Tash Aw - The Harmony Silk Factory

About two months after Johnny first begins working at the Darby Mine, the Dredger breaks down for the first time. At first no one knows what to do. In case of emergencies, the workers have been told that one of them is to run to the foghorn and sound it three times, long and hard. The meaning of “emergency” is unclear, though. Only twice before has the foghorn been sounded: once when the monsoon rains, heavier than usual, washed away an entire face of the mine; and another time when the chief engineer’s wife, the only English woman in the area, appeared suddenly and without reason, in the middle of the afternoon. On other occasions, even when someone was badly hurt or even killed in an accident, no alarm was raised and work went on as usual.

For a long time, there is nothing but a huge, empty silence. The roar of the Dredger, which usually drowns out every other sound, is not to be heard. The workers do not know what to do. When at last the foghorn blows, pathetically, three times in the midmorning air, it barely carries to the cream-painted hut where the British Sirs sit, leafing through papers which no one else can understand. One by one the Sirs come out of the hut, each fixing his hat to his head. Their shirts are damp and stick to their skins. Their faces, the workers can see, are heavy with heat, fatigue, and disgust.

“Call for that Chinaman Johnny,” No. 1 Sir barks as the Sirs stand assembled before the broken behemoth. Johnny is brought to them. His hands and forearms are covered with grease. His face is grey with dust and lack of sleep.

“What’s the matter with this bloody machine?” No. 1 Sir says.

“I’m not sure. Sir.”

“You’re not sure? What do you think we pay your wages for?” No. I Sir screams.

“Calm down. Wretched thing probably doesn’t understand you,” Sirs No. 2 and No. 3 say. “Look at him.”

Johnny stands there with black hands hanging loosely at his sides.

“All right. Do you know where the problem is?” No. 1 Sir says, slowly this time.

Johnny nods.

“Well then, take me to it, don’t just stand there like an imbecile.”

They go deep into the machine. On a clean blue canvas sheet laid on the floor, Johnny’s tools are neatly spread out, ready for use. Dozens and dozens of tools, all shiny and clean.

“Here,” Johnny says, pointing.

The Sirs walk around the part of the machine which Johnny has pointed at. No. 1 Sir has his hands in his pockets. No. 2 Sir checks his fingernails as he paces back and forth. No. 3 Sir rubs his brow. Sirs No. 4 and No. 5 say and do nothing — they are young and do not 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 whir 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 the fourth or fifth morning 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 pockmarked 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 huts. 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 and lock 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 onto 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.”