by Tash Aw
“That would be nice,” I said. “Have you thought of a name for it?”
“Yes,” he said, fetching a piece of paper. He reached for a calligraphy brush from my desk and wrote out its name in slow, uncertain strokes. He had obviously been practising this for some time. He showed it to me as if it were a secret, holding it close to his chest, just beneath his chin.
“The Harmony Silk Factory,” I said.
He gave me the piece of paper and brushed my hand with the lightest of fingertip touches. That is the only way he has ever touched me.
5th October 1941
HONEY CALLED ROUND AGAIN for tea today. He wore a white shirt and a cream-coloured suit made of linen that was crisp and flat as a sheet of paper. I have never seen him wear anything else. His tie, too, was the one he always wore—black with thin diagonal purple stripes.
“Frederick,” said Father, without getting out of his chair, “how nice to see you. How are the mines doing?”
“Reasonably well,” Honey replied, hovering at the threshold of Father’s study. He looked at me uncertainly. “Will you be joining us for a cup of tea, Snow?”
I looked at Father. He was sitting at his desk with a half-written poem on a scroll before him. Slowly, he placed his brush on its rest. “Yes,” he said, “why don’t you join us briefly?”
“Let me see,” said Honey, inclining his head as he sat down. Father’s gramophone was playing so softly that it was difficult to hear the music. “Bach. The forty-eight. Prelude in, hmmm, F-sharp major.” Though he is not fat his chin has a habit of wobbling when he speaks. I have always found his face perfectly ordinary and featureless. I decided once and for all that he looked like a schoolteacher.
“You have a very good ear indeed, Frederick,” said Father.
“Father always listens to music when he works,” I said.
“Always Bach?” Honey asked.
“Yes,” said Father. “I feel there is a certain symmetry in Bach which mirrors the construction in Chinese poems. Chopin—whose works I am very fond of—I find too . . . what is the word . . . ?”
“Vulgar? Florid?” said Honey.
“. . . no . . .”
“Too poetic,” I ventured.
“Thank you, Snow,” Father said, looking me straight in the eye. “Yes, too poetic in its sensibility. Too full of emotion, you might say. Inappropriate. It should only be listened to in times of turmoil.”
Honey laughed politely. “Speaking of things vulgar and florid,” he said, “what about this chap Peter Wormwood? I can only apologise for his performance at your Autumn Festival celebrations the other week. I’m terribly sorry. You must have a terrible impression of Englishmen. We’re not all like that, you know.”
“Of course not,” Father said.
“What was he thinking?” Honey continued. His face became flushed, and deep lines scarred his furrowed brow. “What on earth was he thinking? I mean, that . . . costume . . . I’m so awfully sorry. It must have been dreadfully embarrassing for you—it certainly was for me. What sort of man behaves like that? He must be insane. Needless to say, we haven’t welcomed him with open arms at the club.”
“He hasn’t been here for long,” I said. “Perhaps he is uncomfortable in these surroundings.”
Honey regarded me with a strange expression. His voice quietened. “There is one rule, one golden rule, which an Englishman observes when he comes to a new place: never ruffle any feathers. Follow local customs. Blend in. Be respectful. Even those of us who were never taught this, well, we just know. It’s the key to our success here.”
“Yes,” I said, “your success.”
Father began to cough violently. Ever since the Incident at the Shop, he has had uncontrollable fits of rasping, wheezing coughs, which suggest that, in spite of his protests, he has not quite recovered. I wonder if he simply does not want to acknowledge what Johnny did for him on that day. Even I do not know everything that happened between them.
“I know you were upset, Frederick,” Father said when he had regained his composure. “You told me at the time. But frankly I still cannot understand what the fuss is all about. Call me an old fool, but I could not see what you saw. I thought his appearance somewhat unusual, of course, but only because I had never seen such dress in real life. In books, yes—it reminded me of the opera, of pictures of Venice and Vienna from the last century.”
Honey rolled his eyes. “This is what I feared. You think we all dress and behave like that. Let me tell you, all that cheap Oscar Wilde nonsense is not an accurate representation of European attire.”
Father raised a laugh. “The two of you will have plenty to talk about, that’s for sure.”
“I’ll be damned if I ever speak to that man.”
“It may be difficult to avoid him,” I said, resisting the urge to smile. “He is coming on our trip to the Seven Maidens too.”
Honey looked at me with unblinking eyes. “Dear God,” he whispered.
“Now, Snow, Mr. Honey and I have some business to attend to,” said Father. “Shut the door behind you, please.”
As I left I heard the lock on the door click quietly into place.
6th October 1941
WHEN JOHNNY CAME TO BED last night, I pretended to be asleep. I have taken to doing this recently, because I think it is easier for both of us. Bedtime is when I am at my most vulnerable; my body is tired and it is difficult to maintain my façade of innocence, and so I err on the side of caution.
Johnny undressed silently, adjusting the lamp so that only the faintest flicker of light invaded the room. I watched him through narrowed eyes, my head resting deep in a pillow. I am certain he did not know I was watching. In the dim light his skin looked taut and brown. His skin was one of the things I loved most when I first saw him. It spoke of a life exposed to the sun and the rain, as if it had been rendered smooth by the elements. The faint scars on his back were like the patterns on the hide of some strange, sinuous animal. My skin could never be like that, I thought; it is almost as if we were of different races.
He came to bed and for a while I remained motionless, inhaling his scent of earth and wet leaves. It was a long time since I had smelt that perfume. I felt the weight of his body next to me, depressing the mattress and pulling me closer to him. I allowed my body to fall slowly towards his until my cheek came to rest on his shoulder. His skin was warm and clammy. I put my hand on his chest, feeling his heavy heartbeat on my palm. At last I felt his fingers run lightly through my hair like a thin, prickly comb. It was as if he was afraid to touch me. My head began to itch; I wished his fingers would scratch me, claw at my scalp—anything except tickle in this manner. I could bear it no longer. I pulled away, withdrawing to the other side of the bed. I could not sleep.
7th October 1941
I KNOW HOW I AM GOING to do it. I have enacted it in my head, a thousand times over, every sleepless night. This is what will happen:
I choose my moment carefully, waiting until Johnny is in a particularly cheerful mood. Perhaps it will be at the end of a day when he has been with Peter and is filled with the blind, childish optimism that I see in his eyes every time they are together. I do not know what Peter has that inspires such exuberance, but I do know this: a child’s optimism is less easily crushed than an adult’s, or at least, once crushed, it is more quickly restored.
Finding Johnny in this buoyant state, I sit down with him and give him a drink. I have gone to great lengths to secure some wine. (A few days prior to this, I force myself to smile sweetly at Honey and tell him how pleasant it is to have him come to visit us; he is so taken aback he cannot resist my request for a bottle of French wine from his extensive collection.) This pleases Johnny because, thanks to Peter, he has recently become fascinated by the taste and exotic nature of wine.
Casually, I ask him about this new house he has seen. He needs little encouragement and begins to tell me about his plans, schemes that no one in the Valley has ever imagined. Tiger would be proud, he says.
He misses Tiger, I know. His voice barely rises above its usual gentle monotone, yet it is easy to sense how thrilled he is. His thoughts flow faster than he can speak; he pauses now and then, his brow furrowed as he tries to recall a word. Sometimes the force of his emotion is so great that he cannot find the words; he looks at me with an expression that is at once imploring and resolute in its determination to continue unaided. The cloud that hangs heavily over me begins to lift: he does not need my help. He does not need me. That is why I want him to think of the shop. It is something—the only thing—that is truly his. People come and they go, fluttering at the edge of his world, never properly entering it. I, his wife; Peter, his fleeting foreign friend: even we merely hover outside. But long after we are gone, he will still have that shop. It belongs to him; it is utterly his: to mould, control, love, and destroy. As he speaks he looks at me and it is as if we both know: I will never belong to him. Nothing needs to be said. A blank, inscrutable expression returns to his face. He realises, just as I do, that all the things that stood between us before we were married, well, they remain. We were wrong to believe that we could pull down the barriers. It was a mistake, a simple failure, that is all.
I begin to tell him that it’s no one’s fault, but I stop because I know, even if he does not, that the fault lies with me.
Thus, wordlessly, our world ends.
8th October 1941
I WAS SITTING on the verandah reading when Johnny appeared. I was not surprised to see he had Peter with him.
“I heard you had dinner with the bishop,” Peter said. “How was the Right Reverend? Fat as ever?”
“It was the first time I met him,” I said, continuing to read, “so I cannot say if he was as fat ‘as ever.’ ”
“Well,” said Peter, “one savage bout of dysentery is all it’ll take to make his figure sylphlike.”
I did not answer. Johnny was holding a fine fishnet, which he proceeded to add to the pile of things he has assembled for our trip. Peter stood with his scrawny arms folded across his chest. I knew he was watching me, but I kept my gaze firmly on my book. I heard Johnny packing and unpacking some boxes in the room. I wished he would hurry up and return, but he seemed to go on forever, clanging metal plates, dropping tin cans, dusting off canvas sheets. All this time Peter and I remained motionless, unable to move. I read the same words over and over again. Finally, I could not bear it. I snapped my book shut and looked straight into his face.
“How are you finding life in the Valley?”
He looked startled. I noticed his milk-white skin has not reacted well to the sun—his cheeks and forearms bore hot, tender red burns.
“Fine,” he said, “fine. In fact, more than that, it’s a ball. With sequins and tiaras.”
“I’m pleased to hear that. Foreigners usually do not adapt well to the conditions here. They find us primitive.”
“Primitive? Mais non, mais non,” he said, looking at the house. “If this is primitive, then I am a savage.” He lifted both arms in a strange gesture I could not decipher. I think it was perhaps intended to be theatrical in its effect. I could not stifle a giggle. To my surprise, he laughed too, a whooping, singing laugh that seemed to come from the depths of his body.
Johnny returned and kissed me lightly on the forehead.
“Looking forward to our trip,” Peter called out as they got on their bicycles and pedalled away.
Another thing: this evening I noticed that the photographs of our ancestors which father keeps in his study have already become hazy and indistinct in their frames. In a few more years we shall not even remember who those people were.
9th October 1941
LATE THIS AFTERNOON, as I was returning from a walk along the river, I heard Father conversing with someone in his study. The door was closed; the talking stopped abruptly when I entered the hall. I wondered if the visitor was Honey, but the tone of the voice seemed wrong. Curious to find out who the other person was, I hesitated for a moment before proceeding to my room. I closed my door firmly, making sure it made a noise as it shut.
After a considerable length of time I heard Father’s study door open. I went to the window to see who the visitor was. It was Kunichika.
10th October 1941
WE SET OFF IN THE DARK, dawn still an hour away. Five silent bodies in that huge black car: Honey at the wheel, Kunichika next to him in the front seat, and at the back, Johnny, Peter, and me.
“What do you think of my new car?” Honey said in an attempt to spark conversation. No one answered. In the twilight I saw Peter trying to blink sleep from his eyes; he rubbed his face with both palms in the manner of a small child. Johnny remained quiet too, but I could see that his eyes were clear and lively.
“It feels like a tomb,” I said.
“Oh,” said Honey softly.
“I think it’s frightfully grand, splendidly vulgar,” Peter said. “There’s nothing quite like a Rolls. I adore it, Honey.” He paused and coughed to suppress a giggle. “You wouldn’t mind if I called you by your Christian name, would you, Frederick?”
Honey merely grunted. He seemed determined not to exchange a single word with Peter.
From where I was sitting I had a perfect view of the nape of Kunichika’s neck. His hair ended in a neat line halfway up the white stretch of skin. For most of today’s drive that was all I could see, Kunichika’s neck positioned right in front of me—rigid, smooth, and perfectly straight. At times, if I stared at it for too long, it seemed not to be human.
In the brightening morning, we drove past oil-palm and rubber plantations. The dew-damp air was quickly burnt away and a hot, gritty breeze blew through the windows, drying our lips and tongues. Johnny spent much time gazing back at the large clouds of dust rising up in swirls behind the car, chasing us as we sped along.
“We’re being pursued by djinns!” Peter wailed before collapsing into his cackling laugh. “Sandstorms, the Devil’s red dust! God save us!” Johnny broke into a gentle laugh every time Peter made a comment; he stuck his head out the window, his fine hair ruffled like the feathers of a small bird. He glanced at me, smiling broadly. He seemed a mere child. It hurt me to look at him because I knew that I would soon bring this fleeting happiness to an end, and all traces of the child in him would die, completely and forever. I wished Peter would stop. I wanted to take hold of his wildly gesturing arms and bind them to his body.
“I say,” Honey called out, “this is the right road, isn’t it?”
We had come off the main road just south of Taiping. The car moved along slowly; the ground beneath us felt bumpy, full of rocks and potholes.
Kunichika said, “We are heading due north.”
“Are we? Well then I suppose we should still be alright,” Honey said.
I looked at Johnny. “Stop the car, Frederick,” I said. “Johnny will know.”
We got out of the car, shielding our eyes from the glare of the sun. Johnny looked around us. By some strange instinct, he seemed to know exactly where we were. “Yes, this road is OK,” he said. His voice was clear and flat. No one questioned him. We climbed back into the car and continued to jolt along.
“You seem to know this part of the country intimately,” Kunichika said, turning around in his seat to look at Johnny.
“I have spent my whole life here,” Johnny said, looking out the window.
“So have many people, but I am sure not all of them have the familiarity with the countryside that you do.”
“Johnny’s a country boy at heart, isn’t he?” Peter said. “Just like me.”
Johnny shrugged.
“The jungle is a strange place,” Kunichika said. “It changes all the time, shifting in shape and colour. It swallows whole villages in an instant. Once you move away from it you may never return, not truly. Only those who keep coming back to the trees and vines may sense their changing rhythms. I am sure Mr. Lim will tell you that.”
“Nonsense,” Peter said, turning to Johnny.
Johnny hesitat
ed. “No, it is true.”
The car swayed like a boat as Honey carefully negotiated the potholes.
“It is not unreasonable for me to be curious about Mr. Lim’s familiarity with the countryside,” Kunichika continued, “for it is exceptional that a shopkeeper should have such knowledge.”
“I disagree with you, Professor,” I said, raising my voice above the rough clatter of the engine. “We never lose what we are born with. Even if we try—if we move away from our homes, as my husband has done—we are still part of the worlds of our birth. We can’t ever escape.”
No one spoke. We continued to roll in and out of dips in the broken road.
Peter seemed to have shrunk into his seat, his head lolling pathetically to one side, gasping for air at the window. “I feel seasick,” he said.
It felt as if many hours had passed before we rejoined the coast road and reached our destination for today, the Formosa Hotel. We arrived two hours ago. The others are downstairs having a drink before dinner. I am, of course, forbidden to enter the bar. I had heard from father about the strictly observed etiquette in such grand British establishments; in one club in Kuala Lumpur, he says, there is a sign at the entrance to the smoking room that reads NO WOMEN OR DOGS. I looked out for these cold reminders, determined to be proud and unflinching, even humorous, before them. In the end I could see no such notice, but the cold stare of the bartender spoke clearly of the well-entrenched customs of this place, and I decided not to test my bravado.
To tell the truth, I am grateful for this moment of solitude. After a day spent in the close company of those four, I find it strangely comforting to be alone. I enjoy the times I have to myself. Mother would be shocked to hear me confess this. It would be no use trying to explain. Women are not often on their own: they are constantly surrounded by men—fathers, husbands, sons. Those are the people we live for, whose lives press into ours at every moment. We obey, nurse, nurture, and love. But in the end, we are and always have been alone. That is why I am glad for moments such as these. They are, I have realised, the only times I am truly myself.