End of East, The (5 page)
Authors: Jen Sookfong Lee
The applause crashes over Seid Quan, and he steps backward, as if pushed by the sounds of clapping hands and uninhibited hoots. The men surround him until he can see nothing more than their blurred faces, the movement of their hands slapping him, shaking his hands, like birds. He begins to laugh. He sucks his stomach in, stands up straight and plunges forward
into the crowd, allowing the pull of the party to lead him farther into the throng.
into the crowd, allowing the pull of the party to lead him farther into the throng.
A weathered wood house. Five small bedrooms, three up and two down. A fireplace in the living room, where the men gather and burn newspapers, scrap wood from construction sites, pieces of things they find and do not need.
Seid Quan’s room is upstairs, in the back, its window facing the vegetable garden they once tried so hard to keep going. When Jimmy, a younger man from the clan association, told Seid Quan about the empty room in his rented house, Seid Quan immediately thought it was an extravagance. But then, he realized that he needed to leave his room in the boarding house on Pender Street (a room where he had tried to accumulate nothing, where he only slept and, sometimes, when he couldn’t help it, thought). This place, even though the floors are bare and the siding is beginning to rot, is still a house where he can do as he pleases and where no strangers peer at him as he moves down the hallways. It is more expensive here, but he can still save some money, as the profits from the shop are growing. He splits expenses with Jimmy and the others, each shopping and cooking in turn.
None of the men have had much time, and the yard has grown over with weeds and grass. The vegetables are still there, lurking, half-unseen, among a riot of plants that no one knows the names of. Five old kitchen chairs are set out in a circle, and a full ashtray sits on a tree stump in the middle. Seid Quan’s chair is the farthest from the house.
Even on sunny days, the ground squelches underfoot, and their trouser hems are always wet.
Seid Quan has just received a letter from his mother. Without wasting words, she suggests that he might want to plan on
coming back once more, or perhaps twice, to see if he can conceive a son before his wife grows too old. “Shew Lin is twenty-five now,” his mother writes, “and you must come back soon, for she will have only so many chances before she becomes dried up.” She writes about Shew Lin as if she were a breeding pig.
coming back once more, or perhaps twice, to see if he can conceive a son before his wife grows too old. “Shew Lin is twenty-five now,” his mother writes, “and you must come back soon, for she will have only so many chances before she becomes dried up.” She writes about Shew Lin as if she were a breeding pig.
He counts his money and writes back. “I cannot afford the trip home for a long time, Mother. I would have to close the store while I’m gone, and we would all lose money. Coming back cannot be my first priority.”
He smells the odour of preserved dace and rice, hears the sound of a crowd of men cooking together in one kitchen, on one coal-burning stove. He steps into his slippers and places the letter into the pocket of his work pants so he will not forget to take it to the post office in the morning. He glances out the window, sees a red-haired child in a striped sweater cycling slowly up and down the dirt alley.
“Brother, come eat!”
He pulls his chair up to the table and sits down. His roommates are laughing, teasing each other, making faces behind each others’ backs.
Another trip
, he thinks,
and another child I will never see.
Another trip
, he thinks,
and another child I will never see.
Seid Quan wonders if he will ever go home for good, or if he will always be stuck in this land that shimmers with rain and is not quite dream, not quite day. He looks behind him at his empty shop and then out the big front window at the sheets of almost opaque rain.
“No one will be out today,” he says to himself. He listens for the echo of his own voice bouncing off the walls. “Not even to go to the barber.” A stray dog lopes across the street, pausing to sniff the wet air with its even wetter muzzle.
He thinks he will count the combs, maybe dig out the old hairballs that collect in the corners and between the tiles. As he turns to walk to the back, he hears the bell on the front door.
A tall white man, dressed in a dark grey raincoat and hat, stands in the doorway, water streaming off his shoulders and pooling around his rubber boots. He shakes his head, and tiny drops spray across the room, hitting the mirrors and Seid Quan right between the eyes. All Seid Quan can see of his face is his jutting and pointy chin, clean-shaven.
In English, Seid Quan says, “Here for a cut, sir? Have a seat.” He gestures to the chair closest to the door.
The man stands still and breathes heavily.
“What can I help you with, sir? I do a good shave, too. But I don’t think you need one.”
The dripping man steps forward and holds out his hand. “You should leave now, lock up and go home,” he whispers. “There’s no point in boarding up the windows. Don’t even try to warn the others. There’s no time.”
Seid Quan steps backward. “What do you mean?”
“A mob is coming. They want to scare you and make you leave. Get out. Hide in your cellar. Just run away.” He backs out, pushing the door open with his hip. He walks out into the waterlogged street, turns the corner and is gone.
Seid Quan blinks nervously. He has heard stories of the 1907 riot many times and wonders if this could be something just as destructive. However, this warning from a stranger could be a joke, or a way of luring him out of his shop so that goons can drag him into the alley and beat him. But he’s not sure, so he runs to the safe in the back room and stuffs his trouser pockets with cash. He throws his barber’s coat on a chair and leaves, turning the lock as far as it can go. He runs
down the wet street, thinking that all the others who can see him through their windows must think he’s mad. He slows to a walk, his face flushed with embarrassment, until he hears the sound of breaking glass. Not daring to look behind, he throws himself through puddles until he arrives at the rented house. He locks the front door carefully behind him and stands in the corner by the window, hidden by the curtains from the street.
down the wet street, thinking that all the others who can see him through their windows must think he’s mad. He slows to a walk, his face flushed with embarrassment, until he hears the sound of breaking glass. Not daring to look behind, he throws himself through puddles until he arrives at the rented house. He locks the front door carefully behind him and stands in the corner by the window, hidden by the curtains from the street.
It starts so quickly that Seid Quan does not even have a chance to take off his wet trousers. He stares down the hill through a crack in the curtains, his arms wrapped around his body as if he is afraid that he will crumble. He holds his breath.
Outside, a dozen white men are throwing bricks and stones through the windows of all the shops, dragging boxes of produce and bags of laundry out onto the sidewalk, where they overturn them into the mud. Seid Quan can see Chinese men running away, ducking into the alleys only they know so well, disappearing into skinny gaps between buildings. Some of the white men chase them, but the Chinese always manage to slip away from the crowd and vanish. Seid Quan sighs with relief.
He cannot see his barbershop from here, only the storefronts of Canada Produce and Yip Tailors. Seid Quan has never seen such violence first-hand and is afraid that Chinatown will fall, be flattened to its very foundations. The windows are all broken, and the white men have started to laugh and pound each other on the backs. Seid Quan closes his eyes and slides down the wall until he is sitting on the unfinished wooden floor. There’s no point in watching anymore.
When the white men leave, chests puffed out, he and the others run into the streets. Seid Quan searches for any hurt men, poking his head into doorways and alleys. He can see overturned furniture and graffiti through broken windows.
Rain falls steadily, soaking the men who are returning to their shops. Seid Quan wipes off his dripping face with his sleeve and looks up at the grey sky, now somehow greyer than it’s ever been before. No one speaks.
Rain falls steadily, soaking the men who are returning to their shops. Seid Quan wipes off his dripping face with his sleeve and looks up at the grey sky, now somehow greyer than it’s ever been before. No one speaks.
An hour later, when Seid Quan and the others have determined that there are no casualties, he finally walks down the street. He is afraid to see what has happened to the shop. Mr. Yip weeps on the sidewalk at the sight of his smashed sewing machine. Seid Quan turns away. Better to pretend he has not seen.
He stares at the barbershop. The big front window is smashed. One of the chairs has been wrenched from the screws holding it to the floor, and the front of his safe in the back has been dented. The money is safely hidden in his room at the house, and all his razors and scissors are unharmed. He leans against the counter and sighs.
It could have been worse
, he thinks.
But why should I be thankful for that?
It could have been worse
, he thinks.
But why should I be thankful for that?
Mr. Mah, who owns the café across the street, pokes his head through the broken window. “Is it bad?”
“Just the windows and this chair.”
“Good. They took my whole cash register and tried to get into the apartment.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes, me too. Listen, we’re going to have a meeting in the morning at church. This isn’t even half as bad as the last big riot, but still. Old Mr. Wong says we should lobby the city to pay for the damage. The others will need you if we have to write a letter.”
Seid Quan nods. “I’ll come.”
“Good. I’m going to the lumberyard to see if there are any boards. I’ll grab you some.”
Mr. Mah hurries off. Seid Quan begins to sweep up. He can hear the fall of hammers and the sawing of wood.
No one
will even notice
, he thinks,
because they just want Chinatown to disappear.
No one
will even notice
, he thinks,
because they just want Chinatown to disappear.
He sits in the Hong Kong Café, drinking his coffee and looking at the cracked mirror behind the counter.
One month after the riot,
he thinks,
everything made of glass remains broken, even now.
He sees himself, a man with large ears and thin, upright shoulders. He sips his coffee and takes a bite of his apple tart. When he looks up again, he sees that his face looks different, but right then, amid the noise and commotion of the café, he cannot put his finger on it. He finishes his snack, nods to Mr. Mah behind the counter, and returns to his barbershop.
One month after the riot,
he thinks,
everything made of glass remains broken, even now.
He sees himself, a man with large ears and thin, upright shoulders. He sips his coffee and takes a bite of his apple tart. When he looks up again, he sees that his face looks different, but right then, amid the noise and commotion of the café, he cannot put his finger on it. He finishes his snack, nods to Mr. Mah behind the counter, and returns to his barbershop.
Later that night, as he is sweeping up the last of the hairs on the floor, he looks up into one of his own mirrors. He suddenly sees what has been confusing him all day: his eyes, once dark brown, have begun to turn grey.
The rumours start as whispers that snake their way through the streets of Chinatown, bouncing off the walls of buildings and ending as suspicions, not quite groundless, in the heads of men who have learned to fear the worst.
They’re sending us all back.
The illegal ones are going to be thrown in jail.
There are spies everywhere.
Seid Quan is not immune. He has heard many rumblings over the years, but this time, it is getting worse. There is no labour shortage anymore, and the whites want the jobs they once rejected and threw to the hungry masses of Chinamen, who still work for half-price. The Chinese men, sitting in his
customers’ chairs, their heads tilted precariously back as he shaves them, ask him for information, ask him what the newspapers are printing, what the radio declares. To them, he seems to hold a golden key that unlocks the long words, the sounds that seem to flow into one another with no pause for breath.
customers’ chairs, their heads tilted precariously back as he shaves them, ask him for information, ask him what the newspapers are printing, what the radio declares. To them, he seems to hold a golden key that unlocks the long words, the sounds that seem to flow into one another with no pause for breath.
Men mobilize, hold protests and march down Pender Street. The grocers strike, and the wives of the West End and Shaughnessy find themselves without lettuce and onions. But this, as Seid Quan knows, is futile, for none of these Chinamen is of any consequence to anyone. They are not citizens and they do not vote, so, like the generation before them who died, weathered and forgotten, on the cold rail lines, their suffering is barely noticed. The Chinamen have families—mothers, wives, children—but they are unseen, hidden away in small houses in China, where politicians can ignore them and disregard their well-being. Seid Quan writes letters to the mayor, the prime minister, even the papers.
“If only you could live as we do for one whole day,” he writes, “you would see what we suffer. After the riot in 1907, the government promised us protection. Now is the time for that protection. Let us live as freely as white men.”
No one writes back.
One week later, he reaches for his newspaper, stares at the headline and blinks to clear his eyes, hoping that what he sees is a mistake. He looks again. His eyes have not tricked him.
“NO MORE CHINESE TO ENTER CANADA,” it shouts.
Seid Quan reads through the article slowly, poring over each word so that there can be no confusion. He knows he will be asked about this later, when fear will spread through Chinatown like a fast-moving and vicious epidemic. The men
will swarm him, push their newspapers in his face so that Seid Quan can tell them what is really happening, even though he would rather lie and say that nothing has changed or has only changed for the better.
will swarm him, push their newspapers in his face so that Seid Quan can tell them what is really happening, even though he would rather lie and say that nothing has changed or has only changed for the better.
“The Parliament of Canada has passed the amended Chinese Immigration Act of 1923, which limits the class of Chinese that will be allowed to enter Canada. It is hoped that this exclusion will curtail the number of Chinese now living in our cities and towns and slow down the waves of immigrants, which have not abated despite efforts such as the federal Head Tax. Chinese will be allowed to leave the country only for a maximum of two years before they will be denied re-entry to Canada. All departures and returns will be closely monitored by immigration officials.”
Seid Quan pushes his hair off his forehead and clenches his teeth. This is no surprise, although for months he had hoped that it wouldn’t happen, that all their lobbying work after the riot would change something, that the number of sympathetic politicians would grow and overwhelm the others. But change, he knows, isn’t popular with the rest of Canada. Still, his hands shake as he folds the paper up, the other articles unread.
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