Illywhacker

I stepped back so that I would not block his passage from the room, but he turned his back to me and, having fiddled with his buttons, piddled into a chamber-pot he kept behind the desk. The pot had not been empty when he started and he did not add much to it. I turned to look at the wall. "Charlie" Goon had been president of the Grafton Chinese Commercial and Cultural Association from 1923 to 1926. The sombre group photographs seldom showed more than five members.

"Better out than in," said Goon Tse Ying brightly, fiddling with his fly buttons and seating himself. "I don't suppose you carry barley sugar? No? Just as well."

"You are Goon Tse Ying?"

"Yes, yes. Please sit down. Sit on the trunk. Pull it over, that's right. They tell me we have met before, but I do not know the name. I am eighty-one years old, so I forget many things. Where was it that I had the pleasure?"

"In Melbourne. In 1895."

"Ah, Melbourne, yes, yes." His foot moved the chamber-pot further under the desk.

"Mrs Wong is your cousin."

"Mrs Wong, ah yes."

"You bought this business in 1896."

"Not this one. Another one, further down the river. But I came to Grafton about then. That's right. I couldn't forget that."

"And you translated for a herbalist."

"Poor Mr Chin, yes, I did."

"I am Herbert Badgery. Surely you remember me."

"No, no," he shook his head.

"I was a little boy. You found me at the markets. Remember the Eastern Markets? I was a little boy. You called me 'My Englishman'. I slept at Wong's. I shared a room with old Hing."

His eyes clouded. It looked as if he had stopped trying to remember. He fiddled with his fountain pen and looked down at the book on the table. I kept talking. I described everything I could remember. I told him about the things he had taught me. I showed him my brightly shone shoes. He smiled and nodded. I told him how I had eaten porridge and he had drunk brandy and the smile widened into a grin that made his rice-paper skin crinkle like an old paper bag. I became excited. With every memory I produced a nod. My teeth were aching again but I did not let that stop me. I described his horse. He agreed it was black. He had been fond of that horse, he said, and began to tell me about it, how he had haggled over its purchase. I was too impatient for politeness. I interrupted his triumph to tell him about the morning he had taken me, with this very horse between the shafts, to make a camp. I told him about the place. I described the rocks, the thistles, how he had oiled his hair flat on his head.

He interrupted me for another leak. I listened to his penis dribble while I studied the Chinese-Australian Friends' Assocation. There had been a national conference in Brisbane in 1931.

"Yes," Goon Tse Ying said. He pulled up his trousers as he sat down. "Yes, yes. I remember. I was a young man then, full of life, and with no family. Now I have great-grandchildren and I am writing down everything for them. All my secrets," he smiled. "In this book. I must write them in both Chinese and English. The young ones don't understand Chinese – they're real little Aussies."

"You taught me to disappear."

He smiled, but I know that Chinese smile. It means nothing. I repeated myself.

"No," he said. "Oh no. I'm not a magic man. Disappear? Is that what you mean? No, no, I taught you to clean your shoes."

"To vanish," I insisted.

"Oh no."

"Don't you remember? You said, T am teaching you this because I love you, but also because I hate you.' You did not like the English or the Australians."

"My children are Australians."

"You were at Lambing Flat. Your uncle Han", I said, "was run over by a cart. His broken bones poked out through his leg."

"Oh," Goon smiled. "I remember you. Hao Han Bu Chi Yan Tian Kui, we called you: 'Small Bottle, Strong Smell'. You made up stories, all the time. You told me your father was dead and then you made Mae Wong cry when you said your father had beaten you and gone to Adelaide. To Hing you told another story, I forget it. Perhaps you have some barley sugar? Yes, yes, I remember you. Hing said you were a sorcerer. Mrs Wong was frightened of you. You made her frightened with a story about a snake. She could not have you in the house any more and I had to have you go to my cousin who did not want you either. Yes, yes. It all comes back. It's astonishing – you think a memory is all gone, and then there it is, clear as day. Yes, my Little Englishman. Small Bottle, Big Smell. Did you become a sorcerer after all?"

"I disappeared. You taught me. That's why Mrs Wong got ill."

He smiled and shook his head. "And my children tell me that there are no sorcerers in Australia, that we are all too modern for such superstitions."

We were interrupted by the girl who had shown me up. She brought us a pot of tea and two stout chipped mugs. Her grandfather introduced her as Heather. The girl giggled and ran down the stairs.