The Black Isle

by Sandi Tan

  The beginnings of a smile softened this still façade—of course she knew of the ship. The voice that emerged from her throat was filled with an aching nostalgia.

  “The SS Prosperity?”

  “Yes, exactly, that’s it!”

  Mysteriously, her smile vanished. Her face reverted to a melancholy stillness. As if I were no longer in the room.

  “Mrs. Odell, is everything all right?” I glanced at the untouched place setting across from her. “Isn’t Mr. Odell joining you?”

  The maître d’ cleared his throat to remind us of his presence. Fluidly Mrs. Odell raised one frail arm. I was sure she was telling him to leave so we could speak in private.

  Instead, her face creased with anguish. “Make her go away.”

  “Mrs. Odell…” I was choking up. “You misunderstand me, ma’am. Mr. Odell—he told me to find you here.”

  “Remove her now, please!”

  Hands dragged me out of the chamber. Mrs. Odell stared at me from her perch with a look that wasn’t unsympathetic—merely exhausted. She tugged at her pearls.

  And then I was out in the pouring rain, the back exit closing behind me. I banged my fists against the inhospitable barrier and shouted an oath through it, hoping it was loud enough to jolt the gilded tea drinkers. To my surprise, the door immediately flew open. The maître d’ stood safely within its mouth, where neither rainwater nor I could touch him.

  “I really shouldn’t have let you in.” His tone was gentle. “But I was curious to see if you could draw her out. You clearly did.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  He winced, the first genuinely human expression to trouble his face. “They were my best customers. The most loyal, the most generous. Then, about fourteen years ago, on the ship to Shanghai, Mr. Odell contracted meningitis. Nothing could be done—he died. After that, Mrs. Odell lost her life, too, in a way. Her mind followed him out to sea. She clings to this tea date like it’s the most sacred thing, and has been coming here alone now for close to fourteen years. They let her take the taxi from Woodbridge hospital once a month. After the first couple of years, she stopped needing a chaperone. She never strays.” He bowed his head. “I don’t know who you are or how you knew to find her here…Anyway, I apologize.”

  The door closed once more and did not open again.

  I circled the city on the No. 3 tram, wet as a rag, bedraggled inside and out. With the silk dress clinging to my skin, I must have looked like a wrinkled red blister. Riders rushed on, filtered out, rushed on, filtered out. The sun retreated behind shops and hotels as the gas lamps flared on. After three complete loops, the elderly conductor begged me to go home. “The other passengers find you a bit unsettling.”

  I gave everyone a defiant stare as I stepped off at Wonder World.

  Why there, of all places? I suppose I was lonely for a familiar face from the past, even if that face happened to be my father’s.

  There was certainly nothing consoling about Wonder World otherwise. In the three years since our return, it had allowed itself to become run-down and seedy through greed and overuse. The whole city, it seemed, had come hurtling through its crimson gateway demanding amusement. Rents had shot up and the old harmless game stalls surrendered to more profitable ventures: bars, lounges, exotic shows. The attractions had become very colorful, too florid, in fact, for my taste. Walking along, I saw Australian servicemen tumbling out of doorways clutching free beer in one hand and Thai prostitutes in the other. Nearby Filipino midgets played Cuban cha-cha on xylophones, dressed in nothing but silk pantaloons. The Westerners, of course, lapped all this up. Jean Cocteau, I later read, was a repeat visitor, praising its commingling of “the black, the white, the yellow, and the tawny” as only a French artist who saw all things in chroma could have put it. Had I been a large and hairy man, I, too, might have seen the fun in this unwholesome parade, but being what I was, a young Chinese female in a low-cut dress, I could have been mistaken for an extra in this Dionysian spectacle—cast in the role of vulnerable meat.

  I was keenly aware I was the only unsmiling customer. The only one, that is, until I spotted my mirror—my brother—grim as ever. This was Li’s day off and he’d chosen to spend it here, squatting by a tin barrel, diluting Father’s “bird’s nest” syrup with tepid water direct from a communal tap. It filled me with anger and pity that he’d rather sacrifice himself to duty than improve, or at least enjoy, himself. Where was the spirited, restless boy I’d once known and loved?

  “Don’t you judge me,” he said. His insolence only brought more attention to the purple swelling over his left eye, a bruise that was causing his eyelid to droop. “Since you refuse to help, you have no right to judge.”

  “I haven’t said a word.”

  “I can tell what you’re thinking. You think I’m wasting my life because I’m not following my dream. Well, I have news for you.” He looked up long enough to sneer, “I have no dream.”

  He had every reason to be cross with me—I hadn’t seen him since abandoning him at the Troika—yet it was clear his resentment ran deeper than that. He had allowed the cold Confucian obligations of the old country to chase him into the warm waters of the Nanyang: Children were to stand by their father, no matter what.

  I teased out a wad of bills from my purse, enough to cover the Troika incident.

  “Keep your filthy money.” He shut the tap off and began heaving the barrel back toward Father’s stall. I followed close behind.

  “Do you need a hand?”

  “They called the police. Did you know that?”

  “Who called the police? When?”

  “That bloody restaurant, who do you think? They threw me in jail for two days until Father came up with the money. But, of course, you wouldn’t know. Nor would you care. I hope this answers your question about why I don’t hate him. He’s the only person who gives a damn about me.” He dumped the barrel down on the pathway with a grunt and rolled it edgewise to the back of Father’s stall. “It’s him you should be giving your filthy money to, not me.”

  Father was ladling out cups of bird’s nest to a Burmese couple and hadn’t even noticed my arrival—or at least, he acted as if he hadn’t. Li stalked off into the crowd, leaving me stranded by Father’s side. I waited for the customers to leave, then brought the money to his hand. His fingers closed around the cash without a word.

  “Your brother’s very bitter,” he finally spoke. “He tried to join the civil service as a clerk, but they refused to take him. Didn’t matter that his written and spoken English are both good. He’s not European, not even Eurasian. Not even Eurasian, they said.” He shook his head. “I worry for him. This bitterness is landing him in trouble. Last week, he picked a fight with an Australian sailor at one of those new bars on the other side.” He pointed to the far end of Wonder World, now chockablock with drinking holes. “If you hear of any good office job, please tell him. I don’t want him to be a servant boy much longer—my son deserves better than that.”

  “He’s not going to want any help from me.”

  “Surely Ignatius Wee has a friend who will hire him? Why don’t you find out?”

  “It’s not that easy. I can’t just ask my boss like that.”

  “Li is your only brother.”

  Li stormed back to the stall at this moment, carrying a big block of ice in a burlap sack. He flung the thing on the floor at the back of the stall and began attacking it with a wooden mallet. He was allowing me no opportunity to apologize or explain myself. I waved him a neutral good-bye and prepared to leave.

  “We men have the odds stacked against us,” he blurted out. “But you, on the other hand, could be making yourself useful.” Smash—his ice block became two. “It’d be so easy for you to make three, four times what we make—just pretend to read them their stupid fortunes…”

  “I’m not going to prostitute myself.”

  “As if you’re not doing that already.”

  We stared at each other
for an instant before I turned and walked away. There was no point in arguing.

  “Go on, run away! That’s all you ever do! You live in a dream world!”

  I had hastened for the exit but found myself nudged and jostled by a whirlpool of elbows and thighs back into the dead heart of the park. All around me were hawkers pushing all manner of food and drink, hot and cold; hustlers shaking their cues at gullible marks; boxers, pimps, towkays, playboys, dandies, all of them strutting up and down the pedestrian boulevard.

  An irate Hakka woman peddling bags of peanuts jabbed me rudely in the ribs. “You taxi dancers can go to hell with all that union nonsense! Those strikes cost me a lot of business! You girls should be grateful you can find work at all!”

  I fled her, only to be accosted by a white-bearded Arab who pinched my bottom and winked as he passed. This was almost courtly compared to another, more odious ruffian who grabbed me by the waist and cooed in hillbilly Hokkien, “What’s your rate, Little Flower? I don’t have much, but I’m small and I’m fast. Maybe give me a discount.”

  I wriggled out of his rough brown hands and burst into the nearest bar—its theme was Wild West bordello. My bet was that this foreigners’ drinking hole would intimidate my would-be suitor. It certainly intimidated me. A fat, wordless Chinaman in a sombrero poured whiskey at the candlelit bar, and I planted myself before him, fortifying myself with thoughts of my new favorite movie duo, Nick and Nora Charles, and how they drank and drank and laughed. I had to act casual.

  “Give me a double, straight.”

  It was then that I noticed from the corner of my eye that the shadowy interior of the place was filled with uniformed armed forces men. Some bordello. Aside from me, there was not a dame in sight. I took my Scotch and drank it standing up, by the swinging saloon doors in case I had to make a quick exit.

  A voice bellowed from the gallery, “Just when we fought all’s gone to ’ell, a livin’, drinkin’ China doll!”

  The speaker sounded young—a boy really, certainly no older than I was. I kept my shoulders squared and my eyes on the drink. Some of his mates chimed in with the squeaky rasps of schoolboys: “Bird holds down her drink betta than you do, Ron!”

  “Bollocks!”

  “I’ll be ’avin’ her wiv a squeeze o’ lime, I will!”

  “Aww, Musgrove wants to ficky-ficky!”

  “Shut yer gob, Jonesy!”

  Squealing chair legs told me at least two of the lads had peeled out of their seats, either to fight one another or to approach me. I trained my eyes on the counter while I paid the fake Mexican and strode quickly out of the bar with my head held high.

  “Oy, come back ’ere! We just wan’ a talk!” yelled one who had followed me out of the bar, his voice so new that it still cracked. “A li’l chat is all!”

  I turned back to face him: He was at most fifteen, poignantly rosy-lipped and apple-cheeked, his freshly shaved sideburns beaded with sweat. My glance sent him scampering back into the bar. How did a child like this get let into Wonder World?

  How did a child like this get into the army?

  Again, I joined the shoving cavalcade as I sought the shortest route out of the park. The gate seemed no closer than before—if anything, the path seemed even more convoluted, even more elusive.

  “Follow me,” a voice boomed by my ear, with an authority so calm I could not ignore it.

  Something caught my hand and pulled me deeper into the crowd, instead of out of it. I was as helpless as a fisherman being sucked into the ocean by a shark. Swimming against the human current, I saw the distinctive black knot that was Issa’s hair and tried to break free, but his grip only tightened. We were at the gate in no time.

  Yes, I was grateful for the rescue. But I wondered about his well-timed appearance. Once we were outside, I shook off his hand and saw the red marks on my wrist where he had fixed his grip.

  “Did you follow me after dropping me off? Did Mr. Wee ask you to spy on me?”

  Issa laughed dryly as he led me to the Bentley. “Mr. Wee has more important things to do than worry about you roaming around town. The senior Mr. Wee, anyway.”

  I didn’t like what he was insinuating about Daniel, not because it couldn’t be true, but because he had no business making such judgments.

  “And no, Young Master didn’t ask me either.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  In the rearview mirror came a little smile. “You’re not the only one with secrets, you know. One day, the two of us should have a little chat.”

  9

  Where Have All My Ghosts Gone?

  I DIDN’T CARE FOR THE SWIMMING CLUB. Dipping into the Olympic pool for the first time, I opened my eyes to gray torsos jutting out of the deep end, their arms flailing, eternal victims of drowning. It was the worst baptism. I never took a swim again.

  But I will come out and admit it: I was seduced by the life the Wees had. The air-conditioned bedrooms; the freshly pressed, rose-scented laundry; the larder stuffed to the rafters with cans of abalone and hanging pallets of salt-cured duck; the lavish restaurant dinners that appeared to be a twice-weekly affair. Although Mr. Wee claimed that chicken rice was his favorite food, I learned that this wasn’t quite true. Rice was a peasant starch—it rarely appeared at the Wees’ dinner table, for if one could afford meat and vegetables, there should never be any need for rice; only the gauche asked for it. Mr. Wee, in fact, had an enthusiastic appetite for shark’s fin, lobster, and buttery blocks of foie gras. The bird’s nest I ate at his table was the genuine item, swallow spit retrieved in the Dutch Indies by nimble cave climbers, not the dismal agar impostor cooked up by Father at his stall.

  Even more than the elaborate feasts, the thing I appreciated most about being with the Wees was the ease with which the past and the outside world could be sidelined, excised, dismissed. Neither Mr. Wee nor Daniel mentioned my job interview or questioned me further about my prospects; whether this was politeness, forgetfulness, or happy indifference on their part, it suited me fine. Even Violet and I arrived at some sort of a truce. Her disapproval of my friendship with her brother simmered down to a tolerable hiss.

  “Shall we get out of here?” Daniel asked me one gray afternoon, as the Wee household was awash in an uncharacteristic dolefulness. Violet was cramming for her O-Level exams—ten subjects in which she could score no less than a B or be thrown out of Connaught Academy—and had taken to plodding up and down the stairs making distressing grunts and sighs. Mr. Wee was picking up and slamming down the telephone in agitated spurts, all the while riffling through stacks of Chinese tabloids with Little Girl loyally translating by his side.

  I threw down my Modern Screen magazine, banishing the beaming face of Olivia de Havilland to the foot of the bed.

  Daniel smiled. “I know just the place to take you.”

  Issa drove us in the Bentley. Issa and I hadn’t spoken since Wonder World, and I treated him coolly, since any hint of familiarity would only give rise to questions. But I had nothing to worry about—in Daniel’s presence, Issa was a perfect stranger.

  As the rain trees and angsanas of the suburbs gave way to coconut palms and vine-draped banyans, I knew that Daniel’s “place” wasn’t going to be the botanic gardens or even his swimming club with its quartet of shimmering pools, but somewhere farther east. We passed Forbidden Hill, Jervois Swamp, even the power stations that kept the Isle electrified. On we drove, coming finally to a private turnoff. The lane was shielded on both sides by casuarinas, their pointy tops catching the breeze. In the distance, a lighthouse stood like a solemn cigarette.

  Salt brightened the air. The conifers thinned as we went on, revealing a pristine stretch of white sand. Gentle waves rolled up in jade green, their foam edges as playful as chiffon trim on an evening gown. This beach was irresistible, yet nobody was on it, not even a ghost. Not since the jungle had I seen a place this deserted.

  Mesmerized by the sight of water, I hadn’t noticed our actual destination. Issa tu
rned right into a narrow driveway about midway down the road and pulled under a porte cochere. We had reached what appeared to be a villa, Italianate in aspiration—salmon-pink walls, wrought-iron balustrades—but equatorial in modification: Like the homes of the rural Malays, it was raised five feet aboveground for ventilation. Daniel took my hand and led me up mosaic-covered steps to the verandah, which wrapped around the house.

  “What a bizarre place,” I murmured without thinking.

  “It is, isn’t it?” Daniel smiled. “My grandfather built it. It’s very much a typical Peranakan villa, with a bit of everything. We’re a hodgepodge people, as you know. But don’t worry, it’ll grow on you.”

  It already had. The villa was nowhere as large as the Wees’ city house, but its idiosyncrasies made it even more appealing—for a start, it was less somber. The furniture was plantation-style rattan stuffed with brightly colored cushions. There were cheerful paper lanterns, orchid-print drapery, and even an upright Steinway in the main room, its lid left open and ready for an impromptu sing-along—though I couldn’t imagine any of the Wees participating in such a thing.

  “Do you play?” I asked.

  “Nobody does. But Grandpa thought every country house had to have a piano. He must have read that somewhere. When he died, the house became my father’s. Aunt Betsy did some redecorating, but Daddy insisted we keep the piano.” His voice swelled with boyish pride. “This place will be mine someday.”

  The casualness with which he laid claim to such a luxurious abode brought a chilly quiver to my heart. I couldn’t claim anything but a wardrobe of simple dresses and a shelf of dog-eared books. What different universes!

  “How many other houses does your family own?”

  “Just these two, and then there’s the flat in Hong Kong, on the Kowloon side. But that’s just a flat and I’m told that it’s very small and dull because only Father uses it. No frills.” He smiled, a little apologetically. “My father’s not a man with many frills.”