The Red Thread

by Dawn Farnham

  She sat at her little table and wrote a letter back to Takouhi, thanking her, telling her about Zhen, pouring out her heart, telling her she would care for George, send her news. Then she folded it and sealed it and took it to the launch.

  All at once she wanted to see Zhen. It seemed more than a week since they had been together. In her anxiety for Meda, she had lost track of time.

  She went along the plain and crossed to the chapel, where Evangeline greeted her with a kiss. Evangeline commented on how thin she looked. She had been worrying too much about Takhoui. Then Charlotte gave her the news, and Evangeline made the sign of the cross, thanking the merciful lord for their safety.

  The classes were about to begin. Charlotte waited to see Zhen and Qian arrive, but they did not come. Frowning, she went to consult Father Lee, who was relieved to see her, although he too thought her too thin. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘they have not come. Today is the marriage of little Qian. It will go on for several days.’

  34

  Zhen had not stopped thinking of Charlotte since he had left her on the river. He knew she had sadness; he had heard through Baba Tan of her friend’s departure and the sickness of the child. He should not expect Charlotte’s mind to be on him, but after such a night of love, he did. He couldn’t help himself.

  Qian was busy with preparations for his marriage. The betrothal had taken place. The marriage would be in a few days. Qian had been measured by the tailor; that had supplied a few laughs. They had talked some more about his wedding night, but really there was nothing for him to do about that. Now Zhen was at a loose end. In a return to reasonableness, he decided Charlotte would see him when she was ready and suddenly remembered he had not seen Min since their last, unpleasant encounter.

  He made his way to Hokkien Street, stopping only for some food at one of the hawker street stalls. He greeted the old guard at the door of the ah ku house and went inside.

  The old crone who was the brothel keeper came out from her room to meet him. There had been trouble with the whore he went with, and she wanted to warn him. Zhen’s face turned to stone as he listened. Min had been beaten up by a sailor from one of the foreign ships. The policeman had come and arrested him, but Min was not well. The old woman took him down the hall to a room at the back of the building. It was dark and stuffy, and as he opened the door he saw several women lying on cots. The smell was bad, for the buckets were kept in this area, and the odour of opium pervaded the atmosphere. The only window, which gave onto an alley, was shuttered.

  He called her name and opened the shutters, throwing a grey light on the interior. What he saw in the light appalled him. Her pretty face was swollen and bruised. He could see marks where the filthy bastard had held her neck. Going to the cot, he took her hand, asking where else she was hurt. She was so glad to see him but could not smile. Her face hurt, and, she showed him, so did her ribs. Opium helped, she tried to tell him.

  Zhen knew he needed to get Min out of there. He went quickly back down the corridor and told the old woman to find the kongsi man she dealt with, and inform him the honggun needed to speak to him. Zhen thought he knew who the man was; he usually hung around the two brothels he was in charge of, gathering a percentage of the girls’ wages as protection money. Some protection.

  The fellow came at a trot, warily looking inside the door. Zhen grabbed him by the neck, pulled him into the room and slammed him against the wall. The old crone and two customers fled.

  ‘Fucking pig, where were you when the girl was being beaten?’

  The man was terrified. He knew who Zhen was, and he started to babble. ‘I came as quick as I could. The sailor had already done his work. You can’t tell when one of the white men is going to go crazy, especially if they’re drunk.’

  Keeping him pinned, Zhen put his face up close. The man smelled of grog, opium and sweat.

  ‘Well, I’m taking her out of here. Understand? She’s no use to you as a whore, and she’s badly hurt. Were you just going to leave her there to rot, pig?’

  Zhen wanted to punch the fellow but it wouldn’t help Min. The man was nodding wildly.

  ‘Get two men and a litter to carry her. Explain to your bosses what’s happened. There’s to be no trouble. If they want, they can come and see me, if they fucking dare.’

  Zhen knew that taking a woman from the ah ku house was risky. Retaliation was usually swift. He could not take her to his house; it would be an affront to the kongsi protection men. The only alternative was to take her to the dying house on Chinchew Street. If they thought she was dying, they might let the matter go without too much fuss. No Chinese wanted a dying whore on his hands. Dead souls were better all together in the dying house, where they could be placated during the Festival of Hungry Ghosts, not hanging around seeking revenge and bringing bad luck.

  He let the man go to do his bidding and went back to Min, calling the old crone for water. Min managed to drink a little and began to cry. Zhen did not dare pick her up. She needed a doctor; he feared she had broken bones. He told the old crone to go to the Chinese medicine shop nearby and get the herbalist. This man he knew very well, for they often talked about medicine together. By the time she returned with him, the litter had arrived, and the two men lifted Min gently onto it.

  The old crone spat on the ground as they left the house. She was glad to be rid of that little bitch, especially if she was dying. Saved her the trouble of getting her moved.

  The dying house was overcrowded, and it, too, was pervaded by the familiar smell of opium fumes. Min was one of only five women in the place. The four others were ah ku as well, and one was giving birth to a baby, which she intended to drown as soon as it was born. The old ah ku birthing woman was with her.

  Zhen’s woman could have her cubicle when she had got the job done or when one of the others died, the guardian told him laconically. Min’s litter was placed on the floor, and, amid the pregnant woman’s groans, the herbalist examined her. She had at least two broken ribs, he told Zhen. Her face was bad, but it would heal. He would make a paste for the face and bind the ribs. Other than that, there was little he could do. She should take opium for the pain. He could send his daughter to take care of her, bring food.

  Zhen was grateful and passed him some coins, which he waved away. He did not think, in any case, that this woman had long for the world. He could see by her breathing that there was some internal damage for which he could do nothing. To Zhen’s offer of money he said, ‘You have given me some good advice from your honourable father’s knowledge. We are colleagues.’

  The herbalist took a quick look at the pregnant woman; he could see the head of the baby emerging.

  ‘Don’t kill it,’ the herbalist said. ‘I will take it. You nurse for one month. My woman will bring the baby to the brothel for feeding. I will send her to help you.’

  The herbalist, Zhen knew, was a devout Buddhist who had at one time been a monk in China.

  The old woman looked at him, mouth open.

  The ah ku, however, did not seem surprised, and even in her pain managed to squeeze out a few words of negotiation between pushes. She’d already done this twice before, both infants dead. With every pregnancy it got easier. What did she want with the filthy coolie pigs’ spawn? She had had abortions, but sometimes they didn’t work. Fortunately she could keep clients happy right up to the end. Even her belly didn’t bother most of the pigs.

  ‘You want, you pay,’ she gasped, knowing she would lose income if she must nurse the baby. Men didn’t usually like leaky breasts and milky smells. Not that she cared about the men. She and the old mistress would want compensation for the trouble.

  The herbalist nodded. He would speak to the whorehouse keeper.

  Within minutes the baby was born. By the time the herbalist returned with his medicines, daughter and wife, the cord was cut and the placenta delivered. The birthing woman was cleaning up the mother, tying a cloth on her. The baby was swaddled in a sarong still covered in blood and liquids, but c
rying lustily.

  Zhen had never seen the wife before. She was very dark and, he thought, hugely ugly, but she took the baby tenderly, and he saw the goodness of her heart, the pearl inside the shell, and felt ashamed.

  The mother of the newborn swung her legs down from the table and, with the birthing woman’s help, hobbled away.

  Zhen left Min in the cubicle as the herbalist began to care for her, his dark-skinned, almond-eyed daughter seated at his feet.

  He went down to the gaol on Canal Street to speak to two men who worked as carpenters. The man who had beaten Min would be inside. Zhen knew there would be little punishment for the white sailor. Beating up a Chinese whore would probably get him a fine paid to the ah ku house and he would be back on his ship in no time. It was just another drunken episode in the sleazy life of a man who probably fucked and beat women all over the world. Zhen’s eyes narrowed. If the English law wouldn’t deal with him, the real law here, kongsi law, would. The police would find his body, drugged and drowned, floating in the river; just another hard-drinking, opium-smoking sailor who had lost his footing. With the number of deaths while the English troops were here, no one would pursue the matter.

  Suddenly he wanted to see Charlotte. Tomorrow was Qian’s wedding day, and he would have to be part of that. Then he would return to the chapel for lessons. Two more nights, and he would be with her. Two more nights. They seemed like years.

  Charlotte had taken her class and gone from the chapel disappointed. She walked down the road to Takouhi’s house, thinking of her friend, and then turned into Coleman Street, into George’s garden. One of the servants told her he was with the horses, and she went around the house and walked over to the big paddock and stables.

  George was standing next to his favourite horse, brushing her down with long, smooth strokes. This pretty mare was his pride and joy, bought from the Australian horse dealers in the square at a recent auction.

  As Charlotte approached he looked up.

  ‘She’s a brumby. They’re the wild horses of Australia d’yer know. There’s a nice story attached to their name. A Sergeant James Brumby, farrier and farmer in New South Wales, departed one day for other parts, leaving his horses to run wild. When some inquisitive beggar asked the locals who owned them they simply said, “They’re Brumby’s” and so the name has stuck. They interbred with later stock, so they come in all shapes and sizes. Bit like the people on this island. Isn’t she a beauty.’

  Charlotte nodded as he stroked her soft black muzzle. The horse really was a lovely creature, pale golden with a pure white mane and tail and a little black mouth.

  ‘Hardy, strong, agile and quick to learn. I’d rather a brumby than any other horse. She’s called Matahari. It means “sunrise” in Javanese. Meda named her.’

  He leant his forehead against the horse’s head and stroked her.

  ‘I was shipwrecked once, yer know. The day was fine, and then, in a blink, there were dark clouds, and suddenly the wind and waves just picked the ship up and threw her into the air, splintering the wood like a hand crumples paper. We were swamped and half-drowned within minutes. From a clear, blue sky.’

  ‘The stars be hid that led me to this pain

  Drowned is reason that should me consort,

  And I remain despairing of the port.’

  Charlotte put her hand on his arm, and he took it and put it to his cheek. When Robert had left, Charlotte had turned to the healing power of poetry for solace. She was moved by the universal, never-ending power of the words, speaking across generations, bridges between times and places.

  ‘Silent as the sleeve-worn stone

  Of casement ledges where the moss has grown

  For all the history of grief

  An empty doorway and a maple leaf …’

  She took George in her arms and said the words which had helped her, and he stared emptily at the ground, listening.

  ‘Our two souls, therefore, which are one

  Though I must go, endure not yet

  a breach, but an expansion,

  Like gold to airy thinness beat …’

  After a time he released her and, taking a handkerchief, wiped her eyes.

  ‘Sure, and we’re a fine pair.’

  Charlotte smiled wanly and took Takouhi’s letter from her purse, letting him read it.

  ‘A hundred million women.’

  He smiled and thought of her face as he had kissed her goodbye on the quayside. Then he had been angry, not looked back as he boarded the ship. He felt an awful premonition that he would never see her again. Handing Charlotte back the letter, he looked into her eyes and said quietly, ‘I don’t think I can stay in Singapore, Kitt, my sweet. Without them here it’s too bitter. To wake every morning and see her house there opposite my window. If they don’t return, I shall have to leave.’ He ran his hand through his hair.

  ‘It’s hard, for I love this town more than any place on earth. I know it will sound arrogant, but I feel it belongs to me in a strange way, feel like I’ve nurtured it like a good father, groomed and beautified it like a good mother. But without them both, it would be like there is dust in my mouth and ashes under foot, every street and tree reminding me of what I’ve lost.’

  Charlotte nodded.

  ‘Robert and I shall miss you terribly, but they need you. And Batavia is not so very far away.’

  ‘No, not Batavia. If Meda dies, Takouhi will not come back and will not let me go to her. You don’t know her. She is a fatalist. The will of the gods will be hers, too. Takouhi is more Javanese than Armenian and, for the Javanese, life is like a kind of religious experience. There is an acceptance of misfortune which must be dealt with in quietude so that the cloudy waters of life can grow clear again. Fighting against it causes isin, imbalance. I would simply keep the waters cloudy for her.’

  He brought his hands to his temple, rubbed them, then covered his face. Charlotte did not know what more to say. She could almost see rays of pain like shards of glass emanating from his body. She felt if she spoke or moved he might shatter.

  Finally, George dropped his hands, led Matahari to the stable and closed the door.

  Then he began to walk towards his house, waving a sorrowful hand at her.

  35

  Qian’s wedding day had arrived. He sat in Zhen’s house dressed in a long red, embroidered coat and skirt, red shoes on his feet, red hat on his head, looking anxious. It had been decided that, for the occasion, Qian would spend the night with Zhen and depart from there with the retinue to the bride’s house. In the absence of male relatives, Zhen was called upon, with the master of ceremonies, to carry out some duties which would normally fall to the father or an uncle. An altar had been set up in the empty downstairs shop area, with the tablets to heaven and earth, the Kitchen God and Qian’s ancestors arranged on it. He had kowtowed before it. The engagement contract had not stipulated that Qian take Sang’s name. This was not necessary for him since there was a living son, but he had agreed that the first male child would bear Sang’s name. Now he sat contemplating the fact that offspring by him would require a miracle.

  The cha-li (tea presents) had been exchanged and he looked at what remained of the little bridal cakes—one decorated with a phoenix and the other with a dragon—which lay on the table in front of him. These bridal cakes had been distributed to Sang’s family and friends as invitations to the marriage. Ah Liang had invited men from the godown and around the town to celebrate on the groom’s side. Now Qian had to wait for the procession to the bride’s home to begin. The satin-covered blue-and-yellow sedan chair stood ready outside the door.

  Zhen came to his side. ‘Well, the big day, eh? Let’s hope there are no cockups!’ He began to laugh. ‘What have you decided to do tonight, eh? And by the way, you look ridiculous.’

  Qian smiled wanly. ‘I dunno. Wait until I see her and make up my mind then. After all, she probably has no idea what to expect from me in any case.’

  Zhen shook his head. Poor woman.
Stuck with a guy who would never get it up for her. He thought of Charlotte.

  Ah Liang came into the room and motioned Qian to come. A small boy, looking terrified, was sitting in the sedan chair, for tradition decreed this was a good omen for future sons. As he settled himself into the sedan chair beside him, Qian patted him on the head. The poor child would never know how useless was his role on this particular day.

  The chair was lifted from the ground, and the sudden and raucous noise of fireworks, drums and gongs broke out. The procession set off, crackers going off on every side, followed by two red lanterns swinging from poles, a dancing lion cavorting and snapping and a band of musicians playing as loudly as they could.

  Down the street they went, turning into South Bridge Road, following the path by the river to cross New Bridge, then back into High Street, arriving finally at Sang’s house. Here Zhen got into some good-natured haggling over the red packets which it was his duty to distribute to Sang’s relatives and guests as the surrender price for the bride. When the agreement was finally made, Qian descended from the chair and stepped across the threshold of his new home.

  Before the assembled relatives, Qian took a sip of some soup which contained a soft-boiled egg. Breaking the yolk symbolised the breaking of the bride’s ties with her family. Of course, no such break would take place in this marriage, and the bridal procession from her home to the groom’s would only symbolically be made by going over the river and back.

  The bride’s red sedan was waiting under the eaves of the gate. Then she appeared, dressed in red from head to toe, a phoenix crown of silver covered in dancing red pom-poms on her head and a thick curtain of glass beads hiding her face.

  Qian’s first thought was that she was not fat. He could not have borne a woman with big breasts and hips. Zhen craned round the gate to get a glimpse of her but could see nothing. She came out of the door on the back of the good-luck woman, shielded by a red parasol. A woman was throwing rice at the sedan. From the back of the heavily curtained chair hung a sieve to strain off evil and a metallic mirror to reflect light and good luck upon her. The sedan chair set off on its little journey, with firecrackers and other attendants scattering beans in front of her.