The Man Game (67 page)

Washed his face in a frying pan

Combed his hair with the leg a his chair

Ching chong Chinaman

Miss-ee Lee want-ee pee

Turn-ee up and let-ee see

Loong callot

Willa wallla willa walla

Knights a Labour yah yah yah

Who are we? You may guess

We are the boys a the KOL …

The squaws in the whorehouses across the street peeped through curtains as the men dispersed and started causing
havoc up and down Pender. The po-lice stood at the end of the block, unable to muster will to quell the mob. Kicking the door open on Chow's boarding house, three square men stormed in hollering at the top of their lungs: Every last one a you canaries oot on the street before we crack your fucking beaks.

Toronto witnessed these odd-jobbers muscle through Chinatown, and his unease grew. How long, he wondered in his own language, should he remain here? A set of tetchy men unveiled the vegetable cart, threw the deerhide tarp in the dust, and proceeded to tip the cart on its side, strewing potatoes and leeks and cabbage across the ground. They doused it in kerosene from a lamp and waited for approval to bonfire it.

At last on the upper floors came the sight of worried young Chinamen skipping back and forth in and out from the balconies trying to solve their dilemma. Many were barely men at all. They were adolescents, uneducated and malnourished sons of farmers. A man smoking a cigarette walked quietly out onto the second-floor balcony at the Chow building, cautiously overlooked the parade. The tattoo on his wrist continued under his coatsleeve.

Get the fuck down from there.

The Chinaman shook his head no, and dodged the rocks that bounced off the walls and crashed through the window behind him. He stood up again, gleaned them as they gleaned him, then quickly stepped back into the confusion.

The men poured into the unlit building but were held up at the door when the first of them reeled back at the odour, pungent like spoiled lemonade and fish intestine. As they searched the darkened interiors, a man called out: Look at the Chinee run. A rumble of heavy boots came from every direction, crunching over broken glass, one pair destroying a tea set laid on a floor mat as other Whitemen shoved aside wicker furniture and elbowed over kerosene lamps and toppled screens made of walnut veneer with lithographs of swans and waterfalls. The Chinamen were running through a back door. Over there. Get them. I'm going to fucking—. They hunted them to a short dock posted over False Creek, saw three men dive straight into the
chilly water. Another couple men were already wading. A fatty was stuck on the dock reluctant to make the jump: the men caught and shackled him up.

We got one.

Take him out to the road.

I'm going to survey these ones, wait till they come ashore and get them.

There's more upstairs.

Men stormed back inside roaring with beery gusto, listening to the boots of their colleagues on the dusty wood floor above their heads.

The Chinaman they'd caught on the dock was thick and strong but overweight, and he was pushed along fiercely. A factory worker sneered and sniffed as he escorted the big man through the house and out onto the street, gripping his arm the whole time. I never touched no Chinaman before, he said, feels like I'm holding on to a goddamn plucked chicken. His face expresses nothing to me. Go on, you sheep-witted Chinee. Move it.

This sloe-eyed bachelor forced the Chinaman onto the sidewalk and down the plank to dry land where he met with a couple other young men they'd already rounded up, tied together by their pigtails. Want me to do the same to this one? His pigtails are all the way to his shoulders.

The Chinamen didn't speak as they pulled his hair. They huddled skull to skull wondering what next.

Upstairs it was the same. They chased a few Chinamen down the hall and onto the balcony over False Creek and watched them dive off into the black water.

Get back here, Pat Pongs.

I won't let them get away. I'm following them, see where they come ashore.

Heard you the first time.

I'm on their tail.

Fucking go do it then. What're you up
here
for?

Taking the stairs two at a time they were back on the street in a second, in time to hear Sproat order: Tie them
together like the rest. They regarded four sopping wet Chinamen slouching their way past them through the crowd to meet the other prisoners.

Where's the rest?

I don't know. Drowned.

Drowned?

I said I don't know.

He and the curly-haired fellow took off to look for stragglers.

I'm going to catch me a Chinaman or my name ain't—

Someone found a spool of rope and a young man knotted the new prisoners at the ankles until they ran out and decided to go back to tying them up by the pigtails again. There, that'll teach you, damn it.

Another window shattered and the Whitemans cheered.

Peggy slammed the door at Wood's, slipped down the staircase in her long pearlescent gown, and came onto the street hectoring: Tell me what the hell you boys think you're up to? I'm not talking to you, Pitt, she said waving a painted finger at him, I know you're not no
boss
. Oh, big man, you can put together a posse and shove oot the Chinamen. Good for you, big boy. Come on, fellahs, there's plenty more a interest to you inside my domicile. Ee-na half-price this next whole hour.

Don't listen to her, men, cried Pitt. She's a temptress from the exact same pool a sin as the damned Asiatic. Look away, avert your eyes, focus instead to a vision a Vancouver with no Chinamen in the twentieth century.

And you know what
I'm
talking aboot, barked Peggy to the crowd, not for anything impressed by Pitt's rhetoric. Name a man among all your guys' numbers who hasn't tried a Ming Ling girl, eh? Don't you like them concubines? I'm talking aboot a velvet mouth easing herself down your spike for a
ni
ckel. You hear that, boys? A nickel. Untie them poor Chinamen and I'll suck you myself. She turned her head to the girls on the verandah and said: These Knights a Labour are bad for fucking business.

Enough men saw the value in Peggy's offer that Pitt doffed his hat, slapped it on the ground, and whined: Aw, come on guys. Don't go chasing mink
now
. This is important.

Never you mind, Pitt, said one, I was going to see a man game, anyhow.

What's a man game? asked a slimly built, rotting toothed dotard with an anomalously clean-shaven face and bright black leather suspenders.

'The fuck? You haven't heard a the man game? Where you from, New Westminster?

… And despite the many appeals by the cowboy RD Pitt on behalf of his Knights of Labour, the bedrooms at Wood's soon filled again with customers.

In response to the defections, the remaining rioters defaced all the sho' cards with Chinese characters painted on them, flipped them in the air, tossed them onto the vegetable cart with the other debris awaiting bonfire. Toronto saw one man whip a galvanized steel bucket overhand at a thin Chinaman holding out a broomstick to protect himself. Broke his nose. Tied him up with the rest.

Toronto stood quietly, obscurely, nonviolently next to the unvarnished fence of a Chinaman fruit farmer named Taisan. Plums, peaches, blackberries, apricots, kiwi, he had a fine orchard all things considered. Toronto stood there until he was compelled to leap aside when a couple navvies with hopheaded ideas decided to shake apart the fence and push half of it to the ground. They didn't notice Toronto, such were his skills of bearing witness. As they tore out fenceposts and cursed, Toronto resisted the urge to raise a hand and interrupt them. He might stop them for a moment, but only for a moment.

That's it, good good, keep shaking it—, hopheaded sweat on their faces, their few teeth shone in their beards as they tore down and flattened the fence.

Toronto could hardly fathom these Whitemen whose souls had turned to chalk. With the fence broken, a dirty goose, chickens, and a giant purple sow all ran to incomprehensible freedom. The purple sow squealed down the street … that
tortured laughter, as if a pig were once human but long ago cursed by vanity to live for slop … Toronto was deeply troubled by the sound. He saw the Whitemans run the other way, into the orchard towards Taisan's frail shingled house. They brought the old farmer out by the arm. He was older than the rest of the Chinamans, and wore his short hair inside a black Mandarin toque. Raising his arms against the Whitemans' swats and punches, he prattled on in his language. One heavyset Chinaman among the prisoners protested, and the Knights were forced to subdue him with blows to the stomach. And when they brought the old farmer closer to the group, they realized that it wasn't the orchard keeper Taisan, it was the baker Yau.

Yau, said Toronto with a dry mouth.

RD Pitt laughed at the baker, seeming not to recognize him. He slapped Yau up and down, said: You don't like it? What wong, Chinee? How do this feely, eh? At that, he doubled Yau over his fist. The baker crumpled sideways to the ground coughing, vomiting, gagging.

Pitt's friend Sproat watched for a while before turning his attention back to the heavyset prisoner who'd been the first to protest. Sproat eyed him. He leaned in and said: Scared a me, eh? Scared a me? Scared a me?

The Chinaman, despite being tied to another fellow, had stayed calm whenever Sproat tricked him with a fist, just short of hitting him in the face, amusing himself every time one of the smaller Chinamen flinched when he raised a hand. You all smell like blubber, you know that, eh? Eh? EH?

Pitt now chose to single Yau out for special attention, pinching the baker's arm in his grip and dragging him back a few steps towards the shoreline. The other Chinamen shielded him while they could, but the new immigrants' instinct to protect a respected local only sparked Pitt's cruel streak, for now he was determined to get his man. He shouldered his way through the Chinamen unafraid and slapped the baker across the face with the back of his hand. He took the baker by the arm and led him across the dirt-packed road all the way to the
edge by the water and pushed him down onto his knees. He was standing above him in the mud. Across the street Toronto heard everything, every profane word Pitt barked at Yau, on his knees with his head down, waiting. Pitt slapped him again. I asked you a question, he said. Toronto couldn't hear Yau's answer, but it was short, like a yes or a no. It infuriated Pitt. He took Yau's neck in his hands and pushed his head into the water. Yau's arms flailed, trying to box Pitt, who redoubled his pressure the harder Yau fought. The water frothed as Pitt tried to drown him.

Agitated protests began to rise up from among the outraged rounded-up prisoners, who flailed their arms and spat at their captors as they watched Pitt throttle the baker on the beach. The protests only frightened the other White rioters, who turned their backs on the scene and muscled in on the group, skulling the most aggressive ones, pushing them all hard on the sides, herding them like heifers towards the loud barn. As if in conspiracy with Pitt. Let the baker die without a witness.

When you are down on your knees about to die you know what it really means to pray to God. You pray with every bone in your body, from the heels of your feet on up, you pray so hard you can levitate.

In two steps, it felt like two steps, Toronto was across the street, and holding a downy white chicken he picked up along the way—how, he can't remember—he raised his sacrifice, took aim, and swung the bird by its legs and hit Pitt across the face. Impact sent a burst of feathers in every direction. Pitt flopped to the ground. Swearing the almighty, Pitt grabbed for the chicken with all that anger meant for Yau and viced the bird between his knees. Screaming, screaming, he gripped the neck waddle and tore the fowl apart, head first, then limb from limb, red viscous entrails spilling out down his denims and soaking the insides of his boots. His fist was still clenched around the chicken head.

Toronto fished Yau out of False Creek gasping and incredulous. The two men lay on the ground to catch their breath as they watched Pitt scrabble around on the dirt like a broken
wasp, trying to regain his anger if not his consciousness. For Toronto, the greatest urgency remained to protect and assist Yau in escaping the chaos of the riot. Find safer ground. He lifted Yau to his feet and booted it down the block to Main Street, where it would be easier for Yau to disappear.

Thank you, thank you, said Yau, weeping, and embraced Toronto. Thank you so much.

No, see, no, love your pastry, I love Calabi&Yaus … When the two men separated Toronto realized that no, it wasn't Yau after all. It was and always had been Taisan, the orchard keeper. Of course Toronto knew that Calabi and Yau frequently bought their fruit from Taisan, and that must have been why he'd so persistently seen the face of the man he most feared would die. Yau and Taisan and Calabi and the pastries, it was all one. Run, said Toronto to the orchard keeper. Run.

Toronto watched him escape down the street and around a corner then he went back to the riot.

Come on, no time for delay, said Cockburn, there's still these coolies to take care a.

The Chinamen cowed and pleaded, cried out in hopes of being heard beyond the bordellos to civil society. The Vancouver po-lice stood in the darkness out of sight and didn't budge. As more coolies were found they were collected like the others, knotted together and forced to walk among the rioters as they moved through the shantytown in the mudflats looking for more. The homes erected over the salty spongeland of the maremma came down quickly; the men had only to rattle their walls for the whole community to fall in among the salty reeds and bristle. As the Knights patrolled the street a set of rowdies made swift work of flattening every shack, scrapping every cobbled-together abode, the wood thrown in a heap intended to be set ablaze.

Toronto tried to catch his breath. He saw the po-lice but didn't think they'd seen him. He was perhaps better set up for invisibility, not as difficult a trick to execute as one might believe. Toronto vividly remembered his father's stories about entire tribes walking together unseen into a
warring neighbour, surprising them by slitting their throats on a sunny afternoon. Witness the event. Molly's words. After freeing the farmer Toronto's whole body felt weak, especially his ankles; his stomach was upset, his throat was raw, and he couldn't shed the feeling of wet terror from his cold skin. It took all his concentration not to faint straight away. A fence or a home can always be rebuilt. But if Yau was Taisan and Taisan was one of the prisoners and the prisoners were in danger, then if it came to it again, Toronto knew he must no longer play invisible.