by Lees, Julian
‘‘So, Bong is dead,’’ prompted Fishlips.
Mabel gave a tiny nod. She sat with her hands in her lap, heavy as an infant. She could still feel his thick hair under her fingers.
Lu See went to make everybody a cup of tea. On her return she said, ‘‘I am so sorry, Mr Foo.’’
‘‘I suspected as much but waited for you to tell me. I raised him up. He was a good boy.’’
Mabel stared at her hands nestled in her lap and nodded again.
‘‘How did he die?’’ asked the old man, his eyes now honeycombed with blood vessels.
When Mabel mentioned the radio and the strange noise it emitted, Lu See demanded to be told more: where had the radio come from, what sort of noise had it made? Mabel looked at her, blinking; she searched her memory; it was like looking for needles in the hay, but eventually she came across a splinter of shining metal. She went quiet for a moment and then said, ‘‘The radio. Now that I think about it, it must have been a trap. They wanted us all to die.’’ Those twenty words turned Lu See’s blood cold.
The following afternoon Stan Farrell paid Mabel a visit at the restaurant and asked her to identify certain faces in a selection of mugshots.
Lu See strode up to him and slapped him hard across the face. Stan cupped his hands in front of him and repeated over and over that ‘it wasn’t meant to happen like that.’ Mabel heard the words ‘radio set’ and ‘betrayal’ and ‘the Black-headed sheep’ but didn’t understand. She didn’t want to understand. What’s done is done, she said to herself. Nothing now can bring Bong back. Instead, she went to her room to get away from Lu See’s screaming and flopped face down on her bed.
Later, Lu See told her never to speak to Stan Farrell again.
Mabel didn’t ask why; rather she concentrated on getting her life back on track. But it was hard. Losing Bong was hard.
The night sounds were different. She missed the thrumming drone of insects that drowned out all thought. The air smelled thinner. Gone was the close scent of wet earth and heavy rain, the smell of wood rot and decay. She noticed too that the people in the neighbourhood behaved differently; they kept their distance, rarely offering a hello when she strolled up and down Macao Street, never once volunteering a smile. In fact they regarded her with suspicion. Is it because I used to be a rebel? She couldn’t tell. Mabel was reminded of the crocodiles in the Tengi River; cruising the yellow waters with only their thick globular eyes visible. She felt as though she was being watched all the time.
After all that had happened to the country, it just wasn’t possible to say selamat pagi or exchange jo-suns any more if people suspected you had a Communist past. They may have supported her secretly, but now with the Emergency lifted she was shunned.
‘‘You must eat.’’ Lu See said over the pork stew, ‘‘Look at you, all gristle and bone. We have to fatten you up.’’
When she said this, Mabel felt like a pig being plumped for slaughter. But this was a Chinese mother’s way of expressing affection; feeding the ones you loved. Earlier, whilst listening to Malay Woman’s Hour on the Zenith radio, Mabel heard Dr Chow and Mrs Gangooly discuss the differences in parenting cultures. ‘Because we Chinese find it hard to convey tenderness in a Western, physical way, through hugs and kisses, we spoil our children instead. And punish the hell out of them if they do something wrong!’ That was when Mabel thought of the old Cantonese saying: Da see tung, ma see ngoi – Hitting is caring. Scolding is love.
‘‘Please eat more.’’ Lu See poked one of Mabel’s ribs for emphasis. ‘‘Look how thin you are.’’
But Mabel’s stomach wasn’t accustomed to so much food; it had shrivelled and needed time to adjust. ‘‘I’m used to eating only tiny morsels … off plates made of leaves,’’ she told Lu See. ‘‘It’s been a while …’’ She flinched. A thin pop sounded in her head.
‘‘And why are you so jumpy?’’
Mabel kept quiet. Pop-pop-pop! The vague noise resembled distant gun shots. Like machinegun fire. Crackling inside my head. It immediately brought back memories: Corporal Johnny Evans with black ants swarming over his stomach; Bong with his chest blown apart; corpses with hideous staring eyes. She had to guard against thinking of their faces.
One night Lu See awoke to Mabel’s nightmares. She stood outside her daughter’s room with the hall lamp on and listened to the whimpering, the yelps of panic, the kicking and squirming, waiting for the inevitable scream to come. The feeling of helplessness engulfed her.
Later, sitting by her side, with Mabel bent double as if with stomach cramps, Lu See helped her dry her eyes on the edge of a pajama sleeve. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ sobbed Mabel.
Lu See told her daughter there was no need to apologize. In the dim light of the hall lamp, she took her hand and stroked the skin toughened by a thousand mosquito bites, inspecting the scars made by rattan vines, the red weals on her shoulder caused by Stan Farrell’s bomb. ‘‘All you need is time to heal,’’ she said, calming her fears. If she was broken, Lu See would help pick up the pieces. She watched her daughter fall back into sleep, careful not to disturb her, watching her face, listening to the creaks of the bed as she dreamed of men roasting in their own skin.
Lu See banged the receiver down. She’d spent the last hour making phone calls to the Chinese Embassy, speaking to their visa staff. Once again she’d hit a wall. ‘‘Why must they make it so difficult? It’s like climbing Mount Everest.’’ The previous day Pietro had called his Chinese counterpart on her behalf, only to be informed that all entry permits into Tibet were ‘temporarily’ denied. It seemed to her that each time they unravelled one layer of bureaucracy, another layer materialized.
Irked, Lu See set down her cup of tea and watched how Mabel used her fingers to press each mouthful of rice into a ball and transfer it to her mouth. ‘‘Don’t you use a fork and spoon any more?’’ she asked.
Reaching for some cutlery, Lu See caught the shadow of a man hovering by the five-foot way outside.
Mabel chewed slowly. ‘‘It’s been a while,’’ she said, ‘‘since I used a fork.’’ Her voice was brittle.
Lu See eyed the stranger at the entrance. She’d seen him before. He was the elderly man she’d spotted practising tai-chi by the Tung Wah Association assembly hall; he was one of the mule’s accomplices.
Lu See pretended to read from the Malay Mail front page. From the corner of her eye she watched the man drop a white handkerchief. He trod on it with his right foot.
Lu See folded her newspaper and stepped out into the open. As he moved off she followed him at a distance. The streets were quiet. The sun was setting and worshippers were preparing themselves for Maghrib prayer. Near the railway station, passing the Moorish domes and minarets, they entered a narrow dark alleyway. That was when she saw the Black-headed Sheep. He was dressed in his characteristic white linen suit. He looked as if he was on his way to work. As they approached he paused and glanced over his shoulder. The failing sun threw an orange halo on his face.
Lu See stopped. In the amber-hued half-light several slim-waisted figures emerged from the shadowed alcoves, surrounding him. They carried meat choppers.
A far off muezzin announced that there was no God but Allah.
Lu See watched the attackers close in. Her fingers tightened into a strangling clench.
The choppers made brief patterns in the air. As if in slow motion Lu See’s hands travelled to cover her eyes. She heard metal tear into flesh and bone, and a howl – a startling baying sound, like a calf taken from its mother.
Retreating, Lu See kept shielding her eyes, but caught flashes and glimpses. Crawling around in a circle, he gripped the base of a wall for support. His hands smeared the stone with red streaky marks. Blood oozed from his sloping shoulders. His jacket stuck to his skin like crimson cellophane; he looked as though he wore a bright red saddle on his back. Beneath it, his torso trembled. The spittle at the corners of his mouth thickened into a milky foam. A sound escaped from his throat, hissing l
ike a three-legged crocodile.
She’d wanted him dead. But not like this. Not like this.
One of the assailants edged forward. He held a long-bladed sword.
The moment the Black-headed Sheep lowered his head, exposing the nape of his neck, the man gripped the sword with both hands and swung.
Across the street people emerged from the mosque. Maghrib had ended.
The decapitated corpse of notorious gangster and Japanese war sympathizer, Woo Hak-yeung, aka the Black-headed Sheep, was found in an alley near Victory Avenue yesterday evening. A Samurai sword, believed to be the murder weapon, was found beside the body. Police suspect the act was a revenge killing for crimes committed by Woo during the Japanese occupation. A CID spokesman said they were not ruling out underworld involvement. Previously, rumours abounded that the Black-headed Sheep was killed in 1945 by the MPAJA. It turns out these rumours were unsubstantiated. The Malay Mail
For a while, Lu See was unable to move. But then, all of a sudden, she dropped the newspaper, moved over to her typewriter and inserted a single sheet of paper. She felt her fingers rest on the keys, then tapped:
Dear Pumpkin-head,
We finally got the bastard. He is dead.
Lu See
She wound the paper out of the typewriter, folded it in two and sealed it in an envelope. It was over, definitely over. A part of her wanted to shout and scream and hurl things against the wall. Bitterness exuded from every pore. However, after several minutes, she felt her spirits lift as the echoes of her past died down. She took several deep breaths and sensed that, once and for all, a chapter of her life had come to an end, and a new one was about to begin.
When she returned to the breakfast table, Mabel was still eating with her hands. ‘‘My goodness, look at your fingernails. Weeks later and still black underneath.’’
Mabel made a face. ‘‘No matter how hard I scrub the dirt won’t go away.’’
‘‘We’d better clean them up if you’re going to come and work in the restaurant.’’
A chi chak scurried across the wall. ‘‘Who says I’m going to work in the restaurant?’’
‘‘What, you mean you don’t want to spend the rest of your life submerged in cooking smoke and scrubbing pots and pans?’’
‘‘I’m a nurse. I’m going back to nursing.’’
Lu See arched her eyebrows a millimetre; her lips twitched with pride. Brave girl. She’s seen men with their limbs torn out, their souls too, yet she still wants to return to medicine.
‘‘Well, if you want to go back to nursing I’ll put you in touch with Dr So. He’ll get you back on the course and you can work part-time in his clinic.’’
Men with their limbs torn out … Were those the images she saw in her sleep? Were those the ghosts lurking on the backs of her eyelids, waking Mabel at night?
There was so much more she wanted to ask her daughter – have you forgiven me, will you run away again, do you still love me the way you used to – but now was not the time for such questions. Lu See gazed into Mabel’s eyes. ‘‘So many months I thought you’d been swallowed up by the ground. But you’re home now.’’
Mabel smiled a weak smile, which gradually grew broader and broader. But then her smile froze. ‘‘Mama, what is it? What’s the matter?’’
Lu See clutched her middle. A violent spasm tore through her stomach.
Mabel reached forward, hands hung in mid-air, suspended like prayer flags.
Her mother was vomiting blood.
11
Losar, the Tibetan New Year Festival, was supposed to be one of the happiest occasions for the nuns, but because of the Chinese religious clampdowns the celebrations were muted.
The day started with the high-pitched ting of bronze cymbals. The altar table gradually grew thick with offerings of water and lotus flowers and rice. The abbess addressed everyone and spoke of the lotus flower being the symbol of purity. ‘‘It grows in the muddiest of waters,’’ she said, ‘‘with its beauty undefiled. This is how you must be to the world.’’
Afterwards, all the nuns went to the giant prayer wheel in Barkhor Street and wished for peace in their broken land.
Everyone was excited, ringing bells and brandishing dorjes.
In the town some of the monks wore pointed yellow hats called Gelugpas, others wore red scholar’s hoods. They waved banners of cloth and soon, as if on cue, a masquerade started. Devil-dancers in black hats adorned with feathers and men in grotesque masks acted out scenes from religious stories where demons captured lay people and called for the monks to save them. The monks charged forward theatrically and frightened the devil away.
There were lamas blowing six-foot long copper horns. Others blew on conch shell trumpets; a deep, rich blast of sound. But before anyone could light any of the butter lamps, Chinese soldiers appeared, spitting phlegm. They ordered the monks to stop what they were doing and pack up their things. Kicking over a wall of prayer stones, they said all religion was poison and then they forced an elderly lama to strip naked in the town square.
‘‘I wish I had a chestnut pan to hit all Communist invaders’ heads. They spit and jeer at us,’’ Sum Sum said. She could feel her heart thumping like a temple drum. On the streets of Shigatse and on the outskirts of Lhasa anyone wearing the sacred red robes was at the mercy of Chinese soldiers.
Tormam’s voice was unsteady. She said, ‘‘I hear of big fighting in Amdo and Kham.’’ She gnawed at her fingers, which Sum Sum knew meant she was trying not to cry. ‘‘Some people are saying that Americans are helping the uprising with guns, saying American planes dropping rifles somewhere south-side of Lhasa for resistance movement.’’
‘‘Terrible things are happening to the roof of the world.’’ Sum Sum felt a dull ache stretch her insides, as though her stomach had been drained. The kitchen still had some grains and plenty of yak butter, but the nuns now ate only once a day, usually tsampa; every fifth day they were given rice with nettle spinach and wild onions.
With the spring of 1959 came quail’s eggs and seasonal turnips.
The prayer wheels spun.
As the soldiers approached, forming a line like a row of privet hedges, the nuns gathered.
A monk from a neighbouring monastery came tearing down the beaten earth road, arms stretched wide like a bird to bar the soldiers’ progress. They cuffed him across the face and pebble-sized droplets of blood fell from his split lip. As he rushed at them again, arms flapping this time, they grabbed him high up by the shoulder and beat him. Tormam, watching, doubled over as though someone had kicked her too.
Outside in the main courtyard, with the rain coming down, the abbess stood on helplessly, fists clenched, with a grimace-smile painted on: an imprisoned elderly bird.
The nuns filed out and formed a link-line across the entrance to their home; Jampa took Sum Sum’s hand and Tormam held the other. The officer in front unclipped his holster and brandished a pistol.
All the nuns backed away, apart from Sum Sum.
A slow fuse burned within her. Eventually, for all her boldness, she took a step back too.
Tormam, whose face was arranged into an expression of wild-eyed confusion, darted a concerned look at Jampa and hugged herself against the cold. Sum Sum leaned over to console her and whispered a heated message into her ear.
The soldiers stomped to a halt. Jampa shouted for the men to leave with a determination she usually reserved for prayer. Tormam placed a comforting hand on her arm as the rain spat into their eyes.
Sum Sum stared hard at the men and then whirled round and tore down a hallway that led to the kitchens. A minute later she was back with a basket of quail eggs. Her heart thudded in her chest so hard it blurred the edges of her vision, but despite this, her aim was true. The first egg landed with a splat on the officer’s shoulder, spilling yellow yolk over his epaulettes. The next smashed against a soldier’s cap, dislodging it from his head.
It was all a distraction. Tormam, ribcage swelling and
falling over her lungs, took her cue and with a rumple of robes vanished unnoticed into the prayer hall.
The abbess’s mouth thinned to form a smile, closing like a narrowed fan. Sum Sum threw three more eggs, but before she could let off another the officer’s hand was over her chin, cupping her jawbone forcefully. Her jaw hinge gave a tiny crack under the pressure. He leaned in close, tracing her cheekbone with a knuckle. She was convinced he could hear her heart pounding. When she struggled, he loosened his grip and she wrenched free.
The smell of raw garlic crackled in her nostrils. The odour oozed from his pores and breath.
She tilted the basket and the remaining eggs fell and broke across his boots. ‘‘We will have to bottle that breath of yours, lah. Must not let it go to waste.’’
He showed his teeth, looking as if he intended to bite her breasts.
‘‘You could curl hair with it.’’ Hearing this, the officer tipped his head back and laughed uproariously. Sum Sum thought he laughed like crazy-crackpot Captain Bligh or Pirate Blackbeard. She waited to see if he would swing his arm round and break her nose with one sharp flick. She stared at him, defiant.
When he stepped clear of her she gave an audible sigh and clutched at her solar plexus in relief.
He hitched his thumbs into his belt and spoke with his chin in the air. ‘‘Our great leader and modernizer chairman Mao Tse-tung has declared that religion is poison. And as a result our mineralogist.’’ – he stepped to one side to allow a smaller man through, jabbing a finger in the direction of the prayer hall – ‘‘Comrade Compatriot Suen will be liberating all the stones from the Buddha icons. After which our metal people will come to make itemizations of all brass, copper, silver and gold artifacts. Every ritual object here is to be confiscated and taken to be melted in the foundry. When these metal people come I urge you to make them welcome and offer them tea and tsampa.’’