Bitter Sweet Harvest

by Chan Ling Yap

  “Calm down! Don’t fret. She is fine, just a bit tired of long hauls. It is nearly four years since she stopped running the business. Since then, she has been flying to Rome to see you every year. This year, she has decided that she would like to stay with Jane in Singapore. Also, Jane’s household has an additional attraction for her. Jane’s newborn.”

  “But no one can beat this baby,” said Casey as she entered the room. She was cradling the struggling Timothy in a pair of pyjamas, and kissing him.

  “Let me down,” he wailed.

  “Yes, unhand the poor boy and stop smothering him with kisses,” her husband chided.

  “Wait till I get my own. I will not let him go,” promised Casey, putting Timothy down. “But when will that be?” she asked. She made a face at her husband. “We have checked and checked and nothing seems wrong with either of us and yet we are still waiting for our first child.”

  “It will happen. Don’t worry,” consoled An Mei.

  “You sound exactly like Nelly. Come on! Let’s see if Adriana has the food ready. My mouth is already watering with the smells coming from her kitchen. You are so lucky to have her.”

  “I am lucky all round,” replied An Mei looking at the friends who had stood by her and made it all possible.

  *****

  That evening after Casey and Jeremy had left, An Mei opened the album of photographs she kept by the side of her bed. She looked at the photos, each one a vivid reminder of the days that followed Hussein’s renunciation of his marriage vows. Jeremy had taken them saying that they would be her keepsakes. “Look at them only when you are fully recovered from the pain and trauma you are going through now,” he had said. So until a year ago, the album had been kept locked away.

  The first photograph showed her arriving in Singapore. Nelly was with her. Jeremy must have caught them when they were just leaving the arrivals hall at the airport after their hasty departure from Kuala Lumpur. She looked thin. It was just three days after she had received the letter from Hussein announcing that he was divorcing her. She recalled her constant fear throughout those three days; how the three days had passed with a blur of frantic activity; how her heart had throbbed; how each little sound had made her jump. She turned the pages of the album, examining her own photos and those of her family, gathered to celebrate Timothy’s full moon. One photo captured her attention. It had written under it, the caption “Mun yuet!”

  She recalled how Nelly had said, “Tim is one-month old, which would be a year old if we counted his age the Chinese way, because it is measured from the time of conception.” They had argued light-heartedly over the logic of making ten months into a year.

  An Mei traced her finger on the next picture and smiled. She recalled how her mother, Mei Yin, had then bustled in with a large ceramic bowl full of boiled eggs that had been dyed red. “Heh!” she had announced with great pride, “this is for all your neighbours and friends to celebrate Tim’s mun yuet. I also made this huge jar of pickled ginger to eat with the eggs. I just gave some to Adriana to test!”

  She chuckled at the image Jeremy captured of them: the red eggs, pickled ginger, Adriana almost gagging and a very pained look on her mother’s face.

  She flipped through the pages until she found the one with Casey and Jeremy. Casey was in white holding a bouquet of creamy roses, their petals delicately curling against her arm encased in a pale white three-quarter length glove. Jeremy was looking at her with pride. She peered closer and saw herself standing to one side with her mother, father, aunt Nelly and Casey’s mother. In her arms, she was holding little Timothy, barely a year old. The photographer had captured Nelly’s questioning gaze. They were directed at her. Nelly had been uncertain whether she would be hurt by Jeremy’s marriage to Casey and had asked her directly. “No! Of course not!” she had replied. “I love Jeremy as a brother. I am happy that the two friends who have helped me so much should find love and contentment.”

  She sighed. So much had happened in the past four years. She stood up and laid the album down by the side table. She slipped out of her clothes and took out her nightdress from the drawer. She slipped it on followed by her old dressing gown, a faded, pale rose-pink kimono with a wide silk sash that was his present to her. Padding bare-foot into the kitchen she put on the kettle. As the kettle sang and hissed, she heaped two big spoonfuls of cocoa into a mug and then poured the boiling water into the mug. She recalled how he had teased her over her fondness for cocoa made with water and just a dash of milk. “It should be made with hot milk,” he had said. “Not where I come from,” she had replied. “In Malaysia, when I was a child, fresh milk was not that easily available. I use to drink it with condensed milk!”

  She took the steaming hot mug into the den and made herself comfortable in an armchair. She picked up a book. “Mark,” she said aloud. “Mark should be home soon.”

  Chapter 34

  Their meeting was accidental.

  It was a blistering hot summer’s day in Rome. The air was still. Heat radiated from the thick walls of the buildings lining the road. Mark walked rapidly down the cobbled street, weaving his way between the cars parked hither and thither at all angles along the street.

  “No pavements!” he grunted. “We need pavements here for pedestrians, but of course that is impossible with so much history around us. I can’t see anyone wishing to take these down just to make way for pavements.” He looked at the massive old buildings on either side. Their grandeur and age never failed to astonish him. Despite the shade they provide, it was still hot. The air was close and the walls warm to his touch. A trickle of sweat fell from his brow; he wiped his forehead and pushed his shirtsleeves further up his arms. He had long relinquished his jacket and held it loosely over his shoulder. He stopped a passer-by.

  “Mi scusi, do you know of a good restaurant around here?” he asked.

  “No! Niente qui; there are none on this road; see there,” his informant pointed to a turning, “Viale Mura Gianicolensi, try there.”

  Mark hid a smile. A twinkle gleamed in his deep-set brown eyes; his lips moved imperceptibly. He could not believe what he had just heard. No good restaurants on the street and that from a Romano!

  “Grazie, grazie,” he said to the man.

  He turned into Viale Mura Gianicolensi. Immediately before him was the imposing building of the Salvator Mundi, a hospital run by sisters of the Divine Saviour. He saw a young woman emerge from its gate. She was just some fifteen yards away. She was crossing the street. Two boys on a scooter stopped in front of her. One of them dismounted and grabbed her bag, pushing her roughly aside while he scrambled back on the scooter before roaring off. Mark saw her stumble and he sprinted forward. He gathered her up. He could feel her shaking uncontrollably. Her hair, which had been tied back into a ponytail, had come undone. It streamed across her face. He placed her gently back on her feet and retrieved a shoe that had become trapped in the cobbles. He could see that she was heavily pregnant. Her tummy was a hard dome that protruded from her slight frame. He pushed her hair away from her face.

  “Are you alright?” he asked. She looked at him, her large eyes apprehensive. His heart missed a beat.

  “Yes! Thank you,” she said.

  “Have you just come out from the hospital?” he asked, his head nodding in the direction of the Salvator Mundi. “Shall we get you back there to check just to make sure everything is okay?” He was anxious for her. Her cheeks were drained of colour, and her lips were trembling. He looked at her bump; she looked away embarrassed.

  “Sorry, I was just concerned, since... since...”

  “Yes, I am almost due. In four weeks time, the doctor said.”

  In his usual brusque manner, Dr. Ginelli had wagged his finger at An Mei shaking his head in disapproval when she asked if she should continue to walk daily as part of her exercise regime. “Signora deve stare attento, take a little care; it is too hot to be wandering around the centre.” But she had no wish to return home immediately and sh
e had some last minute shopping to do. So she had stepped out of the archway of the hospital onto the cobbled street of Viale Mura Gianicolensi and then... It had happened so quickly.

  “I shall be alright,” she said, attempting to be put on a brave face, “but I have lost my handbag. I have no money with me to take a taxi home.”

  A crowd had gathered around them. A few women pushed forward. Mistaking Mark to be An Mei’s husband, they hurled their advice at him.

  “Si, take the signora home. It is too hot. Give her ice tea with a slice of lemon,” they said. They looked at her sympathetically, muttering a range of curses against the thugs. Figli di puttana! Stronzi!

  “Come,” said Mark, “I’ll take you home. If you can manage, we’ll walk to that corner bar and we’ll get you a cool drink. Then I’ll go round the corner to try to flag a taxi.”

  “Don’t leave me. Stay with me for a moment, please,” An Mei said. The aftershock of the incident was still with her, every footfall behind her made her jump. “I had everything in my handbag; my address, my credit and identity card, my keys. They will know everything about me. What shall I do?”

  “Shall I call your husband?”

  “I live alone, that is when my aunt is away. She spends half of her time in Singapore. She is due to be back any time soon.” She hesitated and then said, “I don’t have a husband.”

  She watched his reaction, expecting some disapproval or contempt, but there was none. Instead he asked if she could get a friend over to be with her.

  “Or perhaps you can stay with a friend,” he added.

  “Yes, I have friends, but they have just left for a long weekend.” She looked desperate. She was the one who had encouraged Casey and Jeremy to go away for a long weekend. “Go! I’ll be okay. I shall need you when the baby arrives, not now,” she had said to them.

  “Take this,” he said thrusting a handkerchief at her. “Sit down and breathe deeply. You need to sit down and take a drink first to calm down. We’ll work something out.” He guided her to a chair and table outside the bar. “I am Mark, Mark Hayes. And you are?”

  “An Mei. Ong is my surname,” she replied.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said extending his hand. He clasped hers. She felt the warmth of his hands seeping through her and she felt comforted. Slowly, her tensed shoulders relaxed and she managed a small smile, a little upward quirk of her lips that resulted in two dimples on her cheeks. The rush of emotion that he felt from that one smile shocked him. He relinquished her hand quickly. How could you, he thought to himself; she is expecting. Almost brusquely, to cover his feelings, he said. “You will have to report the incident to the Carabinieri.”

  “Now?” she asked. She sensed his change of mood; her smile vanished as fast as it came.

  “I’ll help you. I do not live in Rome, but I have been here often enough to have experienced some misadventures ... well, my car was vandalised so I know the ropes of reporting incidents to the police. It is almost a fine art. You have first to buy the paper to make the report on from the tabacchi.” He smiled. “In Rome, you buy everything from the tobacconist; stamps, bus tickets, even salt in the past.”

  She listened, wide-eyed.

  “After we’ve been to the Carabinieri, I’ll help you change your door locks,” he added and was rewarded with a smile that warmed his heart.

  *****

  “What do you do? I mean why are you here in Rome?” asked An Mei.

  It was their second meeting. Mark had phoned unexpectedly. “It is too hot to cook. Come down and join me for dinner,” he had coaxed. “I am calling you from the trattoria opposite your apartment. If you look out of the window, I’ll wave to you.”

  She had walked to the window in a state of disbelief and peered out. She saw him. A tallish young man in his late thirties with a grin on his face standing by a table laid out in starched white linen. He waved. She pulled a light cardigan hastily around her. It barely covered her bump. For a minute she hesitated, conscious that she was dressed in an old dress for comfort rather than for dining out. He would have to take me as I am, she decided. She descended the steep stairway from her apartment on the second floor, taking each step carefully.

  Seated opposite him, with the table between them, she waited for his answer.

  “I am a biologist turned freelance journalist,” he said. “I am doing a piece on food for work and agricultural development for the Observer.”

  “What’s food for work?” she asked.

  “It is something that has proven to work well in many developing countries. Agencies such as the World Food Programme, WFP as it is often called, provide food in exchange for work on development projects. This has made it possible for the poor and hungry to devote energy and time to agriculture. It is a first step out of the hunger trap. And you? How is it that you are living in Rome? Do you work for a living?”

  Something about this young beautiful Chinese woman in Rome, alone, pregnant and looking so vulnerable interested him. His heart did silly things even when his face was calm and collected.

  She looked away. She took some time before she redirected her gaze at him.

  “I came here to have my baby.” She dropped her gaze. She had not wished to say any more than that. Fear that Hussein would discover her deception and would hound her for the baby, played on her mind. But she also felt a sudden urge to unburden herself to this stranger, who had helped her, who she would probably not see again after he had finished his assignment in Rome.

  “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” he said, placing his hand on hers. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “I want to,” she said. “I want to tell you. I need to talk to someone.” So she told him. He listened in silence and when she had finished, he moved his chair closer to her.

  “I know I should not be doing this, but I am going to.” He took her face in both his hands and kissed her forehead. She felt her heart lift, a burden removed from her. Nearby a band of singers strummed their guitars and crooned. The waiter who had been hovering to take their orders and who had departed with disgust after several attempts to interrupt their conversation, returned with alacrity. He had seen the kiss.

  “Bene! Tutto a posto! Che volete? Everything is okay now. What do you want?” He asked, fishing out his note pad. He reeled out his list: Proscuitto melone, pasta e ceci, spaghetti alla vongole...”

  They looked at him and smiled.

  Chapter 35

  Mark sat with his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. The long corridor smelt of polish; each square floor tile a rich coppery red. He looked up at the cross on the white wall opposite him and then at the clock at the end of the hall. As though on cue, it struck 6 o’clock. The first stream of sunlight was beginning to peep through the windows. Almost three hours had passed since their arrival in the early hours of the morning. Sisters rushed past him, their starched white pinafores over grey habits competing with starched white headdresses. They steadfastly ignored him. If they did deign to look at him, it was with dislike. They had asked if he was the husband. He had answered no and had explained that he was a friend. From there on they had looked at him frostily and then dismissed him completely, directing him to the hallway. Only immediate members of the family were allowed, they had decreed.

  It had been 2 o’clock in the morning when he was woken up by the ringing telephone. He was cat-sitting for a friend who was away on holiday. It was a distraught An Mei asking for his help. Her labour pains had come unexpectedly early. She had thought that she had over two weeks to go.

  “You don’t have to explain,” he had replied. “I’ll come straight away. Just have your bag ready and call the hospital.”

  The sound of hurried footsteps came from one end of the corridor. He looked up. He saw a lady, plump, grey-haired with spectacles, panting as she walked and half-ran towards him. Two other people followed her, a tall man and a statuesque young woman. He waved. They must be Nelly, Jeremy and Casey, he thought
. An Mei had told him that all three would be coming from Rome’s Fumicino airport. Nelly was arriving from Singapore and Jeremy and Casey had gone to meet her. The plane had been delayed. That was why she had no one to turn to. “Please tell them that I am at the Salvator Mundi.”

  It took him the best part of two hours to get a Fumicino airport official to agree to search for them.

  “Are you Mark? How is she?” Casey asked immediately. She had an arm round the breathless Nelly. Nelly’s chest was heaving, her knees looked as though they were buckling from her exertion.

  He nodded. “I don’t know. The nuns have not told me a thing. Maybe you will have better luck. I think they disapprove of me; they think I am the errant father.”

  Nelly looked alarmed and turned immediately to Casey. “Hui gong meh? What did he say?” English was not her forte at the best of times, but she was completely confused by his accent.

  Casey explained. She chuckled, amused by the nun’s treatment of Mark, but it did nothing to relieve Nelly’s anxiety.

  “Sorry, so sorry,” she blustered in Cantonese. “I should not have left her, but I had an urgent matter to attend to, we finally managed to sell off our business. I couldn’t return any earlier because there were so many fiddly little details to complete.”

  “Calm down, calm down,” said the man next to her, placing an arm round her. Turning to Mark, he introduced himself as Jeremy. “And this is Casey and this is Nelly, my mother,” he added. “Thank you so much for helping out. We will ask the nurse if we can see her. If you want to, you can go. You must be tired.”

  “I’ll stay,” Mark replied. They looked at each other, measuring one another up.