The Gift of Rain: A Novel

by Tan Twan Eng

  “Have you ever fought in them?”

  “Yes, once. When Tanaka-sensei found out he was very angry and even threatened to stop teaching me. I stopped going immediately and on his insistence gave the money I’d won to a temple.”

  “We do so much just to please our teachers,” I said, and I could see he understood.

  We dried our bodies and changed out of our soaked training gi. The question came out of me before I could reconsider or reframe it—”Have you ever killed anyone?”

  He folded his clothes into a neat bundle, creasing them firmly with his palm. “No, I have not,” he said. “To ask that question, I think you must have.”

  “No, but I injured a man.” The admission came out quickly, before it could be taken back and hidden away deep within me. I told him what had happened, the steps I had taken to protect my father and myself. “I’m worried now that these things will come easier to me.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that. The MCP members are vicious. You’d better warn your father to be alert.”

  “You think they’ll retaliate?”

  He shook his head for he had no answer but I felt better for having talked to him. “Come to the party,” I said. “Bring your father and Tanaka-san.”

  “I will,” he said. “But come with me. I have something to show you.”

  I saw the excited look on his face and followed him down the wrought-iron spiral stairs into the courtyard, sending the pigeons flying up to the eaves. We went outside to the garage at the back of the house. He opened the doors and the light caught the silver of the car hidden inside.

  “I can’t believe it,” I said, staring with wonder at the MG. “Your father’s?”

  “No. Mine. A present for my birthday. Like it?”

  “You lucky sod,” I said. I stroked the warm metal of its low, sleek body. He opened the top and jumped inside. He started the engine and the walls of the garage suddenly seemed too flimsy, as though they were unable to contain the low rumbling noise.

  “Want to go for a drive?”

  We took it slow within the streets of Georgetown, aware that we were the center of attraction and loving it. Once we were on the coastal road he opened up the throttle, hurling us around the narrow curves while scarcely slowing down. The hard rock face of the cliffs rushed by on one side while, on the other, a terrifying drop into the rocky seas kept him alert. A municipal bus passed us on the opposite side as Kon overtook an army lorry and we just managed to squeeze back onto our side, almost scraping the rock-face. The troops in the lorry cheered us and I turned and waved to them. We left them behind and went our way in the speckling sunlight that waited above the weave of the trees.

  The road was heavily shaded and it seemed that sometimes we traveled within a cool, damp tunnel that smelled of earth and mulch. Through the gaps in the leaves, the sea shone blue and warm in the light, and tiny sailboats from the Penang Swimming Club appeared like colored thumbtacks on a sheet of brilliant baize.

  Kon drove well and the MG hugged the road, sticky as a caterpillar on a branch. We drove all the way until the road finished, past the beaches of Tanjung Bungah and Batu Ferringhi—I barely saw Istana before it dropped behind us. He turned onto a dirt road to the Bay of Reflected Light at the northeasternmost tip of the island, scattering the chickens in a Malay village. He drove on until the tires started to sink into sand and then he stopped.

  I let out a breath. “That was ...” I shook my head and laughed.

  We got out of the car and sat on the beach, watching the green, glowing waves, feeling the adrenaline that had intoxicated our blood seep away. Fishing boats were beached on the sand and we heard the cries of the cormorants tied to the boats. The fishermen often put them on leashes to catch fish, supplementing their harvest from the nets.

  Kon’s face was gleeful, young, and so filled with life. Now, when I am old and with so much having happened to us, that is how I recall him, on that day when we broke all traffic rules, when we sat at the end of the world, watching the sea where the Straits of Malacca meet the Indian Ocean.

  “You know about my father, of course,” Kon said, without preamble.

  I wondered what he wanted me to say and, not knowing, decided to speak the truth. “I’ve heard—well—rumors and stories.”

  “Have you heard of the triads?”

  “Uncle Lim has told me about them. But I’d like to hear it from you.”

  He took in a long breath then said, “The triads are a strange product of history. The name comes from their use of a triangular diagram signifying the relationship of Heaven, Earth, and Man. They were formed originally as resistance to Mongol rule over China. There are heavy influences of Buddhism—in fact most of the founding members were Buddhist monks. But the details of these are now lost in time. My father is of the view that the triads as we know them stem from the start of the Ching dynasty. When the Manchu people conquered China in the seventeenth century, they attempted to wipe out all forms of resistance ...” Kon explained that through the centuries, a more criminal element had crept into the makeup of the triads. The mass migration of the Chinese helped spread their influence and power beyond China. Triad members communicated and recognized fellow members in public by means of elaborate hand signals.

  He stopped and I struggled to understand what he had said. It sounded confusing, a secret brotherhood, like the Freemasons of which my father often joked about Mr. Scott being a member.

  The British had outlawed all forms of secret societies as a way to curb the triads. It was useless of course. The triads were a law unto themselves; nobody could control them except their Dragon Heads, the leaders of the societies.

  “Is your father a Dragon Head?” I asked Kon, crossing over the boundary of friendship. But Kon was already on the other side of it, waiting for me.

  “He’s the head of the Red Banner Society.”

  I knew I had heard that name before and not just from Uncle Lim. I searched my memory and recalled that the newspapers had, at one time, written a detailed story about the violence and unrest created by warring societies out to enlarge their territories. The Red Banner Society had made a name for itself as being a well-organized, ruthless group. Its roots lay in the Hokkien province of China, from where so many of the Chinese in Penang came. It was said to be one of the strongest societies.

  “When my father steps down, I’ll be the new Dragon Head. I hope this won’t affect our friendship,” Kon said, and I heard the way he tried to hide his worry, that I would not be his friend anymore.

  I was touched, and I said to reassure him, “It won’t; you have my word.”

  He looked relieved but then swiftly hid his emotions, and I suddenly saw how isolated he was, how the reputation of his father had resulted in him having very few friends. Like me he had decided to be satisfied with his own company. I saw so much of myself in him, especially the hardness within us that had been the result of our decision to walk alone and so protect ourselves from being hurt.

  “Let me show you something,” he said. He laced the fingers of both hands into a pattern, thumbs facing forward, the smallest fingers pointing down. “This is the sign that will lead you to my father. The market in Pulau Tikus is controlled by us, and anyone you show it to will have to obey.”

  I practiced creating the sign. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “If you ever need help, make this sign and you will be given assistance.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever need it,” I said.

  “Learn it. You never know,” he said.

  I knew that, through this offering, an unspoken vow of friendship and even of brotherhood had been sworn between us. It did not have to be voiced, which only made it stronger.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go into town for dinner. Here,” he threw the keys at me. “Your turn.”

  Georgetown after dark was a different world, and the place Kon took me to was something I had never encountered at night before. We parked the car and walked in
to Bishop Street. The five-foot passageways outside the shops were crowded with hawkers cooking under the light of hurricane lamps. I had been warned against walking into this area of town at night but with Kon beside me I felt safe.

  “Ah, the White Tiger; you honor us tonight.” The porridge seller greeted him with good humor, asking after his father. He wiped the oily table with a face towel slung around his meaty shoulder and we sat down on wooden benches along the passageway. A fat man in a singlet dipped strips of dough into a cauldron of bubbling oil and, when they turned a golden brown, picked them up with a pair of chopsticks a foot long. This yew-char-kway would be dipped into our fish porridge, which would be garnished with shallots, spring onions, a few drops of sesame oil and slivers of ginger.

  “Why did he call you that?” I asked.

  Kon shrugged, and pointed to his shirt. “Maybe because I like wearing white.”

  “And the Tiger?”

  He looked put out at my question, and I held out my palms. “I can guess. I don’t wish to know.”

  “Eat your food,” he said.

  “Why is that woman smiling at us?” I asked. A young Chinese woman in a red cheongsam waved her handkerchief to catch my attention. She stood outlined in a doorframe, the light behind her making her look older.

  Kon turned to look. “She’s a whore, and she wants you in her bed.”

  “Oh, I thought she was just an old friend of yours.”

  The food came, and we ate hungrily. The yew-char-kway was crunchy and steaming hot and tasted wonderful soaked in porridge. “I’ll have another bowl of porridge,” I shouted to the hawker. Trishaw pullers came and parked their trishaws by the road, and then sat around us, and suddenly the atmosphere was noisy and filled with their friendly curses.

  “You should sit like them,” Kon said.

  “What? How?” I studied the men, noting that they pulled one leg onto the bench when they sat, and kept one knee protruding over the table like the peak of a hill as they shoveled food into their mouths.

  “Maybe at the next Resident Councillor’s Ball,” I said.

  We both stood up at the same time as a commotion came from the brothel. A rough male voice rose over the noise of the tables. “Get out! Out!” The swinging doors clapped open and a middle-aged Englishman tumbled out onto the passageway and crashed into a pillar. He rolled around as a Chinese youth came out and kicked his head.

  “Enough of that!” Kon said and blocked another kick. The Chinese pulled back his hand and clenched his fists, but then he recognized Kon.

  “Master Kon, I apologize. But this ang-moh was making a nuisance of himself.”

  “Leave him to me,” Kon said. The man obeyed him without another word, and went back inside. The trishaw pullers around us went back to their food.

  Kon led the drunken Englishman to our table and gave him a cup of tea. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes. Pretty girls . . . Oh yes, we’ll have a good time ...” the man mumbled. Kon forced the tea into him and after a moment he seemed to sober up. “I think you saved me there. But who the hell are you?”

  “Two friends out having dinner,” I said.

  “Can you take me back to my hotel?”

  I shouted for our bill and the Englishman eyed me with a calculating look.

  In the car he told us his name was Martin Edgecumbe. “What were you doing in that part of town?” I asked.

  “You seem to speak the local dialect well for a European,” he said, ignoring my question.

  “My mother was Chinese,” I said.

  I told him my name, and he narrowed his eyes. “Noel Hutton’s son?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And you?” He looked to Kon, who told him his name.

  “Are you going to say you know whose son he is?” I said with a touch of sarcasm.

  “Towkay Yeap’s son,” Edgecumbe said.

  “I think it’s our turn to ask—just who the hell are you?” I said.

  “Take me to the E & O,” Edgecumbe said, once again ignoring me.

  As befitting the grandeur of the legendary Eastern & Oriental Hotel, Balwant Singh, the Sikh hall porter, seemed unperturbed when we supported Edgecumbe, his nose bleeding, upstairs to his room.

  Kon cracked some ice, wrapped it in a towel and gave it to Edgecumbe. The room was luxurious and a balcony opened out to the swimming pool and the sea below. The night wind blew from shore to sea, streaming through the coconut fronds. The surf glowed white where it edged the beach and the moon, full and round, appeared so close and hard.

  “What other languages do you two speak?” Edgecumbe asked as he patted his nose with the packed ice. Kon, shaking his head at such feeble attempts, snatched the ice and pressed it hard into Edgecumbe’s nose. He shouted in pain. “Bloody hell! Let go!”

  “Stop struggling; this will make the bleeding stop.”

  I turned away to save him face, suppressing my laughter. He asked the question again and I said, “I speak Hokkien, English, Malay, some Cantonese, but none of the Indian dialects. My friend here speaks all the languages I speak, as well as Mandarin.”

  “And both of us speak and write Japanese,” Kon added.

  I wondered why I had left that out. Perhaps deep down I felt it was a shameful admission, not a wise thing to reveal. But I also knew that I had become so close to Endo-san that I hardly thought of his nationality now and, when we conversed, I was not aware that we spoke Japanese or English or a mixture of the two, but only that we spoke and understood each other so well. Hearing Kon state that I was fluent in Japanese sounded surprising even to myself.

  “That’s unusual,” Edgecumbe said. “Then perhaps fate decided we were to meet tonight.”

  Kon and I looked at each other, wondering what the man meant.

  “You wouldn’t have heard of Force 136,” Edgecumbe went on, “so let me tell you what it’s all about. I must warn you that this is all classified and once you leave this room you are prohibited from discussing it with anyone else. Is that clear?”

  I wanted to leave the room. I wanted no knowledge of what he was going to tell us, but Kon said, “Yes, we understand.”

  “It’s a unit formed by the British military. We’re quite aware that the Japanese may intend to invade Malaya, although the Foreign Office doesn’t think it probable. We haven’t been sitting on our backsides, however. We’ve begun recruiting selected people to form groups of ‘stay-behind parties’ to counter the Japanese, should they declare war on us.”

  “An organized resistance campaign,” I said, seeing the picture with immediate clarity, marveling at the audacity of the plan, at the same time feeling a sense of betrayal. So the British government already suspected that an attack would come, that Malaya would fall, and still they maintained daily that it would not, that the guns of Singapore would repel any such attempt.

  “We’re looking for people who can speak Malay, Tamil, English, and any of the local Chinese dialects,” Edgecumbe continued.

  “And then what?” Kon asked. His fascination with the plan made me want to take him away from Edgecumbe. I saw now that there was one big difference between Kon and me—he was idealistic and I was not. To me, Edgecumbe was no different from the mandurs, those eighteenth-century recruiting agents who had gone from village to village in India, enticing as many people as they could to sail to Malaya as coolies.

  “Groups will be placed in the jungles to team up with the villagers and the jungle tribes. They’ll gather information about the enemy, probably even carry out sabotage against the Japanese,” Edgecumbe explained.

  “And you’d like to recruit us?” Kon asked.

  “I think you two would be perfect for it. You have the linguistic advantage. Christ, you two can even speak Japanese! We’d provide you with training, you know, elementary hand-to-hand fighting, nothing too complicated for you two youngsters. Some instructions in firearms as well and basic jungle survival skills.”

  I did not like where the conversati
on was leading. I stood up and said to Kon, “It’s been a long day and I’m exhausted. How about heading home?”

  “We’ll let you know, Mr. Edgecumbe,” Kon said, and the man wrote down his telephone number and gave it to Kon.

  “Don’t think too long. There isn’t much time,” Edgecumbe said and, to me at that moment, he sounded very, very sober.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kon was quiet during the drive and when I got out of the car at Istana I said, “What did you make of that chap Edgecumbe?”

  He turned off the engine. “He sounded genuine. I might consider his offer. You?”

  “I don’t know, really. Obviously I can’t discuss this with Endo-san. I’ll have to think it over.”

  Edgecumbe’s proposal troubled me. The fact that he already had volunteers meant that there were rational people in Malaya who thought that war was highly probable.

  “Let me know,” Kon said and started the engine.

  “I will. Remember to come to the party,” I called out as he drove away. I saw him wave and waited under the portico until the lights of his vehicle had faded away.

  Much as I needed to, I did not have the opportunity to talk again with Kon about Edgecumbe. Isabel and I were kept busy preparing for the party and, when I could snatch a quick moment, I was always told that Kon was not at home or that he was with his friend, Ronald Cross.

  I let myself be diverted from morbid contemplation of the future. We made trips to the Cold Storage Company and Whiteaway Laidlaw & Co., making gleeful, almost manic purchases of crates of champagne and pâté de foie gras, telephoning Robinson’s in Singapore to deliver fresh Australian strawberries, making sure the house was cleaned and every surface dusted.

  Due to the amount of work to be done we asked Uncle Lim if Ming would like to help out for extra money. She came a day later and I was happy to see that her stay in the village had removed her customary look of worry and fear. She was betrothed to a fisherman and seemed happy with the prospect.

  Isabel gave me the name of a person she wanted to invite. “Put this one on the list,” she said, handing me a piece of paper.