The Woman Who Breathed Two Worlds

by Siak Chin Yoke, Selina

  ‘Yes-lah,’ I said. ‘Weng Yu always sing. His grandfather also a singer that’s good.’

  ‘It’s not just his voice. He has an ear for music,’ Mr Ho-Lee told me.

  ‘That mean what?’ I asked. ‘Ear for music?’

  ‘We think he should learn to play a musical instrument.’

  I raised my eyebrows. The only instruments I knew were Chinese; I couldn’t imagine what the gentlemen were suggesting.

  ‘Like what?’

  They mentioned a large instrument, one with black and white ‘keys’ connected to steel strings – something called a piano. ‘But they’re not the type of keys you know, Makche Wong,’ Mr Ho-Lee said hurriedly. He asked me to go with them to the place of worship near his house, where they had brought such a thing. ‘We can show it to you there,’ Mr Wee-Lem added. ‘You can see what it looks like, touch it and hear the sounds it makes.’

  I agreed reluctantly. It was a scorching day, and the place of worship was on the other side of the grounds, which meant a ten-minute walk. Even though it was mid-afternoon, it remained searingly hot. Both men put on their hard hats as soon as we were under the sun, while I reached for my paper umbrella. Mr Wee-Lem started speaking again as we stepped forward, whether as an attempt at polite conversation or because he wanted to impress the point upon me I’m not sure. ‘Weng Yu really is quite gifted,’ he told me once more. ‘And he has shown an interest in learning the piano.’

  ‘So, you already talk with my son?’ I asked, incredulous. Was this the way of the white devils, that they could have discussed the matter with the boy before consulting his parents?

  ‘We told him we had to ask you, of course,’ Mr Ho-Lee replied, peering at me through narrowed eyes as he squinted against the sunlight. The men didn’t say anything after that, aware no doubt of my displeasure. If this instrument had already been mentioned to Weng Yu, it would put me in an awkward position. I knew my son would expect to learn it.

  By the time we reached the shadow of the church, we were all perspiring. The fabric of my baju clung to my body. I felt hot just looking at Mr Wee-Lem, whose face was bright red. From his temples large droplets emerged that trickled on to his cheeks. Mr Ho-Lee too, despite his short-sleeved shirt, stood wiping his thick brow with those long hanging arms. The church appeared shut, but Mr Ho-Lee had a key for the main door.

  As soon as he opened it, a cool descended on our skins. I was amazed by how spartan the church looked – nothing but tall ceilings and white walls and a wooden cross at the front, near a glass window. Opposite a side door stood a tall vertical box, also plain. Compared to the temples I was accustomed to, with fiery dragons carved into the eaves of their roofs and stone lions guarding their entrances, this church seemed very plain. Even the chairs, made of basic hardwood, with rattan stitching on the bottoms and backs, were simple. The only cheer was provided by a small porcelain vase filled with a bunch of sunflowers.

  Near the front was an upright object I had never seen before. It was dark brown, box-like and reached almost to my chest, with a long bench seat on one side.

  ‘Sit down, sit down,’ Mr Wee-Lem invited me, placing a cushion on the hard wooden seat. As I sat down, I noticed a smell, unfamiliar but not unpleasant, a mix of wood and polish and something else . . . an odour I couldn’t place then and have never smelt again. Today I call it the piano smell. ‘Touch-lah!’ Mr Ho-Lee said encouragingly.

  I placed my fingers tentatively on the mysterious piano, feeling its smooth brownness in my hands. It was made entirely of smooth wood, obviously of excellent quality. Just as I began to wonder what lay beneath the breaks in the wood, Mr Wee-Lem lifted a catch, and the instrument opened up – to reveal long finger-like objects, white, in between shorter black ones, all arranged alongside one another in a horizontal row. The teacher started tapping on the white keys, moving his hand gracefully up towards one end of the instrument before shifting it down again near the middle. I could not take my eyes off his fingers. They hovered over the instrument as lightly as if he were playing with air. A melody soared above us, floated back down and entered my ears, before agitating my heart. Its sounds were beautiful, though nothing like the music I was used to.

  By the time Mr Wee-Lem stopped playing, my curiosity was aroused. ‘That sound come from where?’

  The young man smiled before turning back towards the piano. He lifted a cover hinged to the top of the instrument. ‘Look,’ he said. I stood up. When I looked down, I was staring into a hollow, with nothing inside except for a series of strings and bits and pieces of metal, which obviously held the whole box up. The strings themselves were tightly sprung, arranged vertically in groups of three, in what looked to be the backbone of the instrument.

  From behind I heard Mr Ho-Lee’s voice. ‘Steel strings, Makche Wong. That’s what make these sounds.’

  I looked up to see Mr Wee-Lem pointing his index finger at the strings. Smiling again, he asked, ‘Did you like the music?’

  I nodded uncertainly, after which Mr Wee-Lem cleared his throat. ‘We would like Weng Yu to start learning this instrument.’

  ‘Learn? He how can learn?’

  ‘A teacher here can give him lessons. Only an extra two dollars each month.’

  ‘Two dollars!’ I cried. ‘But that’s almost as much as his school fees!’

  Mr Ho-Lee exchanged words with the class teacher in their own language in what I took to be an admonitory tone. When Mr Ho-Lee turned back to me, his voice had changed. ‘Makche Wong, we think your son is exceptionally gifted,’ the headmaster said gently. ‘I know it’s a lot of money. I’m sorry we can’t give the lessons for less, but your son will also need to practise. He can play on this piano here as much as he wants.’

  ‘These lessons, they what good for Weng Yu?’ I couldn’t imagine how knowing the piano would help him in Ipoh.

  ‘Sometimes things work in mysterious ways, Makche Wong,’ Mr Ho-Lee replied solemnly. ‘God has given your son an outstanding talent. We have to help him develop it.’

  I stared in disbelief. Both men knew I had seven sons, yet there they were, telling me to spend double what I was then spending on just one boy, with no clear prospects of any gain in sight. What if they discover an unusual talent in every one of my sons? I found myself wondering. What would happen to us then?

  Shaking my head, I sighed. I felt an ache coming on; it was time to go home. When I arrived, Weng Yu was waiting, with cheeks red and eyes gleaming. ‘Mama, have you just come from school?’ he asked, panting with impatience.

  ‘Yes-lah,’ I replied.

  ‘You saw the piano?’

  ‘Cannot,’ I told him firmly.

  ‘But why?’ As he cried out, my son’s eyelashes turned wet like the morning dew.

  ‘Because expensive. Also no one can explain why useful to you.’

  ‘It’s not expensive, Mama!’

  As he said this, Weng Yu tilted his head upwards, so that his chin tipped at me. I looked darkly at the boy, using a tone I knew he would recognise. ‘Extra two dollars every month, you know or not? So how? You think money grow on trees-ah?’

  My eldest son and I stared at one another as the tears poured down his cheeks. He rubbed the back of his right hand across both eyes before spitting out, ‘You’re just a stupid woman! You don’t know anything!’

  Before I knew what I was doing, I had raised my right hand. But when I took in the face into which I gazed, with its fair skin and beautifully dimpled cheeks, I dropped my hand. It was my husband staring straight at me.

  Weng Yu, still crying, ran off, leaving me as stiff as a statue. As I came to my senses, something niggled in my tummy. I could not wait to pour it out to my best friend.

  ‘I don’t believe!’ Siew Lan exclaimed when I told her. ‘Why he do that?’

  We were sitting on the barlay, the wooden platform in our outer hall where I received guests. I had no other friend like Siew Lan, who knew me so well that words were unnecessary. I watched her savouring her coffee, holdi
ng in both hands the much-loved cup with its green dragons and pink borders as she tilted her head back to pour the last drops of black gold into her mouth. The liquid perked her up and Siew Lan’s eyes pierced mine. ‘Chye Hoon-ah,’ she said, choosing her words carefully, ‘you always say Weng Yu so clever sing song. He really want to learn. Why not let him try just one time, two time-lah?’

  I lifted an eyebrow. ‘What, Weng Yu already talk with you-ah? Your husband also? About this musical instrument?’

  Siew Lan nodded, looking not at me but towards the juicy green leaf on to which she had rubbed lime. I waited. She sprinkled pale brown gambier powder over the lime before placing her chopped betel nuts on the powder.

  ‘Ai-yahh . . . Siew Lan,’ I said when my friend finally began to chew. ‘If he like piano, then how? How to find so much money? One want to learn this, other one want to learn that. I have ten children, good heart.’

  Moving the cud to a safe corner in the upper right side of her mouth, between teeth and gums, Siew Lan was about to mumble something when I stopped her. ‘Even more bad-ah, Weng Yu never think about money, like so easy to get.’

  ‘Chye Hoon, you cannot let him talk back at you . . . like no manners-ah . . .’

  From the open land behind Lahat Road, the call of a turtle dove could be heard. When I thought about the way my son had run to my friend and her white husband, pain scorched me. My worst fears were confirmed, and I had only myself to blame.

  Seeing my dejected mood, Siew Lan wisely postponed discussing what she had come to see me about and instead pushed the betel nut tray closer. When I finished wiping my eyes, she handed me a leaf she had prepared. ‘Here, take.’

  I popped the large leaf-wrapped ball into my mouth, letting its fiery juices burn my gums. The feeling of movement against my teeth soothed me. By the time I spat out a mouthful of liquid, charged like congealing blood, my head was drowsy.

  But not so drowsy that my mind had ceased to work. When I heard Siew Lan say ‘Weng Yu is good boy. He grow up to be good man, like your husband, also good man. No have cursed blood,’ a memory was awakened. Her words trailed in the air. ‘You no need to worry, Chye Hoon. Not like your husband waste money, smoke cigarette, or drink or gamble.’

  The words came flooding into my ears in a rush, bringing with them a warning I had heard a long time ago.

  By then nearly five years had passed, and I could barely recall the details in Peng Choon’s letter. When Father had read it aloud, those of us who were listening had been shocked by its revelations.

  In it Peng Choon disclosed a family secret. The funds my husband had sent to China had been used not only for the maintenance of his wife and son and his parents and family, as might be expected, but a portion had gone towards paying off a brother’s debts, for it turned out that one of his younger brothers was a heavy gambler.

  As Peng Choon lay struggling on his deathbed, he was sorry for not telling me about this wayward sibling. The debts were at first small and he didn’t think they were of great concern. By the time Peng Choon suspected his brother Peng Shan of having an addiction, he felt foolish at having kept his doubts hidden from me for so long and chose to stay silent.

  While he remained in Malaya, Peng Choon had had no way of confirming his suspicions, because his father’s requests for funds always came with justifiable reasons. Without hard proof, he gave himself excuses not to worry me. It was only when he arrived back in his village that he realised the trouble Peng Shan was in. The boy spent his waking hours under the trees playing fan-tan or cards and routinely invited men from surrounding villages for games. As Peng Choon observed how his brother’s face changed when he heard the soft clatter of fan-tan tiles, how he burst into manic laughter and breathed deeply, he feared the boy was lost.

  Every so often a group of village men would head towards the nearest town to enjoy themselves for a few days. It was this which had been Peng Shan’s undoing. Playing among friends was one thing, gambling with professionals quite another. Once in town Peng Shan lost heavily. Unable to stop himself, he carried on playing. He told himself he would leave as soon as he had recouped his losses, yet whenever that moment came – as it did occasionally – he would be overcome by weakness; just a little more, he would say to himself. Inevitably his luck would change and he would find himself needing to play even more to recoup what he had lost.

  This had been the cycle for many years, until Peng Choon’s return. Once home my husband forced his brother to stop all card and fan-tan games. He made him attend the village school and put Peng Shan in charge of the sale of village harvests. Peng Choon paid off his brother’s debts, but being a pragmatic man, he was doubtful that his brother would withstand the temptation of the tables. ‘Gambling is a powerful addiction,’ his letter had read. ‘Watch out especially for our boys. They have this vice in their blood.’

  I had been unsure what to make of my husband’s warning. The turmoil I felt on listening to his letter was compounded by an irritation that he had kept a secret from me. At the same time I wondered at Peng Choon’s unusually dramatic words; one of our children a gambler? After Siew Lan went home, I locked my husband’s words away for a second time in a drawer at the back of my head, hoping I would never have to open it again.

  24

  On a subsequent visit Siew Lan was finally able to speak her mind. I knew something was up as soon as she sat down, because my friend couldn’t keep secrets. Fidgeting more than usual, she looked around constantly, as if worried we would be overheard. ‘You good-ah?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, yes!’ she replied rather too insistently. For a while we talked about nothing in particular. I waited, knowing it would come. Soon enough Siew Lan changed the subject. ‘Your eldest girl, Hui Fang, she already sixteen years, yes?’ she asked, trying to sound casual but with a fluster which made my ears prick up.

  I nodded, noting the glimmer in my friend’s large round eyes. ‘Why you ask?’

  Siew Lan cleared her throat. ‘I think I have the perfect boy for her.’

  I laughed then. From relief that my friend hadn’t brought more unwelcome news about my eldest son, and curiosity, because I wondered about the boy she had in mind.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said.

  ‘There is a Hakka man,’ Siew Lan began. ‘He is friend of Se-Too-Wat, many years already-lah.’

  That was how Yap Meng Seng was introduced to me – as a businessman of standing and an old acquaintance of her husband’s. Siew Lan told me she had personally known Yap Tsin-sang and his family for years. She first met him when her husband had needed help with tricky arrangements in Singapore; he had called on this man Yap, who was described by others as an invaluable link with the Chinese community. According to Siew Lan, Yap Tsin-sang was a comprador – a man who helped British businesses in their dealings with the Chinese. He served as an agent to the bank of which Se-Too-Wat was a client; that was how they had become acquaintances.

  After their first meeting Siew Lan told me that she and Se-Too-Wat often bumped into Yap Tsin-sang as they wandered around Ipoh. They began to have coffee together, sometimes with Flora and Don in tow. Siew Lan said Yap Tsin-sang was soft-spoken and well-mannered, a traditional Chinese gentleman. Slowly she learnt more about his family. She was eventually introduced to his wife, Meng Seng Soh, a wonderfully generous Cantonese woman who offered prayers at the Kuan Yin Temple. Unfortunately Meng Seng Soh’s health had always been delicate; she died young, succumbing to an illness years ago. Their three children – a boy and two girls – were still small then, but Meng Seng Soh had nonetheless already been contemplating their marriages. A known admirer of Nyonya women, she apparently desired their cooking and refined manners for her son. Before passing into the next life, she asked her husband to find a Nyonya wife for their boy. A few weeks previously Siew Lan had finally set eyes on the young man as he dropped his father in town in the latter’s motor car. ‘A reliable character,’ my friend declared.

  With those words, Siew Lan proceeded to sip her
coffee. The pause was intended for me to ask any questions I desired. I began peppering my friend with them.

  ‘His father, he ask you to come see me?’

  ‘Yes-lah,’ Siew Lan replied. Having heard of both my kueh and my reputation for bringing children up strictly, Yap Tsin-sang sought to make enquiries about my eldest girl.

  Warmth suffused my heart at the thought that someone wanted my daughter. It confirmed what I had long thought – that girls who could cook and sew and make a home would always be sought after.

  ‘His son is called what?’ I asked.

  ‘Yap Wai Man.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Twenty-two years.’

  ‘He do what to earn money?’

  ‘Have job in a British bank – that same one-lah where his father is comprador. The boy is a clerk.’

  ‘Salary?’

  ‘Eighty dollars a month.’

  ‘He educated well-ah?’

  ‘Standard Seven at the Anglo-Chinese School, and before, four years at Yuk Choy School. But he clever, sure can study more except . . . school only go up to Standard Seven then. After that no more already-lah.’ I nodded, uncertain why Siew Lan was belabouring the point when eleven years of study appeared entirely adequate. I was more concerned about his character. I wanted my daughter to be happy.

  ‘So, what I need to know about him?’

  ‘He is the eldest son; his sisters are younger. He no drink alcohol, smoke also no, also no gamble – all good-lah. Because in his house strict upbringing. I think he in bank got good prospects. Soon go up . . . high position, better pay.’

  At that point I had heard enough for a first examination, which the young man passed without trouble. That was to be expected, since Siew Lan would not have suggested him for my family if she hadn’t been confident about the match. What was missing was an idea of what he looked like. While I didn’t want my daughter to marry a playboy, he couldn’t be ugly either. What if he had a pockmarked face or a hunched back or worse, if he was dirty and didn’t wash himself? Appearing to follow my thoughts, Siew Lan piped up, ‘You need to see what he look like of course. I think I know how to arrange.’