The Hills of Singapore

by Dawn Farnham

  Their marriage had been arranged and she thanked all the gods that had brought him to her. The moment she had seen him, she had fallen hopelessly in love with him. Nothing he did or did not do made any difference. She knew he did not love her like that and it was an agony that she had, every day, to bear. It was fearful to love like this, mutely. She was not allowed to tell him; she had no way to voice these emotions she felt for him.

  He was a beautiful man. She had seen enough men now to know he was very beautiful, his face strong, his eyes deep and black, his lips full; his body was smooth perfection, broad shouldered, slim hipped, the long queue which hung below the curve of his back thick and lustrous. He was a man who knew women; she did not know how but he was always confident and imperative, his will only prevailed. Yet, in his own pleasure, he knew how to make her abandon herself, expected it from her, this fullness, this quivering enjoyment of their physical act.

  Every intimation as she was growing up, every half-heard, half-understood idea was that women could not enjoy this act with their husbands. Short, messy and frustrating—let him do what he demands and be quiet. All these ideas had been banished by him. That all men could not do this she knew from talk with her cousins and particularly her sister, who was profoundly dissatisfied with her own husband. Now, as Zhen rose above her, she touched the tattoo of the Lord of War, the Lord Guan Di, on his hard, smooth chest. This image of martial virility filled her eyes, and she moaned and clutched him, losing herself in his deep knowledge of her body and this passion she felt for him.

  Afterward, Zhen rose and washed at the basin. He threw open the shutters. Noan had returned to slumbering, content with their lovemaking, he saw. He had taught her how to be passionate and he knew she needed this contact. He wanted her to be content, wanted to make another child. She was a good wife; he knew she loved him. For him, however, the marriage was a contract, like all Chinese marriages. Love had nothing to do with it though he welcomed her affections. But he could not return them. His true love was unwavering. He loved Xia Lou.

  Noan’s pregnancy was long in coming. They had made three children easily and he could not understand what was taking so long this time. He was tired of it, this routine and for him, passionless exchange. At times he could hardly muster desire enough to become hard. Then he turned to her full, milky breasts, as he had this morning, which at least had the power still to arouse him. He longed for her to get pregnant. Pregnancy would relieve him of this onerous duty.

  He felt depleted, wished for a return to his Taoist ways, which had become second nature. Noan’s qi must be out of balance; the rashes she got occasionally were a sign. He would make up some herbs for her, bring the acupuncturist. When she was pregnant he would give up sex entirely, build his strength, return to the disciplines of austerity which calmed and centred him.

  Noan watched him from the bed, the sight of his naked body, each hard line and curve kissed by light and shadow, the feel of his liquid dripping from her almost painfully pleasurable. Before each time with him, she was elated, almost light-headed. After came the fear, a bitter fear of the loss of this intimacy. She feared losing him to boredom of her, especially after several children more and as her looks, appealing she knew mostly in her youthful freshness, faded. She feared the loss to another wife perhaps, or the temptations of a child concubine.

  Her own father had taken a fifteen-year-old girl as concubine only two years ago. She knew many wives were simply abandoned when their child-bearing had proved profitable and sons had been born. Then the man would honour his wife with splendid jewellery, fine clothes and golden sireh sets but bestow his sexual gifts elsewhere, and the wife would be destined to never make love again until she died.

  This might be well enough for those who had unappealing husbands, but, for her, such thoughts made her anxious and needful. Sometimes she broke out in a rash on her arms, which horrified her. She feared she would be repugnant to him and fretted, which made the rash worse. He had seen it and given her a salve; he could be kind, caring. He was a man of medicine, skills and knowledge learned from his father. When he was with her, like now, every night, the rash disappeared, but she felt it lying in wait.

  Today, like every day, she would take the herbal drink and wash with the tincture she got from the Indian woman who knew how to stop a pregnancy. So far these had worked and she smiled: a nervous smile, for she felt a guilt, too, and a deep concern. How long she could keep this up she was not sure. She knew she must stop soon, for a lack of a pregnancy might, too, drive him away to another woman. She scratched her arm.

  She secretly longed to share more of her life with him. These bedroom passions and the occasional pleasures of their children were their only contact and during them, though he hardly showed it, she sensed an absence. His real life was not with her or even in this house. The men ate their meals in the house but quite separately from the women. Their business was on the quay, in the godowns of the port. They took their pleasures, drinking, eating, whoring, and gambling outside. She had little idea what Zhen did all day away from the house or during the frequent times he did not come back at all, to eat or to sleep. He had a separate home above his medicine shop on Circular Road. When they had first married, she thought about this all the time but had come to realise that to continue to do so would drive her mad.

  She knew he was a literary man. She had seen books once when she had gone to the shophouse to take some fresh linen. She knew this store was added to, from time to time, by a package from China when the junks came down once a year. The packages came from his brothers,though she did not know these brothers. She knew virtually nothing of his family in China. He never talked about them to her.

  In fact the men in the house rarely talked to the women at all, for even had they been so inclined, they did not share a common language. Her sister’s husband, Ah Teo, was Hokkien like Zhen, and while Noan’s father could speak some Hokkien, the rest of them spoke only Baba Malay, the language of the Straits Chinese families, a complex mixture of Malay and Hokkien.

  Noan had learned some English and some Chinese characters, for her father had indulged her, his first-born, a little. She was his favourite. The more so since marriage to Zhen, who had taken his name and would look after the rites for him when he was dead. Her father loved Zhen like the son he did not have, for her mother had borne four girls. The little bit of learning her father had given her had done her few favours, for she now felt its lack, felt like a silly, ignorant girl.

  Sometimes she wished she could burst out of the house; she envied her sister her volatile and adventurous nature.

  Lilin, the beauty of the family, was headstrong and within the bounds of the strictures of a Chinese family, did exactly what she liked. Noan prayed to Kuan Yin for those things which were important to her: the love and health of Zhen, a son for him, the long life of her father and mother, happiness for herself and her children. Since her marriage, Lilin rarely went to the temple. The marriage to Ah Teo was unhappy, Noan could see it, but in some ways it had liberated Lilin. As a married woman she was permitted to go abroad, in the town, visit friends or other family. The constrictions of maidenhood, which had confined them since they were twelve years old were gone.

  Their father tried to avoid any confrontation with Lilin and in any case, now lived in the country at River Valley Road with their mother and his new concubine. Ah Teo had no control over Lilin either and the only person she was inclined to obey was Zhen. He was their father’s adopted son, his heir, and head of this household in Market Street, which both couples shared. But Zhen was either absent or little inclined to discipline Lilin.

  Noan could not know that Zhen avoided Lilin because he knew of this sister’s feelings for him. Within days of his wedding to Noan, Lilin had found him in a robing room and lifted her sarong, putting his hand between her legs. She had been only fourteen. Since then, whenever she could, she touched his hair or rubbed against him.

  He had tried to advise Ah Teo about sexual matters,
given him a Taoist pillow book of sexual instruction but these subjects were difficult and embarrassing. Ah Teo was diffident, quiet and shy. He was a great asset to the Tan house in business, for he spoke good English, Malay and Mandarin, as well as Hokkien, Cantonese and Hakka. He had family in Manila, Cochin China and Bangkok who had been useful partners in commerce, for the Chinese commercial network was made up of marriages and relationships which enhanced the spread and wealth of the family. He was astute, shrewd and careful. He had been chosen, of course, for these qualities and not for his physical attributes.

  A woman’s wishes were completely unimportant. She was expected to obey. That was all. Unfortunately, Lilin, always headstrong, had grown less and less obedient, for Zhen knew that Ah Teo did not please her. There had been a child, a little boy who had died within a few months. This death had been a hammer blow to them all. Tan and his wife had taken it hard, and Lilin seemed to have simply thrown away all constraint.

  Noan knew she should leave her husband alone but the sight of him washing, the cloth moving slowly over his torso, the ripple of the muscles of his back and buttocks, the hard beauty of him, tempted her too much. She rose from the bed and went to him, running her hands around his waist, over the muscles of his abdomen and down, pressing her body against his, her lips against the silk of his back. He felt exquisite, hard and coolly damp; her fingers tingled, touching his skin, hungry for him again. Zhen stopped her hand and turned.

  “Noan! Enough.” He spoke in Baba Malay and smiled to soften his words. “I will not come tonight.”

  He saw the effect on her face, an instant dulling of her eyes, her hands dropping loosely to her side, but he could not help it and said no more. He felt no need to explain himself to his wife. What he did was none of her business. He did his duty, which was becoming increasingly tedious and she must do hers: abiding in silence.

  He needed a rest and wanted to spend the evening with Qian, his best friend, eating and drinking, talking about poetry and love and her, for only with Qian could he talk of this. He wanted to get drunk and be stupid and maudlin and laugh a lot, then roll home to his own bed to dark, dreamless sleep.

  3

  “Land ho” went up the cry from the crow’s nest. Adam was asleep, but Charlotte heard Zan let out a whoop and the sound of his little feet drumming as he ran about on deck. She left her letter to Aunt Jeanne unfinished and went outside. Zan’s babu was with him, of course; she never left his side. All in all, these Javanese girls had done very well. There had been a few squalls but no doldrums. The brig had made good time, five days. They had both been brave for they were, unlike her, not accustomed to sea travel. She knew there would be some time before land was sighted from the rail so she sat in the wicker chair outside the cabin and called the steward for some tea. She watched Alexander jumping and jigging along the rail and “helping” the sailors in their duties.

  Seven years old and bigger than his nursemaid, he was the colour of pale coffee, darkened a little by the constant outdoor life he led. He was handsome, with dark, almond eyes, a mass of thick black hair which she left long, beading it sometimes like Tigran’s. He had fretted for Tigran and had turned away from her at first. She hardly blamed him. She had all but neglected him for several years of his short life. But after six months of her constant attention, visits to Tigran’s grave, the love of his aunt and the help of the Armenian priest, he had improved. He was tall, well made, strong and muscular, like his blood father. Charlotte was concerned, for she could see Zhen’s build and his face in his son’s. If they were ever to stand together, the resemblance might be remarked upon. But neither Alexander nor Zhen must ever know the truth. Her protective instincts were sharply honed. Alexander could not be known as a Chinaman’s bastard son. Whatever it took, she would make sure of it.

  Alexander and Adam were close companions. Adam was five years old. He was of slighter build but had the same dark eyes and black hair. Where Alexander was headstrong and bold, Adam was quiet, serious and loving. She saw Tigran in him, the same kindness and good temper. Alexander could be rough at times, cruel, fearless, but since he had passed out of babyhood, with Adam he was always gentle and fiercely protective.

  He turned suddenly and saw her and smiled. She drew a sharp breath. Zhen’s boyhood face, she was certain, had looked like this. She smiled too, blowing a kiss. He ran over and threw himself into her arms.

  “Mummy, tell me the story of the prince and the lion again.”

  Charlotte pulled him onto her lap. She had filled both boys with this story so that they might not regret their parting from the only home they had known, from Tigran’s grave, from their memories of Batavia.

  “Once upon a time,” she began and Alexander smiled his gap-toothed smile, “there was a handsome and valiant prince of Sumatra. His name was Sang Nila Utama, and he was the son of the Rajah Chulan of India and the daughter of the God of the Sea. He was a mighty fighter and a mighty sailor. He wanted to build a new city and set out to search for the perfect place.

  “He and his men went first to the islands of Rhio and were welcomed by the Queen. A few days later Prince Utama went to a nearby island to hunt. He spied a deer. While chasing it he came to a very large rock and climbed it to see where the deer had gone.

  “At the top of the rock Prince Utama stopped and forgot all about the deer. Across the sea was another island with a lovely bay, white sands and green coconut palms. His men, breathless, came running behind.

  “‘What is this place?’ he asked his minister. ‘Temasek, my lord,’ the man replied.

  “He decided immediately to visit Temasek and ordered his ship be made ready. As they approached the island, a great storm blew up, and the ship was tossed about in the huge waves and began to take water. Desperately the sailors threw all the heavy things overboard to lighten the ship. But still water kept coming and Prince Utama finally threw his heavy crown into the waves. At once, to everyone’s wonderment, the storm died down.

  “He landed at the mouth of a fine river. The men needed food and they began to hunt. Suddenly, in the undergrowth, they heard a loud noise and his men, fearful, drew back. But Prince Utama went forward boldly, his bow at the ready. Quietly he moved, his hunter’s instincts taking over, his eyes everywhere. His men followed behind, emboldened by their lord’s bravery.

  “Then, in the shadows,” Charlotte paused for effect, “he glimpsed a great beast, a strange animal with a red body, a black head and a white breast. For a moment they stared, eye to eye. It was a magnificent animal. Then, suddenly, the beast turned and with great speed it disappeared into the jungle.

  “‘Did you see that?’ he called to his men who were cowering behind the thick trunk of a tembusu tree.”

  Alexander laughed. He loved that part. Sometimes she changed the name of the tree to see if he was paying attention and he always cried out and scolded her. “A tembusu tree, Mummy, stop it!” Charlotte knew he saw himself as Prince Utama. He had a little bow and arrows and practiced shooting at the straw target which Captain Elliot had set up on deck for him.

  “‘What was that?’ Prince Utama asked.”

  Alexander put his finger to her lips. “A lion!” he yelled, delighted, and Charlotte smiled.

  “Yes, Zan, a lion! So Prince Utama scolded his men for their fear.

  “The prince was very pleased. ‘It is an omen of good fortune. I shall build my city here and henceforth, this island shall be named Singhapura, the Town of the Lion,’ he decreed.

  “And so it has been called down to this very day.”

  Zan wriggled off her lap, pleased with the story and rushed again to the rail, anxious for a sight of the Town of the Lion.

  She rose and went to his side as he began to jump up and down and she saw, in the distance, like a small red flame on the horizon, the familiar cliffs of Singapore. Rust red, she had told Alexander, from the quantity of blood spilled on the shores. Another old name for Singapore was Tanah Mera, Red Land, and she had shown him on an old map o
f Singapore, so he believed her. It had been a pirates’ lair for centuries, the beaches ringed with skulls rolling in the surf from the bodies thrown from pirate ships.

  Alexander loved pirate stories, so she told him too of the Bugis men: the greatest seafarers of all the South Seas. Some lived now, peaceably, she reassured him, though she was not sure if that was true, in Kampong Bugis on the broad Kallang River. His eyes had nearly fallen out of their sockets, and he had jiggled with repressed excitement, and she had promised to take him there. Charlotte thought, with pleasure, of teaching him to sail, for both she and Robert were good sailors. They had learned first in Madagascar, then in the chilly waters of Scotland. To sail in the coral-strewn, limpid waters of Singapore was to partake in some small way in paradise.

  The Queen drew closer to shore. Charlotte pointed out all the strange craft which were new to Alexander. He had seen the big East Indiamen in Batavia harbour, the square-rigged schooners and brigs of Western shipping, the long, dark hulls of the prahus and the opium smugglers of the Eastern archipelago. He had even seen a junk though not up close, but he had never seen the big men-of-war bristling with cannon, the yellow-sided Cochin Chinese ships bearing the merchandise of their king or the strange Siamese ships, Chinese bodies and European masts with huge carved sterns or the sailed steamships, with their white canvas, huge paddle wheels and long, sooty funnels. She gave him into the company of the first mate, who was happy to explain all this nauticalia to him and the meaning of the flags which fluttered from every vessel.

  She contemplated the scene. She had never seen the harbour so busy. It was a constant movement of ships and boats, some in stately slowness, some darting, the whole like a nautical hive.

  The only fixtures were the Chinese junks, fifty of them or so, huddled together, sails furled, yards housed and rudders unhung, standing almost motionless. In this state they resembled not so much ships as floating shops, offering, it seemed, from the articles hanging about them in every direction, all the manufactures of the Celestial Kingdom. She knew they would be here until the turn of the trade winds that would carry them home.