by Lees, Julian
‘‘Well, hello, Lu See,’’ exclaimed the priest.
‘‘Father Louis. How nice to see you again.’’ Lu See placed an arm on Mabel’s shoulder. ‘‘May I introduce my daughter, Mabel.’’
‘‘An exciting day, what?’’ said Father Louis. His long fingers folded over Mabel’s outstretched hand.
‘‘Delighted to meet you, but I really don’t know what this is all about.’’
‘‘Nor should you. Your mother’s been planning this for years, coming down to see us in secret.’’
Mabel’s face was a question.
‘‘No idea? Well, then, we’d better show you,’’ said the priest, giving her a wink. ‘‘Let’s go for a walk, shall we?’’
A few minutes later they emerged from the copse of angsana trees and came to the Anglican Church, perched on the river’s edge.
‘‘The Japanese used it as a rice storage facility. Left it in horrid disrepair. And of course, as you know, the pipe organs were stolen. Your mother tidied it up but the Juru Diocesan Trustees Association simply had no funds to replace the damaged floors and pews.’’
‘‘We approached the Chinese Synod but they could not help either,’’ added Lu See.
‘‘It was a desperate time.’’ The priest placed his arm on the heavy teak doors and pushed them open. They entered the fresh, white-walled interior. ‘‘But thanks to your mother and her negotiation skills, we prevailed.’’
Shafts of sunlight streamed in through the coloured-glass windows. Fans on the ceilings whirred silently.
Lu See led Mabel by the hand. ‘‘I worked out a plan, and we came to a formal arrangement with the surrounding estates.’’
‘‘The tin miners refused point blank, but the plantation companies agreed to contribute.’’
‘‘Grudgingly, mind you,’’ said Charlie Fosler with a grin.
‘‘They agreed to donate ¼ cent of revenue per planted acre.’’
‘‘And your mother put in the rest.’’
‘‘You did?’’ said Mabel.
‘‘Every week I took $10 from my share of the restaurant takings and donated it to the fund.’’ There was a hint of quiet pride in her voice. ‘‘It took me fifteen years until we had enough.’’
‘‘Enough for what?’’
‘‘The new pipe organ, of course.’’
‘‘Ah, that’s where I coom in,’’ said Charlie Fosler.
‘‘Charlie’s uncle sold us the original copper pipes.’’
‘‘It dint tek much for me to persuade the old bloke to cast a new set at a knock-down price. You being a return customer and all.’’
‘‘And here it is,’’ beamed Father Louis.
Lu See came forward and stroked the solid console base. The case work was in oak, shiny and highly-polished. The organ employed both mechanical key and stop action. ‘‘It’s beautiful,’’ she said. She examined the pedals and then, finally, gazed up at the pipes. The copper glinted in the sun as if coated with grease. ‘‘Absolutely beautiful.’’
‘‘Thought you’d like it,’’ said Charlie Fosler. ‘‘We put up the memorial tablet for you too.’’
A brass plaque hung to the left of the organ. It read:
This pipe organ was donated in memory of
Teoh Tak Ming 1915-1935
AND
Adrian W.S. WOO 1912-1936
Lu See looked at it and smiled.
Lu See and Mabel chose a pew and sat side by side.
Father Louis folded his long fingers across the keyboard.
Just as Lu See shut her eyes a blast of sound shuddered the air – the opening bursts of Bach’s Prelude in C Major. The notes swirled in circles, around and around her head. They rose and fell. The eddying swell of noise permeated the walls, shook the ground and trembled the leaves on the trees outside. It drowned out all thought and knocked the breath out of Lu See. This was what she’d waited so long to hear; this was the music she’d sung to as a child, in the choir.
When Father Louis brought his hands to a stop and the air grew still, it felt as though the church had been washed clean. Lu See dropped her chin to her chest. She felt a solitary tear slip down her face, drying on her cheek. It made her skin itch.
Outside the church, Lu See and Mabel stood on the stone steps.
Mabel leaned forward and whispered in Lu See’s ear. ‘‘I’m proud of you.’’
‘‘I’ve had to keep this from your grandmother,’’ she admitted, looking up at the sky. ‘‘Otherwise she’d be down here every weekend, sticking her oar in.’’
‘‘Grandma thought you were stealing from the till. She kept dropping hints that you might be gambling or getting secretly drunk.’’ From her voice, Lu See could tell Mabel was smiling. She glanced at her daughter, half amused.
There was another long silence.
‘‘Fifteen years. I’m amazed you didn’t give up.’’
‘‘I needed to finish this. For my sake, for Second-aunty Doris and cousin Tak Ming’s sake.’’
‘‘You make it sound like an obsession.’’
‘‘This church is a very important to me. It holds wonderful memories. It is part of our heritage. This is where I hope you will get married.’’
Mabel smiled; she thought about her surgeon friend. ‘‘Did you ever think about throwing in the towel?’’
‘‘No. After the war, even though we’d left Juru, I was determined to get the pipes replaced.’’
‘‘Because you lost them.’’
‘‘Because of a promise I made to Second-aunty Doris. But also because they were stolen by a man I hated.’’ Her voice grew flat with disgust.
‘‘The man with the mole, yes, Uncle Big Jowl mentioned him once when I was much younger. He was the one that put the sheep’s head in the ground.’’
‘‘You remember that.’’
‘‘Of course I remember. I was eight years old. It’s not something an 8-year-old easily forgets.’’
‘‘I’m sorry.’’
‘‘What did he do to you? Why did you hate him so much?’’
‘‘He–’’ Lu See held her tongue. She was about to elaborate but quickly stopped herself. She shuddered inside at her carelessness.
‘‘He what?’’
Lu See saw the impatience and hunger in Mabel’s eyes; she wanted to hear the full story.
‘‘He what?’’ Mabel jabbed her with the same question. The colour seeped out of Lu See’s face. She tried to think of what to say, dusting her words with a sprinkling of lies. But it was like walking on thin ice. The truth would stab a hole in the frozen water and pull them under. And beneath the ice lurked something dark and wrong and jagged. Long dead. Never to be brought to light.
The night before she left for India, Lu See removed a letter she’d kept hidden in an inner pocket of her eel-skin trunk for almost a quarter-century. It was a letter from Sum Sum. Lu See wasn’t sure why she’d kept it for so long without destroying it. Perhaps, she thought, it was because the letter had been written in Sum Sum’s hand, and anything belonging to Sum Sum was sacred to her.
Lu See set an ashtray by her elbow together with a box of matches. Tentatively, she unfurled the page and smoothed it flat with the palm of her hand. The blue ink was faded, the paper a little yellowed.
My dear Lu See, my sister, my friend,
I write this from a ship I have boarded from Felixstowe and my heart is crying.
I have left you with my child, I have left you with many unanswered questions. Now is the time for you to know the truth. Soon after we both arrived in Cambridge something bad happened. Remember the day I lost the camera? I told you I had accident and it dropped into the river? Well, I lied. I not drop the camera. I gave it to a man. The same man I saw coming out of the jungle when the dam broke. The same man you saw on the Jutlandia. The man with the mole on his cheek.
He was in Cambridge. He followed us. On day you had college interview that is when he come for me. When he found me, he chased me to a place
with no people around. He catch me. And then he say if I ever tell anyone about the dam he will kill you. Not kill me, but kill you. I promised him I will keep quiet and I told him I would do anything if he went away, do anything so that he won’t hurt you.
So, I give him camera, I give him all the photographs … and I give him me.
He tear my clothes and hit my face.
For a long time, Lu See, I have nightmares. I think I see him everywhere I go. I think I can smell him. But I never see him again after that day.
Some time later, I started feeling sick with baby.
Promise me you NEVER tell Mabel about this. Never tell anyone about the man with mole. You must keep this our secret forever to protect Mabel.
As I wrote in earlier letter, perhaps Mabel’s smile is not the same as your own baby’s smile, the baby God took away, but I know you will grow to love Mabel. Be good to each other. Right now, you need her and she need you.
I thank the Goddess Tara for all the love and kindness you have given me.
I will always treasure you.
Sum Sum
Lu see lifted her eyes and stared at the ceiling, stared at the slowly revolving fan. And then, without hesitating, she struck a match and applied it to a corner of the page. She watched it burn like an offering to the gods.
18
The journey to Dharamsala involved taking two ferry boats, three commuter trains and sitting in a Leyland bus built in the 1930s for fifteen hours.
Lu See’s spirits were light, full of girlish energy. She couldn’t wait to see Sum Sum; the anticipation electrified her. Yet she tried not to get ahead of herself – there was no way of knowing if Sum Sum was in Dharamsala, or in Tibet, whether she was even alive at all. But somehow, in her bones, Lu See knew with an unshakeable certainty that she would find Sum Sum. She felt the pull of their friendship and an overpowering sense that fate was drawing close.
Dharamsala. She toyed with the word, rolling it around on her tongue like a salted plum. In Hindi it meant ‘sanctuary’, a place for injured souls. She wondered if the city in the upper reaches of the Kangra Valley would bring her soul the peace it craved.
Earlier, in Penang, with the thick smell of the sea in her hair, she watched loinclothed Lascars with arms and shoulders blackened from the sun unload a shiny red fire engine with a heavy lift derrick. A shout went up. The fire truck swung in the air like a toy. Children playing street badminton nearby dropped their racquets and gathered about, unable to contain their excitement, whooping with delight as the engine landed on the quay. Their excitement was infectious. It reminded her of the laughter she once shared with Sum Sum.
Then, as Lu See’s ship left Penang harbour, skirting the coastline, she stared out at the hills of George Town, at the fields of palm parched by the sun, at the fish farms, tin mines and coconut groves. A farmer reclined in the shade, on a makeshift bed made from coconut fibre rope and the image made her smile; it summed up everything she loved about Malay rural life; everything sleepy and calm.
Despite herself, she was touched by a sense of nostalgia.
Do you remember? Lu See lowered her eyelids. Do you remember, years before, standing on the deck of the Jutlandia? Watching the port recede from view, embarking on that adventure of a lifetime? You were the girl who’d never travelled beyond the Straits of Malacca. The girl who believed she controlled her own destiny.
‘‘How little I knew,’’ she murmured to herself. ‘‘How little I knew.’’
She turned and walked, walked all the way around to the bow of the ship, until the barrier at the end stopped her. She gripped the handrail tight and, feeling the breeze in her face, laughed at the sun.
Her lips tasted salt. Her eyes tasted happy tears.
She was on a new adventure.
And she was going to look forward not back.
When they arrived in Madras, Pietro took charge, flashing his diplomatic documents. But getting from Dr. Ambedkar Dock to the dilapidated Royapuram Rail Station proved to be a trial; the traffic jam of trishaws and rickshaws and the seething mass of people made Pietro swoon. ‘‘It’s like everyone’s rushing for the khazi but nobody’s got the key,’’ he moaned. Their Ambassador cab swerved past buses bloated with passengers. Each time they hit a pothole Mabel and Pietro yelped.
Their train for New Delhi left at 13.30. They made it with twenty minutes to spare. They were told they had to change at Hyderabad.
The station master wore a pair of open-toe sandals with yellow nylon socks which looked as if they hadn’t been laundered in a while. The fat folds on his neck were so deep they’d turned pink and crusty. Swollen like some gargantuan sweaty bean, he brandished their tickets and barked out their platform number.
‘‘This fella makes Uncle Big Jowl look like Fred Astaire,’’ whispered Mabel.
Thirty-six hours later, they alighted at Delhi Junction, pushed through the wall of warped-limbed beggars, and headed straight for the Maidens Hotel.
The following morning at 5 a.m., a bus took them north from New Delhi. Lu See peered out the window, rubbing the mist from the glass with her hand. She stared at the pre-dawn sky, cut and scarred with strips of colour – low clouds lit with orange and pink.
Meanwhile, Pietro pored over the Hindustan Times; there was no mention of Malaya in the ‘World News’ section. ‘‘All quiet at home,’’ he said, sounding relieved.
Lu See knew what he meant. There hadn’t been any trouble in KL since the incident outside her restaurant; but the fault lines had been drawn; a large portion of the community had been made to feel like aliens in their own country. It was, she conceived, only a matter of time before new racial tremors would shake the city. But she couldn’t worry about that now.
She tucked her chin into the crook of her arm and slept.
Five hours later they stopped to stretch their legs and relieve themselves behind the trees.
Three hours after that, they stopped for lunch.
Lu See emerged from the bus to the smells of woodsmoke mingled with the scent of sautéing pine needles and cow-liver mushrooms, and feeling the dry scrape of the wind against her cheeks. The rarified atmosphere made her momentarily dizzy; she took in a deep breath and steadied herself. In the small eatery the band of tourists found themselves seated around an oval table. They were served little round dumplings floating in a dark soup with large mushrooms.
‘‘What’s this?’’ asked Lu See, sniffing the steam.
Pietro glanced about conspiratorially and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. He gave Lu See a ‘Ye Gods’ look. ‘‘It’s like something a swamp-dweller might eat.’’
Mabel offered a corner-of-the-mouth grimace.
Lu See examined the contents of the bowl, smelling it, weighing it first in one hand and then the other, before dipping her spoon in. She wondered whether this was how Sum Sum felt the first time she tried Stilton cheese.
Back on the bus Lu See settled into her seat and stared out of the window. She saw nomads living in tents made of animal hair. She saw windowless houses with shingle-covered roofs and walls made from loam; women in long kurtas, ghaghri, salwars and cholis; farmers working fields clad in kurtas and caps.
Along the road joining Haryana to Mandi she saw snowy mountain peaks, rock monasteries, donkey-drawn caravans. This is Sum Sum land, she said to herself, everywhere I look I see her face.
Up ahead she saw the rugged, muscled landscape and the outline of mountains stabbed by ice-caps. Itinerant herds of goats dotted the terrain like seedpods.
The bus stopped again in the late afternoon. The rest house had lotus blossom carvings adorning its doors with painted gyung-drung swastikas gracing its walls.
‘‘I think it must be market day,’’ said Mabel.
Basket makers, salt traders, silversmiths and weavers lined up to greet them. Their language spilled from their throats as snatched, angular sounds.
Twenty yards along, men hunkering down to shear sheep, white wool scattered like snow about th
eir knees, looked up momentarily and smiled at Lu See’s camera. The thinness of the air made everything appear brighter and sharper. The rays of the sun seemed to travel farther.
After a while, they boarded the bus once again.
Lu See had read something – probably in LIFE magazine – about Dharamsala. ‘‘It’s one of the main towns of the Kangra Valley,’’ she told Pietro as he filed his nails. ‘‘And the mountain range encompasses three sides of it which give on to the valley stretching to the south. It’s something like 6000 feet. above sea level with very rocky ground.’’
He stuck a finger to his chin. ‘‘Good thing I didn’t pack my stilettos.’’
As they drew closer to Dharamsala, Lu See grew increasingly anxious. Will we recognize one another, will we still be friends? What would she see in Sum Sum’s face? Perhaps she’d see her own reflection.
As soon as they settled into their boarding house, Pietro decided to hang back and explore Dharamsala proper. ‘‘I’ll do some souvenir shopping. No point all of us barging in on the nuns and making a scene,’’ he said. Lu See agreed with him.
Lu See grasped the handle of her art portfolio case, touched Mabel’s elbow and led her through the bustling pavement life. Mabel had a Tupperware box tucked under her arm. Up ahead they could see the nunnery forecourt through the gates. Snow-splashed mountain peaks surrounded them. They passed letter-writers, paan sellers and women hawking rice. A woman with almond-shaped Nepali eyes, who seconds before was caressing her sandalled feet, held out a fistful of rice from a gunny sack. When Lu See shook her head no, she went back to massaging her big toe. A bit further on, under the shade of peepul trees, the letter-writers sat cross-legged on boxes, thrashing at the keys to their typewriters; every now and then they paused to listen to their clients’ dictation. Further on still, a paan salesman combined betel leaves with lime and tobacco.
Lu See and Mabel passed through the modest set of gates and into the temple complex. No one told them where to go or where they were allowed to go.