The Night Tiger: A Novel

by Yangsze Choo

  He gazes out of the window onto the expanse of clipped grass and gravel driveway. The white bungalow stands on a slight rise, the lawn lapping it like a grassy pool. Jungle presses in on all sides and is kept at bay by two Indian gardeners. Troops of monkeys parade past, and wild chickens, jungle fowl, scratch in the undergrowth. Ren, fascinated, watches them from the open kitchen where he peels vegetables and washes rice.

  Yi, he mouths silently, you would like this place. Catching sight of his reflection in a steel tray that he’s polishing, he nods. It’s hard, even after three years, to be without his brother.

  The worst part about death is forgetting the image of the beloved. It’s the final robbery, the last betrayal. Yet it’s impossible to forget Yi’s face, for it is his own. That’s the only comfort that Ren has in losing his twin.

  When they first arrived at the orphanage, no one knew which child was older. The matron was the one who decided that it should be Ren, and she named him accordingly, ren being the greatest of the five Confucian Virtues. It means human-heartedness: the benevolence that distinguishes man from beast. The perfect man, according to Confucius, should be willing to die to preserve this. Ren thinks that if he had a choice he’d rather have died to save Yi.

  Ren has a recurring dream that he’s standing on a railway platform, just like the one in Taiping where he used to see Dr. MacFarlane off on his trips, only this time it’s Yi who’s on the train. He leans out of the window, thin arms waving wildly. When he grins, there’s a gap where one front tooth hasn’t grown in yet. He looks exactly the same as when he died.

  Ren wants to chase after Yi’s smiling face, but his feet are clamped inexplicably to the platform. He’s forced to watch as the train picks up speed, its wheels spinning faster as Yi gets smaller and smaller until he’s gone, and Ren wakes up bathed in sweat or tears.

  Yet it’s a happy dream. He’s delighted to see his brother again and so is Yi. He can see it in Yi’s gestures, his bright-eyed gaze. Sometimes he speaks, mouth moving as he gesticulates, though there’s never any sound. Ren thinks it’s odd that Yi is always the one who is going on a journey, when it’s Ren who is growing older and leaving him behind.

  * * *

  Ren is mopping the floor. He puts strength into it, rinsing the mop often and changing his bucket of water, as trained by Auntie Kwan. The patch of shining floor grows larger in leaf-shaped swipes, like a glossy plant spreading over the wide teak planks.

  “Good.” Ah Long’s voice breaks in.

  Startled, Ren looks up. Ah Long has the uncanny ability to materialize in all corners of the house, which has made it difficult for Ren to search for the finger. He’s like a suspicious old cat, squinting in the sunlight.

  “There are houseboys older than you who don’t do such a good job,” Ah Long says. “We had one a few months ago. Twenty-three years old and couldn’t iron a shirt. Wanted to wear a uniform and serve drinks at parties.”

  Dr. MacFarlane seldom formally entertained. The old doctor had a reputation for collecting specimens, though, and it wasn’t uncommon to find a row of local hunters patiently awaiting his return, their prizes bulging out of sacks or snarling at the end of a rope.

  “Is the master married?” Ren asks. He knows that many foreigners leave their wives and children behind in England or Scotland or wherever they come from. The tropical climate here is considered unhealthy for European children.

  Ah Long sniffs. “No. Better if he was.”

  “Why’s that?” Ren is eager to take advantage of Ah Long’s good mood. Normally it’s hard to get more than a few words out of him.

  “Then he’d stop playing around. Aiya, as if we all didn’t realize what he’s been doing!”

  Ren has a vague understanding that this touches upon adult matters. Things like marriage or not-marriage, and relationships between men and women that are too difficult to puzzle out. But if William has no interfering wife or family, it increases the chance that Ren can retrieve the finger. The fact that he hasn’t found it yet despite two days of quiet searching worries him.

  * * *

  They bring the injured woman in just before noon. Ren hears shouts, anxious wailing, and then Ah Long’s determined refusal.

  “Tak boleh! Tuan tak ada di sini!”

  Ren runs out. There’s a wheelbarrow propped on the drive and in it lies a young Sinhalese woman. There’s a deep gash in the back of her left calf. Dark splotches of blood soak her sari.

  Ah Long is trying to persuade her relatives to take her to the hospital in Batu Gajah, for Tuan Acton is not at home, but they insist that it’s too far. Ren knows that the deeply superstitious Ah Long is afraid the woman will die in this house. He pushes his way forward.

  “Bring her in!”

  “Are you mad?” cries Ah Long.

  Ignoring him, Ren tells the men to bring her up onto the veranda while he races into the study. The doctor keeps an emergency bag behind his desk as well as a drawer full of first-aid equipment.

  “I need a basin of boiled water,” he says to Ah Long.

  “What if she dies here?”

  Ren ignores him as he washes his hands thoroughly with soap, forcing himself to count slowly to fifteen. Next, he examines the makeshift tourniquet, a narrow band of cloth twisted tightly around the leg. The woman has fainted, and he’s grateful for that. He washes the leg as best he can with the boiled water, then ties another tourniquet above the original. His head swims; there’s a sick feeling in his throat. In his mind’s eye, he sees Dr. MacFarlane’s square hands again, repeating the steps. A stick through the knot, functioning as a windlass to tighten it if necessary. Ren cuts off the original rough tourniquet.

  “What are you doing? If you take that off she’ll bleed to death!”

  “It’s too tight and too close to the wound. She’ll lose the leg.”

  Ren grits his teeth, willing the new tourniquet to hold. Around him people are muttering, but no one else appears to take charge. Ren checks the pulse in her ankle. Still some slow bleeding. Twisting the knotted stick, he slowly increases the pressure until it stops.

  The woman is beginning to stir again, moaning as they hold her down and he syringes the wound with hydrogen peroxide. It’s all he has on hand, but as the raw flesh bubbles and foams, he feels the onlookers turn away. The blood makes him dizzy. Breathe, he tells himself. If you don’t breathe you’ll faint.

  At last it’s over. The dressing he puts on top soon becomes soaked, but it’s better than the glimpse of bone.

  “You should take her to the hospital now,” he says over the relieved chatter. “She needs stitches.”

  They put her into the wheelbarrow again, and he worries how she’ll endure the journey. If he had some morphine, he’d give her a quarter grain. He isn’t supposed to do that. The old doctor always warned him away, locking the medicine cabinet, but he’s seen him administer it enough times.

  Ren begins to clean up the litter of dressings. His legs are weak; his hands tremble uncontrollably. He hadn’t even asked for the woman’s name or what caused the injury, although he was dimly aware that someone had given an explanation. All that had consumed him was stopping the blood.

  He’s about to fetch water to scrub down the veranda when Ah Long says, “Leave it. Go and change.” Then he realizes his new white houseboy’s uniform is spattered with blood.

  “Soak the clothes in cold water,” says Ah Long. “If it doesn’t come out, you’ll have to make a new set out of your own wages.” He has a curious expression on his face, both sour and grudgingly respectful.

  Ren washes himself in the small bathhouse behind the servants’ quarters, scooping water out of a large pottery jar with a dipper and sluicing it over his body. When he closes his eyes he can still see the blood seeping onto the wooden planks. Like Yi’s blood, he thinks, oozing out from beneath his own fingers. He’d placed his hands on his brother’s chest, trying to stanch the flow. But it was hopeless. Yi’s body turned cold, his eyes rolled up in his head. His
small chest rattled its last.

  When Ren returns to the main house, Ah Long is preparing lunch for the servants. Ren has discovered that there are indeed others: a woman who helps with the laundry, the Malay driver, Harun, and two Tamil gardeners. But he and Ah Long are the only ones who live in the servants’ quarters behind the large bungalow.

  Since William is at the hospital, Ah Long has put together some simple noodles in broth. Shredded chicken and boiled greens are piled on top, with a gloss of fried shallot oil. Ren notices that Ah Long has given him a larger portion than usual, with extra meat. They eat in silence. When they’re finished, Ah Long says, “You shouldn’t have done it. If she dies after you treated her, it’ll be your misfortune.”

  “Will the master be angry?” Ren recalls the dressings he’s used, the half-emptied bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He’ll boil the glass syringe; fortunately he didn’t use a needle. He never had to ask Dr. MacFarlane for permission.

  “He doesn’t like anyone touching his things.”

  Ren is silent. What had he been thinking? And he hasn’t even completed the task the old doctor set him. With a feeling of panic, he tallies the time since Dr. MacFarlane died. Only twenty-three days left.

  “What happens during the forty-nine days after someone dies?” Ren asks Ah Long.

  Ah Long, thinking that Ren is still worried about the young Sinhalese woman, says, “She won’t die. At least, I hope not.”

  “But what happens anyway?”

  “Aiya, the soul wanders around. It goes and looks at people and places it knows. Then if it’s satisfied, it leaves.”

  “What if it’s not satisfied?”

  “It won’t pass on. That’s how hauntings occur.”

  Ren’s eyes widen, and Ah Long says, “Don’t worry, that’s just superstition.”

  “Can a wandering spirit turn into an animal?”

  “Hah? No, there are stories, but it isn’t true.”

  Ah Long is so dismissive of the idea that Ren is somewhat comforted. In the bright sunshine, there’s nothing to worry about. Today, he’s saved a life. How much weight does that carry?

  8

  Falim

  Sunday, June 7th

  Despite my aching head, I fell into a deep sleep as soon as I burrowed into my narrow bed. So deep that I felt pleasantly drugged, floating in cool water down a river of dreams.

  Bright riverbanks flickered lazily past, the images tiny and clear as though seen through the wrong end of a telescope. Thickets of bamboo and underbrush, sunlit elephant grass. It was the sort of landscape with tiny figures you might see from a train, and even as this thought occurred to me, I spotted a locomotive. It stood, billowing steam, at a small railway station.

  Strangely, the train tracks started beneath the water, the submerged railroad ties snaking up from the white sandy bottom and climbing the bank. There was no one in the train except a little boy, about eight years old. He smiled and waved from the window, showing a gap where one of his front teeth was missing. I waved back at him. Then I was floating away again, led by the current until I woke in the grey dawn.

  Pale light seeped in through the wooden shutters, and the headache that had bothered me last night had vanished. There was no sound from Shin’s room, but from the faint noises below, I knew my mother was up. I dressed quickly.

  “Did you make that dress yourself?” she asked when I ran downstairs.

  I’d debated over what to wear to the salesman’s funeral today; something formal but not conspicuous enough to make my family wonder where I was going. The only suitable dress I had was a plain grey Mandarin-collared cheongsam that I’d made as part of my apprenticeship. A cheongsam is an unforgiving, formal Chinese dress to tailor. I’d made a mistake sewing the high collar, which wouldn’t lie quite flat, but it was decent enough. I already knew what my mother would say.

  “This fabric is so serious—a girl like you should choose bright colors.”

  My mother loved clothes and had exquisite taste. On special occasions, she dressed with great care, taking out her good shoes that she kept in a cardboard box on top of the wardrobe. In fact the whole idea of my becoming a dressmaker’s apprentice was hers, though it had also met with my stepfather’s approval. But I didn’t see any point dressing up to please my stepfather, who only wanted us to look good to complement himself. We were a chocolate-box family, I thought. Brightly wrapped on the outside and oozing sticky darkness within.

  “I’m going to the market, but you’re dressed so nicely it’s a pity to ask you to come,” said my mother.

  “I’ll go.” Going to the wet market had always been one of my favorite errands. You could buy almost anything there: piles of red and green chilies, live chicks and quail, green lotus seed pods that resembled shower sprinklers. There were fresh sides of pork, salted duck eggs, and baskets of glossy river fish. You could eat breakfast, too, at little stalls serving steaming bowls of noodles and crispy fritters.

  While my mother was busy shopping, I picked my way between the crowded stalls looking for flowers. White flowers, the color of Chinese funerals and death. I had them wrapped in newspaper to hide them. It was hard to keep secrets in a place like Falim, and anyone seeing me walk around with a bunch of white chrysanthemums would instantly guess it was a death offering.

  As I headed back first, laden with my mother’s various purchases, I heard the silvery ring of a bicycle bell. It was Ming. I hadn’t seen him for a while but he was the same, his thin-framed, bespectacled figure pushing a heavy black bicycle.

  “Ji Lin!” He looked pleased. “I saw your brother last night.”

  I’d been so melancholy over Ming’s engagement, avoiding him, and now here he was, wiping his glasses with a handkerchief in his usual absent-minded way. My heart gave a treacherous little flip.

  “I heard,” I said. “You went out to eat even though my mother killed a chicken for Shin.”

  Ming smiled. “We didn’t know you were back. Or about the chicken, otherwise I’d have come over to help eat it.” Taking my basket of purchases, he hung it on the handlebars of his bike in his quiet way. Unlike my stepfather, I’d never seen him lose his temper. If Ming was aware of my past crush, he’d always been too kind to say anything. I was glad we were still friends, I thought, as Ming helped me carry the basket into the shophouse.

  Shin was leaning against the desk, talking to Ah Kum who’d dropped by even though it was her day off. Giggling coyly, she said she’d brought over some homemade pickles, though it was obvious from her glances that she was only here for Shin. I had to admire the speed at which she’d decided to make her move.

  But Ah Kum was right: Shin was very handsome. Growing up, we’d taken his looks for granted and I sometimes forgot how surprising they were. His high cheekbones and nose had been inherited from his mother, a woman from the far north of China. At least, that was what everyone said, though I’d never seen a picture of her. Lucky Shin, I thought enviously, as I often had during our childhood. To be born a boy and win a scholarship to medical school. Good looks were just the icing on top of that. Yet he didn’t look pleased. In fact, he looked distinctly irritated when Ming and I came in, our faces flushed and laughing.

  “You’re early,” he said to Ming. “I thought we were meeting for lunch.”

  “I ran into Ji Lin at the market, so I decided to bring her home.”

  “She doesn’t need looking after,” he said dismissively.

  I scowled at him, but he ignored me. Ming smiled his gentle smile as he helped lift the melon out of the basket. The top button of his shirt was missing, though with his usual air of bemused dignity, he didn’t seem aware of it. If Ming had fallen in love with me, instead of some girl from Tapah, I’d gladly have mended his shirt.

  I went upstairs to pack. It was best to leave before my mother came home and forced me to stay for lunch.

  “Not joining us?” Ming looked surprised as I passed through the front of the shophouse. The bouquet of newspaper-wrapped chrysanth
emums was tucked in my basket. A single snowy bloom peeked out, and Shin glanced at it sharply. He said nothing, however, as I made my goodbyes. Under the flowers, the finger was a guilty burden in my basket. I felt compelled to return it. And what better place to leave it than at a funeral?

  * * *

  According to the newspaper obituary, the salesman’s funeral would be held in Papan, a nearby town. The sun broiled down from a cloudless blue sky; my only consolation was the giant rain tree that shaded the bus stop. I’d dusted my face with a little rice powder and applied a smudge of lip rouge, but feared it would soon melt off.

  The bus arrived with a rattling roar. It had the body of a lorry, the sides circled with a wooden railing, and was always a bit difficult to climb up into when wearing a dress, particularly a pencil-slim cheongsam. I boarded last to avoid showing too much leg to anyone standing behind me. Still, I struggled, silently cursing the modest side slits that didn’t allow me to take large steps. To my horror, someone lent me a hand from behind. A man’s hand, from the feel of it, that slid over-familiarly down the small of my back and shoved me up into the bus. I swung round and slapped him.

  It was Shin.

  “What did you do that for?” He looked annoyed.

  “Nobody asked you to help. What are you doing here?”

  The bus driver honked his horn, and I sat down hastily on the wooden bench. Shin swung himself up and squeezed in next to me. With a jerk, the bus roared off.

  I glared at him. “What about lunch with Ming?”

  Ignoring the question, Shin looked pointedly at the rattan basket that I hugged on my lap. “Is it in there?”

  I knew he was talking about the finger, but didn’t reply. What cheek, after being so unfriendly earlier!

  “That was quite a slap you gave me.”

  “How was I to know it was you?”

  I’d reacted unthinkingly, a lesson learned from dancing with strangers. Feeling rather sorry, I peeked at his face to see if I’d left a mark.