‘Big Son, I know you still play mah-jong. I also know you lose money-lah.’
Observing Weng Yu carefully as I said this, I heard his perceptible intake of breath.
‘No need to get angry,’ I said evenly. ‘Mei Foong just worried. She think of the three little ones. I know you too think of them.’
‘Of course-lah, Mama, of course,’ my son replied indignantly. ‘It’s just that I’ve had such a spell of bad luck. Luck comes and goes, you know.’
The conviction with which my son said this left me in little doubt that he believed the nonsense he was spouting. He carried on assuring me that everything would ‘be fine in the end’. When he saw my scepticism, his thick lips curled into a sneer, as if to indicate that an old woman like me couldn’t possibly comprehend the complexities of the gaming tables. ‘I just need a change of luck. When my luck is good, it’s very good, you know. Nothing touches me then,’ Weng Yu declared with the certainty of one possessed.
I looked sadly at my son. Inside my soul there echoed the cry of a hundred elephants dying.
‘Weng Yu, you know how many people gamble and make money-ah?’ My son became sullen. When he gave no reply, I asked a practical question. ‘You owe how much?’
The boy refused to say. He kept his lips pursed tightly until I screamed so loudly that the entire household heard; only when cornered in shame did my son confess. ‘All right, Mama, keep your voice down.’ He then whispered a number which horrified me: ‘Three thousand dollars.’
I could hardly believe my ears. I had made three thousand dollars only in the good years, when business had been booming. To lose so much money so quickly . . . There could only be one possible explanation.
‘You play big-ah?’ I asked. ‘How can lose so much? Each game, how much?’
‘Sometimes ten dollars, sometimes fifteen,’ my son replied nonchalantly.
I looked at Weng Yu with even greater sorrow. There it was again, that casual attitude to money I had seen years before but had done nothing to curb. The boy behaved as if money grew on trees. I understood then that dealing with Weng Yu’s debt would be the biggest challenge of my life.
I sought inspiration from the only place I knew: in front of Kuan Yin, Goddess of Mercy. Leaning on my faithful servants for support, I would shuffle towards the chair near our altar table, from where I would gaze at our well-worn figure in porcelain. Though yellowed with age, Kuan Yin calmed my nerves. I marvelled at her posture, left leg bent at the knee and tucked beneath her right leg in that look of timeless composure. The Goddess responded to my devotion with an idea so bold that it made my hands tremble. Had the sign come from the Goddess herself, though, or had I merely imagined it? This time I had to be sure; mine was too important a mission.
With Dora’s permission I asked the driver her husband had hired to take me to the Kuan Yin Temple off the Brewster Road, where I could consult the chief priest. Our gardeners, Samad and Kamil, carried me out of the house and into the car, then from the car into the temple on my wooden sedan. While I was inside, they sat outside near the bank of the Kinta River under a tree, whiling away time with the coolies who liked to take shade there. Dora stayed with me, watching what the chief priest and I were doing from a discreet distance. As I set eyes on the woman with the high cheekbones who had taken care of me through the years, it became clear what I had to do.
The next day we resumed catering. Upon retirement I had been inundated with requests for Nyonya delicacies – at the weddings, funerals and festivals which seemed to take place in Ipoh every month. I had always declined, even when the requests had come from the most loyal of customers, for fear of setting an unwelcome precedent. I knew that as soon as I said yes to someone, another request would follow, and enmity could arise if I were perceived to show favouritism. With Weng Yu’s misfortune, a perfect opportunity presented itself. We could cater to Ipoh’s apparently insatiable appetite for Nyonya cuisine – not on a daily basis as we had previously done, but on demand by former clients whenever they wished to celebrate special occasions. I would keep occupied, do the town a favour and make money at the same time.
Or so I thought. Unfortunately the enterprise turned out to be far tougher than I could ever have foreseen, because I’d forgotten how short people’s memories are. By the time we resumed catering, Wong family kueh had not been seen on the streets of Ipoh for two years, and almost everyone had forgotten us. During our first two months not a single order came in. We would surely have sunk had it not been for my tenacity, for I was not prepared to leave this world until I had fully discharged every ounce of my son’s shame. Nothing was going to stand in my way.
I knew it could take months, possibly even years. I let my son and his family live with me for free and used my lifetime’s savings of one and a half thousand dollars to repay half Weng Yu’s debts, but I still needed to find the other half. I tried to estimate how long it would take us to earn this. In this my wayward son was of little help; pride clogged his tongue. He would only say that in his best month he brought home more than two hundred dollars.
‘If your month not good, how bad?’ I asked, but my question brought nothing more than a sheepish look and a series of mumbles.
For the next two years the goal of seeing Weng Yu’s debt repaid consumed my every waking moment. It drove the way we lived and the way our house was organised.
First, I demanded that my son hand over a hundred dollars each month. Next, I added to my daughter-in-law’s stable of household tasks, putting her in charge of what had once been my responsibilities: supervision of the servants’ routines and the gardeners’ work. Mei Foong thus began to manage every aspect of the daily affairs in our household. No longer having to watch over the servants, I was free to dream up menus and to spread the word that we were catering again. I did all this from a throne in our outer hall. To alert the townspeople, Li-Fei was given time off in the mornings to ride around Ipoh on our bicycle. She rang her bell everywhere, making sure the town knew that the Wong family kitchen was open for special treats.
When despite our best efforts no orders came, we were forced to eke out a living from my savings and the income from the two shophouses we continued to rent out. I even went as far as looking into what prices our rubber smallholdings would fetch. It turned out they wouldn’t bring more than several hundred dollars. I decided to keep them in case our circumstances became truly desperate. Whatever Weng Yu handed me went towards paying off his creditors, though he sometimes fell so far short of my hundred-dollar target that I fretted. It occurred to me more than once that my son was continuing to frequent the mah-jong tables. Whenever I imagined him among the smokers and carousers, scrambling tiles in his hands, I spat into the brass jar that had served me loyally for many years. Long were the hours I spent wondering whether I should look for Weng Yu’s creditors.
After an especially agonising month, I sent Weng Yoon to the club in Hale Street. By then I viewed my project as a business, a miserable one admittedly, but a business nonetheless and subject to similar rules. Once I associated it with business, Peng Choon’s words came screaming into mind: every business incurs costs, my dear husband had once said, and costs are the only things you can control; therefore, keep them low. If Weng Yu was indeed ringing up new debts without my knowing, I had to find out.
It proved no small matter persuading my fourth son to participate in the plot. Despite their eldest brother’s known weakness, his siblings continued to look up to Weng Yu, and it was with deep reluctance that his brother headed towards Hale Street. I had to shout at the boy before he agreed to go. When he returned an hour later, Weng Yoon was accompanied by a balding specimen whose pale face rarely saw the sun. The man’s shoulders stooped in the way of the old, even though age barely lined his skin. He wheezed too, as if the very act of speaking cost him his breath. In between bouts of coughing the man, Foo Chong Wee, explained that he had been nominated to act on behalf of all of Weng Yu’s creditors – twenty in total, of whom one was a woman.
I invited Foo Chong Wee to sit. We took tea in our faithful Nyonya cups with their green dragons and pink borders. Admiring our tableware, Foo Chong Wee said he had seen me at the club. When I told him I intended to ensure that my son’s debts were fully repaid, his eyes narrowed. Not liking the hard gleam of cunning shining at me, I let the man know exactly who he was dealing with. ‘You help me, I help you. If not, everyone lose,’ I said in no uncertain terms. My tone seemed to gain the man’s respect. His eyes softened, and I established that Weng Yu still owed three thousand dollars. While not pleasing, this at least confirmed a number we could work with, provided my son didn’t continue adding to it. I told Foo Chong Wee that if the group wanted to be fully paid back, he would have to give me a report at the end of each month so that I knew as soon as my son increased his debts. When the consumptive man agreed to my demand, I felt huge relief, as if I had already won the battle.
55
Mei Foong proved an excellent worker. It was her first taste of real work, and the results delighted us both. While Mei Foong did not have to grind or pound or chop, she did have to run our kitchen, take charge of the house rotas, replenish supplies, and manage every aspect of the garden. The garden, though not huge, needed constant tending, because of the many fruit trees and rose bushes I had asked to be planted. The days when Mei Foong had swept into our house with a maid trailing by her side seemed a distant dream, but my daughter-in-law did not lose an ounce of grace. Even in shabbier dresses, Mei Foong retained an aura of the refinement which some in town described as ‘class’.
When catering orders failed to come in after two months, I began to worry. I sent a message to our former tenant the tailor telling him to spread word that I was prepared to resume moneylending to the right clients. As often happens in life, things picked up all at the same time: our first catering order came in just as a woman from Kampong Jawa arrived to see me about a loan to expand her business selling the Malay dish of nasi lemak. I wept in relief before Kuan Yin. My sword, which had brought us safely through this life, was poised to save us again.
In Ipoh news spreads through word of mouth, and a single catering order was enough to change our fortune. Requests began to trickle in. As more people heard about us, the orders turned into a stream. At the same time my moneylending activities increased. Finally we made progress in reducing Weng Yu’s debt, a state of affairs confirmed by Foo Chong Wee during his monthly visits. Our chats over cups of tea became rituals I looked forward to. For a while all seemed well.
Yet for the first time in my life I also felt invisible. I had an inkling of being cheated: by my sons, my daughter Hui Lin and even the servants, as well as everyone who visited the house, with the exception of my grandchildren and those to whom I lent money. People would speak over my head as if I weren’t in the room.
It had begun when I decided to stop holding my tongue and simply said whatever came to mind. I told my daughter-in-law Mei Foong about how I’d had Ah Boey the ting-ting man followed, and suggested we do the same with her husband. Mei Foong looked at me as if I were mad, although she nodded her head.
Soon everyone treated me in the same way, wagging their heads up and down when they meant no and trying to conceal all manner of uncomfortable truths no matter how small. It was therefore not surprising that I began to doubt Foo Chong Wee’s assurances. The man insisted that Weng Yu’s debt pile was declining at a speed I could not have anticipated. I didn’t believe him, yet there was little I could do or say. Every time our eyes met, I sensed Foo Chong Wee holding back, but in the end I had to let it go. I contented myself with keeping track of what my son handed me each month, what we ourselves made from catering and moneylending, and what Foo Chong Wee told me he and the other creditors were still owed.
Even the patriarch Meng Seng didn’t behave as he had always done. For one thing he stopped pontificating. I had a niggling feeling that this sudden loss of words had everything to do with me, for he would listen while giving me scrutinising looks, though that could just have been my eyes playing games. For reasons known only to himself, Meng Seng chose to keep a white beard and a moustache; the former hung like a flag beneath his chin, while the latter, meticulously trimmed, arched over his mouth. He knew about Weng Yu’s debts of course, because I couldn’t stop talking about the boy’s vice, and there were times Meng Seng would gaze at me with such deep sympathy that I almost wept. The patriarch told me not to worry.
‘You can depend upon it, Chye Hoon. Weng Yu’s debts will be repaid before you leave this world.’
Just before my sixty-third birthday, when I thrust $150 into Foo Chong Wee’s hands, he counted out a few bills and then handed back a thick wad of notes.
‘Weng Yu only owes twenty-five dollars more-lah. That’s it, all finished.’
‘Cannot be!’ I shouted. ‘What about the interest?’
‘You’ve paid it all, Peng Choon Sau,’ he responded calmly.
‘But we still owed three hundred dollars,’ I said, confident about my ability to count. I remembered the figure we had discussed on his last visit. It could not have shrunk so suddenly.
‘Peng Choon Sau, you’re mistaken. It was only twenty-five dollars you owed.’
The hands I held around my Nyonya cup shook. With my right index finger, I traced the simple line of gold around its pink rim. Was I going mad? I could think no more. I sobbed, weighed down by exhaustion and confusion and the enormity of what I had done. Relief churned my stomach. Grabbing the brass spittoon, I almost missed the jar when a dull yellow liquid came gurgling unexpectedly out of my mouth. Foo Chong Wee had to avert his eyes. In the open courtyard we heard the call of a turtle dove.
When my fourth son, Weng Yoon, was told the news, he and his wife Dora insisted on a celebration of my ‘monumental achievement’, a term which made me blush. We would celebrate my birthday at the same time, they said. I agreed, but only on condition that the gathering was held in my Green House, that it include only family and that Nyonya food be served.
If truth be told, I had little desire to celebrate. I remember almost nothing about the event, not even the food my daughter-in-law Dora prepared. An entire table was laid out with Nyonya kueh, but I couldn’t say what they were. I remember a rainbow of colours: the greens and whites and blues and reds that were undoubtedly beautiful to look at, though I, with my pulse so weak I could hardly breathe, touched little. Life was slipping away. Only my spirit kept me going, but even that was faltering. I wondered how long it would hold up. As soon as my spirit waned, I knew that the time would have come.
In the world outside everyone was still at war, and even the Americans had joined in the madness. Like most people in town I wasn’t unduly alarmed; with our white rulers, I couldn’t imagine anyone attacking us, except perhaps another white power, but they were too busy killing each other to bother with Malaya. I was sure, when it came to war, that the whites would defend the country they had lived in for so long, out of loyalty if nothing else.
Our family celebration was memorable for the photographer whom Weng Yoon invited to the Green House, a Japanese man who worked for the Mikasa Photo Studio on Belfield Street. The man spoke some Cantonese, but he rolled his words in such a peculiar manner that I couldn’t make head or tail of what he was trying to say, which did nothing to make me feel at ease. It was the first time I had ever been photographed, and I turned cold as I faced the square box on its three-legged stand. My granddaughter Lai Hin reached for my hand to reassure me in the instinctive way children have, but it was clear my nerves persisted, for I barely managed a grimace in the photograph.
A pall of moroseness hung in the air. The Wong brood feigned contentment before the camera. The men were exceptionally loud, Meng Seng perhaps loudest of all, even to my failing ears, as people become when they attempt a cheer they do not feel. My mind wandered towards times past and the loved ones I had lost. I thought especially of Siew Lan, my friend with the worry lines who had seen the births and deaths of every one of my
children. I mourned them all, especially my little prince, as I sat wishing I could turn the clock back.
Over the following months the contrition which appeared on Weng Yu’s face gave me hope that the boy might have repented of his vice. I never felt able to ask and never knew what he really thought until the day he walked into my room.
It was a bright morning. I was in bed struggling for air when I heard a knock on the door. My son had not come a moment too soon, for I could feel my spirit fading fast. Through the haze that my vision had become, I made out Weng Yu’s familiar shape as he strolled in. He pulled the rattan chair forward so that I could see his face. He looked pale, his cheekbones as taut as the skin of a drum.
‘Ha-llo,’ I said, managing a weak smile.
My son responded by folding my left hand into both of his. Thereafter he sat without saying a word, simply watching the rise and fall of my chest. As the minutes passed, I could hear his breathing, which at first matched mine but soon became heavier. At some point I realised that Weng Yu was sobbing. His shoulders heaved and he began to wail like a sick animal, filling my room with a noise so terrible that I hoped his children were far from us.
Before I knew it, my son was kneeling by my bed with his head digging into the folds of my baju; deeper and deeper his nose sank, until the wetness of his tears seeped into my left ribs and I began to shiver. ‘Mama, I’-m, I’-m sor-ry,’ he said when he finally lifted his head. Seeing how the boy wept, I reached for his quivering lips with my fingers. There was no need for words. He had come. With a beating heart he had come. I could feel the sorrow in his bones, and that was enough.
The Woman Who Breathed Two Worlds Page 42