Bitter Sweet Harvest (22 page)

“That is why. I have not had time to unpack properly. Ah!” she said, eyeing An Mei. “I am glad you took that off. I was worried for a moment that you were going to keep it on even with me. Why have you taken to wearing a scarf round your head. You have such beautiful hair.”

“My mother-in-law insists on it. I resisted initially, but it caused such havoc and unfavourable comment that I gave in. Anyway I have to think of Hussein. Apparently, it is important for him that I profess and practise the faith.”

“Tell me all, that is if you are up to it. I shall order something from room service for us. You are free this evening, I hope?”

“Yes, I am back in KL alone.”

When An Mei finished speaking, the atmosphere in the room descended into a haunting silence. Casey had let her speak without once interrupting. The dishes brought up by the hotel staff had long gone cold. The food lay congealed, uninviting on the plates. An odour of uneaten food filled the room.

Casey stood up. “I’ll get rid of this,” she said gathering the tray and walking to the door. “Shall I order something else?”

“I can’t eat.”

“Neither can I,” admitted Casey, “and I was so hungry when you arrived.”

“Sorry.”

“What about?” Casey stood for a moment, hands empty of the tray she had left outside the door. “Come here,” she said, hugging An Mei to her. They stood together, Casey towering over An Mei, her arms around An Mei’s slight body in a tight hug.

“What shall I do?” asked An Mei as she extracted herself from Casey’s embrace. “I just do not know what to do.”

“Do you want me to see Hussein?”

“Yes! We can go to Kemun together. You might be able to judge better if he is changed. I can’t. Nelly thinks I make excuses for him. She does not say it in so many words, though her face speaks volumes. First, I’ll introduce you to Jeremy, her son. He is here in KL; he comes often to see Nelly.”

“Ah!
The
Jeremy. What about Jane, her daughter?”

“She is in Singapore and her visits are few and far between. She is tied up with her work in the hospital. I think she has a boyfriend and does not want to leave him for long.”

“And in Kemun, would I be able to meet Shalimar?” asked Casey.

An Mei nodded. “And you will see for yourself why I am so confused. She is the epitome of gentleness and goodness. I cannot bring myself to hate her. That’s what makes it so ridiculous. I can’t even hate her. I cannot believe that she would lie but if she hasn’t, then...” She left the sentence unfinished.

“We should eat. You will feel better,” Casey said looking at her watch. “If I am to go to Kemun, it will have to be this weekend, after the Conference. So shall we arrange to see Nelly this evening? We can have supper with her and then I’ll get to meet Jeremy. She grinned. “I can’t wait to see the man.”

“Then get changed and wear something very informal. Nelly likes to shock people by going very local.”

“Then, you must leave this behind and borrow my tee-shirt.” Squashing An Mei’s headscarf into a ball, Casey threw it across the room. It landed behind the armchair.

An Mei’s sombre mood broke under her friend’s influence. “All right,” she said. “We are not going any place where I might be recognised.”

The heat and humidity hit her the minute she opened the car door. An Mei half stepped out of the car and shivered as the damp air enveloped her; the car windows steamed up and mist covered the screen, partially obliterating the outside scene for a minute. Casey leaned over, stopping An Mei’s exit, and rubbed the window glass vigorously with her handkerchief until the glass showed clear.

“Here! We are over here,” a voice called from some yards away.

Still leaning over An Mei, Casey looked up and saw Nelly perched on a stool by a round wooden table. Next to her was a young man. He stood seemingly in search of something more substantial to sit on.

“That’s Jeremy,” said An Mei. “Will you please get out from the other side and let me get out of the car from this side?”

“You are right about Nelly’s choice of a place to eat,” said Casey shifting back to her seat before opening her side of the car door. She sniffed exaggeratedly.

“Mmm! Lovely! What aromas!” She eyed one of the stalls suspiciously. A man was busy flipping what seemed like a piece of thin round cloth over and over a hot flat iron stove.

“What’s that?” she asked round-eyed.

“
Roti canai
, an Indian bread that is as thin as thin can be. See how it expands as he flips it over and over. It is a soft bread; you dip it in a sort of
dhal
, lentil curry sauce. Delicious! See the other guy. He is making another type of Indian bread,
dosai.
This is rolled into one big hollow crepe and is crispy.”

“Gosh! I only know
naans
and
chapatis
. I did not realise there were so many other Indian breads.”

“Yes, because you don’t have such a varied Indian community in Hong Kong or England, the choice there is less than here. Northern Indians eat quite differently from their southern brothers. I suspect
dosai
and
roti canai
are eaten mainly in South India. But come, they are waiting for us.” An Mei took hold of her friend’s hand and walked over to Nelly. Surrounded by her friends and family, she felt almost happy, almost like her old-self.

“Come along, sit down,” invited Nelly pointing to the stools around the table. “Take any of these. Jeremy,” she said, turning to the young man, “this is Casey, An Mei’s friend.”

Casey stared at him, completely captivated. He smiled. She was taken by his broad warm smile. She smiled back and with a lingering glance, turned her attention to Nelly once again.

“How are you Aunty?” she asked politely. An Mei noticed that Casey’s cheeks were a bright pink.

“Good, good. How is your mum? I met her just briefly in Oxford, but I have heard so much about her over the years from An Mei’s mother.”

Then, turning to An Mei, “I chose this place to eat partly because you cannot eat pork now and in this place, there are all sorts of Indian and Muslim curries and
halal
food. Anyway, I thought Casey might like to try something different.”

“Take this chair,” Jeremy said to Casey, “it might be more comfortable than the stool my mother offered you. Or perhaps, you might like me to show you what is available before you make a choice?” He got up extending his hand to her. “Back in a minute,” he said to An Mei and Nelly.

He walked Casey over to the food stalls. “Has An Mei told you?” he asked.

“Yes, she has told me. I presume you are referring to her situation. I am going to Kemun to see for myself.”

“You know Hussein?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what you see, what you think of Hussein, please.”

Casey looked at him. Her heart did a little somersault. “Sure,” she replied. She wondered why he would be so interested.

“Can we meet when you come back?”

“Sure,” she said again, hoping that her heart would calm down. What an idiot he must think I am, she thought.

T
he car powered forward, its engine purred smoothly, leaving behind Kuala Lumpur and its high rises en route for Kemun. Densely packed townships gradually gave way to one-street villages. Two-storey shop houses lined the road on each side, interrupted here and there by ramshackle outbuildings with piles of used rubber tyres and rusty wheels lying on the dirt ground. Potholes filled with brown muddy water and old abandoned cars dotted dirty courtyards. Brightly coloured posters with English and Chinese characters announced the business of the shops. They sold everything: plastic balls vied for space with enamel pails, tins of biscuits, milk powder, cooked food and fresh vegetables. Through the open doors of the shops they could see the goods packed in their dark interiors; there was no particular order in their arrangement and often they spilled out to the common frontage that linked the shops. Children played; some cried, others smiled; their pale faces covered with dirt as they jostled with each other or rode their bicycles.

“Missy! Missy!” they cried running alongside the road, wildly waving their hands.

Casey and An Mei spoke little, aware of the driver. An Mei could see his curious glances reflected in the rear mirror. Slowly the scenery changed. The two-storey shop houses gave way to small wooden houses set on stilts. Sarongs and brightly coloured shirts hung on clothes lines stretched between coconut palms; they waved like flags in the breeze. Old men and women sat in the shade, their brown skin burnt almost to a blackened nutmeg. Here and there, a table was set out in the blazing hot sun offering refreshments. Fresh coconut! A sign said: 20 cents per nut. Durians! said another, 4 for 2 Ringgit. The tables were not manned. Bees and flies buzzed. Nearby, a brown cow stood swishing its tail to ward off the insects. A cloud of dust rose and then settled. A desultory air prevailed. The momentum of life, it appeared, had slowed down to a snail’s pace.

“
Mei you huan;
seems like not much has changed here,” said Casey switching to Mandarin. “It is exactly like mum used to tell us about life when she was in Malacca.”

Then, suddenly the scenery changed completely with the start of mile upon mile of plantations, palm oil and rubber, their orderliness contrasting sharply with the earlier scenes; the buzz and dirt in the small townships fighting for livelihood and the relaxed laid-back villages of stilt houses. The plantations’ lush green formality shouted wealth.

“There is change. You have to know what to look for. There is a greater divide. And once you recognise it, you will always see it,” said An Mei.

Casey looked at her friend puzzled. “That is quite a profound statement. Tell me more. Tell me what Hussein thinks.”

An Mei made a face, looked at the rear mirror and grimaced once again.

“
Shuo putong hua
, speak in Mandarin,” Casey suggested.

“I’ll try but it won’t be as good as yours. Remember I had only two years of private study in Oxford,” An Mei replied. “When we were in Oxford, Hussein used to tell me his plans and ambitions. He was always so fired up with the idea of redressing any wrong. Remember his involvement in the women’s movement and the protest against the Vietnam War? In the early months of our return, he was still full of enthusiasm. He wanted to help the poor. But his definition of poverty has gradually changed. Now it seems to be very much drawn on racial lines. He does not discuss it with me. When I try to point out that there is poverty amongst all the ethnic groups, he just won’t discuss it. All he says is that he must toe the party line. It is this more than anything that hurts me. More than even Shalimar, because I still believe she was forced on him.”

An Mei stopped and looked at her friend. “He has no need of me any more.” Casey took An Mei’s hands in hers. She squeezed them in reassurance. She could not comment. She had to wait and see for herself.

The marquee was over-flowing. People went in and out of it carrying plates of food.
Rongeng
music blared from one corner, lilting drumbeats and the string music emitted from the
gamelan
combined to give a haunting Malay tune that speaks of Arab-Indonesian-Portuguese-Chinese influence. A group of people danced bare foot to the music.

Hussein emerged from the tent with Shalimar next to him. They were immediately surrounded by well-wishers. They had come from all over Kemun to pay their respects and offer their congratulations to Hussein. They were proud to have him, so young yet already a Deputy Minister in no less than the Prime Minister’s office, represent their state. They were effusive over Shalimar and her pregnancy. Prayers were offered on his behalf. Hussein’s head reeled from their effusive messages. He smiled and bowed until he felt a twitch developing on one side of his face.

“Here,” said Ghazali handing him a scented towel that he had taken from a passing servant. “
Tengku
Shalimar’s pregnancy seems to have boosted your rating even higher. Look at them. They are falling over at her feet.”

“See what I told you,” a voice said over his shoulder. He turned around to face his mother. “If you were to let Noraidin go, who knows? You might be Prime Minister in the future. She is definitely baggage you can do without.”

“Please, no more of this,” said Hussein. He turned and stalked away only to bump into another group of well-wishers.

“Come, let’s go over there,” said Ahmad to his sister who was standing alone, temporarily abandoned in the crowd. She was watching her husband’s retreating back.

Ahmad took her by the elbow and deftly wove his way through the crowd until they reached the pergola. “There,” he pointed to a bench under the dark shade of a woody climbing plant overhanging it. Shalimar looked at the masses of pink blooms and leafy tendrils swaying in the breeze. She took a deep breath of the scent and sighed. She sat down; the seat was a welcome respite after hours of standing and small talk.

“You must be tired,” he said. His tone was gentle; he seemed concerned. Her pregnancy was not obvious, not unless you knew.

She was surprised at his solicitous manner even though he had been almost kind ever since she had agreed to his plans. By default, they were her plans now. They were accomplices, she thought. She was amazed at how her life had suddenly improved as a result of that one promise, that one word, she had given to Ahmad. She was shocked by her own thoughts and her eventual acceptance of the situation.

“
Datin
Faridah is pleased,” said Ahmad. “She wants you to work on Hussein. Make him feel good, needed. She wants you to flatter him, work your way into his heart. With Noraidin spending more time in KL, she feels you will succeed. And I think you will too.”

He bent close to her ear.

“Remember, our family fortunes depend on you. We have lost almost everything except our royal connections. And your mother-in-law wants that connection to complete her ambition for status. Remember, your child depends on you. If Hussein casts you off that will be the end of your child’s future. In fact, I cannot think how we would have been able to allow it to come into the world but for your marriage to Hussein; the shame it would bring on our family. You understand don’t you? On no account can Hussein know that he is not the father.”