Bitter Sweet Harvest (5 page)

She was nervous. She ran her fingers through her hair to bring some order to the strands that flew across her face. “Are you sure it will be alright for you to introduce me to your parents without notice? I must look terrible. I feel so grubby after 16 hours on the plane,” she said. Her eyes pleaded with him. Hours of crying on the plane and sleeplessness had left them red and swollen. “Can’t we wait? I can make my way like the rest of the passengers to the airport terminal and meet you later.”

“Nonsense! You look fine. They will be delighted when I introduce you to them. Come!” He felt his smile tighten. Jenny’s words of warning flashed through his mind.

They made their way down the stairway and walked towards the group of brightly clad men and women gathered on the red carpet. Their garments of exotic silks, colourful batiks and silver woven sarongs competed in the blazing sunlight. Hussein strode quickly forward to embrace a plump middle-aged woman dressed in a purple silk
baju kurong
, a sarong and sheath top that reached below the knee, and nearly knocked away the matching umbrella that a turbaned guard was holding to protect her from the sun.

“
Emak-mak!
Mother!” Hussein said lapsing into his childhood endearment for his mother. He bowed low before embracing her, gathering her into his arms in a tight bear hug.

“
Adoi! Jaga!
Careful!
Anak saya!
My child! It is so lovely to have you back! How are you? Come! Come! Let’s get out of the sun. The car is waiting. Your cousins are here.”

Faridah looked at her son, her face flushed with pride. “Also I would like, in particular, for you to meet Shalimar,
Tengku
Shalimar, to be precise. You’ve not seen her since she was twelve.”

She rushed on oblivious to Hussein’s discomfort and sidelong glances at the Chinese girl who was standing just behind him.

“Don’t you think that she has grown up to be a beautiful young woman?” she chuckled, pointing to a young girl standing near them. “We’ll sit at the back of the Mercedes and the rest can use the other cars.” Faridah beamed, her hands waving expansively, flashing the diamonds and sapphires on her wrists and fingers. “Your father is waiting.
Mari!
Come! Come with us Shalimar.”

“Wait mother. I’d like to introduce An Mei. We were at Oxford together.”

Awkwardly, An Mei stepped forward. She did not know what to say. Should she shake her hand? She had totally forgotten to ask Hussein how she should address his mother. All she could think of during the plane journey was her parents’ pain, her guilt at the way she had left, and her own heartache. She knew vaguely that there were complex titles and customs to observe when greeting someone of importance in Malay society. So An Mei stood silent, head bowed, her dress crumpled, her hair wind-blown and her face tear-stained, wishing with all her heart that she had followed her instincts and gone with the other passengers to the air terminal.

Faridah took one glance at An Mei and her face fell. Her eyes narrowed to bullet points. “
Siapa ini?
Who is this?” she snapped, wondering what her son could see in this chit of a girl! She glared at An Mei; then her eyes swept away almost instantaneously without acknowledging her presence. “Come, let’s go,” she said to Hussein, her voice cutting. “If she is coming with us, she can go in one of the other cars.”

An Mei turned and made a dash for the terminal. Hussein ran after her. “Wait, wait! Come back!” He ran until he overtook her and ignoring the gasps and titters from the people gathered on the red carpet, he took hold of An Mei’s hands and marched her firmly back to his mother. “She is coming back with me.” Faridah stared at her son, her eyes unbelieving, shocked. She knew better than to argue in public. She did not wish to give people any more cause for tittle-tattle. She would deal with her son’s lack of manners and respect for his elders later. Not now in front of the girl. Without a word she took Shalimar’s hand and headed for the Mercedes.

“I’m sorry,” Hussein whispered as he held on to An Mei’s cold hands. She was shivering in the blast of cold air from the air conditioner of the car. “It’s my fault. You were right. I should not have subjected you to this. It has also not been fair to my mother. I should have prepared her.”

“So what do we do now? Where will I go? I cannot go back with you to your parents’ place, not like this. They will not like it, despite what you say,” said An Mei in a voice so soft that he had to bend low to hear her. She kept seeing the contempt on Faridah’s face and the vision of Shalimar’s large soft eyes and heart-shaped face, shrouded in a
hijab
, a headscarf, of luminous silk.

“Just give me a chance to sort this out. You can stay in the guesthouse for the time being. I’ll get the caretaker to prepare the room. I’ll come to you later this evening after speaking to my parents. Please?”

Hussein stood before his parents. He had been talking for two hours: explaining his relationship with An Mei; his wish that they would accept her as his bride; his love for her; who she was and her family background. But it was all to no avail. Their minds were already made up. They wanted nothing to do with An Mei. They warned him of the precariousness of his future.

“It is simple. Do as you wish and you will break our hearts,” said Faridah. Her voice grew louder and coarser as her vehemence grew. She glared at her son. “We cannot, and
will not
, accept her into our family. Think of your future. She will become your baggage. Such a marriage just leads to bad publicity. And what if you have children? What will they be? We have great plans for you. You had great plans for yourself. Remember? So what will become of them? Think!” She turned to her husband for support. “Rahim,
Chakap dengan–nya
! Rahim, speak to him!”

“Yes,” said his father, his voice reasonable and modulated but firm. “The world is within your grasp if you will only put this madness aside. Doors to important positions will open and it will be just a matter of time before you are leader of the party or at least as near to the top as you can possibly be at your age. A few years further down the line I guarantee you will be at the top. The party needs young blood, intelligent and educated young blood.”

Rahim was desperate that Hussein should not let him down. His eyes bored into his son’s, holding his gaze. “Marry her and I can guarantee you will be as good as lost to us.”

Hussein looked beseechingly from one parent to the other. “Mother! Please...”

Faridah brought both hands to her face and cried-out, “
Adoi! Hati sakit!
You wound my heart!” She slammed her clenched fist on her chest. “You cause us such pain and all because of a Chinese girl. Have you lost your senses? Marrying a Chinese girl would not be good at the best of times, but at this particular moment, it will be suicidal as far as your career is concerned.”

“You are wrong. It will demonstrate our impartiality and pave the way for a harmonious relationship between the races,” Hussein replied. He dropped his voice. He knew the futility of his argument. He could see the grim determination in their faces. His mother’s chin, square and resolute, was quivering with rage and ready for battle. His father, face thrust forward, glowered at him, all semblance of moderation gone.

Hussein dropped his voice. “At least let her stay here. She has nowhere to go.”

Faridah exchanged a look with her husband. Hussein could not fathom what passed between them although he saw his father nod in agreement.

“Alright,” his mother conceded with a great show of reluctance, “she can stay in the guest house here in Kuala Lumpur. But tomorrow, you are coming home with us to the east coast, to Kemun. Don’t say no. The whole family, aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, nieces, are all waiting. A feast has been prepared to welcome you back. You have a duty to the family. This is what we want in return for letting her stay here.

A
n Mei made her way to the French window. She slid the glass panel open and stepped outside onto a terrace. Within minutes, the panel was covered with condensation and she closed it hastily behind her. She padded barefoot to the rattan armchair and sat down. Not more than ten steps away from her was a pond. Groves of bamboos cast a dappled shade over the glistening water. Their sturdy straight stems sprouting straight out of the white pearly pebbles strewn around the edge of the pond. Brightly coloured iridescent dragonflies flitted hither and thither, their wings lightly skimming the water surface.

She looked at her watch and then at the garden. “A picture of peace and tranquillity,” she whispered to herself, “but I can draw no peace from it. Where is he? When is he coming back?”

It had been five days since she was taken to the guesthouse and four days since she had last seen Hussein. He told her he would be back soon. “We’ll talk then,” he had promised. But each day dragged by and still there was no word. Where was he, she fretted, drawing her loose shift dress tightly about her body. The steady drone of insects and the unaccustomed heat made her feel light-headed. She was cut off from everybody. She had no money to go anywhere. Food and garments magically appear in her quarters, brought in by silent unobtrusive servants who, while taking good care of her, said little in reply to her questions. Her request for access to a phone fell on deaf ears. She had tried to look out of the fenced compound, peeping through the gaps in the panelling. She succeeded to some extent. The streets were empty and recalling the car journey here and the devastation of the recent riots, she did not dare venture out. She longed for the hustle and bustle of Oxford, the noise, the smell, even the rain and dampness. “Anywhere but this utter stillness and loneliness.”

“You can have all of it,” a voice said. She turned. A man was standing behind her. He bowed, his traditional headgear, an egg-shaped dark velvet cylindrical hat, the
songkok
, in hand. “
Selamat petang
, good evening,” he said. “I am
Tengku
Ahmad and I bring you word from Hussein. May I?” he asked pointing to the empty rattan chair. Without waiting for a reply, he sat down and carefully crossed his leg, arranging the short, beautiful silver woven sarong that he wore over his pale green loose trousers.

An Mei, alarmed and taken aback by the unexpected intrusion and the stranger’s familiarity, stared at him.

“I have just come from the mosque,” he said, “hence my clothes. Don’t you remember our Malaysian dress code anymore?” he asked, a sardonic smile on his lips. “Two years away from your motherland and you forget!
Bagaimana
? How could you?” His voice was teasing, but the accusation behind it was clear.

“Who are you?”

“I am, as I said before,
Tengku
Ahmad. Hussein’s mother,
Datin
Faridah, asked me to see you.”

“Not Hussein? I thought you just said you brought word from Hussein. Where is he? When will he be back?”

“One thing at a time,
perlahan-perlahan
! Slowly! Can we pursue this conversation in
Bahasa
Malay or have you also forgotten your national language?” His tone of voice was unmistakeably sarcastic.

An Mei, stung by his tone, shrank in her seat. His presence, manners, and his undisguised insolence both upset her and made her feel uncomfortable. “Of course I remember,” she said. Her guard was up. She recalled Jenny’s recounting of the tension in the country. “I just lack practice. We studied Malay in school but didn’t get much opportunity to use it outside the classroom. And, I have been away in England for quite a while.”

“Well,” he drawled, “it just shows the kind of people you have been mixing with. Obviously not your fellow Malaysians and certainly not those proud to speak Malay.”

“Hussein always spoke to me in English,” she countered.

Ahmad frowned and his eyes flickered over her, sizing her up, as though seeing her anew. Checkmate, he thought, he had to be careful. She was no walkover.

He leaned forward and with his finger drew a drop of condensation from the side of the glass onto the table, painting a circle on the glass top. “Yes, Hussein,” he murmured gravely, “that is why I am here now to tell you about Hussein. He is at this very moment, preparing to get engaged. His fiancée to be, as you might have guessed by now, is Shalimar, my sister. Their marriage is something both our families have been looking forward to since they were children. Now that my parents have both passed away, it is my duty to oversee this union. A marriage between them would be a marriage made in heaven. It will put a seal on all our ambitions and plans.”

“No! That cannot be!” exclaimed An Mei. Her face was bleached white and her lips, bloodless. She felt her heart lurch and her whole being plunge into an overwhelming sense of despair. “Let me talk to him. Please let me have a phone. I would like to hear it from Hussein himself.”

“It would be absolutely futile to talk to him. It has all been decided. I am just the messenger. I can offer you this much as a gesture of goodwill. I can give you a one-way air ticket to London to join your family and provide you with transport to the airport. And,” he said taking out a wad of notes, “money to see you through. That is all. We do not wish to see you here again. Your insistence to be part of Hussein’s life will only destroy him. Surely this is not what you want?”

“Destroy Hussein? Me?” she asked, springing to her feet. Incredulous, her eyes, dulled with despair only a moment ago, now blazed with fury at the injustice of his accusation. “All Hussein and I have talked about is how I would work with him to achieve his goals.”

“Don’t be naïve!” he exclaimed, standing up, not wishing to lose the advantage that he thought he had over her.

“I had expected some opposition from Hussein’s parents, but Hussein had told me that it would be only a matter of time before he would win them over.”

Ahmad snorted. “Only some opposition? Hah! I leave you to mull over the offer. When you come to your senses, tell one of the servants to contact me.” He turned to leave. An Mei caught hold of his sleeve.