The Woman Who Breathed Two Worlds

by Siak Chin Yoke, Selina

  Meng Seng encouraged my son to reconsider. No two people, he said, could live apart from society; they had to interact with the world around them.

  Weng Yu’s reply, when it came, was defiant. Meng Seng told me that its tone had surprised him. The Weng Yu he remembered was a boy of few words, not the firebrand whose short page shimmered with fury. My son told Meng Seng bluntly that he disagreed with his views. People of mixed descent looked happy on London’s streets. As for Malaya itself, the marriage between Siew Lan and Se-Too-Wat stood out. Could he, Meng Seng Pak, honestly put hand to heart and declare their marriage a failure?

  These robust words echoed in my head. I had been given the gift of Mother’s culture and instead of guarding it with my sword I had put my weapon aside and sent Weng Yu to London. Now my worst nightmare was unfolding. I was going to lose my little prince.

  By the time the rains began late in 1926 we had still received no news.

  Even early on during that monsoon season the rains seemed heavier than in previous years. It was not long before the banks of the Kinta River overflowed. I imagined Weng Yu’s letters lost, carried away by the torrents of water that swept everything before them.

  With an eye on the kueh business, I surveyed the heavens. We had been fortunate the year before, not losing custom even though it had rained every day. Much of Old Town had as usual been flooded. Despite that, the ever-industrious Li-Fei had found a way across the Kinta River to New Town – how, I will never know, as the girl was sparing with the details. There, hungry customers were so grateful to see a bicycle carrying goodies that they bought more than their normal share. In the end the only thing that affected us was the closure of the Old Town market, because there came a point when we simply could not buy the fresh coconuts or pandanus leaves we needed and were forced to stop making kueh.

  Remembering our difficulties then, I made my way to the People’s Park for a peek at the Kinta River. By the time I arrived, the park was covered in a sheet of water, and I could get no further than the entrance. A crowd stood by, an assortment of characters with nothing better to do than stare at the rising tide.

  Hours later the waters had reached that part of the Lahat Road lying in the valley below. As I looked down the hill on which our house was situated, I saw the unstoppable expanse rushing in. When I had selected our house years previously, I had chosen the spot precisely to avoid the floods, which recurred every monsoon season. I had little idea then that this judicious piece of foresight would one day save my family.

  Once the water arrived at the bottom of our hill, it accumulated quickly. With nowhere else to go, the water inevitably rose. Soon people were wading along what used to be the bottom of the Lahat Road, their calves covered. From the safety of our five-foot way, I saw motor cars being abandoned as their occupants made their way slowly towards us, cursing loudly.

  Within hours the valley below resembled nothing like anything I had ever seen before. Debris floated everywhere: bits of wood, rubber tyres, pieces of newspaper, even rubbish from the drains. Few people were out by then. Only one or two brave souls tried to walk between houses. It was obvious from their slow progress that the obstacles in their way were insidious. The water itself – rain mingled with what had oozed out of the latrine pots that lay uncollected in the unfortunate houses below – was a deeper brown than the tanned-leather shade of the Kinta River.

  That night, as the servants were cooking the evening meal in our kitchen we were surprised by shouting at the front of our house. The familiar voice belonged to none other than Yap Meng Seng, who had evidently hired a sampan to traverse the lowlands, before walking up that part of our hill which remained dry.

  From his demeanour I sensed bad news. ‘Phone call from Penang,’ he told me. I digested this with a sinking heart. ‘Your mother passed away last night. I’m so sorry, Chye Hoon.’ All I could do was stare helplessly into empty space. My immediate thought was that I would not be able to leave for Penang. As if reading my mind, Meng Seng said, ‘Station Road all flooded. Nothing running . . . no trains, nothing. Hard to travel now, though maybe the rain will stop soon.’ Looking up at the dark skies, we had our doubts, but we kept these to ourselves. I thanked him before saying goodbye. In return Meng Seng agreed to keep check on the trains and motor buses running out of Ipoh town.

  The next day it suddenly stopped raining. For several hours not a drop fell. The waters at the bottom of the hill began to recede, leaving behind a trail of horror and a stench so foul it even invaded the air in our corner up on the hill. Smelling like a thousand night-soil collection vans, it reminded me of the first morning I had set foot in Ipoh with Peng Choon, when I had wondered why he had brought me here. From what I could see, the waters continued to reach the ankles of those below; in any case, until I heard from Meng Seng I was loath to make my way into town, in case I was disappointed.

  Then without warning the rains came again. This time it was clear there would be no stopping the outpouring of the gods. The waters came down with a vengeance, flooding the town as had never happened before. I used our supplies sparingly, but with seven of us in the house there came a point when we started to run low. For the first time since the rains began, I felt fear. Eventually we finished our yams and sweet potatoes, and my fourth and fifth sons bravely ventured into the fetid mess to see if they could reach the provision shops in New Town. They came back surprisingly dry – thanks to the enterprising coolies who plied the sampan trade throughout the floods. My sons brought on their backs heavy sacks to ensure our survival. When they described what Old Town looked like, I found it hard to take in. Not only were the main streets covered with a blanket of water, but the currents had been strong enough to break panes of glass. Even the glass front of the largest shop in town, a favourite with the white devils, had been swept away.

  It was only a fortnight later that I was able to make my way to Penang. By then it was too late to say goodbye to Mother, but I reached the island in time to catch a last glimpse of Father. Soon after Mother’s demise, he too passed away, from loneliness and a broken heart. Numb from shock, I bowed frigidly before Kuan Yin. All I could do at the temple was to clutch a handful of ashes while praying for my parents’ souls as they floated somewhere on this earth.

  42

  One afternoon Li-Fei came running into the kitchen with flushed cheeks. Her right index finger, pointing outside, shivered in the hot air. ‘Weng Yu! Weng Yu come home-lah!’

  I ran into the outer hall to find a stiff young man beside two large suitcases. The boy greeted me formally without even a smile – in English. He used the only English word I could recognise, ‘Hullo’, followed closely by ‘Mama’. Had I awakened in a nightmare? The boy looked like my son – indeed he had Weng Yu’s voice – but surely this could not be him.

  By then everyone in the house had encircled Weng Yu. All were there: my daughter Hui Lin, my three youngest surviving sons, both our servants, Ah Hong and Li-Fei, and Liew Chin Tong, who was dining with us that evening. The stranger in the midst of this commotion showed little pleasure at seeing us. After saying hello politely, he stood imperiously with his arms and back straight like the white devils in the English quarter.

  There was little doubt my son was playing the part of an English gentleman. For one thing he was dressed like one, in a long-sleeved white shirt and khaki trousers so well pressed that they were barely creased despite his journey. On his head he wore a topee, the hard hat with the tiny brim and round top favoured by our rulers. The biggest shock came when he opened his mouth, for the boy claimed to have forgotten his native dialects.

  I was incredulous. Though my eyes tunneled into him, Weng Yu did not look at me, which left me uncertain whether to give him a piece of my mind. Once again I imagined Hang Tuah as he fought a foreign warrior with his beautifully carved keris, but instead of wielding my own sword I took the easy way out. My eldest son was home after all. I had neither the heart nor the energy to shout at him. I waited, hoping that in time my little pr
ince would come to his senses.

  Over dinner Weng Yu refused to eat with his hands; such behaviour, he told us, was uncivilised. To avoid a scene, I asked Ah Hong to hand my son a fork and spoon. Conversation could only proceed at the pace of sand drying, since everything had to be translated for my benefit. From the glances they gave one another, it was clear his siblings were as bewildered as I was. What in heaven had happened to this son of mine?

  In no time Weng Yu began to act as if he were the newly returned head of our family. He interrogated his younger brothers with his head tilted to one side so that the end of his nose gazed petulantly down. His brothers soon turned a deaf ear. Only his sister Hui Lin was able to communicate with Weng Yu. With charm and humour, my daughter somehow burrowed a way through Weng Yu’s iron armour. He invited her in whenever she knocked on his bedroom door, and the two would chat for hours. He knew that Hui Lin shared much of her life with me, but he nonetheless told her many things, presumably because he wanted me to learn about the sores festering inside his heart.

  In the days following Weng Yu’s return, I spent troubled hours before our altar table. I made special offerings of vermicelli topped with sugar crystals. With head bowed and my hands tight around burning joss-sticks, I remembered our ancestors, who had come to build new lives in boats with eyes painted on their prows. I would think of Father and Mother and also my husband, Peng Choon. Staring at the tablets with their dark wood and mysterious writing, I wondered what they would have done with my recalcitrant son. Mother, I felt certain, would have put her foot down sooner and never have allowed a son to forget his own language and culture.

  At least my son had returned. I consoled myself that he had not married the white woman.

  Weng Yu forged an independent life at home, never once asking me for money. I gave him shelter and food, as any mother would, but nothing else. Nor did he seek it. ‘Mama’s done enough for me,’ he said to Hui Lin, an acknowledgement that pleased me, coming as it did out of nowhere. It was given freely, without any hint of a grudge. These oblique words of thanks led me to hope that the boy remembered the many sacrifices we had made for his sake.

  In other ways, though, my son’s bitterness could not be shaken. ‘I not even know I glad or not he come back!’ I confessed one day to Siew Lan.

  ‘Good heart, don’t talk like that-lah,’ she scolded me on the barlay. ‘I think Weng Yu will change. He talk a lot yesterday,’ she added, referring to the visit my son had paid her and Se-Too-Wat. Physically Siew Lan observed that he seemed much as he had seemed in London, only much thinner. ‘Se-Too-Wat think he anxious, a lot of things happen-lah, but he not want to say.’ What exactly it was that had taken place in London none of us knew, though we guessed it could only have been related to the English girl.

  During his twelve months at home, Weng Yu came and went as he pleased. When one of the servants asked where he was going and when he would be back, he snapped. When I asked, he answered, albeit gruffly. It was clear he didn’t want anyone meddling in his affairs, and apart from Hui Lin, no one bothered Weng Yu. From time to time, when I wondered about his future, my son would declare confidently that with his qualifications he should have no trouble finding a job; it was simply a matter of time before he landed a position appropriate to his stature. As I watched him swagger out of our house one morning, I could hardly believe that this boy, who behaved as if he owned the world, was the same boy I had brought up.

  To my embarrassment my son refused to visit Yap Meng Seng, the man without whom he would never have been able to travel to London. Instead Weng Yu maintained a mysterious schedule. He would leave the house early in the mornings and sometimes return for lunch, other times not, though he always came home for dinner. Occasionally he disappeared again as soon as he’d eaten, staying out as late as ten o’clock at night. We could not think what he was up to. When I asked him, I received a cryptic reply. ‘You’ll see, Mama’ was all he said. Siew Lan didn’t know either. It wasn’t until Weng Yu invited Hui Lin for a walk that his secret was revealed: my eldest son had been surveying the whole of Ipoh town – every road, every bridge, even the newly constructed embankments for combating Ipoh’s annual floods. By then the town had grown, and it was no longer possible to go round on foot. For help, Weng Yu had approached an old school friend, a boy who had his own car. He drove my son towards the furthest reaches, which allowed Weng Yu to take measurements and make notes as required.

  One night my little prince gathered us all around the dining table. On its surface he unfurled sheets of smooth paper, each covered with fine drawings – networks of parallel lines marked with thin black script. Gasps escaped from my children. ‘Wahh! Big Brother . . .’ I wondered aloud what the papers in front of us contained and was at a loss for words when my son explained that the sheets when put together formed a large hand-drawn map of Ipoh town. ‘But you have to imagine you’re looking from above,’ he said as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

  His passion was infectious. I followed Weng Yu’s fingers as they traced out known landmarks. He pointed out the Lahat Road on one of his diagrams; then, moving across to an adjacent piece, he proceeded to show us all the main roads and bridges, even the embankments. As he moved his finger from spot to spot on this wondrous map, Weng Yu talked animatedly. Eventually he moved to that part of the map where the Wong family lands were situated. I had heard that the area was being developed, a fact my son confirmed. His index finger wagged towards the spot. ‘Here, Mama!’ he said. ‘It’s now called Green Town.’

  Green Town. The image of a house rose up before me . . . a house built in wood and painted a lime green. I put the picture away and returned to the conversation taking place between my children. By then Weng Yu was describing the problems facing Ipoh’s roads and bridges. He went into vivid detail, as if speaking about a beautiful woman. He told us what he thought would be needed to transform Ipoh town and proceeded to lay fresh sheets on top of the table. Each sheet contained a finely etched network of roads, bridges and embankments, but there were many new markings and plenty of script everywhere, sometimes in thick black ink.

  ‘This,’ my eldest son announced, ‘is my vision for the Ipoh of the future.’ I stared with open mouth, impressed in spite of myself. Weng Yu’s enthusiasm reminded me of the night he had told us the story of the Chinese princess, when my son had gone from start to finish without once pausing for breath. The memory struck me forcefully. Weng Yu stood with a lively face, his long, elegant fingers pointing at the roads he would widen and the bridges he would strengthen. ‘So they can take more cars,’ he told his dazed audience. He added that the embankments which had been built weren’t adequate; therefore, he had marked out reinforcements.

  In short, I finally understood that my son was single-handedly proposing to redevelop Ipoh town.

  Not imagining that the white devils would welcome such radical ideas from a local, I warned Weng Yu, but he derided my objection. ‘It’s different for me, Mama,’ he said loftily without even a hint of hesitation. ‘I’m a British graduate.’ His younger siblings looked at one another, amazed their brother could have such peculiar ideas, embarrassed too by his poor display of manners. Keeping my thoughts to myself, I merely looked at my son. I hoped he was right.

  To prove me wrong, Weng Yu came back several evenings later with a deep flush on his face. He told us that his friend, the one with the car, who was now the chief clerk in the Kinta Public Works Department, had taken him to see his boss, the chief engineer. The chief engineer was a white devil, of course, but he had listened intently to Weng Yu’s plan. ‘You see, Mama!’ my son said victoriously. ‘He’s even arranged for me to see two senior people in Batu Gajah. We’re going next week.’

  On the appointed day I watched as Weng Yu left the house for the administrative capital of the state. Immaculately dressed as always, Weng Yu went armed with a black briefcase that held his precious plans – reams of the special paper on which he had patiently sketched everything of
note in Ipoh town. When my son returned, the air of defeat in his sagging shoulders was enough to tell me what had happened. The visit had not been the success Weng Yu had hoped for. Though his plans had not been rejected out of hand, the reception had been decidedly lukewarm. I felt for the boy, but part of me was secretly pleased, because I hoped it would wrench Weng Yu out of his dreamworld.

  After several months it became clear that the white administration was not going to take Weng Yu’s plans up. They didn’t even offer him a job. At the time Ipoh sorely needed civil engineers, but Weng Yu had not inherited his father’s tact; he had a habit of letting the whites know exactly what he thought, as if he were equal in station. Qualified he may have been, but white he certainly was not, despite the airs he put on. No local, no matter how talented, would have been allowed to run a department – that was the remit of the white man. Weng Yu remained adrift for a year, growing more disillusioned with each passing day. His face hardened in disappointment, while his eyes seemed to lose soul. In that period he stopped visiting Se-Too-Wat and Siew Lan. I tried to talk to my son, but it was like trying to cut through water with a sword.

  For all his weaknesses, Yap Meng Seng redeemed himself. When Weng Yu did not visit to pay his respects, the old man turned up at our house instead.

  I was mortified at the sight of the patriarch, but I needn’t have worried. Entering unhurriedly, the old man gave me a warm smile, saying in a loud voice that he happened to be passing. Age had caught up with him, and Meng Seng’s hair was now completely white. Why the man suddenly grew a moustache I shall never know. It was the type favoured by older Chinese men, the sort whose sides hung down past his lips like a pair of white fangs. It made him look much older than his years as he hobbled in on his stick.