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Extract from ‘The Gift of Rain’
We arrived in Port Swettenham late in the afternoon. I
watched as Yasuaki was led away by the staff of the
Japanese Embassy. I raised my hand in a small
wave, but he never returned it.
I saw Kuala Lumpur through different eyes now. The
last time I was here was ten months before, when we
celebrated my father’s forty-ninth birthday in
the Spotted Dog Club just in front of the cricket ground. The
ground was busy now and the sun cast shadows across
it. I heard the thock of the ball hitting
the bat and then cheers as the batsmen ran. It
was a typical afternoon in the biggest town in Malaya:
the English would leave their sweltering offices, go
to the Spotted Dog to have a gin and tonic, play some
cricket, and then return home for a bath before coming
back to the Club for dinner and then dancing. It
was a good life, a rich life filled with ease and enjoyment.
The Japanese Embassy was a converted bungalow on a
hill just behind Carcosa, the Governor’s Residence. The
road leading up to it was cool and shady, the old angsana trees
littering the way with leaves and pods and twigs which
crackled under the tyres. The sentry at the gates
saluted us through.
A youth in military uniform brought our bags to our
rooms. The fan was switched on immediately. Then
we went out on to the verandah where we were served
glasses of iced lemon tea.
The Embassy looked down a wooded slope thick with flame-of-the-forest
trees. I stood drinking my iced tea and thought
about the concept of duty. It was so confusing
and, it seemed to me at that moment, so pointless. Where
was the freedom that each of us had been born with?
Endo-san had told me, at the beginning of my lessons
how strong the duty of teaching, once undertaken, was. It
was never offered freely or haphazardly. A prospective
student had to provide letters of recommendation in
order to convince a sensei to accept him. Teaching
could never be accepted without all its burdens and
obligations and I had come to understand this eventually. Yet
in my mind I heard Yasuaki’s words, warning me
about duty and generals and emperors. A moment
of unease made me finish my drink in a single swallow.
“We must pay our respects to Akasaki Saotome-san, the Ambassador to Malaya” Endo-san
said, and led me downstairs.
Although the bungalow was built in the typical Anglo-Indian
style, with wide wooden verandahs and large airy ceilings,
it had been decorated strictly by a Japanese hand. The
rooms were partitioned by paper shoji screens,
scrolls of calligraphy hung at well-lit positions and
a faint smell of incense cleansed the air as we passed. Stark,
skeletal flower arrangements stood on low tables. “These
are Saotome-san’s personal arrangements,” Endo-san
said. “His ikebana has won prizes
in Tokyo.”
Another youth in uniform slid a door open and we placed
our cotton slippers outside before entering. The
room was bare, save for the photograph of a sullen-looking
man. Endo-san knelt on the straw mats and bowed
to it. I did not, but I presumed the portrait
to be that of Hirohito, the Emperor of Japan. We
sat with our buttocks on our heels and waited for Akasaki
Saotome-san to join us. He entered and there
was a flurry of bows before we were at last comfortable,
sitting in front of a low wooden table.
The Ambassador was a handsome, almost haughty looking
man, except when he smiled. Then he looked merely
handsome and ordinary. In his dark hakama and
black and grey yukata robe patterned with
silver chrysanthemum blossoms he appeared much older
than Endo-san, although his movements were just as
graceful.
“Is this your student I have heard about?” he
asked in English, smiling at me. His voice was
as thin as rice paper. I could picture him as
somebody’s grandfather.
“Hai, Saotome-san,” Endo-san replied, indicating to me
to serve the hot sake.
“How is his progress?”
“Very good. He has made tremendous advances, physically and mentally.”
Endo-san had never once commented expressly on my studies. Now,
to hear it before the Ambassador, was immensely pleasurable. It
added to the warm glow left by the sake.
They switched to Japanese immediately, the older man
looking intently at me to see if I could follow. His
accent was slightly rougher than Endo-san’s but
after a few sentences I sailed with the flow of their
conversation.
We were served dinner, which came on little porcelain
plates, each with just one or two pieces of food. I
enjoyed the marinated eel, the sweetened chicken and
the little rolls of raw fish wrapped in rice and seaweed. The
Japanese ate daintily, examining their food in the
chopsticks, commenting on the taste and colour and
texture, almost as though they were making an artistic
acquisition. I was famished and had to restrain
myself from eating too much, too fast.
“How is the situation in Penang?” Saotome asked, placing his chopsticks
on an ivory rest.
“Quiet and peaceful. Our people are contented, and there are no
distressing matters,” Endo-san replied. “We have found a
suitable house on The Hill to lease for our staff and their families. I
will show you some photographs later. Apart from that, I have almost
unlimited free time and we have been travelling around the island.”
Saotome-san smiled. “Ah, such splendid
days, hmm?” he said in English. I stopped
eating, knowing it was a direct reference to me. Suddenly
the old man did not seem so benign. I felt like
a mouse before a tiger.
“You seem to know a lot about me,” I said, disregarding all the
lessons I had learned and facing him directly.
“We make a point of knowing our friends,” Saotome said. “I
hear your father is the head of the largest trading company in Malaya?”
“Not the largest – that would be Empire Trading.”
“We have some businessmen interested in Malaya. Would your father
be interested in collaborating with them? To be partners with these people? They
are keen to obtain a share in your father's company.”
I thought of what he wanted to know. Deep down,
I suspected our future could depend on the answer I
gave. I said carefully, “I think he would
be willing to listen – after all, he has nothing
against your countrymen – but I cannot speak
for my father. You will have to ask him yourself.”
Saotome leaned back and said, “Oh. I suppose
we would have to.” He picked up another
piece of fish. “Would you consider working
for us, once you have finished your studies? I
understand you have only another year to go.”
I gave Endo-san a questioning look. “In
what capacity?” I asked.
“As an interpreter, a person to liaise with the Malayan people. A
goodwill officer, you might say.” Saotome saw my uncertainty. “You
do not have to reply now. The work will be interesting, I can assure
you.”
I promised Saotome that I would consider his offer
and he smiled and said, “Now, would you like
to have more of that eel? I saw you were quite,
quite hungry.”
The shoji door opened, and a soldier knelt
and bowed to Saotome. Next to him was a young
Chinese girl in a robe, her hair tied into two lacquered
balls.
No words crossed the space between the kneeling figures
and us, until Saotome said, “Lift her face to
me.”
The soldier put his fingers under the girl’s
chin and brought it up.
“Open her robes.”
The same hand dropped from the girl’s chin and
pulled her robes open to one side, revealing a single
breast as yet uncertain of its shape, still breaking
into womanhood.
Saotome studied her and gave a smile, tiny as a cut. His
throat pulsed, and his tongue touched briefly the corner
of his lip, an artist’s brush adding the final,
perfecting stroke.
I found that the eel no longer tasted so sweet.
© Tan Twan Eng 2006 |
The Gift of Rain