The Night Tiger: A Novel

by Yangsze Choo

  “Why did you tell him she was here?” he says sourly. “Best to let her go away.”

  “I thought she might be ill.”

  “Tch! It’s just lovesickness. But she’s the wrong kind of girl to be playing around with.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s the naïve type who’ll swallow all his sweet talk. How long has he been gone from dinner?”

  The minutes are trickling away and the empty spot that William has created by disappearing from his own dinner party is beginning to collapse on itself. Ren can feel it yawing and vibrating: the faint alarm of dinner guests who wonder why their host is absent for so long.

  A figure comes up to the dining-room window. It’s Lydia; she says something over her shoulder about fresh air and disappears again. Ren has no idea whether she’s seen anything. Probably not, since it’s dark.

  When he turns around, William has gone in, and Nandani stumbles back to Ren. To steady herself, she puts her hand on his shoulder. It’s cold and Ren suddenly has a bad feeling, as though it isn’t really Nandani, but some other chill and bony creature following him in from the dark.

  * * *

  William slides back into his seat just as dessert comes out. Sago gula Malacca, pearls of tapioca drizzled with coconut milk and dark brown coconut-sugar syrup, and kuih bingka ubi, that fragrant golden cake made from grated tapioca root. Ah Long has really outdone himself, but William has no appetite. He forces it down anyway, nodding as he pretends to listen to the conversation.

  When dessert is over, the guests drift back to the front room, now rearranged for dancing. William overhears Mrs. Banks saying nervously to her husband, “Perhaps we should go home early.”

  He wishes they would all go home right now. It’s rattled him, Nandani showing up at this dinner party. She’s become a dangerously unpredictable factor, but mostly he’s angry with himself. Stupid, stupid, he thinks, as the familiar feeling of self-loathing washes over him. William should have realized early on that Nandani’s willingness was actually a naïve infatuation. Bad. Very bad. If a few stolen embraces are enough to give her delusions, then it’s best that their connection end.

  Of course, he hasn’t said anything like that to her, only kind words and noble expressions of regret. He hopes that will satisfy her, though if she goes to her employer—the plantation manager who’s Lydia’s father—and makes a fuss, it will be damaging. How ironic, considering that he was far guiltier of being involved with Ambika. William decides then and there that he must limit himself to paid women. That’s better than being accused of seducing young virgins. He’s a fool, despite all his resolutions. And yet he can’t help himself.

  The tall, stooped figure of Rawlings, the pathologist, drifts over and William hesitates. He’s not afraid of Rawlings anymore, not since the magistrate ruled Ambika’s death an unfortunate accident, but he’s still wary around him.

  Tonight, Rawlings looks more like a stork than ever. “Too bad about the tiger hunt, eh?”

  William nods. “I’m sure they’ll try again.”

  Rawlings rubs his jaw. His hands are large and white, and William tries not to imagine them slicing through skin with dissecting scissors. It’s silly, since he himself is a surgeon. But I only cut open the living. Not like Rawlings, whose patients are all dead.

  “You know I wasn’t happy with the inquest.”

  William keeps his face neutral.

  Rawlings says, “There’s always cases like this, when something’s fishy but nobody believes you. Had one when I was stationed in Burma: they said it was witchcraft, people dying one after the other, but that was rubbish. It turned out to be arsenic poisoning from a private well.”

  “And your point is?”

  “This case,” says Rawlings, scraping at the floor absently with his shoe. “That woman, Ambika. It gives me the same feeling.”

  “Surely you’re not suggesting that someone’s keeping a pet tiger!” William laughs uncomfortably.

  “Not the tiger. The vomit. Remember how I said when we found the head, there were traces of vomit in the mouth?”

  Unbidden, the image of Ambika’s broken body flashes in William’s mind, the way he found it half lying under a bush. A headless torso with grey, rubbery skin.

  “If she ingested something poisonous, that would account for the kill being untouched. Animals have surprisingly good instinct: if it went for the stomach and intestines first, as most of the big cats do, it might have decided there was something in the body it didn’t like. But Farrell didn’t believe me, of course. Probably we’ll never prove it unless a proper investigation is done—who were her associates, whether there’d been any lovers or scandals. All this local talk about witchcraft and tigers is just a smokescreen.”

  This is becoming a terrible evening for William. He swallows, reminding himself that he hasn’t committed a crime. Though given the force of public opinion, being associated with both Ambika and Nandani would be enough to sink him in this small social circle. People will follow him with their eyes, drop their voices when he enters a room. William has already had a taste of this back home.

  Steady, he tells himself. It’s only Rawlings grumbling. His luck will save him. “So have you ever come across any true cases of witchcraft?” he says, hoping to distract him.

  “No. Though I’ve seen some amazing runs of luck.”

  “What sort?”

  “You know, gambling, or things like not getting on a boat before it capsizes and so forth.”

  For an instant, William is tempted to tell Rawlings about his own peculiar fortune: how time and again he has narrowly avoided trouble by the merest twist of fate. Like stumbling upon the obituary of that salesman, the only witness to his affair with Ambika. But it’s best not to say too much to Rawlings, who’s still pedantically listing different types of luck. “The Chinese say it’s your fate. You were in China, weren’t you?”

  “I was born in Tientsin. My father was Vice Consul,” William says, relieved that the topic has shifted.

  Rawlings looks at William with interest. “Were you now? So do you speak Chinese?”

  “No, we came back when I was seven. I had an amah who taught me to speak Mandarin but I’ve forgotten it.”

  He hasn’t, however, forgotten the gracious streets, the European buildings on wide roads in the foreign concessions, and behind them the jumble of alleys and hutongs. In his memories, it’s always winter in Tientsin, that city in the far north of China. A cold dry winter with the tang of burning donkey dung and a bone-chilling wind blowing in from the steppes.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t enter the Service as well.”

  There are reasons why he hasn’t followed his father’s footsteps, but he doesn’t discuss them. Instead, he says, “I can still write my Chinese name, though I can’t pronounce it properly.”

  He pulls out his shining black fountain pen, and writes three characters awkwardly on a sheet of paper.

  “Is that Chinese?” asks Leslie, peering over his shoulder. The guests crowd around curiously.

  Lydia squeezes his arm, saying she’s impressed. “I’ve got a Chinese name, too. A fortune-teller wrote it for me in Hong Kong.”

  “I used mine as my secret mark in boarding school,” says William lightly. “For years and years. Which is probably why I can still write it. Ren—how do you pronounce this?”

  Shyly, Ren shakes his head. Although he can speak Cantonese, he can’t read many characters. Ah Long might be able to, though. Chattering and laughing, the group pours into the kitchen, despite William’s protests that it would be easier to call his cook out.

  To his horror, the first thing he sees is Nandani sitting quietly at the kitchen table with a plate of food. He glances sharply at Ren, who lowers his head guiltily. The boy must have given her something to eat. Well, he can’t fault him for that. He’s a better man than me, thinks William, wishing desperately that Nandani would disappear and not look at him with her sad eyes.

  Ah Long is
disgusted that so many people have invaded his kitchen, but he wipes his hands on his grubby white apron and peers at the piece of paper.

  “Wei Li An.”

  “There you go.” William smiles awkwardly, wanting to get away from the kitchen and Nandani as soon as possible. “It’s my name—‘William.’”

  “But what does it mean?” asks Lydia, staring at Nandani, who shrinks further into her seat.

  Ah Long says something in Chinese to Ren, who nods.

  “He says most Chinese names for foreigners just copy the sound of their name, but this one has a meaning.” Ren points at the middle character, the one that looks most complicated. “This word is Li. It means doing things in the proper order, like a ritual. And this one, An, means peace. If you put them together with Wei, it means ‘for the sake of order and peace.’”

  The kitchen has fallen silent. Ren, raising his eyes from the paper, discovers that everyone is staring at him and looks frightened.

  “Is this your houseboy?” Rawlings breaks the stillness.

  William nods. Despite itching to get away from Nandani, who sits frozen, like a mouse, he’s proud of Ren’s soft-spoken, clear explanation.

  “Where on earth did you find him?”

  William ushers everyone out of the crowded kitchen. “It’s a long story,” he says, “best told over a stengah.”

  Someone puts a record on the gramophone, and outside there’s the ebb and swell of conversation. Two guests linger in the kitchen: Lydia, who has gone over to chat with Nandani, and Rawlings. Making an excuse to the others, William returns. He has to stop Lydia from talking to Nandani, in case she sniffs out their relationship. Lydia’s good at things like that.

  But when he edges into the kitchen, Lydia is already turning to go. Catching his eye, she smiles, assuming that he’s come back for her. He manages a weak grin as she passes through to the drawing room, feeling a wave of guilt wash over him.

  Rawlings is still talking to Ren, and not wanting to follow Lydia or speak to Nandani, who watches him with miserable eyes, William leans against the doorway and listens to them.

  “The Li in your master’s name—isn’t that one of the five Confucian Virtues?” Rawlings says.

  “Yes,” Ren replies. “Actually my name is one of them, too.”

  “Is that right?” says William. “Which one are you?”

  “I’m Ren.” He fidgets with the cuff of his white houseboy’s uniform.

  “Ren is benevolence isn’t it? Yi is righteousness, Li is ritual or order. Zhi is wisdom and Xin is faithfulness.” Rawling counts them off on his fingers as he recites, “Without Li, what is there to distinguish men from beasts?”

  Ren looks impressed. “How do you know them all?”

  “I studied a little.” Rawlings regards him thoughtfully. He has a surprisingly easy manner with children, unlike himself, thinks William. Of course, Rawlings has children of his own.

  William sneaks a quick glance down the hallway. Lydia is still standing there, ostensibly chatting with someone. If he goes out now, she’s bound to catch him and ask all sorts of questions about why Nandani is sitting in his kitchen right now.

  “Ren, Dr. Rawlings here is our chief pathologist,” says William. To his surprise, the boy gives a little twitch, like a start of recognition.

  “Do you take care of the pathology storeroom? The one at the hospital?” Ren asks hesitantly. It’s not his place to question guests.

  “Why, do you want to see it?” Rawlings looks amused.

  Ren shakes his head. A baffled expression appears on his face, as though he’s unaccountably disappointed.

  There’s a commotion at the front door.

  “Ah, our visitors,” says William in relief. “Did you hear about Leslie’s surprise?”

  “What is it?” asks Rawlings.

  “Some dance-hall girls from Ipoh. Ren—get the door.”

  But Ren is transfixed. Eyes wide, his thin, childish shoulders almost quivering. He looks like a bird dog, William thinks. Exactly like a dog that, though disappointed at first by a false lead, has now locked onto the correct scent. Then, like a small sleepwalker, Ren walks straight out of the kitchen, down the long narrow passage, and opens the front door.

  27

  Batu Gajah

  Saturday, June 20th

  There were five of us girls on Saturday night: Hui, Rose, Pearl, myself, and another girl called Anna. She usually worked Thursdays and Saturdays, so I’d never met her before. Anna was very tall—taller than me—and plump in a voluptuous way. The Mama said that she’d chosen Anna for this private party because foreigners didn’t like to stoop when they were dancing.

  “Is that why you picked me as well?” I asked as we waited for the hired car. She gave me a hard stare, as though she thought I was being cheeky, though I was quite serious.

  “Of course not!” said Hui, squeezing my arm. “She picked you because you’re popular.”

  The car that the Mama had hired was large, though not as long and graceful as Robert’s. Anna sat in the front seat because she was the biggest, and the rest of us squeezed into the back. One of the bouncers, the one with a mole on his chin called Kiong, would be our driver and chaperone.

  “No loose behavior,” said the Mama, raking us over with a razor glare. “It’ll be three hours of dancing, from nine to midnight. Kiong will handle the money. If there’s any trouble, let him know at once.”

  Kiong, his wide face impassive, nodded. There were rumors that he was either the Mama’s nephew or one of her lovers, but I was glad it was Kiong. He’d always struck me as reliable, and he never bothered to flirt with us girls. Rose and Hui were giggling over the car. Pearl said she’d never been in one before. If I married Robert, I thought, I’d get to ride in his cream-colored beauty with its soft leather seats every day. But I’d also have to do things like sit on Robert’s lap and kiss him.

  The idea made my teeth ache. I didn’t want to think about Robert, though if I imagined it was Shin instead, I felt a strange, stirring excitement. But it was no use thinking about Shin—that only plunged me into greater gloom.

  * * *

  In the end, Shin hadn’t come back to Falim until Saturday. He pushed open the front door just as we were sitting down for an early lunch.

  “Thought you’d be back last night,” said my stepfather.

  “I had to work.”

  Shin didn’t look at me, although I’d jumped up to fetch him a plate of fried noodles. I had a sinking feeling. Perhaps he’d thought over all the nasty accusations I’d made on Tuesday night and decided that he hated me after all.

  “You’ll stay for the weekend?” my mother asked. Shin nodded.

  Except for the papery skin beneath her eyes and the way she took the stairs more slowly, she was almost back to normal, which made me feel less guilty about leaving her.

  “I’m going back to Ipoh after lunch,” I reminded her.

  “Can’t Mrs. Tham spare you until Sunday?”

  Mrs. Tham had in fact said that there was no need to rush back, but I couldn’t possibly tell my mother that I was getting paid to dance with foreigners at a private party. It was the first and last time I’d do anything like this, I decided, because I was going to ask Robert for a loan. Far better to owe him money than the loan shark my mother had gone to for her mahjong debts. The next installment was due in less than a week. I gritted my teeth. If my stepfather found out, there’d be none of this quiet sitting around the dining table. His rage was sudden and unpredictable; he might be icily practical about it—or not. Glancing at my mother’s lowered head, I only knew it wasn’t worth the risk.

  “Sambal,” grunted my stepfather, holding out the dish without looking at me.

  As I spooned the aromatic chili paste out, I listened to the three of them talking. Shin asked my mother how she was feeling and discussed tin-ore prices with his father—a normal, polite conversation, though it rankled. Perhaps because they were treating Shin as an equal now. Leastways, mo
re of an equal than me. I sat quietly, eating my noodles. Shin didn’t speak to me at all.

  And now my mother was going on about Robert and how often he’d been coming by. I shot a swift glance at Shin, but he merely looked bored.

  “It would be nice to have Robert over for dinner. To thank him for everything, you know,” my mother said hopefully.

  “Ask him to come next Friday,” said my stepfather. This surprised me. He’d never taken any interest in my friends. “You’ll be home, too, Shin.”

  “Of course.” Shin’s face was expressionless.

  “Ji Lin and I had a talk the other night,” my stepfather went on. Alarmed, I stared at him. What was going on with my stepfather today?

  “About what?” My mother glanced anxiously at me.

  “I told her that if she gets married, she can go ahead and do whatever she wants. Whether it’s nursing or becoming a teacher or running away to join the circus.” He put a spoonful of sambal on his plate and squeezed lime juice on it.

  I lifted my eyes. “You promised, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. When you’re married, you won’t be my responsibility, or your mother’s, either.” To my surprise, my stepfather wasn’t looking at me. Instead, he was watching Shin. Very carefully, like a cat observing a lizard.

  Shin continued eating with bored indifference. Just last weekend at the hospital, he’d told me angrily to tell him before I got married because I was bound to make a foolish decision, but there was no trace of that concern right now. His eyes were cold, and they never once met mine. Pushing back my chair, I murmured something about packing and went upstairs. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised. I knew how little my stepfather thought of me, how useless I was as a girl, and not even his own daughter. But for Shin to freeze me out again was more painful than expected. I wondered, not for the first time, whether I loved him or hated him.