My son and daughter-in-law took over the master bedroom, the largest room in the house, slightly set back from the outer hall and the only one fitted with its own washbasin. I did not miss it; I preferred my cosy burrow with its hill breezes. My grandchildren had their own rooms too, the two boys and their amah occupying one, while my granddaughter Lai Hin was given her own room. Thus in a single stroke my Green House began to beat with life.
Each of us soon settled into a routine. Mine began long before the first crow of the cockerels, when I found myself awake in bed with eyes wide open, impatient for the coming day. Shortly after four, two dim figures entered my room. What came next – the moments which should have been private and were not – filled me with shame, until I fell during a valiant attempt in the latrine. I had no choice then but to accept my growing fragility, and thereafter I allowed the servants to help me instead of imagining them my enemies.
After rising, I sat at a corner of the dining table and waited. Ah Hong and Li-Fei always put the kettle on the wood-fed stove to make my breakfast. They filled the air with the smells of my childhood: ginger being sliced and garlic chilli paste fried; pandanus leaf being steamed and coconut milk freshly squeezed. When I had eaten my fill, the atmosphere in the kitchen changed, for it was then that the servants my son Weng Yu had brought with him entered to prepare the Western nonsense he had learnt to consume in London. They invariably fried meat that stank, purchased from an unhealthily cold shop where the produce was kept in packs of ice.
When my grandchildren woke, they burst out of their bedrooms with the energy that I too must once have had. The eldest two, Wai Sung and Lai Hin, rushed towards me to show off their gleaming teeth. To them each new day was an adventure, and their boundless enthusiasm invigorated even my old bones. Next the youngest, Wai Kit, appeared, swaddled in rolls of cloth and held in the arms of his amah.
My son and daughter-in-law were always the last to wake. Watching them, I found it impossible to tell whether anything was amiss. Only when I spoke privately to Mei Foong did I learn that my son had continued gambling. ‘But Weng Yu plays much less now, Mama. Only one or two hours during the day. He knows he must come home every evening.’
It was true that the boy dutifully appeared each evening without fail. I foolishly regarded this as progress, consoling myself with the thought that bad habits could not be broken overnight. Besides, Weng Yu gave me an allowance of twenty-five dollars each month and contributed to household expenses, and I had nothing to complain about.
In those days it was my grandchildren who occupied my attention, especially my granddaughter Lai Hin, whom neither parent graced with much care. Her eldest brother, Wai Sung, was Weng Yu’s favourite, given free rein to do as he liked, while the recently born Wai Kit was doted on by Mei Foong for reasons only a mother could know. That left my poor granddaughter without a champion; if it had not been for me and Ah Hong, who loved the girl as if she were her own child, my granddaughter would have felt quite alone in this world. I sensed even then that Lai Hin was close to me in spirit: strong-willed at the age of three. Within hours of their arrival I had to reprimand her for trampling all over a patch in the garden. In sweeter moments Lai Hin amused me with questions. She was as insistent as I had once been, a child who would not give up until she received an answer.
When Lai Hin asked where I came from, I began recounting the stories Mother had passed on. I told her about my days in Songkhla, about the men and women who had arrived from the sea and the goddess Nu Kua, who had made the sky blue for the little children. Lai Hin would appear in my bedroom every afternoon, sneaking in like a cat and waiting until I had opened my eyes from my usual nap, at which point she would jump up and down for her stories.
The afternoons with my granddaughter were energising. My youth seemed to return alongside the memories I unearthed. Lai Hin brought me untold joy. She was a gift from the gods, a sign that perhaps not all my deeds in previous lives had been so terrible.
53
When a large shimmering car appeared on the driveway next door, I knew that my fourth son, Weng Yoon, had returned from the world tour on which he had taken his bride. He knocked soon afterwards to introduce me to his wife, Dora, a young Nyonya woman who wore her hair in the traditional chignon held by five pins. Within minutes of stepping into the Green House, she had brought tears to my eyes. She came towards me, bowed deeply in her beautiful blue kebaya, and in a voice ringing with sincerity told everyone how honoured she felt to be meeting the woman who had brought her husband into the world.
Over the months Dora and I shared our recipes. Her cooking was exquisite even by my fastidious standards. I watched as she supervised the servants in our household, marvelling at her eagle eye for the smallest detail. Dora’s recipes, like mine, had been handed down over generations – how many generations, Dora herself did not know; she thought at least three, from the time of her great-grandmother, who was also a Nyonya from Penang. I thought Dora’s Siamese laksa tastier than mine, a confession I made only to Dora and only much later.
Dora was fluent in Hokkien, Cantonese and English, which meant she knew everything and talked to everyone. When war broke out in Europe, I heard it first from Dora, who appeared at my house in a state of agitation. I could not understand the fuss, seeing that we’d had wars before; after all, China had by then been at war with Japan for two years. ‘Yes, Mama, but this may be different,’ my daughter-in-law said. Despite her gloomy statement, nothing much happened. Life went on as before in Ipoh, except that my sons kept talking about the fighting between different European countries with more excitement than seemed warranted. One minute such-and-such an army would be in this country, the next it was another army somewhere else, always in places I had never heard of, knew nothing about and with no conceivable connections to Ipoh.
The only other topic which elicited as much reaction from anyone was Weng Yoon’s monstrous new car. The beast stretched the length of my bedroom and was so wide that when it crossed the smaller bridges in town, any car unfortunate enough to be travelling in the opposite direction had to give way. I can’t say I thought it beautiful; the car had the same ugly lights which festooned Meng Seng’s, a pair of orbs sticking out incongruously at the front like the eyes of a toad. The monster attracted attention, not to mention envy, which embarrassed me the first time I sat inside. All eyes focused on me, the Nyonya kueh maker who was now driven around for leisure.
Once I became accustomed to being stared at, I must confess that Weng Yoon’s car made me purr like a well-fed cat. I much preferred it to Weng Yu’s smaller car, though I worked hard to conceal this.
In family life too Weng Yoon was the more successful. He was deeply taken with his wife, even naming his house after her. He gave it an English name which sounded like ‘Toh-kot’; I was told the first part came from Dora’s own name, while the second part was the English word for court, appropriate given where my son spent his days.
On my sixty-first birthday Weng Yoon insisted on a celebration. ‘Ai-yahh, no need-lah! I don’t want to feel old,’ I pleaded.
To no avail. Having avoided a large celebration the previous year on account of the work then being carried out on the Green House, I was unable to circumvent my son a second time. Weng Yoon took me to one of the fancy establishments that had opened in town, where the fifteen adults and nine children of our branch of the Wong clan gathered. Our meal was replete with every conceivable delicacy, including dishes that were the preserve of the wealthy. We sipped a rich broth in which delicate slivers had been scattered – the abalone so beloved of many in town. We feasted on giant succulent prawns and whole roasted piglets, their skins gently crisp. Though delicious, the dinner was inordinately expensive. We could have spent a fraction of what my son paid and had as much pleasure at home.
The highlight came when I set eyes on the two boys and the girl – the children of my second son, Weng Koon – whose arrival in this world I had missed. The eldest was then five, the youngest only two. W
e had not met until then. When I felt their little hands grasping at my sarong and looked down to see impish faces peering up, full of mischief and trust, I regretted having missed their early years. It was too late to turn the clock back, but I resolved to be less pig-headed from then on.
Over dinner, war dominated the conversation. I had little desire to find out any more about the fighting or hear which country’s armies were advancing where. It bored the little ones too – they squirmed like worms. As soon as we finished eating, I announced story time. A magical effect came over the room: everyone woke up at once. The adults stretched, yawned and swayed arms in the air, while the children, eyes brightening, became my captives. My granddaughter Lai Hin led the charge with shouts for her favourite tales. This grandchild of mine didn’t tire of listening to the same story repeatedly; whatever she liked she asked for every day. At the time she was obsessed with the story of Nu Kua and would keep gazing out at the skies the way I had once done, searching for that elusive hole she could never find. I wasn’t surprised when she asked to hear the story again, even though the girl could have recited every sentence backwards to me. Feigning excitement, I described for the hundredth time how the world had been created and the skies made blue for the little children.
After I finished, nine little faces looked up at me, stunned into silence. From across the room I heard Weng Yoon announcing his plan to stand for elections to the Perak State Council. I wondered what this meant and resolved to ask Dora. At the next table I could just about make out Weng Yu’s face, like a mask the Chinese opera singers wore, beautifully painted but inscrutable. I guessed that he couldn’t be happy at the way his younger brother was beginning to overshadow him, yet there was also no avoiding this inconvenient truth.
On a sultry afternoon Mei Foong came scuttling towards my room, a fan in one hand and a silk handkerchief in the other. From the colour of her eyes, she had obviously been crying. Lai Hin, who was sitting near my bed, looked up in surprise at her overwrought mother. The child climbed out of her chair to touch her mother’s hand, all the while silently searching both our faces in the hope we would reveal what was wrong. Curiosity tinged her eyes, but there was also a fear holding her back from blurting out words that must have been on the tip of her tongue. Lai Hin left the room without protest, in contrast to her usual practice of pestering to be allowed a longer stay.
As soon as the bedroom door closed, my daughter-in-law burst into tears. In between sobs Mei Foong murmured that her husband was in trouble.
A deep wariness rose within me. ‘Is about gambling-ah?’
Mei Foong nodded, explaining that my son had creditors at the mah-jong club to whom he owed a lot of money. She didn’t know how much, but it was a big amount – enough to make it difficult for Weng Yu to part with a single cent for the next few months. I sat in silence, understanding that my son would no longer provide a monthly allowance or contribute to household expenses.
Outside, the stray dogs which roamed Green Town’s leafy surrounds in packs serenaded us with a strange howling. Their baying unnerved me. I remembered a cry from long ago, the call of the man in Songkhla village who had sat crumpled with head buried in both hands. He had gambled everything he owned and lost.
‘Are you all right, Mama?’ Mei Foong’s voice broke into my reverie.
The girl was busy fanning herself. It was one of those hot, sticky Ipoh days, the sort on which dogs stuck out their long pink tongues when they panted. I could smell sweat in the room. As I watched Mei Foong’s trembling fingers, I realised it was not her heat I smelt but her fear.
When I spoke, my own mouth felt parched. I could hardly recognise the raspy voice that was supposedly mine. ‘I also not know what to do,’ I croaked. A pause before I asked, ‘You want me do what?’
‘Have pity on us, Mama, if not for my husband’s sake, then for your grandchildren. Let us live here for free, at least in the next few months.’
‘Good heart, daughter, of course!’
Through the half-open window, a wolf-like call reminded me that a bigger problem loomed, a challenge more intractable than food and lodging.
‘You think already what we do-ah?’ I asked. ‘We how to make your husband stop gamble?’
Shaking her head, Mei Foong ceased fanning herself, as if deep in thought. The heat built up in my little room, trapped as it was within four walls, a closed door and a half-shut window. Suddenly I felt tired . . . so tired. At my age I didn’t need this drama. But then I thought of my grandchildren, and especially little Lai Hin, who needed me.
‘I not yet know what we do, but I need your help,’ I said.
‘Of course, Mama, but what can a mother-of-three do when she doesn’t work?’
I stared at my daughter-in-law, astonished by this display of helplessness. Where had her steel gone? If I could only tap into the reserve of strength I had once glimpsed, we would make a formidable team. I told her about the home arrangements Peng Choon and I had put in place, how at the end of each month my dear husband had handed me his entire earnings so that I could run our household. The girl’s eyes widened, as if to convey the impossibility of Weng Yu ever agreeing to a similar arrangement. I assured my daughter-in-law there was no alternative. How else could she control his spending?
She looked away.
‘We must together work, Mei Foong. Otherwise cannot,’ I said in such a sharp tone that she looked up. My daughter-in-law did not reply, but there was a new acquiescence in her eyes.
When Weng Yu returned that evening, his swagger was the only hint of his errant ways. The boy walked in exaggerated fashion, as if to assure everyone of his respectable day on Hale Street, a day spent with clamouring clients. He mentioned the names of men supposedly in the process of acquiring plots of land, men from whom there would be much demand for houses. Weng Yu’s lyrical voice and beautiful use of the Hakka dialect lulled us all. Only when I paid close attention to what my son said, noting the inflection in tone, the evasiveness which gave the boy away, did I see how shamelessly Weng Yu slid from lie to lie. I felt ill. Trying to catch him in his deceptions would be like using a sword to cut through water.
54
For seven successive nights after Mei Foong’s visit, my sleep was interrupted by dreams.
I dreamt that Mother was in my room with Nu Kua, the woman who had made the skies blue. Or perhaps it was Mother turning into Nu Kua – I couldn’t tell. It was dark when Mother came into view beside me. I knew it was Mother from the shape of her lips, which curved downward as they used to when she was displeased. She was dressed in a familiar baju panjang, the one in green and white squares she had worn at home with a brown sarong. She even gave off the smells she used to have when I was young, a pungency mixed with comforting sweetness, as if she had continued frying garlic and steaming pandanus leaf in the next world.
I didn’t know who the other presence in the room was, but I sensed the spirit to be benign. When Mother called her name, Nu Kua, children came from out of nowhere, cloaked in tunics whose ample sleeves spread outwards. My grandchildren Wai Sung and Lai Hin were among them but neither paid me any attention; they merely glided towards Nu Kua. Or was it Mother they sought? In the thick blackness Mother and Nu Kua blurred as they merged into one, beckoning the children away.
I woke up with an ache in my head and with Mother on my mind. I felt shame, because I knew Mother would never have allowed things to progress to this state. She would have curtailed Weng Yu’s activities long before they fell into such disarray.
For several nights Mother and Nu Kua visited me in my dreams, bringing the children with them. Eventually the children and Nu Kua stopped coming; it was only Mother who turned up.
When she and I were alone, Mother took me on a long journey. We traversed a vast expanse of blackness until I could go no further. At that point I asked Mother the question that had been plaguing me. ‘What should I do, Mother?’ My voice sounded hollow, as if I were travelling through a cave. Mother turned towards me. Thou
gh she didn’t say a word, a smile radiated from her face. You know what you need to do, she seemed to say. Then she was gone.
On the designated day I watched my son as he walked towards his car. I stared at his feet, at the handmade shoes carved out of crocodile skin, shoes that must have been exquisitely expensive. It was no wonder the boy was in debt, I thought, as my son reversed his car out of the garage. After my son had sped away down our street, I asked to be carried into the second hall beside the master bedroom, where my prayer altar was set up. I spent the day face to face with Kuan Yin, my ancestors and my husband. Offerings of kueh and oranges had been laid and candles lit in the knowledge that the ensuing battle would be the biggest I would ever have waged.
At the usual time Weng Yu returned from the office. We had popiah that evening, a Nyonya dish in which diners wrap a choice of meat and vegetable filling into paper-thin spring roll skins made of rice flour. The filling ingredients are chosen for texture as well as taste and liberally doused with chilli before being folded into their white cages. Because each person wraps her or his own roll, it allows for camaraderie among diners and is ideal for breaking the ice between strangers. I was conscious of a different kind of coldness that evening, but one no less frigid and difficult to conquer.
In the vein of our previous confrontations, I made sure Weng Yu had first enjoyed his fill before luring him into my territory: I asked him to help me to my bedroom. I assumed he would sit with me, if only for a few minutes, but my son had other ideas; he was already heading towards the door when I called him back. ‘Stay awhile,’ I said. ‘I like talking to you.’ My imploring tone must have surprised the boy, for he complied without objection. He placed himself in the only chair in my bedroom, a broad rattan seat I had acquired as a retirement present to myself. Like a coiled python I attacked without preamble.
The Woman Who Breathed Two Worlds Page 41