House of Trembling Leaves, The (40 page)

A man in a white suit and fedora paced about below, huffing and tut-tutting like an agitated hen.

‘‘Who is it? Who's there?'' she cried, but the man did not look up or respond. The red licence plates made her recall the invitation to the Italian Ambassador's residence on the 13th. Today was the 13th. She hadn't gone, hadn't even bothered to reply. Was the man here to reprimand her for not turning up? Had she caused a diplomatic ruckus? Surely not.

She peered down at the man in the fedora and debated whether she ought to find out what he wanted.

She glanced in a mirror.
Look at the state of me. I've got no make-up on. And my hair!
She tried not to imagine how she would look to a visitor: a rather lonely, flat-chested, eccentric Chinese single mother who lived with her stinky dogs in an armpit of a small shophouse full of pre-war junk …

She heard a hyena laugh emerge from below.

… who'll die one of those big city old lady deaths, all alone in her room, probably trapped under something heavy, where nobody will find her for weeks until the smell gets so bad that it drifts down the street …

Lu See smiled at her own moroseness.

She descended the stairs and jerked the iron grille skyward.

The man in the fedora turned at the sound. His hat was tilted at an angle, obscuring his face. On seeing her, he planted his feet wide apart like Gary Cooper in High Noon, and held his hands at his sides, fluttering his fingers as though about to draw.

She noted a papal amount of rings on his hands. A bright pink handkerchief cascaded from his breast pocket, rustling in the night breeze. Then he reached up and snatched his fedora away to reveal an enormous forehead. ‘‘Brah-haaa!''

His teeth shone like silver lira coins.

‘‘Pietro!'' howled Lu See. She rushed up to him and held him tight. ‘‘Is it really you?''

‘‘Oh, my dear loo seat. It's so wonderful to see you.'' He laughed, head thrown back, with a broad smile on his face.

‘‘What on earth are you doing here in Malaya?''

‘‘Doing here? I'm the new Italian Ambassador, you silly moo, and the new Italian Ambassador simply hates being stood up. The last person to stand me up was that pretty second year Botanist from Caius.'' He swept a hand to his brow ostentatiously. ‘‘When you didn't show –
quelle horreur!
So after the party ended, I nipped into my little Feee-yat and abracadabra my boyfriend's an actor, here I am.''

‘‘I cannot believe it,'' she said, hopping on her toes in delight. ‘‘I just cannot believe you're in KL.''

‘‘I know! They sent me to some treacherously ghastly places before, full of fat-witted fop-doodles. Places where the so-called elite hold their knives like pencils and drink tea out of saucers. But you know what they say.'' He smoothed the lashes of his eyes with a bejewelled finger. ‘‘Travel broadens the behind.''

Lu See hugged him again. ‘‘Will you come inside?''

''Actually, dear loo seat, I was thinking of a late supper at Fatty Crab's. I'm ravenous. You know what it's like; I never eat at my own parties.''

‘‘I can cook you something here. Do you like curry noodles?''

Pietro looked aghast. ‘‘Make me fart like a Roman emperor. No, it's Fatty's or bust. Besides, I fancy a glass of their Chateau de Coques Roche.''

‘‘But I'm not dressed, look at my hair – ''

‘‘You are a raddled old mess, aren't you? Not to worry, just give your cheeks a pinch for colour and …'' He removed the satin trim from his fedora, made a bow for her hair and smiled at her. ‘‘Tah-dah! Cinderella's all tubbed and scrubbed for the ball. Simply wonderful being a girl, isn't it?''

Fatty Crab's was by the racecourse, a ten-minute drive away. Wedged in the front of the Fiat in between a hornbill and Pietro, Lu See felt a bit like a sausage roll.

Pietro's teeth emerged from his mouth. ‘‘He's called Hartley. He's a gift from the Sultan of Selangor.''

‘‘He doesn't bite, does he?'' She studied the bird's red eyes and its capacious beak and casque.

‘‘No, but he has a scorching wit. Just keep your nose away from him; he might think it's a palm nut or a cocktail sausage. Speaking of sausages: what news of my favourite Tibetan, Sum Sum? I gather you resuscitated her old blue recipe book.''

Lu See squeezed her eyes shut in despair. She'd spent most of the previous day making phone calls to the Chinese Embassy; once again she'd been denied an entry permit into Tibet. ‘‘Her brother Hesha occasionally sends me word. He's in a Gurkha regiment. He writes to tell me that she's in good health, living in a Tibetan nunnery.''

‘‘Get thee to a nunnery!'' bayed Pietro, which set Hartley's wings flapping. ‘‘Oh, I do love my
Hamlet
!''

‘‘I'd do anything to see her again.''

They passed the Sikh temple on Bandar Road where devout Punjabis slept in the gardens on rainless nights. Further along a farmer was blocking the way as he led his water buffalo across the street with a net of pineapples strapped to its back.

Pietro tooted his horn and drew a sideways look from Lu See. ‘‘I heard about Mabel joining the Communists,'' he said.

‘‘How?'' She felt her cheeks go warm.

‘‘Oh, the usual diplomatic chatter. With a little finesse one can find out almost anything.'' He kept his eyes on the road. ‘‘Funny isn't it, how Adrian turned to the Communists, and now Mabel. I do miss Adie so much. He was a wonderful man. Look, you'd better get Mabel out of the jungle soon, dahling. The British boffins have devised a new gadget; a radio with a tracker.'' He paused, but Lu See said nothing. ‘‘When the guerrillas turn the radio set on it sends a secret signal, a type of homing device that can be detected by spotter aircrafts. Once they make a fix on the camp they bomb it to kingdom come. They're taking no prisoners.''

Lu See's blood turned cold.

 

The following evening Lu See shut the restaurant for the night as usual at 11 p.m., pulling down the iron grille at the front with a pole. She'd been nursing a hangover for most of the day, courtesy of the five whisky
stengahs
she'd downed with Pietro at Fatty Crab's.

Lu See pinched the skin between her eyes and went over her conversation with Pietro. She'd told him about Stan and his deception.

‘‘How could he? How could he do this to me?'' she bawled.

‘‘Perhaps he didn't know.'' Pietro shrugged.

‘‘Didn't know? Of course, he knew! He's deceived me all these years, pretended to be my friend.''

They had talked deep into the early hours, until the popadums and cigarettes grew damp in the night air. Nothing Pietro could say could console her.

Earlier in the day she'd rushed over to see ‘the mule' on Klyne Street, but found the barber shop's narrow door boarded up. Neighbours said the police had hauled the owner away. And when she telephoned Stan she got no reply from his home and was told he was ‘out station' when she called his work number.

When Pietro came over to console her she was frantic. ‘‘What can I do?'' she cried.

He held her in his arms. ‘‘There is nothing you can do. The best thing is to ensure that you don't get into a state over this. You're looking a bit peaky. You need to rest.''

‘‘I've signed her death warrant, Pietro. I've killed my own daughter.''

‘‘Go upstairs and rest. Will you promise me, you get some sleep?''

She nodded.

‘‘Do you want me to stay?'' he asked.

‘‘No. I'll be all right.''

She watched Pietro climb into his Fiat and drive off.

At the top of the stairs the dogs were all waiting to be fed and once she clicked on the overhead fan, hung up her apron and filled the doggy bowls with scraps, she went to her bathroom cupboard in search of a tin of Tiger Balm for her forehead and a bottle of milk of magnesia.

She passed her bedroom and saw her plump white pillows piled high behind the mosquito curtain. The news about Mabel, the shock of it all, had made her incredibly tired. She looked longingly at the pillows.
Like a set of warm cream buns nestled together
, she thought. Right at that moment she wanted her bed more than anything else in the world, but as soon as she applied the mentholated salve to the twin points of her temple, she heard a faint banging on the iron grille below.

‘‘Oh God! Not again. Don't these people have homes to go to?''

Expecting to find the black Fiat parked once again in the street below, she peered out of the window and was about to shout: ‘‘Go home, Pietro. I'll be fine.'' Yet when she looked from the window, there were no cars at all in the deserted roadway.

When she heard the indistinct banging once more against the iron grille, she cursed like a Malaccan sailor.

Dungeonboy came running to tell her, all panting and excited, ‘‘Somebody at door, Missie – somebody small and like black shadow at door.''

She went down the stairs to lift up the metal shutters. ‘‘It's probably Mr Pietro.'' She told Dungeonboy to fetch a stick in case it was a burglar.

‘‘What do you want?'' she yelled. Then, filled with a sudden sense of foreboding, she placed her palms on the grillwork and jerked it skyward.

The metal clattered.

A young, painfully thin woman stood with her head bowed. The smell of the jungle was on her, in her skin and clothes. There was grit and dirt on her face and crushed earth matting the ends of her hair. One arm, her right arm, was supported in a crude sling.

Lu See caught her breath. Her mouth fell open. She threw a hand against the wall to steady herself. ‘‘Oh my God,'' she gasped, ‘‘Mabel.''

Eight years had passed since the Chinese crossed the Jinsha River to invade Tibet and for seven of those years the monasteries remained untouched. There was no sacking of temples, no offences aimed at the monks, no quarrels with Tibetan religion. But then one afternoon in the spring of 1958, that all changed.

It was the day of the horse festival. Many hundreds of people, including nuns and monks, flocked to the grasslands to enjoy the entertainment. Setting off at dawn, it took Sum Sum and Tormam three hours to reach the venue; as they trekked along the hillside trails a pure crystalline sunshine washed the plateau gold, gilding the nomadic sheep that gnawed at the fresh green felt. When they reached the grasslands they found a hive of activity.

Yellow and blue tents set up days before dotted the plain. Over the snowy passes, caravans of pack-horses and donkeys appeared laden with bricks of tea and great blocks of salt. Pilgrims passed through – devotees from Nepal and Sikkim – offering sutra streamers and aromatic smoke to the Mountain Gods, whilst merchants and nomads and pedlars came from far and wide to do business. Leather traders arrived from Mongolia. Chinese vendors of gold, turquoise, borax and musk set up wooden stalls in the temporary market. A Manchurian silk dealer laid out several colourful bolts of fabric as Bhutan rice suppliers haggled with farmers, behind him a Muslim spice runner exchanged salaams with an Indian indigo broker whose white teeth flashed bright against his burnished skin. Everywhere people wheeled and dealed.

There were archery contests, feats of balance, rope-walking, tumbling and wrestling. Local women, wearing their hair in plaits, mounted their yaks to get a better look. Many had their babies strung to their backs. Sum Sum and Tormam joined them to watch the horsemen show off their skills. One of the disciplines was to fire their arrows at a coloured pole while riding at full gallop. With the springtime sun warming her scalp, Sum Sum oohed and ahhed as the riders thundered past, enjoying their graceful athleticism, applauding as the arrowheads found their mark. Amid this constant activity, pilgrims burned green cypress branches for incense and spun their prayer wheels.

Later, she and Tormam collected alms from the horsemen in fox-skin caps as they fed barley straw to their stallions. Not far from them she saw clusters of red-robed monks, young and old, gathered for ritualized debate. The young monks sat on the hard ground as an older monk faced them. Every few seconds an elder would rush at his fledglings, arms flailing and clapping, to launch obscure questions of Buddhist orthodoxy. The older monks lunged and the younger ones parried, soon a sharp rat-tat-tat of voices filled the dry air as these thrusting debates grew fiercer and more boisterous.

In the background several open fires burned. Warmed by the flames, people ate on small blue Tibetan rugs, offering their neighbours yak dumplings and deep-fried flat bread. Sum Sum sniffed more delicious smells of cooking. She saw the glistening flesh of spit-roasted mutton, the saddles of venison, the hind-quarters of deer and goats and beef turning on long metal rods, dripping meat juices into the flames. The trailing scent-scarves of food reminded Sum Sum of Cambridge, of May Week, when whole oxen sat roasting on the lawns of Trinity and St John's, ribs showing like the staves of a boat. Try as she might, she couldn't help salivating.

Crows hopped about cackling as they edged closer to the fire. Their cries crescendoed when a group of boys threw stones at them.

At midday, with the sun as sharp as the edges of a knife, Sum Sum's mouth, throat and nostrils grew parched. A windblown silk trader offered them butter tea, which they drank from wooden bowls. Sipping her tea, Sum Sum looked up from her bowl to see pinheads on the horizon moving along the Tea Horse Road, a cloud of dust trail on the stony ridges. Shimmering charcoal spots against the pale grasslands, they grew larger with each passing second. They spread like dark stains.

Within minutes, several dozen thick-legged Chinese soldiers arrived on horseback; carnivorous men with leathery, thunderous expressions, casting blue shadows. ‘‘Faces so sharp and ugly, they scratch the wind,'' observed Sum Sum.