Bitter Sweet Harvest (38 page)

T
he road wound round the mountain range. On one side of it was the steep rise of the mountain and on the other side a sheer drop, concealed by dense rain forest. Tall tree ferns rose high, their lime green fronds spread and interlocked to form a canopy of shades. Through them, rays of sunshine filtered; first golden and then pearly white as a haze of dewdrops spiralled round them until they reached the ground. They struck the stems of the giant ferns, accentuating their craggy brown bark and the unrolling fronds of smaller plants growing closer to the ground. The buttress roots of the banyan trees loomed large. Everywhere was the lush green of the forest. At a distance, deep in the jungle, wild orchids hung precipitously down from their hosts; their large waxy blooms a colourful contrast to the surrounding green. Long-tailed monkeys swung from tree to tree, their cries echoing across the mountain. Then suddenly the car was descending; the road began to bend and twist more gently, each meander further apart than the previous one. Gradually, warm air supplanted the cold dampness of the rain forest and the flora changed. A stream emerged, drawing water from its source, hidden behind boulders in the hinterland. The car left the Main Range and they were back in the lowlands that run the length of the east coast of the Malay Peninsula. They were returning to Kemun and Hussein’s parents.

Hussein sat at the back of the limousine with one arm sprawled along the top of the back seat, the other resting on his knee. He stared unseeing as they drove past oil palms, row upon row of them. They were heavy with fruits; reddish berries the size of plums hung in thick huge clusters beneath the crowns of spiky fronds. In normal times, he would have looked eagerly at the landscape, marvelling at the progress that had been made even in the short time he had been in politics. He had seen the growth of the palm oil industry. Since its arrival from Africa in 1910, palm oil had flourished, but its development was, he believed, secured by the creation of the Palm Oil Research Institute of Malaysia, which he fondly called PORIM. And he was proud of it, proud to be associated with a government that had made it possible. For with the help of PORIM, palm oil had been made one of the country’s biggest export earners.

He looked at the neat houses amidst the estates. Ghazali who was sitting next to Hussein detected a tiny lightening of his boss’s mood. He half expected him to announce, as he had done many times before, the word “FELDA”, the Federal Land Development Authority. It was a pet topic of his. Ghazali remembered the early days, when fresh from university and fired with an ambition to alleviate rural poverty, Hussein had been all for the scheme established to resettle poor rural Malays on smallholder farms growing cash crops. He had canvassed with his boss through many of these holdings and enjoyed the welcome of farmers and their families, and appreciated their salutations, hand to heart and then to lips, with a bow of acknowledgement and thanks. The tiny elevation of mood proved to be short lived. Ghazali could see that Hussein had retreated into himself once more as they flashed past the palm oil holdings.

Hussein looked wistfully at the passing scenery. “Was it worth all the personal losses I have suffered? Was it worth my loss of An Mei?” he asked himself. “I would never have given her up if I had known she was pregnant.” He recalled the intimacy between Mark and An Mei, how they held hands as they walked towards the house. His bitterness grew like bile. He looked up at Ghazali, more a confidante and friend than a personal assistant.

“I want my child back. Would you look into the matter for me? Make an appointment with my lawyer.”

“May I say something?”

“Of course!”

“Are you sure, the child is yours?”

“How can he not be? Who else then could be the father? He looks like me; he is about four, which makes the timing about right. He certainly is not a white, an
orang putih
! Are you telling me that An Mei, Noraidin, had an affair while married to me?” He grew angry, even as he contemplated the possibility.

Ghazali smiled, “No! Nothing of the sort. Just that an old bachelor like myself cannot see a likeness. I cannot tell one baby from another; the boy Tim is not particularly pale, but I have seen Europeans who are also of that colouring. And I just wonder whether at this point in your career it is worth the inevitable acrimony. It is bound to create a lot of unwanted publicity and allow the opposition to make hay from the situation. Unless, of course, you are absolutely sure he is your son.”

“To hell with it. I spend half my time now thinking about what people might say.”

“Yes, I agree, even so, are you absolutely sure? How did she hide her pregnancy from you? Remember! You divorced her. Within months of marrying An Mei, I mean,
Puan
Noraidin, you married
Tengku
Shalimar! Won’t people’s sympathy swing towards her? Your divorce did not make the headlines only because
Puan
Noraidin conceded without a challenge and left the country. If you take her to court now, it would all be raked up. In the four years since then women’s groups have been making themselves heard.”

Ghazali had seen how the recent affair had affected Hussein and he did not want to see him hurt. He felt it would be better for his boss to start afresh rather than risk everything they had built in pursuit of a child, whose paternity, in his eyes, had yet to be proven.

“Then find out how I can prove parenthood. I don’t want them to flee the country. I would like them subpoenaed. Now! I would like them extradited to Malaysia and I want the matter settled in a Shariah court because it falls under family matters.”

“On what grounds? You can accuse and take them to court but you have to prove parenthood to win. It is a very complex case. She is not a Malaysian any more. I checked when I went to the immigration department to find out about her entry into Singapore and her whereabouts. There will be an element of international law that is bound to make it even messier.”

“Then do it fast while she is in Singapore. Singapore is bound by agreement as a commonwealth country to extradite her to us.”

“This is not a straight forward case. If it is not a criminal case, are they still bound to extradite to us? Are you sure that the matter would fall under family law, if the family unit, you and her, no longer exists.”

“Then find out!”

Hussein turned away and stared out of the window. All of a sudden, he was less sure of his chances. He began to feel the strain. The muscle in his neck twitched. He felt a dull pain spreading in his brain. He reached into his pocket and drew out a packet of pills. He picked two out from a blister and popped them into his mouth. He laid his head back and closed his eye, waiting for the ache to go. An incredible sense of sadness enfolded him.

The drawing room was huge with tall windows stretching from floor to ceiling on one wall. Outside a tropical storm raged. Big drops of rain pelted down, hitting the windowpane. Trees bent under the force of the wind, their branches whipping in frenzy like coiled springs catapulting back and forth.

Rahim stood facing the window. He had both hands behind his back; one held the other wrist. He was deep in thought, going over and over again what he had heard from Ghazali. He had not bothered to turn on the lights. The room, filled with ornaments and artefacts collected from their travels, was cast in almost total darkness by the storm. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, undecided what to do. Faridah had gone to her bedroom, upset by Hussein’s failure to bring home her grandson. She had waited impatiently for their return and when Hussein arrived empty-handed she had burst into tears. Hussein had left immediately, unwilling to speak any more. He had professed his intention to take An Mei back before he went to Singapore. Now he had returned home to inform his parents that not only had she rejected his offer but she was also married to another.

Rahim turned away from the window and walked to an armchair. He sat down, his body heavy with care. He too would have wished for a grandson, although he agreed with Ghazali that it would be better for Hussein to start afresh with someone new. He also knew that he could not influence his son like in the past. Hussein was now a man, a successful politician in his own right. He could only counsel him and even then he had to tread very carefully.

M
ark turned into the makeshift car park, a patch of rough ground that still had the scattered remnants of rubble from buildings that had just been pulled down. A rush of dust bloomed. It filled the air and covered the bonnet of the car.

A young man came over. He was neatly dressed in a white shirt and dark khaki trousers. A money pouch was slung over his shoulder and hung at his waist. He tapped on the window and pointed to a crudely improvised sign at the entrance. It had a list of parking fees.

“Goodness! Is that how it is done in Singapore? I thought there would be parking meters,” said Mark, as he was about to open the door.

“Wait! Let the air settle,” said An Mei putting out her hand to stop Mark. “This is a temporary car park. The owner must be trying to earn some money before building begins,” she felt obliged to explain. “Look around you. Only the shop houses in that street to the right of us are intact. Soon this car park will be transformed into a multi-storey complex.”

Mark turned. To the left of them, between the gaps in the fence, painted a bright green, he could see the façade of a row of shop houses. Nothing of their structure remained to the rear of them. Like a film set, they stood almost comical in their completeness in front, down to details of the name of the shops and the date when they were built. Everything was neat and orderly.

“The whole area is going to be re-built and improved, but to retain the character and history of the place, the façade of the houses will be kept. Come! The dust has settled. Two hours should be sufficient. Let’s pay him. We go to the right.” An Mei was in a hurry and anxious to get to their destination. She felt energised, more in control now that they were at least going to see a lawyer.

They set off with An Mei leading the way. After the air-conditioned car, the heat was oppressive. She pointed to a signboard on the upper floor of a two-storey shop house. It was one of many terraced shop houses on the street. The ground floors consisted mainly of shops while the upper floors were either living quarters attached to the shops below or offices. A covered way linked the shop houses offering protection for pedestrians from both rain and sun. Grasping Mark’s hand, An Mei crossed the road and hurried towards the shaded passage.

Mark could not help looking around him, temporarily distracted by the newness and quaintness of everything he could see. The old and the new, juxtaposed to form a seamless area of contrasting buildings with the people weaving in and out of the streets as the main connecting force. They stopped in front of a coffee shop. It was old and painted rose pink. A sign read “
Kopitiam
”. He peered into its dark deep interior. He could see an inviting courtyard within, lit by a shaft light from the sky above. An Mei shook her head. “No time,” she said, pointing instead to a narrow cement stairway to the side of the coffee shop. It had a wooden door, thrown wide open, and over it was another sign. It read, Tay Solicitors.

“Are you sure?” he asked looking dubiously at the bare steps.

“Yes! Not all solicitors have big offices although most have moved to more modern accommodation. You probably won’t find this in years to come. Still it is the address that Kam gave us. I called to confirm it and make an appointment. Don’t worry. I am sure Kam would not have referred us to this lawyer if he were not good at his job. I have been to worse-looking offices,” she said reflecting on her visit to Mr. Tan in Kuala Lumpur. Immediately, a frown crossed her face. She had gone to Mr. Tan’s office to find a way of keeping her unborn child. She was now in yet another office to fight for him. “Come!” She set off up the stairs. Her shoes clacked loudly on the bare cement. Mark followed.

There was little formality. A young woman, neat in a dark skirt and white blouse, smiled and showed them to a small waiting room. A Van Gogh print hung on one wall; its vase of yellow sunflowers looked benignly over synthetic leather armchairs, blue, beige and black, arranged alongside the opposite wall. Pushed into one corner was a table piled high with magazines and newspapers.

“Please wait,” she said and pattered off, only to return almost immediately.

“Please come this way,” she said indicating another room to the top left-hand side of the stairway, “Mr. Tay is waiting for you.”

Mr. Tay was in his late thirties, earnest and bespectacled. His jet-black hair was parted to the side and combed to the back, accentuating his clean-shaven and pale face. He stood up briefly, shook their hands and invited them to be seated.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, sitting forward and clasping his hands together, his elbows rested on the desk. He looked ready to spring. Behind him shelves lined the wall from floor to ceiling. Books, leather bound in black, red, deep blue, packed the shelves.

They explained, haltingly at first and then more animatedly, the kidnap, their situation, Hussein’s threat and their fears. An Mei began and Mark joined in, sometimes elaborating on a point, sometimes asking a question. Mr. Tay listened and jotted down notes. A concentrated frown appeared on his forehead. He interrupted to clarify a point and then bent over to scribble. At times, he would seem to have a sudden thought; his eyes would widen behind his spectacles and he would swivel his chair to look at the volumes of law books on the shelves, only to turn back to his desk and to scribble again. “Needs checking! Continue,” he would mutter, putting asterisks next to his notes.

At last they finished. An Mei looked exhausted. Mark who had had little sleep the previous night, looked longingly at the cup of coffee that had been placed in front of him earlier. It had gone cold, yet in his thirst, its milky brown still looked inviting. “May I?” he asked taking the cup from its saucer and drinking its contents in one go, the sweetness taking him by surprise. He wondered how much longer he could retain his English reserve; he felt at times it would be better to throw in his lot with the very emotional Asians. The so-called inscrutable Chinese who nevertheless seemed willing to lay bare their souls for all to see. At least they enjoyed some relief. They waited for Mr. Tay to speak.