God of Luck (17 page)
Today, I deliberately raise my head, turn it as if loosening the stiffness in my neck.
Almost at once, a driver snaps, “
Vete a la playa.
”
Disguising my eagerness in a groveling bow, I obey.
As usual, the drivers have ordered six of us to the beach. On our way, we have each picked up a yoke and two empty barrels from the storage sheds. We’ve stacked the twelve barrels to create a small shaded area in which we squat after rinsing the rags from around our necks, washing off the guano coating our faces.
My heart drumming wildly, I study the rollers that will bring in the boat and are yet empty, muttering, “Those devils order us down early just so it’ll be tougher for us to make up the time lost.”
“I was already behind.”
“Me, too.”
“That’s why the devils picked us!”
Every voice is, like mine, cracked from thirst, all but smothered by the raucous birdcalls and pounding surf. Lest talk fade entirely, I give it a stir.
“I tell you, when you’re unlucky,
nothing
goes well. Even water will catch between your teeth.”
“Water I’d welcome.”
“Good well water, not the foul stuff from Pisco.”
My eyes trained on the rollers, I return to the difficulty of meeting our quotas. “Maybe we could make up some time by helping to haul in the boat.”
“And squander what little strength we have?”
“Where’s the gain in that?”
“Are you crazy?”
I both expected and desired their reluctance. But their concerns reflect my own, and I have to bolster my wavering resolve before I can stammer, “It’s worth a try.”
At this same moment, the boat’s prow appears, and I stagger to my feet.
“You really have gone mad.”
“You’ll be shot.”
This warning has reared up in me already, and although I again assure myself that the soldiers have never troubled anyone who stays well within the shallows, my heart thrashes madly against my chest, my toes curl into the shale as I wait for the boat to make its final dart through the breakers, to cross into where we’re permitted.
By then, the boatmen have leaped into the water; instead I’ve half-buried my feet, and my legs have turned to lead. Somehow, though, I lift one foot, then the other, and, despite angry barks from the soldiers, stumble into water, hurl myself against the side of the boat, help drag it in.
EVER SINCE CHUFAT opened my eyes to the importance of knowing Spanish, I have been looking for meaning in the bits of jibber-jabber I catch through repetition. Because he and his boatmen acknowledge drivers and loaders with “
Buenas tardes
,” while the Pisco boatmen and soldiers call out, “
Buenos días
,” upon arrival, I have decided these must be greetings: the former for afternoon, the latter for morning. Similarly, the exchanges of “
adiós
,” at partings must be “farewell;” the “
gracias
” offered each time someone accepts a smoke or a light must be an expression of thanks, the response, “
de nada
,” akin to “no thanks are necessary.” So when the Pisco boatmen belt a hearty chorus of “
gracias
” for my help, I try to come back with “
de
nada
.” But my tongue, sliding across the roof of my mouth, strikes teeth, and my jaw, clenched tight, refuses to open.
Even after the soldiers stop barking, lower their muskets, and start exchanging greetings with the boatmen as usual, I cannot pry loose my jaw. So I cannot defend myself against the diggers swarming across the beach, buzzing and stinging.
“What a fool!”
“You could have brought trouble on us all.”
“You nearly did!”
Willing my features into the serene mask that Bo See always presented to her abusers, I dodge past them to fetch a yoke, trot back, and attach a pair of barrels the boatmen have unloaded.
The next time I help bring in the boat, the soldiers and diggers again snap and snarl, rendering me incapable of speech. Little by little, however, their loud rebukes diminish into scowls, and I manage to address the boatmen.
Then I realize boatmen and soldiers sometimes attach what seem like names to their greetings and farewells. So I start studying faces.
Finally, I match “Miguel” with the most heavily stub-bled jaw, and after I hail him by name, he gestures for me to share mine.
Now the four call out, “
Buenos días,
Ah Lung,” as I jog toward their boat, and I can recognize “Luis” by his squashed nose and distinctive waddle; “Roberto” by his wide, flat face; and “Alfonso” by his winglike ears, his lips pursed for whistling.
If only snatching meaning from their rivers of talk were as straightforward!
Mi
. Me? My?
Casa
. House.
Mi casa
. Home?
THE RUMBLE IN Ba’s chest has deepened with winter. Ma leans ever more heavily on my sisters-in-law and myself when we help her shift from bed to chair or hobble to the family altar. Yet their concern is not for themselves but their missing son. Indeed, Ah Lung’s silence weighs on the whole family. After Moongirl writes that she has a new client whose husband, Master Yee, ships goods to Chinese merchants in Peru, however, our spirits rise.
A thousand times a day I repeat Moongirl’s words to myself, “Master Yee has sent a letter to the merchants’ guild asking them to look for Ah Lung.”
Now, hoisting Ba up in his bed and giving him his orange-rind brew, I ask, “Would the merchants’ guild have the power to secure Ah Lung’s freedom?”
“You mean to buy out his contract?”
Despite the sunlight beaming across the bed, Ba is ashen, his grip on the steaming-hot bowl so desperate I fear he’s chilled, and I take a second padded jacket from the nail behind the door, drape it over his shoulders.
“Power lies in money. So the merchants’ guild undoubtedly
does
have the power to buy Ah Lung’s freedom. But the price would be high, very high, and Moongirl’s fallen into debt from all the extra expenses since Ah Lung’s capture.”
My heart thumping, I say, “We can increase our worm and leaf production.”
Ba sighs. “You know a family can’t raise more worms than there are hands to care for them, and we’re stretched to the limit.”
“For each generation of worms that we raise, yes. But we can add an eighth generation.”
“Impossible!”
His dismissal, though, is thick with longing, and as I help him guide the bowl to his lips, I lay out my plan.
“By incubating the eggs on our bodies, we can hasten their hatching by three-and-a-half days. Come summer’s heat, the eggs are bound to hatch even faster, and the accumulated time saved will allow us to raise an eighth generation before the weather turns too cool.”
My plan unfolded, I feel as if I have stepped into the calm of the wormhouse, and my head is clear, my heartbeat steady as Ba takes a final gurgling swallow, then surrenders the empty bowl.
“How can you be so certain?”
“I tried it.”
“That’s why you were avoiding the altar and moving stiffly!”
“Yes.”
“You’re not yourself or you’d realize you can’t work moving that awkwardly,
and
you’d injure whatever worms you didn’t lose or kill during a transfer from bodies to trays.”
“The moths can lay eggs on squares of cloth. Then we’ll be able to move freely. And we’ll remove the eggcloths from our bodies just before the eggs are due to hatch.”
Ba’s breath quickens, and he leans forward. “How will we feed an eighth generation?”
“Instead of waiting until the end of the silk season to drain the fishponds and dig up the mud, do it while we’re raising the seventh generation of worms, then pile the mud around the base of each mulberry shrub to force an eighth crop.”
“You’re right!” he exults. “We
can
increase both our worm and leaf production! We
will
!”
“For you,” I tell Ah Lung. “For you.”
Careful not to prolong my play or go deeper than we’re permitted, I arouse no reaction beyond the ready laughter of the boatmen. I become adept at leaping from beach to deck. I discover Roberto’s hat best for hiding the queue coiled around my crown, shielding my face from view. I don’t just help haul in the boat but labor alongside the boatmen pushing it back into the sea.
At night, I crawl under my blanket as if to shut out the fragrances from the drivers’ cooking fires. Then, as greedily as a miser fingering his coins, I curl my tongue around the small horde of Spanish words I’ve gleaned, lingering over those that taste especially sweet:
Amigo
, friend.
Por favor
, please.
Deseo
, I want.
Ayúdame
, help me.
Esposa
, wife.
I find ways to give these words voice so I can confirm my understanding, discover whether I can make myself understood to the Pisco boatmen.
On board their boat, I grunt, “
Ayúdame, por favor
,” while lifting a barrel.
No boatman responds.
Hoping it’s because I’ve been drowned out by the noise from the surf, barrels rolling across the deck and thudding against the boat’s side, and the bottom of the hull crunching into shale, I raise my voice. “
Ayúdame, por favor
.”
Still no boatman comes to my aid.
So I fall back on the familiar, “
Venga aquí
.”
As Miguel hurries over, I add, “
Ayúdame, por favor
.”
Miguel cocks his head in puzzlement.
Grasping the barrel with both hands, I signal my need for help with an exaggerated groan.
Amused understanding flashes across his face, and he says, “
Ayúdame, por favor
,” but very differently from my garblings.
I imitate the way he shapes his lips, change how I place my tongue. “
Ayúdame, por favor
.”
Miguel shakes his head. “
A-yú-da-me, por favor
.”
I echo him.
He gestures for me to run the sounds together.
I repeat, “
Ayúdame, por favor
.”
He beams approval. “
Bueno
.”
CERTAIN, NOW, THAT I’ll be understood, I sing, “Roberto,
mi
amigo
,” and point to his hat perched on my head. “
Deseo
.”
He mimes for me to keep it.
Clamping the hat down so it conceals my queue and shadows my face, I bow deeply. “
Gracias
.”
He throws an arm over my shoulder. “
De nada, mi
amigo
.”
His unhesitating generosity and confirmation of friendship are, I tell myself, good omens. Even so, my innards cramp and twist as I trot beside him to the boat, then slip in front of Alfonso, who is whistling a joyful tune, seize the rough, sun-warm wood, push.
“
Aarrrgh
!”
At the anguished wail from a digger shackled to the punishment rock, my chest tightens as does my grip; my legs turn to rubber. But Alfonso doesn’t miss a note, and I maintain the rhythmic slap-slap of my feet with the boatmen’s.
As we push past ankle deep water, I forge forward instead of falling back. The moment the bottom of the boat stops rasping against shale, I leap on board with the boatmen.
Dropping onto my knees, I clap my hands together, panting, “
Amigo, ayúdame! Deseo mi esposa. Necesito mi
esposa, mi casa. Ayúdame, por favor
—”
My chin strikes wood; I bite my tongue. Reeling from the pain, I’m uncertain whether I’ve been knocked flat by a boatman, if the boat is yet rolling from shore or now catching a wave that will take me back.
Then cries of “
adiós
” fly between the boatmen and the soldiers, and the tightness in my chest eases: The boatmen will not betray me; nor have the soldiers noticed my absence, which means no alarm will be raised. For the desperation of diggers to avoid punishment makes it unnecessary for devil-drivers to mark their return from the beach. Indeed, the devils only make a count of diggers when calculating how many replacements are needed, and there’s never any search for the missing. Not even by diggers. When my bed is empty tonight, a few diggers in the sleeping shed might speculate over the cause: Has Ah Lung failed to meet his quota, been sent for punishment, or thrown himself off a cliff? When my bed stays empty, they’ll assume I’m dead.
Spray, cool and cleansing, sprinkles my guano-crusted back, my matted hair.
Hair?
Roberto’s hat must have fallen from my head!
I jerk up to look for it. Alfonso, shrilling babble, hits the side of my head in a stinging slap, knees the small of my back, pinning me to the deck.
Have I misjudged the boatmen?
Fingers strong as iron squeeze my shoulder. Their grip, though, is strangely calming. Could Alfonso, still streaming words to which I can attach no meaning, be offering reassurance?
His tone, I realize, is no longer sharp. Rather, it seems warm, cautionary. Could he be warning me?
Yes. Of course!
“
Sí
,” I gush. “
Comprendo
.”
“
Bueno
, Ah Lung,
mi amigo
.”
The relief in Alfonso’s voice is almost as great as in mine, and as he releases me, we both sputter nervous laughter. Even without Alfonso’s restraining hand, however, I would not have raised my head high enough to be seen. I require no warning to stay hidden.
Sailors rowing skiffs from the guano ships dot these waters, and according to Chufat, the devil-king doesn’t just decree the time a guano ship has to wait for loading but whether it is loaded under a chute, which takes three days, or at its moorings, which requires a month. So the very day a ship drops anchor, its captain seeks preferment in loading by calling on the devil-king with gifts of wine and foreign delicacies. From the devil-king’s palace, these captains cannot fail to witness the horrific conditions under which diggers are forced to toil, the terrible punishments they suffer. Still, the captains keep bringing their ships for the guano, and I doubt there is one who would hesitate to deliver a digger to the devil-king for preferment.
Then, too, there are fishermen who might, if they catch me, turn me over to the devil for a reward. Certainly I can bring to mind more than one man back in Strongworm who, thrown into the clutches of Old Bloodsucker, would save his family by selling out a stranger, and I’d be surprised if there aren’t some as desperate in Pisco. That is why, when making my plan, I determined I’ll quit the village immediately after begging a gift of clothes from the boatmen.
Once on the road, I want to believe I’ll be as successful as Chufat in eluding notice, then finding work. My difficulty just now in understanding Alfonso, however, is a frightening reminder that Chufat had the advantage of a translator in acquiring his Spanish; he was a pig on the mainland where I have yet to set foot; he has a tongue as quick and honeyed as mine is slow and plain.
Nor have I forgotten how wrong I was in believing we’d won the mutiny on the devil-ship and were homeward bound.
THE FAMILY HAS worked as one in preventing losses from crushed eggs or strong odors. Each time my sisters-in-law, their older daughters, and I incubate eggs, my brothers-in-law and their older boys perform the household’s heavy chores. Ma, reinvigorated by the prospect of securing Ah Lung’s freedom, cooks the family’s meals with help from Third and Fourth Niece. Ba, propped up in his bed, minds the youngest children.
The village has been no less united and vigorous in ridiculing our efforts. With every generation of eggs that has hatched, however, we’ve added to the days saved, the certainty of raising an eighth generation of worms, harvesting an extra crop of silk.
“Endure,” I beg my husband. “Be patient. Do nothing rash. By season’s end we’ll have the cash to buy your freedom and purchase your passage home.”
THE SUPPLY BOAT has always come to the dunghill with its barrels of food and water protected by canvas and generous lashings of rope. Before returning to Pisco, the boatmen again cover the empty barrels and tie them down. Now, as the swells under the boat intensify, signaling landfall, Luis tugs and yanks off the canvas from the barrels closest to where I’m sprawled on the deck. Miguel squats beside me.
“
Amigo
,” he says, taking one of my hands in his and curling my fingers over a double binding of rope.
Nodding, I grab rope with my other hand too, brace my feet against the boat’s side to keep from rolling across the deck and tumbling into the boatmen as they maneuver for landing. Luis and Miguel drag the canvas over me. At their care in covering me from head to toe, poking and tucking in folds so the canvas can’t slide off, I realize their intent isn’t to protect me from crashing breakers but from prying eyes, and dread, more than the scarcity of air, chokes me.
When the boat shoots forward, I tighten my grip on the ropes and dig my heels into unyielding wood. Hemp bites into my palms. My ankles feel as if they’re splintering.
Then the boat is plummeting, bumping my head and knees, scraping my chest across gritty planks. Spray splatters loud as the rapid-fire of lead, skewering the rough canvas to my arms, my back, my legs.
Over and over the boat rides high, then dives; I toss in skin-rending, bone-grinding thumps. Suddenly, though, the skidding and slamming halts; the rat-a-tat of spray above is replaced by the familiar crunch of shale below, and I know we’ve landed, the boat is being dragged.
In a rush of relief, I let my feet sag onto the deck, tear my stiffened fingers from the rope. The sections of canvas plastered against me shift. Horrified, I stop.
