by Tan Twan Eng
“I hardly ever see him. He’s away very often. And when he’s in town, then he’s constantly working.”
He looked at me with eyes that had seen so much. “And you miss him.”
I nodded. “I haven’t been taught by him for some time. I think my level of skills is deteriorating. I do practice at the consulate though.”
“But it is not the same.”
“No.”
He shook his head. “What will you do, when the Japanese attack?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe it won’t happen.”
“Since meeting you I have considered you to be a highly intelligent boy. You have to be, since you have all our blood—mine, your mother’s, your father’s. It would pain me deeply if such a potent combination produced an imbecile. And you have managed to learn a great deal from Mr. Endo, a man whom I respect, whatever his intentions.” He leaned closer to me. “So open your eyes now. Open them as wide as the insane monk who cut off his own eyelids. And see, once and for all.”
I was taken aback by his vehemence. He had grasped clearly what I had been trying to ignore, that deep inside I knew the Japanese would launch an invasion. All the signs had been there from the first moment I met Endo-san. And I remembered too what Endo-san had said that night when we had sat beneath the vipers at the hotel in Penang Hill: the great human capacity for choosing not to see. What made it more painful was Endo-san’s admission to me, on the night of the party.
And so, because I respected my grandfather and, more, because I had come to love him, I knew it was time to accept the truth. I told him about Endo-san’s revelations about the imminent invasion. However, acknowledging it did not mean I had the solution. “I don’t know what to do,” I said.
“You will have to make a stand soon. Every person must, at some point in his life. But I truly feel for you,” the old man said.
“Why?”
“Whatever choices you make will never be the completely correct ones,” he said. “That is your tragedy.”
“You’re very helpful,” I said, hiding my anxiety at his words behind a sardonic tone of voice. It did not deceive him.
“You’ll survive,” he said. “You’ve had to all your life. I am certain it has never been easy, growing up as a child of mixed parentage in this place. But that is your strength. Accept the fact that you are different, that you are of two worlds. And I wish you to remember this when you feel you cannot go on: you are used to the duality of life. You have the ability to bring all of life’s disparate elements into a cohesive whole. So use it.”
I looked at him in wonder. He had explained the circumstances of my entire life in a manner I had never even considered. I thought he had oversimplified many of its aspects but for a moment I felt that the course of my life, my very existence, finally made sense.
“You were of the view that your mother named you after the street she grew up in,” he said. “I do not think so. I have always felt there was another reason.”
I waited for him to explain.
“After I left China I spent, as I have told you, three years in Hong Kong. I found refuge in a missionary school and there I learned all about the Western God and his son. The son who brought salvation to the world.
“There was a Dutchman there, an old theologian, Father Martinus, who told me about the teachings of another Dutchman called Jacobus Harmensz, who lived in the middle of the sixteenth century.
“Jacobus Harmensz was considered a heretic by the orthodox Christians of his time because he propounded the view that a person’s salvation lay in the exercise of his own free will, and not through the grace of God. He was against the idea that man’s life, his eternal salvation or damnation, had already been decided before his birth.”
I began to shift restlessly in my seat. My grandfather gave me a reproving stare, and then he continued, “I must admit that I never fully understood what the aged theologian was trying to tell me. The concept of free will intrigued me, however, even if I did not believe in Harmensz’s theories. The course and the salvation of one’s life, I felt, were predestined. I often discussed it with your mother, after I told her of the fortune-teller’s words, when she was old enough to understand. She disagreed strongly.”
“What has this Harmensz got to do with me?”
“Jacobus Harmensz’s name was eventually translated into Latin as Jacobus Arminius. His teachings are now known as Arminianism. Your mother was trying to prove the fortuneteller—and me—wrong, when she chose your name.”
“We always have a choice. Nothing is fixed or permanent,” I said.
“Those are almost the exact words your mother said to me. The fact that only certain choices are presented to us, does that not indicate that our options have already been limited by some other power?”
“Then what is the point of life itself?” I asked, unable to accept what he was telling me.
“I shall tell you when I find out myself,” he said. He took my hand and held it. “Your mother was a remarkable and strong-willed woman. She may have been right. I do feel very certain that she would never have named you after a mere street.” He took a last sip of his tea. “I talk too much,” he said. “Now I am hungry. Come, I want to eat at the food stalls. It is true what they say: Penang has the best hawker food in all of Malaya.”
Through our almost daily meetings, we had arrived at a greater familiarity with one another, breaking forever the fetters of formality. I stood up and rubbed his stomach in feigned disgust. “That’s getting bigger. That’s all you do here—sit, talk, and eat.”
“Leave my stomach alone,” he said, his voice a low growl but his eyes amused at my impertinence.
It had become our custom to sit at the front of the house and spend some time there before going to bed. It was cooler out on the veranda, which had been built to surround the house and to provide a belt of cool air. The bamboo blinds had been pulled up, like a woman’s rolled-up hair, and coils had been lit and placed around our feet to repel the mosquitoes.
It was about three weeks after William’s departure. I was leaning against the marble balustrade, listening to Isabel tell us about Peter MacAllister. Our father was reading the newspapers, his attention apparently not on her. I could see she was very much in love with the barrister from Kuala Lumpur. He had taken her dancing the night before at the Penang Swimming Club and had not brought her back until this morning, much to our father’s fury. One only had to look at her to know that the beauty of the night still remained in her, fermenting her thoughts and emotions. Noel Hutton remained, like all fathers, unconvinced of the suitability of the man his daughter was seeing.
“Peter says he’s going to take me sailing up the coast in his yacht,” Isabel said. Beneath her gaiety, I could tell she was worried about what our father would say. “And I intend to go with him.”
But before he could reply, we heard Uncle Lim’s voice.
“Mr. Hutton?” he said. He stood on the steps and my father invited him in. I could tell Isabel was relieved by the interruption.
“Saved,” I mouthed silently at her and although she winked at me I sensed an uncharacteristic nervousness in her.
Uncle Lim handed my father an envelope. “It’s an invitation to my daughter’s wedding on the first day of December. We hope you can honor us by attending.”
“All of us?” I asked with a skewed smile. Uncle Lim nodded.
“We’d be honored,” my father said, passing the card to me.
Like all Chinese wedding invitations, the card and the envelope were red, the color of joy and luck and fortune. There was a faint smell of sandalwood on the card and my hands became scented when I touched it. So the soothsayer had finally found a date to suit the horoscopes of the engaged couple. I smiled to Uncle Lim, feeling happy for him. “We’ll be glad to come,” I said.
After he had left I saw Isabel take a deep breath, and I knew what her next words would be.
“Peter wants to marry me.”
“He’
s too old for you,” our father replied. “And I’ve heard of his reputation with women, so you can forget about going sailing with him.”
They began to throw words back and forth. I left them and walked down to the beach. On Endo-san’s island a small gleam of light broke through the trees. I had not seen him for a while and I felt the sudden urge to spend a moment with him.
I brought my boat out from the boathouse and crossed over to the island. The sea was thick beneath me, shining with phosphorescence that clung to my oars with each pull. I felt as if I were rowing on a skin of elastic light.
His house was lit only by a single lamp and the doors were open. I walked around to the rocky outcrop facing the open sea, and saw his dark figure standing on the rocks. A light flashed like a captured star from his hand and, far out to the darkness of the sea, a flicker of light could be seen in reply.
I crept back to my boat, my need to see him abruptly taken away.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I sent a note to the Japanese consulate and canceled the classes I had arranged with Endo-san. I could not face him at this moment. I could not deceive myself anymore. It was one thing to hear him admit his knowledge of his country’s intention to attack us, but quite another to witness his active role in it. I kept seeing him on that rock again and again, flashing his secret signals out to the waiting sea. I knew for certain now what he was doing, and the role I had played in helping him.
Tanaka, Kon’s sensei, was the only person who would be able to help me, and I decided to visit him the day before Ming’s wedding.
I made my way to his house in Tanjung Tokong and waited in the shade of the veranda. I sounded the wind chime. “Tanaka-san!” I called out.
The door with the mosquito netting opened and he came out. “Ah, good! I have been thinking about you. It is timely that you have come.”
Once again we sat on the veranda, but this time there was no tea. “I apologize but I have packed away most of my things,” he said.
“You’re leaving? Are you going home?”
“No. I have decided to find refuge in a monastery in the hills around Ayer Itam.”
“You too think there’ll be a war,” I said.
“There will always be wars,” Tanaka said.
“Stop talking like a novice monk, Tanaka-san,” I said and then, shocked at my own rudeness, I apologized.
He leaned closer and studied my face. “What is troubling you?”
I told him everything, about Endo-san’s activities and how he had manipulated me. It was an immense relief to finally confide in another person who had known Endo-san, someone who would not condemn me.
Tanaka closed his eyes and appeared to have gone to sleep but he said, “Your duty to your family and home is heavy, as is your obligation to your sensei. I know how you feel. Especially about Endo-san.”
“How could you, when there is so much enmity between Endo-san and yourself?”
He opened his eyes in surprise. “Enmity? There is none, none at all.”
“You barely spoke to each other at the party.”
“That doesn’t mean we did not communicate. Endo-san has been, and will always be, the greatest friend I’ll ever have. In fact, your friendship with Kon reminds me very much of us when we were younger.”
“What happened?”
Tanaka listened to the breeze on the bars of the wind chime. It was so quiet I could hear his breathing. I found it hard to believe that an invading army was at that moment preparing to spill over the country like beans poured out from a gunnysack.
Finally he said, “The pacifist views of Endo-san’s father were considered not in harmony with the emperor’s vision and he was removed from his post as a courtier. The family was disgraced and moved back to Toriijima, where they started a business.”
His continued evasiveness exasperated me. I made up my mind that I would obtain the truth during this visit, for another opportunity might not arise. So I said, in a firm and resolute voice, “I’ve heard all of that before. Why are you actually here? Why of all the places in the world did you choose Penang? You told me once, but I knew you were lying to me.”
He flashed his teeth in a quick, guilty smile, but his eyes remained sad. He understood the situation I had been put in and that I could not now accept anything less than the complete truth.
“I apologize for not having been completely frank with you,” he said. “As Japan extended her influence further into China, Endo-san’s father attacked the government publicly, which in Japan can be seen as a personal attack on the emperor. He was imprisoned and subsequently fell ill and Endo-san’s mother retreated into her own world. Endo-san and Umeko, his sister, were the only ones who could take care of their young brothers and sisters.”
He stopped, pausing to arrange his words like an ikebana expert with his flowers, shifting, bending, adding, and taking away to achieve the results he desired. “Endo-san was never close to his mother, but even he was affected by her mental state. She would sit in the sun and stare at the lake or watch the farmers planting rice. I visited her often. Sometimes she would sing to me or to her sleeping children.”
I heard my own voice reciting the lines of the poem to Endo-san, in exchange for his Nagamitsu sword. I saw now why the poem had touched him so much more than I had anticipated.
“Endo-san’s father’s health worsened. The government was aware that Endo-san had traveled extensively and so decided to make use of his experience. He was given the choice of working for the government in return for medical treatment and nursing care for his father. When Endo-san was given a position in the consulate here, his father, Aritaki-san, asked for me. I went to the prison to see him and he asked a great favor of me.”
“He asked you to look out for his son. And you followed Endo-san all the way here,” I said, making a correct assumption.
“I refused at first. Umeko, Endo-san’s sister, begged me. And there was a young girl, Michiko, who loved Endo-san so much, and I—” he stopped.
“And you were very much in love with her,” I said, finishing it for him.
“I was very much aware that Michiko did not return my feelings. But because I loved her, I promised her that I would look after Endo-san, wherever he went. And also because Endo-san was my friend. Aritaki-san even begged our sensei’s help to persuade me. My sensei felt that Endo-san required a constant reminder of his teachings. I am that reminder. That is why he dislikes my presence here.”
“But you can’t leave now. Endo-san will need a friend now more than ever,” I said.
“I have seen how he has changed, since he began his work here. We have different beliefs now. I cannot condone this war my country has started. This is the moment when our paths diverge. I will not watch over him anymore. I have tried, but he has closed himself off from all others.”
“You’re running away,” I said in disbelief. “You have put aside your duty.” It was a serious accusation to make but the facts were clear and irrefutable. Tanaka did not disagree but sat quietly, his face like a Noh mask, unreadable.
“You cannot outrun a world at war, Tanaka-san.”
He looked into my eyes. “And you cannot outrun your fate, my young friend. It is time to say my farewell to you.”
“Will we meet again?”
“Definitely. When all this madness is over; when harmony is restored, you and Endo-san will find me here.”
“What must I do, Tanaka-san?” I asked.
“What do you think you must do?”
I was unable to reply. He gave me a sad, sympathetic smile. “You already know what you have to do,” he said.
I made one final attempt to sway him. “You’re his friend; you must stay.”
He shook his head. “He doesn’t need me anymore. He has you.”
We followed the map Uncle Lim had printed on the back of the invitation card. The village was thirty miles away from town, on the southwestern tip of the island, known to the locals as Balik Pulau, Back of the Island. My
father drove the Daimler, jaws tight, his expression replicated on Isabel’s face. I did not have to be told how the discussions for her engagement to Peter MacAllister had gone in the past two weeks.
I had been too distracted to pay attention to them. Tanaka’s disclosure had unveiled another aspect to Endo-san’s presence in Penang and amplified the sense of unbalance I was experiencing. It was akin to being thrown continuously by Endo-san at the conclusion of every lesson. I would fall, get up quickly, and be met immediately by another technique until the flow of my blood seemed reversed and I was vertiginous, not knowing where earth and sky stood.
I knew it would make me even more miserable than I felt now but I made a decision to avoid contact with him for the moment, until I was able to overcome my feelings of confusion. I did not know how long that would require and a great heaviness settled itself upon me.
Instead of going through miles of jungle, my father decided to drive around the island, heading to its westernmost tip before turning south. The road rose up on the shoulders of low hills and faithfully followed the curves of the coastline. Below us the thick green of the trees was stitched to the blue of the sea by a seam of white, endless surf. Light splattered like careless paint through the trees above us and the wind through our open windows smelled clean and unblemished, tasting of wet earth, damp leaves, and always, always the sea.
We passed Malay kampongs, slowing down to avoid the naked children playing on the roads. They shouted with excitement when they saw the car. Birds called and flew from tree to tree, disturbed by our passage. Wild orchids clung to the face of the cliff that the road skirted. At Teluk Bahang, the road faded into the jungles and we turned south, passing fruit orchards and durian and coconut plantations. The spiky durian fruit clung like immense burrs on the trees, infusing the air with their pungent, flatulent smell.
Following the little signs planted along the road by the villagers, we went off the main road and entered Kampong Dugong. Banners, all red, fluttered in the air, golden congratulatory words painted on them by a master calligrapher. Uncle Lim met us dressed in formal crimson robes, happy to see us. We were the only Europeans in this village today.