The Gift of Rain: A Novel

by Tan Twan Eng

  “Our emperor should never have listened to the generals,” Tanaka said. “Your father was right to stand fast in his beliefs, in spite of the price he has had to pay. So much suffering now. Will the war in China be over soon?”

  “I do not know. I hope so.”

  “You should return home, my old friend,” Tanaka said.

  “I made an agreement with the government, and I will honor it until my father has been released,” Endo-san said. “Tell my family I do not need you to watch over me.”

  “I’m not doing it merely for their sake. We are all concerned for you, even those who are outside your family.”

  Endo-san failed to reply and it was clear they had reached the end of the conversation. They bowed and Tanaka walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

  “You’ve never told me much about your father or your family,” I said.

  “One day I shall,” he said, his eyes not moving from Tanaka’s figure. He gathered his thoughts, looked at his watch and said, “Hiroshi-san and I will have to leave soon.”

  “You’ll miss my father’s speech. You should stay for that; his speeches are famous for their wit,” I said, watching his face carefully. I felt nauseous suddenly as, against my will, I wondered again if he knew about the bomb.

  He shook his head. “We have an early day tomorrow. But thank you for inviting us,” he said.

  “I thought Hiroshi-san wouldn’t have accepted.”

  “Oh, why not?”

  “I insulted him once,” I said, briefly telling him about our conversation at Henry Cross’s home.

  Endo-san laughed with an almost malicious glee. “That was very wicked of you.”

  “Will Japan invade Malaya?” It was my turn to ask.

  He did not hesitate at all. “Yes.”

  In one word my world changed. There was no attempt to obfuscate and weave the truth into something palatable like the Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere Ramanathan had believed in. “When?”

  “I do not know. But it will be swift.” He turned to face the sea. “You need not worry. I will make certain you are safe, and your family as well. But all of you will have to cooperate.”

  “You knew it all along, didn’t you?” I said, trying to wrap my anger within me.

  His eyes cut into mine and I took a step away.

  “What happened to all the ideals you taught me, the ideals taught by your sensei? Love and peace and harmony? What happened to them?”

  He had no answer. “Your grandfather ...” he stopped, then continued, “I told you once before how we’ve all lived previously. Do you still remember?”

  I remembered. After we had returned from the snake temple we took a walk on the beach that had just been washed clean by the receding tide, and as we walked we left behind a trail of footprints in the unblemished sand. He had asked me then, “What did you feel when you met me that first time?”

  “As though I’d known you before. I probably recognized you from some social occasion.” But I had known that wasn’t so. No, the feeling had been different. A telescoping of time.

  “Indeed we knew each other a long, long time ago, many lifetimes ago. And we’ve known each other for many lifetimes.”

  He had stopped, turned around and pointed to the trail of footprints. “We are standing in the present; those are our lives lived. See how our prints cross each other’s at certain places?” He had turned again, and pointed to the vast stretch of unmarred sand. “And there are our lives yet to be lived. And our prints will again cross one another’s.”

  “How do you know; how can you be so sure?”

  “It comes to me, when I meditate. Glimpses and flashes, and stabs of feelings, some sharp as a katana, others barely felt.”

  “How did our lives end?” I had asked, curious in spite of myself.

  He had looked out to the sea. A sailing boat was out, balancing on the tightrope of the horizon. “In pain and unfulfilled, without completion. And that is why we are forced to live again and again, to meet, and to resolve our lives.”

  I had not really believed his words. I found the idea of not being in control of my own life appalling, like being compelled to laboriously copy out a book someone else had already written. Where was the originality, the excitement of turning the next page and filling it in with something new?

  The sounds of the party returned me to the present. “What’s that got to do with the invasion of Malaya?”

  “It means we cannot change anything. Everything has already been set out for us.”

  “I refuse to believe that,” I said.

  “Do you think our meeting each other was merely chance and nothing more? Do you seek to trivialize it?”

  I shook my head helplessly. “I don’t know. All I know is that your country will soon attack mine.”

  “The invasion of Malaya means we are about to become enemies again. That our cycle of pain and our attempt at redemption will soon begin. That is what your grandfather meant.”

  He stopped, looking at the guests as they laughed and touched their glasses together. “But I want you to remember one thing, always, even when we appear to be fighting to the death,” he said. “Remember always that I love you, and have loved you for a long, long time.” He reached out his hand and gently touched my shoulder once. He looked up at the house. “That is your room?” He indicated with a lift of his eyebrow to a set of windows facing us.

  “Yes.”

  “May I see it?”

  We left the party behind. This was the first time Endo-San had been given a guided tour of the house but, as we walked through the ground floor rooms and up the stairs, I could tell that he recognized them from my descriptions. We went upstairs into the dimness of my room. I opened the windows, letting the breeze lift up the gauzy curtains. I turned and he was there and the band below began playing “Moonglow.” He touched the books on my shelves, and made gentle fun of my attempts at calligraphy. “You are improving,” he said, placing the sheets of rice paper back on the desk. He picked up another sheet and laughed and I heard the delight in his voice.

  “I see you are trying to copy Musashi’s drawing,” he said. I looked over his shoulder at the painting of Bodhidharmo, wondering what he meant. He and the forgotten emperor had haunted my dreams ever since I heard my grandfather’s story.

  “Which Musashi drawing?” I asked.

  “The one of Daruma, in my home,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “This is a drawing of a monk from China, Bodhidharmo, who cut his own eyelids off to stay awake. My grandfather told me his story.”

  “Philip, they are the same person,” he said.

  In an instant I saw that I had unconsciously replicated Musashi’s drawing, the drawing that had been copied by Endo-san and for the briefest moment I saw how everything and everyone and every time was connected in some manner. A golden light brighter than the sun filled my room and it was all so very clear, so lucid, that I let out a soft sigh and closed my eyes, hoping to capture it in the memory of my heart. I felt completely at peace, ascending higher and higher in an all-encompassing understanding. I saw it all, everything, from beginning to end and then to a new beginning again. And after a moment of eternity it was gone, that complete clarity and total contentment and, though I did not know it then, I would search for it for the rest of my life— and fail.

  Endo-san stared at me with unmoving eyes. “Satori,” he whispered.

  I did not see Endo-san off, but walked among the guests. As I looked at their laughing faces, their gestures and movements, I felt strange and even cold after my experience in my room. They had not the faintest idea how, very soon and very swiftly, everything would change.

  Robert Loh, the owner of Lucky Fortune Canning Factory in Butterworth, had become drunk and was now berating Monkey Hargreaves for publishing the signatories of the Chinese Chamber of Commerce’s Anti-Japanese petition in his newspaper. Monkey, equally soaked, swung a punch at Robert Loh and the two of them fell to the ground. The other guests
opened up for them and I knew they were venting their anger through the two drunken brawlers. I was too exhausted to care.

  A Chinese tin trader hit a Japanese photographer who was taking pictures of the fight and the brawl escalated, turning ugly. More Chinese came to the trader’s assistance, and the Japanese swarmed in to join the brawl. People started to scream and I was wondering about my own course of action when a single shot rang out.

  Everyone stopped, silenced. I followed their glances and turned behind me. On the balcony, lit up by the lights below like a fiery angel, stood Isabel, her white skirts sailing softly in the wind. She held her Winchester rifle in her hands and said, “That’s enough. Do you want to wreck my father’s party?”

  I laughed, all my tension released. A flashbulb went off as someone took a photograph of her. My grandfather started clapping and soon everyone joined in. The band picked up their tune and the waiters came in and cleared up the mess.

  “Are you drunk?” Kon asked from behind me. “You look disoriented.”

  “That’s how I feel,” I said, glad to see him. “Where’s your father?”

  He pointed to where Towkay Yeap was talking to my grandfather. “Are they friends?” I asked.

  “They met in Hong Kong before the Great War.”

  “So we’re almost family,” I said, and once again I thought of the moment of revelation and enlightenment in my room, how we were all linked. “Thanks, for warning us about the bomb. You saved my father’s life, and probably all of us here. I won’t forget it.”

  “Neither will I,” he replied. “My father wanted to tell you we’ll keep a watch on Mr. Hutton for some time. Make sure he’s safe.”

  I took a long hard look at him, fearing for his future, for our future. “I was told tonight that the Japanese will soon land in Malaya.”

  “I know,” he said, “which leads me to another thing I would like to ask you.” Hearing the brush of heaviness in his voice, I thought, would this party never end?

  He made sure we were alone, away from the crowd, before he said, “Have you decided? Edgecumbe’s offer?”

  I nodded, wondering if we would arrive at the same decision. I had spent the past few weeks thinking of the plan and, once or twice, had been tempted to ask Endo-san for his views. But I knew that would be impossible. I did not want to place him in a quandary. If his government did invade Malaya he would have to choose between betraying his country by not informing them of Force 136, or betraying my trust. Now I laughed bitterly to myself when his words earlier tonight came back to me and I was relieved that I had not confided in him. At the same time it saddened me that I now had secrets from him, when once I told him everything. A change had come and I did not welcome it.

  “Do you think we should join?” I asked.

  “I’m perfect for it and so are you. We already have the necessary skills to survive.”

  “How do you feel about going against Tanaka-san’s people?”

  “I have a lot of respect and affection for my sensei, as I know you do for yours. But there will be a war and, if the Japanese plan to inflict what they did in China on us here, then I will do anything to protect my home. It’s the right thing to do. I know Tanaka-san will understand and nothing has changed between us. He has played no part in the coming war.”

  I wished I could say the same for Endo-san, that he was innocent, but he had revealed to me tonight his true intentions, his true knowledge.

  “I hope you decide to join,” Kon said. “We can ask to be assigned to the same group.”

  “I don’t know. I need more time to consider,” I said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I have to stay here and take care of my family.” As I spoke those words a sudden premonition, perhaps a vestige of the satori I had experienced earlier, told me I spoke words of truth, that my family would need me near them.

  “All right, I won’t contact Edgecumbe yet,” he said, and held out his hand. I took it in mine, gripped it firmly, feeling suddenly lost. Somehow he knew my fears and he said, “Be strong, my friend. We’ll all have to be, very soon.”

  I watched him walk away to his father. We were both eighteen years of age.

  Noel Hutton went up onto the cramped stage and the band obligingly faded out their last notes. He took the microphone from the singer and said, “Thank you all for coming.”

  The crowd gradually quieted, then a few of the guests cheered him. “I almost couldn’t make this speech tonight, for reasons best kept to myself,” he paused. “On your invitations it was stated that this night was to be for my son, William, who has joined the navy. But there’s more to it than that. This night is also for all of us, our sons and brothers and fathers and friends and sweethearts, who have decided to join the forces. Some have already been sent to various parts of the world and can’t be with us tonight. We send our prayers to them, and pray they will be safe, and return to us soon.”

  An eruption of agreement rang through the night, and people clapped and tapped their glasses with their knives.

  “Tonight is also for those of us who are staying behind, to keep the economy going and our spirits alive, preparing for the day when our loved ones can walk with us again on the streets of Penang, on our plantations and in our homes.”

  His gaze sought me out in the crowd. He winked at me and said, “And now, a present from Mr. Khoo, a member of my family.”

  Five flaming spires rose up over us, lighting the darkness above like long sword cuts tearing open the sky to let in the light of the next day. They rose steadily, as if trying to claim their place beside their starry brethren. Finally they could rise no more and at that moment exploded into a series of flaming flowers, each giving creation to the next, as though passing the flame from one to the other, casting their light onto our upturned faces. The crowd cheered and whistled and screamed.

  My stomach chose that moment to tell me I had not eaten anything since the evening began. I turned around when I sensed someone come up behind me.

  “Time for an old man to go to bed,” my grandfather said.

  “You didn’t tell me about those,” I said, pointing to the sky.

  “A surprise for you,” he said, pleasure creasing his face.

  “Thank you,” I said, hoping he knew I meant it for more than the fireworks.

  He caught the meaning in my words without effort. “Oh, I liked your brothers and your sister. None of that English snobbishness about them. And without lifting a finger I have three new grandchildren.”

  “Is it so important to have grandchildren?” I knew that the Chinese placed a heavy value on having them, for who else would there be to tend to their graves and place offerings of food and paper money to be consumed in the hereafter? But I was curious to hear his views.

  “Would you be able to visit me tomorrow? I am staying at your Aunt Mei’s house.”

  “Yes.” I knew not to press him for the answer. He would show me in his own way.

  “Come just before noon.” With that he turned and went back into the house.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The heat of the sun crawled across my bed, into my closed eyes, and the seagulls’ cries broke into my sleep. I had no idea when the party ended, only that it was past two in the morning when I went to bed. I looked at the clock in my room. It was already late morning.

  I got up and stretched and went out onto the balcony, the patterned Dutch tiles already burning beneath my feet. The lawn was a mess, chairs stacked like abandoned packs of cards on a gaming table, the marquees flapping desolately. The glasses rattled as a breeze shook them. The sea was so bright it was almost without color, just a shifting sheet of light.

  In the kitchen Ming was making breakfast and offered to make me some tea.

  “It was a wonderful party,” she said, passing me a cup. “I’ve never attended anything like that back home.”

  “Thank you. You don’t have to do that, let the maids do it,” I said, as she started to tidy the table. “When is your wedding?”
>
  Her eyes almost disappeared when she gave a smile of love as she thought of her fiancé. “We have not consulted the soothsayer yet. She will give us a date. You will be invited, if you want.”

  “I want,” I said, giving her a grin. “Consult any fortune-teller you like but don’t use the one at the snake temple.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Why not? She’s considered to be the best in Malaya. I know people travel from as far as Siam and Burma to see her.”

  “Just believe me, and take my word for it.”

  “All right, I will. I almost forgot, your grandfather said he would send a car to fetch you.”

  “Then I’d better not keep him waiting,” I said, getting up. “Thanks for the tea. I’ll be waiting to receive your wedding invitation.”

  The car stopped at the Kuan Yin Teng at the junction of China Street. The granite courtyard of the temple dedicated to the Goddess of Mercy was busy with flocks of purple-gray pigeons, incense sellers, flower stalls, and devotees praying for good fortune. A heavy curtain of incense smoke from the hundreds of burning joss sticks made the temple appear like a fading memory, one moment clear as the wind brought remembrance, and the next forgotten as the smoke reasserted itself. I assumed we were going to enter the smoky interior but my grandfather said, “Let us walk on.”

  He set a gentle pace, absorbing the atmosphere of the streets as we passed Indian temples, on whose entrance lintels rose layers of stone carvings of gods and immortals, painted in bright colors, the sound of priests ringing little bells floating out to us from within. Hawkers on bicycles pushed their carts past us, shouting out the food they were selling. The streets became smaller, more domesticated, as we entered Campbell Street and then turned into Cannon Street. Children played along the covered passages— what the locals called “five-foot ways”—which fronted the shop-houses and old men and women sat on wooden stools, watching over their grandchildren, watching over the world. Washing hung out on bamboo poles from the first floors, sieving the sunlight, changing it into patches of bright and shadowed hues below where we walked.