‘Really . . . you everything also think of, Siew Lan!’ I exclaimed, impressed by my friend’s attention to detail.
‘So, when you last time go to cinema?’
I frowned. It was so long ago that I had trouble remembering. My first cinema visit had been before Peng Choon’s departure, when we had sat with our eldest three inside the Matsuo tent. Hui Ying had stared at the film machine that evening, imagining squashed-up people inside it. Years later I had taken the eldest five to a film at the Harima Hall in New Town, a wooden building with badly arranged rattan seats in which bugs crawled. My main memory of the night was the stench of urine, because the latrines were perfectly positioned for their odours to waft in. Our servant Ah Hong had also hated the crowd of shameless young men, who wolf-whistled and called her names when she wandered around on her own. It was an experience I vowed never to repeat.
‘Hmm, I thought so,’ Siew Lan said, misinterpreting my silence. ‘I invite you and Hui Fang to a film. How about that?’
I looked at her reluctantly. ‘You don’t like-ah?’ Siew Lan asked, puzzled. ‘I think you enjoy-lah!’
‘I no like Harima Hall,’ I replied.
She chuckled. ‘Now got new cinemas, Chye Hoon. Much better ones.’
‘But Siew Lan, still early, isn’t it?’
‘Is it? You need to think about what?’
‘Well . . . she only sixteen. Still have plenty of time.’
‘Ai, you cannot think like that you know. Yap Wai Man not available for long – a boy so good, soon snatched up. We have to make use of this opportunity!’ Siew Lan made it sound straightforward, as if we were contemplating no more than a rickshaw ride into town.
Without pausing for breath, she continued: ‘Don’t worry, Chye Hoon. I take care. I invite Yap Tsin-sang and his son to go to film at the same time. You one thing even no need to do. Okay?’
There was little I could say except murmur ‘Yes’.
On the appointed night the Oriental Cinema was brilliantly illuminated. It had moved into new premises on the corner of Brewster Road and Hale Street, two of Ipoh’s main thoroughfares. From this position the entertainment centre commanded the attention of the whole town. Every evening its lights could be seen half a mile away. It had never occurred to me that we would go to this palace of modern indulgence, but Siew Lan’s plotting would not be denied.
While getting ready, I was dogged by a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Of course I was curious to see this Yap family Siew Lan had talked so much about, but I wished my friend had chosen a different venue. I couldn’t understand the attraction of cinemas. They were seedy places where I had to endure things I would never have put up with in real life: the sight of men killing each other, or worse, men and women kissing so shamelessly that when I came out I was flushed to the roots of my hair. I knew this was considered old-fashioned; few in Ipoh felt the same, which is why the so-called entertainment centres went from strength to strength.
My own children would happily have gone to the cinema if they’d been allowed. My second daughter, Hui Ying, kept up to date with films no matter what language they happened to be in. Through forays into town with our younger servant, Li-Fei, my daughter would cast her eye on every advertising poster. She couldn’t read the words, but this proved no obstacle to her astonishing memory; on any given day of the week she could have told us every film showing in each cinema if we’d asked. When Hui Ying found out where her eldest sister and I were heading, her face was full of envy.
I passed the girl on my way upstairs. Hui Ying flashed me a forlorn look I knew well, one which burgeoned with hope and last-minute appeal. ‘I told you already – your Aunt Siew Lan invite us,’ I said in exasperation. ‘I how can ask her to let you come too? Because if bring you, then why not Weng Yu? Bring Weng Yu, why not Hui Lin? So you see . . . everyone also must bring then. Become too expensive.’
My daughter observed me furtively, like the monkeys near our house, who sat staring intently until they deemed it safe to move. Hui Ying remained quite still. ‘Mama . . . why Aunt Siew Lan suddenly invite Hui Fang somewhere?’ As she said this, my daughter scrutinised my face. I made light of her question. ‘What a strange thing to ask-keh! You now big already-lah. So she why not invite you to go out?’
Without warning Hui Ying’s eyes turned gloomy. ‘Mama,’ she whispered, ‘I no want get married. I no need-lah, isn’t it? I want stay here with you.’
The words I myself had uttered years ago echoed back at me. I wondered where the time had gone. It seemed just yesterday that this child of mine was playfully squirming on chairs, unable to sit still. Now here she was, a woman, flanked by curves and child-bearing hips. Yes, I hoped marriage would come soon, but the thought of no longer seeing my daughters hit me with force. I was determined not to let that happen.
‘We are Nyonya, my girl. We have chin-chuoh marriages. You marry that time, your husband will come with us live here,’ I said proudly, forgetting for a moment how quickly the world was being transformed, and with it our Nyonya traditions.
As we approached the cinema, I heard music playing. It sounded like a band. Whenever a public holiday was declared by the white administration and a procession marched through town, the same sort of music played. The tunes were decidedly foreign. They were rousing but noisy, which I assumed was the object, as they were used to alert Ipoh to whatever the occasion happened to be. On that evening the military music advertised what was on offer at the Oriental Cinema. It complemented efforts that had been made during the day, which included a horse-drawn cart that had passed me towards the end of my kueh rounds in the morning. The cart had wound its way in the opposite direction, with three boys inside. One pounded a drum using both fists, another beat a large gong in a totally carefree manner, while the third clanged a pair of cymbals together, oblivious to beat or rhythm. On the side of the cart was a poster, which I assumed depicted a scene from the film. It showed white men on horses holding guns in their hands; a few were shooting at another group – men with red skins whose faces were burnt with colour but who wore almost no clothes. As if this weren’t enough, two boys ran alongside the cart distributing pieces of paper. The papers held various types of script – the local languages, I assumed – but all contained the same crude pictures. Dread crept under my skin. If it weren’t for my daughter, I would never have agreed to such an outing.
When our rickshaw arrived at the Oriental Cinema, Siew Lan was already waiting. Behind her, the bandsmen whom we had heard on our approach were seated on a curved terrace, blowing hard into metallic instruments. They were led by a man who waved a stick about and who pointed it every so often at his musicians. Without exception the band members were dark-skinned, fairer than the Klings who worked on the estates, but still obviously from India. Siew Lan whispered that they were light-skinned Indians from a place called Goa, where sailors from the European country of Portugal had once settled. The men blew into their glossy metal tubes, swaying their instruments up and down and from side to side in time to the beat of drums played by a man at the back.
As soon as we alighted, Siew Lan exclaimed in admiration, ‘Wahh! Young lady, you look beautiful!’ Before us stood my eldest daughter, Hui Fang, the quietest of my girls, whose face had turned the colour of the scarlet patterns on her sarong.
The compliment brought a warm glow to my face, but I said nothing, in keeping with our tradition of modesty. My daughter looked perfectly rouged and powdered – of that there was little doubt. I had dissolved the pellets myself – rice flour in water – and dabbed the powder on my daughter’s face and neck, smearing it carefully until her cheeks were a smooth white. I had applied betel nut juice to her lips, blackened her eyebrows with paste, brushed her hair and coiled it up into a chignon. Siew Lan wasn’t the only person to notice her beauty; as we walked, members of the band looked shiftily out of the corners of their eyes. My daughter was decidedly Nyonya that night, beneath the five-pronged hairpins that had once belonged to Mother. I felt confident
that any reasonable man would want Hui Fang for his daughter-in-law.
Siew Lan led us inside, up a set of shallow steps, beneath an arch and through the main entrance. The immediate sense was one of grandeur. The building reminded me of my sons’ school: the same thick brick walls, the same airiness afforded by high ceilings; plenty of windows and arches and that feeling of solidity like the permanence of mountains. Siew Lan was right – the place was totally different from the Harima Hall. I told her so within minutes. ‘Impressive-lah!’ I said.
My friend smiled. ‘Things changing fast, Chye Hoon, even here in Ipoh.’
25
On that memorable night, as my worldly friend showed us the way up a flight of stairs towards the women’s gallery on the first floor, she whispered triumphantly, ‘I already got tickets. Only fifty cents each!’ They had come from a neighbour of hers who happened to be a friend of the cinema manager’s.
‘Very good!’ I said. I approved of bargains, especially if the item purchased had dubious value.
As we ascended, our glass-beaded leather slippers clattered against the concrete steps. We all looked our best, and no one who saw us would have known how much wealthier Siew Lan was. She wore a deep-brown baju, which showed off the gold-coloured motifs of flowers and leaves on her favourite Pekalongan sarong, while I had on a white long-sleeved tunic that fell sumptuously down to my calves. My baju was matched by a green sarong replete with images of turquoise butterflies. On our heads we wore diamond-encrusted hairpins; in our hands we each carried a basket containing our well-used betel nut boxes and, in my case, also a handful of kueh. Once we reached the top of the stairs, the men sitting at a bar stared with undisguised interest. Unlike Penang, Ipoh had never been crowded with Nyonyas, and our number dwindled further from year to year. No man had looked at me since Peng Choon passed away, and I had forgotten what it felt like to be admired in that way. Where once I would have stared back, on that night I became embarrassed. I shuffled behind Siew Lan, looking up only once to steal a glance. The men were a mix of Chinese and Eurasian. All wore Western clothes – shirts, trousers and jackets – most had neckties on, and there was not a single Mandarin collar in sight. Sadly it seemed the days of Chinese dress in Malaya had passed.
It was a relief when we finally entered the viewing hall. We were among the first inside, and the hall remained dim. Only a few of the ceiling lamps had been turned on, but this proved no obstacle to Siew Lan, who led us expertly to a separate gallery on the left. ‘This space,’ she told us, ‘is only for women.’ My friend chose three seats in the front row, located at the far edge of the gallery and easily visible from the ground floor. Pausing, Siew Lan suggested the corner seat for Hui Fang before placing me next to my daughter, while she herself sat down beside me.
There was little to observe then, as people did not begin to pour in until much later. My friend used the time to point out the various sections of the cinema: the curtained boxes, which she said were reserved for very important people; the well-appointed first-class stalls – ‘So much better view . . . ,’ I interrupted just as she began talking about the fourth-class section downstairs.
‘You not interested-ah?’ Siew Lan asked with a hurt tone in her voice.
I touched her arm in reassurance. ‘Of course, but . . . have one thing I must ask you-lah,’ I said with urgency. The moment seemed opportune, as Yap Tsin-sang and his son had not yet arrived, and I worried I would forget my question once I had seen them, when other thoughts might cloud my mind.
‘You know or not, bicycles now more cheap-ah?’ I asked. My friend kept up with the goings-on around town; I expected her to know.
Siew Lan turned towards me. Even in the dim light I saw the surprise in her face. ‘You don’t tell me! You think about that again-ah?’
‘Not me ride it,’ I said hurriedly. ‘But I think Li-Fei can learn. She is still young . . . and loyal, and I trust her.’
Siew Lan giggled. ‘You not give up, isn’t it?’
I let the matter rest while my friend digested what I had said. With the lights now fully turned on, people were beginning to fill the seats on the ground floor below us, and I was concerned that Siew Lan would not have time to share her opinion. ‘So, bicycles are more cheap, or not?’ I prodded, in case we became distracted. It was a titbit I had gleaned from a customer, a comment she had thrown out in passing as we mutually lamented the increase in the prices of everything. Everything except, evidently, bicycles.
‘I have to ask Se-Too-Wat,’ Siew Lan finally said.
I felt a tinge of disappointment. ‘You won’t forget-ah?’ I repeated wistfully. I had wanted a bicycle for so long. The original plan had never left my mind, but the right moment had taken longer to arrive than I ever imagined it would. In my life there was only time for essentials; I certainly didn’t need a bicycle, since the business was doing well enough without one. Another person would probably have left things as they were, but I was nearly forty and beginning to feel the age in my bones. New aches and pains appeared daily. I was even convinced that my joints creaked. It seemed time to hire another person to carry my kueh – on a pole or, even better, a bicycle – provided the machines had become cheaper in the intervening years.
I had held my breath when my customer mentioned the surprisingly low prices of bicycles. The image of coolie women on two wheels suddenly made sense. Where once they had walked, the women had begun to ride on bicycles to and from the riverbeds at which they stood for hours in cold water, shaking their wooden trays in search of tin. Seeing the Malays in their tight sarongs and the Chinese with their looser tunics and glazed black trousers, all balancing happily, I once again imagined our servant Li-Fei sitting astride a two-wheeled vehicle with a hibiscus tucked into her hair. Curious and willing to try new things, she seemed well-suited to the job, unlike Ah Hong, who like Ipoh’s hills was too set in her ways to move.
A nudge on my arm brought me back to reality. Siew Lan was pointing discreetly at the hall downstairs.
‘They just come in,’ she whispered. ‘There . . . the old man with the carved walking stick and the boy behind him.’ Following my friend’s finger, I saw a man walking slowly towards the centre of the hall below. He cast a brief glance in our direction, and his eyes met Siew Lan’s, but the man gave no hint of recognition. He chose a seat on the edge that was just visible from our gallery. His son followed and placed himself next to the old man.
For the next while I had an opportunity to study the boy. He was as Siew Lan had described: not bad-looking but not especially striking either. I judged him to be of medium height, probably around five feet eight inches, not short, but still a few inches shorter than my husband had been. When none of the women who saw him fluttered at his entrance, I decided that the boy must really be as ordinary as my eyes told me and, unlike Peng Choon, lacked charm, which in itself was not necessarily a bad thing. Alas, the boy wore Western clothes, but I could hardly complain about his white shirt and khaki trousers, neat and freshly ironed. The bandsmen had moved indoors by then and the boy sat quietly listening to the music. He occasionally tapped his fingers against his thighs, as if keeping time to the rhythm.
I continued observing the boy long after the lights had been dimmed. I watched for any sign of bad behaviour, anything questionable for a potential husband. He had his father sitting beside him, and I wondered what he would be like on his own or with friends. Would he sit as quietly as he did then, or would he be like the samsengs in the back rows, wolf-whistling and catcalling? From the way he nodded towards his father and the quiet manner in which he spoke, it was clear the boy carried the hallmarks of deference and a good upbringing. I estimated that he was likely to be well-behaved generally. Of course I could never know until he started living in my own house, at which point it would be too late. I tried to imagine what it would be like meeting Wai Man at breakfast every morning. The prospect seemed pleasant enough: he didn’t smoke, which was good, nor did he shake his legs incessantly the way some men do �
�� also good, since the habit was said to erode family fortune.
But there is only so much you can tell by watching a man seated in the dark.
Having found no detectable flaw in the boy by the time the first offering of the evening came on – a comedy of some sort – I shifted my attention towards his father. I had already noticed the old man’s carriage when he was walking to his seat. Despite the stick he used, Yap Meng Seng had a regal bearing like Peng Choon’s. I could tell this simply by how upright he sat in his chair, how he held his head high and kept his shoulders back. Every now and then he would turn towards us, scrutinising my daughter discreetly before quickly looking away again, as if he had been taught not to stare. I wondered what he thought. There was an edge in his glance; for a split second I was assailed by doubt. But when he looked at us again, his face had softened, and I knew my daughter had passed a test.
In the course of the evening I drew a similar conclusion about Wai Man and his father. But those were still early days, and there was plenty on my mind. The boy could turn out to be a wife beater or cruel in other ways. I would have to make further enquiries. I would also have to rely on Siew Lan’s intuition. This gave me comfort, because my friend was a discriminating judge of character. She had been right about so many people, including her own husband, Se-Too-Wat; their happy marriage, still strong after ten years, was evidence of that.
As I sat in the Oriental Cinema that night, a marriage for Hui Fang remained far from certain, but my heart was already thumping. I wished Peng Choon were alive . . . he would have been proud, I was sure of that. I spent the evening weaving dreams of the things yet to come: the marriages and grandchildren I wanted. In this way time passed easily, and the shooting and chaos on horses in front of me went over my head, as did the rousing accompaniment of the band.
The Woman Who Breathed Two Worlds Page 21