You could see the shock on the faces of new customers. They would crane their necks to get a better look at Mr. Kahani—as if he couldn’t feel them breathing close to his face, as if he didn’t know what they were doing. But the shock would turn into wonder. A childlike belief in the otherworldly. Mr. Kahani became a magical figure to us all.
In the weeks leading up to Deepavali, most of our customers were those who lived in or near Little India, among the Hindu population. But as the holiday grew closer, the excitement spread, and every kind of Singaporean stopped in our store—the British colonials and the Chinese, Eurasians and foreigners. It was a great, sparkling party, and everyone was invited. We moved an enormous statue of the elephant god Ganesh into the front of the store—Ganesh, the remover of obstacles. It reminded me of the large bronze elephant outside of Parliament, the one visitors asked to see when they came by mistake to our palace.
The November nights grew longer and darker, but Little India kept getting brighter. Hindus burned oil lamps to drive away the evil spirits and welcome Lakshmi, goddess of wealth. We were so busy at the jewelry shop that I was able to get my school friend Bridget a part-time job. Bridget’s family was large and her father was a notorious skinflint. She was a tall, dramatic-looking Irish girl with red hair, freckles, a long nose, and pale greenish-blue eyes.
Sahhdie, the only other woman at the store, was so severe it was good to have a friend nearby, even if only to wave at her across the floor. Sahhdie was always fussing at me to fix my hair or adjust my blouse, or sending me into the ladies’ lounge to make sure the seams of my stockings were perfectly straight. Bridget and I took our breaks together and snuck out to one of the alleys so Bridget could have a smoke. Bridget would have died without her hourly cigarettes. The opium addicts also wandered in these alleys, but these poor souls were too dazed to trouble us, and Mr. Kahani was kind to them, bringing them plates of food or cups of tea.
Mr. Kahani exiled my friend to the costume jewelry section at the back of the store. He kept me among the pearl strands, with occasional forays into the diamonds and other precious gems. Never anywhere near the estate jewelry. That was Sahhdie’s territory. The richest, oldest clients shopped there. Ron went where he pleased—he was the top salesman. And there was lovely Bridget, stuck among the paste and rhinestones. I worried that she might be offended, but Bridget said, “No, he’s right. I’d feel uncomfortable around all that posh, high-ticket stuff. I’d just be looking at people like they were crazy to buy it. I prefer the paste jewelry, to be honest. I’m an Irish charwoman at heart.”
I envied her curls; she wanted my straight hair. We were so different in externals, and so alike on the inside. Bridget had a hard life—four brothers and two sisters, and her mother had died after the youngest was born. We had that in common, our motherless state. But her father was a hard man. A strict teetotaler, reformed, who had once been an ugly drunk. Bridget hid her brains from him as if they were a disgrace. She was hardworking and kind and capable and deep. It bothered me to see her stuck among the cheap costume jewelry and the clearance items at the back of the store. But she thought it was all a lark.
Even when Ron spoke sharply to her—he snapped at all of us underlings, sooner or later—she just found him interesting and amusing. He had fought in the Great War, was wounded at the Battle of Ypres, and came home with a foot made of wood and metal. You would not have known it except when he was tired and it scraped across the floor. Sometimes the artificial foot would flop over entirely, and he would have to lean down, pick it up, and adjust it.
Ron had a handlebar moustache, and he was going a bit bald. He’d stroke his moustache and nod at the people studying some piece of jewelry as if their lives depended on it. He had a crooked little smile on his face as he waited patiently for them to make up their minds. He never pushed or nagged or coaxed. He didn’t seem to care if he lost a sale—and so he seldom lost one. He had a knack for swooping down on the right piece of jewelry when a customer became paralyzed with indecision. They’d spend an hour looking at pearl earrings, and Ron would present them with a blue diamond necklace, which they would buy at once.
“These are not life-and-death decisions,” he said. After the war, he’d ended up in a sanatorium for a few months. “I don’t recommend it,” he said. I learned to avoid him on the bad days, making busywork in Mr. Kahani’s quiet office. My employer was out of the store more than he was in. Where he went remained a mystery. Bridget claimed that Mr. Kahani was a spy. Like me, she believed he could secretly see. But she also said Ron was “hunky.” Chunky, was more like it. He ate like a man who was starving all the time. He was especially fond of marbleized halwa. And spicy crisps.
My work was never dull. I suppose this would have been true in any place where people spent a great deal of money at once. Sometimes there were sad stories. One day, I watched a young man lead his fiancée from one diamond ring to the next, each one smaller and cheaper, until at last she left the store in tears. I knew they’d never be back, and I thought it had been a poor way for a man to break off an engagement.
One quiet afternoon, a young Chinese couple poked their heads into the store. By now, my job was about one-quarter secretarial, three-quarters sales. I’d kept one eye on the door in those first few weeks, until I realized Uncle Chachi wasn’t ever going to check up on me. In any event, the timid Chinese couple came in together, the young man urging his wife to come inside. She was reluctant even to set foot past the door. She told the security man, “We’re just looking, that’s all. We can’t afford to buy.” She giggled nervously and looked around with wide eyes.
I started to greet her, but Ron put a restraining hand on my arm and shook his head. He seemed amused for some reason. If you remember, I am half Chinese myself, and there is no need for anyone to look down at us. I say that even though I stood at barely five feet tall wearing heels.
“Let us look at the diamond rings,” her husband said, and the woman’s mouth opened. She shook her head.
“No,” she said. “Maybe the watches.”
“Let’s just peek at the rings,” he insisted, and he guided her to the case where Ron was standing, gazing into the middle distance.
“Look at this pretty diamond lacy one,” he said to his wife.
She covered her mouth with her hand. “So beautiful,” she said.
Ron finally spoke. “How may I help?” he said politely.
“No, no,” the wife said. “No help. Just looking.”
“Look closer,” said the husband.
The young woman and I bent closer, on either side of the glass display. We drew in our breaths in unison. There, in the glass display case by one diamond ring, was a note: TO MY LOVELY BRIDE, MEI WING.
“That is my name!” exclaimed the young woman. “Mei Wing!”
The young man said, “I could not afford to buy a diamond when we were engaged. Now this ring is yours. My patient bride.”
Ron slid the box out of the case and handed it to the man, who put the ring on his wife’s finger. She was sobbing. Her husband, too, was weeping. Ron reached into his coat pocket and handed me a handkerchief.
It was the kind of thing that happened in a jewelry store and nowhere else. One morning, a bridal party entered our store in a single long line, a parade. They did not look happy. A plump girl dressed in pink led the way. Her large hand was immersed in a pot of water. The bride walked behind her, wearing her red-and-gold bridal sari. Her eyes were rimmed in black kohl.
The line stopped in front of Mr. Kahani. The mother of the bride flung out her arms. “Ruined, everything is ruined!” she cried.
The chubby young woman at the front of this parade was also in tears. She stared at her hand in dismay, submerged in the pot of water. “I couldn’t help myself,” she said. “I had to try it on just once.”
The bride, apparently her sister, snorted. The groom said nothing. His eyes were fixed anxiou
sly on the ring.
“The wedding is in less than an hour!” moaned the mother of the bride. “Oh, Penina, why couldn’t you keep your hands to yourself? Or at least wait until the ceremony was over?”
“This is not a problem,” Mr. Kahani said. “It happens all the time.”
“Really?” sobbed the plump girl.
“You have my word,” Mr. Kahani assured the family. He lifted the girl’s hand from the water and appeared to study it front and back. Again, I had a flicker of doubt. Could he not see at least something? But the blue marbleized eye looked no more alive than an oyster shell. “We possess a special emulsifier,” he said slowly.
Sahhdie appeared by his side like some magician’s assistant. He whispered a few words, and she nodded and glided off to collect the necessary items.
“Above all else,” he said to the tearful, chubby bridesmaid, “you must relax. You must meditate deeply on this wedding and envision the ceremony. Close your eyes. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.”
The young woman sighed noisily, then hiccupped. “Good,” said Mr. Kahani. “Keep breathing gently. Think of Ganesh, remover of obstacles. Relax your shoulders. Relax your wrist.” Sahhdie was by his side, holding a small bottle and a silk cloth. She poured some of the fluid onto the cloth and handed it to him.
Mr. Kahani, the blue eye rolled toward the door, deftly applied the magical potion and quickly twisted the ring off the girl’s finger. She gave a quick gasp, of pain or relief, but Mr. Kahani was already brandishing the sparkling ring high in the air.
“Thanks be to God!” declared the bride’s mother.
The bride held out her hand, which she had been keeping behind her back. Both palms were covered in elaborate scrolls and dots, the rich henna wedding designs of mehndi.
The bridesmaid was still sobbing. She looked at her now-naked finger as if her whole body had been stripped bare. I saw the bride exchange a glance with her groom. Their eyes met for a few seconds. Then her own look softened, and a reluctant smile came to her lips.
“No need to cry,” said the bride. “I would have done the same. And who better to try on the ring than my own sister?”
The plump girl gave her a shaky smile. Then the long procession turned itself around and filed back out the door. This time, the bride walked in the lead, taking short, measured steps with her groom close beside her.
I waited until all had safely left the store. It felt as if I had witnessed a minor miracle. “Mr. Kahani,” I said. “What is in that bottle? Can you tell me?” The viscous stuff had been a vivid emerald color. I thought, you never know when such a thing might come in handy.
“Ordinary dishwashing liquid,” he said. “But I put it in an elegant bottle, and I use a silk cloth.” He lifted one hand as if to silence me and placed his long fingers against his lips. “It is always best to keep a few secrets,” he said.
Now and again Uncle Chachi sent Dawid to Little India to fetch me and walk me home. During Deepavali, the streets were packed even past midnight—with Hindus buying gifts and snacks, talking with friends, or just strolling along admiring the colored lanterns and window displays. I think Dawid relished the excuse to walk to and from Little India. For a shy boy, he greeted a lot of people—shopkeepers, waitresses, and the old men who sold the Indian papers. “Shubh Laabh,” he’d say. “Shubh Deepavali.”
Not just in Little India, but all over Singapore and even throughout the world, a restlessness took over our decade, the Roaring Twenties. Everything was changing, from dance moves to hemlines. The enormous Fullerton Building shot up in the middle of Singapore, and the Majestic Theater opened its doors in Chinatown. Amelia Earhart, a woman pilot, flew across the Atlantic Ocean. The Chinese and Japanese declared a cease-fire, and at school half the girls bobbed their hair. I shared the world’s jitters. But after work, I would stare out the palace window for hours. If I’d ever imagined the Garden of Eden, I imagined it looked like the view from my bedroom window. The Kampong Glam Palace was surrounded by trees, an army of friends: mahogany trees, acacia trees, a yellow flame tree, kapoks, and, right outside my own window, a red-leaved pulai tree. The sound I associated most with home was the sound of rain splattering through leaves.
Nei-Nei Down had raised me to believe it was not good to love anything too much. She may have acted so prickly to keep me from loving her too devotedly, as well. But it was no use. I had the kind of heart that would always be breaking. I wondered what it would be like to live in an ordinary house—a house that could be passed down from generation to generation without worry—or one that could simply be left behind for a brand-new house, bought for the bright colors of its walls or its modern conveniences. But no, we all clung to our leaking, crumbling palace.
I insisted that Uncle Chachi use some of the money I now earned for a few needed repairs, and I was also able to talk him into hiring a new young girl to help Sanang with her household chores. This new worker’s name was Danai. She appeared at our back door one day, begging for food. She claimed to be thirteen years old but looked closer to eight or nine, considered too old now for the orphanage. I took her first to Nei-Nei Down, not because she was the softest-hearted member in the family, but because she was the most stubborn. If I could overcome her objections, I could overcome anything.
“Nei-Nei,” I said. “This girl needs a roof over her head, and we need her help. We can pay her some small salary.” I named a figure I knew was too high, and the girl practically jumped out of her skin. I kept her hand pressed close to my side, to keep her from protesting.
“No salary,” said Nei-Nei Down.
“We must pay her something,” I said. “Otherwise it is against the law.”
Nei-Nei Down squinted at me, but I could see her taking in the worn gray shirt on Danai’s thin back, the too-short skirt, and the sandals with the soles coming apart and flapping. She agreed to a sum that was more than I could have bargained for. Uncle Chachi fell in with the plan. As it turned out, Danai was surprisingly handy at re-plastering. She knew something about plumbing, too, young as she was, and fixed a broken pipe, saving us great expense. She was an eager learner, always polite and soft-spoken. So, in the end, even old Sanang was won over, though she had been bitterly certain at first that Danai was only there to take her place. Once Sanang realized she was not going to be thrown out into the street, she happily began bossing Danai around.
Still, we possessed no solution to the larger problem. The grains of sand were still sliding away from us each day, piling higher into a heap at the bottom. But it was something, a beginning. So we fixed a few leaks and made a few repairs, and all was peaceful for a time in the Kampong Glam Palace.
And then, on the night of Deepavali itself—which always occurs on the darkest night, the evening of the new moon—something happened that changed the course of our lives forever.
SIX
The Smell of Horses
Dawid and I were heading home after the last of the fireworks when he said, “I smell horses.”
Horses were becoming uncommon in Singapore. Our generation, the bright, young, fast set of the twenties, had long ago turned to motorcars and trolleys and bicycles.
It had been a brilliant Deepavali. Uncle Chachi, Nei-Nei Down, and skinny Danai strolled with us through Little India, marveling at wonders. Green, yellow, red, and golden lamps glimmered in every window, hung from the branches of acacia trees, decorated the peddlers’ carts, and swung from the hands of the children milling about. The streets were festooned with paper flowers, stars snipped from bits of foil, cutout elephants; images of gods and goddesses unfurled across cloth banners. The air smelled of cinnamon and burnt sugar. British Grandfather was all set to come along with us, but at the last minute he refused to change out of his pajamas and dressing gown. So old Sanang stayed home with him in the palace, grumbling but glad to have an excuse not to go. She dreaded crowds.
; She would have hated this Deepavali. Every street in Little India boiled with passersby; each nook and cranny was occupied, sometimes three or four people deep. There were moments, inching along Serangoon Road, when the gathered crowd swelled so that we could not move at all. Luckily, there was always some new marvel around us to see. Even Nei-Nei Down was impressed.
“The Indians know their festivals,” she said. “A bit gaudy, but lively.” I knew she was comparing Deepavali with the Chinese holidays—New Year, the Dragon Boat parade, the Moon Festival.
Thanks to Dawid’s careful navigation, we found ourselves on the Victoria Bridge with a fine view out over the water as the fireworks began. Nei-Nei Down surreptitiously stuffed cotton batting into her ears, while Uncle Chachi gazed at the sky in frank delight—his deafness for once becoming an advantage. Our Chinese boarder Wei had arranged to join us there, and I looked for the sullen Omar Wahlid at his side, but Wei stood alone, looking lost. He had been unable to persuade Omar Wahlid to come, he admitted.
The crowd oohed and aahed appreciatively at the fireworks display, sighing and gasping with one breath. This year, we watched flowerlike fireworks bursting in bright blues and purples no one had ever seen. Even the smoke died on the air in the shape of falling petals.
After the last crackle died down and the smoke drifted over the river, Nei-Nei looked the worse for wear, and little Danai was wilting like a yellow flower. She wore a hand-me-down silk shawl the color of marigold petals that had belonged to Nei-Nei Up. The girl had clutched it around her proudly all night long, but now even the shawl drooped. I touched Uncle Chachi’s arm and nodded toward her. He winked at me and then faked a big yawn.
The Moonlight Palace Page 4