China Dog (5 page)

“Chinky Chinky Chinaman sittin’ on a fence. Tryin’ t’ make a dollar outa fifteen cents.”

Hua Fan felt a rush of blood to his face as he fought the impulse to pick up the ice and throw it, smash it, into the offending face. Instead he clenched his teeth, pulled his chin into his chest, and ran to the safety of his uncle’s laundry, with the image of those blue eyes forever burned into his memory.

That night, Hua Fan stood in front of the single, tiny, splotchy mirror in the laundry. He turned his head and looked at the thick black queue that hung like a snake down his back. He clutched the braid with his left hand and held a pair of scissors in his right. With his eyes tightly shut and his jaw clenched, he cut it off. Then he opened his eyes and looked at his reflection. From the front he looked no different. His hair was still held in place at the nape of the neck by the initial
twist of the braid. With one hand he loosened it and watched it fall, framing the sides of his face. He wrapped his braid with a piece of brown paper and stuffed it inside his bamboo suitcase. This cold distant country was not his home. One day he would return to China. And he would be rich.

Hua Fan’s gaze swept around the room where he now slept and worked. One month ago he had left China, his village in Hoi Ping county. If he closed his eyes he still saw the teahouse where he had worked as a servant. He felt the steam and smelled the fire and heard the bosses with their loud berating voices. The memories of being whipped and beaten remained fresh in his mind. He could still feel across his blistered shoulders the weight of the heavy pails of water dangling from the ends of a bamboo pole. His only moments of peace came when he swept the ashes in the bake ovens. Curling his body to make himself small and unobtrusive, he listened to the waiters tell the cooks stories about
Gam Sun
, the Gold Mountain, about how even the poorest man could become rich.

The day the letter from Elder Uncle in
Gam Sun
arrived, Hua Fan knew his luck had changed. Elder Uncle’s only son had died the year before. If Hua Fan agreed to work for Elder Uncle in his hand laundry in the Gold Mountain, he would sponsor him as a paper son. Elder Uncle would even pay the five-hundred-dollar head tax. Of course, Hua Fan would eventually have to pay him back.

Hua Fan had heard from the men who returned from
Gam Sun
that life there could be gruelling and lonely. Old Lee with the crooked back, the number two cook, used to torment him
when he caught Hua Fan dreaming. “Dreaming about
Gam Sun
, again, are you? How are you ever going to get there. Even if you did, you’d never last.
Eiyah!
Look how scrawny you are, like a dried-up piece of
bak choy!
”

Hua Fan never dared reply. But he thought to himself, “What could be worse than this?” He saw how the “guests” from the Gold Mountain behaved when they returned. People were always gathered around them. Their pockets were never empty. The waiters, with grins fixed on their faces, milled about like ants, attending to every need.

When the letter from Elder Uncle had arrived, the jeers from Old Lee had stopped. He occasionally even smiled at Hua Fan. If Hua Fan wasn’t mistaken, there were times when he seemed even humble.

One year later, Hua Fan boarded the large steamship that carried him and dozens of other Chinamen across the Pacific to
Gam Sun
. A tall, pale-faced man with strange orange hair loomed over them, herding the crowd in the right direction. He shouted at them in an odd-sounding language and yanked their long black queues when he wanted their attention. Hua Fan couldn’t stop staring. He had never seen a person with so much hair on his face.

For twenty-two days, Hua Fan lived with other Chinamen at the bottom of the boat. Some of the men were returning for the second or third time. A few of them teased him as they looked him up and down. “What’s a skinny fellow like you going to do over there? You think the streets are paved with gold? The
lo fons
treat their dogs better than a Chinaman.” But
he ignored their taunts. He never complained about the terrible food, the tossing of the ocean, or the mingling stench of unwashed bodies and vomit. Some of the boat uncles, though, were kind, and a few of them taught him how to count to ten in English, to say “yes” and “no,” “how much” and “thank you.”

When the ship docked in the harbour at Salt Water City, most of the Chinamen stayed there. It was a bustling town, and already the Chinese had established a community. But Hua Fan had to go to the middle of the country, to a small town in northern Ontario, where his uncle operated a small hand laundry.

Hua Fan stood looking out the window of the train. Inside his coat pocket was a piece of brown paper with the name of his destination, Sydney. “Sit-nee,” he whispered to himself. Just being able to pronounce it gave him comfort.

One of the boat uncles sat next to him on the train. Hua Fan was relieved that he would not have to travel alone across the country. Over the next few days, he watched as the scenery changed from looming rugged mountains to land flat as a tabletop. He listened to the boat uncle talk about his life in China, his wife and concubine, his servants, his mansion, his property. About his big business in
Gam Sun
, his big restaurant, many workers, big money. “Hua Fan, if you need a job, just come and see me.” The boat uncle was dressed in a fine wool suit like the ones worn by the
lo fons
. He wore his hair cut short in the Western style. But Hua Fan noticed that although the cut of the coat was refined and elegant, his hands were thick and calloused.

When the train stopped in Winnipeg, the boat uncle left, again reminding Hua Fan what to do if he ever needed work. Shortly afterwards the scenery changed again, from flat land to thick coniferous forests on high rocky land. Hua Fan was sleeping when the train conductor shook him awake. “Hey, Charlie! This is your stop. Syd-nee.”

He took out the piece of paper from his inside pocket and held it up. “Yes, this is it. SYD-NEE,” shouted the conductor, nodding vigorously. Hua Fan stood, picked up his bamboo suitcase, and left the warmth of the train. As he stepped into the piercing cold January air, his breath looked like a cloud of smoke in front of his face.

Elder Uncle was a short, well-muscled man. His hands were large and rough, hanging well below his sleeves. His face was round like the sun, with slits for eyes that narrowed into creases when he smiled. He waited in an unobtrusive spot with his back against a pillar, staying clear of the
lo fons
who milled confidently about on the platform. His neck craned as he looked for his nephew. Although they had not seen each other for many years, they recognized each other immediately. In a sea of white faces, theirs were the only brown ones.

Sydney was a small lumber town in northern Ontario. In the summer it was hot, humid, and infested with clouds of relentless blackflies. In the winter the snow gave the landscape a haunting, pristine beauty, but the temperatures were unbearable and unforgiving. It was a small town populated by a few
families, but mostly by single men who worked for the lumber mill and who went into the lumber camps – single men who needed someone to wash their clothes.

Elder Uncle’s laundry was on the first floor of a rundown frame building, a few blocks from the railroad tracks. Hua Fan looked up and saw a wooden sign above the doorway. Against a red background, the white letters said Lee Tang Hand Laundry. Elder Uncle unlocked the wooden door and Hua Fan stepped inside. His eyes took a few moments to get used to the dim light. Just inside the door was the handmade wooden counter that would separate Hua Fan and Elder Uncle from the customers when the business was open. On the other side of the counter was a wall lined with wooden shelves on which there were neatly stacked packages of finished laundry wrapped in brown paper. Along another wall were two “ironing beds,” each a roughly made wooden table covered with old blankets, topped with an old sheet – all tightly tucked under the wooden surface and secured with nails. Elder Uncle walked past the brown-papered bundles and pushed aside a heavy green and red flowered curtain that divided the customer area from the washing section. In the middle of the floor was a monstrous looking washing machine. It was a massive grey metal barrel. Nestling inside was a similar-shaped wooden container punctured with holes the size of quarters. Carved into one side of both barrels were hinged doors where laundry was stuffed and removed. Hua Fan looked at the contraption, thinking that it resembled a giant insect with four metal legs standing inside a large metal
pan with a drainage hole. To one side were three wooden laundry basins used for rinsing the clothes. A hand-cranked wringer was attached to the last basin and a tall stack of brown bamboo laundry hampers stood in the corner. Along another wall was a coal-burning stove for cooking and heating. Beside it stood the boiler. Hua Fan noticed a small bedroom off to one side. Inside were two narrow cots made of metal.

On that first evening in Sydney, Elder Uncle took Hua Fan’s bamboo suitcase and shoved it under one of the beds. Then he turned to Hua Fan. “You’ve had a long journey. You rest a little while I get us something to eat. Tomorrow you will work.”

Hua Fan nodded. He took off his coat and shoes, then lay down on the bed. The blankets were scratchy, but the mattress was soft, unlike the flat woven bamboo mats at home. He looked around, trying to make sense of his new surroundings, and immediately fell asleep.

“Time to eat!” called Elder Uncle. Hua Fan roused himself and walked to the square wooden table, where he sat down on a stool. Supper was steamed white rice, chopped salted pork and egg, and soup from dried
bak choy
. Hua Fan ate eagerly and quickly, relishing the warmth and flavours of the food.

When Elder Uncle spoke, Hua Fan suddenly became aware of the lack of conversation. He asked Hua Fan about the family back home and about the boat trip. Then Elder Uncle said very suddenly, “Tomorrow morning we will have
to get up early. Wednesdays and Saturdays we sort the
lo fons’
clothing. Mondays and Thursdays we wash. Tuesdays and Fridays we iron.”

The next day, Hua Fan watched as a tall man with a large hooked nose, like a mountain in the middle of his face, walked into the laundry. The stranger spoke to Elder Uncle in a loud voice. Elder Uncle smiled and nodded as he accepted a bundle of clothing. After the
lo fon
left, he carefully wrote in black ink with a tiny brush inside the collar of the shirt.

“Why are you doing that?” asked Hua Fan. He noticed the sly smile on Elder Uncle’s face.

“I have to write their names in their shirts so I can give them back to the right people.”

“They have Chinese names?”

Elder Uncle shook his head. “Come and look.” Hua Fan nodded and grinned when he saw what was written: “Big Nose Uncle.”

“I don’t know what their names are,” Elder Uncle said. “They don’t know mine either. But I give them names. That one’s Big Nose. There’s Crooked Mouth Uncle, Doctor Uncle, Banker Uncle. They’re no trouble. But some are terrible, like Drunk Uncle. But the worse is Shitty Pants Uncle. Never mind, though, as long as they pay.”

Elder Uncle showed Hua Fan the giant bamboo basket filled with white shirts. The arms of several shirts dangled carelessly over the brim. He placed two squat wooden stools beside the basket and motioned Hua Fan to sit down next to him.

“Take the collars off the shirts. They have to be washed separately and then starched. All the socks have to be turned inside out. Start with the socks.”

Hua Fan laughed as he held a shirt in front of himself. The tails dangled past his knees. “These
lo fons
are huge, Elder Uncle. Look at the size of these shirts. I wonder if their dicks are big too.… ” He shot Elder Uncle a sideways glance and noticed the old man chuckling.

“Don’t know. We don’t get any closer than their underwear.”

“And the
lo fons
have strange smells, Elder Uncle. They must sweat a lot. Some of the socks are still damp. And the ones that are dry are stiff.”

“Well, Hua Fan, it’s because of the strange food they eat.”

“Oh?”

“The
lo fons
eat a lot of something called cheese. It stinks and has a taste that is even worse. It coats your mouth and you can’t get rid of the taste.”

“Have you ever tried it?”

“Only once. I thought I would throw up.” Elder Uncle chuckled and shook his head. Hua Fan handled the socks gingerly. He picked them up with his thumb and index fingers. He was barely able to put his hand inside the first sock to turn it inside out. The acrid odour assaulted his nostrils and left him gasping for air. Elder Uncle’s hands, however, were indifferent. They worked with a kind of mechanical speed, while the corners of his mouth were turned down in an expression of concentration.

“Hua Fan, you have to work faster. Never mind, you will get used to the smell, I tell you. Today is not so bad. Sorting is the easy day.”

Elder Uncle was right. Compared to the other tasks, sorting was painless. The next day, mounds of laundry were placed inside the wooden-barrel washing machine. The barrel was rocked back and forth to agitate the clothes inside. Afterwards they were pulled out and submerged in the wooden tubs filled with icy water. The rinsing was repeated until there was no trace of soap. Then the clothes were cranked by hand through a wringer. The collars were washed separately and soaked in pails of starch. Handkerchiefs were boiled to loosen the dried snot that floated to the top of the pot like a film of pale green algae.

Because it was winter, a room at the back of the building was closed off. In a corner was a large cast-iron stove. It was filled with coal and the room was heated to about eighty degrees. Hua Fan looked up and saw parallel lines strung from one wall to the other about a foot from the ceiling. Elder Uncle worked steadily, reaching for wet laundry in the bamboo basket, then stepping up on a wooden stool and pegging it to the lines. As Hua Fan helped, the perspiration dripped down his face and back. When they could no longer bear the heat and the humidity, Elder Uncle opened the back door to release clouds of steam. But the door was quickly shut. Losing heat was losing money. When everything was dried, each article was rolled into a tidy package, placed in a bamboo hamper ready
to be ironed the next day. By the end of his first washday, every muscle in Hua Fan’s body ached and his hands and arms were raw and numb from being immersed in cold water.