The Harmony Silk Factory

by Tash Aw

  Firstly, he changed his appearance. He swapped his Western suits for the traditional Chinese clothes his father once wore, the attire of a Manchu civil servant—long shirts made of the richest brocade, trousers of plain, good silk. This kind of dress was no less conspicuous in rural Malaya, and many people thought it was merely a phase which he would soon leave behind. But he persisted with it to the end of his days; it is how he is dressed in the stiffly posed photographs which survive. He continued reading classical Chinese texts; he wrote and he painted. But his demeanour changed. Whereas before he had been flamboyant and easily excitable, now he was serious and calmly spoken. At last, sighed his parents, he took an interest in business. He benefitted from family connections and became involved in large-scale enterprises such as commercial loan-making and the import and export of tin and rubber to Europe. He got married too.

  Patti was said to have been a woman of notable beauty, although to my eyes hers must have been a beauty of that particular age. Certainly, the worn sepia-tinted portraits do not do any of their subjects justice, but even so, she appears sullen and withdrawn. If you look closely, you can see where Snow inherited the cold streak that she was said to have possessed. Patti’s mouth is drawn tight and thin, her eyes hard and dark. Her looks are not dissimilar to her daughter’s but her beauty (if it is beauty) is of a harsher variety.

  Though I close my eyes and search my memory I cannot recall ever having seen T.K. and Patti Soong, my grandparents. They exist only as ghosts, shapeless, shadowy imprints on my consciousness. Sometimes I wonder if there is any chance that I might have liked them, loved them. Even ghosts and shadows are capable of being loved, after all. But always, the answer is “No.” I would not have loved them even if I had known them, because when the debits and the credits have been weighed, T.K. and Patti fall on the wrong side of the line between good and evil. It was their desire for Snow, my mother, to marry a rich man that pushed her into the arms of Johnny. Nothing can ever atone for that.

  BY THE TIME Snow was of marriageable age, Johnny was already well known across the Valley. He was the sole owner of the most profitable trading concern in the Valley and was widely admired in all circles. As with all beautiful young women of a certain background, Snow had already had a good deal of experience of suitors and tentative matchmaking. All of these possibilities had been created and choreographed by her parents. They took her to Penang, KL, and Singapore, where she was displayed like a diamond in a glass box. Yet it was closer to home, at the races in Ipoh, that they found the first serious contender. He was a beautiful-looking boy with a powder-pale complexion to match Snow’s. He had large, clear eyes and stood tall and erect with all the dignity you would expect from a son of the chief superintendent of police. When he was introduced to Snow he kissed her hand—kissed it—a gesture he had learnt during his days travelling in Europe. He complimented Patti on her sumptuous brocade dress and quietly whispered a tip for the next race in T.K.’s ear.

  It wasn’t long before Snow and the superintendent’s son were allowed to take tea together. They sat exchanging polite conversation. She talked about books—novels she had read—while he nodded in agreement. Although T.K. and Patti were pleased with his dignified manner and solid background, it was his family’s home which brought greater excitement to them, for the superintendent had recently built a modern, Western-style house in which many of the rooms had wall-to-wall carpets. The main dining room had one wall of pure glass so that it served as an enormous window. Such daring was indicative of considerable wealth, an impression which was confirmed by the quality of the jade jewellery worn by the boy’s mother: dark in colour with a barely marbled texture. To top it all, Snow and the boy looked such a pretty pair and would surely attract all the right comments when the time came for them to venture into the public eye.

  Thankfully, before an understanding was reached between the parents, T.K. and Patti discovered that the boy’s parents were not quite as wealthy as they seemed. The superintendent’s lavishness at the races had taken its toll on the family’s finances, and it was thought that much of his wife’s fabulous jewellery was borrowed from sympathetic relatives. It was clear that the hopes for dowry which T.K. and Patti expected in return for the hand of their daughter could never be fulfilled.

  Scarred by this experience, T.K. and Patti became cautious and especially thorough in their appraisal of potential suitors. They asked many questions, they made enquiries. They did not want to make the same mistake twice. In letting the match with the superintendent’s son progress to the extent it had, T.K. and Patti had been careless. One such mistake was forgivable; two mistakes would not be. Not only would it reflect badly on them, it would also diminish the value of Snow’s attractiveness—and the size of her dowry. Yet their diligent investigations made the prospect of a match more and more remote. Every search turned up some unpleasant detail about the family in question, ranging from full-blown scandals to questionable associations: lunatic grandfathers, homosexual uncles, bastard children, gambling debts, hushed-up divorces.

  The plain truth of it was that it was 1940, and there was little money in the Valley, certainly nothing that could match the wealth of the Soong family. Snow was not yet twenty. There was still time, but a suitable match had to be made soon.

  For all their meticulous planning, T.K. and Patti’s first proper meeting with Johnny was precipitated by events beyond their control. It so happened that a new man was appointed as head of the British mining concern in the Valley, a fine young gentleman called Frederick Honey. He arrived with impeccable credentials, having gained a rugger Blue at Oxford and a keen grasp of tropical hygiene and colonial law from the School of Oriental Studies. His reign over the British tin-mining enterprise was, ultimately, short-lived, for he was lost to a boating accident in 1941, when he drowned in the waters off Pangkor Island in a treacherous monsoon storm; his body was never found. It is clear, however, that during his short tenure in the Valley, he was much admired. T. K. Soong was, as you can imagine, quick to see the value of having Mr. Honey as an ally, and eager to make an impression on this formidable new tuan besar as soon as possible. It was decided in the Soong household that a gift should be sent to Mr. Honey, something instantly suggestive of the Soongs’ status and influence in the Valley; something unusual and beyond the reach of an Englishman newly arrived in the country. But what? A whole roast pig, perhaps? No—too ostentatious. A scroll of the finest Chinese calligraphic paintings? No—not grand enough.

  “How about some textiles?” Patti said in desperation to her husband. “From that man, what’s his name—Johnny Lim?”

  T.K. paused. He was inclined to dismiss the idea at once, but the paucity of previous suggestions persuaded him to consider for a moment. He paused for quite some time. “It’ll be fruitless,” he said, but nonetheless he decided to summon Johnny to the house.

  Johnny had long since ceased to tour the countryside by bicycle, but the call of T. K. Soong was one he could not resist. He arrived at the house and found himself seated in the enormous room in which the Soongs received their visitors. Its vastness amazed him; his eyes could barely take in the details of its space: the rattan ceiling fans rotating slowly, arrogantly, barely stirring the air; the softness of the light through the louvred shutters; above all, the books, which lined an entire wall, row after perfect row.

  “We have heard many good things about you,” T.K. said as Johnny began to unpack his bags on the table which had been specially set up for him.

  “Thank you,” he said, still marvelling at the books.

  Behind his back Patti tugged at T.K.’s sleeve. “How old is he?” she whispered. She had heard that Johnny Lim was a young man, and in her mind’s eye had pictured a wild-haired, loudmouthed tearaway with dirty fingernails. Yet before her stood someone neat and compact, who seemed almost middle-aged, whose movements were laborious and heavy with experience. A fleeting image tickled her imagination: Johnny and Snow seated on bridal thrones of the type that perishe
d with the death of nineteenth-century China. “I must say, Mr. Lim,” she said as she fingered a piece of English chintz, “now that I see your wares, I can understand why people are so complimentary about you. About your shop, I mean.”

  Johnny lowered his head and did not answer. He unfolded a length of songket, its gold threads shining and stiff and stitched into an intricate pattern.

  “This piece of cloth, for example,” Patti continued, running her hand over a piece of brocade, “is very beautiful. Very fitting for a woman, wouldn’t you say?”

  Johnny nodded.

  “Not for an old woman like me, of course, but for a younger woman. Do you agree, Mr. Lim? It must be very popular with fashionable ladies.”

  “No, not really,” he said truthfully. “It’s too expensive.”

  “Ohh, Mr. Lim.” Patti laughed. “Truthfully, do you think it would suit a young woman? No one very special or very beautiful, of course.”

  Johnny half-shrugged, half-nodded.

  “Would you mind if I asked my daughter to see this? I’m sure you’re too busy to spend much time with her, but if you could spare a few moments—”

  “I would be pleased to meet your daughter,” Johnny said. His pulse quickened. Even though he had heard about the Soongs’ famous daughter, he had not for a second thought that he would be introduced to her.

  “I’m sure you’re just saying that to be polite, Mr. Lim,” Patti said with a laugh as she got up to leave the room. “After all, my daughter is hardly worth meeting. I’m sure you will be disappointed.”

  “I’m certain I will not.”

  “If you insist,” Patti said, disappearing out of view.

  A minute elapsed, and then another, before she reappeared. “My daughter, Snow,” she said.

  It took Johnny several moments to gather himself. She was a disappointment, a shock. He had expected a tiny, exquisite jewel, but instead he found himself looking up at a woman who seemed to tower endlessly above him. He breathed in, trying to swell his chest and lift his shoulders to make himself taller. When he looked at her face he found her staring intently into his eyes, and he quickly lowered his gaze. He felt embarrassed, cheated—though he did not know of what.

  Poor Snow. She had grown used to being courted by lively, attentive men, but now she was confronted by a suitor who seemed more interested in his fingernails. At one stage she noticed he was gazing at a spot just above her collarbone, and for a brief moment she thought that he was staring at her neck. Then she realised he was looking at the books on the shelf behind her. She tried to engage him in conversation, but it was no use. This curious man sat like a deaf-dumb little orphan child before her. He was small and dark, with an impenetrable moonface. She searched for some clue as to what his character might be and concluded that there was none: no character whatsoever. She began to feel sorry for him. Later, her parents told her that he was a textile merchant, very rich and well known. Snow had not heard of him. As she watched him leave the house, she knew, from the glow of contentment on her parents’ faces, that all parties had reached an understanding. The negotiations—the courtship—would soon begin, but the business had already been concluded. That afternoon, T.K. and Patti had bought from Johnny a few lengths of songket and some hand-blocked European cotton, which would in turn buy them favour with the British. And as for Johnny, he had gained himself entry into a world he had always dreamed of.

  JOHNNY AND SNOW’S FIRST organised meeting was, unusually, in public and unsupervised. T.K. and Patti felt that given Johnny’s impeccable and restrained manners, it would not be imprudent to allow the pair to meet in such a way. They were not afraid of the gossip which would inevitably follow. This was, after all, an alliance they wanted people to talk about. All their instincts told them that this was a match they should be proud of.

  When Johnny and Snow appeared at the new picture house in Ipoh, a gentle commotion broke out in the crowd. Every head turned to see if the whispers were true. Was that really Johnny Lim—at the pictures? And was he here with T. K. Soong’s famous daughter? What did she look like? Where was she? For most people it was too much to bear, and throughout the film, a constant murmur of voices filled the auditorium. It was the first time many there had ever seen Snow. Men leaned forward in their seats, peering down the aisle just to catch a glimpse of the back of her head; women touched their own faces, noticing all of a sudden how plain they looked compared to her. And when the lights came up there was pandemonium. Johnny and Snow were nowhere to be seen.

  Afterwards, the couple dined at the famous Hakka Inn. For Johnny, it was the realisation of many childhood fantasies. They were presented with roast suckling pig and jellyfish, black mushrooms and abalone, steamed grouper and a large dish of noodles. These were things he had never eaten before. He felt ill at ease going to smart restaurants. They were too bright for him, too full of movement and voices, and he always felt as if he was being watched as he ate. He had only ever been to restaurants to celebrate the conclusions of particularly large business transactions. This time, he tried to think of the experience as the biggest business venture of his life. Because to him, it was.

  Once Johnny had overcome his initial awkwardness, however, he began to notice how rich and sweet the food tasted. He ate quickly, sinking deliciously into this newfound land of honeyed aromas and silken textures. He was like the rat in the childhood proverb, dropped onto a mountain of fragrant rice grain.

  “The food is good,” he said. She did not know if it was a question or a statement, so she simply nodded, and he returned to his solitary feast.

  Snow watched him feed. She wondered, as she always did when she was sent to meet a new suitor, whether she would be happy with the man before her. She always took it for granted that she would end up as the man’s wife. The choice was not hers, and accepting her fate early would make it less of a shock. So far she had not met anyone with whom she thought she could be happy. Even the superintendent’s son, beautiful though he was, would have been unsuitable as a husband. He was far too inward-looking and concerned with the neatness of his clothes to notice her. Living with him would have been like gazing at the stars. A marriage could not be happy if the husband was prettier than the wife, that much she knew.

  This new man did not bring her much hope either. As she saw it, the problem was not that she considered herself beyond his reach (beautiful wives and ugly husbands often made good matches), but that he did not seem to appreciate that she was at all attractive. For a while she entertained the idea that he had been tragically hurt by the death of a lover. He had a reason for being withdrawn, a sad and compelling story. She looked closely at his face for signs of a life or a love lost. She found him attempting to force an entire black mushroom into his mouth. This particular one was larger than the others, and he was having difficulties. He stretched his mouth sideways like a smiling fish in order to accommodate it; his lips quivered in an attempt to accept the sumptuous gift from the chopsticks. Eventually he succeeded, but then, after a few uncomfortable chews, was forced to spit the mushroom onto his plate. It landed softly on the gravy-soaked rice, and he repeated the whole exercise, this time succeeding easily. His chopsticks immediately reached for another mushroom, and he noticed Snow looking at him. His lips were thick and slicked with grease.

  “The food is good,” he said, raising his eyebrows slightly.

  She nodded, eyes fixed on his lips. No, she thought, there was no love story here. He was not capable of love. It was better that she prepared herself for this now.

  He walked her to the bottom of the steps leading up to her house. All the lights were out, which usually meant that Patti was listening at the darkened window.

  “The evening was enjoyable,” Johnny said. Again, Snow was not sure if this was a question, but all the same she could not bring herself to agree.

  “I am sure I will see you again,” she said, and she went into the house, walking swiftly to her bedroom to avoid her mother’s interrogation. Strangely, she did no
t hear Patti’s footsteps or the opening or closing of doors. The house was full of a confident, approving silence.

  SIX MONTHS LATER they were married, after a courtship which, as T.K. would say, was “full of propriety and politeness.” Johnny moved into the Soongs’ house while he searched for a new home for himself and his wife. During this time he revelled in the Soongs’ hospitality, becoming so accustomed to it that he almost believed it was he who was being generous and welcoming: the lavish parties were thrown by him; the elaborate dinners were prepared by his cooks; the people who came to the house were his guests. To these guests, it seemed obvious that the sumptuous events were paid for by this rich new tycoon, and Johnny did nothing to dispel this presumption. Instead, he adopted a demeanour of excessive modesty to fuel the belief that he was indeed the magnanimous, yet somewhat reticent, host.

  Guests: Thank you, Mr. Lim, for such a splendid dinner.

  Johnny (as self-effacingly as possible): Oh, please, no—thank Mr. and Mrs. Soong. This is, after all, their house. They have enjoyed having you here this evening, I know.

  Guests (to themselves): What a noble, honourable man is Johnny Lim, too gracious even to accept thanks. How respectful to his elders, how civilised, etc. etc.

  For the Autumn Festival in the year they were married, for example, the festivities at the Soong house were referred to as Johnny Lim’s party, even though he had nothing to do with it. That he played no part in its organisation was clear from the extravagant yet tasteful nature of the evening’s revelry and the type of people who were in attendance. It was the first significant function at the Soong household since the marriage of Snow to Johnny, and it was an event that was talked about years afterwards. Many of the guests were English—and not just the district education officer either, but luminaries such as Frederick Honey and all the other tuan besar of the British trading companies. It is said that even Western musicians from Singapore were engaged to perform for the evening. A striking operatic troubadour, six and a half feet tall, sang whimsical songs in French and Italian. His face was daubed with theatrical paint which obscured his fine features, but even so, everyone present commented on the delicacy of his looks and the flamboyance of his costume—a flowing cape of Ottoman silk lined with iridescent scarlet. He sang so angelically and played the piano with such lightness of touch that no one could believe that he had not come directly from the great concert halls of Europe. “What is someone like him doing here in the FMS?” people wondered aloud as he improvised familiar songs, teasing his audience. The noble Mr. Honey sportingly lent himself to all the women as a dancing partner; he skipped to a traditional Celtic tune, linking arms with his companions as their feet clicked lightly on the teak floorboards. Johnny stood awkwardly in a corner, surveying the scene, trying his best to seem proprietorial and calm. He smiled and tried to tap his foot to the music but couldn’t keep in time. A scuffle broke out among the servants in the yard outside, and it was up to the magisterial Mr. Honey to restore peace. All night there was a constant stream of music to match the flow of alcohol. “It’s at times like these,” the guests said, watching Mr. Honey regaling a group of men with stories of adventure, “one almost feels glad to be in Malaya.” At the end of the evening, when the air was cool and the tired guests began reluctantly to drift home, they realised that the music was no longer playing; the lid of the piano was firmly shut. As the guests departed from the darkening house rubbing their aching temples, they struggled to remember what had happened throughout the course of that evening: it had been too wonderful to be true. Had he really existed, that painted troubadour? He had simply vanished, phantomlike, into the tropical night. What a marvellous party Johnny Lim had given, they thought; what a marvellous man he was. They certainly made a lovely couple, Johnny and Snow.