The Red Thread

by Dawn Farnham

  Zhen thought nothing of it. As a Taoist Zhen believed in no gods, unless nature was a god and the eternal way of nature was a god. He believed only in the quiet internal soul which beat inside himself and the words of the sages, Laozi and especially Zhuangzi. The wisdom of these and other Taoist masters were in the second book he kept with him. The role of Guan Di in his life was a necessity for he was the mascot of the kongsi, and Zhen served the kongsi. The sages taught to accept what was unavoidable, holding to the middle. Buddhists looked at the senses as windows to sorrow, to be swept away. For Taoists they were the doors to joy, through which the freed soul rushes to mingle with the colours, tones and contours of the universe. Zhen said nothing out of respect for Matteo’s youth and limited understanding, but claims to absolute truth were in his mind manifestly ridiculous.

  Zhen would say none of this, even had he been able. However, the information about this Christian brotherhood was interesting to Zhen who, since his last encounter with the kongsi, had paid his dues but followed Tan’s advice to keep a relatively low profile. He had, along with 10,000 men, attended the inauguration ceremony of the newly elected headman, Chen Long, at the fortress out along the Selatar River. Chen Long consulted Zhen on matters of discipline occasionally, and he had helped out at several meetings at the temple. He did not particularly like some of the more sordid activities but this was part of his life in the kongsi. He had already agreed with Chen Long that this aspect of his duties would end after his marriage. He knew that Chen Long had a particular dislike of these Hong Kah and was working on a plan to get rid of those Chinamen who worked in the interior and adhered to this sect. With their eyes watching and their ears listening, the workings of the kongsi were constantly under check, and, Long believed, this information was fed back to the white men’s police.

  Zhen had seen the plans of the interior and the bangsals where the men would gather to attack the plantations worked by Hong Kah Chinese. He had also seen that there would be an attack on the makeshift wooden chapel at Bukit Timah, where the Hong Kah brotherhood met for some kind of ceremony.

  Zhen had no intention of telling Robert anything about this. He had taken his vows, and if these priests came and made trouble with the Chinese coolies then they should expect problems. After his marriage he would maintain these friendly ties with the kongsi, although these would be very low key and consist entirely of law-abiding activities.

  Qian’s interest in the Hong Kah, unlike Zhen’s, extended only as far as the person of Matteo. He had sensed that this young man held tastes similar to his own, but had not yet tested these waters. These Hong Kah seemed very restricted about matters of sex. He still worried about his wedding night.

  When the three-month mourning period for Sang had passed, he would immediately be betrothed to Sang’s daughter. The Chinese diviner had been consulted, their horoscopes were compatible and the date of the wedding was set.

  Baba Tan, true to his word, had selected a shophouse on Chap Sa Hang Au, what the ang mo called Circular Road, and Zhen had moved to the upper floor. The day he set foot in this house a feeling of absolute joy pervaded his being. This was his future. He walked about the rooms, which were gradually being furnished Peranakan style with heavy furniture. One of the rooms which gave onto the air well contained an extraordinary bed. He walked around, examining it. Tan had told him it was part of a sale of European furniture from one of the long-departed merchant’s houses which he did not use and had lain languishing in his godown. No one cared for it in his household so it might as well serve for Zhen.

  It was made of black iron, but so strangely wrought as to be as light as air. Curved scrolls adorned its either end, and he ran his finger around the delicate and sensuous lines of the metal. Above, supported by fluted metal columns, was an open canopy, four curved metal lines leading to a circlet, a small void, holding the whole in one elegant stream. He had never seen such a bed. He felt the truth of the Taoist saying: the utility of the object is in its emptiness. We live in the space created by four walls; we drink from the space created in the cup. Here he felt he could rest in the space created by this bed of air and light.

  It was pure joy to have a washing room to himself. He loved this room best of all in the house. It was tiled with blue and white Malacca tiles, with scenes from some Western country place he did not know, where women wore heavy, pointy-toed wooden shoes and strange, curved lace caps. When Tan came to see how the furnishings were going, he told him that this was Holland and these were Dutch girls. Zhen felt sorry for Dutch men.

  An old Hokkien servant of Baba Tan’s, named Ah Pok, had been appointed to look after his needs. With Ah Pok, Zhen was supposed to practise Baba Malay, but Zhen suspected that Ah Pok had been sent to keep an eye on him as much as anything else. Zhen did not mind; he was still somewhat overcome with his good fortune.

  No business would be diverted his way until after the wedding, and the lower floors stood empty, but it did not matter. Here, looking down on the bustling street, he felt for the first time that he could truly make a home here. He thought of his young brothers in China and how he could shower his good fortune over them.

  Within a few days, his preparation for the marriage ceremony began. Two men arrived at the house. The first Zhen had met before. He was the sinseh who spoke Baba Malay and Hokkien and who had chosen the auspicious marriage dates. With him was a man called the pak chindek. Zhang eyed this man suspiciously. He was not a Chinese but a dark-faced Boyanese wearing Malay costume. Zhen had not known what to expect, but it was certainly not this.

  The sinseh began by congratulating him on the good fortune of his marriage to such an illustrious house. Then he began translating for the pak chindek. The wedding date had been chosen: the twelfth day of the eleventh month. The betrothal day would take place ten days before that. This ceremony was called the lap chai and involved the exchange of gifts. These gifts would be supplied by the pak chindek and would be carried from this house by six elderly ladies from the Baba community, Zhen himself lacking any family here in Singapore. There would be four trays, holding items that would be used in the ceremony: a green wedding gown, diamond rings, pairs of candles. One tray would be lined with red paper and contain a leg of pork, three bottles of rice wine and a bowl of kueh ee, small round balls of glutinous rice in a sugary syrup. This would symbolise the whole-hearted joy and sweetness of the new relationship.

  Zhen’s head was swimming. What had he got himself into? But he had promised Baba Tan he would participate fully in the Peranakan ceremony, and he knew this was very important to his prospective father-in-law. He sat silently.

  The pak chindek continued with many more details. He finished by saying that soon a tailor would come and measure Zhen for his wedding garments. Two days before the eve of the wedding, he would be prepared by the pak chindek for the vowing ceremony.

  When they left, Zhen sat staring at the paper the sinseh had given him containing the date of the betrothal and his instructions. A feeling of panic flooded his chest. In a few months time he would be locked into this weird family for the rest of his life. No matter what he did, he would be expected to eat their food, share their customs and live in their house. He suddenly felt that he couldn’t breathe. He rose and threw back the shutters on the window, but only hot air wafted over him.

  He thought of Xia Lou. Seen in every rational light, their relationship was hopeless and dangerous. He had cooled his desire for her, but this encounter with the sinseh and the pak chindek had rattled him. The thought of never touching her was suddenly inconceivable, yet since the night they had met, she had seemed so aloof. In the classes she was friendly but cool, and he rarely saw her outside of the chapel grounds. He had not seen again the strong reaction she had had in the temple.

  In his present state of mind this galled him. Had he lost the power to move her? He had to know. Had to change something, shake something up.

  One afternoon a few day’s later, after the lesson had ended, he went up to Charlotte
. Qian waited at the door until Zhen told him sharply in Chinese to go away and wait for him outside. Qian, with a shake of his head, departed.

  Zhen handed Charlotte a small package. ‘For you.’

  Charlotte looked into his face and then down at his two hands, holding the small package wrapped in rice paper. His proximity made her heart race. For the longest time she had struggled to put this man at the back of her mind, and now he was offering her a gift. She held out both her hands, and he placed the little package gently in them, careful not to touch her skin. She put the gift on the table and began to open it. He stood close beside her, and her hands began to shake a little. It was the reaction Zhen had wanted to see.

  Finally she took off the paper and opened the box. Inside was a small but exquisite pearl, as round as the moon. She understood.

  ‘You, you on the ship.’

  She looked up, and he nodded. They stood facing each other. Her heart was pounding, and she did not know what to do. He knew that in any other place he would have taken her into his arms and she would have given up all resistance. So he was right. She felt for him as he felt for her. But not now, not yet, not here. They must be careful, and only he could control that. There was too much to lose.

  He took a step back. ‘I go now.’

  She looked stunned, and then, suddenly, with a great effort, she drew herself together. Zhen read this on her face. It was difficult for the ang mo to disguise their emotions. Then she did something he had not expected. Putting the pearl back in the box, she took hold of his hand and put the box into it.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  She turned on her heel, picked up her hat and left the classroom.

  Zhen looked down at the box. What had happened? He could feel the place where she had touched his hand. When he went outside, she had disappeared. Qian was waiting, sitting on the parapet.

  ‘Did you see? Where did she go?’

  ‘Into the chapel. What did you do? She looked very cross.’

  ‘I don’t know. I gave her a present. This.’ Zhen showed Qian the pearl.

  Qian looked at his friend. ‘Thunder head, what do you want with this woman? Do you want to seduce her? And then what? You get married to the baba’s daughter, and what? She becomes your second wife?’

  Qian let out a laugh. ‘Your white second wife or perhaps your concubine. Yes, that makes sense. She is sure to accept that. Give you lots of little half-Chinese babies, eh? Her brother, the white police chief, will be delighted.’

  Zhen wanted to punch his friend, but instead he pushed past him out of the chapel compound and began to stride along the street. Qian let him go.

  Charlotte watched them arguing through the chapel window, her heart pounding. She did not know what to make of this strange act. Why had he given her this present, this reminder of the night they had both arrived in Singapore? The look on his face when he had stepped back! He thought his face was impassive; he was quite good at that. But she had seen the little look of triumph in his eyes. No matter what her feelings were for him—and she knew she was vulnerable—she was not going to make a fool of herself for any man. She was quite angry at this arrogant assumption and began to dislike Zhen a little. After all, what did she know of this man? Absolutely nothing.

  She made her way to the parochial house and took a cup of tea with Evangeline. Calmer now, she waited for Father Lee to come in. When he arrived, she explained that she thought the two men Baba Tan had sent might be better in his classes. She had reached a point where her lack of Chinese meant they might not progress. Father Lee was happy to take them on and move some of the younger boys to her class.

  They talked a little longer, and Father Lee mentioned that he was going out to visit the chapel at Bukit Timah in a couple of days. Things had been quiet for quite a while, and he was taking some provisions to the young padre who was stationed there. Perhaps she would ask Robert if he could have a couple of peons to accompany him. Charlotte promised to talk to her brother.

  Walking back to the bungalow, Charlotte was relieved. The tension which was always floating about whenever she and Zhen met would be over. She was glad to find something she did not like about him. It made everything easier.

  Zhen jumped out of the sampan and walked rapidly to his new house. Banging the door shut behind him, he threw off his shoes and took the stairs two at a time. He had done something wrong. What? He had offered her a gift. He had not mistaken her emotion, and then something had happened. Before he could think any more, however, there was a knock at the door. It was his teacher of Baba Malay. He felt as if a noose was tightening around his neck.

  27

  Two days later Zhen returned to the chapel, impatient and slightly desperate. He met Qian at the wooden bridge and they walked along North Bridge Road. The day was overcast and cool; grey clouds hung in the sky. Qian sensed his friend’s irritable distraction and they walked in silence. Crossing the chapel garden they entered the classroom. Xia Lou was not there. Instead, Matteo greeted them. From now on, he told them, Father Lee would be their teacher, but today he was absent. Zhen’s head was in a whirl. Where was Xia Lou?

  The hour seemed to drag on interminably. Matteo sensed Zhen’s bad temper and left him largely alone. He was, in any case, happy to concentrate on Qian, whom he liked much better.

  After the class, Zhen came up to him.

  ‘Woman, Xia Lou, where?’ he snarled.

  Matteo was trembling, intimidated by Zhen’s size, until Qian stepped between them. With effort, Zhen brought his temper under control. Taking hold of Matteo’s arm, he led him out of the schoolroom to where one of the Chinese boys was doing some gardening. Zhen knew this boy was Hokkien and he called him over. With the boy translating, Zhen interrogated Matteo.

  Father Lee, he said, had gone out to the chapel at Bukit Timah, taking supplies to the Chinese padre. The lady teacher, another boy and two policemen had gone with him. They had left early this morning and were expected back this evening.

  Zhen was more than alarmed at this news. The attacks on the Hong Kah farms were due any time now. If they saw the man, Lee, they would be sure to try to kill him, for he was credited with enormous influence over the poor Chinese who worked in the interior. Charlotte would not be spared, of that he was certain. A feeling of panic began to rise in his chest.

  Releasing Matteo, he turned to Qian.

  ‘She is in danger. There will be an attack on the chapel, especially if they see the padre.’

  Qian could see his friend’s rising distress. ‘Let’s go to her brother, tell him. He will know what to do.’

  Zhen did not hesitate. This was not about the brotherhood; this was about her, but he would not betray the kongsi. ‘Yes, we will tell the brother, but only about the attack on the chapel.’

  Qian threw him a look of exasperation.

  As they approached the steps to the police office, a large Indian policeman holding a long spear barred their passage.

  Qian, catching his breath, said in struggling English, ‘Police boss, must speak.’

  The jemadar looked suspiciously at the two Chinamen. The little one he did not know, but he recognised Zhen from the old miser’s funeral.

  ‘Wait.’ He held up his hand for emphasis.

  He went inside and they heard him talking; then Robert emerged, wiping his mouth. It was lunchtime. He saw Zhen and automatically put out his hand.

  ‘Why, Mr Zhen. Nice to see you again. What’s the trouble?’

  Zhen stepped forward and dragged the words from his memory.

  ‘You sister, Xia Lou, danger.’

  Startled, Robert motioned them inside the office, where Qian explained with great difficulty that they had heard that there would be an attack on the chapel at Bukit Timah.

  Robert was seized with horror. He knew Charlotte had gone out there with Father Lee, a Chinese boy and two of his policemen. He had questioned the wisdom of this journey, but she had been more than usually adamant and stubborn. He had had misgivings, but
the island had been quiet for a long time, and attacks on the Christian Chinese had stopped. The new headman of the kongsi had spoken with him and assured him that things had settled down in the country. Now he was racked with worry and guilt. Why had he let her go?

  Qian was dispatched to go to Chen Long. Zhen gave him his instructions: tell the headman about the situation, that it would be counterproductive to kill the foreigners, especially the woman, the police chief’s sister. He wrote a note quickly and handed it to his friend. Zhen’s opinion as honggun. It might carry some weight.

  The jemadar had been sent for a carriage and two horses. Robert wrote a quick note for the governor telling him the news and sent Aman off to the courthouse. By the time the carriage came round, Bonham had made his way to the police office. He would contact Colonel Murchison, commander of the regiment. A contingent would follow them.

  Robert loaded guns and ammunition onto the carriage. Four policemen jumped into the back, and Zhen and Robert sat up front, next to the driver. At a good trot they went round Mount Sophia and out along the road that would take them towards Bukit Timah.

  Robert kept his rifle at the ready as the horses raced along the road. Thank heaven Coleman’s men had made a good job of building it, for the going was relatively smooth. He had only been out on this road once or twice. The small wooden chapel was about a mile from the crossroad which led to the New Cut.

  Zhen was holding on grimly. He did not like these carriages the white men got around in. Though he would not show it, he was fearful of the heavy breath of the horses and their pounding hooves, the bucking and swaying of this vehicle from hell.

  They smelt it first. The almost homely odour of burning wood. Then they saw smoke ahead, and flames. The chapel was on fire. Jumping from the carriage, Robert and Zhen ran forward. The body of the Chinese padre was lying across the doorway of the building. He was covered in blood from a deep gash to his head and shoulders. Quickly they lifted him away from the fire and gave him some water. Reviving slightly, he told them that Father Lee, the boy and the woman had been taken into the jungle. The two policemen had run off when they saw the Chinese gang. Having imparted this information with effort, the priest paled and fainted, and Robert feared that he would not survive. Giving him into the charge of one of his men he began calling to the two peons. He was sure they weren’t far away, but nobody answered.