The Woman Who Breathed Two Worlds

by Siak Chin Yoke, Selina

  When Siew Lan finally raised her head, we wrapped our arms around one another. We were each quiet in our memories, I bitter in my regrets and guilt, Siew Lan sorry she had not been there to bid Hui Ying farewell.

  Yet the evening brought cheer too, because of my friend’s safe return and the presents she had carried thousands of miles. Siew Lan had forgotten no one. There were neckties and sweaters for the boys, brooches and perfumes for the girls, suede shoes for my sons-in-law, sarongs and a pearl necklace for me, and even condiments for the household. She was exuberant about what she and her daughter had seen in Europe, especially its huge shops – ‘Got one shop two storeys just for toys!’ Siew Lan exclaimed. ‘Got so many things to play, cannot also imagine!’

  They had met Weng Yu, of course, who had reportedly lost weight. ‘We take him out to eat . . . You must eat, I tell him!’ The boy and Se-Too-Wat had apparently spent hours together.

  ‘Do what?’ I wondered.

  At that point Siew Lan gathered all the fingers of her right hand together into the shape of a beak opening and closing. ‘Talk, talk, talk all the time, just talk.’ She said the two would sit up late into the night and on weekend afternoons would stroll through parks.

  My ears pricked up at this revelation. ‘He say anything about his studies-ah?’

  No, Siew Lan replied, except that the work was becoming harder. To relax, Weng Yu listened to European music. He had asked to go to two concerts and an opera, a request which delighted Se-Too-Wat. Flora too had enjoyed the performance, which took place inside a very elegant music hall. ‘Room so big-ah, Chye Hoon, you need spectacles to see sing-song people.’ Gasps echoed around the room. But then Siew Lan confessed that she had found the evening trying – ‘So different-lah, not like our opera! And tickets so expensive,’ she grumbled.

  When my fourth son, Weng Yoon, asked about their sea voyage, Siew Lan would not be drawn. Seasickness, she claimed, had blotted her memories. Cautiously I asked whether she or Se-Too-Wat had met with my son’s landlord, and Siew Lan narrowed her eyes into a scrutinising stare. ‘No-o-o,’ she said, her tone even but with a slight inflection, as if half asking a question. I could tell from her eyes that she had no idea what I meant, so I let the subject drop as elegantly as I could.

  Out of the corner of one eye I caught Chin Tong squirming in his chair. ‘Oh, silly idea . . . not important-lah,’ I said calmly. ‘Weng Yu to us a lot tell about his landlord, like good friend, so I think you maybe meet him.’

  From the odd look Siew Lan gave me, she understood this was a subject we would revisit in due course.

  In those days Yap Meng Seng sometimes turned up at our house. He continued to drive the same ugly green motor car, the one with the lights at the front which stared at us like a frog. Only, with more cars in Ipoh by then, it was of less interest to the boys, and they no longer ran out to greet him.

  If he arrived early enough, the patriarch would join us for dinner. More often than not he would come after seven, when we had already finished. He and I would then while the evening away sipping tea in the inner hall, as we once used to. There were subjects we avoided, like Hui Fang and his son. I had also never found an opportunity to let the old man know that his secret had been revealed. Uncertain whether to drop a hint, I asked myself what purpose it would serve and could come up with no good answer. Meng Seng only resumed his visits after Chin Tong had stopped living with us, and I guessed that the old man remained keen to keep aspects of his life quiet.

  Nonetheless one night, when he casually mentioned that my daughter and his son appeared to be getting along better, I gently let Meng Seng know that I had learnt the truth. ‘Yap Tsin-sang-ah,’ I said, deliberately using the polite form of address, ‘I want to tell you . . . I all also know. We no need talk-lah – so long ago, now not important. But I know . . . you see . . .’

  The old man coloured before swallowing. He struggled for words but just as quickly regained his composure, the way men tend to so that no one else will see their shame. His voice was gruff when he spoke. ‘We all do silly things when young, don’t we?’

  After a suitable pause Meng Seng introduced a subject he knew would catch my imagination – the fact that my son Weng Yu had written to him. I demanded to know what Weng Yu had said. ‘Calm down, Chye Hoon,’ the patriarch told me when he saw the fluster I was in. ‘It was a very ordinary letter – this and that, nothing much. You know Weng Yu. He talked a lot about a famous park he goes to.’

  Meng Seng explained that when the boy had enthused at such length about things in London, he had started to worry that Weng Yu was in danger of forgetting his roots. But then the patriarch reminded himself that this wasn’t just anyone’s son – he was my son, a boy brought up in the strict Nyonya-Baba tradition. He would need to give Weng Yu time. Yet when successive letters had reinforced Meng Seng’s concerns, he decided to write. He warned Weng Yu about the foolishness of forgetting his own culture and people. It wasn’t a long letter; he sent it two months ago and had not heard back.

  For once the patriarch and I were in agreement, and I thanked him. Meng Seng’s company was especially welcome at night. After Liew Chin Tong left us, the house had become quieter, because my second and third sons left home just then. My third son, Weng Fatt, went to teach at a school in Tapah, thirty miles south of Ipoh, while my second boy, Weng Koon, travelled even further, to the town of Seremban in the south, which in those years took most of a day to reach.

  But a new visitor also appeared in our midst, a young man whose presence I had first noticed at Hui Ying’s funeral, when he spent so much time with our family that strangers would have thought him already a member. Not only did the boy attend Hui Ying’s wake, but he also walked with us all the way to the caves just outside town for her cremation. Although his face looked familiar, I could not remember where I had seen him previously. He was soft-spoken and unobtrusive, someone you wouldn’t pay attention to. It was only when he introduced himself again that I recalled a face from Hui Fang’s wedding years before, when he had sat with Mr Ho-Lee and his friends.

  Lim Tsin-sang surprised me by turning up again just weeks after Hui Ying’s funeral. I wasn’t even aware that he knew my youngest daughter, Hui Lin, so when he asked for my permission to take her out on that Saturday, I sat up to scrutinise him. He had evidently come in his best clothes: white short-sleeved shirt, blue tie and khaki trousers, all neatly pressed. He shook his legs nervously until he caught me staring at him, at which point the jerking movement ceased, but the young man’s face became as red as angkoo kueh.

  I left it to Hui Lin to decide whether she wished to accompany Lim Tsin-sang to the cinema, but it was hard to restrain my natural curiosity. I could not help noticing the shade of his skin, dark like Chin Tong’s and our Malay brothers’, and the pimples scarring his face. Yet it did not surprise me when Hui Lin agreed to go out with him, for Lim Tsin-sang had dark, captivating eyes that were almost half-closed and tingling with liquid softness, like a woman’s.

  It was raining the day the letter arrived, and it rained every day thereafter for five months.

  Liew Chin Tong was at our house that evening, which could have been either coincidence or more likely was a plan devised by my daughter Hui Lin, who on opening the missive had sent word that she needed help. My son-in-law came rushing to the rescue, armed with his horn-rimmed glasses and the voice that could tell a thousand stories. Weng Yu’s letter began innocently enough, with greetings and generalities and the like, until a page at which my son-in-law paused. In his low, lulling voice, Chin Tong told me that my eldest son, who at the time was commencing his final year at college, was seeking my permission to become engaged to Helen.

  When Chin Tong began extolling the white girl’s virtues, I stopped him. ‘Enough!’ I said roundly.

  ‘But, Mama,’ Hui Lin interjected, ‘Big Brother is serious about this young lady. Don’t you think you should know why?’ For once the girl’s light-hearted air had deserted her. She stared glumly at t
he floor, as if at a funeral.

  Reluctantly I let Chin Tong continue. I heard how Helen had attended college, how well read she was, that she loved art and music as much as Weng Yu, and that they often went on walks together. At last things fell into place, and I guessed that my eldest son had had a female companion all along to the musical concerts and the walks he took in his wretched park.

  To rub salt into my wound, Weng Yu announced that Helen’s father had given the couple his blessing. His blessing! I was astonished. What did the man know about us or our country, and what exactly did he think he was blessing? The union between his daughter and a man from one of the inferior races his people had conquered?

  I stopped listening. Recalling the story of the warrior Hang Tuah and how he had earned his magical sword, I felt a bitter taste in my mouth. Here was my own son, a boy over whom I had slaved, whom I had even sent abroad, pushing my own retirement into the future, and for what? So that my little prince could marry a white woman when he graduated and live away from his family, roots and country? The muscles of my neck contracted involuntarily. Of all the women in this world, the boy had chosen one to whom I could not say even one word. No, this marriage could never be; eternal bonds would be impossible. Like Hang Tuah, I too would have to sharpen my sword.

  When Chin Tong finished and a hush descended, I catapulted into action. Instructing my daughter Hui Lin to pick up paper and pen, I began to dictate. My daughter tried to stop me. ‘Don’t you want to think about it, Mama?’ she asked.

  I shook my head. ‘I not stupid,’ I said, looking Hui Lin in the eye so that she could see how determined I was.

  As the younger ones sat quietly, I spoke in a firm voice. I told my eldest son that I had reflected much on the matter and could never accept his marrying a white woman. Marriage meant eternal bonds. Hard as I tried, I failed to see how those could be formed between us and members of a race who considered themselves superior. I wouldn’t even be able to talk to Helen, nor she to me. I reminded my son that I had worked day and night to pay for his education in London, expensive by Malayan standards. The whole of our family had made sacrifices for him. We had skimped, buying less when we could. We ate cheaper meals and we had given up visiting the cinema, all so that we could keep him abroad. The last thing I wanted was his unhappiness, but he had presented me with something to which I simply could not agree. However, I was willing to make a promise: if he returned home, I would give him free rein to choose his own wife. There were many talented, kind and beautiful local women in Malaya.

  I felt considerably lighter by the time I finished, but I foolishly did not stop to think how my son would react. It never occurred to me that Weng Yu would use Siew Lan’s marriage to Se-Too-Wat as the basis of his reasoning, so I didn’t bother telling my son about Siew Lan’s own reservations or the fears she harboured for her children.

  Not that any of this would have made a difference, for Weng Yu was then in the grip of madness. If the money I sent hadn’t reached his pockets, I would at least have heard a few words. As it was, Weng Yu never wrote home again. It was enough to break my heart.

  41

  For the next twelve months we heard nothing from London. We knew my son was working towards his final-year examinations, but we had no idea how his preparations were going.

  In the same period my fourth son, Weng Yoon, passed the highest examinations in Perak with surprisingly good results. Like his eldest brother before him, Weng Yoon became one of the top scholars in the state, and an article about his achievements appeared in the local paper. To celebrate, we held a dinner in his honour. A dozen people attended: Siew Lan and Se-Too-Wat of course, as well as the former headmaster Mr Ho-Lee, who had left Ipoh by then but happened to be in town on a short visit. A few teachers were also invited – Lim Tsin-sang for one, although he was hardly a special guest, having been such a frequent visitor to our house. Meng Seng came, as did my daughter Hui Fang, from Taiping, and her errant husband, and of course Chin Tong, together with his sister.

  Not having seen Mr Ho-Lee for many years, I found the change in the headmaster’s appearance striking. I can only assume that he thought the same about me. His hair and moustache were now as white as the clouds, and there was considerably less of both. The thinning strands allowed pink scalp to peep through when he was seated, and his forehead looked broader because of this raised hairline. The headmaster had lost none of his cheer, though – his booming laughter reverberated around the room as he took turns with Chin Tong to regale us with stories. A tricky moment came when Mr Ho-Lee asked after Weng Yu, as he was of course prone to do. The hush that fell must have told him all was not well, but Mr Ho-Lee had been in our part of the world long enough to understand not to probe further. With a bland smile I told the headmaster that my eldest son was about to take his final examinations. He was extremely busy and wrote less often. Mr Ho-Lee merely nodded and gave us a reassuring glance, as if to say it would all work out in the end, before graciously retreating.

  Concerning the saga of my son, I told Siew Lan everything. With her being married to a white man, this was a delicate matter, and I raised it only after my friend was groggy from the effects of betel nut juice. The cud inside her mouth stopped moving at once, causing her left cheek to bulge.

  ‘Your son, he also cannot see!’ she mumbled in agitation.

  I asked whether Weng Yu had spoken to Se-Too-Wat during their visit to London, to which Siew Lan shook her head vigorously, her eyes round with astonishment. Holding the brass spittoon just below her chin, she expelled a blood red stream in the manner of an expert betel nut chewer. The liquid spurted out with the force of a waterfall to land squarely in the cradle of the spittoon, where it settled. ‘Ai-yahh, Chye Hoon! You think I not tell you-ah?’

  With anguish on her face, my friend recounted her experiences on the boat. I listened, eyes agog and ears alert. ‘First class for whites,’ Siew Lan informed me. ‘My husband is white person, so I can stay. Women no got white husband cannot stay. People not nice.’

  ‘Your husband, he not do something-ah?’

  ‘How can do something? Not his boat-lah.’ With this pronouncement had come another bloody cascade straight into our spittoon. Siew Lan lifted out the well-chewed nest from inside her mouth delicately, as if it were gold leaf. She was in a talkative mood. ‘Stay in second class, no problem. But go to first-class room, walk also cannot walk. Many people stare and stare.’

  ‘What? At you?’

  ‘Yes-lah.’ My friend nodded vigorously. ‘Flo-lah also. My daughter not look like Chinese, but also not look like white person. So all people look at us . . . I also not know how to say. Not rude. But not nice.’

  Things were better in London, she said, though there had been an incident. One evening she and her daughter were stopped by a man in a dark uniform and hard hat and spoken to very rudely. My friend only picked up a word here and there, but she recognised insolence when she heard it. The policeman’s manner altered when her husband, who had been loitering at a shop window a few paces behind, went forward and confronted him. The experience made Siew Lan long for home.

  We sat quietly then, each uncertain how to continue. I stared at Siew Lan’s lips, stained black red by betel nut juice. For the first time in years we were on the verge of speaking frankly about the white devils, and both of us were reluctant to head into this dangerous territory. It was my friend who broke the silence.

  ‘Chye Hoon, you know I happy in my marriage.’ I nodded. In spite of the sadness which threatened to overwhelm me, I smiled at the memories of her husband in his white suit.

  Siew Lan took a sip of coffee. ‘Here more easy. We so champor-champor, even ang moh nicer. In London very hard-lah.’ Looking at her dark face, I pointed out that what she said was different from the idyllic picture my son painted of London. ‘I know . . . I know,’ Siew Lan murmured, shaking her head while absent-mindedly moving an index finger around the rim of her cup, with its pink borders and green dragons. ‘Your son refuse
to see-lah! I think he in London one Eurasian also not know.’ I was inclined to agree.

  We only learnt how Weng Yu had fared in his examinations because his college sent details of his results, which turned out to be shockingly bad considering how much we had lavished on him. Although my son gained an overall pass, he failed two of his papers, barely scraped through in another ten and scored good marks in only two subjects. This was a far cry from his previous performance, and I decided that the affair of the white girl must have affected his head. Whenever disappointment welled up inside me, I had to remind myself of the final outcome – that Weng Yu, my son from Ipoh, was now one of the best-trained civil engineers in the entire world. We had succeeded in the Weng Yu Project.

  Once my son graduated, I stopped sending money. Perhaps this was a mistake, but I had agreed to fund him only until he completed his studies. We had never discussed what would happen after that, though it was clear I could not provide for him indefinitely. He would either have to come home or fend for himself.

  Unbeknownst to me, Meng Seng took it upon himself to write to Weng Yu when he found out about the intended engagement. By his own account the patriarch’s letter was gentle. Meng Seng made clear that in affairs of love no one was to blame; indeed he complimented my son, telling him that a boy of his calibre and looks was bound to attract girls. Unfortunately we lived in a world in which the white race regarded itself as superior. If my son doubted that, Meng Seng reminded him of the Ipoh Club, which had operated a white-only policy for as long as Meng Seng could remember. Malay rulers were occasionally allowed into the place, as were a handful of Chinese towkays, but to all intents and purposes the club remained a preserve of our white rulers.

  Meng Seng underlined his point: Helen, he told my son, was not just a member of any race but of the ruling race, and this had implications for marriage. If my son were to marry her, her own people would be the first to treat her with contempt – for lowering the tone of their race, because her husband would be viewed as a Chinaman and her children as half-castes, neither white enough for them, nor brown enough for others. Weng Yu himself would suffer, not least among his own people, who would wonder why a local girl wasn’t good enough for him. Thus marriage between a local and a white person was destined to end in failure.