All That Matters
A
LL
T
HAT
M
ATTERS
2004 TRILLIUM BOOK AWARD WINNER
GILLER PRIZE FINALIST
NATIONAL BESTSELLER
“Choy’s effortless style is mesmerizing, and his characters are compelling. Perhaps the most enticing aspect of his writing is the glimpse he offers into the vibrant world of Chinese-Canadian culture.… Choy’s fluid writing style … merges Chinese words and rhythms into the narrative. Non-Chinese readers will learn a lot about the culture and the language without realizing they are being taught.”
—
Edmonton Journal
“Good news for fans of Wayson Choy’s memorable first novel,
The Jade Peony. All That Matters
… is every bit as good as its predecessor.…
All That Matters
is a paean to decency and humanity [with] humour, understatement and precise attention to detail.”
—The Gazette
(Montreal)
“A finely crafted novel.”
—
Calgary Herald
“Choy’s ultimate gift [is] to be able to employ words like ghosts, curses, blessings, and omens and have even the most analytical of heads nodding with understanding. The Vancouver of the 1930s that Choy has created is where the historical meets the mystical.… Choy sustains the balance even as he touches on heavier issues—war, cultural divisions, a mixed-race love triangle. And life, he seems to tell us, isn’t so hard to figure out.”
—Time
“All That Matters
was worth the eight-year wait because, besides opening a door into a beguiling and largely unknown world, the author grapples satisfyingly with the big questions.”
—
Toronto Star
“Choy’s effortless storytelling and believable characters make
All That Matters
an unforgettable window into immigrant life, and a fascinating look at a key period in Vancouver’s evolution.”
—
Vancouver Review
“All That Matters
rewards the reader with a richly textured evocation of childhood in a community as oppressive as it is nurturing. Once again, Choy has created a complex world, peopled with characters you will love as though they were your own family.”
—
Ottawa Citizen
“All That Matters
is an immensely appealing novel. Populated with captivating characters and laced with a wealth of Chinese lore, the book, short-listed for this year’s Giller Prize, is a worthy contender.”
—The London Free Press
“Choy tells stories that need to be heard.”
—NOW
magazine
“
All That Matters
is a sweet coming of age story.… Choy reveals his characters and story so slowly that by the end the reader will begin liking the unlikable and understanding what at first seemed incomprehensible.”
—Winnipeg Free Press
Copyright © Wayson Choy 2004
Anchor Canada edition 2005
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisher—or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a license from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.
Anchor Canada and colophon are trademarks.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Choy, Wayson, 1939–
All that matters / Wayson Choy.
eISBN: 978-0-385-67486-7
1. Chinese Canadians—Fiction. 2. Chinatown
(Vancouver, B.C.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS
8555.
H
6658A64 2005
C
813′.54
C
2005-901110-6
This is a work of fiction. Therefore, any references to actual events and locales, and any resemblances to persons, mythic, living or dead, are used for purposes of fiction and are entirely coincidental.
Published in Canada by
Anchor Canada, a division of
Random House of Canada Limited
Visit Random House of Canada Limited’s website:
www.randomhouse.ca
v3.1
To those who saw me through
a dark time: you are family
.
THE
M
ASTER SAID
,
“WITH WORDS, ALL THAT MATTERS
IS TO EXPRESS TRUTH.”
The Analects of Confucius
BEGINNINGSWHEN I HEAR THE SEA WIND
blowing through the streets of the city in the morning, I can still feel my father and the Old One—together—lifting me up to perch on the railing of a swaying deck; still feel the steady weight of Father’s palm braced against my chest and Poh-Poh’s thickly jacketed arm locked safely around my legs. I was three then, in 1926, but I can still recall their shouting in the morning chill, “Kiam-Kim, Kiam-Kim,” their voices thin against the blasts of salty wind,
“Hai-lah Gim San!
Look at Gold Mountain! Look!”
I saw in the distance the mountain peaks, and my toes curled with excitement. As I pressed a hand over each small ear to dim the assault of squawking gulls, fragments of living sky swirled and plunged into the waste spewing from the ship’s belly, and the sun broke through.
All at once, the world grew more immense and even stranger than I could ever have imagined; I
ducked my head to one side and burrowed blindly into Poh-Poh’s jacket. Father plucked me off the rail and put me down to stand up by myself.
Poh-Poh did not stop him.
“We are near Gold Mountain,” she said, her Toishan words shouted above other excited voices. “Straighten up, Kiam-Kim!”
I watched as Father clutched the rail to hold our place against the surging crowd: he looked ready for anything.
I put my own hands around the middle rail and threw my head back, and tried to look as bold and as unafraid as Father. Poh-Poh glanced behind her. A wrinkled hand shakily held on to my shoulder. I shouted to her to look at the swooping gulls, but she did not hear me.
As the prow rose and crashed, and the
Empress of Japan
surged into the narrow inlet, gusts of bitter wind stung my eyes. At last, to greet the approaching Vancouver skyline, the ship blasted its horn.
“Look there, Kiam-Kim!” shouted Father. “Way over there!”
I looked: along a mountain slope, a black line was snaking its way towards the city.
“See?” Father said, kneeling down to shout above the chaotic machinery clanking away in the ship’s belly. “I told you there would be trains.”
I laughed and jumped about until the sea air chilled my cheeks. The Old One bent down to lift a thick coat collar around my neck. The air tasted of burning coal.
“Listen carefully, Kiam-Kim,” Father said. “Can you make out the train whistle?”
I listened. But I was not thinking of trains.
Grandmother had told me the story that dragons screeched and steamed out of hidden mountain lairs: sweating, scaly dragons whose curving bodies plunged into the sea and caused the waters to boil and the wind to scorch the faces of intruders until their eyes, unable to turn away, burned with tears.
The wailing finally reached my ears. The black line turned into freight cars headed towards the city’s row of warehouses and jutting docks. The train engine gave another shriek.
In response, the ship blew its horn again. A shawl of sea birds lifted skyward. Ship and train were racing to reach the same point of land. People behind us applauded.
Father raised his hand to shield his eyes against the dancing sunlight.
“We’re here, Mother,” Father said to Poh-Poh.
I said to myself, “… here …,” and gripped the rail even harder.
The long train now disappeared behind a shoreline of low buildings. With my eyes following the great billows of smoke, I heard clearly the echoing screech of wheels.
“The cries of a dragon,” said Poh-Poh.
Father said, “Just the train coming to a stop, Kiam-Kim.”
But the Old One’s voice was so certain that I held my breath.
ONE