House of Kwa

by Mimi Kwa

  ‘I’m okay,’ Dad tells me. ‘They can’t keep me down. I lost everything. Now I build myself up again. I am rich again. Engineers make a lot of money. Look, look, look, and I have all the engineers working for me.’

  A Chinese engineering student peers over a stack of folders on an overcrowded desk.

  ‘You look good, Dad,’ I say with a smile.

  ‘I do. I do. Yes, I do, don’t I? Do you know what is my secret to youth? Do you know?’

  I narrow my eyes. He’s always looked younger than his age, and lately – after two eye lifts to cut away saggy lids – it’s as though he’s shaved off another decade. He exercises and can still make one beer last a week, sometimes two.

  ‘Ah, I’ve got it! It’s your hair, Dad. You’ve dyed your hair.’

  He does a little dance, much like Rumpelstiltskin might when the miller’s daughter fails to guess his name. ‘You are wrong. You do not know my secret. Yes, it’s a different colour. No grey. No grey. But is it dyed? Is it dyed? No. No, it is not. Ahhhahaha.’

  I look closer and see sooty specks on his tartan shirt. ‘Dad, what is that?’

  He does his little dance again. ‘Well, you see, I happened to be given some boxes of boot polish.’

  ‘Dad! You’ll poison yourself. You can’t put boot polish in your hair.’

  He tells me that of course he can. He has dozens of cans of black boot polish in his laundry – he needs to get through them. ‘I use the surgical gloves to put it in every morning. Same as hair dye. Looks good, isn’t it? And it’s free. Good idea. Good idea. Your father is veeeery clever man, you know. Very clever.’ I note the white glove tied to his belt with different denomination coins in the fingers and thumb and am reminded of the futility of arguing.

  Dad is still finding inventive ways to use his apparently never-ending supply of surgical gloves and I had almost forgotten that fact by the time he brings my teenage brothers to Melbourne for a visit. We are shopping on Acland Street, St Kilda, me a few paces in front, when I see a friend from work. ‘Seamus, hi.’ Dad and the boys stop behind me.

  Seamus hesitates. ‘How are you?’ he says, his eyes flitting to the side. What is he looking at? It’s disconcerting. Seamus seems quite distracted.

  ‘Oh,’ I say realising it’s me being rude – I should introduce my family. ‘Seamus this is my . . .’ I turn around to see my brothers cringing and Dad holding up a surgical glove, dropping coins into each finger. Twenty cents – pointer, fifty cents – thumb, dollar – ring. Two dollar – pinky.

  ‘What?’ Dad stares at us, staring at him, as if we are idiots. ‘What? It’s a good idea. Look, I can arrange all my coins. It’s very handy. Only I can think of this. I am very clever you know. Veeeeerry clever.’ He knots the latex glove to his waist, stretching it around his belt, then tugging on it to make sure it’s secure. Then, Dad walks off, as if there is nothing odd at all about the glove bouncing up and down against his hip. ‘It’s my new wallet. See. I’m very clever you know,’ he says to no one in particular. ‘The coins fits like a glove. Ahahahahaha. See. See I’m funny too. A glove. Get it.’

  Dad’s first wife was ill, and his second wife was angry. So just like his father, Ying Kam, Francis goes for a third.

  I’m on the phone to Dad for one of our marathon conversations that usually go nowhere, when he breaks the news.

  Francis met Karen when she applied for accommodation at his place. He already had Madonna and Michelle living in Adrian and Jerome’s old room, and Madonna introduced Karen to Francis. Madonna is the daughter of the late Ng Yuk’s former maid, and Madonna and Karen have student visas to study religion. Karen needed somewhere to stay, so Francis offered her a rusted-out Wombled old caravan for only a hundred dollars per week.

  Francis parked Karen’s accommodation on the median strip at the front of his property, causing another neighbourhood conniption in gentrified Floreat – he hoped it might lead to another front page. He connected three extension cords to one another and ran them through the laundry window into the house to a power point, with the other end connecting to a power board in the caravan, so Karen could plug in her microwave, toaster and kettle. The cord swung over the public footpath between caravan and fence, looping past Dad’s three-storey recycled metal ‘Christmas tree’ pyramid that stays up all year round in the front yard.

  Despite the visual atrocities Dad brings to the neighbourhood, Karen’s innocent, caring and friendly demeanour has endeared her to most of the community. She brings home-cooked noodles to the elderly and walks their dogs. The white-collared street has grown fond of her.

  Francis gives me a week’s notice of the wedding, knowing I can’t attend as my fourth child is coincidentally due the very same day.

  ‘Dad, you knew I wouldn’t be able to come.’

  Flashback: finding photos of Dad and Angela’s wedding on the kitchen table. Why would I think he’d behave differently this time?

  As well as a migration agent, engineer, arbitrator and serial litigant, Dad is a marriage celebrant – a service he also offered during our Mandarin Gardens era – and laments he cannot conduct his own wedding. Karen’s farmer father flies in from Malaysia and wears a flannelette shirt and gumboots to the ceremony as he has no other outfit and has never had reason to travel outside his village before. My in-laws, Len and Kathleen, are invited but decline because of the back-cracking incident. John’s brother, Steve, attends, and my brothers – Dad’s sons – are there too, although Dad seats them at a ‘visitors’ table at the very back.

  Adrian and Jerome call me after the event. ‘Mimi, he had complete strangers on the bridal table, and on all the tables in front of us.’

  Karen isn’t much older than me, and I cannot imagine why a woman my age would want to marry Dad, but I write to say thank you for looking after my father because, quite honestly, it saves me from having to do it – which, incidentally, I would if I had to. If Kwa called to Kwa, I would heed.

  Karen is a saint. I tell her in a letter how grateful I am. Dad intercepts her mail so she never knows I wrote, and I accept that she has made her choice.

  COCONUTS AND HUBCAPS

  SINCE THERESA’S MOVE TO THE PHILIPPINES, FRANCIS IS frequently in Manila on ‘very important business’. His focus, like mine, has shifted from Hong Kong.

  As he checks in three plastic garbage bags at the luggage counter, the attendant expresses concern over their durability. This invites Francis’s slow explanation – as if she is stupid – that the bags are ‘layered three inside one another’ and are ‘the most expensive tough bin bags available outside hazardous chemical disposal bags’. The airline employee calls over her supervisor.

  ‘Look,’ Francis says when they continue to question the bags’ suitability, ‘I am an engineer and a lawyer and I’m telling you, these are as strong as an ordinary suitcase.’ He explains that by reinforcing the bags with packing tape and string, they may be even more impervious to opening than, say, a ‘faulty zip or buckle on a factory-made case’. He reaches behind him to check in one more thing: a bulging, battered and broken suit ‘case – in point’. ‘See,’ he says, ‘this suitcase is faulty, and yet I have made it strong, just like the plastic bags.’ The zip is broken, and the case is held together with wire threaded and wound at strategic intervals. ‘I am an engineer and a lawyer.’

  Francis arrives in Manila raring to go with his latest ‘important business’ idea. He’s also looking forward to the pampering his sister offers when he comes to stay: a driver at his beck and call, not to mention the four- and five-course daily meals by Brigit.

  ‘She is a chef,’ Theresa remarked proudly, the last time Francis visited. ‘She is better than that. Such a good cook.’

  Brigit blushed at the praise. ‘Awww, ma’aaaam,’ she said modestly.

  ‘It’s alright,’ Francis said. ‘Karen can cook better.’ He burst out laughing. ‘Only joking, only joking.’

  Theresa’s latest driver, Viner, is on time to pick up Francis from the
airport. He drives him straight to his favourite shopping haunt, Greenhills, so he can browse the mall before seeing his sister. Francis is constantly on the lookout for new business opportunities, and there may be a product or invention he can bring back to Australia.

  Last time he was in Manila, he observed that Filipinos consume high numbers of coconuts and decided he would export coconut husks to Australia for use in roadworks that contain soil on median strips and beside freeways. The high moisture absorbency and long fibres of coconut husks make them useful for all sorts of applications, such as netting to prevent erosion. Perfect, thought Francis. One of the biggest coconut producers in the Philippines throws away nine billion husks a year. But when he teed up a meeting to explain to that producer he could help turn their waste into profit, unfortunately none of the organisations in charge of Australian road construction were as excited about the idea as he was. He lamented being ahead of his time, then immediately moved on to the next big thing.

  Viner unloads the three black garbage bags from the boot of Theresa’s Mercedes-Benz. In the back seat, the suitcase is on a blanket that protects the leather upholstery from the wire that has poked through the airline’s attempt to tape it down.

  Francis gestures to the case. ‘Leave it, leave it there for now. We will take it with us on an adventure tomorrow.’

  After a sumptuous meal cooked by Brigit, Francis partakes in customary banter with Theresa, who is familiar with his eccentricities, even grubby garbage bags full of clothes and travel items. She has patiently watched over Francis like a guardian angel since he was born, and her love is unwavering.

  In the morning, Theresa needs Viner to take her to the gym, after which Francis will commandeer the driver for his own errand.

  ‘Bijit, Bijit, Bijit.’ Francis corners the maid in the tiny kitchen. ‘Give me your brother’s phone number and work address. I can’t seem to find it.’ He licks his index finger – the crooked one irreparably damaged from when the thief threw the gold phone at him – and flips through a pocket-sized black address book he reserves for Philippines contacts. ‘Ah. No, I got it. Here it is. Is he still at this place?’

  Brigit nods. ‘Yes, Mr Kwa. But he did tell you last time that he is really very busy in the mechanic workshop and he does not think he can make the time for your business plans.’

  Francis growls, ‘You don’t understand. I will make him very rich. Very rich. I will go to see him today.’

  Viner and Francis have been on the road for almost two hours when they finally arrive at Success Servicing and Auto.

  Brigit’s brother Marco wipes his oily palm on a rag before shaking Francis’s hand. They’re standing out front of a village workshop where Marco repairs motorbikes and cars. He does well, and business is stable.

  Over the past forty years, Brigit has been helping her family to be comfortable with the money she’s earned from Theresa, and donations from Miss Kwa made building the village church possible. Brigit’s mother and younger sister run a small shop, also thanks to Theresa’s generosity, and Marco has an obligation to Francis because he is Theresa’s brother.

  Theresa’s car is surrounded by local children clamouring for a glimpse inside – a Mercedes-Benz is a rare sight. Viner shoos the kids away before hauling the battered suitcase from the back seat over to Francis and Marco.

  ‘Look. Look. Look at this business proposition I have brought for you.’ Francis beams.

  The suitcase makes a dull thud as it hits the dirt, then the wire holding it together gives way. The case falls open and a dozen or so silvery circles of assorted sizes spill out everywhere. Hubcaps – like rolling, spinning, toppling, seesawing giant coins. Children gather round, fascinated by the rich man in the fancy car who has brought an old broken suitcase full of dirty used hubcaps.

  ‘Hubcaps,’ Marco says, deadpan.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Francis says excitedly. ‘I will import used hubcaps from Australia.’ He claps, unable to contain his glee. ‘No one wants old hubcaps in Australia. You can sell them to your people here, and we will both make money. It’s a good idea. I will make you rich.’

  Disappointingly, after half an hour Francis is unable to convince Marco of the benefits of his hubcap scheme. Before agreeing to go, he makes one last-ditch attempt. ‘Viner agrees with me – don’t you, Viner?’

  Viner is uncomfortable but tries to flatter his boss’s brother. ‘Mr Kwa, you are very clever.’

  ‘See. See. Viner knows I’m right. This is a good opportunity for you, Marco.’

  Marco and Viner revert to Tagalog between them, and after a few exchanges Marco says to Francis, ‘I am very honoured you have come so far to visit me and to bring this opportunity, but I am sorry it is not something I can do. I have no time, and I do not think the Philippines people can be willing to buy old hubcaps from Australia.’

  Francis insists on leaving the pile of hubcaps behind. ‘You let me know how you go with them, and I will bring many more next time.’ As Viner opens the car door, Francis calls over his shoulder, ‘I will make you rich.’

  Francis is pleased with himself; the meeting went well.

  Children chase the Mercedes in a trail of dust, while Marco absent-mindedly wipes his hands, shaking his head at the pile of scrap metal. A small child rolls a hubcap around in the dirt for play, before other children join in the game.

  Time spent driving to various meetings with Viner gives Francis more ideas.

  At the Greenhills mall, shopkeepers and stallholders are amused by this frequent browser who seldom spends any money. Francis jokes and laughs with staff, bartering for discounts on already cheap items. His manner is so charming, and the disposition of many Filipinos so accommodating, Francis frequently walks away with free things.

  ‘Look, Viner. Look, they love me. Look, they give me this bracelet.’ He holds up plastic beads threaded with elastic, a children’s bracelet useful for no one he knows. ‘And they changed my watch battery for nothing. You know, Viner, I think we are good team.’ Francis has been sitting on an idea involving the driver for a while. ‘Viner’ – he pats the man’s shoulder – ‘how would you like to come live in Australia?

  I visit Aunty in Manila on my own, relishing the opportunity to have quality Aunty time, a virtual impossibility since starting a family.

  She’s in her study preparing her will, yet again. Another day, another will, my cousin David and I often joke. Aunty is obsessed with leaving everyone she knows just the right thing and just the right amount, tweaking this fine equation over and over. She uses my last day with her to refine her latest edition, so I can add it to the pile of wills in my safe back in Melbourne. As she works, I stare out through her lounge-room window, which looks over a courtyard ten storeys below.

  ‘Don’t read it now, Mimi. Open it on the plane and take it home and lock in your safe.’ Aunty and I warmly embrace, and she pinches my cheek. ‘Still cute,’ she laughs, and I go.

  As I settle in for my flight, I prioritise ordering champagne before turning my mind to Aunty’s latest will. I slide the document out of its carefully sealed envelope. Aunty has waxed and stamped the flap at the back with her chop.

  Francis is waiting at Perth airport. ‘You drive.’ He hands Viner the keys and sits in the back seat.

  ‘I can’t believe Francis has convinced Viner to move to Perth. He didn’t even call to tell me!’ Aunty is clearly upset. ‘Viner resigned, saying he was flying to Perth to find work, and I had to call Francis to find out what is going on. Mimi! Why has he done this? What should I do?’

  I haven’t heard Aunty this distressed since a Viennese baroness died, leaving Theresa part of her estate. Lawyers called in the middle of the night, instructing her to go to the castle immediately or the family would swallow up the items left to her.

  ‘Should I go?’ she asked when she called me at 1 am.

  ‘I think by the time you get there it might all be over, Aunty. What did she leave you?’

  ‘Oh, some painting and statue a
nd a mirror or something.’

  I rolled over a little more in bed, trying not to wake John. ‘Just get the lawyers to seize the things on your behalf, and they can sell them for you and send the proceeds.’

  Often my advice works out for Aunty, so in the case of my father’s ‘theft of Viner’ – as she puts it – I may be able to help.

  I call Dad to tell him how cross I am about what he has done. I also plead with Viner to go back, but they both ignore me.

  Eventually, after Viner endures the searing Australian summer in a tin shed, he writes to Theresa apologising and asking for his old job back. But by the time he returns to Manila without a penny to his name, Aunty has replaced him and has decided to rewrite her will. She writes her final edition then applies her signature and Chinese chop for safe measure.

  Eighteen per cent to each of her siblings, and nineteen to Brigit – just one per cent more this time, to make her point. Subtle, Theresa congratulates herself, unaware this may be more damaging to House of Kwa than she could imagine.

  Brigit has been dedicated and loyal, sacrificing her opportunity to have a husband and children. She rises before sunrise so her parents and siblings may prosper from the money she earns. What she and Theresa share after all these decades can only be described as companionship. Theresa is well cared for by a woman she trusts, in an unequal yet amicable and respectful transaction. And a mighty thorn in the Kwa dragon claw.

  TEXTS AND TEARS

  AUNTY THERESA IS IN HOSPITAL IN MANILA. ‘ROUTINE tests,’ Dad says. ‘She will be fine.’ He first appears unconcerned about her sudden slip in health, then he becomes impossible to get hold of. I keep ringing, and he keeps not answering – it’s infuriating. I call him again but no answer. I feel the weight of centuries, I feel it coming. Aunty is not long for this world.

  I text him: Hi Dad, Do you have hospital or Brigit’s mobile? She’s not picking up at home.

  Dad texts, Under control. Watching my favourite one hour movie MacGyver.