House of Trembling Leaves, The (46 page)

‘‘I'd like to see your supervisor.''

‘‘No can.''

‘‘And why is that?''

The girl ignored the question. She set down her emery board and proceeded to explore the outer rim of a nostril with her thumb.

‘‘Excuse me! I want to see your superior.''

‘‘No can.''

‘‘Why?''

‘‘You wan talk abow Tibet entry permit?''

‘‘Yes. I've written countless letters and telephoned your visa department God knows how many times.''

‘‘You telephone again tomorrow.''

‘‘But I don't want to telephone tomorrow. I'm here now. Where is your supervisor, please?''

The girl looked at her for the very first time. She stretched forward and tugged on a cord with her fingers. Suddenly a bamboo chick dropped down. The counter window was now closed.

Lu See banged her fist against the glass.

No response.

She turned and was immediately confronted by a consular official in white shirtsleeves and black trousers. He seemed to appear out of nowhere like a jack-in-the-box. It startled her.

‘‘What is your interest in Tibet?'' he asked. ‘‘Why do you wish to visit?'' He had short thick legs and bad teeth.

‘‘I have a friend in Lhasa, a very dear friend.''

He stood with his thick legs wide apart like a man about to swing an axe. When he spoke only his upper lip moved. ‘‘At this point in time all avenues to Tibet are temporarily closed. The country is undergoing a peaceful liberation. We must give it time to rebuild without outside interference.''

‘‘And what about the poor souls left there?''

‘‘These
poor souls
, as you call them, are gaining from China's generosity. New schools are being built, new roads. It is like renovating a house. Such things take time. In years to come people will see how we have helped and modernized Tibet. We have improved the lot of the Tibetan people.''

‘‘Is that what you call it?'' Lu See pushed past him, talking as she walked. ‘‘I call it ruling with an iron fist.'' She reached the revolving doors and looked into the man's expressionless eyes. ‘‘I call it governing with brute force, imposing your beloved Chairman's totalitarian hell on a deeply religious people.''

Seconds later she was being escorted to the main gates by a uniformed guard. ‘‘You know I'm right,'' she shouted. A curious feeling of elation filled her. It felt wonderful berating them this way. She took a deep breath and yelled at the top of her voice. ‘‘You know I'm absolutely bloody right!''

Sum Sum ploughed on, head down, thrusting against the wind. This was the final push; she could see the end of the mountain range ahead. The Punjab Himachal border was a mere thirty miles beyond the ridge. In the far, far distance she believed she could see a black outline of trees and smoke billowing from a forge as blacksmiths pounded metal on anvils.

‘‘We are down to the last hour of sunlight.'' She urged herself on; counting out her steps: seven, eight, nine, left-right, left-right, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, right-left, right-left, until her mind began to drift from exhaustion. She found herself thinking about a train ride. A train ride she'd taken years ago. The train chugged through a jungle tapestry, then through kampong villages, and a little later she got the sensation of nearing a town. The scenery changed – dirt roads were replaced with tarmac; shanty huts with shophouses; the sounds of cock crows and fragmented car horns; buildings sprouting up like bamboo shoots. Juru. Was it Juru? And then someone was calling to her. The sound brought her back to earth. She told her legs to keep moving, left-right, left-right, seventy-nine, eighty, left-right, left.

New memories now: a city in England; King's Parade; the Backs; trees in leaf along Jesus Lane; Fitzbillies cake chop; college oars mounted on the walls of a pub; croci sprouting on Parker's Piece; the kitchens at Christ's; Pietro's laugh; the first time she held her baby girl.

Hours. Hours came. Hours went.

Her legs were stiff and heavy.

Her lips and cheeks felt frozen solid. A couple of jaw flexes got her face muscles working again. She looked behind to check on Tormam.

She saw the drag left behind by her own footsteps and was gripped by a paroxysm of fear.

Tormam wasn't there.

Coolies employed by the H.M.O. pushed handcarts carrying anti-malaria-oil; they entered the bus hubs and recreation areas and pumped the air with spray-clouds. The mosquito-men squeezed into storm drains, into hard-to-reach places, and directed their squirt-gun nozzles into nooks and crannies.

Not far away from the
ktts-ktts-ktts
of the spray cannons, Lu See clambered up a wooden step-ladder with an armload of Eagle Brand condensed milk. She shunted the tins indiscriminately on to the top shelf and looked down. Three pairs of eyes pored over the front page of the
Malay Advocate
. Mother, Dungeonboy and Pietro grappled with the lead article, almost falling over one another to digest the news.

For weeks now, since Singapore's merger with the Federation of Malaya in September 1963 the talk had been of the rising tide of ethnic disharmony and the deep mistrust amongst the races; fear and frustration threatened to boil over.

‘‘And who exactly are the LPM nowadays?'' Mother inquired with casual disdain.

‘‘Look, I insist you stand on my left,'' said Pietro. ‘‘I've gone a bit quiet on this side.''

Mother shuffled around. ‘‘I know they call themselves the Labour Party of Malaya, but surely they're communists through and through. All they do is promote Chinese heritage and education and spread anti-Malay sentiment.''

‘‘They're all as bad as the other, fuelling racial and religious hatred to win votes,'' Pietro said, dreamily.

Mother tilted forward on her elbows. ‘‘I read in the papers that one of the LPM members was shot by the police a few days ago resisting arrest.''

‘‘Only after a rival politician was hacked to death in Penang by Chinese radicals,'' Pietro conceded with a fainting sound.

‘‘Is true?'' asked Dungeonboy.

‘‘Cross my heart and hope to see your Jap's eye.''

The phone rang. Fishlips Foo picked up the receiver. ‘‘
Wai-eeeee!
''

He slammed it back down and scratched his ankles, muttering, ‘‘Sons of the soil these Malays call themselves!
Hum gaa chaan
! More like sons of night soil.'' He eyed the next table. Uncle Big Jowl, necklaced with perspiration, was launching into a bowl of vegetable soup.

Lu See climbed from the stepladder and stretched her arms over her head to ease the ache in her stomach. The phone rang once more.

‘‘
Hum gaa chaan!
''

Lu See snatched the receiver out of the old man's hand. She heard a hissing on the line like the sizzle of palm oil on a hot wok, followed by voices and the click-clack of typewriters. ‘‘Yes? Who is this?'' she said.

‘‘This is P.K. Au from the
Malay Advocate
.''

‘‘Yes?'' Lu See fumbled with the telephone cord as she spoke. From across the room Pietro stuck his tongue out and flicked a piece of bread at her. She turned her back on him. ‘‘And how might I assist you, Mr Au?''

A tiny square of bread struck her back.

‘‘I'd like to write a piece on your restaurant, Il Porco. Perhaps we can discuss the details face to face. I would like to interview you, come and see the restaurant, perhaps take some photographs.''

‘‘And sample the food of course,'' she added.

‘‘Huh?''

‘‘I assume you will want to review the food for your article.''

‘‘… yes … er, yes …''

Lu See exhaled down the phone. ‘‘Mr Au, what exactly do you intend to write about?''

She heard him hesitate. ‘‘We are running a story on racial provocation leading up to the election. Can you confirm you deliberately try to bait your Muslim neighbours by serving pork? Is it true that you–?''

She banged the receiver down hard.

‘‘Who was that?'' asked Mother, scratching her palms.

‘‘A reporter. Those bloody vultures love stirring up trouble.'' She marched into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of vegetable broth for Fishlips Foo.

Fishlips tipped his liver-spotted tortoise head towards his soup and took a sip. He grunted in disgust. ‘‘This soup is lousy.'' His spoon clinked against the bowl. ‘‘All watered down. No taste!''

‘‘Uncle Big Jowl likes the soup,'' said Lu See.

‘‘Look how fat he is. He eats anything.''

‘‘You've been ordering the same soup every day for the last ten years, Mr Foo.''

‘‘And every time, no flavour. Also how come my portion so much less than his portion? Always you try to cheat me.''

‘‘I'll fetch you another bowl if you want more,'' Lu See said.

‘‘Why you think I want more? Soup has no taste.''

Uncle Big Jowl mopped up the cracker crumbs on the table with his middle finger.

‘‘What word from within the walls of Troy?'' asked Pietro.

Lu See had no idea what he was on about.

‘‘Oh, you are a howling monkey,'' he roared with a gleam of teeth. ‘‘Tibet? Sum Sum?''

Lu See shrugged. She'd tried. She'd really tried. But no one was prepared to tell her anything. The radio and press reported conflicting news. Only last week a regular customer sat down for a plate of pork and announced that China was at war with Tibet. Lu See spread her hands in a plea. ‘‘I call the Chinese Embassy continually and keep getting brushed aside. I called them three times yesterday but they were deliberately vague, denying all knowledge of a ‘crackdown' in Tibet.'' Her mother grunted. Lu See recognized Mother's look. It meant she thought Lu See was wasting her time trying to track down Sum Sum. ‘‘So I went to the Chinese Embassy in person, again,'' she continued. ‘‘An awful woman with flat feet made me wait, then I was herded into a small room with nothing but a bare desk, three chairs and a couple of men in Mao suits. They asked me more questions than I asked them. And what did I get out of them? Nothing.''

Pietro paused in the middle of sucking on his long cigarette holder. ‘‘Typical diplomats.''

‘‘I even spoke to someone in the Red Cross and telephoned the Indian High Commission – nobody was willing to say anything about the Dalai Lama or the situation in Lhasa.''

‘‘Oh, Archimedes' screw! Poor old sausage. She's a survivor, is our precious Sum Sum. Let's hope she follows the Dalai Lama's lead and fiddles a ride over the border to Dharamsala.'' Pietro, sipping tea, opened his diplomatic pouch, as was his habit, and sifted through the low-priority mail. He opened a seemingly incongruous-looking letter with a nail file and then, without warning, sprang to his feet, pressed his fedora to his head and bolted out the door.

‘‘What happened to him?'' asked Mother. ‘‘He late for a hair appointment, is it?'' Just then she spotted Lu See lifting a red $10 note from the till and sticking it into an envelope. Mother inhaled audibly. ‘‘What you doing?''

‘‘What does it look like I'm doing?''

‘‘Are you stealing?'' She emphasized the last word.

‘‘It's none of your business, Mother.''

‘‘Are you gambling, is that it?''

‘‘I don't gamble.''

‘‘Drinking! You take the money and hide it, then use it for your drinking!''

‘‘Look, it's my restaurant, I can do what I want with the proceeds.''

Mother glared at her, more curious than stunned. ‘‘Your uncle and I are silent partners. We own 10 per cent. Maybe you conveniently forgotten.'' Lu See felt her cheeks grow warm and hid her embarrassment by showing Dungeonboy a chipped teacup.

The telephone rang once more. This time Lu See was quickest off the mark. After a moment she replaced it on its cradle. ‘‘That was James. He says there are several thousand people taking part in a march. He told us to close up the restaurant.''

‘‘Close up? Why?'' asked Uncle Big Jowl.

Lu See wasn't sure. ‘‘All he said was that they were chanting Maoist slogans and provoking the Malays with slit-throat gestures.''

Everyone, including Fishlips Foo, scratched their heads. Unfazed, Lu See stacked a clean plate in Dungeonboy's outstretched arms, then another. As soon as he had shelved them, he slammed the shutters and returned to wash more dishes. A minute later they heard something. Dungeonboy, at the basin, up to his elbows in soap suds, urged everyone to be quiet. He strained his neck to one side, wiping the soap residue from his arms with a dishcloth.

A noise approached, throbbing and subterranean, thrumming through from the ground itself like the rumbling sound of heavy rain pulsing in the distance.

Lu See, Mother, Uncle Big Jowl, Dungeonboy and Fishlips Foo crept toward the restaurant's bright orange shutter windows and peeped out, spellbound.

One by one the legion materialized like ants spilling from a blazing anthill.

Howls of voices whipped the air, echoing back and forth between the shophouses. Throngs chanted ‘
Malai Sai! Kill the Malays! Malai Sai! Kill the Malays!'

Swarm after swarm of Chinese demonstrators filled the maze of streets, jamming the five-foot ways, tumbling in like a downward rush of water from a broken dam.
The East is Red! The Communist Party is like the sun! Wherever it shines our doctrine will spread!

It was like the roar of approaching rapids.

Lu See clapped a hand to her mouth. She recognized the scene; she'd seen it before: 1936, London. The mob behaved like an out-of-control funeral procession baying for the blood of the dead. ‘‘
Malai Sai! Malai Sai!
''