Bitter Sweet Harvest

by Chan Ling Yap

  “Look after yourself,” Faridah said, embracing Hussein tightly, her back to An Mei. “We will see you back here in a week.”

  They were standing just outside the residence doorway, at the top of the flight of steps that descended down to a magnificent domed portico. A fleet of black limousines were lined up waiting like a row of shiny black beetles, their polished coachwork reflecting the splendid livery of the chauffeurs and attending valets.

  “No, Mak, a fortnight,” Hussein reminded her.

  “And call us,” Rahim added. “We have work to do. Come back here. I don’t want you to go to KL.”

  They did not look at An Mei. It was as though she did not exist. She stood aside, alone, looking on. She wondered where her aunt Nelly was and wished she was there with her.

  An Mei waited until Hussein’s farewell to his parents ended. She stepped forward hesitantly and bowed. “Good bye, Mak, Pak,” she said, following Hussein’s informal address of his parents. She was not sure if she should embrace them. She stood with both her arms limp by her side. They did not look as they though they wanted to be embraced by her. They looked forbidding.

  Faridah turned away pointedly as though she had been insulted. Rahim replied with a curt nod, his eyes sweeping over her summarily. He saw her hurt and his face softened momentarily. “Selamat jalan, safe journey,” he said.

  “Jangan beri dia muka! Don’t give her face!” An Mei heard Faridah reprimand her husband. She turned to face An Mei and for just once that evening looked at her.

  “Just remember to behave like a good Muslim girl. And keep your hijab on in public. We do not want you to flaunt your face in public.”

  An Mei, stung by the remark, stepped back. A blush spread from her neck to her cheeks, colouring them as though she had been slapped.

  “Mother, the hijab is not compulsory. Lots of women, even those in high office, don’t necessarily wear them,” protested Hussein.

  “Well, we do. On the east coast, we do.”

  “Come,” Hussein said to An Mei, “let’s go.” He took her hand and guided her down the steps to the waiting Mercedes. “Don’t worry. Give them time. Mother is deliberately taunting you. The etiquette is not as alarming as she makes it out to be.”

  Faridah overheard him. She shouted to their departing backs, “If you aim to be in high office, it is exactly as daunting as I say.”

  Chapter 18

  An Mei got out of the pool and made her way to the sun lounger. She sat down and draped a robe around herself. The brilliant white of the robe stood out in sharp contrast to the azure-blue water behind her. She had swum about ten laps. Invigorated, she raised her face to the sun and sighed. “I’m so happy. And you?” she asked turning to her husband.

  He was lying on his back on the lounger next to hers, his lanky body half-sprawled, his brown legs placed carelessly on the rolled up towels at the tip of the extended chair. His hair had grown out during the two weeks of the honeymoon.

  “Of course,” he answered, with a smile. “You swim well.”

  “Yes, I had a lot of practice in Oxford. Casey and I used to go to the Oxford City Swimming Club at the Temple Cowley Pool. She introduced me to sports and I have tried to keep at it whenever I can.”

  “You can certainly keep it up here. No problem,” he assured her. He traced his fingers gently on her arm, drumming little butterfly tattoos.

  “I know. But we are in Bangkok and this is the Dusit Thani Hotel.” She looked around the pool and at the people perched or sprawled on the towel-covered loungers. Drifts of English, American, Australian and the occasional German conversation reached her ears. “But what about when I am back home?”

  He looked away. Two deep furrows appeared on his forehead. “Let’s not talk about it on the last day of our honeymoon.”

  “But we must.”

  “Before I went to Oxford. I do not recall that there were problems with girls swimming in public pools in Malaysia,” said Hussein. “Perhaps I took it for granted. I did not consider a girl by her race. They were all girls and if they swam, they swam. Apparently things have changed quite a bit, perhaps not so much in Kuala Lumpur but back home in Kemun, it is definitely more conservative, particularly so for Muslims.”

  “So? Does it mean that I will always have to wear the hijab? Does it mean that I must not swim because a swimsuit is considered indecent or play netball because I would be wearing shorts?” An Mei shuddered. Faridah’s words still haunted her.

  “Perhaps, we will have to be careful when we are with my parents but you would probably be fine in KL. The conservative dress mode has still to catch on there. People generally wear what they want.” He swallowed hard as he said those words, remembering his mother’s caution: “You are expected to be a good Muslim, pray five times a day, and your wife as well. Modesty is the most important thing for a woman and your wife should best follow my example.”

  “What about when I go to my office? Can I wear skirts, an office suit, like I did before?”

  “Perhaps, if they are long, to the ankle, like the Baju Melayu,” teased Hussein, tapping her foot with his own. He wanted to lighten her mood and not spoil the last day of the honeymoon with a discussion of how a Muslim woman was expected to dress. He had not given much thought to clothes until An Mei reminded him. He did not consider it an important issue.

  “But do you still want to continue working? I had thought that you would give it up,” he continued.

  An Mei looked at him in surprise. She had taken it for granted that she would continue to work. When they were in Oxford, they had always discussed the careers that they had in mind. She reached out and tapped him playfully on the shoulder. “You are pulling my leg. You are, aren’t you? Of course, I want to work. You have never said I should give it up. What about you? Are you going to continue to work?”

  “Of course! Didn’t you hear my father? He has already set up a rota of meetings for me immediately on our return.”

  “Well then.”

  “Work if you wish. I just thought that you might want to be with me and support me in my role as a budding politician,” he countered. He grinned and she smiled in response, but in those few minutes both saw the chasm that separated them.

  “It will be alright,” he assured her again. “It would be good for you to continue working because I will be busy myself. Let’s take things as they come and not spoil this last day with worries about the future.” He leaned over and kissed her. “Come,” he said, drawing her to her feet, “siesta time.” He grinned.

  *****

  Nelly opened the door. An Mei stood at the doorway for a moment looking lost and sad. She dropped her briefcase and went to Nelly, bending over to rest her head on Nelly’s shoulders. “Can I stay the night?” she asked.

  “Hussein is not around?”

  “No!”

  “Well then!” Indignation and resignation were reflected in that one exclamation. “Let’s take this upstairs,” she said, picking up the briefcase.

  “I’ll take it,” said Ah Kun, the maid, taking the briefcase from her. “Shall I get you tea and bring it to the sitting room? I have opened the French windows and lit the incense to keep mosquitoes away so it should be more comfortable than the study. Mistress Nelly does not like having the air-conditioner on,” she explained to An Mei. “I’ll prepare your bedroom.”

  “I don’t mind the warm night air. It relaxes me, and my muscles don’t tense up as they do when we have the air-conditioning on,” Nelly said as she led the way to the sitting room.

  They sat down, Nelly in an armchair, An Mei on the sofa. Feet tucked under her, An Mei looked around the familiar room. Table lamps, stood on side tables and sideboards, cast a warm glow around the room, touching each piece of furniture with a soft golden light. A duck blue celadon bowl, filled with dried rose petals and cinnamon, sat in the middle of the coffee table. She inhaled its perfume. “I love this room,” she said. “I love coming home.”

  “When is Hussein coming bac
k to KL? It has been many weeks since he left you after that brief honeymoon in Bangkok.”

  “Yes, five weeks and three days,” said An Mei, her eyes cast down. After the honeymoon in Bangkok, they had flown to Kuala Lumpur where Hussein had taken a connecting flight to Kemun to go back to his parents and his duties. An Mei had not gone with him; she had returned instead to his parents’ house in Kuala Lumpur. She recalled their awkward parting at the airport lounge. She had wanted to cling to him and ask him not to leave, but she held back.

  “I do not like being alone in KL in Hussein’s parents’ house. It is huge and empty; it is not home. I call it their residence,” said An Mei. Her fingers were busy trailing little loops on the cotton throw left on the chair. Then impatiently, she placed both feet down on the floor and leaned over her knee to rest her chin on the upturned palms of her hands.

  Nelly regarded her charge from behind her spectacles; she tried hard to contain her sympathy. It would not be welcomed.

  “There is so much marble that I believe my every movement, my every footstep rings empty to mock me. I feel spied upon. The place haunts me. Every moment I am in that house, I relive the utter loneliness and helplessness that I experienced when I first returned with Hussein. Only Fawziah, who helped me escape, is friendly and she is very guarded because she fears that any sign of friendliness would be reported to my in-laws. How they must hate me,” she sighed.

  “Give them time. It must be a shock for them. Jenny said they had very different plans for Hussein.”

  “Yes! Time.” An Mei twirled a corner end of her shirt blouse that had become un-tucked at the waist. A flash of anger crossed her face.

  “And father? Have you spoken to him? Does he need time as well to accept my marriage?” Her voice was bitter. She needed to blame someone, to vent her anger at the injustice of it all.

  “Have you tried to call him?” asked Nelly. “You have to eat humble pie. We are at fault because we did deceive your father.”

  An Mei pretended not to hear. “And what of mother? Any word from her? You cannot say that we deceived her as well. We did keep her informed.”

  “Stop this! Stop trying to put a wall around yourself by making out that it is their fault.”

  Nelly drew herself up and sat up straight in her chair. She pushed her spectacles up her nose then bent closer towards An Mei.

  “Put yourself in their place. And tell me how you would have reacted. And don’t blame your mother. You know how things are. She would not have been able to fly over to be with you at the wedding and abandon your father at the best of times.” Nelly stopped abruptly, undecided whether she should say more. Then she took a deep breath and continued. “At this moment, your father is ill. There, I have said it. He is ill. I did not want to tell you, to protect you so that you do not have to add guilt to the emotions you are already suffering. But I cannot accept the attitude you have adopted.”

  Horrified, An Mei slid off her seat and knelt by Nelly. “When did you hear this? How ill is he?”

  “Yesterday. Your mother called to tell me and asked how you were. He had a heart attack about a week ago and had to be rushed into hospital. He is recuperating. The doctor says that he has to take it easy. So your mother is managing the business. She has a lot on her hands. The restaurant has only just been opened. Her time is split between the hospital and the restaurant.”

  “I’m so sorry. I was hurt and I said things to wound the very people who are already hurt by me.” Appalled at herself, An Mei crept closer to Nelly. “What’s wrong with me?” she asked. “I wanted to call father but my silly pride held me back. I blamed mother, but I should have known better.”

  Nelly shook her head. “It’s unhappiness,” she said. “It is unhappiness that is the engine of your bitterness. Only Hussein can cure you of it, I am afraid.”

  *****

  She came out of her boss’s office closing the door gently behind her. She walked to her own office, a large room not quite as big as the one she had just left, but significantly larger than the one she had previously. “A reflection of your promotion,” Jeremy had told her before she got married. It seemed like a lifetime ago. On her desk was a message left by her secretary. It read: ‘A gentleman by the name of Tengku Ahmad is here to see you. He is in the Blue Room.’

  Panic seized her; the same fear that struck her each time his name was mentioned. She left the form she was carrying on her desk and walked rapidly to the waiting room. She had meant to arrange her air travel to see her parents as soon as her boss had granted her leave. That would have to wait.

  Ahmad had his back to her when she went into the Blue Room, a room reserved for VIP visitors. He was alone. He turned when he heard her footsteps. His eyes scrolled down her body, registering every detail, before returning to stare insolently at her face.

  “Ah! Noraidin,” he said, his voice, soft, menacing but as smooth as silk. “Tetapi, bagaimana tak pakai Baju Negara? Apa-lah terjadi tudung awak?”

  She did not reply. His lips curled. “Let me repeat in English in case you do not understand. Why are you not wearing your baju, your National dress? What has happened to your headscarf?”

  She ignored his questions. “Where is Hussein? Do you bring news of him?”

  “Has he not called you?” Ahmad pretended to be surprised. He shook his head feigning pity but his voice was loud and insolent. “I am not here to bring you news of him. If he had wanted to give you news of himself, he would have contacted you directly. I am not your lackey.”

  He turned his back on her, reflected a moment before facing her again. “I bring word from Datin Faridah. She has learnt that you have been spending many nights away from the residence and that you have driven out on your own without letting the staff know your whereabouts.”

  “That is not true,” she protested. “I told them that I was spending the night with my Aunt Nelly.”

  “Datin Faridah has asked me to check on these rumours that have come to us: your night-time activities! Flaunting your face and body in public!”

  “I am wearing what others wear to the office.”

  “I will report accordingly,” he said and walked out with a flourish.

  She stood in the centre of the room, deflated. She knew it was useless to even try to explain. She made her way back to her office. She had tried to call Hussein but he had not returned her calls.

  Chapter 19

  Villagers came out in full force. Farmers, field hands, car mechanics, traders jostled and reached out to touch him as he walked with his entourage through the village. They chanted. “Hussein! Hussein! Hussein!” Fists pumped up and down, pushing like pistons into the hot humid air above the heads of the crowd.

  Hussein caught their fervour and, in turn, was stirred to even greater action. He jumped up nimbly onto the makeshift stage erected in the square. He put both arms up and smiled, acknowledging their enthusiastic welcome. He thanked them. A silence descended upon the crowd. He began his oration. He spoke of his vision for greater equality, the pursuit of redistributing wealth to the poor. He promised them access to education, scholarships. He spoke of their rights to greater economic achievement. “You! Bumiputra! Sons of the soil! You are the source of our wealth. You will be the ones to reap the benefits of this New Economic Policy.” His face was animated. His eyes sparkled. The crowd cheered. They clapped.

  His bodyguards grouped around him. They descended with him from the stage and cleared a way to the car. He waved and the crowd, drawn to his magnetic charisma, roared their appreciation in response. At last, here was someone who cared for the rural people, for this village in particular, that had been left neglected while the rest of the country advanced and grew wealthy.

  “Share! A greater share!” they roared. “Insha Allah!”

  The car accelerated as the crowd parted to make way for it. Hussein slumped back in his seat. Exhilaration and exhaustion took over. He grabbed the drink handed to him by Ghazali, his secretary and drank, long and full.
r />   “That was good. They loved you,” Ghazali said. He was busy: his writing, spidery long elegant strokes, scrawled across pages and pages of a report for Rahim.

  “We have already covered over ten villages within the constituency and it has been one success after another. You have them in your pocket, Sir. You will be elected.”

  Hussein continued to lie back, his eyes tightly closed. He did not see the paddy fields rushing by, the wooden houses on stilts or the waving bystanders. All he could feel were the beads of sweat brimming over his forehead; his songkok, the headgear he wore to these forums, was drenched. Quickly, he sought a handkerchief to mop his brow. Lately, it had been like this for him, exhilaration followed by doubt. Would they be able to deliver the promises they were making? he wondered. His shirt was also soaked with sweat and the blast of cold air from the car’s air-conditioning caused him to shiver. He needed food, perhaps even those nutritious potions that his mother had been giving him recently to revive his health. They had not had time to eat.

  Ghazali handed him a fresh shirt and he stripped and put it on, tucking the shirttails into the short sarong he wore over his trousers. He inhaled slowly and deeply to calm himself. Minutes passed before he asked, “So where to next?”

  “To the town of Kemun, a short rest in the quarters that have been set aside for our use, and then you will be opening a shopping complex in the town. This will save us some time; it will be more convenient than going home to your parents.”

  “Then?” asked Hussein.

  “Then, there will be a dinner to follow and you will deliver a speech. I have it ready here for you to look at,” said Ghazali, waving the sheaf of papers in his hand. “I will arrange for any amendments that you might have. There will also be entertainment of some sort, perhaps, some local dancing girls, at the end of the evening.”