House of Trembling Leaves, The

by Lees, Julian

  ‘‘How are you holding up?’’ he asked her, running a curved needle through the skin.

  ‘‘I am fine,’’ she replied a moment later, applying a primary gauze dressing.

  His eyes did not stray from her hands. ‘‘You mother is coming in for treatment today, or did I hear wrong?’’

  She secured the secondary dressing. She felt her head twitch. ‘‘No, you heard right. She will be having several X-rays in thirty minutes or so.’’

  ‘‘Join her as soon as you finish up here. Take the afternoon off. You’ve earned it.’’

  Mabel pressed the last bit of tape firmly down and gave him a long sideways glance. ‘‘Thank you. I will.’’

  After sponging her hands and forearms in the scrub sink, Mabel changed out of her surgical gown and took the stairs to the ground floor. She bought herself a bag of Gandour hard-boiled candies from the hospital canteen and watched the catering staff wipe the table surfaces with damp cloths and set out a roll of paper napkins with the cutlery sets.

  In the kitchens mee hoon noodles, tinctured yellow with turmeric, sizzled in a hot flat wok.

  She was hungry but the only thing she could think of was her mother. A few minutes later she was in Radiology.

  Through the hospital windows the broad sweep of the distant Genting Hills shadowed the horizon.

  Lu See and Mabel sat side by side in the waiting room.

  ‘‘I saw that surgeon you work with,’’ said Lu See. ‘‘Is he single?’’

  Mabel did not reply.

  ‘‘He’s very handsome.’’

  ‘‘Please don’t start with the matchmaking.’’

  ‘‘I’d better get the red engagement cards printed,’’ Lu See teased.

  ‘‘Stop it!’’

  ‘‘Look at your nostrils. Whenever you get angry they grow the size of the Batu Caves.’’

  ‘‘I mean it, it’s not funny.’’

  In the ensuing silence, Mabel studied her mother’s face; she watched a muscle twitch on her neck, urgent and swollen as the throbbing throat of a tree frog.

  ‘‘Are you laughing?’’ challenged Mabel, feeling the corners of her own mouth lift. Both women broke out in giggles and Lu See squeezed her daughter’s hand affectionately.

  ‘‘Has Dr Ralph given you the barium sulphate to drink?’’ Mabel asked.

  Lu See nodded, mouth wilting at the sides. ‘‘Tasted like liquid chalk.’’

  It was Mabel’s turn to squeeze her mother’s hand.

  Lu See’s name was called by the X-ray technician. She entered a small windowless room and lay down on a bed. She was told to hold still first on her left side and then on her right. The room was filled with a loud humming noise. She had several X-rays taken.

  Some time later Dr Ralph invited Lu See and Mabel to his consulting-room. His smooth voice dropped an octave. ‘‘It is as I suspected,’’ he said. ‘‘Only more advanced.’’

  His words were like small explosions in her chest.

  He took a long breath through his nose, took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his chin.

  ‘‘So how do we go about treating me?’’ Lu See asked.

  Dr Ralph tried to sound confident and reassuring. ‘‘First thing is to prescribe a course of antibiotics to stop any infection. Next we will look into anti-inflammatory drugs. Failing that, we will explore the surgery route to remove fistulae and other obstructions.’’

  Mabel grasped Lu See’s sleeve in a supportive gesture.

  Lu See set her jaw. She leaned forward, both elbows on her knees. ‘‘And this thing I have, this … this …’’

  ‘‘Crohn’s disease.’’

  ‘‘Has no cure.’’

  ‘‘We can treat it.’’ He pulled a file towards him. ‘‘We can minimise its spread, try to contain it. But the symptoms will keep returning. It will continue to flare up in different parts of the digestive tract. Often more aggressively with time.’’ He gave a tiny apologetic shrug of the shoulders. ‘‘I wish there was more medical science could do.’’

  Lu See’s whole body became very still. She was silent for several moments.

  ‘‘Would a change in her diet help?’’ asked Mabel.

  ‘‘Fish oils and eggs can benefit.’’

  ‘‘What about alternative medicine?’’ said Lu See. ‘‘What about acupuncture or herbal remedies?’’

  The doctor made a face and bowed his head. ‘‘Please do not worry your brain with such things. The best treatment for you will be antibiotics – ’’

  Lu See did not let him finish. ‘‘There must be another way.’’

  Dr Ralph’s forehead became a field of wrinkles.

  ‘‘In the Himalayas there are healers.’’ Lu See straightened in her seat. ‘‘The Tibetans have been developing holistic cures for over 2,000 years.’’

  ‘‘Please forgive me, dear madam, but holistic medicines can often do more harm than good. Western medicine is the only way to approach this.’’

  ‘‘I want to go to Tibet,’’ she insisted, letting her frustrations get the better of her.

  ‘‘And what is it you hope to find?’’

  ‘‘An answer!’’

  Dr Ralph looked at her with a sad expression. His eyes were soft and compassionate. They said: My heart goes out to you but please don’t do this. Don’t go clutching at straws.

  Lu See rose slowly from her chair; she thanked him and left the room, dry-mouthed, closing the door quietly behind her.

  From Dr Ralph’s consulting-room Lu See took a taxi straight to the Chinese Embassy. She pushed through a set of revolving doors and emerged into the reception hall, noting to her surprise, that the place was deserted. The cavernous white foyer resembled a mausoleum. Set along the walls were solid rectangular benches, each the shape of a child’s coffin. A giant portrait of Mao Tse-tung stared down like a benevolent god with a wart on his chin

  Lu See saw a single counter window positioned at the far side of the foyer. She crossed the wide expanse of floor.

  The Chinese girl behind the counter had a greasy fringe. She was filing her nails and did not look up even when Lu See cleared her throat.

  ‘‘What? Can I heppjoo?’’

  ‘‘I want to apply for a visitor permit to Tibet,’’ said Lu See.

  Smiling, the girl inspected the fingernails on her left hand. ‘‘No can.’’

  ‘‘But you haven’t even seen my documents.’’

  The girl spoke over her shoulder. She said something in a Chinese dialect that Lu See did not recognize. A man’s laughter emanated from somewhere behind the partition.

  ‘‘I’d like to see your supervisor.’’

  ‘‘No can.’’

  ‘‘And why is that?’’

  The girl ignored the question. She set down her emery board and proceeded to explore the outer rim of a nostril with her thumb.

  ‘‘Excuse me! I want to see your superior.’’

  ‘‘No can.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘You wan talk abow Tibet entry permit?’’

  ‘‘Yes. I’ve written countless letters and telephoned your visa department God knows how many times.’’

  ‘‘You telephone again tomorrow.’’

  ‘‘But I don’t want to telephone tomorrow. I’m here now. Where is your supervisor, please?’’

  The girl looked at her for the very first time. She stretched forward and tugged on a cord with her fingers. Suddenly a bamboo chick dropped down. The counter window was now closed.

  Lu See banged her fist against the glass.

  No response.

  She turned and was immediately confronted by a consular official in white shirtsleeves and black trousers. He seemed to appear out of nowhere like a jack-in-the-box. It startled her.

  ‘‘What is your interest in Tibet?’’ he asked. ‘‘Why do you wish to visit?’’ He had short thick legs and bad teeth.

  ‘‘I have a friend in Lhasa, a very dear friend.’’

&nb
sp; He stood with his thick legs wide apart like a man about to swing an axe. When he spoke only his upper lip moved. ‘‘At this point in time all avenues to Tibet are temporarily closed. The country is undergoing a peaceful liberation. We must give it time to rebuild without outside interference.’’

  ‘‘And what about the poor souls left there?’’

  ‘‘These poor souls, as you call them, are gaining from China’s generosity. New schools are being built, new roads. It is like renovating a house. Such things take time. In years to come people will see how we have helped and modernized Tibet. We have improved the lot of the Tibetan people.’’

  ‘‘Is that what you call it?’’ Lu See pushed past him, talking as she walked. ‘‘I call it ruling with an iron fist.’’ She reached the revolving doors and looked into the man’s expressionless eyes. ‘‘I call it governing with brute force, imposing your beloved Chairman’s totalitarian hell on a deeply religious people.’’

  Seconds later she was being escorted to the main gates by a uniformed guard. ‘‘You know I’m right,’’ she shouted. A curious feeling of elation filled her. It felt wonderful berating them this way. She took a deep breath and yelled at the top of her voice. ‘‘You know I’m absolutely bloody right!’’

  15

  Sum Sum ploughed on, head down, thrusting against the wind. This was the final push; she could see the end of the mountain range ahead. The Punjab Himachal border was a mere thirty miles beyond the ridge. In the far, far distance she believed she could see a black outline of trees and smoke billowing from a forge as blacksmiths pounded metal on anvils.

  ‘‘We are down to the last hour of sunlight.’’ She urged herself on; counting out her steps: seven, eight, nine, left-right, left-right, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, right-left, right-left, until her mind began to drift from exhaustion. She found herself thinking about a train ride. A train ride she’d taken years ago. The train chugged through a jungle tapestry, then through kampong villages, and a little later she got the sensation of nearing a town. The scenery changed – dirt roads were replaced with tarmac; shanty huts with shophouses; the sounds of cock crows and fragmented car horns; buildings sprouting up like bamboo shoots. Juru. Was it Juru? And then someone was calling to her. The sound brought her back to earth. She told her legs to keep moving, left-right, left-right, seventy-nine, eighty, left-right, left.

  New memories now: a city in England; King’s Parade; the Backs; trees in leaf along Jesus Lane; Fitzbillies cake chop; college oars mounted on the walls of a pub; croci sprouting on Parker’s Piece; the kitchens at Christ’s; Pietro’s laugh; the first time she held her baby girl.

  Hours. Hours came. Hours went.

  Her legs were stiff and heavy.

  Her lips and cheeks felt frozen solid. A couple of jaw flexes got her face muscles working again. She looked behind to check on Tormam.

  She saw the drag left behind by her own footsteps and was gripped by a paroxysm of fear.

  Tormam wasn’t there.

  16

  Coolies employed by the H.M.O. pushed handcarts carrying anti-malaria-oil; they entered the bus hubs and recreation areas and pumped the air with spray-clouds. The mosquito-men squeezed into storm drains, into hard-to-reach places, and directed their squirt-gun nozzles into nooks and crannies.

  Not far away from the ktts-ktts-ktts of the spray cannons, Lu See clambered up a wooden step-ladder with an armload of Eagle Brand condensed milk. She shunted the tins indiscriminately on to the top shelf and looked down. Three pairs of eyes pored over the front page of the Malay Advocate. Mother, Dungeonboy and Pietro grappled with the lead article, almost falling over one another to digest the news.

  For weeks now, since Singapore’s merger with the Federation of Malaya in September 1963 the talk had been of the rising tide of ethnic disharmony and the deep mistrust amongst the races; fear and frustration threatened to boil over.

  ‘‘And who exactly are the LPM nowadays?’’ Mother inquired with casual disdain.

  ‘‘Look, I insist you stand on my left,’’ said Pietro. ‘‘I’ve gone a bit quiet on this side.’’

  Mother shuffled around. ‘‘I know they call themselves the Labour Party of Malaya, but surely they’re communists through and through. All they do is promote Chinese heritage and education and spread anti-Malay sentiment.’’

  ‘‘They’re all as bad as the other, fuelling racial and religious hatred to win votes,’’ Pietro said, dreamily.

  Mother tilted forward on her elbows. ‘‘I read in the papers that one of the LPM members was shot by the police a few days ago resisting arrest.’’

  ‘‘Only after a rival politician was hacked to death in Penang by Chinese radicals,’’ Pietro conceded with a fainting sound.

  ‘‘Is true?’’ asked Dungeonboy.

  ‘‘Cross my heart and hope to see your Jap’s eye.’’

  The phone rang. Fishlips Foo picked up the receiver. ‘‘Wai-eeeee!’’

  He slammed it back down and scratched his ankles, muttering, ‘‘Sons of the soil these Malays call themselves! Hum gaa chaan! More like sons of night soil.’’ He eyed the next table. Uncle Big Jowl, necklaced with perspiration, was launching into a bowl of vegetable soup.

  Lu See climbed from the stepladder and stretched her arms over her head to ease the ache in her stomach. The phone rang once more.

  ‘‘Hum gaa chaan!’’

  Lu See snatched the receiver out of the old man’s hand. She heard a hissing on the line like the sizzle of palm oil on a hot wok, followed by voices and the click-clack of typewriters. ‘‘Yes? Who is this?’’ she said.

  ‘‘This is P.K. Au from the Malay Advocate.’’

  ‘‘Yes?’’ Lu See fumbled with the telephone cord as she spoke. From across the room Pietro stuck his tongue out and flicked a piece of bread at her. She turned her back on him. ‘‘And how might I assist you, Mr Au?’’

  A tiny square of bread struck her back.

  ‘‘I’d like to write a piece on your restaurant, Il Porco. Perhaps we can discuss the details face to face. I would like to interview you, come and see the restaurant, perhaps take some photographs.’’

  ‘‘And sample the food of course,’’ she added.

  ‘‘Huh?’’

  ‘‘I assume you will want to review the food for your article.’’

  ‘‘… yes … er, yes …’’

  Lu See exhaled down the phone. ‘‘Mr Au, what exactly do you intend to write about?’’

  She heard him hesitate. ‘‘We are running a story on racial provocation leading up to the election. Can you confirm you deliberately try to bait your Muslim neighbours by serving pork? Is it true that you–?’’

  She banged the receiver down hard.

  ‘‘Who was that?’’ asked Mother, scratching her palms.

  ‘‘A reporter. Those bloody vultures love stirring up trouble.’’ She marched into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of vegetable broth for Fishlips Foo.

  Fishlips tipped his liver-spotted tortoise head towards his soup and took a sip. He grunted in disgust. ‘‘This soup is lousy.’’ His spoon clinked against the bowl. ‘‘All watered down. No taste!’’

  ‘‘Uncle Big Jowl likes the soup,’’ said Lu See.

  ‘‘Look how fat he is. He eats anything.’’

  ‘‘You’ve been ordering the same soup every day for the last ten years, Mr Foo.’’

  ‘‘And every time, no flavour. Also how come my portion so much less than his portion? Always you try to cheat me.’’

  ‘‘I’ll fetch you another bowl if you want more,’’ Lu See said.

  ‘‘Why you think I want more? Soup has no taste.’’

  Uncle Big Jowl mopped up the cracker crumbs on the table with his middle finger.

  ‘‘What word from within the walls of Troy?’’ asked Pietro.

  Lu See had no idea what he was on about.

  ‘‘Oh, you are a howling monkey,’’ he roared with a gleam of teeth. ‘‘Tibet? Sum Sum?
’’

  Lu See shrugged. She’d tried. She’d really tried. But no one was prepared to tell her anything. The radio and press reported conflicting news. Only last week a regular customer sat down for a plate of pork and announced that China was at war with Tibet. Lu See spread her hands in a plea. ‘‘I call the Chinese Embassy continually and keep getting brushed aside. I called them three times yesterday but they were deliberately vague, denying all knowledge of a ‘crackdown’ in Tibet.’’ Her mother grunted. Lu See recognized Mother’s look. It meant she thought Lu See was wasting her time trying to track down Sum Sum. ‘‘So I went to the Chinese Embassy in person, again,’’ she continued. ‘‘An awful woman with flat feet made me wait, then I was herded into a small room with nothing but a bare desk, three chairs and a couple of men in Mao suits. They asked me more questions than I asked them. And what did I get out of them? Nothing.’’

  Pietro paused in the middle of sucking on his long cigarette holder. ‘‘Typical diplomats.’’

  ‘‘I even spoke to someone in the Red Cross and telephoned the Indian High Commission – nobody was willing to say anything about the Dalai Lama or the situation in Lhasa.’’

  ‘‘Oh, Archimedes’ screw! Poor old sausage. She’s a survivor, is our precious Sum Sum. Let’s hope she follows the Dalai Lama’s lead and fiddles a ride over the border to Dharamsala.’’ Pietro, sipping tea, opened his diplomatic pouch, as was his habit, and sifted through the low-priority mail. He opened a seemingly incongruous-looking letter with a nail file and then, without warning, sprang to his feet, pressed his fedora to his head and bolted out the door.

  ‘‘What happened to him?’’ asked Mother. ‘‘He late for a hair appointment, is it?’’ Just then she spotted Lu See lifting a red $10 note from the till and sticking it into an envelope. Mother inhaled audibly. ‘‘What you doing?’’

  ‘‘What does it look like I’m doing?’’

  ‘‘Are you stealing?’’ She emphasized the last word.

  ‘‘It’s none of your business, Mother.’’

  ‘‘Are you gambling, is that it?’’

  ‘‘I don’t gamble.’’