little toys and gadgets, from panda pencil sharpeners and tin whistles to Chinese dolls.

  Krista led the way down a narrow passageway crowded with blue and white porcelain, Chinese junks, statues of Buddha. It opened into another room, a jumble of cotton slippers, wicker baskets, straw hats and slippery silk robes. “Hurry up,” she called. “There’s another room in this never-ending store.”

  They followed her along a dark and twisting passage into a larger room. “It’s a kind of museum,” she said. “See that guy in there? Doesn’t he look real?” A mannequin dressed in a long black gown stood behind a wicket, counting out money. “This used to be a gambling den.” She bounded over to a display case. “Where’s the list? Check off the tiles for playing Mah Jong, then we’ll go down the alley.”

  “Hey, look.” Jasmine pointed to a pile of buttons and a brass cup. “It’s a fan-tan game,” she said, reading the label. “That’s how the alley got its name. See, the banker divides a pile of buttons into fours, and the players bet on how many will be left over.”

  “Too much like math,” said Becky. “Now let’s go. There’s only one store left.”

  “Wait a minute,” Jasmine said. A row of dragons leaping along a dusty shelf caught her eye. “I want to look at these.”

  “Catch up to us then.” Krista and Becky headed back to the main entrance, while Jasmine turned her attention to the dragons. As she was reaching for the blue one, her eye flicked over to the mannequin. It seemed as though he were watching her.

  “You like the dragon?” An old man appeared through a curtained doorway. “Brings good luck, the dragon. Lung, we call him. Come, I’ll take your money. For you, that dragon is $10.00. Very special.”

  Jasmine thought for a moment. $10.00 was more than she wanted to spend, but....“OK,” she said impulsively, and handed him a ten dollar bill. “No tax?”

  The man laughed. “Not today!” he said. He wrapped the dragon carefully and placed it in a bag. “You want more luck?” He picked up a red envelope lying on the counter and placed a coin inside. “Here,” he said. “Lai see, just for you.”

  “Thanks” Jasmine smiled. “This is lucky money, right?” She traced her fingers around the Chinese characters printed in gold on the envelope. “Gung hey fat choy!” she said.

  “Yes, yes! Happy New Year!” He studied her closely, smiling and nodding his head as if pleased with what he saw. “Happy New Year, Dragon Girl!”

  How does he know I’m a Dragon Girl? And why does he keep staring at me? Must be the clothes, she decided. That’s all.

  As she was turning to go she noticed another small room that opened onto an alley. “Isn’t that Fan Tan Alley?” She pointed to the No Exit sign hanging from the glass door. “Can I go out that way?”

  “Yes, Fan Tan Alley!” He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “For you, door open. Exit, for good luck dragon.” He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. “Goodbye, Dragon Girl.”

  Then he bowed to Jasmine as she walked through the door and into the alley.

  Chapter 8

  Something had changed. Jasmine knew it the instant the door closed behind her. The sounds were different. No traffic. No brakes, no horns, no whish of tires. And no people. No footsteps, no voices. A silence so heavy she could almost touch it.

  She looked at her watch. Almost 2:00, time to go. But which way? Mist curled around her like a cocoon, shutting out her surroundings. She had no sense of space, no sense of direction. What’s more, the doorway she had passed through had disappeared. There was no way back.

  With fumbling fingers she opened the lai see envelope. What had the old man put inside? A silver coin, the size of a quarter. On one side was the portrait of a queen with the words VICTORIA DEI GRATIA REGINA CANADA. OK, she thought. Victoria is in Canada. She turned the coin over. There were maple boughs etched along the edges, tied at the bottom with a ribbon and separated at the top by a crown. Beneath the crown were three lines: 25 CENTS 1881.

  1881? Then Victoria must refer to t
he queen, not the place at all. But what did it mean? What had happened?

  She sank to the ground and hugged herself tightly, thinking, don’t panic, concentrate on your breathing. Tai chi breathing, from deep down....

  It was the smell that roused her, the stink of rotting garbage and raw sewage. And something else, a sweet, cloying smell like boiled potatoes. She found herself in an alley, hemmed in by buildings on either side. She was sitting on the ground, leaning against a wall, surrounded by wooden boxes, crates and piles of refuse. Overhead she could see a patch of sky, bright with stars. I must have slept, she thought, looking at her watch. It still said five minutes to two.

  She was about to stand up when she heard foot-steps. She crouched down, making herself as small as possible. Groups of men passed by. Some disappeared along narrow passages leading off the alley, others ducked through doorways. A thought struck her. When you are a stranger, be invisible.She took the red ribbon out of her hair and pulled down the brim of her hat. Then she slipped her watch inside her fluorescent backpack and stashed it behind a pile of crates.

  Think, she told herself. If this really is 1881 then the glass door won’t be there. But it could be the same building. All you have to do is find the right doorway and—

  A sudden shattering broke into her thoughts. Angry voices rocked the alley. She froze as three men tore out a doorway just ahead of her. With pigtails flying, they rushed past and vanished in the shadows.

  “Worthless sons of dogs!” a man shouted after them. “Don’t come back until you’ve found it!”

  What are they looking for? she wondered. Then stopped short. She could have sworn the man had spoken Chinese dialect, but she had understood the words. How could that be? She didn’t know any Chinese, apart from the New Year’s greeting. She must have imagined it.