The Harmony Silk Factory

The first time Johnny sees the Dredger he does not see the monstrous, angry machine everyone else sees. Instead, he sees a living creature. He understands it at once. He sees limbs — huge mechanical limbs — and a body; he senses organs buried deep within it, and a heart too. It is as if he has always known this thing. When he is shown the machine, the words of explanation are as familiar to his ears as the rising and falling of the damp November winds. He has heard them a thousand times before. Even on that first day, he wants to start working with the machine. The British man who is in charge stands behind him, watching as he works the levers which turn the cogs which run the pump which fires the pistons which bring the ore up to the surface from the depths of the mine. The five minutes — the test of Johnny’s understanding of the machine — turn quickly into ten, twenty, forty minutes, an hour. Johnny and the machine cannot be separated. The machine wants to be worked by Johnny. “Quite remarkable,” the man in charge says. “The Dredger loves this boy.” They are like a mother and her child who, after a lengthy separation, fall into each other’s arms with relief. Johnny is then taken to the longhouse where the special workers are given lodgings. It is made of rough, unplaned wood, full of splinters which embed themselves in Johnny’s feet and hands. The rain drums loudly on the zinc roof, but the house is dry and secure. Johnny sleeps on a thin mattress laid out on the floor. At night he can hear the scratching of small animals, but they are outside and he is inside. He is also given a piece of paper saying that he is now an employee of the Darby Tin Mine. Everyone is smiling. They do not yet know of the bad things Johnny will do.

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.