The Harmony Silk Factory. Tash Aw
yet know anything.
‘It’s the belt,’ says No. 1 Sir.
‘It’s the rotator,’ says No. 2.
‘It’s the oil supply. The wiring, I mean,’ says No. 3.
Johnny says, ‘The parts in the gearbox are broken, I think. They are not moving.’
‘Well, fix it,’ No. 3 says.
‘The machine – it requires new parts,’ Johnny says. ‘Maybe.’
‘You bloody well fix it now,’ No. 3 Sir says. His face is red and shining with sweat.
They watch as Johnny goes back to the machine. He does not know what he is going to do, how he is going to fix this unfixable problem, but he knows that he will find a way. Somehow, he will.
Piece by piece, Johnny takes the gearbox apart. He brushes each piece with a wire brush, washes it in water, then wipes it with grease. He gives it new life. He feels no fear: his hands are calm and strong and his eyes are cool and level. Turning to pick up another tool, he catches the eye of No. 1 Sir, who is blinking to keep out the heat and dust of the afternoon. At last, Johnny turns to the Sirs and says, ‘It is ready.’
The Sirs look at each other. ‘About bloody time,’ No. 1 says.
Johnny walks to the control box and rests his hands on it. He trusts the machine, he trusts himself. The whirr of the dredger is uncertain at first, but soon it becomes a steady growl, and then the familiar roar fills the entire space, drifting out into the valley, singing in Johnny’s ears.
One by one the Sirs walk back to their cream-coloured hut. ‘Imagine – millions of tons of ore under our feet,’ No. 1 says, putting his wide-brimmed hat on. ‘That damned Chinaman will be the ruin of us all.’
‘Nearly twenty past four,’ says No. 2.
‘Just in time for tea,’ says No. 3.
Johnny packs up his tools, one by one, making sure he cleans the grime and grease from each one. He wraps them up in his blue canvas cloth and listens to the song of the machine.
Four days later, the machine breaks down again. Once more, Johnny is summoned to repair it, and again he succeeds. The next day it breaks down again. And the next day too. By now Johnny has taken to sleeping next to the faulty part of the machine. He can hear its heartbeat, feel its pulse. It is weak and failing.
By now the workers have become used to the great silence that has fallen over the mine. They know there will be no work for them. Without the machine, the tin remains buried deep under their feet. There is nothing to wash, nothing to grade, nothing to store or melt. So the workers sit around, placidly chewing tobacco or betel leaves, their lips and tongues becoming stained with the juice of this stupor-inducing nut. As the days go by, the dry earth around the longhouse becomes pock-marked with patches of red spittle.
At the start of the second week without the machine, the Sirs come to where Johnny is working. His tools are laid out on the mattress beside him. Some of his tools have had more rest than he has.
‘What on earth is this monkey doing?’ says No. 1.
‘I told you not to let a Chinaman loose on the dredger,’ says No. 2.
Johnny looks at them with young eyes made old by work.
‘So,’ says No. 1, ‘what do you have to say for yourself?’
Johnny blinks. Their suits are white and blinding in the sunlight. ‘I need new parts,’ he says, turning back to the machine.
‘How dare you answer back!’ No. 3 shouts.
‘Parts indeed.’
‘It’s his fault anyway.’
‘When,’ No. 1 says slowly. ‘Will. It. Be. Fixed?’
Johnny’s chest rises and falls heavily. He doesn’t know how to answer. ‘Soon,’ he says. But he knows it is useless. The machine is dying in his hands, like a sick child on its mother’s breast.
‘Soon?!’ No. 1 explodes.
‘Soon??!’ echoes No. 2.
‘What does that mean?’ say Nos 3, 4 and 5.
Later that morning the Sirs make an announcement at a specially arranged workers’ meeting outside the cream-painted hut. The workers are told that they will not be paid to sit around doing nothing. The mine cannot afford to pay their wages if no tin is being processed.
‘It is simply uneconomical for the Darby mine to continue like this,’ says No. 1, his voice rising above the angry murmur. ‘As long as the Dredging Machine is not working –’
‘But that is not our fault!’ someone shouts.
‘– as long as the Dredging Machine remains –’
‘That is none of our business! Get the damn machine working!’
‘Until the machine is fixed,’ says No. 1 with all the authority he can muster, ‘THERE WILL BE NO PAY. So go home, all of you.’
‘That’s the problem with coolies,’ says No. 2 as the Sirs back into their hut, locking the door.
‘Where’s that lazy dog-boy?!’ the men outside shout. ‘Where’s Johnny? It’s all that bastard’s fault!’
‘Let’s teach him a lesson!’
‘My children will go to sleep hungry!’
‘Damned son-of-a-whore!’
‘He’s doing this to kill us all!’
When they find him they are swift and brutal. They hit him with their bare fists and kick him with shoeless feet, again and again. Johnny closes his eyes as the first blow strikes him on the side of his face. He crashes on to the machine and feels it press against his body, cold and lifeless. Soon he can no longer feel pain. He does not see or hear the men set fire to his mattress. ‘That will teach him to sleep all the time, lazy animal. Now maybe he will work to fix this machine.’
By the time they leave him they are no longer angry. They walk slowly off the mine and go home, heads bowed, arms hanging limply by their sides.
When Johnny opens his eyes again it is night. He sees, through swollen eyelids, the grey bulk of the machine. Slowly, he moves his head so that his ear touches the dredger. He can hear nothing, and suddenly his arms and legs and head and chest start to hurt, and he collapses again.
‘You had it coming, I must say,’ No. 2’s voice says. ‘You’re not as clever as I thought.’
In the dark, Johnny can barely make out No. 2’s figure standing over him.
‘I told him,’ No. 2 says, pacing slowly before Johnny, ‘I told him not to do it, not to take on a dirty Chinaman like you. I told him a Chinaman’s place is IN the mines, loading and carrying, but no – he had to put you in charge of the machine. A Chinaman operating the biggest dredger in the valley? Well, that’s plainly ridiculous. And he fed you and clothed you and housed you. What foolishness.’
‘I need new parts,’ Johnny whispers.
‘Over my dead body,’ No. 2 says. ‘You are responsible for what’s happened, you cretin.’ He kicks Johnny’s tools into a pile. Many of them have been burned with the mattress, their shiny faces now blackened with soot.
‘Pack up,’ No. 2 says. ‘I never want to see you here again.’
Feebly, Johnny begins to gather his tools. They are still hot from the fire.
‘Don’t forget,’ No. 2 says, ‘that you are responsible for this machine. It’s your fault.’
Johnny raises his gaze to meet No. 2’s.
‘Don’t