Bitter Sweet Harvest

by Chan Ling Yap

  “Turn around,” he instructed the driver.

  Chapter 44

  The field was parched dry, more yellowy brown than green. An Mei ran down the slope, ignoring the sharp blades of lalang, and their plumes of dried seed heads. They brushed against her, leaving fluffs of seeds, whispery white trails of cotton that dotted her long indigo-blue skirt. Lifting a hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the dazzling sun, she looked towards the river. No one could be seen. She quickened her footsteps; her sandals crunched against the dried stalks of grass, flattening them to the ground. Until the monsoon breaks, the heat would continue to build. She felt the trickles of sweat on her body; her face burned with the heat. She placed both hands around her mouth and hollered, “Mark, Mark! Where are you?”

  Her voice echoed across the field, and then tailed off with the wind; hushed whispers that had no form, just resonance of sound. The maid had told her that Mark went out by the side gate of the back garden. She waited and waited for his return and when he did not come back, she grew alarmed. She decided to go in search of him, leaving also by the side gate, fighting her way through the undergrowth that had choked the narrow path leading out to the fields beyond. She remembered Mark asking her if the path was equivalent to public footpaths in England, which would end up normally in good walking grounds. She had laughed. “People,” she had said, “do not usually walk for pleasure in Singapore. It’s the same in Malaysia and I daresay elsewhere in the region. It is too hot.”

  She did not know if the fields were good for walking. Jane had mentioned that they used to be divided into vegetable plots. A few families had planted and tended them with care, growing vegetables for the local market. Each morning would find them watering and hoeing the ground, their faces hidden under wide woven hats, making ridges of rich black earth from which would sprout delectable greens, choi sam, mustard greens, kai lan, kale, and fat Chinese cabbages, their white tubular forms and wrinkly lime green leaves, bursting from the earth ready for harvesting. Now, the fields were barren, left unattended, wild, waiting for another residential housing estate to be built on the land.

  She made her way down the gentle slopes to the river. It was brown and in places, almost silted up. Dry outcrops of rock stood at the side. Many days had passed without a single drop of rain as the season built up to one giant ball of heat before the onslaught of the monsoon. She looked to the left and right of her. Which way? she wondered. She turned to the right and broke into a run. She followed the dirt path, kicking up dried earth as she ran. Soon her skirt was plastered with pellets of brown earth. She rounded a bend, following the lazy meandering of the river and came to a stop. For there, seated on a rock, was Mark.

  He saw her and waved. Her heart lifted. He was not angry with her. She smiled walking up to him and he returned it with a tiny quirk of his lips, but as she got closer, she could see the wariness in his eyes. She guessed he was expecting her to say she wanted to leave him for Hussein and he was steeling himself to take it on the chin. She could see his hurt. She ran, ignoring the dirt, her skirt trailing, and her sandals, their straps slipping down on her heels and becoming unfastened under unaccustomed use. She reached him. She looked at him for a second and then put out both her hands and took hold of his and hauled him up. Then she kissed him, a gentle kiss that grew in intensity, murmuring all the while that she was sorry. She told him of her dilemma, of Hussein. He listened. When she finished, he asked, “Are you sure? Are you sure you wish to be with me?”

  She buried her head into his chest. She had thought and thought the whole morning. She loved Mark. Hussein was the past, a love that she had imagined to be more than it had proved to be.

  *****

  Hand-in-hand they walked, retracing their steps along the river, up the gentle slopes of the brown fields and onto the main road. They saw Jane’s house from afar, a white detached house with a portico and a white gate on a tree-lined road. An ice-cream van was parked at the top of the road. She could see Nelly coming out with Tim, making their way to the van. From across the road, someone came out of a parked car. He headed towards Nelly and Tim. An Mei broke into a run, followed by Mark.

  “No! No!” she cried.

  Mark picked up speed, his legs moving fast, sensing danger. “Nelly!” he shouted.

  Nelly looked up. Hussein waylaid her. He stood in her path. “Ah! The dependable aunt!” he mocked. “And … my son?” he asked raising his eyebrows like a question mark and looking at Tim.

  “No! I am not your son,” said Tim looking up, his eyes wide, appraising this stranger. He stuck a finger in his mouth, withdrew it and, with a gravity that both pained and captivated Hussein, said, “My mother said I am not to talk to strangers. We are going to get an ice cream.” Nevertheless he smiled, his little teeth, white against his brown skin, proud that he remembered his mother’s instructions, delighted that he was going to get an ice cream because he had been bored staying in the whole morning. “Daddy says it is very important to listen to mummy,” he added.

  Hussein looked at the little boy. Such a beautiful boy! He had an overwhelming desire to pick him up and claim him as his own there and then.

  “What’s your name?”

  “None of your business. Will you please stand aside?” demanded Nelly. She tried to shield Tim from Hussein.

  “Go in Tim,” said Mark, arriving with An Mei closed at his heel.

  “No! No! I want an ice cream.” He struggled flaying his arms as he tried to free himself from Nelly’s hand and run towards the van.

  “We’ll get it for you. Just wait a little,” coaxed Mark. He squatted down on his haunches and patted Tim on the head.

  Nelly gathered the struggling Tim to her and retreated back into the house.

  Hussein could hardly contain the jealousy that surged within him. His face turned pale with anger: to witness the authority that this, this mat salleh, dared to wield over his son. His thoughts became incoherent. Grudges that had no connection with the present, flashed through his mind. Mat salleh! A white man, no better than the mad sailor boys arriving in the past at our shores to wreak havoc on our women. It reignited his anger against those who had been responsible for Malaysia’s past subservience as a colony. He had not felt like this when he was a young graduate in Oxford. Since taking up politics, however, it had grown like a boil in his gums, fierce, ready to burst. He glared accusingly at An Mei, “So this is him.”

  “I know who you are,” said Mark, moving protectively to An Mei’s side. “An Mei has told me about you. I do not know why you are watching our house and stalking us, but I would like to make it plain that we do not wish you near us and our family.”

  The two men glared at each other.

  “Please leave,” said An Mei, appealing to Hussein.

  “Leave?” Hussein asked. “He is my son. You need only to look at him.”

  “Please leave. He is not your son,” An Mei insisted.

  Hussein stood still. He stared at her, ignoring Mark’s presence. The air was filled with all the recriminations that though unsaid were omniscient and real.

  “You’ll hear from my lawyers,” Hussein said quietly and confidently. He turned and returned to his car. An Mei reached for Mark’s hand and he took her trembling hand into his own.

  *****

  She sat on the floor, legs tucked beneath her, her skirt spread out. The blotches of dried earth stood out from its indigo blue like giant disfigured poker dots. On her lap lay Tim’s head, his little body curled up on the floor, his knees to his chest, deep in sleep. She had one hand protectively on him while the other brushed the tendrils of hair that had fallen over his eyes. Now and then she would stroke his cheek, marveling at its smoothness. I cannot lose him, she thought, looking down at his small defenseless body and instantly panic engulfed her. Hussein’s threat! She recalled how he had looked at her, stripping her naked, forcing her to bend to his will, to reveal her soul. The hammering in her chest increased. Her eyes sought Mark’s.

  “
We must leave,” she said, “I am frightened of what Hussein might do.”

  Mark turned to look at her upturned face. He wanted to be strong for her, but felt nothing other than frustration and a sense of helplessness. “Yes!” he said, “the problem is how to do it? We have this unfinished business with the police. Kam has warned us not to leave. I might still be charged for obstructing the police.”

  He dropped to his knees beside her. “What we need is good legal advice; not only with regard to the police, but also with respect to Hussein’s threat. Are we dealing with Hussein’s bluff or can he build up a real case against us? Can he prove Tim is his own?”

  “The solicitor I saw for my divorce,” said An Mei. Her face brightened. “Mr. Tan. Jeremy introduced him to me. We could talk to him.”

  “Unfortunately he is in Kuala Lumpur. It is of the utmost importance that we do not go to Malaysia. It will make it easier for Hussein. I think he would find it easier to serve a writ against us.”

  He slipped both hands under Tim and stood up, cradling him. He walked to the bed and laid him down. An Mei watched him tuck the bedclothes with care around Tim and she felt a calm descend on her.

  “The best thing we could do is leave now for Rome,” he said, turning around to face her, unaware of being appraised.

  “Shall I call Kam? At least we would know where we are with respect to the police.”

  “Yes! And we should call Jeremy to ask if he knows anyone in Singapore who could explain the legal system and advise us on what to do. I wonder if Jane knows any one?”

  *****

  Mark looked through the glass window into a small cell. It was stripped of everything except for a table, with a recording machine set on one side of it, and some chairs. A guard was posted at the door. One of the two men who had been apprehended by the police commandoes was in it. He sat in a chair; his elbows on the table with his hands laid cuffed in front of him. Mark recognized him as the one with the tattoo who had emerged from the hut for a smoke and who had jumped carrying Tim bundled in his arms. He looked nervous and agitated. His eyes were sullen and defiant. Across the table, two men sat facing him.

  “Come,” said Kam, “let us adjourn to my office and leave my officers to their work. I am sure we can break him; the other has already confessed. My men are already out there looking for Ah Cheong. And through him, we should be able to get to Ahmad.”

  He went ahead, leaving Mark and An Mei to follow. Mark wondered at the methods they might use to break a person under interrogation. In this case, the detainee was a criminal, caught red-handed. Yet he wondered how he, himself, might be questioned. An Mei sensed his anxiety and squeezed his hand.

  They walked through the maze of corridors and eventually found themselves back once more in the Detective Superintendent’s office. Kam took his time going round to his desk before indicating that they should be seated. He sat and rifled through his notes; his movements were slow, keeping them in suspense.

  “Detective Superintendent Kam,” said Mark, “are we free to go?”

  Kam looked up, seemingly surprised by the direct question. He took time considering it, looking from one to the other. An Mei, who had earlier relinquished Mark’s hand when they sat down, reached out for it again. Kam saw her anxiety. He chose, however, to ignore her, turning his full attention on Mark.

  “Why are you in such a hurry to leave? Are you not interested in catching the culprit, the man behind the kidnap?”

  Mark racked his brain to compose an answer that would be the least compromising. Kam did not give him a chance to reply.

  “Then there is still the question of your attempt to withhold information from the police.” Kam tapped his mouth with his pen; his lips pressed tightly together, the lower lip jutted slightly forward in bemusement. “You have also not asked after Aquino.”

  They look guiltily at each other at the mention of Aquino. They had forgotten him again in their anxiety and they looked ashamed. They had promised him their protection. All they had been thinking about since Hussein’s threat was to secure their own escape.

  “Where is he?”

  “In one of my cells.”

  “Please would you treat him with leniency because without his help we would not have found Tim. He placed himself in great danger to help us,” said Mark.

  “Ahhh!” Kam seemed to be enjoying their discomfort. He leaned back in his chair, still tapping the pen on his lips. “You know as well as I do, he also played a part in the kidnap. He was the driver; he was with the boy in the house and therefore an accomplice in holding the child there. So on those grounds we can continue to detain him. If he had been innocent, then we would, of course, let him go free.”

  Kam leaned forward and gripping his pen between his index and middle finger, twiddled it on the desk to emphasise his next words. “You see, like the laws of your own land, we cannot detain people beyond a certain number of hours, in our case 48 hours, without a charge. We are not uncivilized. However, we will charge him although, at present, I cannot tell you what exactly the charge will be.”

  Mark felt himself being toyed with and he did not know quite how to respond. Why, he wondered, had Kam felt it necessary to compare the two countries? He had been warned that in his travels to former British colonies he was likely to encounter two very different types of people. Those very compliant and respectful of people from the west, because they believe them to be powerful and superior, a remnant of a past when the white men, or orang puteh as they called them in this part of the world, were their colonial masters. Then there were those who would be resentful of anything that might remotely remind them of the colonial past. This second kind of person would not miss any opportunity to demonstrate they were equal if not better than their former colonial masters. Mark pushed aside these thoughts. He might be oversensitive himself. In any case for the sake of Aquino, he would not rise to the bait if it were one. Instead, he asked, “Can you release him on police bail?”

  “And who would stand bail for him?”

  Mark looked quickly at An Mei. “Us?” he asked.

  “Ahhh! To be a bailer, you have to be a Singapore citizen or at least a permanent resident.”

  “Aunt Nelly!” said An Mei. “Jane,” she added.

  Mark looked doubtful at committing the two ladies without asking their permission but he did not want to leave Aquino in the lurch, not after all his help. He was convinced that the young man was not a willing partner in the crime; he was just a victim of the situation. He leaned over to An Mei and told her they needed to discuss this alone and consult with Nelly and Jane.

  “Can we get back on this matter? We need legal advice and, of course, we need to discuss it with our Singaporean relatives,” Mark said.

  “Fine! I can do that. Let you have a bit more time.”

  They look expectantly at Kam.

  “What about… what about us? Can we leave Singapore?” Mark asked again.

  Kam looked gravely at them. He compared Mark’s response to that of Hussein. At least he does not throw his weight around. And he has integrity because he seemed genuinely concerned about Aquino. He had enjoyed teasing him and had almost laughed out aloud when he was doing so. He had discussed the situation with his superiors. They had been pleased with the rescue. If they had not succeeded, then it would have been very bad publicity for the island’s efforts to establish itself as a tourist spot or financial centre.

  The general consensus was that there was no necessity to rake over the fact that Mark had tried to undertake the operation on his own. A good warning would be sufficient chastisement because, in the end, An Mei did tell them and Mark did not do much beyond watching the hut where the criminals were. He did lead the police to the criminals and did in the end play an important part in the boy’s release. The fact that he would have tried to save the little boy on his own was still a supposition, his superiors considered, because the police did not catch him in the act. Kicking up a fuss would detract from the bigger issue, the
kidnappers themselves. Above all, it might lead to bad publicity. Kam had agreed wholeheartedly.

  Out of the corner of his eyes, he stole a glance at An Mei. He saw the fear in her face. He had developed a soft spot for her since Nelly had told him of her situation, but he was not going to let them off so easily without a warning. He summoned a stern expression.

  “When we catch the mastermind behind the kidnapping, you will have to attend court as witnesses. We will need you to identify formally the criminals we have so far apprehended and hence you can’t…”

  The phone rang, its ring shrill and sharp. Kam picked it up impatiently. He listened. His eyes widened. Mark could not read the expression. At times, he broke into Cantonese. He nodded sympathetically at intervals. He turned his back to them, and spoke softly into the phone. An Mei and Mark looked in wonder as they waited to hear their fate. They looked at the clock on the wall and then at their watches. Every minute of delay could make more real, Hussein’s threat. Their unease grew. They waited. Finally, Kam placed the phone down.

  “Excuse me. That was an important call. Where were we?” he asked.

  “You were saying…”

  “Yes! Yes! I remember. Let’s say that we do not bring any charges against you for obstructing the law. Mind you this would be purely an amnesty on our part. You will not attempt to withhold information again. You will liaise and keep us informed on all matters relating to this crime. We will need you as witnesses. As to whether you have to be physically present,” his voice softened, “you might wish to take legal advice.” Kam drew open his drawer, flicked through a stack of cards and pushed one across the desk to them. “You might like to be advised by this gentleman.”

  Chapter 45

  The road wound round the mountain range. On one side of it was the steep rise of the mountain and on the other side a sheer drop, concealed by dense rain forest. Tall tree ferns rose high, their lime green fronds spread and interlocked to form a canopy of shades. Through them, rays of sunshine filtered; first golden and then pearly white as a haze of dewdrops spiralled round them until they reached the ground. They struck the stems of the giant ferns, accentuating their craggy brown bark and the unrolling fronds of smaller plants growing closer to the ground. The buttress roots of the banyan trees loomed large. Everywhere was the lush green of the forest. At a distance, deep in the jungle, wild orchids hung precipitously down from their hosts; their large waxy blooms a colourful contrast to the surrounding green. Long-tailed monkeys swung from tree to tree, their cries echoing across the mountain. Then suddenly the car was descending; the road began to bend and twist more gently, each meander further apart than the previous one. Gradually, warm air supplanted the cold dampness of the rain forest and the flora changed. A stream emerged, drawing water from its source, hidden behind boulders in the hinterland. The car left the Main Range and they were back in the lowlands that run the length of the east coast of the Malay Peninsula. They were returning to Kemun and Hussein’s parents.