The Moonlight Palace

by Liz Rosenberg

  I must give Adrian full credit here. He joined in our searches, and he never suggested that it was more madhouse than palace, not even by a quirk of his pale eyebrows. Nor did he suggest it was hopeless, though he must have felt it as clearly as I did.

  We combed through every centimeter of British Grandfather’s old room. Grandfather had kept meticulous records of his military career. He had never disposed of a single citation, and as far as I could tell, he had also saved every letter he had ever received. With his keen sense of stewardship, he kept careful records of the men who had served under him, going back to the Boer Wars. We read about injuries and deaths; there were records of the many favors he had done for his men; recommendations, commendations, pleading notes on their behalf; bills paid in full; loans made; copies of letters of condolence he had penned to bereaved families. In one such letter, he had written, “Nothing is ever wholly lost.”

  I could hear his voice so clearly. It was as if he had read these letters aloud. I could not help myself. I rocked back on my heels, surrounded by a roiling sea of papers, and wailed like a child. I sniveled and dribbled and hid my head in my arms.

  Adrian jumped to his feet, looking like he would rather be anywhere in the world. I kept right on sobbing. He waited me out. He did not offer any empty words of comfort. After a minute or two he asked, “Would you like a handkerchief?”

  I stuck one hand up over my head and took it. After I had used it thoroughly, and he had gently refused to take it back, he stood behind me and patted my shoulder two or three times. “There, there,” he said.

  “Grandfather was wrong!” I said. “Some things are wholly lost.”

  “I think he meant the things that matter.”

  “This matters!” I blubbered. “We matter. This place is where my parents and brother lived and died. We’ll never find those papers, and they’ll come knock the palace down and put up a row of shops.”

  He sat me down in a proper chair then, and I told him all about the bonfires, and watching Grandfather stirring the ashes with a stick.

  “I see,” he said. “I see. Yes. All right. But really, you have to stop crying. I’m no good at this, and I’m out of clean handkerchiefs.”

  Surely his betrothed never fell to pieces like this. No doubt she was sitting somewhere at that very moment, perfectly composed and wearing white linen. Or playing tennis.

  “I thought about forging the papers,” I said. “I stayed up all night one night, trying to get it right.”

  He laughed. That was a rare thing, Adrian James laughing. Then he went back to his usual poker face. “That wouldn’t do at all,” he said. “And it might well land you in jail. In which case, your Nei-Nei would never forgive me, and I’d never eat another bowl of her chicken rice. So that’s out of the question. —No,” he said. “I’ve been doing research on my own and conducting interviews with some of the local librarians. Very valuable people, librarians. Like your family, they keep all kinds of records. And unlike your family, they tend not to burn them.”

  “So you have what you need?” I asked eagerly. Then I was furious. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t have what I want yet,” he said. “But I may have what we need. I don’t like to build false hopes. I can’t bear to break promises. I’ve had to do it once. I don’t ever want to do it again.”

  He wasn’t looking at me, but out the window. “You see that bird?” he pointed out. “It’s building a nest. They do that every season. I’m not sure why the human race is so backward. We cheat each other, and lie and steal, and even kill over our own nests and what we put inside them. Every time I eat a piece of chicken, I think it really ought to be the other way around. I’ve never seen a bird act as vile as a human being.”

  “What a dark view of humanity,” I said. “And chickens are not very pleasant creatures, by the way. I’m surprised at you.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve never seen one write a sonnet, or paint the Sistine Chapel, either. I’ve never seen a bird as beautiful as—,” he hesitated, “well, as your friend Bridget, for instance.”

  Of course, I reported this to Bridget as soon as possible. We had gone skating together. Skating had nearly surpassed cycling as the latest craze, and I wanted to write about it for the Singapore Gate. Because of that, our admission was free. The place was bedlam. I had to shout to be heard. Bridget smiled mysteriously, brushing a piece of her long red hair away from her face, tucking it back behind her ear. “He’s never seen a peacock, apparently.” She stood as steadily on her skates as if she had solid ground beneath her feet. She was a good dancer as well.

  I, meanwhile, was struggling to get my skates on. “He’s engaged, you know. Head over crackers in love with the fiancée, he told me.”

  She arched one eyebrow. “He told you that? Interesting.”

  “I want to trust him,” I said. “I suppose I’ll have to. What if he turns out like Brown?”

  “What if I’m the first Chinaman in space?” she said.

  “Then you’re wasting your time here,” I said. People kept whizzing by us. It was disconcerting. “He’s so closemouthed. He’s oysterish. I don’t know a single thing about his past.”

  “Not everyone’s a blabbermouth,” she said.

  “—He’s always fiddling with that clipboard. He licks his finger before he turns a page, and it’s maddening.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been watching him awfully closely.”

  I had laced up my skate wrong, and now I had to start over. “Well, someone has to be paying attention.”

  She gazed down her long nose at me. “Just because a man doesn’t fancy you, Aggie, doesn’t make him a villain.”

  One end of the laces snapped off in my hand.

  SIXTEEN

  The Birthday Celebration

  I insisted that there be no large celebration for my eighteenth birthday; no party for all of my classmates, no gifts, no elaborate birthday meal. But I could not keep Uncle Chachi from uncorking a bottle of rice wine.

  We had brought home the family’s jewelry from Kahani’s, and I had taken snaps of all of it and insisted that Nei-Nei Down keep a few gold necklaces, and she insisted that I let her lay aside some pearls for me. We gave Sanang a gold watch, and even little Danai got a garnet ring. Nei-Nei Down set aside a pair of gold-and-sterling cuff links as a wedding gift for Uncle Chachi. The wedding had been set for an auspicious day in July.

  Dawid was already gone. The long process of letting go had already begun. But he had accepted nothing from our family treasury, not even a tie tack. His sisters would be arriving late that August, in time for school. If we were still in the Kampong Glam, I promised, I would convince Uncle Chachi to accept our first female boarders. If we were somewhere else, we would nonetheless help them find a safe and affordable place to live. You cannot live in Singapore all your life without making friends who have a spare room here or there. Bridget had been accepted to the new University of Hong Kong, in Pok Fu Lam, on scholarship. Mr. Kahani had a relative who owned a jewelry store on Hollywood Road, and Bridget was hired long-distance.

  But she was still here for the rice-wine-drinking ceremony, of course, she would not be setting out for Hong Kong quite yet, and without consulting me, Nei-Nei Down had invited Adrian as well.

  “He won’t come,” I said decisively.

  “He’s already said he will come,” she said, frowning. “If he does not come, I will never let him through the door again.”

  So Bridget had to call and make sure he was coming, after all. He told her he wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  “What did he really say?” I asked her.

  “He really said, ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’”

  “He must be gone on you,” I said. “His perfectly suited fiancée had better watch out.”

  “Isn’t he American?” she asked. “The Americans are always e
ngaged.”

  We had chicken rice, and rice wine, and rice candies for dessert, at my little birthday party. Rice is a lucky food for birthdays—an omen of fruitfulness and plenty.

  “I get it,” I said to Nei-Nei Down. “You want me to have children one day.”

  “But not too soon,” she said, wrinkling up her nose. She patted my arm. “I have to watch this one!” she announced.

  My eyes met Adrian’s. We both looked away.

  I had invited a few close friends from school. The gardener who had found British Grandfather came with his wife and baby grandson. Bridget was the very first guest to arrive, helpful as always in the kitchen. She had brought me cosmetics from Max Factor and Elizabeth Arden, blush powders, and mascara, even pale-pink nail polish, which we had to hide from Nei-Nei Down. Sanang and Danai were there for the celebration, of course, and Nei-Nei and Uncle Chachi sat at the head of the table, gripping hands as I took my first sip of the rice wine. I had never seen them touch in public before.

  The rice wine rushed to my head. I felt pleasantly sleepy, a little bit dazed. I kept serving food and drink to my guests, as is the custom in Singapore; the guest of honor is honored by being permitted to play host. I carried Adrian’s pansies to the sink and added water to a miniature vase.

  “I hope you like flowers,” he said. He had appeared behind me; I wasn’t sure how.

  “I like flowers with faces,” I said, and touched one with my finger.

  “I don’t see a face,” he said, frowning, bending closer to look. “But then, I never see a man in the moon either.”

  “I’ll show you sometime,” I promised.

  “Will you?”

  His face was very close to mine. I could feel his breath on my cheeks, and he smelled of mint. I thought I must have smelled of rice wine, and moved away.

  “I have been wondering if you could think of me . . .” His voice trailed off. He was quiet so long that anyone else might have thought he was done speaking. But I had grown accustomed to his manner.

  “Think of you?” I asked.

  “As a friend,” he said. There was another long pause.

  “I do think of you as a friend. To all of us.”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. “That isn’t what I meant, either.”

  I sat down on a kitchen stool, not trusting myself on my feet. I wasn’t drunk, exactly, but I wasn’t exactly sober, either. He took a seat beside me. Then we both fell silent a long time, just looking at each other. It seemed to me that I could sit there forever, just gazing into his gray-green eyes. They were such an interesting color, like the sky just after rain. Very calming. I felt my own breath steady, sitting there. Then I leaned forward and took his hand in mind. “All right,” I said. After all, not every man was as brave in his declarations as my Uncle Chachi. Then I let go of his hand.

  “You are engaged,” I said. “You are madly in love, and perfectly suited—”

  “No,” he interrupted me. “I am no longer engaged. —Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “What do you take me for?”

  I did not answer.

  “I am not a traveling salesman,” he said. “I am not a government spy. I am not a scoundrel, or a crook, like your friend Mr. Brown. For a clever girl,” he said, “you are the worst judge of character I have ever known.”

  I thought that I must not be so very clever, but I said, “When did the engagement end?”

  “The day after I met you,” he said. “I realized that everything I had told you was a lie—except that I was engaged to be married in a year. So I ended it. It was not—pleasant. Nor easy. Her parents threatened to take me to court for breach of promise. However, I understand that she is already engaged to another man, so it did her no permanent harm. And I think it saved my life. So I owe you a great debt. It is partly to pay that debt that I have done”—he made a circular gesture with his arms—“all this.”

  “You might have mentioned it,” I said.

  “It happened so fast,” he said. Then, after a moment he added, “I was afraid it might frighten you away.”

  “I am not that easily frightened,” I answered.

  “No.” He smiled. “I see that you’re not. Is it all right if I kiss you?” But then he kissed me before I could answer.

  “Yes,” I finally said.

  Uncle Chachi cleared his throat at the door. He pretended to be looking elsewhere. “You have a gift to open,” he announced.

  I followed him out through the kitchen door, still holding onto Adrian’s hand. At the entrance to the dining room, I nearly dropped his hand, but instead I pulled him along inside.

  “This is Adrian,” I said unnecessarily. “He likes me.”

  “We all know that, you foolish girl,” said Bridget.

  Grandfather’s wrapped gift sat on the dining room table. I had nearly forgotten it. How could I have forgotten? I came close and rested my palm on top of the bow, lightly, so as not to crush it.

  “I’m afraid to open it,” I said.

  “Don’t be stupid. Why?” asked Nei-Nei Down.

  “I’m afraid if I open it, he will be gone forever,” I said.

  “People aren’t lost as easily as that,” said Uncle Chachi.

  “I think it is a new dress,” said Nei-Nei Down. “Whatever it is, he wanted you to have it.”

  “All right,” I said. I unwrapped the package slowly. No one tried to rush me. Danai helped me unpeel the cellophane tape so that none of the wrapping paper tore. I opened the box. It was filled with colored tissue paper. It held a hat that had belonged to Grandfather’s mother. The shade just matched my eyes.

  On top of the hat sat a strange little curved object. At first I thought it was a stone, but then I saw it was a shell.

  “A snail shell,” Uncle Chachi informed us.

  “He was very old,” I said to Adrian. “He became a bit—forgetful, toward the end.”

  “He never forgot,” said Nei-Nei Down.

  “It’s a lovely shell,” said Bridget diplomatically.

  It was an ordinary snail’s shell, really, curved in around itself like an elephant’s trunk. Dry and smooth to the touch. Striated, pocked, and striped; something had once lived inside. It held shades of gray and green and rose. I put my hand on the tissue paper and felt something crinkle under my palm. I pushed the tissue paper aside.

  Under the hat, the box held a stack of papers fastened with a clip. The top piece, dated 1818, was the original deed to the palace. There were more official and unofficial papers beneath it—citing repairs made to the house; payments; architectural plans; ratifications; alterations. There was an elaborately drawn family tree, and I saw my name, Agnes, at the end of it.

  I handed the papers to Adrian. “I think you’ve been looking for these,” I said.

  Everyone was talking at once, crowding close. Nei-Nei Down was laughing and crying at the same time. It was absolute mayhem. Adrian detached a folded card from the clip and handed it to me. It was made of heavy cream-colored stock, with my grandfather’s initials intertwined on top, the A larger than the C and the R.

  I opened the note and read it aloud. “For Aggie,” it said. “In whom I entrust the past, the present, and the future.”

  Holding the note, I strode to the front door and opened it, the fragrance of the mimosas rising up as fresh as mango, the two-toned call of the night bird, the koel, springing from the riverbank to Jurong Hill.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I want to thank the Department of Asian Studies at Binghamton University, and my colleague Lisa Yun, for making possible my first trip to Singapore. Deep thanks also to Rama and the Asian Festival of Children’s Content for their hospitality. I thank my lovely editor and friend, Neal Porter, for coming along with me on that trip, and making sure we visited the Peranakan Museum. Any mistakes of history are my own—some are deliberate, for fiction is not f
act. Thanks to the remarkable gang at Amazon—all of them. Finally and forever, I thank my husband, the late David Bosnick, for giving me the happy childhood all of us deserve and many of us never get. You were, you are. The very heart of my heart. Whatever strength I have comes from you. And thanks be to my children and friends.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © Jonathan Cohen

  Liz Rosenberg was born on Long Island. She has written more than thirty books for adults and young readers, including novels, poetry, and nonfiction. Liz teaches English at Binghamton University, where she won the Chancellor’s Award for excellence in teaching. Her first husband was the late novelist John Gardner, author of Grendel. Her second husband was the brilliant teacher and writer David Bosnick. She lives in Binghamton, New York, with her daughter Lily and their two shih tzus. Her son, Eli, is an actor and magician in New York City. In 2014, Rosenberg was a US/UK Fulbright Fellow at Queens University, in Belfast, North Ireland, UK.