Music on the Bamboo Radio Page 5

  ‘Money is no good,’ Dr Wu said. ‘No one wants money. All money is Japanese. It is good for buying in the market but not for medicine.’

  At this, Ah Mee opened the small leather pouch, removing two jade rings and a jade figure of Kwan Yin, the goddess of mercy. She placed these carefully on the desk. Dr Wu picked up the goddess.

  ‘A fine piece,’ he remarked, turning it over lovingly in his hands and putting it back on the desk, ‘but no one will buy it. Jade is no good for trade now. People only want gold or silver.’

  Ah Mee felt inside the pouch again and took out two silver Mexican dollars and a very small gold coin with a dragon curling on one side of it. Dr Wu picked up the gold coin and weighed it in his hand.

  ‘Not very heavy,’ he commented. ‘Maybe not enough.’

  ‘I got no more,’ Ah Mee said, her voice flat with worry and disappointment.

  ‘I have this,’ Nicholas said. With a stab of sadness, he slowly placed the propelling pencil beside the coins.

  ‘A very good pencil,’ the doctor declared, holding it in his right hand and scribbling a few characters on a scrap of paper next to the telephone. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘It is my father’s,’ Nicholas said, adding, ‘It is silver. I think.’

  Dr Wu smiled benevolently and stood up.

  ‘You show much kindness,’ he said, handing Nicholas the pencil back, ‘and I should like such a fine pencil but you must keep this, for it is of your family.’ He scooped up the three coins with his hand. ‘I will go now. You stay here. I will come back in thirty minutes.’

  With that, Dr Wu left the room, his feet creaking on the stairs. The door to the street closed and all was silent. Ah Mee collected up the three pieces of jade and returned them to the pouch.

  Nicholas looked around the room. To pass the time, he read the framed medical certificates hanging on the wall and was astonished to discover that one of them was from the University of London where, according to the cursive lettering printed on the parchment, the doctor had obtained his degree in medicine. This gave Nicholas a surge of confidence. Dr Wu, he considered, was a man to be trusted. Finally, his eyes alighted on a poster of a naked human body with hundreds of lines drawn out from it, labelled with Chinese characters.

  ‘Ah Mee,’ he whispered, ‘what is that picture for?’

  ‘This a picture for acupuncture,’ Ah Mee explained. ‘All over you body are places where chi is strong.’

  ‘What’s chi?’

  ‘Chi is life,’ Ah Mee said enigmatically. ‘If you no chi, you die.’

  ‘And what’s acupuncture?’ Nicholas went on.

  ‘Doctor push small needle in, turn very slow, make you better.’

  Nicholas felt the skin on his spine contract. If there was one thing he hated it was going to the doctor twice a year for a cholera injection. Just the thought of the needle made little electric sparks jump up his back.

  ‘And what’s that naked lady for?’ he asked, pointing at an ivory carving of a reclining nude woman. It was at least forty centimetres long.

  For the first time that day, Ah Mee smiled.

  ‘In old time, when Chinese lady go to the doctor she not want the doctor touch her. She no take her clothes off. Even now, some lady no like take clothes off. But if no take off clothes, how to tell doctor where you sick? So, if no take off clothes then lady point to this to show where she sick. Doctor then can know and make her better.’

  Nicholas was still pondering on this when, ten minutes later, Dr Wu returned, handing a tiny envelope to Ah Mee.

  It was four o’clock when they left Dr Wu’s surgery to set off on their return journey. Nicholas reckoned walking all the way would take them the best part of nine hours – if they did not stop. He was doubtful, as they turned the end of Pak Hoi Street, if Ah Mee could make it. She was already exhausted and the sun, shining mercilessly from a clear sky, made the pavement hot and the air sweltering. Twice in the first mile, Ah Mee’s footsteps hesitated: yet she would not be beaten and somehow found a new reserve of strength and resolve within her.

  After walking for about an hour, they came upon a labour detail of British prisoners of war digging a ditch in the dusty, barren soil of the roadside. Japanese guards sauntered about, occasionally shouting orders. Working with the prisoners were a number of coolies. Every man was stripped to the waist, his skin plastered and his hair caked with dust.

  From under his hat, Nicholas surveyed the prisoners as he passed. They were the first Europeans he had seen for nine months and he wondered if, perhaps, he might recognize one of them or even, he dared to hope for a fleeting moment, see his father.

  They were in poor shape, lean and hungry-looking, their hair cropped short like a convict’s, their uniform shorts ill-fitting and ragged in places. Some had open sores on their cheeks and chins. Where they were not tanned, their skin had a pallor to it.

  The guards paid Ah Mee and Nicholas not the slightest attention and would have continued to ignore them had not Ah Mee stumbled and dropped her bundle. Two guards, seeing her totter, interpreted her action as a possible ploy to communicate with the prisoners. They ran down the line of the ditch, shouting in high-pitched voices, unslinging their rifles from their shoulders.

  Nicholas tried to help Ah Mee to her feet. She was so tired she could not, for a moment, focus her thoughts.

  ‘Get up!’ he hissed. ‘Get up, Ah Mee. Japanese coming.’

  ‘No talk,’ Ah Mee murmured, hardly coherent.

  ‘Get up! Please, get up!’

  Yet Ah Mee remained on her knees on the dusty road, her bundle on the ground before her. The Japanese were upon them. All the prisoners and coolies stopped work to watch the spectacle. The first guard kicked Ah Mee’s bundle down the road and started screaming at Nicholas. The second stood with his rifle aimed at Nicholas’s head.

  ‘No need for that, you grubby little yellow mucker!’ shouted one of the prisoners.

  Nicholas scrabbled on the dirt, trying to raise Ah Mee.

  ‘Hei! Hei!’ he whispered. ‘Up! Up!’

  Ah Mee just groaned. The Japanese who was aiming his rifle at Nicholas cocked his weapon. At the metallic click, the hairs rose on the nape of Nicholas’s neck. His scalp started to itch with sweat. He was on the verge of sheer panic yet his wits told him he had to do something, say something. At the same instant, he guessed the Japanese would not speak Cantonese so, on the spur of the moment, he made up nonsense.

  ‘Me ching nah tuk mew go shan!’ he shouted, trying his best to imitate a Chinese accent. ‘Noh pau tiu mey sing faa cho,’ he went on. ‘See lan cheung pay how sik ho.’

  The Japanese stared at him. Nicholas, sensing the advantage was his, stood up, checked that the cord of his hat was tight then bowed from the waist, as low as he could without falling forwards. At this, the two Japanese roared with mirth and the guards up and down the line joined in. The prisoners were silent: they knew Japanese laughter could lead to a Japanese beating in the flick of a wrist.

  Nicholas remained bowing in the hope the Japanese would move away. They did not. He could see their shadows on the ground in front of him. Suddenly, they were joined by another shadow. A hand clamped on to his shoulder and he started to shiver with fear. Slowly, he straightened himself.

  Beside Nicholas stood one of the coolies from the work detail. His face was crusted with sweat and dust yet, through it, Nicholas could see a scar under one eye.

  The coolie was Ah Kwan.

  For a moment, Nicholas stared at him. Ah Kwan stared back, his intense look begging Nicholas not to react, not to speak, not to recognize him.

  One of the Japanese shouted something and turned away, his comrade following him. The prisoners recommenced their digging. Ah Kwan helped Ah Mee up and led her and Nicholas to a barrow containing a bucket of water. He ladled some into a bowl and handed it to Ah Mee. She slurped it thirstily. All the time, he did not look at them but spoke in a barely audible undertone.

  ‘Young Master no see
me,’ Ah Kwan muttered.

  ‘I no see you,’ Nicholas agreed quietly.

  ‘You drink,’ he said, refilling the bowl for Nicholas. ‘Then you go. No run.’

  ‘Are you a prisoner?’ Nicholas whispered furtively as Ah Kwan handed him the bowl.

  ‘Not prisoner. No ask. No talk now,’ Ah Kwan replied darkly. ‘Drink. Go.’

  Nicholas drained the bowl. Ah Kwan returned to the work detail, taking up a pickaxe and swinging it into the earth. Collecting her bundle, Ah Mee and Nicholas set off once more, not daring even to glance back. For the next mile, Nicholas’s legs felt weak but not because his muscles were tiring. It was from the realization of how close he had come to capture.

  When they reached the point where the road started to ascend towards the mountain pass, they did not stop to gather their strength but started directly upwards. Ah Mee walked like an automaton, her every step almost mechanical. Nicholas walked by her side, carrying her bundle. They did not speak: to talk was to waste energy.

  The last time Nicholas had come this way, on their flight to Sek Wan, his shins had ached walking up this hill. Now, he had not even a quick stab of pain and he realized how much stronger he was after his months of working in the village.

  At last, they reached the top and headed towards the village where the old man had given Nicholas the strip of dried squid. As before, a dog barked at them as they made their way along the path, warning the villagers who were working in the fields. The sun was near the horizon by now, the air was cooler and the eastern sky was dotted with cumulus clouds in front of a rising moon only a few days off full.

  ‘Not far now, Ah Mee,’ Nicholas said to encourage her as they approached the houses, ‘then we go downhill for a long way.’

  In response, Ah Mee sat down heavily on the stone bench by the first house.

  ‘I no can go,’ she sobbed. ‘I hurt too much. Too tired.’

  ‘We must, Ah Mee,’ Nicholas pleaded. ‘Please stand up.’

  Yet Ah Mee remained on the bench, her head in her hands, weeping uncontrollably.

  Nicholas knew there was nothing for it. Tang’s life depended on him now.

  ‘Give me the quinine,’ he said.

  Ah Mee looked blankly up at him.

  ‘You’ll be safe here,’ Nicholas declared. ‘The people will look after you while you sleep. Now,’ he repeated, ‘give me the quinine.’

  Unquestioning, Ah Mee reached for her pouch and removed the little envelope. Nicholas took it and, without a word, set off at a jog past the houses and on to the path. He very quickly established a rhythm, humming under his breath in time to his steps. The sun set and the short twilight soon gave way to a moonlit night. The path was clearly visible and Nicholas kept going, stopping only twice to drink from a stream. Barking deer called in the trees and wild boar snuffled in the undergrowth. Every now and then, an owl hooted. Once it was dark, he removed his hat, letting it hang down his back by the cord. He met no one. Even the little villages through which he passed were shut up tight. He could hear people in the houses but he saw not a living soul.

  Twice, Nicholas took the wrong path and had to double back on himself but finally, well after midnight, he arrived at Sek Wan, his legs numb from the impact of running, his head pounding and his lungs feeling as if they were lined with sand. Qing-mai gave him a bowl of fish broth as Venerable Grandmother administered Tang his first dose of quinine.

  By the next morning, Tang’s fever was broken. Ah Mee returned later in the day, her feet sore and her clothes filthy. The first thing she did, even before going in to see her husband, was to hug Nicholas so closely he could hardly breathe.

  PART THREE

  APRIL AND MAY 1943

  Late one spring afternoon, Nicholas was sitting on the wall of the terrace with Qing-mai who was busy writing her life poem. His silver pencil in his hand, he was drawing the view in a sewn notebook with coarse bamboo board covers. He was struggling to get the perspective right when a sampan interrupted his vista. It was Tang, returning earlier than usual from the market in Sai Kung, bearing a small package wrapped in red paper. Once landed, he took the package straight into the temple, placing it on a table next to the altar. Then, without speaking to anyone, he went out through the gatehouse and disappeared along the path to the promontory.

  ‘Where is Tang going?’ Nicholas asked.

  ‘To find a flower,’ Qing-mai replied, not looking up.

  ‘What flower?’ he rejoined.

  ‘The flower which kills the bite of a kit gee,’ she said.

  Nicholas was puzzled. He was now quite fluent in Cantonese but his vocabulary was still somewhat lacking and this was something he had never heard before.

  ‘Give me your pencil,’ Qing-mai demanded and she drew a rough picture in Nicholas’s book.

  ‘That’s a scorpion,’ Nicholas said. ‘There aren’t any flowers which can cure a scorpion sting.’

  ‘There is,’ Qing-mai retorted. ‘The Emperor Kao Tsung gave it to his followers and told them to wear it in their hats for safety. On the third day of the third moon. Today is the second day.’

  Tang reappeared on the path below them, carrying two branches of pussy willow. He came up to the terrace and broke off two twigs, the pollen on the catkins drifting like gold dust in the warm sunlight.

  ‘Tomorrow is Ching Ming,’ he told Nicholas. ‘Now you are our son you must come with us.’

  ‘Where do we go?’

  ‘To visit the golden pagodas,’ Qing-mai answered enigmatically. ‘And you must carry this flower or, when you die, you may be reborn as a dog.’

  Nicholas thought that was a load of tosh but he kept his counsel.

  That evening, their meal was cold and no fire was lit in the stove despite a chilly wind coming off the sea. When Nicholas queried this, he was told it was not good to light a fire the night before Ching Ming.

  ‘What is Ching Ming?’ Nicholas enquired as he tried to swallow a piece of cold fish.

  ‘Ching Ming is the Festival of Spring,’ Qing-mai told him. ‘It is when the world wakes up after the cold months. Ching means clear and ming is the same as your name: bright.’

  ‘And where,’ Nicholas went on, curiosity having burned in him since the afternoon, ‘are the golden pagodas? Are they far away?’

  Certainly, he knew of no golden pagodas within several kilometres of the village for he had covered the ground fairly well gathering firewood. Furthermore, he had not seen any on his journey to the village or when fetching the quinine.

  ‘No long way,’ Tang said.

  ‘Do we go by sampan?’ Nicholas asked.

  ‘No,’ Tang replied, ‘we walk.’

  The next morning, they all set off towards the promontory. Everyone except Tang and Venerable Grandfather wore a sprig of pussy willow.

  Tang led the way, carrying the red package in both hands. Behind him went his parents, bringing between them a larger parcel wrapped in more red paper. Ah Mee bore a basket behind them. The little procession ended with Qing-mai who held a bamboo broom and, last of all, Nicholas.

  The wind sang mournfully in the branches of the pines. The path narrowed the further out they went on the promontory; finally, it all but disappeared near an outcrop of huge boulders. Tang turned towards these, Venerable Grandfather cutting the path wider with a long-bladed knife. At last, rounding the outcrop, they came to a gentle hillside covered in low scrub. Halfway down was a horseshoe-shaped platform of beaten earth at the rear of which was a small stone slab set vertically into the ground beneath a smooth boulder. Nearby, half-hidden in the scrub, was a row of six brown-glazed earthenware urns the size of small barrels.

  ‘Those are kam taap – the golden pagodas,’ Qing-mai said, ‘and this flat place is our family grave. Behind there,’ she pointed to the slab, ‘is where Venerable Grandfather’s father lives.’

  ‘Now,’ Tang announced to Nicholas, putting his parcel down, ‘we do sau mu cha liu. This mean clean grave and put on flowers.’

&nb
sp; Everyone set to tidying up the place. Tang cut back the scrub and grass to a distance of several metres, Nicholas assisting him to build two heaps of cuttings. Whilst Qing-mai swept the platform clear of twigs and leaves, Venerable Grandfather knelt on the ground and painstakingly painted in some characters carved on the slab with vermilion ink. Ah Mee and Venerable Grandmother opened up the parcels and basket to produce a bottle of wine, dried fish, some joss-sticks, two oranges and, to Nicholas’s amazement, a glazed roast duck.

  When the area was cleared, Tang placed three little bowls in front of the slab and filled them with wine. The dried fish and the duck, its crisp skin glistening like varnished wood, were put beside them. This done, he lit three joss-sticks and stuck them in the earth. Everyone very solemnly bowed. Nicholas, out of politeness, copied them.

  ‘Now we must go to visit the golden pagodas,’ Qing-mai announced.

  The little party left the grave and approached the urns. Venerable Grandfather removed the six lids. Nicholas peeked into the first urn. Inside was a complete human skeleton, the bones disjointed and arranged so the skull balanced on top.

  ‘These my ancestors,’ Tang said reverently. ‘This pagoda, my aunt,’ he pointed from one urn to the next, ‘this one my father uncle. This his brother. He die more than fifty years before.’

  After more bowing, they all returned to the grave where Ah Mee sliced up the duck.

  ‘This duck is for our ancestors in heaven,’ Qing-mai said. ‘They finished eating now.’

  ‘How can they eat it?’ Nicholas enquired. It made no sense to him: dead people could not eat roast duck.

  ‘They eat meat ghost,’ Ah Mee explained, handing Nicholas a piece. ‘Now we eat.’ She smiled. ‘Now we have food with our family.’

  Nicholas bit into it. The flesh was dry but the skin was crisp, succulent and flavoured with herbs. With the meal consumed, Nicholas assumed they would return to the village but there was still one part of the proceedings left undone.

  ‘Wing-ming,’ Tang said, beckoning to Nicholas and leading him to the smaller pile of cut scrub, ‘now we burn yuen po. You help me. Venerable Grandfather too old.’ He handed Nicholas one of two small packets. ‘I burn other wood, put on yuen po. When I do this, you open packet, also do like me. Be quick! You must burn you yuen po for devils. He come you fire, take you yuen po, no see my yuen po go to my ancestors in heaven.’