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Chapter
IV: Far from the Beautiful Country Han Fong was trying to feel better. The railroad job was his, but walking across Tangrenbu he considered how gossip would fly, remembering how quickly Lin Shee had dismissed his proposal, hardly giving him consideration; for certain, the news of his failure with her would soon be all over the streets, the intimate details of his life passed about like coins, spoken about like a new restaurant or shop or any other common news—because matchmaker would talk, likewise Lin Shee’s family would tell others—and so he tried to console himself by thinking, I was fortunate to sign on with the railroad. The timing was right. Yes, I’ll leave tomorrow. In spite of all Han Fong’s attempted bravado, despondency slowed him down; for lack of anything better to do, he wandered aimlessly until three men shouted at him from Yow Sing’s General Merchandise on Spofford Street. “Hey, laundry man! Do you want to be a fourth for mah jongg?” “It’s a low stakes game. You can afford it!” “Come on! Maybe it’s your turn to win!” Han Fong wanted to shout that he didn’t work for the laundry any longer and that he would soon make more than they did because he would be a rugged man among men, working for the railroad, but he let their comments fall away him since he knew better, and wasn’t that what mattered most? After paying for breakfast, he had less than four dollars, but the thought of winning tempted him more now than the thought of losing deterred him—heck, he’d been lucky with the Central Pacific—so why not try his hand at this? And since he had no idea about when the railroad would pay first wages he replied in amenable, enthusiastic voice, “You know what, I think I’ll play. Count me in.” In the store’s backroom, Han Fong sized up the other men, two of them short and squat, their bodies wide as winter melons, their noses flat and rounded as though both men were prone to snorting through ribald laughter, their eyes shining with rascal-like humor; it seemed they were a pair of harmless, idiot brothers. But the third man was slightly older, with drawn-in cheeks, bloodshot eyes, and a long, thin prominent scar on the left side of his face gave him a learned air, say, of a criminal, of someone who had endured sordid experience and lived to recount it, so Han Fong needed to watch him closely. They all sat gathered around a circular table, surrounded by the shelves of canned goods, tins of tea, and boxes of cooking utensils, the briny scent of dried shrimp and salted fish and squid heavy in the air; the pungent aromas stirred Han Fong’s appetite—how couldn’t he become hungry, sitting so close to so much food?—but he and the men began playing an invigorating, hard-fought, fast moving game of mah jongg, and for several hours they enjoyed the rolling of the dice, choosing the tiles, clicking them down and together loudly, and yes, there was smoking, then better yet, drinking from a bottle of chiu. Rice wine. Han Fong’s troubles about his honor and about whether the railroad would be all right were, for the time being, forgotten, the whole world and all its problems apparently kept at bay. Yet when the game ended he realized that he’d lost track of how much he’d been won versus how much he’d been lost, and he’d ended up minus half a dollar. Who had won most of the stakes? The lean man. I knew, but I didn’t know. I should have watched my money more carefully, Han Fong told himself and shook his head at his own lack of self-control and discipline. From the street, however, a mournful tenor voice cried out, beseeching all available ears: “Gizzards! Liver! Tongue! Soup bones! Tripe!” It was the seller of leftover goods from the slaughterhouse, a man whose wife had died three years before and left him with six children to raise. The poor man had taken whatever help anyone offered because he’d fallen apart alone, without his wife by his side. So Han Fong looked knowingly at the other gamblers, and the two brothers nodded. The lean man consented with a sigh, took most of the coins, rose, went out, and returned with several pounds of chee kok, boiled pigs’ feet. “I know you’ll all help me eat this,” the lean man said. The two brothers spread down newspapers, and with an almost practiced air they rolled up their sleeves and dug into the pigs’ feet. The lean man kept pace with them, the food disappearing so quickly that by the time Han Fong realized how they were all feeding off the winnings more than he was, the chee kok was practically gone. Of course. Damn. He couldn’t catch up—soon they gathered up the bones and gristle in the newspapers and threw the remains out in an empty packing crate—and he was left hungry while the other men each had a shiny ring of grease around their mouths, looking as messy as children, their eyes dim, heads tilted back or to one side, as if in a stupor, as if they all could have fallen asleep immediately from the intense pleasure of the gambling, smoking, drinking, and eating so much. One of the brothers belched as if to punctuate how fine it had all been. Oh, hell, Han Fong thought, but he managed to laugh loudly, wondering how many times they’d done the same thing before. Subsequently he wiped his mouth, pushed his chair back, thanked everyone for the game, and as he left, the men wished him well with slurred voices and drunken laughter. Back on the street, he was still trying to put the gambling into perspective—it had all been in fun; the way they’d eaten was the smallest of hustles—but why did he have to come out on the losing end? When was fate going to cut him a small break? Or a larger one? Once again, as if he were gambling on a long shot, he hoped that the Central Pacific was his way out. Han Fong wanted to make the most of his last night in the city, so when dusk fell he headed for Ross Alley, the air becoming shadowy, dark, the sky smooth, gas lamps burning already on only a few corners, candles glowing in many windows, and men leaving work—laughing, talking freely, walking somewhere to eat, drink, gamble, or buy a woman for the night—filled the streets. Han Fong felt envious, hoping for the same carefree ease someday in his life. He covered several blocks and found a set of familiar steps that led to a metal door, walked up, knocked loudly, and as a small slot opened a fierce pair of eyes regarded him. Then the slot snapped shut, and after a bolt clacked the door swung inward, and the guard, a broad man with a square face and peevish eyes and almost no neck, his arms as big as steam pipes, blocked the entrance. “You know me. Come on,” Han Fong said. “Sure, we’re like family,” the guard jested, but added with a surly chuckle, “You can go in.” Han Fong passed down a long hallway before entering a dim room where men stood elbow to elbow and jostled for space at gambling tables, the ceiling low, confining. Shouts hurt his ears, and the air reeked from the foul smell of unwashed bodies, burning joss sticks, cigars, pipes and cigarettes; he could have been on a tramp steamer bound from Joong-gwok to Gum Sahn, stuck right in the middle of the perilous crossing of the Pacific. The loud voices of the dealers urged everyone to play pi gow, fan tan, white pigeon lottery tickets, or the riddle guessing game of cafia, and as cheers rose from around a table, Han Fong also heard despairing groans. Should I be here? Will gambling get the best of me? He could have quit cold right then, but in that very room he had watched other men start with almost nothing, accumulate small winnings, then boldly risk every dollar for their relatives or for passage back to Toisan. And on some of those evenings, he had actually seen, with his own eyes, thousands of dollars being won, the cruelest odds defied, and so he stayed like the rest of the men because of how the impossible sometimes happening always kept the dream of Gum Sahn alive. Determined, Han Fong forged ahead, pushed through the crowd, and found a fan tan game. After squeezing up to the wagering boards and setting down his duffel, he reached for a twenty-five cent piece in his pocket, realized that was a lot to risk—especially since he was down to three and half dollars now—but he promised that if he lost he would leave. His hand boldly reached out and set his money on number three. He was about to utter a wish for luck, but a small voice from behind insisted, “Switch to two.” Han Fong turned and confronted a moon-faced boy with bright darting eyes who stood barely four and half feet tall. He was a runt, a real pipsqueak, wearing a ragged tunic and tattered trousers, his queue tightly wrapped and coiled around his head, his ears sticking out prominently like insect antennae. “What did you say?” Han Fong asked him and thought, What are you doing here? You’re just a kid. “Bet on two.” Han Fong thought the boy’s advice was frivolous. “Who let you in here?” The boy grinned. His expression also seemed to ask for kindness and benevolence; Han Fong suddenly worried that the boy wanted to attach himself to him. “You should leave me alone. I’m not worth your time,” Han Fong said, wondering how the boy had made it past the locked front door. In the meantime, the fan tan dealer—who was as big as a piano, puffing on a thick cigar clenched in the corner of his mouth—scooped up a handful of circular brass pieces from the zinc board as other men bet their numbers. Some played combinations like two and three against one and four, or one and two against three and four, while a few bet one number against another. The flashiest bettors wore shiny gold or silver rings with green jade or onyx stones, their faces beaming, confident, causing Han Fong to feel like he was about to swim in a sea filled with sharks. He rubbed his palms together nervously, and the back of his hands felt sweaty and tingled. The dealer surveyed the table with the sharpest eyes, dropped the brass pieces and lowered a bowl-shaped cover over them, then used a long, curved stick to remove four pieces at a time from beneath the bowl, and each time his hands deftly moved the stick faster, trying to keep the bettors from seeing what number of pieces remained, all while he openly dared and teased the men, asking them, “How many are left? Who can say?” As Han Fong bent forward and stared hard, he couldn’t pick out the slightest shape; the shadows were too incomprehensible, too masking, the dealer’s hands too fast. “Two,” the moon-faced boy pestered. “Do any of you want to switch your bets?” the dealer asked. Han Fong glanced at his twenty-five cent piece. “This is your last chance,” the dealer announced. “Two,” the boy urged. “Three,” Han Fong proclaimed, trusting his first instinct. At last the dealer stopped, spread both hands over the wagering boards, his stern expression reinforcing that all bets were final, and men began shouting for their numbers. Everyone leaned forward, and time felt frozen, suspended, as Han Fong willed and declared to himself, Come on, three. Finally the dealer began to lift the cover, and the past, present and future slowly came together, compressing into one hushed, expectant, absolutely crucial instant. Han Fong groaned, seeing the lone piece; his strength left him, and he could have wept, but as curses and shouts burst out, time felt endless and open again. The regretful voices were as thick as waves rolling across the room—the scene now felt tumultuous, verging on dire tragedy—for one man’s head dropped, another’s face turned pallid, and another man sobbed loudly. Oblivious to all pain, the dealer gathered the coins up from everywhere upon the board. “I told you,” the boy said, “that three of yours wasn’t any good.” “Neither was your two,” Han Fong said, still stinging from having lost, but because of the boy’s insistence, he had to laugh. “Two was closer to one,” the boy proclaimed. Han Fong shook his head and smiled, then began to turn away from the table. “Aren’t you betting again?” the boy asked, his face nearly stricken. “Oh, no. Not tonight,” Han Fong said. “I’m finished with this room.” There was no mistaking his tone—he was done, that was it—and nothing short of a natural disaster could change his mind. “Will you let me go with you?” the boy asked. “I’m afraid not,” Han Fong said. As the boy’s face turned sour, accusing him of betrayal, Han Fong fought off guilt and hoped that the boy wouldn’t try to follow him. “I can’t take care of my own problems, much less yours,” Han Fong explained, but he still pulled a yat ho jee from his pockets. After handing the boy the ten-cent piece, he told him, “Now, why don’t you start a winning streak of your own?” Before the boy could reply, Han Fong
lifted his duffel and pushed through the crowd, weaving to the exit. He waited for the guard to unlatch the bolt
and open the door and stared back to make sure the boy wasn’t still with him. Outside, inhaling the night air, he felt
like an escapee from trouble that couldn’t be lessened or solved. I can’t find a wife, so how could I even
think about taking care of a child? he pondered, but for some reason he
wasn’t quite certain about having left the boy behind. Damn.
Did I do the right thing? Was
it honorable? Or did I decide too
quickly? I’m not sure, so what’s my
fate supposed to be? Now the incandescent moon shone faintly down on Ross Alley—the lunar light felt as cold and eerie as the wind—and Han Fong gazed upwards and hoped to see the stars which he had long watched and observed; he’d tracked and followed them for most of his life. But there were too many tall buildings and low-hanging clouds, the view obscured. He walked further, and from a darkened doorway, a man hissed of a young woman for sale and eternal pleasures, prompting Han Fong to recall how he had succumbed to those temptations long ago upon arriving at Gum Sahn. These days, however, he lived more seriously; he was a discriminating man, wanting to be married, to be loyal to one woman, so paying for a woman didn’t feel decent or right. Han Fong sighed as though passing judgment on himself, other men, and all the history of mankind’s vices. Lin Shee should have married me. I’d be happy now, he told himself. Maybe Lun Sang’s offer was the better choice. He breathed deeply, wishing the salt air were a potion that could dispel doubt, and ambling toward the doc sic guun—a boarding house where he had been staying for the past several months—he looked forward to renting whatever bed could be assigned. Fortunately, the place wasn’t far; it only took a few minutes to walk there, and the proprietor told Han Fong where he could sleep and gave a curt wave as he passed by. The upstairs room’s walls were dirty, streaked by brown water stains, cob webs prevalent, the air stale, and privacy remained unheard of, because over a dozen men occupied the numerous other beds arranged in rows, and the men were already sleeping soundly. Han Fong felt reminded, as he always was, of the same crowded fashion in which siblings shared rooms in Joong-gwok. Finding his bed, he felt lonely and wished a woman was there. I don’t have anyone to think of beyond Lin Shee, he thought. There’s no one. Why has that happened? So he pondered his life up until that time, but could only feel his fate was intended to be mysterious. The next morning Han Fong woke late. Most of the other men had already gone, and putting on his boots, he chided himself because large holes marred the toes, and the heels slanted sharply; there were badly worn. I have to find a better pair. These won’t last. In preparation for the imminent trip, he opened his duffel and spread the contents out across the bed: there was a cooking pot, the inside moldy, discolored also by flecks of rust; and his padded jacket and blanket roll appeared thin, heavily worn from years of hard use; he had a pair of chopsticks, a spoon, a knife, some matches, a comb and a piece of tin that he’d used for a mirror, his wide-brimmed straw hat, and his most prized possession, which he kept safe and secure in a silver cigarette case, a letter from his mother that he’d received in Gum Sahn after his father died. Opening the case, Han Fong paused to look at the paper for a moment, and he remembered his father’s proud, dignified face and his mother’s warm, nurturing expression. Missing both parents, struggling against sadness, he quickly folded the page and put it back in the case, which he snapped shut and tucked away. Considering the trip north to the railroads, he shook his head, foreseeing that along with having to replace his clothing, there would be food to buy. I won’t have enough money, he thought and stowed his meager belongings back in the duffel, proceeded down a dim hallway to the water closet, went downstairs, and stopped at the front desk where the stooped gray-haired proprietor—as formal as a servant, but forever curious and amiable—stood motionless like he had been waiting there for eternity. “What time is it?” Han Fong asked. “Twelve o’clock. I was wondering if you would ever wake up. Will you be staying another night?” For the first time in so many months, Han Fong said, “No,” and paid for the past night’s lodging. “Was there something wrong?” the proprietor asked, and the man’s eyes queried for an explanation about why Han Fong wasn’t returning, but Han Fong wanted to keep his business private, wanted to move on and focus on reaching the Embarcadero. He thanked the proprietor for his hospitality, politely said, “Everything has been fine,” bade the old man an earnest farewell, and walked onto the street. The morning fog had already lifted, the hour late; so Han Fong hastened back toward Yow Sing’s General Merchandise where a freshly-killed mountain wildcat, strung up by its hind legs, now hung in the store’s front window. Who had been brave enough to track down and shoot the animal? It had been cleaned and gutted; the carcass would soon be skinned and butchered, the meat perhaps pickled in wine jars, because it was said to bring great courage. Is the wildcat’s presence a bad omen? A sign that I’ll need courage soon? Han Fong speculated, didn’t reach an answer, and entered Yow Sing’s, walking softly, not speaking, as if the store were a sacred place. “May I help you?” the lo-baan, the shopkeeper asked and stared at him with inquisitive, prying eyes. Han Fong shook his head and moved briskly into the back of the store, examining all the neat, orderly shelves. He filled a wicket basket with a tin of tea, dried noodles, cuttlefish, seaweed, sweet crackers, a thin snapcake called ham chit soo, and a bottle of rice liquor. After finding a small pouch of tobacco, he hoped there were enough provisions and brought everything to the counter. “Can you pay for all of this?” the lo-baan asked in a snobbish tone, figuring the total with an abacus. “Yes, I can,” Han Fong said defensively and felt his blood surging, anger spreading through his veins. “Are you heading north?” the lo-baan asked, smiling like he knew everything. “To the “That’s right. You guessed it,” Han Fong said, wishing the lo-baan would stop talking. “I’ve heard that there’s all kinds of danger up there. I would be extra careful,” the lo-baan warned. “Don’t worry. I will be,” Han Fong replied and said with
a frown, “I’m still going. There’s
danger here, too. If you haven’t
noticed, there are more white men than Chinese in Dai Fow.” He paid the man, received very little
change, opened his duffel, wrapped the liquor bottle carefully in his padded
jacket, and still irritable, defensive, exited the store and trudged east to
When Han Fong reached
the purlieus of the Embarcadero, he drew a long breath, and beneath the
archipelagos of clouds and the fulgent sun, as he beheld the wind-swept bay,
the ocean spoke to him of the long distance from home, from Joong-gwok.
Gazing at the distant horizon, he pushed his higher, pondered making
the voyage. How long until I go
back? When will it be? Seagulls high overhead arched their wings,
and the way the birds soared so easily with the wind, as if all the world
were at their beck and call, brought on envy.
I wish I could return to Toisan by flying
as freely, as easily. Wouldn’t that be
something? But before the first set of
gangplanks along the docks, hundreds of Chinese laborers waited, friezes
winding up and back, reaching to the next wharf, even, the lines growing
longer with each minute, and Han Fong knew he belonged there, that he was one
of those men. Slattern, dressed in
shabby clothes, most of them had coarse, rough unshaven faces, and many of
them cursed loudly in the bawdiest peasant Cantonese. Hearing them, he felt challenged; his
shoulders stiffened, and his body pulled back. Since he had signed the contract, though,
and since nothing held him anymore in The faw-shuen,
the packet the men were about to board, now there was a boat. The vessel was an immense side-wheeler that
had its name, But the man only waved a thick arm and shouted, “Keep moving! Stay in line!” “Don’t you remember me?” Han Fong asked, incredulous. “Why should I?” the compradore glossed. “You hired me.” “I’ve hired hundreds of men. What makes you think I have time for this? Move along!” Han Fong scowled and trudged by him then suddenly feared signing on was a far greater mistake than he could have imagined, and he considered turning back, but from the platform attached to the steamboat’s wheelhouse someone shouted, “All of you heathens, keep moving! Into the China-Hold! Hurry now!” Han Fong saw the speaker was the ship’s captain, a sai yon who wore a rumpled navy jacket with brass buttons and gold epaulettes. The man had a grizzly face, his mouth dour, jaw set in rigid consternation, lips moving as if always silently complaining and threatening, and at that moment his fiery eyes happened to stare at Han Fong, who ducked down and became lost by shuffling among the anonymity of kin. He did know better than to provide a white man with any reason to single him out—he’d survived such scrutiny before—and so his head stayed lowered, and he wasn’t stopped. However, as the boarding commenced, he lost any chance to leave or flee from the wharf, standing in no time at the foot of the gangplanks where a compradore asked him his name and checked it against a list and, apparently satisfied, urged him further ahead. Ascending the gangplanks, and as the line moved onto the deck, Han Fong held his place, then descended through a series of passageways, staying with the concatenation of other laborers. They filed to the bottom of the deep hull where the smell of engine oil and the thick gray smoke evinced coughing fits from everyone. He almost choked, and finally the steamboat’s white crew herded him and the rest of the men into what the captain had called the China-Hold; it was the boiler room. “Damn, you stupid man,” Han Fong cursed and riled, thinking of the compradore who had tendered the contract. And now his feet sloshed through a swill of rusty water, urine, and feces, so he gagged and feared becoming sick. The open doors of the soot-blackened boilers that stood nearby in rows revealed hot orange coals; as the blackest most harrowing smoke billowed out, he coughed more and hacked and tasted bile. His eyes tearing, he could barely keep his stomach settled. Han Fong moved quickly to a slightly elevated dry space beneath a porthole and removed his hat, lowered his belongings, and sat with this back against the hull watching as men plodded by, more and more Chinese becoming packed together until there didn’t seem to be one square foot of room. It was amazing to him that so many other Chinese were going—hundreds here and hundreds on the many other boats—and he realized there must have been thousands of his countrymen involved now. How would they all be fed? Where could they all possibly sleep? Who would make sure they were paid? Soon the China-Hold door was slammed shut, leaving him trapped and recondite, hidden from the world, and since all the raised spaces were taken, some of the men near him were forced to hunker down in the foul water. They cursed and disparaged the white merchants who had deceived them. Han Fong felt irate; although his trousers were dry, his dignity had also been lessened, and since he had no one to talk to, being in the steamboat hold felt similar to life in the city where you could be surrounded by innumerable propinquitous souls, yet still feel isolated and utterly alone. Then to his horror and surprise, he heard a familiar voice that badgered and nagged like the persistent whine of a gnat. “Wai! Hey! What are you doing in this place?” Han Fong raised his eyes and didn’t know whether to be angry or afraid. Because the moon-faced boy, carrying nothing save a blanket roll, stood in front of him, grinning, eyes bright as stars. But then, in the following moments, as if sensing the desultory mood of all the men, the boy knelt at his feet and stayed quiet—not speaking out of turn or complaining or back talking, not asking for anything—but for the time being keeping silent, remaining attentive, apparently awaiting orders like an amanuensis or newly converted supplicant, obedient to the inherent authority of all of Han Fong’s mature adult years. |
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