Read Online The Fortunes by Peter Ho Davies - Free Book Online Page B

later, walking back to Crocker’s through the quiet streets, he’d whispered the word to himself over and over, as if correcting her:
Pardners.
    Â 
    7.
    Â 
    He was improving his English, training his tongue to roll his
r
’s so that
Crocker
didn’t sound like
Clocker.
He lingered at the door when the little Crockers—Master Fred, Miss Harriet (his favorite: she was fascinated by his queue.
How long did it take to grow?
she asked once, wide-eyed), and little William—were at their lessons, and forced himself to practice his English when on errands, wincing to hear other Chinese with their accented
Engrish
and
Melican.
Several times he leaned in to “interpret” between a countryman and a white, easing the way, as he saw it, and setting a good example.
    But one morning he came across a stooped Chinese in a standoff with a blowzy ghost woman. She was barring his way on the boardwalk, a knot of passersby tangling around them.
    â€œGo on!” the woman was demanding, her face ruddy. “Cat got your tongue?”
    â€œMore like t’other way round,” someone hollered from the crowd.
    It was the laughter that made Ling worm his way to the front.
    â€œMay I be of assistance?” he offered soberly, but the woman regarded him with frank repugnance—“’arken to ’im!”—fanning herself with her hand as if to shoo him away.
    Up close, she reminded him of Bridey, albeit much reduced, hair wild beneath her bonnet, face chapped and wan. He almost called her by name, yet she didn’t seem to know him, and he thought he must be mistook.
    Instead he quietly asked the other fellow in Cantonese what was going on, but the wretch only shrugged. “The mistress turned her down for a job. Now she blames me!”
    â€œW’as he say?” the woman demanded of Ling, lurching between them. “W’as ’is answer?”
    â€œLet it be,” the other Chinese muttered, eyes down.
    â€œSing-song,” the woman jeered. “Bing-bong, ning-nong-nang!”
    â€œWhat is it you wish to know?” Ling asked punctiliously.
    â€œJust this! What’s so blasted special about him, eh? About your lot, that they hire you afore me and mine?”
    Ling stared at her blankly, as if it were a trick question, as if she couldn’t see they were Chinese. He remembered how Uncle Ng dealt with untoward customers, giving no indication of understanding, smiling and chattering away in Chinese—insults mostly—until they threw up their hands. Ling regretted it was too late for him to take the same tack.
    He tried to leave instead, turning away from her, and she yanked his queue, snapping his head back so hard he bobbled the package he was holding. But it was the laughter—even the other Chinese smirked—more than anything that set him off. He whirled on her, snatching his hair away, causing her to fall back.
    â€œUnhand me, you trollop!”
    There was an appalled hush, broken only by the woman’s choked sob.
    â€œCouldn’t even get hired for
that,
damn you!” Too late he grasped how drunk she was. “Chinks even got that market cornered.”
    The other Chinese made to bolt, there was a scuffle of boots on boards, and Ling felt hands laid on him. He struggled, but then he heard the cold snick of a blade being drawn, felt the bright line of it at his throat, and went limp.
    â€œWhat do you want us to do with them, darling?” he heard someone drawl over his head, but the young woman was inconsolable, hurrying off in tears.
    The tears were coming to Ling’s eyes too. A hand was pulling his head back by the queue so that his neck was bared, the knife so hard against his Adam’s apple he didn’t think he could swallow. The pain from his scalp was excruciating. He felt a fumbling behind him and then he was released, the knife scraping his chin as it withdrew so that he touched the spot at once, as if feeling