The Woman Who Breathed Two Worlds

by Siak Chin Yoke, Selina

A week later Siew Lan appeared at our house in a curious mood. She seemed wary, her mournful eyes flustered, as if she was impatient to spill a weighty load, yet at the same time she appeared indecisive. She spread chalky white lime across a choice betel leaf in long, deliberate strokes. Then without warning she began.

  ‘They ask many questions, especially the mother.’

  The mother had wanted to know about Nyonya traditions, with which she wasn’t familiar, and Hui Ying’s brothers and sisters. On hearing that the eldest girl was married to a Yap boy, the eldest son of Yap Meng Seng, the old lady had smiled in such recognition that Siew Lan wondered whether she had ever met the patriarch. ‘Oh no,’ Liew Chin Tong’s mother replied, shaking her head. ‘Him, no. But I before for his concubine work. In Gopeng here-lah.’

  At that point it was Siew Lan’s turn to have her interest piqued. She quizzed the couple. The wife talked while her husband made tiny gestures to discourage his wife from saying too much. He kept emphasising that it had all happened a long time ago and in any case wasn’t their business. The concubine herself wasn’t from Gopeng: she was a sing-song girl Meng Seng had met in Ipoh. He had simply installed her in Gopeng out of convenience, the old woman said, away from prying eyes. Siew Lan assured me she hadn’t known this aspect of the Yap family story, although she added, ‘My husband knew.’ Siew Lan said this in an even tone, but I caught the flash in her brown eyes. ‘We had argument all the way home . . . big fight,’ she enunciated. ‘I very angry, but Se-Too-Wat, he say Hui Fang not with father marry, with son marry.’

  When Siew Lan finished, I blew air out from between my lips. My friend had to curb the desire I had of rushing over to Yap Meng Seng’s. I wanted the satisfaction of shouting at him, until she pointed out that shouting would be of little use. Once Siew Lan succeeded in curing my instinct, an ache erupted inside my head and I had to lie down.

  The news convulsed more than just my wedding preparations, for I started wondering whether every one of the men we knew kept mistresses and concubines.

  Perhaps even my husband had had a mistress tucked away in some remote village somewhere and I had never known. I discarded this idea as unlikely, because if it had been true, someone would surely have come forward after his passing away to claim an inheritance.

  As for the others, the men like Se-Too-Wat who purportedly did not keep mistresses, I began to doubt them too, especially their loyalties. They seemed to show greater fidelity to their male friends than to their wives. I considered myself wise, yet it had never once occurred to me that a man as stalwart as Yap Meng Seng could have cheated on his wife. If he could, then any man could. For the first time I was thankful that my second and third daughters had attended school and would have the means of earning for themselves should the need ever arise. It was too late for poor Hui Fang, but I insisted that her second sister, Hui Ying, continue with school even after marriage. By the time she left, she had had the equivalent of seven years of education and could have become a teacher.

  Shortly after Hui Ying’s wedding, Ah Hong ran into our house shrieking at the top of her lungs. ‘We-ng Foo . . . We-ng Foo . . . outside . . .’ With eyes wide open in terror, my faithful servant dragged me by the arm. ‘Is him, Peng Choon Sau . . . I know is him,’ she kept murmuring.

  The commotion attracted the attention of my living children, who trooped out with me towards the five-foot way at the front. The noise we made must have scared off my late son’s spirit, because by the time we arrived he had disappeared, and there was nothing in his place except thin air.

  It took a while for us to calm Ah Hong down. When I saw how she continued to shake, I made her sit at the kitchen table, but even tea did not soothe her nerves. Every few seconds her eyes would dart around the room, on guard against apparitions and heaven only knows what else. The fading light of dusk did us no favours, because shadows began creeping into the normally bright air well. With a faraway look, Ah Hong told us what she had seen. ‘He was there, standing, the wall there. He wear black, all also black.’

  I did not know what to make of this sighting. Weng Foo’s spirit had evidently succeeded in returning to us, but I could not see what he was hoping to achieve, standing alone on the five-foot way with his back against the wall. ‘You hear he say anything-moh?’ I asked Ah Hong. My voice must have contained a hint of doubt, because for once the faithful servant looked at me with petulance.

  ‘He call-ah. Hong Ee, like he always call-lah,’ she said adamantly. ‘Is his voice I sure.’ It became clear Ah Hong would tolerate no doubts over what she had seen. She even had a ready explanation when I pointed out that my son had lain in his coffin in a white shirt and white trousers. ‘He of course change clothes already-lah.’

  Afterwards both she and Li-Fei refused to sweep the five-foot way unaccompanied. They would tiptoe out together just after lunch when it was still light, one carrying a broom and dustpan, the other holding a wind chime in her hand, as if by augmenting the clanging of the chime already suspended above our front doorway they would be more certain of chasing away any evil spirit. ‘Ai-yahh! He not evil spirit – is Weng Foo-ah!’ I cried out.

  To no avail. The girls insisted on an extra wind chime for protection. ‘We scared ghosts, Peng Choon Sau,’ they explained. ‘Not the boy himself.’

  When after several weeks nothing more was seen, the incident subsided from everyone’s minds and household activities returned to normal.

  At the time life was going well. My heart was gladdened by many things – the kueh business for one. With the aid of our brown loyalty cards, our sales held up well against Heng Lai Soh, formidable competitor though she was. Between us, she and I split the market for Nyonya kueh in Ipoh, always surviving the worst that life could throw at us.

  We were helped by the audacity of the towkays, whose construction projects continued irrespective of external conditions. Further down the Lahat Road a large number of shophouses suddenly appeared, providing a new community of hungry customers within Li-Fei’s easy reach. Not only that but New Town, once regarded as a foolhardy plan that would fail, never ceased expanding. The boundary of Ipoh was by then so far beyond its original limits near the Kinta River that the town was beginning to impinge on Wong family land – the six plots my husband had had the foresight to acquire before leaving for China. This meant that our land had appreciated significantly in value. I did not know how much we had made, but I felt a warm tingle whenever I thought about our land, knowing that I could always sell a plot at a tidy profit if we ever needed the cash.

  I was also pleased that my eldest son had settled well in London. For the first time Weng Yu wrote about his classmates. We heard about the tall boy in well-cut suits who had become Weng Yu’s friend after my son’s fine performance in the examinations; also about the plump curly-haired boy so brutally teased by his own kind that he preferred to sit with the Malayans. Then there were the eccentric boys who practically lived at college, building the latest toys to grip Britain, and many others, all with unpronounceable names, whose brown hair and large noses blended in my mind. Weng Yu told us how the boys’ attitudes changed after he outshone them in examinations. Where once they had wondered if people in Malaya lived in trees like savages, now they came up to my son for help with assignments. They even asked about his home town, their questions showing genuine curiosity instead of derision. Finally I could feel Weng Yu open up, and his affection for us came through in his letters.

  These communications entertained me in unexpected ways. I laughed when my son told us about a large park in London where he often went walking. He had not been fond of exercise, and I was unable to imagine Weng Yu striding amongst the trees. Hui Ying pointed out that the weather in England was different. Perhaps the cooler climate suited Weng Yu better, as he had never liked the sun. I remained sceptical, convinced there was more to the park than met the eye. I asked many questions, yet all I was told was that it was a magnificent place, with areas that included a lake, a trail for horses, even a corner w
here anyone could get up on a crate to start talking about absolutely anything they wished. ‘Why do like that?’ I enquired. To make their opinions known, I was told. When I wondered whether any of the speakers ever talked about the opium problem in Malaya, Liew Chin Tong laughed. ‘I don’t think they would have heard of Malaya, Mama,’ he said.

  It was Hui Ying who first read Weng Yu’s letters aloud. Later on, one of the boys took her place. Regardless of who the reader was, I was left with the odd feeling of something being concealed from me. I heard all about Weng Yu’s visits to museums, sometimes even about his concert outings, but never that he had a companion – a woman with a mop of curls on her head and eyes as blue as the sea.

  38

  After ten months of marriage Hui Ying finally fell pregnant. I was delighted; her good news put the incident of Weng Foo’s apparition firmly into the recesses of my mind. I became engrossed in the process of welcoming another grandchild.

  With Hui Ying and her husband living with us, chin-chuoh style, I thought it wise to ascertain whether they were intending to have the baby in our house. Liew Chin Tong was reluctant, but Hui Ying, who shared my opinion on this matter, prevailed.

  Thus it was that I set off to Kampong Laxamana to locate my old bidan Soraiya’s daughter. I had no trouble finding the house or recognising the girl, who welcomed me with a warm smile. ‘Of course I remember you, Makche Wong,’ Siti Aishah said in Malay. ‘I will come for your daughter.’

  Having settled the difficult matter of the bidan, all that was left was for me to pamper my daughter endlessly. I made the right dishes for her and sat back in satisfaction as her girth expanded. And how Hui Ying grew! By the time Siew Lan left for Europe with Se-Too-Wat and Flora on their long-awaited trip, my daughter’s belly was so large that she found it hard to walk. ‘Wahh!’ Siew Lan exclaimed. ‘Big! Must be boy.’ I beamed, even though I would have been happy with either a boy or a girl.

  As the months progressed, Liew Chin Tong became increasingly anxious. Just after Siew Lan and Se-Too-Wat’s departure, when Hui Ying was nearly in her sixth month, he began dashing home during his lunch hour to check on his wife. We would hear the front door open, followed by the distinctive sound of Chin Tong’s footsteps – like a herd of elephants, according to Li-Fei – as he trundled into the inner hall, where my daughter usually rested. In the evenings, when he returned the first thing he did was to rush towards my daughter, laying both his hands on her round hardness to reassure himself that his child was safe and well, even though he had no idea what he should be feeling for. One evening I saw, etched all over Liew Chin Tong’s face, the terror of past traumas and how the memory of his lost siblings continued to haunt him. My heart went out to the young man. When he glanced up and saw me looking at him, his narrow eyes acknowledged my sympathy. We sealed our unbreakable bond with a smile.

  For my part I remained perfectly relaxed. Having seen ten children safely into this world, I was imperturbable when it came to all things related to women and childbirth. I felt some concern only during Hui Ying’s seventh month, when I noticed a grimace on her face, as if she was in pain. ‘It’s uncomfortable moving, Mama,’ she told me, indicating the difficulty she was having simply shifting in her chair. Registering her complaint, I spent more time in front of the altar over the next several days chanting to Kuan Yin. Still, as all appeared well, I wasn’t unduly worried.

  Shortly thereafter Siti Aishah, Soraiya’s daughter – the woman I had wanted to be Hui Ying’s bidan – knocked on our front door. ‘I must ask forgiveness, Makche Wong,’ she said in embarrassment. ‘I’ve been called to my grandmother’s kampong, so I can’t attend to your daughter. Ask forgiveness-lah.’ She gave me a minute to absorb this devastating news. ‘But I brought Noridah with me,’ she continued, pointing to a woman behind her. ‘She has been a bidan for twenty years. All the children in Kampong Laxamana she and I together have delivered.’

  I looked first at Siti Aishah, then at Noridah, then back again at my old bidan’s daughter. My heart shuddered in bewilderment. The thought This no good crossed my mind, but I cast it aside. Although Noridah’s face was seasoned with maturity, I didn’t like the idea of a stranger delivering my grandchild. And yet my first bidan herself had once been unknown. Until Hui Fang’s birth I could not have picked her out from any other bidan in Ipoh. I took another look at Noridah and made my decision while standing on our doorstep. In truth I had little choice, for even if I were to wander into another kampong, I would still have known no one, which meant that a stranger would deliver my grandchild. Noridah at least came with a recommendation from someone I trusted.

  After the women had had coffee and ondeh-ondeh, Noridah examined Hui Ying. She patted my daughter expertly enough, placing her hands on strategic spots, not just on her belly, but also on her pelvic region and hips. I watched as she asked my daughter to breathe in and out. Before they left, Noridah took me to one side. ‘Makche,’ she whispered, ‘I not know yet, but . . . feels like this birth will be difficult.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The baby is not in good position.’

  The foreboding I had felt at the start of the women’s visit gripped me once more, and when she saw my fear, a shadow passed across Noridah’s aged yet still beautiful eyes. As the bidan regained her composure, she sought to reassure me. ‘We will know nearer the time only, Makche.’ Then, putting her hand on mine in a gesture of farewell, she told me she would do her best. She promised to arrive at our house a full week before the baby was due so that we could prepare for any complications.

  Despite Noridah’s reassurances, I became a slave once more to a dream I had not had since Peng Choon passed away. It would begin gently enough, in a pitch-black tunnel through which I glided. I would become aware of a menacing presence, a thing with no face which made me want to escape. I would try to get away, but it was too dark to see and the presence invariably engulfed me as I fell further and further . . . Even deep in sleep I wondered what the gods were doing. Before the answer could come I would wake, drenched in sweat.

  Until that morning I don’t believe I ever screamed out. I still don’t know whether I did scream or the sounds from my daughter’s room awakened me. Not that it mattered, because once my eyes were open and I heard loud moans, I imagined the worst. I leapt out of bed and banged on my daughter’s bedroom door. Ah Hong came running up the stairs. ‘Good-mah?’ we both demanded as soon as Chin Tong stuck his head out. ‘Good, good, Mama,’ my son-in-law said in a shaky voice. From the glow of the kerosene lamp which Ah Hong carried in one hand, I could see the muscles on Chin Tong’s face stretched taut with anxiety. ‘Ahem . . . ,’ he said, swallowing hard. ‘Hui Ying is having trouble . . . ahem . . . finding a comfortable position.’

  Through the open door I could see my daughter on her back. Her face appeared puffed with perspiration. It was undoubtedly hot beneath the white mosquito netting, and with her extra weight – for Hui Ying was like a bouncy tyre by then – I wasn’t surprised she found it uncomfortable. When I went in briefly, I found my daughter labouring for breath but otherwise content.

  The sight of my bedraggled son-in-law haunted me, and I wondered whether to give in to Chin Tong’s preference for a hospital. But then I comforted myself with the knowledge that we women had brought countless generations into this world. The methods we used had been tried and tested over hundreds – no, thousands – of years. I would have to trust in them and in the gods, in Kuan Yin.

  I knew it was Weng Foo as soon as I saw him. He stood inside our kitchen near the terracotta pot we used for storing water from the well. It was still light. I saw him clearly, leaning against a wall in a corner of the open air well. He was dressed in black from head to toe, just as Ah Hong had described.

  As we locked eyes, I was sure that the spirit shook his head and scowled. I blinked hard to convince myself that I wasn’t imagining things. When I opened my eyes again, he was gone . . . and all that was left was coldness on my skin. I blinked a second time, willi
ng the apparition to come back, but nothing changed; the air well remained bare except for our yellowish-brown pot with its glazed green pattern of a tree. Goose pimples broke out on my arms. I longed to speak to someone and wished with all my heart that Siew Lan were around.

  Shaken yet unable to open my heart to anyone else, I went in search of oranges for our altar table. On returning, I stood before the altar as I had so many times in the past, holding lit joss-sticks in my hands and watching the tendrils of dense smoke curl upwards. From fiery ends the choking clouds emerged, before dissipating into the atmosphere to placate the Goddess and our ancestors.

  Meanwhile Hui Ying entered the last stages of her pregnancy. By then she had become enormous. She was so large she even had trouble standing up and could barely move about. Her husband would not let her lift a finger; whenever he was at home, he insisted on helping her up and down the stairs. While he was at work, one of the servants was always on hand to see to my daughter. I of course did whatever I could. We helped with everything, including accompanying Hui Ying to the latrine, a room at the back of our house where the convenience stood. This was truly a throne, with a circular hole which dropped straight down into a large bucket that was emptied daily by a Chinese man. To reach the hole you had to go up three steps to a place one of my boys had jokingly called the high heavens. In those last days the high heavens proved too steep for my daughter; she had to be lifted for her daily toils.

  On the day that Noridah first returned, the skies were overcast.

  The bidan spent fifteen minutes in our inner hall examining Hui Ying with her hands. I watched as Noridah’s fingers touched every inch of my daughter’s rounded belly, pausing long and often at various spots, especially in the crevice where my daughter’s pelvic region began. Laying her hands still, Noridah concentrated on feeling the life inside my daughter, and the muscles on her face tightened. I studied the bidan anxiously, but Noridah gave nothing away. After she completed her explorations, Noridah took a bottle out of her bag and announced that she was taking my daughter upstairs for a massage. When the pair emerged, Hui Ying looked like a new person, with cheeks glowing and her breathing considerably lighter. She smelt of kaffir lime and lemongrass, a result of the herbal oil Noridah used that had evidently given my daughter such relief.