by Tan Twan Eng
As they talked, I saw the strong lines of love between father and daughter, even though Uncle Lim had hardly seen his daughter while she was growing up in their village. I watched Uncle Lim laugh when she described the village headman and his antics; it was the first time that I could recall him laughing like a person, like a father, like a man. I felt out of place, a stranger to this bond, and quietly I left them.
Ming stayed for a few more days, and then one morning she was gone. Uncle Lim had taken her to a village in Balik Pulau, the Back of the Island, where he had relatives. For several days afterward he appeared more cheerful, and even promised to teach me Chinese boxing.
Endo-san had disappeared. His home was empty when I went across to his island. I slid open the doors and felt the silence. A box of photographs lay on the floor. He had been pinning them to his wall before he left. I studied them, especially the one taken of me at the tea shack on Penang Hill. I looked so different then, I thought, my childish face so unlike the one I saw in the mirror now. The other photographs were tedious shots of coastlines and forests and little towns. I stopped going through them after they all began to look the same. He had pinned a map of Malaya on another wall, and I saw the red lines he had traced of our journey, as well as other places he intended to visit. He apparently had no interest at all in going to Singapore, for it looked clean, unmarked by any notes or lines. On a shelf I found his note: Gone to the East Coast. Keep training.
I realized how much I had missed him during my visit to my grandfather. He had become a defining feature in my life. I missed spending my mornings with him, watching him, listening to him, anticipating his moods, his whims. I longed for the way the sun fired up his silver hair, the way his teeth glinted behind his smile, his wry humor, and the hidden sadness within him. Yet there was so much that I did not know. I made up my mind to question him more about his life when he returned.
The new term began and I was grateful that Endo-san was not around, as I was kept busy with schoolwork and with having to fulfill the social obligations normally attended to by my father. Although my family was absent from Penang, invitations still arrived almost daily. As the sole member of the Hutton family in Penang my father expected me to represent him when he was away.
One afternoon, after finishing my homework, I went to his study to go through the correspondence that had started to grow like mushrooms on his heavy oak desk. I opened two letters from Isabel, telling me of their wonderful time in London. I read them first, as I knew they would be imprinted with her enthusiasm and excitement. She wrote that they missed me and would be returning soon. The rest of the mail was social, and I put it in the wastepaper basket in short order after writing to regretfully decline the invitations. I had some discretion in choosing which to respond to, but when the Crosses called, one had to go. It was like getting an invitation from the dowager empress of China herself, I thought, as fragments of my grandfather’s story surfaced in my memory.
The Cross family was similar to ours in many ways. They too had been in Penang right from the beginning and their company, Empire Trading, was legendary throughout Asia, spoken of in the same tone of admiration and envy as Jardine Matheson of Hong Kong. The patriarch of the family was Henry Cross, who was my father’s contemporary. They were good friends, as close as anyone could be in this competitive island. Both had been at Oxford before coming home to run their family businesses.
I read the card from Henry Cross, inviting us to his son George’s fifteenth birthday. I let out a soft groan, thinking of the awful evening that I would have to endure. But it would be an unforgivable insult to Henry Cross’s face if I turned it down.
After generations spent in the East, many of the British had come to understand the concept of “face,” which could be simplified to mean nothing more than mutual respect. To the Chinese, however, it held a deeper meaning than that: if Henry Cross came to my father’s parties (which he invariably did) then my father gained considerable face. If my father helped out a servant financially without appearing to do so, he would have saved the servant face and, strangely, would not have lost face before his staff. It was a labyrinthine process of transaction and relationship. It had to be absorbed like mother’s milk, otherwise it would only confuse one. I had given much face to my grandfather by visiting him. And he had reciprocated by accepting me and telling me his tale and showing me his cave in the hills.
I knew George Cross only by sight. He was a year younger than I, although his brother Ronald was my age. We attended different schools, and there was always that flavor of competition between St. Xavier’s and the Penang Free School.
On the evening of the party I sighed as I changed into something presentable and waited in the portico for Uncle Lim to bring the Daimler round. The night was humid, the crickets were busy, and the wind through the windows felt good. It was too pleasurable a Friday evening to be spent at a party.
The Cross mansion was on Northam Road, which was better known as Millionaires’ Row. The locals called it Ang-Mo Lor— the Road of the Red-Hair. The house made the adjacent consular offices of Thailand—which, despite the country’s official change of name in May, was still referred to as Siam by the people of Penang—appear tiny, almost like its garage. We entered the ornate black and gold wrought-iron gates which hung from marble posts as imposing as monuments to well-loved heroes, and drove up the winding gravel drive. The house, all white, lay bathed in lights. It was built in the Italianate style, dominated by a pair of flanking pillars. I could hear the Jerry Maxwell Band playing a selection of jazz tunes, laughter on the air, the clink of glasses. Behind the house, the sea separated the island from mainland Malaya and I tasted the tide on my tongue.
There were the usual speculative glances when I entered—here comes the half-caste, I thought wryly. I was received by Henry Cross, who looked very robust and tall, graying at the temples, almost bald on top. He gave me a warm handshake; I always got on well with him.
“When’s your father coming back? Or is he enjoying London too much?”
“They’ll be home soon.”
“They won’t recognize you when they do. You seem to have grown up a lot. What are you going to do when you leave school? Not long now, is it?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I’ll think about it when the time comes.”
George shook my hand, as I wished him a happy birthday and gave him his present. I asked after Ronald.
“He’s showing some of his friends around the grounds,” George replied.
I turned and looked at the guests. As always, all the important people were present—the resident councillor and his wife, representatives from the various banks and from the German, Siamese, Danish, American, and Russian consulates. The local Chinese and Malay tycoons moved among them, as well as a scattering of Malay princes in golden yellow, the royal color that only they could wear. I saw a famous author from England, whose books I had enjoyed. I moved toward him, but was intercepted by Ronald. By his side I recognized his friend Yeap Chee Kon, the son of the president of the Chinese Chamber of Commerce, whom we all referred to as Towkay Yeap.
“Well, well. You certainly look different,” Ronald remarked.
“Try cooking for yourself and this is what happens,” I answered, smiling.
Ronald introduced me to his friend. Penang was a small island, and I knew people called him Kon, which I now did. He looked at me with a curiosity I found disconcerting. He radiated a sense of confidence for someone so youthful. He was a head shorter than me, although he seemed more muscular, which heightened the air of toughness about him. His eyes, narrow and dark, conveyed a forceful intelligence, and I had the feeling that he was accustomed to having his opinions proved correct. He was wearing white; I was later to discover that he almost never wore any other color. His handshake was strong, and the way he examined me made me dislike him. I stared straight back, unafraid.
Ronald saw someone he wanted to talk to. Kon looked over his shoulder at me as he followed
Ronald. I heard my name being called and turned to see Alfred Scott beckoning to me. Mr. Scott was the manager my father had appointed to oversee Hutton & Sons while he was away in London. He had worked for us ever since I could remember and he was the only person my father was willing to relinquish the firm to whenever he had to be away. Even so, I knew he expected daily reports to be sent by telegram, whatever the cost.
“I received a message from your father today,” he said. “They’re leaving tomorrow. You’re to meet them when the ship docks. I’ll get you the date of their arrival. Can’t remember it at the moment.”
“Growing old, Mr. Scott?” All of us called him that, even my father. Scott was in his fifties and had never married. Although my father had often tried to bring him closer to our family, the manager had always kept to himself, preferring to spend his free time on the rubber plantations.
“I also had a telephone call from a Mr. Saotome. He said he knows you. You seem to have impressed him.” He looked hard at me. “He wanted to know if we’d accept a Japanese partner, or if we were willing to do business with them.” Mr. Scott shook his head in disbelief.
Saotome’s persistent interest in our company worried me. I never knew what Saotome had done to the girl offered to him, and Endo-san had only grunted when I asked.
“What did you tell him?” I asked Mr. Scott.
“I told him what was was laid down by your great-grandfather: that unless his surname was Hutton no outsider would be allowed in.”
I winced at his blunt reply and he barked his distinctive laugh, causing the people around us to look indulgently amused. His eyes followed a slim Malay waiter and then he lowered his voice and said, “I don’t trust this Saotome fellow. He was very insistent that we change our minds.”
“Have you told my father?”
He shook his head. “It’s not all that important. I can let him know when he comes home. I’ve enough to report to him as it is.”
I agreed with his decision and told him so. He finished his drink and said he had to go home. “Hate these parties,” he said.
The Japanese consul, Shigeru Hiroshi, saw me and came over. He was a thin, sickly looking man in his fifties, ill suited to the climate. His head was shaven bald, like many of the Japanese I had seen. He was too small for his dinner jacket, his shiny scalp matching the gleam of his lapels. “You must be Endo-san’s deshi, his pupil. He has described you well.”
I bowed and asked him where Endo-san was. For a quick moment he hesitated, then said, “He is in Kuala Lumpur.”
“Again? After his recent visit?” I knew he was lying, for I recalled Endo-san’s note to me. Hiroshi did not reply but instead asked me about my lessons. I was accustomed to their way of avoiding any truths they did not wish to reveal, and so I gave him face and did not ask him further questions about Endo-san.
The conversation turned inevitably to the presence of the Japanese in China and he began to tire me with his description of Japanese superiority. “We have the best army in Asia now. They are disciplined, highly trained, and civilized,” he said, loudly enough for a few circles of guests around us to hear.
“Oh, but what about Nanking?” I asked, using the English name for Nanjing. Decades later most Japanese would deny all knowledge of the appalling things that were done there but, as my question cut across the conversations around us and people turned to look, I knew Hiroshi was fully aware of the events that had taken place. He flinched and I could see his mouth tightening like a bowstring being stretched. “Were the Japanese troops there ‘disciplined, highly trained, and civilized?’“ I persisted.
He finally moved. He swallowed his drink and then said, “Yes, of course they were. Why would they not have been?”
There were loud snorts around us, especially from the Chinese, and he flushed with anger.
I left him and as the party went on into the night I ended up on the beach, walking slowly away from the noise. I could see some lights along the waterline of Province Wellesley across the channel, glimmering like the stars overhead. The moon was out, reflected in the dark oily water. The lanterns of fishing trawlers out at sea swayed drunkenly.
I saw a ghostly white figure ahead of me and wondered who it was that had also found the crowd unappealing. As I approached the figure turned around and I could only keep moving; to walk back would have been too obvious.
“You should be careful of the consul. He doesn’t like being made a fool of,” Kon said.
“How would you know?” I answered, his superior tone raising my irritation. I moved closer to him, which was a mistake.
The punch seemed to shoot out from nowhere. I avoided it, but I knew it was very close, and threw one in return. It was intercepted and my wrist would have been broken had I not countered and spun him around. We broke away from each other, grinning.
“You’re very good,” Kon said.
“So are you,” I replied.
We circled warily. My heart pounded and I cleared my mind, placing it somewhere over the horizon. I had no inkling of the level of his skill, but the way he had almost caught me off-guard indicated an ability that could overwhelm mine. Subtly I changed my stance and opened myself to an attack, giving him a bigger target.
He launched his strike, left-right punches to my head. I swept them away and entered his space. Using the power of my hips I spun and effortlessly threw him onto the sand. My foot aimed for his face, but this time he was ready and it was deflected. I had overextended myself; there was no other choice but to heave my body into his. I slammed into him and we tumbled on the wet sand. I hit him and for just a second his hold on me weakened enough for me to grapple his wrist and twist it into a bone-breaking lock. He tried to move but it was excruciating for him. His struggles heightened the intense pain. I increased the pressure.
“Enough?” I asked
“Yes.”
I let him go, backing away, keeping my eyes on him in case he attacked again. In actual fact the levels of our skills were similar, but my mind, due to Endo-san’s strict training, was the stronger. The moment Kon launched his attack he had already lost. I was content to wait, forever if need be; he had been too eager to start the fight.
He stood up; the look in his eyes told me his curiosity had been satisfied, his suspicions confirmed. He faced me and without the need for words we both bowed. I did not try to hide my sense of disbelief. We were both students of aikijutsu, the art of harmonizing forces.
Endo-san had often told me about his teacher, Morihei Ueshiba, after our classes had ended. Ueshiba was a gentle-looking man with piercing eyes and a quick temper, quick to flare, quicker to dissipate. His name and tales of his prowess were already spread widely across Japan and he was acknowledged as one of the greatest martial artists of all time, even by teachers of other disciplines. Born in the 1880s, he had revolutionized the concept of the warrior arts. The secret behind his power, Ueshiba often told his students, was based on love, love for everyone, for the universe, even for the one who was about to kill you. For love was a power of the universe, and with the universe behind you, who could defeat you?
I had often thought his message was similar to Christ’s emphasis on love. Originally aikijutsu was hard-edged, brutal. Ueshiba would eventually smooth the edges by rounding out the techniques, making them completely circular. The movement of the circle was the source of all his techniques. However, it remained extremely effective. The techniques I had learned from Endo-san were still rooted in the old-style aikijutsu, for Endo-san had left Japan when Ueshiba was still discovering the concepts that would ultimately ensure him immortality. From Kon’s movements I could see clearly that his sensei’s style differed slightly from Endo-san’s; it was softer and rounder. Though I was unaware of it then, I was witnessing and experiencing the evolution of an art.
“Where did you learn all that?” I asked. As the son of a well-known Chinese businessman, I did not expect him to be so proficient in Japanese fighting techniques.
“From my sen
sei,” he said. To my astonishment, he spoke to me in Japanese and I wondered if I had had too much to drink. He stood up, brushing sand off his clothes and tucking his shirt into his trousers, always fastidious about his appearance.
“Well, who is he?” I wanted more answers from him.
“Tanaka-san,” he said, enjoying my impatience. “He’d like to see you.”
I agreed to meet Kon at his home at dawn the following day and visit his teacher. I wanted to meet his sensei, and I was certain that Endo-san would be pleased to know of the presence of another man who was adept in aikijutsu.
We sat above the reach of the incoming tide and talked of other things for a while. Kon suddenly said, “My father and I went to your mother’s funeral. I can still remember parts of it, although I was very young then.”
I could not recall seeing him there. So many people had turned up, not to mourn but because of my father’s position. “That was a long time ago,” I said.
He too had lost his mother at an early age, Kon told me. I sensed the carefully hidden hurt in him, the feeling of having been abandoned, and to my surprise it felt very similar to mine. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I know how you must feel.” “Coming from you I know at least that’s the truth.” I was uncertain how to respond to his remark. I saw a smile surface and then sink back into his solemn face, and a short burst of laughter came out from me. His face lost its control and he shook gently with increasing mirth.
We talked for a long time on the beach that night; although we did not know it then, it would be the start of a strong friendship.
It was only when Uncle Lim was driving me home that I realized Kon had not asked me a single question, that he had seemed to know all about me and perhaps even about Endo-san.
Chapter Twelve
The following morning, Kon and I cycled to Tanjung Tokong, the Cape of the Temple, to pay a visit to his sensei. We went along a deserted stretch of beach past the Ocean Pearl Temple. The Cape was a fishing village, the community completely of Hakka bloodline, and the temple was the site of worship of Tua Pek Kong, a pilgrim who had settled in Penang even before Francis Light. Like so many pilgrims, he had been deified after his death.