by Tan Twan Eng
I had thought my room was bad enough, but there were even more books in Kon’s. Unlike mine, his books, in addition to those written in English, included volumes in Chinese.
“Sorry about the mess. I have a large collection of books on Chinese history and art,” he said. “Since I began my studies with Tanaka-san I have also begun collecting books on Japanese culture.” Kon moved a pile of books from a chair and asked me to sit. Large windows and a door opened to the balcony let in the light. I heard the cries of a hawker and the tok tok sound as he knocked on his wooden clappers while pedaling his pushcart past the house, selling wonton noodles.
“How did you meet Tanaka-san?”
“At the Flame-Watching Ceremony at the Ocean Pearl Temple near his house.” Kon saw my blank expression and explained, “On the fourteenth night of the Chinese New Year, my father, as one of the trustees of the temple, performs a ceremony. Some embers of holy paper are placed in an urn and fanned until they catch fire. The temple monks then read the flames and predict the New Year’s fortune. People often wait outside the temple to hear the monks’ proclamation. I was there that night when a fight broke out. I saw Tanaka-san quell it, and I made my way to him, and asked him to teach me.”
“So you began learning under him after that night?”
Kon shook his head. “He refused me at first. But I found out where he lived and waited outside his home every day after school until dark. This went on for a few weeks until he relented. And you?”
“I had it easier than you. Endo-san came to my house to borrow a boat and after that offered to teach me.”
“He must have seen something in you,” Kon said, “some quality you have.”
I felt uncomfortable with the subject. I had often wondered why Endo-san had decided to make me his pupil. Had it all been merely an accident that he leased our island and then made himself such a large part of my life?
“Do you think my meeting him, and our meeting—all of it— was by chance?” I asked.
Kon touched one of his books. “It depends on who you ask. Some people would view it as a consequence of choices made in our previous lives.”
“Endo-san once talked about the Buddha’s Wheel of Life. I don’t believe it. Surely we are not fated to continually pay for the same mistakes?”
And then Kon said something to me that made me wonder if each life that began was as pure as some would wish to believe.
“The problem is,” he said, “some mistakes can be so great, so grievous, that we end up paying for them again and again, until eventually all our lives forget why we began paying in the first place. If you’re able to remember, then you must make the greatest effort to put things right, now, before you forget again.”
He stood up and said, “Enough talking. Let’s go and practice. I’d like you to show me some of the things you’ve learned.”
We left his room of the many books and unsettling words and went downstairs to his training room. But I never forgot those words he said and they would return to me again, through Endo-san’s voice.
“You must pay attention. Everything we do here is life and death,” Endo-san said, his exasperation making him brusque.
Lately our tempers had been swimming just below the surface, ready to leap out of the water like a marlin taking the bait. I bit back a reply, cursing him inwardly, cursing myself. Now, in my lessons with him, the taint of uncertainty and distraction often hung in the air. He often seemed preoccupied, his eyes distant and his thoughts far away in time. Sometimes I caught him staring at me, but I felt he was in another time. Then he would come back from where his thoughts had been drifting and turn away from me, making me feel as if I had done something wrong. As a result, my mind was everywhere but in the present and I lost my concentration, which only made him angrier.
At the level in which we were training, my lack of awareness was dangerous. In an unanticipated move, Endo-san flipped me over him in a wrist-lock throw. I was not fast enough to follow the direction of the movement to protect myself, and a sharp pain tore into my sprained wrist.
Endo-san knew even without being told that I was injured. He fetched a box containing his medicinal supplies from the house.
He dipped his finger into a jar of herbal ointment and rubbed it into my hand, his movements rough and hurried. I winced but soon the sprain began to heat up as the ointment seeped into my skin.
“It will heal in a few days,” he snapped, and went back into the house to prepare dinner. I changed into dry clothing and followed him. It was only after I sat down that I realized my injured hand was incapable of working the pair of chopsticks. I placed them heavily on the table, and the saucers and soy sauce container rattled. His eyes met mine, and he moved in closer to me. He deftly picked up a sliver of salmon and held my chin with his hand as he placed it into my mouth. I chewed it slowly, my eyes never leaving his. He laid his chopsticks neatly on the table and took a drink of tea.
There was only the sound of the pot bubbling over the hearth. He was so close to me that each breath he expelled, I took, and every breath that I surrendered, he possessed. I waited for him to continue, to quiet the sudden turmoil within me. As I heard his breathing I knew the next step would be dependent on me, and so, putting my feet firmly on the path I would take, I leaned forward and received another offering from his hand.
That moment notched the beginning of our relationship, our real relationship. We had passed beyond the boundaries that encircled the pupil and the master. From that moment, he began to treat me more as an equal, although I sensed that he held back as though he did not want to repeat a mistake made in his earlier life.
Chapter Fourteen
The day of my family’s arrival home came sooner than I had expected. One morning I woke up and knew the house would again be full of sounds and laughter, that there would be parties and dances and tennis luncheons.
I waited at the gates to the pier at Weld Quay, beside the black Daimler that Uncle Lim had polished to a high sheen. I munched on a piece of banana fritter, watching the P&O liner enter the harbor, bringing my family back to Penang. They had been away for six months, including the eight weeks required for the voyages there and back. I had enjoyed being on my own and I hoped their return would not encroach on the routine to which I had grown accustomed.
The noise of the docks surrounded me—stevedores and coolies hailing each other, street peddlers hawking their wares, people greeting their friends, dogs barking, little children running around as their frantic grandparents shouted for them to stop. Above us gulls wheeled and cried and occasionally the horn of a ship sounded as it approached the pier. For a few moments I wished Endo-san was next to me.
I was worried by the number of Australian soldiers milling around the quay. They were all very young, their faces red from the heat, patches of perspiration darkening their olive green uniforms. What disturbed me more was the look of purpose on their faces; they knew they had a reason to be here and I wondered if the rest of us were to share in that knowledge. The governor of Singapore had assured those of us in Malaya that the presence of the soldiers should not be a cause for alarm, that the War Office was only concerned with protecting the supply of rubber and tin. Looking around me, I wondered if he had been entirely truthful.
Uncle Lim returned from the harbor office. “The ship’s docking now,” he informed me. I had a healthy respect for him; he was tough as a boxful of nails and had taught me more than a fair share of dirty street-fighting tricks. But he was soft-spoken and gentle too. “Your father wouldn’t like you to spend so much time with the Japanese,” he said, as though to remind me again.
“We’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t find out, won’t we?” I said. “Anyway, he’s a very good teacher,” I continued when Lim started rubbing his elbow, at the spot where I had hit him and immobilized him the night before.
He saw my smug smile. “You were lucky last night. I was a bit drunk.”
I gave an exaggerated snort. “I’m quit
e willing to allow you a rematch whenever you’re sober.”
He shook his head and said, “That Japanese has been a good teacher to you, I have to admit.”
I saw my sister Isabel first as she ran—as ever, despite the many times our amah had scolded her for doing so—out from among the disembarking crowd, her hair streaming behind her. At twenty-one years of age she was becoming very beautiful, with a strong hint of our father’s features. We were the two who most resembled him; Edward and William took after their mother. She ran into my arms and Uncle Lim stood to one side discreetly, assuming once again the role of the quiet driver.
“You look so different!” she said, catching her breath easily. “We’ve missed you.”
I could not lie to her, so I did not say I had missed her too. She let me go and turned to look for the others. “Oh look, there’s Father. He’s sent the boys to collect our luggage.”
Noel Hutton, my father, strode out from the shade of the quay and into the sun, jamming his hat onto his head, looking every inch the quintessential Englishman. He was just an inch below six feet, well proportioned, but with a slight paunch from his soft life. I have to say he was very handsome, his eyes a clear marble blue, his jaw firm, ears sticking out slightly in an endearing way. His hair was already an unblemished gray.
He looked for his favorite car first, running a quick examining eye over it, checking to see if it had been damaged in his absence. He saw me and for a second he looked puzzled, his brows tilting down toward his nose. Then he smiled and shook my hand, and I smelled his familiar scent. Years later, after the war, I found in his room a sealed bottle of the Burberry’s after-shave he had used and twisted it open. The smell of it, so sudden, so unexpected, made me drop the bottle. It fell to the floor and the contents spilled out, darkening the floorboards. And, for a moment, I thought my father was with me again.
“Have you been keeping out of trouble?” he asked me, glancing at Uncle Lim, who nodded slightly.
“Of course I have,” I said. It was my turn to look quickly at Uncle Lim.
He put his arm around my shoulders and I knew without question he loved me. So why couldn’t I give him the same amount of love? Was this flaw in me due to the bitterness I still felt about my mother’s death, which had left me feeling like a foundling on the family’s doorstep?
He let go of me and shook Uncle Lim’s hand. “Welcome home, sir.” Uncle Lim spoke only in English with my father, even though he knew he could speak his Hokkien dialect almost fluently.
Edward and William came out with their baggage, following the porter they had found. They too were astounded at the change in my appearance. I had not seen William for three years yet he still looked the same to me, his smile hinting at new and as yet unperpetrated mischief, his movements energetic and quick.
“Been starving yourself I see,” William said. He shook my hand then punched me on my shoulder but this time, unlike previously, I avoided it easily and caught his hand. I turned his palm into his wrist, locking his joints and forcing him to bend his knees.
“Hey, let go, that hurts!” he said.
I released him. “Where did you learn how to do that?” he asked.
“It looks as if our little brother has learned to fight back,” Isabel said. “Good for him.” She reached over and kissed me quickly on the cheek.
In the car all they could talk of was the war in Europe. “We were lucky we got out when we did. Hitler’s U-boats are sinking too many of our ships,” my father said to me. “We’re in for some tough times ahead.”
“Britain will need more raw materials for her factories,” I predicted. The view in Penang among the merchants was that the war in Europe would lift Malaya’s economy out of the slump it had fallen into. The prices of tin and rubber and iron ore would soar.
“That’s obvious, but shipping them there would be a problem,” Edward pointed out.
“We’ll be all right here,” William said. “Far away from the war.” He said this with some bitterness, and I realized he had been reluctant to return to Penang. He had always made it clear that he had no desire to join the family company. Only my father’s direct command had been strong enough to ensure that he made the eight-thousand-mile voyage home with them.
Noel’s lips pressed together as he looked out of the window. “You know I’d prefer you to work in the company for a year or two before you enlist. And that was the promise you made to me, before you left. At least learn where all the money comes from that you’ve been throwing away on your friends in London.”
William was stung, and before he could reply I rushed in to fill the silence. “The Straits Times was vehement and condemnatory about the sneak attack on the naval base at Scapa Flow.”
“Bloody Germans,” Edward said. “Over seven hundred lives were lost. British lives,” he added, as though those had a greater value.
“And the Japanese in China,” my father said, turning back to us. “They’re tearing the country apart. How’s your family, Lim?”
Uncle Lim’s eyes looked at us in the rearview mirror. “They seem safe, sir. My daughter is already here.”
“Good. You should send for your wives as well. I do think they’ll be safer here. Nothing will happen to them in Penang. Malaya’s one of the safest places to be at the moment.”
I thought again of Ming’s stories. In the last few weeks Uncle Lim had never failed to give me the latest news of Japanese cruelty he had read from the more strident local Chinese newspapers. I wanted to tell him to stop, but a part of me craved to hear it.
“You don’t think they’ll invade Malaya?” Isabel asked no one in particular.
My father, looking out into the distance, said, “I think they’ll try. And they’ll fail. Singapore’s armed to the teeth to fight anyone. They have thirty-inch guns pointing out to sea. Destroyers are cruising the oceans watching out for any foolish Japanese ship that tries to slip in, and as you can see there are soldiers everywhere, even here in Penang. We’ll be safe.”
His opinion was the prevalent view among the Europeans in Malaya. His confidence assured us and we left the subject and talked of their trip. “Now,” my father said. “You know what I missed most in London? Would anyone mind if we stopped at Rajoo’s mee rebus stall?”
The tense atmosphere in the car was immediately lightened. Isabel and Edward laughed and agreed to let him indulge in his favorite Indian noodles at the only roadside stall he would eat at.
Life returned to normal during the remaining months of that year. It was my last term at school and I made conscientious preparations for the final examinations for my school certificate. Endo-san reduced the frequency of my lessons to allow me time to study. I did very well, getting high marks in Latin, mathematics, and English. Most of my family members were astonished, but not Endo-san. He knew what I could achieve when I set my mind to it. After all, it was he who had trained me to do so.
My father was a great reader and proud of his library. In his luggage he had, as usual, brought back a large collection of books from London. The affairs of the company had kept him from unpacking them immediately on his return and I knew he was eager to get down to the task. After breakfast, one weekend in December, he said, “You’ve got lots of time now. Come and help me with my books.”
He knew I would enjoy helping him, for we always wore a similar look of contentment on our faces as we went around the library, putting the right book in the right place on the shelves, discussing them as we did so, arguing about the merits and flaws of each.
The library was in the western corner of the house, away from the rooms where we dined or received visitors. Despite its size, it was a quiet and comfortable place. The windows were open. Outside, the sun was giving off that light that was only present in Penang—bright, warm, alive, stirring up the colors in the sea. A breeze gently shook the casuarina tree as a few sparrows danced in its branches, their wings fluttering frantically.
A mahogany desk was placed near the windows and my fat
her often sat there when he had work to do. The shelves reached all the way to the ceiling, but one wall had been set aside to exhibit his collection of butterflies and keris blades.
The butterflies were mounted and neatly labeled in glass-fronted wooden cases, neat rows of papilionidae, their desiccated wings still rich with color, destined never to fly again. My father had been an enthusiastic lepidopterist, traveling all over Malaya to add to his collection, until my mother became ill while accompanying him on one of his trips to the rainforests. He had been hoping to find Rajah Brooke’s Birdwing, a rare species first discovered by Alfred Russell Wallace in 1855.
He had indeed found it on that trip, and now it was mounted in its own box, a large beautiful creature, almost seven inches across its opened black wings, which were decorated with a row of luminous green tooth-shaped patterns. These days he usually walked past it without even looking at it or at any of the other cases. He had also stopped collecting butterflies since that trip, directing his interest instead to the acquisition of traditional Javanese and Malay blades. He already had eight of them in his collection.
He stopped before these curved daggers now, each blade, usually with seven waves, looking like a frozen snake. The keris were short, about the length of a man’s arm from the elbow to the fingers. The hilt of the particular keris he was examining was a mythological animal carved from ivory and decorated with diamonds.
He had bought this particular keris just before leaving for London, from the deposed sultan of a Malay state who had fallen on hard times. The sultan had warned him of the magical elements of a keris—each dagger housed a spirit that would protect the owner from misfortune, in return for regular sacrificial offerings of food and drink. But because it was being passed to a European, the sultan had assured him that the soul of the keris had been removed by a bomoh, a Malay warlock, and no such rituals would be required of him.