The Woman Who Breathed Two Worlds

by Siak Chin Yoke, Selina

  Before setting sail, Peng Choon asked my permission to donate one of our plots of land to the Malay community. To cement his relationship with his adopted country, he wanted the land to be used for the building of a mosque. I know he did this for me, in recognition of my Malay ancestry. It was a farewell gesture that, like the midwife’s tongs of iron, warmed my soul.

  My husband took so long to leave that I was pregnant again by the time he set sail. Peng Choon wanted to stay for the birth, but I discouraged this. I needed to get the farewell over with so that we could look forward to his return. ‘You go-lah,’ I told him. ‘Then I-give-birth time you at home already.’

  When the moment arrived, my mind turned blank. I did not have the strength to accompany my husband to the port and contented myself with seeing him off at our front door. Peng Choon, who could have hired a rickshaw, chose to walk to the railway station, carrying in his hands the single cloth bundle in which his belongings had been wrapped. ‘I’ll be back,’ he said cheerfully, flashing his dimples as he set off with a Hakka friend. ‘Then we can talk about the girls’ education.’

  I stood on our five-foot way staring at his straight back as he descended the hill on Lahat Road. For a long time afterwards, even when my husband and his friend had disappeared, I remained outdoors, thinking of the quiet moments he and I had shared. Then, wiping away a tear, I went in to prepare lunch for our children.

  15

  In Peng Choon’s absence our house became a lonelier place. His return from work was a ritual ingrained into our days, except we did not know it until he had left. At six every evening I would imagine the sound of his footsteps. The children did the same; for a whole week they gathered as they always did in the hallway in anticipation of greeting their papa. Our eldest son, Weng Yu, who had been the child most excited by my husband’s homecoming, was especially morose. He spoke even less and could be coaxed out of his shell only by his second sister, Hui Ying.

  The sole cheer in the house was brought by a new and young servant, Li-Fei, who joined us when we moved to the Lahat Road. Barely sixteen, Li-Fei, like Ah Hong, had been introduced by Siew Lan. Of Hakka descent, Li-Fei was blessed with the stout physique of one used to working in fields, with skin permanently tanned and hands calloused from hard labour. When we met, I noticed her large feet, untouched by the odious practice of foot-binding. With her big-boned frame, she was able to lift and carry the loads that defeated Ah Hong. Our servants were both good workers, and loyal too. My heart grew warm whenever I saw them together: fair, slender Ah Hong, who never said more than a few words, beside dark-skinned, muscular Li-Fei, the more vivacious of the two, who would chatter endlessly to the children.

  With Peng Choon gone, I asked Ah Hong and Li-Fei to eat with us, bringing the younger ones in tow. The children brightened every meal, but I missed my husband’s dinner-time stories about the world beyond the Lahat Road. In his absence a gaping hole was left which no one and no amount of stargazing were able to fill.

  The children were a solace, especially our eldest daughter, Hui Fang. When her father sailed for China, Hui Fang was already nine – old enough to understand that I was troubled. Sometimes, while helping Ah Hong and me with the preparation of meals she would announce ‘I myself can do this now, Mama’ in a grown-up tone, which made me proud.

  Hui Fang was tall for her age. She stood five feet tall then, nearly my height, and having matured early, she was already delicately curved. A robust build was all she had inherited from me; everything else seemed to be from someone else. Where her placid nature came from was a mystery. Whenever I looked at her, I thought of the Goddess of Mercy, though I doubt if the men eyeing her had piety in mind. The lecherous glances my daughter received on the streets from stallholders and office workers alike told me we would have difficulty keeping predators at bay.

  Hui Ying was also growing up fast. While Peng Choon was away, her carefree days came to an end. I set her to work in the kitchen, to begin her Nyonya training. Like me, my second daughter put up a fight, though thankfully this had not stretched to biting my arm. With Hui Ying no longer shooting marbles or climbing trees, I had it in mind to make a new baju panjang for her, a dress she could now wear with less risk of its being torn. I knew just the right colours – green and a rich brown – which, together with five-pronged hairpins, would show off the piercing glint in her large almond eyes.

  A few weeks after Peng Choon’s departure, our eldest son, Weng Yu, went to school for the first time. He looked smart in his brand-new clothes – a Mandarin-collared navy-blue jacket matched with loose brown Chinese trousers. A pair of sparklingly white shoes and socks covered his feet. On his shoulder he carried a brown cloth satchel containing an exercise book, its pages so new they still smelt fresh, a set of pens, whose quills were as yet untainted by ink, as well as his lunch, since school did not finish until three in the afternoon. We had gone on a special shopping trip the previous fortnight, searching for shoes, books, pens, a bag and material for new clothes. The expedition, led by Siew Lan, was an education for me. I had never until then bought books and pens, nor shoes that had not been handmade by a cobbler on the street. I dragged Siew Lan and Weng Yu into one shop after another, checking the prices and quality of goods. With nine children to think about and another on the way, I had to count our coins, despite being well provided for by Peng Choon. Three hours and a dozen shops later, I was finally satisfied and we completed our purchases. Weng Yu was silent but grumpy; he had found the afternoon trying.

  Yet when I gazed at the result, I thought it had all been worthwhile, especially his homemade clothes, the fruit of my own labour. Having obtained the pattern from Siew Lan, I spent days cutting and stitching the long-sleeved jacket and trousers. Even the vest he wore beneath was tailored by me. I was surprised how well the clothes hung on Weng Yu’s lean body: starched and pressed, they seemed a natural fit.

  We walked the half mile to Yuk Choy School, which was then located along Lahat Road. As we marched forward, Weng Yu in a small voice asked me when his papa would be back. ‘Soon,’ I mumbled before turning to stroke my little prince’s hair. If Peng Choon had been around, he would have accompanied our eldest son to school, and Weng Yu knew it.

  When we arrived, I was ashamed at not being able to understand a word written anywhere. The building, situated in the middle of a huge compound, was large and divided into many rooms. I had to ask someone to tell us the way when we got lost. My son, meanwhile, dragged his heels. ‘Come on, Weng Yu!’ I prodded. ‘This your first day. You cannot be late-lah!’

  We were directed to a room at one corner, where a number of boys were already seated, each on a wooden chair behind its own desk. All faced the teacher at the front, a short man with a Chinese cloth cap on his head and a trimmed moustache over thin lips. The teacher looked surprised to see me.

  ‘Ngi ho,’ he greeted me in booming Hakka, giving a quick bow of his head at the same time. ‘I am Lee Tsin-sang.’ His voice, which bounced off the bare walls of the room, struck me as extraordinarily loud for a man so small. I introduced myself before giving the teacher Weng Yu’s name and age. Lee Tsin-sang noted the details.

  ‘Do you have the fees with you?’ he asked casually. ‘It’s two dollars per month.’ I nodded, handing him the money. It seemed a wholly reasonable rate, but I wondered about the boys whose families could not pay. I supposed they were sent home. I was glad we could afford school for Weng Yu and all our children, even the girls.

  After these formalities I turned towards my son, whose face resembled that of a trapped animal. Stroking Weng Yu’s head, I whispered, ‘I stay outside, Son.’

  ‘Peng Choon Sau, you want a chair to sit on?’ Lee Tsin-sang had taken his cap off and was looking solicitously at me. I saw that he was bald. Despite the gloom of the early-morning light, the teacher’s crown shone as if recently oiled. I was visibly pregnant by then and grateful for his kind offer. ‘Thank you,’ I replied.

  I placed my chair at a spot where Weng Yu coul
d see me. There was one other parent present, a young woman whose face was heavy with make-up. With her thick layer of powder and black lines of charcoal pencil, she looked like an actress who had just come off the stage. We smiled politely at one another. Then we waited.

  The boys in Weng Yu’s class looked like a mixed bunch. They were all Chinese, Yuk Choy being a Chinese school, but a handful, whose shirts and shoes already looked worn despite it being the first day of school, clearly came from less well-off families. In contrast, there were also boys who apparently had everything, whose lunches sat on the floor beside their desks in beautifully lacquered containers.

  Not much was taught that morning, and I had to remind myself that the boys had only just arrived. First they had to say their names, and Weng Yu mumbled his so badly that he had to repeat himself more than once. Afterwards the teacher went through simple counting, something my son had already learnt from his papa. I watched proudly as Weng Yu completed his counting tasks without needing help.

  Then the teacher asked whether someone would sing the whole class a song. To my surprise my son raised his hand.

  ‘Weng Yu, you want to sing?’ Lee Tsin-sang asked in his loud voice. Weng Yu nodded.

  ‘Ho, ho,’ the teacher said. ‘Stand up.’ Turning to the rest of the class, he asked the boys to clap.

  I watched in astonishment as my son stood up, pulled his shoulders back and opened his mouth wide, as if he were about to eat a whole Nyonya dumpling. Out floated a voice as sweet as the gula melaka we cooked with, and everyone’s ears pricked up. When Weng Yu finished, his classmates clapped spontaneously. A few even asked for a second song, bringing a grin to Weng Yu’s sharp face.

  In those days Siew Lan came often to see me. After her marriage to the white devil, she became the mistress of a wealthy household. Now, with two servants working for her, she had time on her hands.

  Despite her newly elevated status she did not put on airs. We sat as we had always done, a pot of strong coffee brewing beside us, a tray with a betel nut box and chewing implements laid out in front. Of all the Nyonya women I knew, Siew Lan was the one who enjoyed betel nut chewing the most. Her gums and teeth, stained blackish red by betel nut juice, were testament to her favourite pastime.

  It was inevitable that my friend’s new-found affluence would be reflected in the clothes she wore. Shortly after her wedding I saw for the first time a sumptuous sarong of the Pekalongan variety in pale purple with Javanese motifs of flowers and leaves intricately stitched. Shades of black, red and green swept its folds, criss-crossed by golden threads. It was a sarong I was to see on her many times over the years, a piece which would become much loved. That first afternoon when she wore it, Siew Lan stepped gingerly up on to our barlay.

  ‘You all right, Chye Hoon?’ she asked as she moved the maroon cud inside her mouth. ‘You lost weight-lah! Eat properly-ah?’

  I turned away, unable to respond. For many weeks sleep had eluded me. I was weighed down by a mysterious foreboding, a dreamlike heaviness which even hours of chanting before Kuan Yin could not lift. I had spent so long staring at the ceiling above our altar table that I knew every patch of brown which had been singed by the rising smoke. New wrinkles had appeared around my eyes and even slivers of grey on my hairbrush – the first signs I was ageing with worry.

  Siew Lan interrupted my thoughts. ‘You worried about her-ah?’

  I shook my head.

  My friend raised an eyebrow. Under the gaze of her doleful eyes, I gave voice to the apprehension I had felt even before my husband’s departure. ‘I have bad feeling,’ I said nervously.

  It was a dread I had not dared acknowledge to myself. I certainly hadn’t mentioned it to my husband, not wanting to burden him with silly fears, unwilling, I suspect, to also be laughed at. But the premonition had not dissipated; if anything, it had grown stronger. Almost daily I braced myself for bad news.

  ‘Only natural,’ Siew Lan assured me. ‘There a lot to think about.’

  Spitting out a mouthful of pungent betel nut juice, I wondered whether to tell her everything. When I married Peng Choon, I never for one minute imagined I would one day be fretting about a land which had seemed so remote on our wedding night that it might as well not have existed.

  ‘Your husband sure to come back,’ Siew Lan pronounced. ‘He not the type to just leave.’

  On hearing such kindness, I burst into tears.

  When I finally looked up, I was grateful for the woman across the table, who had been my best friend since our arrival in Ipoh. She was as solid as the Pa Lo Old Temple. Even her husband, the red-haired devil, had grown on me. Whenever I visited their home, he was neatly dressed, his shirts and trousers always white and free of creases. His cheeks, though still pink, were much less ruddy than when we first met, and the hairs on his arms less disagreeable without the accompanying stench of alcohol. Siew Lan told me that after the birth of their second child – a son – her husband consumed even less drink. He still held his own at any banquet, but she was delighted by the new restraint. I could tell how much Se-Too-Wat loved his children; he played incessantly with Flora and made a fuss of their lovely baby boy, Don, who was a smaller version of his mother, with flat cheekbones and thick black hair.

  Siew Lan said people always looked at them on the streets; not for long or with malicious intent, but everyone took a second glance. The curiosity of Ipoh’s townfolk did not bother my friend any more, as she and her children were left alone for the most part. It seemed that Eurasians were taken as living proof of our acceptance by our white rulers. ‘Look, they can’t think we’re that inferior,’ went the whispers.

  None of this street gossip was important to me. What mattered was that Siew Lan looked happier than I had ever seen her. We smiled at one another across the table.

  ‘For baby’s sake you must eat properly,’ she told me a little sternly. ‘I bring bird’s nest soup next time I come.’

  16

  The night after Siew Lan’s visit I had a nightmare.

  In my dream I fell or was chased or both – I could not tell. It was pitch-black, so dark there was not one glimmer of light. Nothing could be seen anywhere, not even the faintest outline. This is what it must be like being blind, I thought.

  I moved quickly, floating through a tunnel. I was hounded by a presence, a thing that seemed to come for me. I was scared, and my heart beat faster. My throat felt dry – parched, as if I had been shouting. Perhaps I had been shouting . . .

  . . . and then I saw him – my husband’s handsome face staring straight through me, grinning broadly, his dimples leaving shadows on both cheeks. I saw him clearly, but only his face and the top half of his body. He was dressed in a black Chinese top with a Mandarin collar, the type he always wore to work. He winked at me with his left eye. Then he was gone.

  Next there was a buzzing sound – bzzz-bzzz, bzzz-bzzz – that seemed close by, almost next to my ear. Further away someone tapped on the door.

  I woke up drenched in sweat. My hand had unwittingly swatted a mosquito, which was still alive. I could hear it hovering just over my face. A figure had opened the door to my bedroom and was standing near the entrance with a lamp. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that it was Ah Hong, who asked in a soft voice, ‘Ah Soh, Ah Soh, you all right?’

  I sat upright. ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Just a bad dream-lah.’ Then, looking at Ah Hong, I worried about what else I might have done in my sleep. ‘You hear me-ah? I wake up the children?’

  Ah Hong shook her head, stepping closer with the lamp, and in whispers assured me that all was well. ‘So hot I no sleep, so I go to the kitchen to sit under the air well. I hear noise so check on the children-lah. You soft, Ah Soh, no one wake up.’

  When Ah Hong had gone, I could not settle. I walked around in a daze the next day, tired and tense, the bags growing under my eyes.

  For several nights I was wary of sleep, fearing a nightmare in which I ended up screaming. I did not want the children to know how worried I was th
at their father would not return.

  Siew Lan pulled up the week after in a rickshaw, carrying a small lacquered box in her hands.

  ‘The soup I promised you,’ she announced. ‘In dry form-lah! Ah Hong can put in a pot of water. I show her how much cane sugar must add.’

  The rickshaw puller, who had just set the vehicle down, was panting and puffing from the incline on the Lahat Road which led up to our house. Most rickshaw pullers managed it without fuss; this one, though, made such a noise that I gave him a glance. A jolt came over me, for I would have recognised that face anywhere – ugly as ever, full of pockmarks, with its hair-infested mole below the left side of his lower lip.

  It was the ting-ting man of Penang.

  His clothes were as sparing as in my memories: that day he wore a sleeveless singlet, generously stained with tobacco, so unwashed its whiteness had turned a creamy yellow. He was even skinnier than I remembered, all bones and no fat, and I wondered how he managed to drag his rickshaw at all. I stood staring, struggling to recall his name.

  And then it hit me. ‘Ah Boey,’ I called out. But Ah Boey did not recognise me.

  ‘Ahh . . . long time no see,’ he said in Hokkien.

  ‘You remember me?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he replied rather doubtfully.

  ‘This gentleman was ting-ting man when I lived in Penang,’ I explained to Siew Lan. ‘His name is Ah Boey. But Ah Boey got so many customers, I sure he can’t remember me. Now I am called Peng Choon Sau,’ I said.

  The words jogged my own memory. Images of our house on Ah Kwee Street came back, and with them I remembered that Ah Boey had gone to seek his fortune in the tin mines. Of course he would have ended up somewhere in the Kinta District.