by Zhang Yueran
Now she could go whole-heartedly into the shells, just as she wished. As a blind woman, her touch grew surer each day, her sense of every ridge of every shell deeper. Occasionally white light flashed across her eyes, an intruder in her secret world. Her hands were magical, so nimble, so delicate. They drew beautiful arcs through the air, like rare birds deep in the forest. Sudiah admired her movements endlessly. She had learnt the zither as a child — it wasn’t the music that enchanted her, but the deliberate movement of her hands across the strings. Such a pair of hands could have been created to read seashells.
Fingernails were another problem. No matter how short, how smooth she kept them, they kept clashing against the shells, producing unwanted noise. Finally, she soaked her hands in white vinegar to soften the nails, and then removed them with a knife and some pliers, leaving her hands a blur of meat. It was two days before the bleeding stopped. Now she was satisfied. No other hands could be so completely soft.
When Sudiah first met her, the dark brown cavities at the tip of each finger startled him. Time passed, and he ceased to find them ugly. Quite the opposite, they were livelier, lighter, than anyone else’s fingers. These fingers were born dancers. He learnt to appreciate them, and their dance.
Sometimes Sudiah peeked around the screen. In a rogue patch of moonlight, he could watch Chun Chi’s hands slowly probing a shell, utterly silent. He felt the path they cut through the air, her movements soft, white chrysanthemum petals slowly scattering into the wind. He felt a twinge of sadness. Her absolute concentration reminded him of the cruelty of fate. It was like seeing her conduct funeral after funeral, each time digging up all her love, all her hopes, only to have to bury them again.
Camel’s arrival on the island was like a typhoon. Sudiah could sense Chun Chi’s unease, but didn’t know why. She was agitated, frantic to absorb the memories of every shell in a single night. Ignoring the garrisoned troops, she insisted on setting out in her boat.
“I need more shells,” she insisted, as Sudiah stopped her from rushing out of the hut. Great gusts of rain were pouring down — it was monsoon season, the end of the summer, time finally catching up with her. Sudiah dried her hair tenderly. She seemed confused, muttering, “I have to go, Sudiah, or it’ll be too late.”
“Aren’t you going to spend your whole life doing this? How could you suddenly be running out of time?”
Tears flowed now from her wide eyes. Only a few thousand feet away, that proud man would be celebrating, raising a glass with his troops. Thousands of torches blazing, cup after cup filled with wine, music and dancing girls, slabs of meat roasting over open fires, glistening with grease. She imagined their faces if she were to interrupt their festivities. She would stand amidst them, like a cold stone statue excavated from deep in the earth, raising the precious shell clutched in her palm so its tidal waves of light shone into his sunken eyes. Before he could react, the events of the past would rush over him, pulling him to the ground. He would be an old, old man, the surrounding noise no longer able to reach him, his heart disintegrating with loneliness. Bearing their pure love like a trophy, she’d stride forward, lift him to his feet, and tell him: this is all you have left.
But she hadn’t found that precious shell, the one containing their love.
Sudiah urged her to rest. He would go out and find more shells. Chun Chi returned to her side of the hut, a broken musician, lacking the energy to read even one more shell. She whispered, barely audible, “Sudiah, what should I do?”
11
Camel seemed unable to display happiness, to enjoy his victory. The few remaining enemy soldiers were scattered across the island and could rise up at any moment. Battle fires could be lit again. No one on Banda Island could feel safe, and many of its inhabitants had already quietly departed.
But Chun Chi was unwilling to leave, and Sudiah finally understood.
“You’ve found him, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You said he was a leader of men — but this one is a tyrant.”
“I didn’t believe it could be —”
“Are you going to see him?”
“I just need to find my memories —”
“Do you imagine you can keep searching on an island he controls?”
“I do.” She smiled weakly.
“Staying here is too dangerous. His troops might kill us before you’ve had the chance to say a word to him.”
“Heaven will be kind. I’ll find the shell, and the shell will bring me to him.”
He never knew what to say when she was deep in her delusions. “Buddha protect you.”
And with that he pushed open the door and walked into the rain, to the sea.
With war ready to explode, there was confusion everywhere. The islanders who hadn’t fled were barricaded in their houses. Camel and his men used their explosives freely, and now the jungle was a ruin of fallen trees and dead animals.
Sudiah and Chun Chi sat in their hut, listening to the noise of destruction. Fire stained the sky red, so night looked like day. Chun Chi grew weaker. For her, Sudiah waded through chaos every day, risking his life to find her more shells.
The moment he treasured most was walking through the door with a full sack. As he tipped the new shells out before Chun Chi, a smile slipped across her face. If he brought back sixty-six shells, that was sixty-six seeds of hope. She laid them out across her bed, counted them, like a child with her sweets, greed satisfied. He stood behind her. Could she tell, at these moments, how urgent his breath was? He wanted to hold her, to wrap himself completely around her, the way the night mists descended on the island, enveloping the jungle in their soft, heavy, even embrace. But no, such a chaste gesture would no longer be enough. His body was effervescent. His youth was an impossible barrier, his trembling flesh an ocean battering against the rocks with unimaginable force. It was all he could do to control himself.
Chun Chi had no idea how much this young man burned for her. She looked only straight ahead, walking directly into the dream world of the shells. She knew nothing of men, had never encountered a man who could so withstand the torture of desire. Her time with Camel made her think all men attacked with the force of a gale, without thought or hesitation. Even if she had been able to see Sudiah’s red face and shivering body, she would not have known what to make of them.
Sudiah crept sadly away from the screen and to his own bed. He often wondered whether this love affair had really taken place. Chun Chi seemed so unspoilt, as if she’d never been near a man. Wrapped in his blanket, he did battle with his own maddened body, until sheer exhaustion brought him into an uneasy sleep.
12
That night, seeming to receive some kind of signal, Chun Chi put down the shells in her hand, and walked out into the unlit night. In the hut, Sudiah slept as if drugged.
She walked in a haze, deep into the jungle, with no idea where she was going, to pick more shells or to find Camel. All she knew was that on the other side of these trees was the ocean.
The jungle was full of thorns. Everything — the shrubs, the vines, even the bamboo groves — bristled with them. They pierced her delicate skin — her arms, her feet, her face. She wiped the blood off and pushed deeper in. The foliage around her grew higher and thicker, as if no one had ever been this way before. She felt no fear, but was suddenly assailed by thoughts of Camel — their hut by the sea, that hammock. Never again would she sleep on top of him.
At the deepest part of the jungle, the blind woman began to speed up her crashing progress, leaving behind her broken branches and the cries of startled birds. Soon, her sharp nose detected the smell of gunpowder. Someone was nearby, perhaps the remaining Onge tribesmen. She slowed down. Footsteps behind her. She had nowhere to go, the shrubs on either side were half her height, too thick to wade through. The fierce breathing behind her drew closer, a curved blade slashed through foliage. He must be right behind her. Barely had she formed this thought when she felt the ice-cold blade press against her
lower back.
A man said something in Malay. She didn’t understand and kept walking. The blade went into her, the sharp smell of blood cutting through the close damp of the jungle. She tumbled backward.
Moonlight seeped through layers of treetops and finally found her, gently licked the knife-wound. The long night drew to an end. Never again would sleeplessness drive her into restless activity.
13
Her wound was still bleeding when she woke up. She knew she should press against it to staunch the blood, but her limbs had no energy in them. Rope coiled round her body, as if she were an old loom shuttle tossed in a corner. Soft voices spoke in Malay — probably the men guarding her. And there was weak breathing coming from nearby — she was not the only captive.
The Onge had decided she was a scout sent by Camel, and captured her as a prisoner-of-war. But how ridiculous — who would send a blind girl as a spy?
The next few days were cruelly hot. In the airless cell, wounds quickly festered, leaking pus and blood. The room was filled with a rotting stench, which attracted flies. The other prisoners wept and cursed endlessly. Only Chun Chi remained silent, slumped perfectly still in a corner, like a chrysalis made of ice. At mealtimes, a kind-hearted cellmate might place some food next to her, but she never touched it. So many flies hovered around her wound that the others suspected she was already dead.
Chun Chi’s mind remained clear, and her ears were sharp. From the other prisoners’ talk she could tell they were, like her, innocents who’d accidentally stumbled into Onge territory: an old married couple, a pregnant woman, and a young man. Having always kept herself apart from the world, Chun Chi had never shared a room with so many people before. This was her first experience of community.
The old man and woman took care of each other, while the expectant mother drew hope from the baby inside her. The young man could think of nothing but his childhood sweetheart, scratching her name on the walls of their cell. Love caused endless worry, but also provided unlimited strength, a refuge when trouble arrived. Chun Chi felt it too, the unrequited itch — she still had her precious memory to recover. Would she be forced to abandon the dream of presenting her shining love to him?
The prisoners became increasingly aware that there could only be one end to their story. They were not from the Shom Pen, and no one would send troops to rescue them. They were worthless to the Onge, who were busily preparing for a further skirmish. It had been days since anyone delivered food to them. They’d been forgotten, and would soon starve to death.
The old couple now didn’t even have the strength to speak. The young man gave up all pretence and sat clutching the bars, weeping. The other woman was tortured by pains that came and went, causing her to cry out. Perhaps she was close to labour. Then the girl they’d all thought was dead jerked alive suddenly and followed the sobbing noises to crawl over to the pregnant woman. This startled even Chun Chi herself, who hadn’t realised she was still capable of movement.
“Is it very painful?” From living on the island so long, Chun Chi had learnt a few sentences of Malay.
The woman was beyond the power of speech, and could only squeeze Chun Chi’s hand in response. Her body was boiling hot, shuddering all over. Chun Chi’s hand brushed against the swollen belly, and suddenly a strange sensation came over her. A water hyacinth slowly rising to the surface, reaching out soft feelers, gently probing the human world. It was the child, blossoming underwater.
Chun Chi flung herself at the metal bars and shouted, “Take me to the Shom Pen. We are their spies. They’ll pay any price to buy our freedom.”
The other inhabitants of the cell stared at Chun Chi with wide eyes. Even locked up here for so long, this frail girl’s body had not run dry of blood. Her sudden display of strength was like a rebirth. They began to suspect, and then fear her.
At noon the next day, the Onge brought Chun Chi to the Shom Pen camp, prepared to negotiate. However much they doubted her words, their weakened position meant they were willing to try any means to change their fortunes.
Like a captured animal, she was led before Camel. Finally she would face him in public. She was flung to the ground so the first he saw of her was her infected wound. She sat up and raised her head. From the jumble of her memories she found a smile, and with difficulty pasted it across her face, trying to conceal her anguish.
The men spoke in Malay. Listening to his voice, she felt her eyes close and her body slump again. His voice made her feel safe again. That strong, bright voice, she knew, would not abandon her.
14
She didn’t know where she was when she woke up. The wound on her lower back still hurt, but when she touched it, it had been bandaged. How long had she been asleep She thought she could see something gleaming beside her — the ground was full of shells. She had to go over and touch them. But when she stood, the wound hurt as if it was splitting apart. Her whole body seemed ready to fall into pieces. She lay down again.
After a while, Camel came in and stood by her bed. She reached out her hands and moved them in circles until she found his sleeve. She said his name.
“Have you remembered?” He went straight for the question that made her wince. She clutched the small knife hanging around her neck — surely he’d be happy with that, she’d polished it until it shone. She shook her head.
He sighed, and she hastily added, “But I haven’t given up. I’m using this method — it sounds crazy, but it works —”
“Fine, when you’ve found them, come and see me.” He didn’t even have the patience to let her finish.
Speechless, she reached for him and their arms intertwined like tree vines, but this bliss only lasted a second. Gripped by a sudden pang, she clutched him and said urgently, “There are still some prisoners — all innocent. You have to let them go—”
He pushed her away, his voice hard. “Do you realise how troublesome you are? Because of you, I had to let those Onge go, even give them some of their territory back, and now we can’t invade again.”
She was moved by this, but didn’t know how to respond. Again she thought of those she’d left behind. “Please — there’s a woman about to give birth, in a lot of pain —”
“Shut your mouth,” he roared.
“You have to help them — they’re close to death—”
Camel hit her across the face and walked away. He was the man she loved, and he hadn’t even noticed she was now blind.
Camel didn’t come to see Chun Chi again. This was another kind of captivity. She lay, drifting in and out of sleep, only aware that time was passing when they brought her food. As each day slipped past, she tried not to think what must be happening to the people left in the Onge prison. It was their plight that had moved her to risk everything and come before him. She’d given them a last sliver of hope. This kind of waiting was very familiar to her.
She’d always been afraid of disappointing people. She’d told Tsong Tsong she would follow her and live on the ships, but that would never happen now; although she hadn’t given up her quest, Camel must still be disappointed that she hadn’t recovered any memories; she’d promised Sudiah never to go out alone at night, and instead blundered into a situation she couldn’t get out of; and now it was the other captives’ turn to be let down. Disappointment was like a great storm, putting out a fire that would never be lit again, leaving damage that had no remedy, no means of compensation.
Follow the spiral staircase all the way down. This buried kingdom isn’t hell. Keep going, until the sound of wind fills your ears and dust blinds your eyes and vines still your feet. Only then will the memory-keepers appear.
He stood on the bank of the Malacca River, gazing at the beautiful structure on the opposite shore. This was the famous Red House — red-brick, sturdy wooden doors, a stone terrace, in the Dutch style.
A clock struck, startling him. Nanny came in to shut the door. His daughter and son-in-law were inside with their child. The service would be starting soon. They’d as
ked him several times to join them, but he always refused, afraid he would spoil their mood.
It seems unlikely that many people were as infatuated with China as he was. He considered it his greatest honour that his grandfather had served as one of Admiral Zheng He’s crew. Thirty years ago, when he worked at the docks, he got to know some men from the China ships. For a while they had exchanged letters, even though he hardly knew any Chinese characters. Those letters were precious to him, but then they stopped, and he heard nothing more. This made him all the more determined to visit China himself, but his family objected. When his wife died, he decided this would be his chance to please himself.
He wanted to bring his little grandson to spend some time in China, but again the family tried to stop him. Go to England instead, they urged — drink Earl Grey tea, wear a silk-lined hat — this is the good life, this is civilisation. Perhaps they were right.
But he had already bought his passage to China. Before leaving, he quietly followed them to church, just to see them one last time. His luggage was not heavy, provisions for the journey, and a pair of chopsticks his grandfather had left him, although he wasn’t certain how to use them.
15
The battle wasn’t over yet. The fifth day after she saw Camel, the explosions started up again, the smell of gun smoke spreading in the clear August evening. Apart from at mealtimes, no one came to see Chun Chi.
Three days after that, she heard cheering all through the camp around her. The Shom Pen had been victorious. Leaning against the walls, she made her way to the doorway, which stood empty. Her guards had disappeared, and the camp seemed deserted. Everyone was off celebrating. The smell of wildflowers mingled with blood, which made her think of Camel’s scent, tenderness concealing a murderous tendency.