The Red Thread

by Dawn Farnham

  Whampoa spoke English very well, and when dinner was called, he accompanied her up the wide staircase to the dining hall.

  The tables were set with brilliant white cloth, silver cutlery and candelabra, and French porcelain. Pure white napkins lay at each place, and at each, a dish of fancy breads.

  Charlotte could not cease to wonder that just a very short distance from this table lay the impenetrable and tiger-infested jungle. Nor, indeed, could she help but wonder at the extraordinary variety of colour and race of the assembled company, clad in the costumes of so many lands, all at ease and enjoyment.

  The dinner was a vast spread to suit any taste. Silver tureens contained mock turtle, mulligatawny, and spicy laksa soups, the latter a favourite of Coleman’s. The fish course followed, with the delicate flavour of Penang sole and Malay travelli. This cleared, there followed joints of sweet Bengal mutton, Chinese capons, Keddah fowls and Sangora ducks, Yorkshire hams, Java potatoes and Malacca vegetables. The next course of rices—yellow, red and white—with spicy curry was accompanied by pungent sambals, Bombay ducks and salted turtle eggs, together with flat spicy breads and crispy Indian ones. Wines, brandy and pale ale were served by the quiet Indian manservants, who were dressed in the finest white calico with scarlet turbans and sashes.

  Coleman had confided to Charlotte that these men were all convicted murderers.

  ‘Always take the murderers over the thieves, for they’ve no interest in me silver, and sure, they’re not going to murder me over the dinner now, are they?’

  Charlotte was not at all sure when he was joking.

  Over champagne came speeches of mutual appreciation. The temenggong made a well-received Malay oration in his rich, deep voice. Governor Bonham stuttered his way through the reply with good humour. Tigran Manouk made a shy but clever speech and Coleman a witty reply, moving effortlessly between Malay and English.

  Huge cheeses arrived, and jugs of pale ale. By now most of the guests were somewhat flushed and the level of noise had risen.

  The cheeses soon removed, the servants carried in sago and tapioca puddings and silver platters overflowing with mangosteen, mango, pomelo, langsat, rose apple and plaintain. Finally the king of fruits appeared, preceded by its distinctive odour. Mr Whampoa, in high spirit, put a piece of creamy durian in his mouth and urged Charlotte to taste also. This she did with great reluctance and found it delicious. But the smell was not to be borne.

  The durian was removed, the odour wafted away, and the dinner broke up. Takoui led the ladies downstairs into the garden for some fresh air. George accompanied the temenggong and his Chinese guests, who were taking their leave. Father Baudrel and Padre Lee also left, together with some older couples. Mr Whampoa had bowed to Charlotte before departing and invited her and Robert to ride one day out to his estate. She was sorry to see him go.

  Dancing began with Count Papanti who, with a flourish, led Marie Balestier onto the floor, urging his fledgling students to do likewise. Avanti! Coleman threw off his coat and loosened his constricting cravat. He held out his hand first to Evangeline Barbie, who laughed and shook her head, passing his hand to Charlotte. Takouhi had not participated in the waltz lessons and now sat in conversation with Tigran, watching George and Charlotte whirling round the hall. Charlotte noticed that Robert had quickly chosen Miss Crane and felt sorry for her. Really this waltz was an intoxicating thing, and she felt keenly George’s hand on her waist as he guided her expertly. She understood, all at once, the foundation of its wicked reputation. Why, a mere movement of his arm and she would be against his body. Crimoney, she thought, get a hold on yourself, Kitt!

  When the first dance was over, Charlotte was quickly approached by John Connolly and Lieutenant William Gold of the Madras Regiment. Connolly was a slender Irishman of Coleman’s age, with sharp features and a similar ready wit. Coleman and Connolly went hunting together on the outskirts of the town. Lieutenant Gold was an Englishman of good looks and, she thought, fine figure in his dress uniform. She knew they both danced well, for they had all practised together with Senor Papanti. However, as much as to keep these gentlemen waiting as out of solicitude, she selected young Joseph Balestier. To her surprise, he turned out to be an authoritative partner.

  The dances had been proceeding for an hour. Gradually the guests departed, until only a few acquaintances remained. Robert and Charlotte, Billy Napier and Willy Lorrain, Reverend and Mrs White, Mr and Mrs da Silva and most of his family, and Captain Scott, who would stay the night. Connolly and Lieutenant Gold had also stayed and continued to engage Charlotte in conversation and urge her to more dances. Tigran Manouk had talked shyly to her in rather halting English but had declined to dance.

  At eleven o’clock Coleman addressed the company, mopping his brow.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. We must release the band with our thanks. Refreshments will be served upstairs and, to save my poor feet, I believe Miss Manouk is to offer us a rare treat.’

  They trooped upstairs. Chatting, they crossed the sitting and dining rooms. The lights were low. The frieze of Greek harps, shamrocks and Irish roses which dressed the high walls and door lintels stood out in relief in the shadowy glow. Breezes wafted around them from the lunettes at the ceiling of the double-roofed house, so cool and perfect for the tropical weather.

  They moved to the verandah, where chairs and tables were scattered about. The punkah moved to and fro gently overhead. Drinks were served. Oil lamps and candles were on every table and all around the verandah, casting their flickering light into every corner. At one end of the verandah a group of richly-dressed Javanese musicians were seated on cushions on the floor. In front of them were metal plates strung between decorated wooden holders in various sizes: gongs and drums large and small. Odours of incense hung in the air, and flowers were strewn in and around the small orchestra. When everyone was seated, a beguiling rhythm began, the drums and gongs beating a low theme while the musicians began to strike the metal with soft round sticks, the clear metallic sounds like the stirring of a thousand bells, delicate, mystical. The flutes piped softly, and a man began to sing a haunting counter-melody in a soft, nasal voice. A hypnotic quality enveloped the listeners. From the house, three women stepped out barefoot and began a sensuous, alluring dance. Tied around their jewelled belts hung long, yellow, tasselled scarves. Elaborate gold earrings glowed dully in the light. Their eyes were heavy with black kohl and their lips a rich red.

  They danced as one, small chained paces, slowly, slowly. Heads moved together in time with the hypnotic music of the orchestra. The jewels in their crowns flashed as they turned. Gems of light kissed the walls. The movement and the music became one, the dancers rising and sinking, turning and stopping to the order of the orchestra. Finally, gradually, the beat began to slow until with infinite slowness it came to a stop. The dancers sank to the floor.

  Charlotte had never seen or heard anything so graceful and beguiling. Then Coleman rose and took Takouhi’s hand, lifting her gently from the floor. He looked her in the face, and she smiled. He put her hand to his lips. Her guests rose, clapping. Takouhi and the other dancers turned to face the orchestra and, putting their hands together, bowed.

  17

  Qian and Zhen worked alternately at Incheck Sang’s godown and Baba Tan’s. They began to learn the way the merchants made their money.

  The Chinese and Western merchants had an interesting interdependent relationship. Chinese merchants dominated the collection and first processing of the Straits produce brought by the Bugis fleets or by the chinchews—Chinese captains who sailed from port to port buying produce that local Chinese secured from the indigenous population. The captain who had brought them from China was involved in this chinchew trade with Sang while he waited for the monsoon winds to change.

  This they then passed on to the Western merchants for final processing, grading and export. But these Westerners did not deal with the Chinese businesses directly; for this they needed the indispensable skills of the compra
dores, whose knowledge of the local markets and the trustworthiness of prospective Chinese clients was essential. The Peranakan community, with their language skills, their local contacts and the trust of the Englishmen, were the wealthiest compradores in Singapore.

  The Straits produce received by Tan was in small, unsorted lots, so much of Zhen’s day was spent combining and grading the produce for sale to the agency houses. He was amazed at its variety: cloves, mace, nutmeg and pepper, tortoise shell, sugar, gold, shells, bamboo, rattans, grains, ores and metals, beeswax, benjamin, betel nuts, bird’s nests, camphor, cassia, coffee, coir, dragon’s blood, gambier, indigo, coconut oil, sago, salt, sandalwood, tobacco and opium. Tan showed him how to look up the prices for these articles in the newspaper he had annotated in Chinese, and Zhen and Qian quickly became acquainted with the English names of these products; they learned too the words for ‘saleable’, ‘in demand’, ‘wanted’, ‘overstock’, the jargon of commerce.

  Zhen knew Tan leased property throughout the settlement and had a fleet of five ships. Apart from the godown trading, Tan and Sang also had interests in the gambier and pepper plantations and nutmeg and sago production. They held licences for the opium and grog farms and the gambling dens. Sang was also involved in the prostitution business as headman of the kongsi.

  After the working day ended they would meet on Boat Quay for a meal at one of the hawker stalls which sprang up as night began to fall.

  The peculiarities of the Tan household were always a subject which came up. This locally born Chinese family with its Malay ways was odd beyond anything they had experienced. Neither Qian nor Zhen could understand anything that was said; they spoke a mangled Chinese language mixed up with Malay words. The old clerk in the shop helped translate and, when in doubt, they resorted to writing on a board characters which they could all understand. All except Tan, for, as they discovered, baba merchants like Tan could read virtually no Chinese.

  They had, however, quickly understood who had the most influence with the ang mo bosses. Tan’s godown welcomed English-speaking visitors daily. Tan had even thrown a dinner party for the foreigners in the town on the upper floor of his new godown, which had been designed for him by the foreign architect. It was incredible.

  They both understood more clearly now the division of power between the baba Chinese and houses like Sang’s. The influence Sang held rested on his vast fortune and his reputation in the settlement, his headship of the kongsi, while Tan’s stemmed from his mastery of the language of the foreigners. He had the trust of the British through his ability to interpret this South Seas world for them. The foreigners were an ignorant lot, it seemed. They could not speak the language of the vast majority of the population. Keeping them in the dark was so easy it was laughable. Between them, the rich Chinese effectively controlled everything on this island.

  One day Zhen and Qian had been told to go together to Baba Tan’s large house in Market Street. They had stood waiting at the entrance for some time; then a servant had dismissed them back to their work.

  Had they looked up carefully, they would have seen that a small section of the entrance roof had been removed, and through this spyhole a pair of pretty eyes looked down on them. Baba Tan’s first daughter contemplated the two men below. From her vantage point she could see their faces quite well as they turned from time to time towards the street and the door and looked up at the ornate ceiling.

  Her decision was easy. From the moment she laid eyes on Zhen’s face and looked over his figure, which was clad only in loose trousers, she felt a thrill. This one would be her husband. She had seen few men close up, for she had been confined indoors since she had turned twelve years old, but most of the coolies she saw from behind the window screen were thin, sad fellows. She felt a rush of affection for her parents for selecting such a man. The other fellow with him she barely took in. Her eyes feasted on Zhen. She was ready for marriage, ready for family. The stirrings inside her body as she gazed at this man began to overwhelm her, and she could not drag her eyes off him. He would not see her until the marriage night, but she could dream of him until then. She was happy beyond her wildest dreams and ran to tell her father and kiss his hands. Although her mother had sworn her to secrecy, she thought with pleasure of how, when they saw him, her sisters too—all her acquaintance, she was sure—would be jealous of her good fortune.

  Zhen and Qian got to know well the crowded little Chinese town of Si Lat Po. Sometimes there was a Chinese opera performance in front of the Cantonese temple on the beach side or at the Teochow temple in Philip Street. A stage would be erected opposite the temple gates so the deities could watch, and the air would ring with the high-pitched whine of the singers’ voices and the clashing sounds of the orchestra. The street was always packed with men, clapping and laughing. In the side streets, the gambling dens did a busy trade. At New Year, the streets became a mighty din of exploding firecrackers and beating drums. Lanterns and paper signs, red and gold, adorned every shop, every door. This was when it felt most like home.

  Sometimes they listened to the storytellers at the quayside at Bu Jia Tian, the place that never sleeps, where the river opened out into the shape of a carp’s belly, a symbol of good fortune. Sitting on a small stool, the taleteller would light an incense stick and put it in a sack of sand. He would begin to weave a tale of old China, heroic deeds, strange doings and hilarious antics. As soon as the incense had burnt down, he stopped. Naturally this occurred at the most interesting part. When the sound of coins had jingled into the cup to his satisfaction, he would begin again. If you sat, you paid, if you stood you didn’t.

  Fights broke out but stopped as fast as they started. Knifings were not unknown, and sometimes a Malay would run amok, but these incidents were not bothersome enough to worry the vast majority of the coolies. Drinking houses, gambling and opium dens were full most nights, and lines formed outside the ah ku houses as men sought escape from their urges, from the airless, cramped sleeping quarters and the monotony of their lives.

  Zhen would watch when foreigners appeared on the far bank, hoping for a glimpse of the woman, but she seemed to have disappeared. Nothing beyond the river mouth was visible from the quayside. It seemed to Zhen that this small stretch of river was a thousand miles wide, such was the separation between the Chinese and European towns. Neither he nor Qian had ventured over the bridge or to the other bank since their trip into the jungle.

  Sometimes Zhen would visit one of the ah ku houses along Hokkien Street. His need for sex had become urgent in the last months. He often found himself thinking of the foreign woman. Her face came to him in dreams. Then he would go to Hong Min, the ah ku he had chosen. Her house was relatively clean. He went only to her, hoping to steer clear of disease. He felt sympathy for these poor women who were slaves to the mistress of the house, kidnapped or sold into prostitution for pennies.

  Min was a girl from a village near Zhangzhou, whose parents had sold her to the dealer who visited the area every couple of months. She was pretty and was very happy that Zhen, this handsome man, came to her. She would have liked him to take her out of the ah ku house, but she knew any talk like this would get her beaten or killed; it had happened to others. Zhen treated her well, was gentle with her but had only friendly feelings for her, she understood. He did not try to kiss her, which she had been glad of in the beginning but soon wished for. He showed her how to use her hand and mouth to satisfy him.

  Recently he had begun to realise she no longer served him ritually but truly desired him, and he allowed her to kiss his body and run her tongue over his skin, pleasuring her with his fingers. It heightened his own desire, and he enjoyed giving women pleasure, knowing he was good at it. She often pulled his face down to her breasts, wanting him to run his tongue round her nipples and tempting him to enter her but in this Zhen was very disciplined. He had seen the hideous cankers, the rashes and fevers of the men in his village who came to his father for treatment. One of his uncles had died delirious and
deranged. His father had given him ample warnings. From an early age he and his brothers had been given a tea made of various barks and roots, which his father had told him could protect them from these diseases. He had a condom made from gut, but felt so little passion in the wearing of it that he did not bother. Min’s mouth did well enough.

  In his youth he had been awakened to sex and taught well by the fourth concubine of the local mandarin. She had seen him delivering a prescription of medicinal herbs to the yamen when he was fifteen, already well built and good looking. She had arranged for him to be smuggled into her quarters by her young maid, and between the two of them he had received an unexpected and pleasurable education. This had lasted three years, interrupted by his year in the Taoist monastery, and only severed forever when his family’s financial ruin had forced them to move into a village in the country. He had missed them both very much and still recalled their last time together and the tearful farewells. For a while he had written poetry about them and fancied himself living a life of sad seclusion far away in the misty mountains. But the harshness of this new life had soon brought him back to reality. The kongsi had saved his family from starvation, and he had served it willingly.

  Before and after each time with Min he would wash himself with a lotion his father had taught him to make; he made her do so too. Although she had thought it strange at first, she always obeyed his instructions. Every day she drank the tea and chewed the oily seeds he had given her, although they were bitter and distasteful. This was to prevent disease and pregnancy, he had told her. She had always used a pessary and oiled paper and washed assiduously after each encounter, but extra didn’t hurt, she agreed. So far it had worked. She had already had one abortion, by massage and herbs, which had been painful and made her very sick. When she had her period or a fever, Zhen brought her herbs. On those occasions, he would often simply lie in her soft arms and caress her. She knew that for many of the men, this was sometimes what they wanted. They often stayed overnight to sleep with her and talk about home—and for this she got a little more money.