47
SU-LIN
That is where Dr Thumboo’s document finished. At least, that is where the copy I had finished. I could see the original had been torn across the page, so perhaps there was more. The secret his mother mentioned in the beginning, perhaps, that he must have been keeping to himself.
When I reached the end of that torn page, late at night in my empty flat with the sound of a police siren shaking the peace outside my window, my eyes again filled with tears. For the second time in a week I was weeping and did not understand why. I had read sadder tales than this, composed more movingly, the language more lyrical. I could even probably put my hand on a dozen folders tied up with pink ribbon in my chambers that contained more sorrowful facts. But it was not the facts that moved me. It was not the composition. It was not the undoubted tragedy of Dr Thumboo, or even the melancholy of her son. I was weeping for myself, and my fears, and my uncertain future.
My sister Li, in a letter to me from Sedona which I have kept, once said that if you push away from a thing far enough you will eventually get to the thing you are pushing away from. It was probably the wisest thing she has ever said to me, her years of spiritual searching distilled in a sentence. Of course, I recognised that it was essentially Lao Tzu, but that was not the wisdom I mean. The wisdom was in the way she understood how it applied to me. I was pushing away from men because I would only settle for one who might replace the trust I had somehow lost in my father. Now I was weeping because … could it be that I had pushed back so far that I had bumped into one, and was so foolish I did not turn around to see?
I sent Paris an email. I said nothing about any of this, of course. I used the excuse of telling him that I had finally finished his mother’s paper and was ready to offer an opinion. However, there seemed to be a section missing.
He responded the same day and said that he would show me. He had never shown anyone, but he wanted to show me.
48
PARIS
When I found myself living in Uncle Beng Woo’s house I became aware very early on that they were afraid of catching the ill fortune that haunted my own family.
Being traditional Chinese they had an ancestral altar in the front room, another to the Kitchen God in the back, and a complex belief system that encompassed so many superstitions that even a boy like me, educated in a Catholic school with its own peculiar rites and creeds, found utterly daunting. One thing was made plain to me – there was to be no talk of my mother. I was not informed of that ‘house rule’ in so many words, but it was no less apparent. Consequently, I did not mourn her. I could only grieve in private, and privacy was at a premium with so many people sharing a few rooms. Again, although unspoken, I was encouraged to forget her.
I have heard there is a saying in Chinese which translates as ‘Don’t talk about bad things’. It was clear to me that my mother was one such thing.
There was no funeral that I knew of. I was told many years later that it was a brief and private affair, and that it was felt my attendance would be unwise as there was more than a slim chance of trouble.
The only opportunities I had over the years to talk of my mother were on the visits I had from Judge Tan. Every year, on the anniversary of her birth and her death, he would pick me up and drive me down to the sea at Lumut, where he said her ashes were scattered. Along the way in his car he would tell me stories of her, my father, their parents, my heritage. He was the only person left on earth who knew anything about me.
There were times during those years when I considered seeking his views on my mother’s testimony. On one occasion, when I was in my final year of school, I actually carried it with me in the car to Lumut and back, but never succeeded in working up the nerve to show him. I simply could not shake the effects of the cold discouragement I had received from Uncle Beng Woo when I first laid eyes on it, as though I had delivered into his house Pandora’s box. And so, in spite of all that Judge Tan knew about me, he was quite unaware of the abstract heritage my mother had left me – the ‘dubious wisdom’ that was her legacy, the ‘secret’ she was determined to share. No one knew of it.
However, now I understood why I had made the sudden decision to show it to Su-Lin. I had failed to grasp the opportunity with her father; but in her, it was now clear, I had perceived the same compassion.
I had many months of accumulated long service leave at the university and decided now was the time to take it. The vice-chancellor demurred, informing me that it was too close to the beginning of a new semester and that I had not provided sufficient notice. I apologised, but said that circumstances dictated I must take it anyway. He said I was risking my position on the staff with such unilateral action and demanded I reconsider. I apologised again and said that perhaps he should take the view that my decision was a triumph of wisdom over dogma. I must say, I did enjoy that.
On the flight back to London I kept my mother’s torn piece of paper in my coat pocket, and took it out to read again and again. I read it more times during that flight than perhaps I had ever read it before. Every time my eye scanned those words I could feel my skin tingle. I do not accept that the wisdom it contained had ever been dubious, but of its truth now I had never been more certain.
Happiness is a blessing that visits us only intermittently through life, and then but fleetingly. Sadness will also be such a visitor. Both are necessary for true fulfilment, as valleys are to mountains. The pursuit of happiness can be a long and lonely climb. For me, I thought I had reached it early when I met Uncle Tang. After he was gone I despaired over how I would have no more than a reminiscence of happiness for the rest of it. Now I find it actually came late.
It is better late.
You may be able to hang on to it until your time comes, if you are more fortunate than I. But at least you will not have to endure long the despair.
Grab your opportunity for happiness with two eager hands, Paris, whenever it presents itself. It may be someone you least expect, as it was with me. Someone quite different to you in every way. In fact, that may be quite the opposite to you, and that may very well be the reason – they are the yin to your yang. They fit with you the way that symbol does, to make a complete whole. Such fulfilment is what life requires of you, and it comes with another. Only with another can you grow, can you truly be complete. That is the secret I have learned, and that I leave you.
The world can be a dark place, my sweet boy, but the light shed by another can show you the way through.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
May Lim for her legal advice and reminiscences, Ong Su-ming for her navigational guidance, Law Siak Hong for all things Papan, Mary Tang for her lyrical translation, and Beverley Cousins and Patrick Mangan for their editorial guidance.
For everything else I am, as always, in debt to Oola Ong.
Sybil Kathigasu’s No Dram of Mercy was both a source of reference and an inspiration.
The life and career of Chief Justice H. T. Ong is at the heart of The Heart Radical, as is his Law and Justice Through the Cases.
Boyd Anderson is the author of Errol, Fidel and the Cuban Rebel Girls (2010), Ludo (2011) and Amber Road (2013). He is also co-author of Children of the Dust. He lives in Sydney, but prefers to eat in Penang.
Also by Boyd Anderson
Children of the Dust (co-author)
Errol, Fidel and the Cuban Rebel Girls
Ludo
Amber Road
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The Heart Radical
ePub 9780857981615
Copyright © Boyd Anderson 2014
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
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First published by Bantam in 2014
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Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Anderson, Boyd, author.
The heart radical/Boyd Anderson.
ISBN 9780857981615 (ebook)
Malaya – History – Malayan Emergency, 1948–1960 – Fiction.
A823.4
Cover design by Christabella Designs
Cover images by Shutterstock
Cover calligraphy by Oola Ong-Anderson
Map of the Malay Peninsula by Alicia Freile, Tango Media
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