by Tash Aw
NLY ONE PHOTOGRAPH survives of my mother. In it, she is wearing a light-coloured samfu decorated with butterflies. The dress clings delicately to her figure, slim and strong like the trunk of a frangipani tree. Her hair is adorned with tiny jewels too small for me to identify. When I hold a magnifying glass to the picture, the poor quality of the old paper makes the image blurred and soupy. Her face is young and soft. Sometimes, I stick the photo into the frame of a mirror so that I can see my own face next to hers. My eyes are her eyes, I think. The photo is too old to give me any more clues. I found it when I was fifteen, in an old tin box in Father’s closet, together with the pictures of Tarzan. It was in a cracked leather frame far too big for it, and when I looked carefully I could see that it was because the photo had been carefully torn in half. Two, maybe three other people would have been in it, but only my mother and father remain, sitting close to each other but clearly not touching. They sit at a table at the end of a meal; before them the remains of their feast appear as dark patches on the white tablecloth. Behind them, merely trees. Beyond those, a part of a building—a ruin, perhaps, somewhere I do not recognise. I am certain it is not in the Valley. Throughout the years I have looked at hundreds of books on ruins: houses, palaces, temples, in this country and abroad. Not one resembled the place in the photo. I do not know where it is. Perhaps it does not even exist.
On one side of this incomplete portrait, a hand rests on my mother’s shoulder. It is a man’s hand, of that I am certain. His skin is fair—that too is obvious. On his little finger he wears a ring, probably made of gold. It looks substantial, heavy. Time and time again I looked at the ring through my magnifying glass, but it gave me no clues. It was just a ring.
I took the picture and hid it in my bedroom. Father never mentioned it, and neither did I. I wanted to ask him whether there were any other photographs of my mother, but I never did, because then he would have known that I had stolen the picture. I never dared ask him about my mother; I never knew what questions to ask. Besides, I know he would not have told me about her even if I had. All I have to go on is that single photograph. Whenever I look at it I fold it in half so that Johnny is hidden and I can see only my mother.
FEW YEARS AGO I did something I thought I would never do. I succeeded in visiting the old Soong home, the house my mother and father lived in. I had always known where it was, tucked away a mile or so off the old coast road, west of the River Perak, yet I had never seen it. Partly this is because it is difficult to get to. There are no bridges here, and to get across the river you have to drive a long way south and then double back, travelling slowly northwards along the narrow roads that wind their way through the marshy flatlands. During the latter half of the Occupation, the house was used by the Japanese secret police as their local headquarters. They brought suspected Communists and sympathisers there to be tortured in the same rooms where T.K. and Patti and Snow and Johnny once slept. The cries of those tortured souls cut deep into the walls of the house, and when I was a boy I knew—as all children did—that the place was haunted. In those days I did not know that the house had been Snow and Johnny’s. Back then it was merely one of those things children feared in the same way they feared Kellie’s Castle or the Pontianak, who fed on the blood and souls of lone travellers on the old coast road. We were taught to fear these things and so we did, never once questioning them. We believed in those things as we believed in life itself. When, several years ago, I finally learned of the significance of the house, I simply smiled, as if someone had played a joke on me.
How funny it is that the history of your life can for so long pass unnoticed under your nose.
HEN I SAY I “VISITED” the Soongs’ old home, I am exaggerating slightly. My first attempt to visit the place was not entirely successful. I had planned everything meticulously, but in the end my efforts proved to be fruitless.
I decided to go as a Tupperware salesman. This was the first thought that came into my head, and it seemed a sensible one, as Tupperware was all the rage in the Valley at the time. I purchased a large selection of Tupperware in different colours and sizes and loaded it into my car. I stole a brochure from my dentist’s waiting room and bought a new briefcase into which I packed several “order forms,” which I had typed myself. I put on a tie, of course, and combed my hair differently. I had of course allowed my hair to grow longer than usual, as I thought this would help me to feel like a different person. I gave myself one last look in the rearview mirror of my car before I set off, and I was pleased with what I saw. My own mother would not have recognised me.
The door was answered by a pubescent child—a girl, I think, though she was dressed as a boy. I searched her face for a resemblance to me but found none. She stared at me with fierce eyes.
“What are you selling?” she snapped. She sounded much older than I had thought.
“Tupperware,” I said, suddenly feeling confident at the sound of the word. I stepped aside and pointed at my car. Large piles of Tupperware rose into view through the windows.
“We don’t need . . .”
“Tup-per-ware,” I said slowly. “Would you kindly ask your mother?”
“She’s not here.”
“Anyone else here?”
She closed the door and bolted it. “There’s a tall man selling things,” I heard her call out to someone inside. When the door opened again a young woman stood at the entrance. She looked at me coldly but did not speak.
“I’m selling Tupperware,” I said. “It’s from America. It’s very useful.”
She remained silent. I felt my nerve begin to weaken. I had to make a final attempt. “May I come in and show you?” I smiled.
She held my gaze for several seconds. I held my breath to hide my nervousness and tried not to blink.
“OK,” she said, and she let me in.
I stood in the middle of the large sitting room and looked around me. The room led out to a verandah which ran along the entire length of the back of the house. Through the half-open shutters I could see that the land fell away to the jungle, which appeared as a soft green carpet. The walls of the room were decorated with long scrolls bearing Chinese calligraphy. They were executed in a flowing and flamboyant hand, the characters swirling and greatly exaggerated. One scroll caught my eye. It was the famous Tang poem by Li Po:
Moonlight shines brightly before my bed,
like hoarfrost on the floor.
I lift my head and gaze at the moon,
I drop my head and dream of home.
“What are you looking at?” the woman said. She had a slim face and clear skin. She too looked nothing like me.
“I was just admiring your calligraphy,” I said. “It’s very beautiful. Did you do it?”
“No,” she said, suppressing a smile. Her shoulders dropped and her voice became softer. “No, that was done by my great-uncle.”
“Really?” I said. “He must be a famous artist.”
She giggled. “No, he wasn’t. He’s dead now. He died during the war. My family saved all his paintings from the Japanese, and we put them back on the walls just like they were when Great-uncle T.K. was alive.”
“That’s interesting. He died during the Occupation, did he? What was his name? Maybe I’ve heard of him.”
“T. K. Soong,” she said. “Say, you’re asking a lot of questions, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I apologise. It’s not every day a poor salesman like me sees calligraphy of this standard, you see.”
She smiled again.
“And like I said, I may have known him.” I looked at the scrolls once more, keeping my back to her so she could not see my eyes. Though my head remained tilted upwards, my gaze scanned the sideboards and cupboards for signs of photographs or mementoes—anything.
“I don’t think you could have known him,” she said. “How old are you, exactly?”
“Look who’s asking questions now.” I laughed. “How old do you think?”
“Let me see . . .” she said. I
turned around and presented my face to her, smiling. “I’m usually good at guessing people’s ages, but you’re difficult.”
Behind her I caught sight of myself in an old mirror. The glass was scratched and blurred and dusty, silver strips peeling away behind it.
“Why are you touching your cheek?” she said. “Are you alright?”
“Yes.” I smiled. “So how old am I?”
“I’d say in your forties. Late forties maybe.”
I opened my eyes in mock horror. “Not too far wrong.”
“Then you definitely wouldn’t have known Great-uncle T.K. Or if you did you must have been a tiny baby. He died in 1943.”
“How did he die?”
“Well . . .” she said, looking at her fingers, “you know . . .”
“I’m sorry I asked. I’m just a stranger after all.”
“It’s OK, really. I’ll tell you—the Japanese. That’s what everyone says. I don’t know the details.”
“Did he have any children?”
“Just one. My mother’s cousin. No, second cousin—I’m not sure.”
“Did she live here too? Your great-uncle’s daughter, I mean.”
“Of course. Don’t all children live with their parents? In fact she lived here even after she was married.”
“That’s nice.”
“She was married to Johnny Lim, you know—the notorious Johnny Lim.”
“Oh yes, I think I’ve heard of him—I’m not from around here, you see.”
“Oh. Where are you from, then, Mr. Tall Man?”
“KL.”
“Wow, long drive.”
“It’s not bad. I stay in Ipoh for a week at a time.”
“Sounds like you miss home.”
“Not really. So your mother’s cousin who was married to Johnny . . .”
“Lim.”
“Johnny Lim, yes. I guess that must have been her room,” I said, pointing to a door which seemed to open into a larger room.
“No, that was my great-uncle and great-aunt’s room. That one was Johnny and Snow’s,” she said, pointing to a closed door. She paused and looked me in the eye, as if remembering something. “Hey,” she said, taking a step towards me, “how did you know my great-uncle’s child was a girl? I didn’t tell you it was a girl.”
“Supernatural powers.” I tried to laugh but my face suddenly felt hot.
Just then an old man’s voice called out from behind the closed door. “Who is it, Yun?”
“No one, Grandfather. Go back to your nap.”
The door opened and a bald, bent-over man emerged. He had sparkling clear eyes which widened when they saw me.
“Good afternoon,” I said, trying to sound cheery. “I’m selling Tupperware.” It sounded like a lie.
I did not recognise him. I was certain I had never seen him before, and what’s more, I was sure that he had never seen me. And yet the way he looked at me made me nervous.
“I know you,” he said.
“Oh, really?” The girl giggled. “You know this guy, Grandpa?”
“Your face,” he said. “I know your face.”
“Who is he, Grandpa? Tell me,” the girl said. “I’m dying to know.”
“Excuse me,” I said suddenly, “excuse me for interrupting your afternoon.” I walked towards the door, opening it in one swift motion, and when I reached the top of the stairs I began to run, leaping three steps at a time.
“Hey, Mr. Tall Man, what about the Tupperware?” the girl shouted as she came after me.
I didn’t look back as I drove away on the dry, dusty road that wound its way through the plantation. The car jolted over rocks and potholes but I didn’t ease off until I reached the main road. My face was hot with embarrassment and anger. I had still not seen the room my mother had slept in.
By the time I reached home I had resolved to go back to the Soong house as soon as I could.
ND SO A FEW MONTHS AGO I went there again. I had left a gap of about six months—plenty of time for me to regain my composure and for the people at the house to forget the strange travelling salesman who had fled before selling anything. I drove through the swampland with the sea-salty air swirling through the open windows. I left the car and walked the final mile to the plantation, my stride measured and calm. It was a night of perfect clarity, you must believe me. The moon was bulbous in a velvet sky and made my clothes shine. I stopped and looked at my hands and saw that my skin, too, had become pale and phosphorescent.
The house was dark. It looked exactly like the house from my childhood nightmares. It was waiting, ready to take me. I walked up the steps and tried the front door. I put my ear to it and listened for movement. Nothing. I walked along the verandah to the shuttered teak doors and put my hand on the rain-washed panels, pushing gently. They fell open at once, making no noise. The room burned with moonlight. Where the light fell on the floors the boards turned white before me, casting light on the entire room. I saw my reflection in the mirror. When I reached out to touch it, it shattered into a thousand pieces. In the broken pieces I could see parts of my face and they were hot to the touch. I stepped over the shards of glass and walked towards Snow’s room and stopped at the threshold before entering. I came into a small windowless anteroom. I could make out two chairs and a coffee table. At the far end of the room I noticed another door and made my way towards it. I know this door, I thought, I know this place. I have been here a thousand times before. I have carried it inside me since I was born and I know all that it held within it. A bed. An old man asleep on it. Next to him, a beautiful woman: Snow. The walls are hung with waterfalls of hot red silks. Snow opens her eyes and rises to sit up. Her hair is sleep-tangled but I can see her eyes have not shut. They have not rested for many years now. She turns to me and smiles. Come she says and I walk slowly to her. She holds her arms wide open and I kneel before her slowly slowly lowering my head into her breast. Her arms close around me, her hands stroke my hair. Don’t cry she says don’t cry my child my son. Her fingers smooth my face my cheek my brow my dry cracked lips. With her long white fingers she pulls her white blouse aside and gives her white breast to my mouth. Drink my child my son she says and I drink. When I finish I can smell my breath and it is sweet and soft. Are you happy my son she says and I nod. I feel something cold and hard on my cheek and when I turn my face I see it is a pistol, Johnny’s pistol. She turns her body and lets me see the old man on the bed. I do not see his face but I know it is Johnny, I know it is. She puts the pistol in my hand and her lips to my ear. Her breath is cool and powdery and flutters like a moth. Shoot him she says shoot him for all the things he has done. Once more I bury my face in her breast but she is laughing pushing the pistol into my hand. Shoot him. Her skin is wet with my tears. Mother I say. The gun is cold and hard, her skin is soft and wet. Don’t cry my son she says don’t cry. I cling to her with all my life and she kisses me on my forehead.
8. How Johnny Became a God—in the Eyes of Some
IN 1957, ON THE DAY THE COUNTRY achieved independence after four hundred fifty years of foreign rule, my father was shot by an unknown gunman. The assassin fired twice from close range but did not succeed in killing him. This was not the first attempt on Father’s life—he had survived one previous attempt during the war, in 1944—but it had a marked effect on his appearance. Whereas the first attack had merely left him with a scar (a pale puckered star on his left calf), this one shattered the bones and muscles in his right shoulder. Even the best doctors in the Valley were not able to prevent that shoulder from hanging awkwardly at a downwards-sloping angle for the rest of his life.
The shooting happened as the nation gathered around television sets to watch the Independence parade in KL. Those scenes, which have become fixed and stale in our memories, were fresh and startling then, newborn images in our newborn world. The stadium was a boiling sea of banners and bodies. We had never seen people dancing in public before. Not like this. Men with men, women with women, men with women even. They did th
e joget, swaying and step-stepping in little circles, lifting and dropping their shoulders to a strange, shared rhythm. They held their new flag above their heads, letting it catch the wind: thirteen stripes, a sickle moon, and a star. There, too, was the tunku, the Father of the Nation, raising his hand and repeating the word “Merdeka” three times, the people on the padang echoing back, the chant coming through the television sets as clear and sharp in our ears as breaking glass. Independence. Freedom. New Life. That is what the word meant to us. And although the innocent dreams we had for our country have died in the years since then, suffocated by our own poisoned ambition, nothing will ever diminish what we felt. Nothing will rob us of those stuttering sepia-washed images of Merdeka Day.