Bitter Sweet Harvest (29 page)

“I forgot. How could I?” she exclaimed. “An envelope, without any postage mark, was pushed through the post box just before you came back. It is addressed to you,” she said to An Mei. “I meant to hand it you immediately but...” She rummaged through the pile of letters at the sideboard and handed An Mei a crumpled brown envelope.

With trembling hands, An Mei took the envelope. She tore it open. A solitary piece of paper was in it. On it was written in block capital letters: I KNOW!

Faridah held the phone to her ear. Joy, surprise and triumph mingled in her face. Her eyes sparkled with wonder. Her bosom heaved with excitement. She spoke little except for the intermittent exclamations of “Yes! Wonderful!
Insha Allah!
” She returned the phone to its cradle and stood absolutely still. Then she walked quickly towards her husband’s office, her beaded slippers slapping on the floor in her haste. A servant followed. She waved her away and pushed open the door without knocking.

“Rahim!” she exclaimed from the doorway, “Ahmad called.”

“And?” he asked, laconically. Seated behind a desk and holding a newspaper, he had not bothered to look up. She slipped into the room and closed the door. She looked at her husband, triumphant.

“He said that An Mei bore Hussein a son who she has kept hidden from us. The little boy is a spitting image of Hussein.”

Rahim lowered his paper abruptly. The pages crackled and fell on his lap. He did not reply straight away. His face was thoughtful. Then he shook his head in doubt.

“Are you sure that is what he said? Are you sure he is not pulling your leg, punishing you — us — because we stopped his payment.”

“I am not deaf and I am certainly not mad! Of course that is what he said. He saw Hussein’s son. Unlike you, I believe in Ahmad. I do not know what you and Hussein have against him. He has always been helpful to me. He is always respectful.”

“How did Ahmad manage to see An Mei and the boy? Did she not leave the country?” asked Rahim. “It’s been some years since she disappeared. From all accounts she is not in Malaysia.”

“If Ahmad saw them then it must have been here in Malaysia.”

For the first time since his wife entered the room, Rahim began to give the story some credibility.

“If this is true,” he said cautiously, “then we can certainly apply to the court for custody. We will have a strong case, at least in our Shariah court, if she is not a practising Muslim. But we are jumping ahead of ourselves. Don’t get your hopes too high. It could well be a hoax or Ahmad is mistaken.”

“We don’t have to resort to the courts. Ahmad has him.”

Rahim jumped up crashing his chair to the floor. His hand gesticulated wildly, one finger pointing to his head.

“What!! Are you out of your mind? How did Ahmad manage to get hold of the little boy? Did he take him by force, kidnap him?”

“I don’t know the details. All I care about is that he can bring him to us.”

“And how much does he want? Where is he now?” asked Rahim. Over the years, he had seen through Ahmad. Hussein had opened his eyes to the cunning and manipulative nature of the man. They had bailed him out one too many times.

“He wants half a million. I don’t care about the money. Just give it to him. All I care for is my grandson.”

“I can’t go along with this. I would love to have my grandson if the little boy is truly Hussein’s, but I cannot condone kidnapping. We’ll all go down. In any case, it might not be Hussein’s son and we would have involved ourselves in a murky deed for nothing if we were to pay Ahmad.”

“
Adoi!
I have waited so long for a grandchild. I had such hopes for Shalimar’s baby, but it was not to be. What right has An Mei to deceive us, to cast us out of our grandson’s life? I feel nothing for her. I don’t consider it as kidnapping because how can we be accused of kidnapping our own blood?”

“Calm down. I don’t see it like you do. If Ahmad wanted to help, he would have just told us and we would have got the law to track An Mei and the child down and we would apply for custody. She is now here, not in some far off country where we do not have jurisdiction. I assume that she is here in Malaysia, even in KL itself,” he said.

Faridah shrugged. Ahmad had said very little except for describing the little boy as a lovely child who looked the image of Hussein. After that revelation, all she could think of was having Hussein’s son in her arms.

She sat down, dejected. She had not expected such a response from her husband. She should have tried to find out more details from Ahmad, but she was so carried away. Even so she had not expected her husband to be so negative.

“Huh!” exclaimed Rahim, “he has not told you much has he? Typical! All he wants is money. If it were not for him, we would stand a better chance of getting our grandson legally. Now, the boy is being held against his will. Have you thought about that? How frightened your grandson might be, snatched from his mother?”

Rahim’s words made sense to her. She now became concerned for the child who she believed with all her heart must be her grandson. “What do we do?” she asked. “Ahmad said he would call us for an answer this evening.”

“We must tell Hussein.”

“Are you absolutely sure?” asked Hussein. “An Mei made no mention of expecting a baby.”

Hussein was elated. Yes, it was possible. He could not be sure, but deep down he hoped that it was true; he wanted it to be true, that he and An Mei have a son. He wanted the connection, the tie between them. Perhaps there was still a chance of reviving their love, now that Shalimar was gone. With a child, his parents might come round. He regretted giving up An Mei. He had not wanted the divorce. His parents’ constant urging, his own ambition and temptation for its easy fulfilment, held in front of him like bait, propelled him to write those three words:
I divorce you
.

It was a moment of weakness, intense selfishness and utter callousness. He admitted to all that. If he could turn back the clock he would. He squeezed his eyes tight to obliterate the shame he felt. Unbidden, he let out a deep guttural groan. It took him by surprise. He sensed his parents looking at him. He pushed the thoughts away, took a deep breath, and the controlled outward face of the politician he had become took over once more. There were more urgent matters to attend to. His son might be in danger. If his mother does not come up with the money, what might Ahmad choose to do, he asked himself. Would he harm the boy? Should they inform the police about Ahmad? Would this provoke Ahmad to take desperate action? Where was An Mei? How did Ahmad get hold of his son? There were so many questions, so many unknowns. He picked up the phone and asked for Ghazali.

“Find out if a little boy of around three-and-a-half years old has been reported missing,” he instructed his aide. “I am not sure where it might have occurred. It could be in KL, Malacca or in one of the tourist resorts; it could even be in Singapore. The best place to find out might be the newspapers. Use your contacts with the police. Don’t leave any stone unturned.”

By the time he had finished his conversation and replaced the phone, his calm demeanour had gone. In its place was again agitation, an agitation that made him scratch his neck until it left streaks of red. Talking about the various possible ways in which Ahmad might have taken his son, brought closer home, the danger he might be in.

“Father, should we report this incident to the police? We could pretend to go along with Ahmad and still make the report. We cannot keep it from the police.”

‘No!” cried Faridah, “If Ahmad suspects that we have told the police, he would harm my grandson. I cannot bear the thought of it. We cannot risk that.”

“If we don’t, we will be breaking the law and there is still no guarantee that he would release my son,” warned Hussein.

“I doubt this will be Ahmad’s last demand; he will return for additional ransom money. The next time it might be blackmail. Once we connive with him, he has his hands round our throat. And, how can we explain the child’s presence if we do get him?” asked Rahim. He was determined not to refer to the boy as his grandson. He observed how quickly Hussein was assuming that the boy was his. He did not wish to challenge Hussein. He could well be right. If anyone would know, it must surely be Hussein. But for himself, he felt that he needed to remain detached. Referring to the boy as his grandson would make him emotionally vulnerable. He would be like his wife.

“I think if we do get my son back, we will first have to return him to his mother.” Hussein looked from one parent to the other. He was trying to gauge how they would react. Slowly, tentatively, he continued. “Perhaps, An Mei would consider marrying me again. If that were possible then everything could be settled amicably.”

“
Gila!
Mad!” cried Faridah. She could not believe what she had just heard. She appealed to her husband. Rahim, wrapped up in his own thoughts, did not hear what Hussein said nor did he take note of his wife’s response.

“Let me get hold of my friend in the police force and asked him for his advice. He would keep it off the record for me, I am sure,” he said.

Hussein agreed. “We have to be fast though. We don’t have much time. I am sure An Mei will conclude that we have had a hand in the kidnapping and will point the police to us. Then it would look like we are conniving with Ahmad.”

The more he thought of his idea, the more convinced he became that it could work. Surely An Mei would be pleased, grateful even, if he succeeded in rescuing the little boy. A son! And to be with An Mei again! His face brightened at the prospect. He was sure that he could bring his parents around to his idea, but now was not the time to push for it.

Mark walked down the lane leading to a row of single-storey shop houses that served the suburban area of Jane’s house. He had to get away from the house to think clearly. His head was Bitter-Sweet Harvest 287 bowed down. He was deep in thought. He hardly noticed the people he passed nor did he realise that he had strayed off track and was in the back lane of the shops. The sun’s piercing heat bore down on him. Perspiration rolled off his neck and his shirt clung, wet to his back. He stumbled on a broken brick, checked his steps and continued to stride on. He felt utterly inept in Singapore. He was among people who spoke English yet he remained a foreigner,
a gwei loh!
There was little he could do to help An Mei. He had not the foggiest idea on how he could help rescue Timothy. Uncaring and unaware of his surroundings and the heat, he walked on.

The sound of footsteps behind him caught his attention. He turned to look and saw a slender young man, perhaps around 20, walking behind him. He quickened his pace and heard a corresponding quickening of footsteps from behind. Mark turned abruptly around.

“Are you following me?” he said sternly to the young man.

The young man shook his head; his eyes darted left and right. He looked as though he was going to jump out of his own skin.

Mark continued walking. A mad hatter, he thought. Yet the man followed. Impatient, Mark whirled around and walked briskly to the man.

“Look here! Stop following me. Go away!”

“You help me,” said the man, “I help you.”

“What are you talking about? I’ll call the police,” warned Mark.

“No! No call police. I help you. You help me.” His eyes once more darted from left to right. “I know where boy, you call Tim, is. I lead you to him. You help me. You help me get away. Or he kill me.”

“Who will kill you? Speak to me. How do you know about Tim? Where is he?” Mark bellowed.

“Shhh! Quiet! Quiet please. I come alone. I am Ahmad’s driver.”

Mark stood silent. “Ahmad!” he repeated. It began to fall in place. It was just as An Mei had believed. No, not quite! She had thought that Hussein was behind this. Was he also involved? He wondered. There was no time to waste.

“Tell me, where is Tim?”

“No! No! Unless you promise you help me get away, find job, have money.”

“You tell me, you lead me to Tim first. We should go to the police with this.”

Aquino took two steps back; with a speed that took Mark by surprise, he ran. He vaulted over the fence that separated the dirt track from the road that ran parallel to it, and continued to run. His legs pumped; his head swirled back to look anxiously at his pursuer. Mark ran after him; his legs flying across the path; he by-passed the fence and cut across the field that separated the path from the road. Aquino thought he had lost Mark. He could see the tall grass move and sway, but there was no sign of Mark. He slowed down to a stand still and leaned over his legs, holding on to his knees, gasping for breath. Mark sprinted forward bringing to bear his years of training as a runner when he was at college, and caught hold of Aquino. Breathing hard, he held on to him.

“Now why don’t you tell me everything?”

“Don’t hurt me.” Aquino cried out in pain. He held on to his foot. Mark could see that it was bleeding. He relinquished his hold. Aquino shot his foot out, landing it on Mark’s face, knocking him over. Mark felt an explosion of red mist; blood streamed down his nose. He bounded up, but Aquino had already sprung up and bolted. He ran, legs pummelling, back towards the path they had left. Mark followed. Aquino picked up speed; he obviously knew the area. Mark saw him disappear into an alley between the shop houses. By the time he reached it, Aquino was nowhere to be seen.

Aquino washed himself, sluicing water over himself, letting the cold water soothe the wound in his foot. Over and over, he dipped his plastic pail into the water urn, a big brown Chinese ceramic barrel that in the past had been used for storing salted eggs. It stood at waist level in the backyard of Ahmad’s house; a house that served also as Aquino’s lodgings when he was in Singapore. A folding canvas camp bed in the kitchen was all that he called his own. He had nowhere else to go. From a distance, he heard a clock strike. He relinquished the pail, shook his head like a dog, spraying droplets of water all round him, and rubbed himself down with a cotton sarong. He put on his uniform and sleeked down his black hair. He would have to fetch Ahmad from the casino soon. He was told to stay with the boy they call Tim until Ahmad needed him.