The Red Thread

by Dawn Farnham

  Neither said a thing for a long time; then suddenly his bride had got down off the bed. She had seen the little tic along his eye, and his passivity had made her bold.

  ‘My name is Swan Neo,’ she said. ‘When we are together please call me that. What do you want me to call you? I don’t want any of this husband or master stuff, except in public.’

  Qian had laughed at her boldness. It had broken the tension. She had brought out from a chest some rice wine and two cups. He had no idea how she had got hold of this stuff, and she didn’t tell him. In fact, she and her mother had a lucrative small business on the sly, selling their exquisite sewing. Many of the Peranakan daughters were not as adept at embroidery as their mothers boasted to their friends. The nonyas supplied the threads and materials and commissioned slippers, handkerchiefs, marriage purses and nuptial embroideries from her, willing to pay good silver for the pleasure of displaying the work to their envious friends, extolling the virtues of their industrious daughters. That they could carry out this business in Sang’s house and under the nose of his old bitch of a wife was a source of endless pride to them, as was the money they had stashed away. When she could trust this man she might tell him, but not yet.

  Now the rice wine broke the ice, and they began to talk. Her Hokkien was a little old-fashioned. He began to like her. As the evening wore on and they got a little drunk, she removed her jacket, revealing a silk camisole and a thin little body underneath. He took off his jacket too and toyed with telling her, but did not quite dare. And actually, he rather began to think he might like to sleep with her tonight. Finally, half drunk they climbed into bed and, not touching, fell asleep.

  Qian did not tell Zhen all of this, but just a little. The next day when she woke, he was still sleeping, and she contemplated his face. Not handsome, but not too ugly, ears too pointy but something mouse-like in the angles of his face. She kept pet mice and smiled at this comparison. He seemed to have a nice temperament, better than her foul father’s. Swan Neo knew that his penis should be hard and vaguely what he should do with it. Her mother’s experiences with Sang were so distasteful she did not dwell on the subject with her daughter, but she had explained the general idea. She turned and went back to sleep.

  Fortunately for Qian, his new wife’s back was to him when he woke, and he felt the little tight bones of her buttocks. To his enormous surprise, he felt aroused and after a little contemplation of this fact ran his hand down her body. She woke and turned towards him, waiting, watching with her almond eyes.

  It was now or never. Qian began to push his penis into her. He knew it was not every woman’s dream, but it was the best he could do. It did not feel disgusting. She let out a little cry and he thought he had hurt her, stopped immediately, seeing drops of blood. He instantly felt a great compassion for this woman, whose life had been so wholly awful in this house, who had given him hope for a decent life. He would make it different.

  Qian suddenly realised that he was now officially the eldest male. He could rule this house, Sang’s vast empire, even with the presence of the sickly young heir whom he would befriend. The coffers would be open to him; even Ah Liang could do nothing. He felt an overwhelming sense of power and gratitude. He knew he had to do this for her and him, give her a son if he could, cement his place and her status in the house.

  She hardly moved, not knowing what to do, and this and this alone enabled him to come to a climax. Had she expressed any sensuality, he was certain he would have withered away like an old root. When he finished, they lay side by side not speaking until the old woman, his new first mother-in-law, came to get the spotted sheet.

  ‘When the time is right, we will come to an arrangement. She is smart, but she needs a little time. I think we can grow into each other,’ Qian told Zhen.

  Zhen was glad for his friend, sensing in him a new assertiveness.

  Qian related to Zhen how he had demanded the keys from Ah Liang before lunch, determined to stamp his authority on the house immediately. He had visited Sang’s treasury, discovering the chests and boxes, one of which contained the disgusting and mouldy remnants of dead nails and skin. But the others were more interesting, and he was glad Sang had been such a miser as he ran his hands over the Spanish silver coins, taking a few, laughing, thrilled with his good fortune, the infinite promise of his life to come. Now, he told Zhen, he would send money to his eldest brother, bring out his young brother to work with him, find dowries for his sisters and give his mother peace in her old age. Today, this morning, he had given coins to Swan Neo to get new silks for herself and her mother, sent them shopping in the town, freed them from the gloom of the house.

  He had gone to eat with the little son, this new half brother; they had been served by his new wife. He laughed again. How his life had changed in one day.

  37

  The wedding invitations had all been sent. To the Europeans, Tan had sent a red paper invitation embossed in gold. To the rest of the relatives and guests he had sent the traditional hantar sireh, the betel-vine leaf wrapped around a slice of areca nut and folded into a neat triangular bundle. These bundles were held in place with sharp sticks and distributed by two old nonyas who knew everyone on the island.

  The bridal room was finally ready. It had been clean for two days. A new mattress had been added to the bed. Nearby stood a bare, polished wooden table and two chairs, covered in elaborately embroidered silk; there were two footstools of red velvet. Other chairs in the room had white lace coverings with red ribbons tied into bows. The lace at the windows had bows of red velvet formed into the shapes of lotus flowers along their lengths, and the door had a new red velvet curtain. The washstand had acquired a large bowl and jug of white, adorned with phoenix and peonies.

  In one corner of the room stood arrayed all Noan’s footwear, gleaming with silk and gold thread, beads and satin. A carved teak cupboard stood in another corner, the door ajar to show off the bride’s trousseau. There were bolts of silk and fine batik cloth, baju kebaya, sarongs and fine lace undergarments. In front of these were glass and porcelain jars and bottles of perfumes and toiletries from France and England, Java and China.

  Incense stood lit in an earthenware pot under the bed, and the room smelled of pandanus leaves, lemon grass and stanggee, a pungent incense made from barks. Noan’s mother inspected the room, making some minor adjustments. The mistress of ceremonies—the sangkek um—now placed gold offering paper under the bed and made a short prayer to the guardian spirit.

  A nervous-looking teenage boy came in, dressed in red silk pyjamas. He had been chosen as a child from a large family in Malacca whose parents were both still living. Under the sangkek um’s watchful eye, he rolled back and forth over the mattress three times as a blessing for a first-born male child. His job done, he gleefully accepted a red packet and bolted downstairs.

  The house was now in uproar with cleaning and decorating. Baba Tan spent every evening at his concubine’s house. Only a week to go until the wedding, and he had ordered a close eye be kept on Zhen. No more women for him until he had done his duty by his daughter.

  Zhen felt increasingly powerless as the days drew on, but there was nothing for it. The day the betrothal had taken place it was as if he were already married. The rest was all ceremonial and show. He had not seen Charlotte; at home, eyes were on him all the time now. A second servant had arrived in the house, and this one never went away.

  He went to see Min, who had improved. Her pretty face was a mess of scars and bruises, but she was breathing better. She thanked him and begged him not to make her go back to the whorehouse, clutching his arm and sobbing into his sleeve. Zhen considered the matter. Qian had money now. He wouldn’t have much until he made some for himself. The allowance would go on, but he wouldn’t have access to the coffers which Qian had in his treasury.

  When he next saw Qian he asked him directly.

  ‘Buy Min out of the ah ku house. I’ll use my influence with the kongsi men, and if they’re paid they’ll shu
t up. Then she can work for you in your new bloody house, you rich bastard. She knows what you like; she could probably get something going for you. And she’d be discreet. If the scars clear up, she’d make someone a decent concubine or third wife or something.’

  Qian knew he owed almost everything to Zhen. Without him he would have slaved away on the opium farm until he had dropped dead. But he didn’t need Min to get him a boy; that wasn’t hard. He didn’t want her talking to his new wife. Qian intended to tell Swan Neo eventually that he liked both sides of the bed, but it was too soon. If she got pregnant, maybe. After that, it was none of her business what he did in what was now his own house. He’d slept with her successfully again, and was hopeful. It wasn’t very enjoyable, but not too bad. This time had been from behind. It was much easier that way.

  ‘Here’s what I’ll do,’ he told Zhen. ‘I’ll buy Min out of the house, but I don’t want her in mine. What an idea, all the women chattering under one roof. No, I’ll shop around to find a man for her, and not here. I’m going to Malacca. Sang has a huge house there and I want to see it. When she’s well enough to travel she can come with me. With a bit of a dowry I’m sure we can sort something out. Will that do?’

  Zhen was impressed. His friend had grown in stature in the last weeks; he was quick to make decisions, sure of himself. Zhen bowed low to him, his fists clasped above his head as if to an ancient and wise mandarin. Qian laughed.

  Now Zhen asked Qian to get Charlotte to come to the orchard. Qian still took lessons at the chapel, but Zhen’s had stopped until after the marriage.

  Qian shook his head.

  ‘What are you doing? You have to stop this. Your marriage will be in jeopardy, and what will happen to her? Be reasonable, Zhen Ah. We do only what we can without endangering our future. Think of your family back in China. They depend on you.’

  His argument was to no avail. Zhen was adamant. He had been told to do some work at Tan’s sago factories up river, and these were the least watched of all Tan’s properties. From there he could make his way unnoticed to the grove, punting through the swampy river to the path which skirted the hill covered by the trees and jungle growth. He explained that Charlotte would need him. Something was wrong with her friends. So Qian relented and spoke to Charlotte at the chapel and walked with her to the grove as he had before. When he saw her, Zhen thanked Qian and told him to go. Charlotte came into his arms. She took off her hat, and they sat holding hands, not speaking.

  ‘Someone put this bench here,’ she said patting it. ‘Lovers, maybe, like us, from the past, now all dust.’

  Zhen did not understand the words, but heard the soft sadness of her voice.

  ‘My friends are all leaving. You are not mine.’

  He understood, drew her head to his shoulder, holding her there, stroking her hair. He searched for words, frustrated once again at his inability to tell her.

  ‘Zhen love Xia Lou, never stop,’ he whispered.

  Then he straddled the bench, moving her until she sat in his arms and could feel his heartbeat on her back. He closed his eyes, matching his breath to hers, seeking the quietness of the Tao.

  Charlotte felt a deep peace descend on her as their breath rose and fell in unison. Her hearing became acute. She could detect the buzz of a distant insect, the sound of a leaf falling through the air, water babbling from the little streams, the pattering crawl of small legs. When he moved, she opened her eyes. Half an hour had passed. It was as if he could perform magic, master time. She took his hand and kissed it.

  Then they rose and walked slowly round the old stone path at the base of the hill. Little rills of water came from the hillside, and she cupped her hands drinking, holding water for him. Malay princesses had bathed in the waters of this hill, so it was said. Malay princes had inhabited its wooded glades, and evidence of palaces and temples still lay all about, the keramat of Iskandar Shah on its slope, flower strewn. George had told her the story of Parameswara, Javanese prince of Palembang who, fleeing his kingdom, had been made welcome here. He had slain his benefactor and made himself King of Temasek, ancient Singapore. Then he had been forced to flee from here for his treachery and founded the town of Malacca. How lucky he was to have received the support of the Ming Chinese Muslim admiral, Zheng He. How Parameswara had converted to Islam and founded the first Islamic sultanate. The keramat was still a place of worship and was kept clean by invisible hands and garlanded by the devout. Bukit Larangan was a place filled with ghosts. Charlotte felt them all around her, in the rustling of the breeze through the tree tops, the tremulous call of the kingfisher, the patterns of the sunlight falling through the branches like the shadowy figures of the wayang kulit she had seen at Tir Uaidhne. Shades of the blighted love of Rama and Sita.

  The town lay on the other side. He took her face in his hands and kissed her very gently. He left her when she was safely on Hill Street, watching, then disappeared down the track.

  Noan sat as the sangkek um combed her hair. They said that she could tell if a bride was a virgin during this hair-combing ritual, that if the hairline along the forehead refused to respond to the comb but curled disobediently, then the girl was not innocent. Noan watched anxiously, praying for compliant hair, as the mistress of ceremonies combed the fringe and trimmed it neatly. She was terrified of this hard-eyed woman, who pinched her if she did not respond immediately to what she was told. She dreaded the rehearsal for the wedding ceremony tomorrow, for she knew she would be pinched incessantly. The combing must have gone satisfactorily, for the sangkek um did not frown. The fringe was tied in tiny tufts at both sides of her head with white ribbon.

  Zhen had been briefed all day on the vowing ceremony tomorrow night and the procession and the rituals of the wedding day. He had a headache. He had been watched incessantly for five days, and he was fed up with it. He wanted to see Charlotte, knowing it was impossible. He went into the cool bathroom and lay down on the floor, ladling water over himself. In two nights he would have to make love to her. He would, too, one, two, three. She wouldn’t know what had hit her. He wanted her pregnant as quickly as possible. Then for twelve nights he would have to sleep with her, leaving in the morning, returning in the evening under the keen gaze of all the family. He groaned and poured water over his head.

  38

  Takouhi was hopeful. Meda had improved in the cool air of the high slopes of the Buitenzorg hills. Tigran’s home here was an elegant double-storey house with a wide verandah, surrounded by trees and flowers and the vast, terraced reaches of the seemingly endless rows of brilliant green tea plants. There was a huge aviary filled with black-and-crimson orioles, and Meda had adopted a pair of scarlet sunbirds which came frequently to the tree near her window.

  They were sitting on the old battery at Scandal Point, enjoying the cool evening air, occasionally waving to passers-by. George looked better, rested, Charlotte thought. He was telling them the news from Java. He had ridden over on Matahari, and she stood snuffling by his side, her reins loosely in George’s hands. The day had been hot and very humid, but now the breeze was delicious, the tide was high and the water lapped the beach. Stars were appearing. Soon, Charlotte knew, the vault of the sky would be pinpricked with the light of the million stars of the Milky Way. Over the water could be heard the soothing echoes of voices raised in Javanese songs from luggers down the bay.

  George, too, was gazing out at this tropical splendour so dear to his heart. Charlotte could almost see what he was thinking. To her he had revealed his deep hope of their return. Takouhi missed him dreadfully; so did his daughter. He had spared her blushes with what followed next, but he had been glad to read it. Takouhi wrote to him in Malay, a language in which she was very expressive.

  Robert rose, bidding farewell to George; then he and Charlotte began the walk along the beach back to the bungalow before darkness fell completely. George had lit a cigar and continued his vigil over the Straits.

  When they got home, Charlotte went to her room and took out the
red paper, sinking onto the chair in front of her mirror. The wedding invitation. Tomorrow was his wedding. Tomorrow night he would be in some other woman’s arms. She closed her eyes. Unbearable, don’t think. He loved her; what did it matter if he made love to this wife of his. But it did, and she rose, agitated suddenly. He would arouse this other women as he had her, take her down the same scented corridors.

  Charlotte started to shake, a black mist enveloping her. Hand trembling, she looked at the paper again. In five days she and Robert were invited to meet the bride and groom. Charlotte was certain as she could be that Zhen did not know about this, but it stood to reason. Baba Tan would have invited all the prominent Europeans in Singapore, proud to show off this auspicious union, his wealth and position.

  Robert called to her. Would she take a wee dram? Dear Robert. He knew, and was trying to distract her. Then, suddenly, she was tired, couldn’t wrap herself in this cloak of quivering and draining emotion any more.

  She took from the cupboard the backgammon set Aunt Jeannie had given her and looked at it. It had become warped in the humidity. She tried to straighten it, pushing the wood against the table, but the invisible moisture had penetrated it, loosening its structure. Did it mind, the wood, being twisted? Or had it merely returned to its natural state before the hand of the carpenter had moulded it? She looked into the mirror, then ran her hand over the smooth surface of the box. It would never be quite the same again, but it would serve. She moved towards the verandah. At this game she always beat Robert.

  The time for the cheo thau vowing ceremony had arrived. Zhen’s head swam with these names which assailed his ears daily. The eleventh hour at night had been selected as auspicious for this most sacred and solemn event, the pak chindek had told him. Zhen felt the portent of this time in the pit of his stomach. But retreat was folly, and now it was here. Zhen had been dressed in the white silk garments. As the melancholy strains of the bamboo flute and cymbals of the seroni band began, he was led to the space between the altar to his ancestors and the sam kai altar to the gods of heaven, earth and the moon. The Boyanese pak chindek who had overseen the stringent scrubbing of Zhen’s body and hair and the fresh shaving of his head thought the young Tan daughter might very well be pleased with the choice of husband, though he said nothing. Zhen had remained stony-faced throughout the entire process.