by Dawn Farnham
Charotte watched as Takouhi went up to him, standing next to the bed, letting him see her. She saw his rapturous smile. Takouhi knelt down at his bedside in one graceful and beautiful movement and leaned forward, taking up his hand. She put her lips against his ear and whispered. He closed his eyes. Robert shut the door.
31
Zhen walked along Circular Road, crossed South Bridge Road and turned towards the bridge. He knew that Charlotte was today going to her temple and then to the graveyard of the Christians on the hillside. She had sent him a letter, telling him a friend she dearly loved had died, that she would leave in a few days. She had sent him an English poem, and he had liked it. It was a Taoist poem, he thought, filled with the eternal duality of yin and yang, written by a man called Sher Li. He had not known that English people also had this philosophy, but why should they not? Everywhere men had thoughts and wisdom.
The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever,
With a sweet emotion,
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one another’s being mingle—
Why not I with thine?
He knew he could not see her intimately again, but that was not important. It would torture him later, possibly, but not now. Now he simply wanted to see her, watch her from a distance, remember the time she had floated into his life on the pretty English ship the very night he had arrived in Singapore. He did not believe in fate, but it felt as if they had met, from two ends of the earth, like the loop in a thread pulled into a tiny knot. It seemed as if this loop had been slowly closing from the day they were both born until that moment in the moonlight, in the harbour.
There were tracks all over Government Hill. He would watch her arriving with the catafalque onto the road which led to the burial ground. He turned after the bridge onto River Valley Road and made his way slowly up and around the hill to sit below Government House, at the rim of the trees.
He heard the bell of the white man’s church begin to sound in the distance. She would be coming soon. He trembled slightly. He could sometimes not believe how he felt about this woman.
Charlotte held Takouhi’s hand. They rose as the bell began to toll and the coffin was raised. All George’s friends were his pallbearers. The Reverend White made his way down the aisle, carrying the cross aloft, leading this man to God. Behind him, Robert and John at the front, the eight bearers shouldered his mortal remains and began the slow walk to the cemetery. Billy was not amongst them for, try as they might, his height could not be reconciled with the burden of the pall. A hearse had been suggested, but none of the men had agreed. They would carry George. It would be an honour.
A wreath made of fresh green leaves entwined in the shape of an elaborate Celtic knot lay on top of the coffin. Billy had been accorded the duty of accompanying Maria and, together with Mrs White, she followed, a thin figure in black, her head covered in a veil. The Governor and Mrs Butterworth and the Churches were behind her, the Colonel and officers of the regiment, the government.
George’s coffin passed out of the portal of the church that he had built. As it passed, Takouhi gripped Charlotte’s hand a little tighter. With Tigran, the two women waited until the procession had passed.
Takouhi did not want to see him put into the ground. She had held him, her lips against his as he drew his last breath. She wanted to go to his grave when no one was there. Many people knew about George and herself. Their union, their daughter: these things were common knowledge to the old-timers in Singapore. Let Maria bury him. It did not matter.
The regimental band had struck up Chopin’s funeral march, which had become vastly popular in recent years. Charlotte and Takouhi thought it gloomy, but knew George would rather have liked this pomp and a splendid dirge. Dirige, Domine, Deus meus, in conspectu tuo viam meam.
They joined the end of the procession. The entire length of Coleman Street, from the church gate to Hill Street, was strewn with leaves and flowers. The door of the house where he had died was covered in black. But Tir Uaidhne, the house he had built for her, was festooned with flowers. The doors stood wide open under the porte-cochère, urns of incense burning throughout the garden, the length of the surrounding walls decorated with jasmine, lotus, Buddha’s hand, orchids, yellow meranti; a myriad of species tumbling from pots and vases, a wild and fragrant offering to this man she loved.
Tigran took Takouhi into the house, and Charlotte fell in next to Teresa Crane, her future sister, who had waited for her. As the coffin arrived on Hill Street, it halted. The Armenian community had gathered in the grounds of the church. The priest intoned a prayer, and suddenly a great peal of bells rang out to honour the man who had constructed it. As Charlotte trod on the leaves and blooms under her feet, she reflected on the fact that, from the church to the graveyard, everything was George’s. He had built all the roads, the houses, the churches, the very gates of the cemetery through which they passed, and, of course, the two pretty cupolas, standing white and pure against the green of the entwined banyan and tamelan trees. These he had built for Meda and Takouhi. The two he loved would be watching in spirit. The coffin was placed on the stand, and Reverend White stepped up.
Zhen had searched the crowd of people following this man’s coffin. Others were joining the procession from the Chinese town as it arrived at the little church on Hill Street. To his astonishment, he spotted his father-in-law. It had not occurred to him before, but he realised now that these two men had known each other most of their lives. Chinese, Indian, Arab and Malay mourners joined the crowd. George had built the Chinese godowns, their palaces of trade; the Indians had been his allies and partners in this enterprise. The Malays were his friends, and he had built the Sultan’s new palace at Kampong Glam and many of their houses.
Suddenly, he saw her in the crowd. So lovely, so sad. Then she passed from his sight, and he rose, moving quickly around the hill to a point above the cemetery. A vast crowd filled the grounds; there was hardly room to move, and he could not see her. The music had stopped, and he could hear words intoned.
A myna bird alighted on a branch nearby and put its head on one side. He smiled. This fearless little black bird, with its yellow legs and beak, had been a companion when he had practised the tai chi in the orchard years before, hopping around him, eyeing him curiously. He knew it could mimic human sounds. Now it gave a little click and whistle. He put out his hand, and the bird rose, flew down into the grounds of the cemetery and hovered briefly. Zhen saw her. It was as if the bird had directed his gaze, and he shook his head, mystified.
Charlotte too had seen the bird as it hovered strangely over her head and looked up as it flew into the trees on the hill. An immediate sensation of presence told her Zhen was there. She searched but could see nothing.
They had said good-bye the last time they had met. He had told her he would watch her ship from Mount Wallich as he had done before. She should look there; he would be there, even though she might not see him. He would not be half-mad as he had been before, nor must she be half-mad. They would accept the unavoidable. They would hold to the middle. They would preserve their well-being. They would adopt the wu wei, the letting-be of the Tao, not scratch and fight and wear themselves out.
She thought of these words and searched for him. She could not see George’s coffin—the crowd was too great—but somehow that was no longer important. She had a sudden realisation that it did not matter that George’s body was gone. His spirit was here, right here in these woods. She felt him all around, and the feeling of comfort was like warmth after cold.
Robert moved back to join her. He was upset, more than she was now, remembering, she was sure, his long and close acquaintance with George as he had matured from a callow youth, a mere clerk in the godown of Johnston and Co., through the difficulties and insecurities of his new role to his place now of respect and confidence. Through it all,
George had been his ever-constant companion, a whimsical and amusing friend.
She put her hand on Robert’s arm, and he looked down, tears in his eyes. Suddenly unable to contain himself, he pulled her against him and began to sob. She moved away, further back against the wall of the cemetery, near the cupolas. She remembered how she had sat here with George, lighting incense for his daughter. He had loomed large in all their lives. She held on to Robert, and he became calm.
She looked up again at the trees on the hill and saw him. He stood, seeing her too. She raised her arm, her hand, reaching out to him, and he too held out his hand. The band unexpectedly struck up again, and she turned her head. When she looked again at the hill, he was gone.
Zhen had pulled back into the darkness of the trees. He had seen Ro Bett, Xia Lou’s brother, observed his profound grief. It was not right for him to interrupt this ceremony. The music began again, and the coffin was being lowered into the grave.
Zhen sat. He would have liked to tell them that this death was not important, a mere transformation. George’s matter had changed, become one again with the void. Death was just another part of life’s infinite changes.
Like a water-wheel awhirl,
Like the rolling of a pearl;
Yet these but illustrate,
To fools, the final state.
The earth’s great axis spinning on,
The never-resting pole of sky --
Let us resolve their Whence and Why,
And blend with all things into One;
Circling the void as spheres
Whose orbits round a thousand years:
Beyond the bounds of thought and dream,
Behold the Key that fits my theme.
As the coffin was laid in the grave, Zhen took up a stick and drew the Zen circle in the ground in one smooth stroke, welcoming this man into eternity.
32
The day of their departure dawned, and with it came the rain. Takouhi and Charlotte nevertheless left Tir Uaidhne and walked, under their umbrellas, towards the cemetery. Since the funeral, Takouhi had come every day to light incense and place flowers. She and Charlotte put candles under the cupolas to cast a flickering beam into the night. Charlotte, in their long conversations, had begun to learn something of Zhen’s philosophy. She knew they did this for themselves, for their own comfort, not for George. He had passed into the raindrops, the diamond glints on snow.
Takouhi had asked Tigran to stay until the seven-day slametan for George.
Yesterday, the house had been thrown open to all the town who wished to come to eat, drink and be merry. Half the town had passed through at some point or other. It had lasted until the night. A proper Irish wake, John Connolly had said. Maria had not come.
Now they entered the Armenian church and sat, breathing in the moist air, waiting for the rain to stop beating down, enjoying the building wrought by George’s hand. They talked of departure. The luggage had been sent to the brig, along with all the items that Takouhi wanted from the house. When she was ready, she would sell Tir Uaidhne and everything in it and leave Singapore.
She was not ready yet. She had kept the bed in which she and George had conceived Meda, in which Meda had been born, in which such final happiness had been found. Charlotte said nothing, but she was sure that Alexander, too, had been conceived in this bed the day Zhen had surprised her at the empty house. This would be the last thing to go back to Batavia with her.
They talked quietly, and Takouhi prayed. Charlotte and Tigran would leave on the afternoon tide.
The rain suddenly stopped, and, as it does in the tropics, the sunlight burst out like a furnace, throwing steamy shadows on the floor. They rose and made their way up the hill. George’s grave stood in the corner, with a simple white wooden cross. The workmen, who had been sheltering, had begun again to lay the foundation of the tomb into which his coffin would be moved.
Charlotte had seen the design which Billy had shown them. She was not sure George would have approved, but doubtless he would have laughed. Billy Napier’s tastes ran to dabbling in the new Gothic. It would have amused George to know he would spend his eternal rest under a monumental, spurious Gothic tomb designed by a Scottish lawyer. Still, none of them doubted Billy’s sincerity and the depth of his affection for his lost friend.
Or, it seemed, for his lost friend’s wife. Billy spent all of his spare time in consoling Maria, advising Maria, acting for Maria, looking after the probate, sorting out her affairs. Maria had not set foot inside the cemetery since the funeral. Charlotte and Takouhi had not dared call on her. From Robert, though, they learned of her grief. She had loved George, there could be no doubt; her deep disappointment merely concealed this fact. Charlotte would have liked to talk to her, console her, but it would have been unwelcome. Only once had they seen the baby, when the nurse had been rocking him in the front garden. They had stopped and looked, and there was little George’s face, for the son had been baptised with his father’s name. Takouhi had touched the tiny hand and smiled. Whilst she and this little boy lived, George could not die.
They walked home in rain, but, by the time of their departure, the sun shone. On the old jetty, Charlotte hugged Robert tightly. She embraced her friends: Evangeline, Teresa and her family, and finally Takouhi. She knew her friend would come back when she was ready.
Tigran helped Charlotte into the cutter, and with shouts and cries, the men began to pull away from shore. She watched as, once again with sadness, she left these shores. The tide was up, and the brig stood close in. It took them only a few minutes to reach the ship. Charlotte stood as she had before and looked over the town. It had changed; it had grown, but she loved it still. Her eyes went to Mount Wallich and the long ridge which bordered the bay. She could see only the luxuriant growth of the hill. It was impossible to see the Chinese town in Telok Ayer Bay, for it lay beyond the headland.
Then, suddenly, she saw him. He was standing on one of the piers which gave out from the back of the godowns on Commercial Square. She stood looking at him. He did not move, watching the ship. Tigran turned from giving some orders and saw her, leaning forward, looking to shore with an unconscious intensity. He saw her smile quietly. He went forward and stood next to her.
She dropped her eyes, but he had seen who she was staring at. Tigran said nothing; he, too, now stared at the man, frowning, trying to think. And then he saw, knew. This was the son-in-law of Baba Tan. This man was the father of Alexander. He knew now why the man’s face had been so familiar to him. The eyes, the curve of the jaw, the now unmistakable signs of blood and bone written into Alexander’s face. Charlotte had been seeing this man whilst he had been away, he felt certain. He did not even have to ask her. She had not moved, had not looked at him. Her gaze had returned to the man on shore, who turned and quickly disappeared behind the godown. She knew he had gone to Mount Wallich.
She faced Tigran. He stared at her, for the first time ever, with anger. He took her arm, moved her off the deck, into their cabin and shut the door.
“So, madam, I see I am to be deceived, cuckolded, if ever you are in Singapore. Whilst I have been struggling with death and misery, writing you letters of love and constancy, you have been playing your adulterous game behind my back.”
Charlotte looked him straight in the eye. She gave no thought for her words. They simply came rushing out.
“I do not wish to hurt you, Tigran. It was in this very cabin that I told you of my love for him. I thought those feelings had changed, but they have not. Love dwells not in our will. It is now over. I am returning to Batavia with you.”
“To think of him, to dream of him. Again, like it was before? No, it is too much.”
Chrlotte felt her temper rise. “How dare you! You destroyed his letters to me, which would have given me comfort in misery!” She stared at Tigran, her fists clenched. “What I dream, what I think, neither you nor even I can control.”
The ship lurched slightly as the winch began to weigh the anchor. The
noise of barked orders and shouting came from deck as the sails were set, and the deep thrumming of the wind began in the rigging.
Tigran was lost for words. He wanted to strike her, tell her to stop loving this man. To go back was intolerable. It had taken too long for her to come to him, and now this. He had been her support, her friend, her lover, and she had betrayed him. Something like hatred entered his mind.
“Stay here in this cabin. I do not wish to see you for this entire voyage. You will take your meals here. Do not come on deck. Your maids will attend to you.” He turned and left the cabin.
Charlotte sat on the edge of the bed, shocked. He had flung these words at her with contempt. She felt the wind’s hand on the ship, turning it away from shore. He would not allow her even to wave good-bye to Robert, to Takouhi. She went to the door and opened it. A man had been stationed outside! She could not believe it. She asked him to bring her husband. The man, obviously confused about his orders, hesitated. The mistress was with child. But he had been ordered not to leave the door. He called a ship’s boy to send for the master.
Whilst she waited for Tigran, she found her composure. When he opened the door, he stood waiting, coldly.
“Tigran, this is intolerable. Please, may I wave good-bye to Robert and Takouhi?” she said.
Tigran motioned her to come and let her pass onto the deck. She went to the side and waved, and they all raised their hands. Safe voyage, they called. She looked up to Mount Wallich. When the ship had caught the wind, the sails cracking with air, it moved rapidly away from shore. Soon the figures were a blur. Tigran came up to her, grasped her by the arm and once again took her to the cabin. This time he took the key from inside the door and went outside. She heard it turn in the lock.
She gasped. A prisoner! Had he gone mad? She had not meant to provoke him. She had had every intention of returning to him a loving wife, giving birth to his child, sharing this joy together. This very evening in this very bed, she would have welcomed him into her arms. She could put Zhen quietly in her heart now. She had learned to accept this, he had taught her how.