“You’re not leaving for somewhere safe?”
He shook his head. “I too have my own path to follow here.” He looked, for a moment, much older than his fifty years. “And if I leave, who will be waiting for my son when he returns?”
“Kon looks very much like you,” I said, trying to think of something to fill the silence. We had never had much to talk about but now he looked pleased at my comparison. I suppose that was how one made fathers happy. We watched as the planes made another sweep of the skies.
“He is my only son,” he said. “I’m sorry about William,” he continued. “The gods only know what would happen to me if I lost my boy. I think I would not be able to go on.”
“I don’t know if all of us can survive this war,” I said.
He gave an almost evil smile and raised his eyebrows. “I have no doubts at all that if anyone survives, it will be you,” he said. “And I do not mean that based solely on the influence of your teacher. No, I have met Mr. Endo, and it is obvious that he does not choose weaklings to tutor. You are going to surprise all of us, I think.”
I got up from the flower box, not liking the way the conversation was heading. His words had bones in them, like the flesh of fish one bites into innocently. “I have to go now. Please let me know when you find out where your son is.”
* * *
We continued to receive news of massacres perpetrated by the Japanese troops advancing from the north and, although my father kept them to himself, I could see the fears on his face. He had taken out his rifle from the gun cupboard in his study, keeping it fully loaded and within easy reach. His collection of
keris
had also been removed from the library. Our tin mines and plantations in northern Malaya had all been taken over by the Japanese, and it came to me that he would never hand over the family company to them. I began to fear for his safety and the fear grew when, coming home in a humid dusk, we saw a staff car parked in the drive. A white flag with a red circle hung limply above its bonnet.
“Those bastards,” my father said, getting out before Uncle Lim had a chance to fully stop our car. I ran after him as he went into the house. We heard voices as soon as we entered the hall and I stopped when I saw Goro, the official from the Japanese consulate, and someone else coming down the stairs. They stopped halfway down when they saw us.
“Get out of my house,” my father said.
A Japanese man stood behind Goro and I felt an inexplicable fear. He had small unblinking eyes and a short moustache and hair cut very short. What terrified me more was not the fact that he had the appearance of a soldier, but that he was not in uniform. I knew instantly that I was facing a man from the Kempeitai, the Japanese secret police that had tortured refugees fleeing from the north of Malaya. I placed my hand on my father to restrain him.
“It will not be yours for much longer,” Goro said. “Fujihara-san has taken a strong liking to it.”
The man spoke to Goro in Japanese. I understood him clearly, but Goro interpreted. “We will get your company as well, once you all run away.”
“We’ll never run,” my father said.
“What you do is of no concern to us. We will send you all to the camps, or we will kill you.” He pointed to me. “Even your half-breed son.”
I had to find a way to calm them down. I bowed and began to address them in placatory tones when Isabel came into the hall, pointing our father’s rifle at Goro. “My father has asked you to leave. I won’t ask again.”
“Isabel,” I said. “Put it down.”
Goro and the man from the Kempeitai did not move fast enough for Isabel’s liking. She fired a shot into the wall behind them, dusting them with wood chips and plaster. Goro shielded the other man as they walked down the stairs, their eyes never moving from Isabel’s face until they had gone out of the front door. I knew that their sense of honor would demand that they find a way to get back at her.
I turned back to Isabel, who was still holding the rifle in a firing stance. “I could have settled that without antagonizing them,” I said.
“You’re always trying to defend them,” she said, matching my anger.
“I wasn’t doing anything of the sort. I was trying to keep you safe,” I lashed back at her. “Now you’ve placed us all in danger.”
“Who’s been fraternizing with the Japs? You should’ve heard yourself, in your weak and submissive voice! Groveling to them without shame!”
“That’s enough!” my father cut in. “Put that thing away! What are you still doing here? You’re supposed to be hiding up on The Hill.”
“I stayed to help the servants pack. I’ve decided to leave with them,” she replied.
More than ever now I realized we had to leave Penang, leave Malaya. We had been marked by the Japanese and they would come after us if we stayed.
“We’re not safe anymore,” I said. “We have to leave for Singapore immediately.”
My father remained unyielding. “We won’t leave. If you want to you can go ahead,” he said flatly. “If you have any understanding of what it means to be part of this family—which you never
did
have—then you’ll stand by us!” He stopped and he looked stricken. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to come out like that. I’m sorry.”
The longest time seemed to pass before I could speak again. “I’m staying. This is my home too, my only home. I’m staying. But I’ll do it on my terms,” I said and walked slowly away from them, the choice I had to make now clear to me. In the end it was all so simple and obvious, really.
* * *
I cycled to the Japanese consulate. There was a lot of traffic on the roads and many of the cars carried large leather trunks on their roofs, scattering the Japanese propaganda pamphlets on the road as they drove by. An image came to me of a Chinese funeral I had attended once when one of our staff had died. The monk leading the ceremony had scattered sheaves of paper money as he walked and the pieces of paper had floated in the hot afternoon, writhing and twisting like the lost souls they were meant to appease, soundlessly cradling down to earth. Now, as the cars passed, as the words of the Japanese flew up and then swung down again in a pendulous motion, that memory came back to me and I was fearful. I was witnessing the funerary rites of my country, of my home.
I informed the sentry at the entrance of the consulate that I wished to see Endo-san. He opened the gates and I pushed my bicycle through, past the bamboo groves and little pavilions. The rushing sounds of the traffic were absent, denied entry into this place. The Japanese government had purchased the property just before the Great War, when they had been on friendlier terms with Britain. It was not a well-known fact that during the Great War the British and the Japanese had entered into a treaty allowing the Japanese navy to patrol the waters of Malaya, a treaty that seemed to have backfired on Britain, for the Japanese navy had become fully familiar with the coastline.
Considerable effort and expense had been invested to create a dreamlike ideal of Japan in the consulate gardens. I had often cycled past without paying any attention to it, but now its beauty, when so much of the world was being destroyed, made me stop and appreciate it.
A willow drooped over a pond, its surface rippling with the kisses of sparkling carp. A figure crouched at the edge of the pond, feeding them. I leaned my bicycle against a tree and walked down the grassy slope toward him. He smiled when he saw me, scattering the last of the breadcrumbs into the pond, brushing his hands against his trousers.
“What mischief have you been up to now?” he asked.
He used the exact words my father had often spoken to me and William and I had to shake off the sense that every step of my life had been charted long before I was born. It was the war, I thought. It had fractured and dislocated everything I had known.
“I need to see you and Hiroshi-san,” I said. Endo-san nodded, and I followed him into the consulate. It was, in comparison with the garden, busy and energetic. Army officers, all in their teal green uniforms, carried documents and walked with brisk purpose. I was led into Hiroshi’s office. He looked up and saw Endo-san behind me and I caught a hurriedly hidden look of triumph in his eyes.
“I wish to offer my services to your government,” I said. “I believe the ambassador in Kuala Lumpur, Saotome-san, would approve it.”
I had rehearsed the words all the way from home, muttering them as I cycled, but still it felt difficult to utter them now. They came out from within me, unwilling to take form in the air, only wishing to melt into my breath. I was choosing a path that had the strongest chance of saving all of us, all of my family, and I would take it. There was a war on and surely no one could blame me—or would even remember, when it was all over.
“We had considered asking you to assist us in the daily affairs of running this island,” Hiroshi said, indicating for me to sit down. I remained standing. “You have the language skills and the understanding of our culture to help implement our policies.”
“He can assist me,” Endo-san said.
“I have one request: let my father continue to run his company after you’ve taken over Malaya.”
“All businesses will be brought under the authority of the Japanese government. But I suppose Mr. Hutton’s expertise and experience will be useful,” Hiroshi said. “We shall see what sort of role he can still play within your family’s company.”
He came around his desk and put his hand on my shoulder. “Since you are going to be a member of the consulate, the first thing you should do is to show your respect.” He turned me around to the portrait of the emperor that hung on the wall. I knew what was required and so I bowed low and respectfully to it.
Chapter Three
My father had told me to make sure that Isabel changed her appearance as much as possible before traveling up to Penang Hill. I stood over her as one of the maids, who earned a little extra money as hairdresser to the other servants, cut her hair in the courtyard outside the kitchen.
“This is undignified,” Isabel complained as she sat on a high stool, a sheet from the
Straits Times
draped around her shoulders.
“Father’s orders,” I said.
She did not respond. The incident with the two Japanese who had threatened to requisition our home had strained the relationship between us. I still felt the sharpness of her words, how unjustified they were, and found it difficult to forgive her.
“It’s for your own good. The more you look like a man, the safer you’ll be,” I said. “I’ve laid out William’s clothes in your room. You can put them on when you’re done.”
I left her and went inside the house.
* * *
With her shortened hair and wearing his clothes, Isabel could have been William, and for a moment we felt his absence sharply. My father said, “Good Lord!” Even Edward was quiet. Isabel laughed weakly to shake us out of our despondency. Peter MacAllister embraced her and I turned away, feeling an emptiness inside. I was feeling anxious about breaking the news of my association with the Japanese government to my father.
“There’re more refugees fleeing the Jap army,” MacAllister said. He had been spending more time at Istana, talking to my father, who was slowly coming to accept his presence in our lives. “I met some of them on the quay today. Most had escaped with only a suitcase.”
“We can put some of them up here,” my father offered.
MacAllister shook his head. “They don’t want to be in Penang.
They want to get as far away as possible. In fact, they urged us to leave as well.”
We had been receiving almost continuous reports of Japanese victories. The entire east coast had been taken, as had the northern states of Perlis and Kelantan near the border with Thailand. Years from now historians would reveal how unprepared the British government had been, how carelessly it had disregarded Japan’s plans for invasion. But for now there was only a flood of fleeing refugees, mostly Europeans who had made their homes in Malaya.
“I’m not leaving, Peter. I’ve told you that,” my father said. He looked at me. “How could I face the people who work for us if we packed up and ran and left them to the Japs?”
I had noticed a change in the way Endo-san’s people were now referred to. No longer were they the more polite “Japanese,” but “the Japs” or, as was more common now, “the
bloody
Japs.”
“Apparently the bloody Japs are traveling all over the country on bicycles,” MacAllister told us. I kept silent, recalling a conversation with Endo-san on the train from Kuala Lumpur as the carriage moved through the damp, sparkling jungles.
“Nothing can penetrate this,” he had said as the massive columns of trees sped by, wrapped in thick ferns and high vegetation. Many of the fig trees were buttressed at their bases with triangular wedges of roots that grew as thick and high as walls.
“That’s not true,” I had said. “Many of the locals here either walk or use a bicycle. There are jungle tracks, even though you can’t see them. William once told me you can get good maps of them from the Forestry Department.”
