Bitter Sweet Harvest

by Chan Ling Yap

  Ghazali wondered why Rahim wished to talk to him. He wondered too why Rahim had chosen to sit in darkness. Things had not been the same since Ahmad had contacted them. Everyone was behaving strangely, going his or her separate ways. Hussein’s family was no longer a family. They were disunited. He squirmed in his seat, wishing that he had not come. He felt himself at a definite disadvantage because he could not see Rahim sitting there in the shadows.

  “Tell me,” said Rahim. He moved forward, coming out of the shadows to lean his elbows on the desk. His leather seat groaned with the shift of his weight. His dark eyebrows, peppered white, were raised, but there was no fire in his eyes. He looked tired, haggard. The jowls in his face seemed to have lost their firmness and strength, leaving his cheeks loose. Long deep lines broke on either side of his mouth when he spoke. It had been more than a month since Ghazali had met with him in this very room. Then Rahim had struck a commanding and decisive figure. That figure was gone replaced by a shadow.

  “Please sir, why do you wish to see me?”

  “This,” said Rahim, waving some sheets of paper at him. “Mutterings of dissatisfaction from our constituency in Kemun and not so gentle complaints from the capital. Apparently Hussein has been distracted. He is not working well; he has missed appointments and deadlines; he says the wrong things… you name it… its all here.” He threw the papers down on the desk. “What is up?”

  “He is completely wrapped up with the idea of retrieving the boy, ‘Tim’ I believe he is called,” Ghazali explained. “He is convinced that the child is his son. It has consumed him, sapped all his energy. He spends hours talking to lawyers and looking into the possibility of getting Tim. I did warn about this before. He is in Kuala Lumpur at this moment. He sent me here to deal with some constituency matters on his behalf.”

  “I am very worried about Hussein. He was doing so well until that ill-timed, cursed phone call from Ahmad. I wish he had never called. It has stirred up the past, a past that is best forgotten. My son is obsessed with his former wife. I don’t understand it. He would never have got this far if she had remained in his life.”

  Over the past month, Rahim had become increasingly convinced that Tim was not his grandson. He had spoken to all the women folk, including the servants, and none had any inkling that An Mei was expecting. He had questioned in particular Fawziah, An Mei’s maid. Only she amongst all the others had hesitated in her answer. In the end she too had affirmed what they said. It must be Ahmad’s way of getting back at them and to get more money. A grunt of annoyance escaped him. He stood up, pushing his chair away. He walked towards the windows and looked out to the distance. “Any news of Ahmad? Have they captured him?”

  “No! I do not believe they have captured him. Neither did they manage to catch Ah Cheong, his accomplice. The Singapore police blamed it on the porosity of our borders allowing criminals to move with ease between countries.”

  Ghazali had stood up when Rahim walked to the window. He now walked to stand behind him. He lowered his voice. “Sir!” he said hesitantly.

  “Yes?” asked Rahim as he spun around to face Ghazali.

  “Perhaps Datin would know the whereabouts of Ahmad. I heard her speaking to someone on the phone. I think it could be Ahmad. She was asking the person to help get her grandson.” Even as he spoke, a dread descended on him. He ran his tongue around his lips. He was on surer grounds when he spoke about Hussein. He felt that Rahim was of the same mind as him. But this, this telling on Faridah, Rahim’s wife was another matter.

  Taken aback, Rahim glared at his son’s short bespectacled loyal assistant. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice reflecting his disbelief.

  “I heard her. I cannot be absolutely sure, but I think she was talking to Ahmad,” insisted Ghazali.

  “There is only one way to find out. Send for her! I’ll ask her myself. If what you say is true, I will put a stop to this nonsense once and for all. But if you are lying ... you will not be working for Hussein much longer. Understand?”

  *****

  The car stopped in the portico and Hussein got out. He climbed up the stairway to the entrance of the family residence in Kuala Lumpur. He stepped into the house and was overwhelmed by its silence. He remembered how An Mei had complained that she felt like a prisoner there despite its grandeur. He had never felt that way. In the past, the house was always filled with people. His parents or kin were always there. There were always guests. Not this time. It was deserted except for servants. They were quiet like they were told to be. How he wished he had not sent Ghazali to Kemun. At least then, he would have had someone to talk to.

  He walked up the spiral stairway, past the inner courtyard to his room. He lowered himself onto the couch. His hand went to his chest. He felt a tenderness lodged deep in it as if he had been wounded. It was like the aftermath of a knife wound, an initial sharp stabbing pain followed by a dull throbbing ache. His head pounded sending a sharp signal to his left temple; it spread all round the socket of his eye. He felt unbalanced. He was aware only of the left eye and its discomfort. He rubbed and tapped his head to rid it of the all-consuming pain, but it remained. He groaned; he thrust his legs out in front of him to slide deeper into the couch. He looked at the papers and reports strewn around him. He could not read them; he could not remember what they were; he could not concentrate, he did not care. All he could think of was the file the lawyers had prepared for him. They had not given him much hope. They said such civil cases were notoriously long-winded and damaging. They were willing to take the case, of course, but had hastened to add so many caveats that he had wanted to scream at them. Perhaps, he should have gone with Ahmad’s suggestion, but at that time he had thought he could win An Mei back.

  He closed his eyes willing himself to rest. He took a deep breath, releasing it long and slowly. The doctor had warned him that his blood pressure was dangerously high.

  Fawziah came into the room with a tray laid with teacups, saucers and a plate of pastries. She placed it on the coffee table, careful not to make any sound. She stood unsure whether she should wake him or remove the tray. His breath came in rasps. Suddenly his head jerked. She stood ready to run before he woke, but his eyes, rimmed with dark shadows, remained shut. She stood looking at him. The cook had sent her up because he had not eaten. The previous night’s dinner had also remained untouched. The dishes the cook had prepared for his lunch had been left to cool and congeal. The cook had exclaimed, “Nak tinggal dunia! He wants to leave this world! But I do not want to be blamed. So take him this,” thrusting on Fawziah the tray of food.

  Fawziah bent to take a closer look at Hussein. His cheeks were hollowed throwing into relief the sharpness of his cheekbones and jaw. She could feel his breath, warm, ragged. She wanted to touch his face. She put out her hand and imagined touching it. His hand shot out and grabbed hers.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded, his eyes wide-open. He recognised her as the maid who had helped him find An Mei when he first brought her home and she fled. He held Fawziah’s hand tightly, almost twisting her arm, and brought it down even as he struggled to stand up to tower over her. She bowed her head with shame and embarrassment. She did not know what made her reach out. She did not know why she did it, only the compelling urge to touch this man, an urge grown out of compassion. She had been a witness to the trials and tribulations of his pursuit of her mistress An Mei and the misery he was in now.

  “Minta maaf,” she whispered. “I did not mean anything. I was not thinking. Please do not tell Datin.”

  He dropped her hand. He swayed unsteadily. An explosion of pain went through his temple and, for a minute or two; he did not know where he was. It had happened before; a few moments of complete blackout, of not remembering, conscious of nothing except for the excruciating pain in his temple. He looked wildly around him.

  “Please, I’ll help you sit down.” She placed her arm around him and guided him back into the couch. “I’ll call the doctor.”

  “Stay
with me,” he said.

  “Yes, I only need to reach the phone to call the doctor, then I will return. I’ll be back.”

  *****

  “I am afraid, we have found a tumour in his brain. I am sorry to have to tell you this.” The doctor spoke gravely.

  The walls receded from Rahim’s vision. He stared blankly at the doctor unable to take in the news. Only Faridah’s muffled cries brought him to the present. She pressed her face into his body and he could feel her tears soaking his tunic.

  “Can anything be done?” asked Rahim.

  “There are a number of drug trials being carried out. One in particular, Temozolomide, looks interesting. The drug is being developed at Birmingham’s Aston University in the UK, but it will take many years of trials and refinement before it comes onto the market. Even then, I suspect it will only buy the patient more time. Chemotherapy would still be the main treatment in this case. Then, of course, there is surgery, but it is extremely delicate. For that, perhaps, it might be advisable to take him to a hospital that has had experience of the operation.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “I can’t really tell you. Each person responds differently to the treatment.”

  Rahim was not listening anymore. He could not absorb the enormity of the news. He heard his wife’s whimper; he held her trembling body close to him as much to get comfort as to give it. He recalled his son’s pallor, his body on the narrow hospital bed, hooked up to machines and monitors, tubes hanging like tangled snakes coiled around his body. The hopes, ambitions and pride that he held and felt for his son, all dashed to smithereens. Was he to blame? Had he pushed Hussein too far? How did he fail to notice the changes in his son’s behaviour, his sickness? What kind of a father was he?

  “Perhaps sir, you might wish to go home and take some rest. There is little you can do here. We will call for you when he wakes up. We can discuss this again. It is difficult to take in all at once.”

  *****

  Fawziah sat in a chair in the corner of the hospital room. The smell of disinfectant rose from the floor, suffusing the air with its stringent odour. She felt encased in the whitewashed walls of the room. The panoply of apparatus meant little to her. Monitors that flashed numbers and graphs; the beeps and sounds coming from them. She was wary and bewildered by the tubes that hung from high and dripped viscous liquids down into the vein of the unresisting patient. She had been left to make sure that the medical staff could be summoned if the need arose and in order that his parents could be contacted the minute he became conscious. She looked at Hussein anxiously, afraid that she might miss something should she so much as blink. The ticking and murmurs of the machines were soporific. She pinched herself to keep alert.

  A small movement caught her eye. She went over to him. She could see his eyes flickering behind his closed lids. His lips, parched and dry, moved soundlessly. She hurried over. Her hand reached for the bell.

  He caught her wrist. “An Mei,” he said. “Stay.”

  She knelt down, her wrist caught in his grip. She could feel his hand, hot, feverish, and clammy.

  “She is not here. I am Fawziah,” she whispered.

  “Don’t leave me.” His eyes moved rapidly behind closed lids. “Where is our son?”

  “I am not An Mei,” she said. He moved his head. His eyelids remained shut but, behind them, his eyes continued their restless twitching. She gently stroked his hand. His jerking stopped. Slowly his hands grew limp and the flickering of his eyes stopped. She could see the rhythmic rise and fall of his breath. She stood up and went out to call the nurse. Then she made her way to the telephone booth in the corridor. She stood for a moment outside the booth. No good would come out of his hankering for Puan Noraidin and the boy. He needs peace and she, her newfound freedom. Fawziah took up the phone and whispered with her eyes closed and face looking upwards, “Forgive me my lies.”

  She dialled and waited.

  “Datin,” she said, “your son is sleeping and I have called the nurse to check if he is all right. I have something to tell you. Datuk has been asking if Puan Noraidin was pregnant before she left us. I am afraid I might not have been sufficiently clear. I did not explain why I believe that she was not with child. I would like to tell you why I know. I tended to her clothes. She did not miss her moon. She was not pregnant when she left.”

  Chapter 49

  From where they stood, the hill sloped down on both sides. On one side, the hill contours followed the rough car track. On the other, it fell steeply into a deep valley. A river wound through fields. At intervals, diverted eddies of water gushed and tumbled around boulders, seeping between the rocks, before re-joining the main flow. In other places the rushing river seemed to check and stall giving way to peaceful stretches of deep emerald water.

  An Mei stood on the hilltop, one hand holding Tim, the other clutching a bunch of wild pink cyclamens and yellow primroses. Everything was still. Under the clear blue sky, the long grass, heavy with morning dew, lay flat where Tim had been rolling his little cart. Wild anemones sprinkled the fields with blue and white. In the distance, a cuckoo called. She breathed in deeply the scented air and tilted her head to the sky. “Thank you,” she murmured, “for all this.”

  She dropped Tim’s hand and stretched out both arms to embrace the air. She felt free, liberated. She spun around. Her chuckling and joy infected Tim. He too laughed, his delight bursting out of him as he too spun around. It was lovely to see his mother so happy. He turned and turned, both hands held up high, his jacket bonnet slipping behind him, until An Mei caught him in her arms. “Stop! You will be dizzy,” she laughed.

  She set him down on the grass and pointed to the car track. “Let’s walk on the Golly Gosh road. Be careful not to fall into Golly Gosh’s holes. Daddy is waiting for us in Mr. Giuseppe’s house. The festa must have started. There will be a big fire.”

  She held on to his hand and took the cart from him, tucking it under her arm. He skipped and flapped his arm, yanking hers as he went.

  “Golly!” he shouted as he jumped over a small pile of gravel and stones. “Gosh!” he exclaimed as he deliberately landed in a shallow hole. Tim had been the first to name the road as the car bounced up the track when they were searching for the house they now owned just fifty-eight kilometres from Rome. It had been love at first sight for all of them when they saw the house with walls built of volcanic tuffa and a roof of traditional terracotta tiles. The main sitting room had a large open wood fire while French windows on each side opened on to terraces that adjoined the garden. To the east was the orchard, a gentle sloping incline that inched upwards to join another hill. To the west, was another terrace that looked out over the valley and the river.

  She stopped to turn and look at the house. Tim pulled impatiently at her hand and she continued down the rough road. She did not want to rush. She wanted to take in every minute of the day, dawdling at times to look at the wild flowers that grew in profusion by the roadside. Bees droned, humming their tune, as they dipped and flew from flower to flower. Buttercups and mustard yellow primroses, flowers that she had long associated with England, grew in even greater abundance here. She stooped to pick some buttercups to add to her bunch.

  “Mummy! Hurry! I am hungry,” pleaded Tim.

  In the distance she saw smoke rising from a fire. Across the field came the sweet, rich aroma of porchetta and abbachio. She could see a huge pig, stuffed with fennel, garlic and rosemary, laid out on a trestle table. Close by a lamb on a spit was roasting over a fire pit. A man, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong brown arms, dipped and brushed olive oil scented with rosemary and garlic on the lamb, while another patiently turned the spit. The fire cackled and spat as the fat and juices oozing from the lamb hit the hot ashes. Tim ran and she hurried forward to keep up. Another huge trestle table covered with a white cloth had been set up under the shade of a fig tree, its wide palmate leaves offering much needed shade. A woman stood with a huge loaf of casareccio bread he
ld tight against her bosom, cutting thick slices and dropping them neatly into woven baskets. Another woman busied herself filling up bowls with glistening fat black and green olives slicked with olive oil, to be taken to the table.

  “Signora, just in time to help with the bruschetta. We need someone to help chop up the tomatoes and the garlic and basil. Here, I’ll take Tim over to the other children. He’ll be safe with Simonetta,” said Giuseppe’s wife, Claudia, taking Tim by the hand. “Go!” she commanded, pointing An Mei in the direction of another table set by the kitchen door.

  “Where is Mark?”

  “He will be here soon. Non ti preoccupare! Do not worry. We sent him to chop more wood. He is forte, strong,” she chuckled flexing her own biceps to make her point.

  An Mei looked anxiously at Tim’s back. He had broken free and was running and skipping part of the way to join a group of children assembled around Simonetta. A little boy had his eyes blind-folded. The game of blind man’s buff had just started. Shrieks of laughter filled the air as the children gave chase, running close to tease the boy before escaping with shouts of glee.

  From the corner of her eye, Giuseppe’s wife saw the anxiety that drifted across An Mei’s face. “Go! Don’t worry,” she said. She reached out to squeeze An Mei’s arm. “You are with friends.”

  An Mei smiled, embarrassed. “Yes! I’ll go over to help.”

  Two women had stationed themselves behind a long travertine table and were preparing bruschetta. A big pile of bread had already been sliced ready for toasting on the open barbecue. One woman, her hair tied up with a scarf and an apron knotted hastily round her waist, was laying out braids of dried garlic, ready to be peeled and minced. The other had begun chopping up tomatoes. “Here, just in time. You prepare the basilico,” the woman with the scarf said, handing her bunches of green basil. “Shred the leaves finely and we’ll mix them with the tomatoes. With some garlic, a big glug of virgin olive oil, salt and pepper, they will provide a wonderful topping for the toasted casareccio.”