by Tash Aw
That night, driving into town, I felt the same sense of being lost, as if events were being controlled by things and people I didn’t know, far away from me. We drew in to a parking spot near some abandoned houses, not far from the riverbank. Keong led the way, picking a path through trees until we were walking along a rough track that led closer to the river’s edge. There wasn’t enough light in the night sky to see clearly, and I had to hold up my phone and point its faint glow towards the ground so I didn’t trip up. Keong was walking quickly, without any hesitation, and I got the impression he’d been there before, walking this exact route.
‘Turn off your phone,’ he said. I stumbled a few times in the dark, unable to keep up with him. Later, after the killing, when I retraced my steps, I’d find myself thinking how clear the path was, how light the landscape, even though it was the middle of the night. But in those first few minutes I couldn’t even see my feet. All I could hear was the sound of Keong marching steadily through the long grass, the ground getting slightly swampy underfoot.
I started to fall behind, and after a while he was so far ahead of me that I couldn’t make him out. When I caught up with him, under a large spreading tree, he was already talking loudly. I’d heard his voice from a long way off, agitated from the start. Now he was shouting. What the hell, money doesn’t mean anything to you any more? I’ll chop your stupid head off. The other man didn’t answer. In the dark, the tip of his cigarette glowed deep red, then faded again. Keong continued to talk in his machine-gun way, the words tumbling out in long jagged streams. He was waving his arms, occasionally pointing his finger at the man’s face, and as I drew closer he glanced at me. Suddenly I could see his face, as if the clouds had cleared to reveal the moon, and in those moments every detail of the land seems sharper than at midday, every blade of grass and curve of a leaf becomes highlighted by the moonlight. Only there was no moon that night – I’d only realise that later on.
I don’t know how I started to notice shapes and textures at that point in time, when only a few minutes previously everything had been obscured by darkness. Keong’s face was twisted in rage, deep lines scarring the skin around his mouth and eyes. How he’d aged. I heard every sound, too – the way both of them breathed. Keong’s short, heavy breaths, drawn sharply at the end of sentences, three, four quick breaths after he cursed. Ashadul’s slow, rasping breaths, his lungs and throat coated in tar and phlegm. A smoker’s cough rising from his chest. The flat tone of his voice contrasting to Keong’s hysterics. The clarity of it all.
Who’s this?
My cousin. Why you care?
The man turns to me. Then he laughs – laughter so rich that for a moment I feel this is all a joke, and we’re friends.
Brother, he says, looking at me. You come to threaten me is it?
And then: Keong cursing in Cantonese. (What’s the point, I remember thinking, the guy can’t speak Cantonese.) Lia ma, I chop you dead. You owe me money still don’t pay.
The man laughing. Standing firm, unmoving as Keong comes right up close to him. Not scared ah I can kill you right here no one will care my brother will fuck up your family screw you for seven generations. Still in Cantonese.
Why?
Cigarette smoke, like a puff of bird feathers in the dark. Then a quick movement, a scuffle, and Keong has pulled out the knife. Chop your head see if you still laugh. But Ashadul stands as motionless as the trees around him, and I know he isn’t going to budge. I know it’s Keong who’s going to lose this fight.
Give me my money and we let you go, Keong says.
(We. He says we.)
He makes a swift lunge towards Ashadul, and suddenly Ashadul is on the ground. They’re both on the ground. I back away, I need to get out of there, but I stumble backwards, I trip over a pile of logs, a branch. Keong’s knife has fallen to the ground, lost in the undergrowth. Ashadul is first to his feet. He faces me, and waits for a second or two before taking a knife out of his pocket. The blade makes a sharp, clean noise as it flicks open, as if claiming its place in the night. He walks over to Keong, and I don’t know what he’s going to do. I can’t see Keong’s face, but I can still hear his breaths, quick, desperate. As if he can’t breathe. Ashadul stands over him, looking as if he’s examining the knife, considering his options. I hear Keong’s voice.
Ah Hock.
I struggle to stand up. I put my hand on the branch next to me, but as I lean on it to rise to my feet it breaks and I fall again, the piece of wood useless in my hand. Ashadul laughs and turns back towards Keong.
I don’t know how I manage to stand up, but I do. I get to my feet, and in just three or four steps I’ve reached Ashadul. I know he can’t see me as I raise my arm. I think: This is stupid, I’m not strong enough to hurt him, he’s going to kill me. I’ll hit him, but not hard enough to knock him out, and then he’ll kill me. The first blow catches him squarely on the back of the head, and he falls straight to the ground. As I watch his body collapse slowly, I think: He’s a heavy man. He tries to get up, but I’m already raising my arm to strike him a second time. And a third. And it continues. I aim each blow at his head. At first he tries to move his head, to shield himself with his arms, but soon he’s motionless. I continue to hit him. I don’t know how many times.
Later, when my case was in court, I heard that the autopsy showed I’d hit him fourteen times. The number didn’t hold any meaning for me. It was the same as if they’d told me it was a hundred, or a thousand times. I remember raising my arm time and time again until it felt like the only thing my arm was capable of doing, that it had been created for that purpose and nothing else.
After I’d stopped, I looked at Keong. Now I could see his expression – pale and wide-eyed. We were just meant to scare him. We didn’t mean to harm him. That’s why I asked Ah Hock to come with me. I remember the things Keong said during the trial, when he appeared as a witness for the defence. I wanted the Bangladeshi to pay back the money he owed me, that’s all. Two against one works better. He’d be frightened, he’d pay. It was simple. We didn’t mean anything more than that.
Keong lay on the ground for some time, staring at me as if I was someone he’d never seen in his life. He didn’t blink, didn’t speak, and for a moment I thought that maybe he’d been fatally wounded, that Ashadul had stabbed him without me seeing it. I even thought he might already be dead. The human body is capable of all sorts of incredible things beyond the control of its own muscles. We are after all creatures of nature. Chop off the head of a snake and it’ll still bite you, still be capable of injecting poison into your flesh, only it’s even worse than a live snake because the poison glands don’t know when to stop. Sometimes people are dead but they sit up and look at you with open eyes as if they’re still alive. I felt that Keong – the dying or already dead Keong – was asking me a question without speaking – the way people sometimes do when they can’t understand why you’ve behaved in a way that seems so extreme to them, so bizarre and inexplicable, they can’t even bring themselves to ask Why?
Jenny used to do that often, like the time she found I’d kept a whole drawer full of used toothbrushes. I kept them because I hated throwing them out, and thought I could re-use them in some other way, like cleaning shoes or bottles, but mostly because I hated the idea of throwing out something that hadn’t broken, something I’d paid money for. She held them in a big bunch in her fist, and when she looked at me she didn’t need to say anything. Why the hell have you done this? Why are you so strange? There was no need to ask, because there was no explanation for my behaviour. In any case, she’d already supplied her own answer, and anything I said would have been superfluous. That was how it was with Keong and me at that moment. It was pointless for either of us to say anything.
After a while, when I was almost fully convinced that he was dead, he got to his feet and scrambled up the bank, through the trees and undergrowth, in the direction of the road. From the crashing and tearing of the foliage I knew he was running blindly, as
fast as he could. He didn’t turn back to look at me. That was the last time I saw him before the trial.
When I could no longer hear Keong I knew I was alone on the riverbank, and that I was very thirsty. So thirsty I found it difficult to breathe. I swallowed a few times, but my throat felt as rough as sandpaper. My legs began to buckle, and I had to sit down. I realised that I was next to the dead man, so close that his outstretched hand was almost touching me. Mohammad Ashadul. Maybe if I’d known his name at that moment I might have felt more afraid – more anguished about what I’d done, more terrified by what was to come, the life that would follow. Instead, all I felt was an aching in my limbs so intense that I thought for a while I might pass out.
I lay down next to him. Two bodies, side by side in the darkness. In the way that human beings do, by pure instinct, I listened for his breathing, as if we had both lain down to sleep.
The drive is longer than I expected. It’s a Saturday afternoon, so even the highways that snake around KL are clogged. I’ve never driven out of this side of town, heading into the hills towards Genting. We reach the final toll plaza, and the cars are backed up for three or four hundred yards waiting to get through. The air-con is blowing in my face, and I’m glad I’m not driving.
We’ll be OK once we get through this bit, she says.
Sure enough, the traffic clears once we pass the toll booth and the road begins to climb.
It’ll be fine, she says. You’ll love it.
I didn’t reply to the invitation when it arrived by email. It wasn’t addressed to me alone, but to a whole bunch of people, and it came from someone I didn’t know – someone from her publisher, I later found out, which was throwing a party to mark the publication of the book. Yes, your story, she said when she rang me to ask why I hadn’t responded to the email.
That’s nonsense. It’s your book, not mine.
But it’s your story. You have to come! I’ll collect you and we’ll drive up there together. I won’t take no for an answer!
We pass a guardhouse manned by Nepalese men who tick our names off a list and let us through. Although we’re driving slowly through jungle the roads are immaculate, and now and then a mansion rises out of the trees. I see people sitting on balconies overlooking the forested valley beyond. Eventually we drive into a sort of farm – not the kind I used to know as a child, but a place with neatly manicured squares of vegetables dotted with papaya trees. A sign at the entrance announces that it’s an organic farm, and there are a few Indonesian workers still out in the fields, even though it’s late in the afternoon. A passionfruit vine hangs over the space where we park the car.
We seem to be the last people to arrive, and a cheer goes up when we walk into the room, which is in a large wooden house on stilts overlooking a lotus pond. There are no walls, and a breeze rises up and blows a stack of paper napkins all over the floor. Most people are drinking wine or champagne. Someone offers me a glass. I decline.
Oh, you don’t drink? That’s cool, the young man says. He has long hair tied in a ponytail, and his skin is as clear as candle wax. I’ll get you some juice. Pineapple OK?
Most people are speaking English; some of them sound American to me. But they’re all locals, all her friends. After a few minutes someone makes a speech, describing the novel. I guess he’s the editor. He’s speaking too fast; I can’t hear him properly, and suddenly I realise I can’t really understand anything he’s saying. At one point during the speech everyone turns to look at me, smiling, but I don’t know why. There’s applause, and Su-Min turns to look at me. She says something that makes everyone laugh, but by now I can’t understand what anyone is saying. When she finishes, everyone applauds, and people drift away. Some of them wander over to the buffet table, others hang over the edge of the banisters, smoking and laughing. I wait a while, wondering if she’ll come and speak to me, but I can see that she’s deep in conversation with a group of people, including her editor. Very discreetly, I move away, walk down the path to the far end of the pond, and sit under a rambutan tree.
From where I’m sitting I have a view of the party, but no one can see me. The light is just starting to fade, and further up the hill some kerosene lamps appear, like fireflies in the jungle. That must be where the workers live. Although lots of people are laughing, I can hear her laughter in particular, rising above the others’. I look up and see her talking to a woman about her age. They talk together, just the two of them, for a long time.
Circles ripple gently across the surface of the pond, and I know there are tilapia in it, even though I can’t see them in this light. There’s a small pump at one side of the pond, next to a clump of banana trees, and all of a sudden I think I’m hallucinating. In fact I know I’m hallucinating, but it feels real anyway. I see my mother, squatting by the edge of the pond, wiping her brow with the small towel that hangs around her neck as she hacks away at some weeds that are growing into the water. She’s weaker now than before, and her arm rises and falls slowly. From time to time her hearing aid squeals, and I call out to her. Ma, enough, go back inside and relax, but of course she can’t hear me.
Hey. What are you doing out here all on your own? You escaped the party.
A bit noisy in there. I needed some fresh air.
Yeah, lots of people came. Everyone’s fascinated by your story.
I think they’re more interested in your book.
Same thing, isn’t it?
Is that her? The one you were talking to. Your partner. Alex, isn’t it?
My ex-partner, yes.
You look good together. You seemed to be getting along well.
You think? She laughs. Well, a bit late for that now.
Nothing’s too late. If you still love each other, why not give it another go?
Let’s see. Anyway, what about you? Why don’t I introduce you to some of the people here? You never know, you might meet someone.
Good idea. Convicted murderers are always so popular.
It wasn’t murder. She laughs. The same laugh I’ve heard all evening, drifting across the farm, mingling with the sound of the water. I could marry you if you want. A militant queer girl and a depressed felon – a perfect match.
That’s not even funny, I say, but I’m laughing. We both are. The moment lasts just a few seconds, but seems to stretch into the night.
I think I’m going to go now, I say.
No, please stay! There’s lots more food, lots to drink.
I’m tired, I’ll just go home.
That’s crazy. Give me a few minutes to say hi and bye to some people and I’ll drive you.
No, no, please. Just enjoy yourself. I checked the bus timetable, there’s one every hour from the village nearby. She knows I’m lying, but she decides not to argue.
Are you sure?
Really, I’m sure. I’d feel bad if you left your party now. You worked hard for it, you should enjoy it. I’m tired. I need to move my legs, otherwise my back will seize up.
OK. But call me if you need help. I’ll keep my phone on.
We stand facing each other. It’s almost completely dark now. I think that maybe I should extend my hand, but that feels wrong, and she doesn’t move either.
Goodbye, I say.
The walk down the hill takes nearly an hour, and by the time I get to the village all the shops are closed. I sit on the concrete steps of a coffee shop, listening to the noise of the traffic from the highway nearby. The rush of the cars and lorries sounds fuzzy and soothing, like the sea on a windy day.
ALSO BY TASH AW
FICTION
The Harmony Silk Factory
Map of the Invisible World
Five Star Billionaire
NONFICTION
The Face: Strangers on a Pier
A Note About the Author
Tash Aw was born in Taipei, Taiwan, and brought up in Malaysia. He is the author of three novels: The Harmony Silk Factory, which won the Whitbread First Novel Award and the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize
for Best First Book and was long-listed for the Man Booker Prize; Map of the Invisible World; and Five Star Billionaire, which was long-listed for the Man Booker Prize in 2013. He is also the author of a memoir of an immigrant family, The Face: Strangers on a Pier, a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
I. October
II. November
III. December
IV. January
Also by Tash Aw
A Note About the Author
Copyright
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
120 Broadway, New York 10271
Copyright © 2019 by Tash Aw
All rights reserved
Originally published in 2019 by Fourth Estate, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, Great Britain
Published in the United States by Farrar, Straus and Giroux