her to get dollars from the safe. They could speak quietly, though he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. “I have to go now.” He stood, not mentioning the money that Han Bai was guarding in the car.
He had a better use for the money, anyhow. He told Han Bai to take him to Le Grand Monde. When he arrived at the raucous, incandescent casino, Percival ignored the croupier’s call and the girls who sidled up to him. He accepted a highball glass of whisky from a hostess but only took a small sip. He found a seat at a quiet mah-jong table where he recognized the players and knew that a big-money game must be under way. He took fifty thousand on the first game. Luck would be with him. One good night and he could get enough for all the gold that was required.
THE NEXT MORNING, PERCIVAL LAY IN bed holding his pounding head. A banging on the door.
“Chen Pie Sou!”
“What?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you. Where are the dollars? The gold dealer is here.”
“Send him away, Mak. Apologize. We’ll call him.” Percival rolled out of bed and vomited into the porcelain basin on the nightstand. After he had gone bust last night, there was nothing to do but drink. Now his stomach was empty, his mouth sour, and he drank a little water from the pitcher on his desk. He said, “I don’t have any dollars. I’ll come down in a bit.” The floorboards creaked as Mak went slowly away.
Mak did not express anger at Percival. Even if he had, it could not have made Percival sink any lower into his deep pit of self-loathing. In the school office, Mak said quietly, “Hou jeung, you must not play mah-jong anymore. Not until we have dealt with this problem. We must conserve money.” Not lose it. He did not say that, a good friend always. “Alright, I will arrange a money-circle dinner. You still have enough to pay for a small banquet, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.” He would have to run a tab at the restaurant.
Each day, Mak had new contacts. He helped Percival find money circles and loan sharks to lend him piastres and dollars, and other people to sell him gold. Percival conducted the deals hastily, agreed to six percent monthly interest, fifty-three dollars per tael. He met with Chinese and Vietnamese businessmen and mafia, with French jewellers who spoke Vietnamese, and with Sikh gold merchants who spoke Cantonese. Percival preferred to do business with Chinese, but now the only colour he saw was gold. At Chen Hap Sing, he slept only in fragments. He dreamt of Dai Jai and woke just as his son’s head split open, screaming out of his nightmare, again and again.
Cecilia had her gold jewellery melted into bars, the gems pried out and traded for more gold. Her American business contacts were more helpful in finding gold than they had been in finding Dai Jai, and she was able to squeeze better deals from her transactions than Percival. They met every couple of days at the Cercle to make an anxious tally. In ten days, they had over five hundred taels between them. Cecilia complained that a thousand taels was enough to buy herself a better ex-husband, and cursed him for the boy’s arrest. “People are starting to whisper about how much gold is at Chen Hap Sing,” she said. Under the table, she slipped Percival a snub-nosed, double-barrelled, two-shot Remington pistol. It had the weight of a palm-sized stone, and it fit in his pocket. “You see? Now you are in the money business like me,” she said. “It’s only good up close. You have one shot to scare someone. If you need the second one, aim for the belly. That way you’ll hit something.”
From then on, Percival took the hoard of metal out of the safe at night and slept with it under his mattress. This required two trips up the stairs, lugging one valise each time. He kept the pistol under his pillow. Two weeks after the meeting in the hut, the night before an ancestor worship day, Percival dreamt of his father. It was an old dream from his childhood, one of flying. They soared high over a cold, jagged peak. It was the Gold Mountain for which Chen Kai had abandoned his home, a mass of sharp glittering angles and dagger crags of lustrous wealth. Percival congratulated his father on his success, but bragged that he himself would become yet more wealthy. Even as Chen Kai nodded with approval, saying that a son must surpass the father, Percival began to fall from the sky. His power of flight was gone. He hurtled towards the ground, calling out in terror to his father, but falling alone to be impaled by gold shards. Gasping, Percival woke already clutching the pistol, jumped out of bed and pulled out one valise. He fumbled open the clasps, caressed the gold. He turned on the light beside his bed and counted it, his fingers dropping the pieces. Then the other case. All there. He put it under the mattress and lay on his back. He stared at the fine teak beams in the ceiling, in the house that Chen Kai had used his fortune to build.
In 1933, on his first visit back to China after three years away, Chen Kai brought enough silver coins with him to buy two li of stream-fed rice paddy. He rented it out so that Muy Fa would have an income even without his remittances. He hosted a dinner for the village and roasted two fat pigs and three geese to celebrate becoming a landlord. He poured liquor freely for the village men, and gave everyone red-dyed eggs as if he were celebrating a birth.
During that visit, Chen Kai lavished his son with Annamese treats and hard English candies. They went for walks in Zhong Shan Park, where they watched the fat goldfish in ponds and snacked on candied peanuts. Chen Kai gave Chen Pie Sou painted French lead soldiers and took him to play with them on their newly bought land. They played “Manchuria,” making the red-and-blue figurines the Chinese and using lumps of mud for the Imperial Japanese Army. Chen Pie Sou liked to be General Ma Zhanshan, and he always defeated the Japanese at the 1931 battle at Nenjiang Bridge, stomping gleefully on the lumps of mud. They played this so often that Chen Pie Sou came to believe this was what had actually happened. At night, Chen Kai made a point of filling the kang with heaps of coal, making it so hot that it was difficult for Chen Pie Sou to sleep.
Chen Kai doted upon his son during the day, but was distracted in the evenings. Every night he greeted visitors as if he were holding court—men who sought advice about travelling to the Gold Mountain, men who hoped to borrow money, and men who wished to taste French brandy. His success abroad had transformed Chen Kai from pauper to landlord, a celebrity in his own village. Chen Pie Sou longed for his father to sit at his side while he fell asleep. He lay on the kang each night listening to the words of his father and the other men become slurred with drink, excited with ever wilder and grander stories of sublime foreign pleasures, and fortunes of property and gold. Chen Pie Sou toyed with the lump at his neck. How could such a small, rough piece of metal be so valuable?
Before departing, Chen Kai paid his son’s school fees for the next year. He had noticed that his son liked eggs, and promised to leave enough money that the boy could eat an egg every day.
“Must you leave again, Father?” Chen Pie Sou asked.
“I must go back to earn money. For your eggs.”
“But I don’t need so many eggs. And you have bought two li already. We are wealthy landlords now.”
“You think so because you’ve never seen wealth, real wealth.” He tousled Chen Pie Sou’s hair. “Son, amongst the Annamese it is so easy to make money. We Chinese are smarter than they are and can get rich from them. It would be foolish for me to stay in Shantou.”
“But when you have enough, you will come back.”
“Yes, yes, I will, but … I don’t have enough just yet.”
“How much is enough?”
In his father, Chen Pie Sou now sensed a hunger for something that he could not understand. Perhaps his father could not express it. When he had first left Shantou in 1930, Chen Kai had been desperate to find a way to feed his family. He had been agitated by a need that Chen Pie Sou knew in the gnawing feeling in his belly each morning,
