Bitter Sweet Harvest (40 page)

“Mam, please put your bag on the conveyor belt and walk through this door.”

“No! My son! I can’t find him.”

“Then you have to wait your turn. Next please!” He glared at her.

Mark hurried forward towards her, his cabin bags swung perilously close to others in the crushing crowd. People glared at him. “What cheek!” they exclaimed.

“It’s not your turn. I was here first,” said an old lady blocking his passage. She looked at Mark; her voice was querulous, accusing. She pointed her finger at him. “Don’t try to take advantage of an old lady.”

“We are not trying to jump the queue. We are looking for our little boy,” he explained. He looked apologetically at the lady. She tried to engage him in a discussion, but he was preoccupied by the search for Tim.

She turned to her companion and said, “
Gwei loh!
Foreign devil! No manners.”

He ignored the barbed comment. He recognised the word “
gwei loh
. A commotion caught his attention. People parted like swaying corn.

“Do you mean this little boy?” asked a young man walking quickly towards them with Tim in his arms. “I found him hiding behind that lady,” he said turning around to point at a large lady wearing a long voluminous skirt that almost trailed the floor.

“You could not find me,” Tim said with a wicked grin. He kicked his legs, thrashing the young man’s side. “I hide. You have to find me.”

Mark took Tim from the young man and thanked him. “Sorry! Sorry! Thank you! Thank you so much. Please excuse us,” he said to the crowd of people returning to where they had been earlier. An Mei followed, relief on her face. She had been near to tears. Her nerves were frayed.

“I think it is better if we keep Tim between us,” she said walking round Mark to position Tim so that he was securely sandwiched between them. “More secure,” she added. “Do you think they would let me through that security screen with Tim?”

“Probably not! I shall go ahead, and wait on the other side. Then send Tim through. You go last.” Mark placed the cabin bag on the floor and placed his arm around An Mei. “It will be fine. I don’t think anyone will try to take Tim from us here.”

“How can we be sure?” This is the last chance they have. They might try.”

“Once we get into the departure lounge, it should be alright.”

“Yes! I hope so.” An Mei turned to look for the man whom she was sure had been watching them. He had disappeared.

A
n Mei stepped into the entrance foyer, some twenty metres in length and about ten metres wide, clad in marble and with a ceiling as high as a two-storey building. It was busy. A long queue had formed in front of a glass booth set in the centre. The booth manned by security guards separated the foyer from an equally large but dimly lit lounge. The flags of nearly 170 member nations were displayed on the walls of the lounge, creating a tapestry of red, blue, yellow and green. In the queue were men in grey suits carrying leather briefcases and women in dark skirts and jackets, one hand clutching a handbag, the other a briefcase. The sombre colours of their clothes were interrupted here and there by brilliant flashes of scarlet, turquoise, green, yellow and ochre worn by people who had chosen to arrive in their traditional national dress.

They were all visitors to the Food and Agriculture Organization, waiting patiently for their turn to be issued with a building pass to enter the premises. First the passports and identity documents were handed over to the uniformed guard, then a phone call to verify that they had an appointment, then a welcoming smile and the issue of a building pass. Many of the visitors, once cleared, went into the lounge and sat waiting to be collected.

An Mei smiled briefly at some of the visitors and walked into the inner confines of the building. She used the doorway to the right, flashing her own pass as a staff member to a guard, and walked passed the corner bookshop towards a broad marble staircase. She stopped and turned around, her eyes lingering over the familiar scene behind her. To the right was the bank, the
Banca Commerciale Italiana
, or BCI. Next to it, the post office, and further beyond was the corridor to the Staff Commissary, an enormous neon-lit commercial area. She smiled, reminded of how thrilled she had been when she first joined the Organization to discover the Commissary. It was like an Aladdin’s cave piled high with exotic goods — goods that were not available or were difficult to find in Rome, goods that staff members pined for from their homeland. She caught the eye of a colleague and smiled at his gesture to join him for coffee during the break. She indicated with her wrist that she was late and would catch up later. She had just returned from Singapore. She walked quickly up the marble staircase.

She had been away for more than a month, but it was as though she had never been away. She walked on, her mind going back to the day she first joined the UN agency. She had been nervous then, eager to have a job, delighted that she had been selected. Her work gave her a sense of direction and economic independence. And she had loved it and still did.

She continued up the stairway, ignoring the lifts at every floor. She needed to move to calm herself. She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head to relieve the tension. She arrived on the third floor. The lift door slid open and someone from within waved her in. “There is room,” a passenger called, stepping aside to make space.

“I’m fine, thank you. I’ll walk,” she responded and pressed on. She turned off the staircase into a long corridor with offices on either side. She peered into one. Two secretaries shared it and their desks were set facing each other, the walls were lined with filing cabinets. A potted plant by the windowsill was the only attempt to liven up the room. She recalled a visitor’s comment. “Such small grey rooms! I expected more glamorous offices in a UN building.”

“Not where the real work is done,” someone had volunteered with a laugh.

She stopped in front of a door and knocked hesitantly and then more firmly.

“Come in,” said a voice from within.

She walked in.

“An Mei! Welcome back! How was your trip? I gathered that it was work, but you took some leave as well. Was the family there with you? How are Mark and little Tim?” asked Sandra Pool.

Sandra came from behind her desk and took a chair for herself and pulled another alongside for An Mei. She was the personnel officer for the department where An Mei worked. A large woman, she had taken an instant liking to the petite small-boned An Mei and had helped her settle in Rome. An Mei sat in the proffered chair and Sandra plumped herself down in the adjacent one. The folds of her skirt cut in an A-shape, fell on either side of the chair like a tablecloth trailing the ground.

An Mei hesitated. She wondered how she should answer. How to say fine, which was expected of her, when it was not fine? She recalled the comment of a friend when she had voiced the same question in the past.

“When people ask you how you are just casually, you are not expected to go into any details or even tell the truth. You are expected to say, fine, and pass on. If you go into details then you should not be surprised to find that some people will shy away from you in future.”

An Mei steeled herself. “My work went well,” she said, “but unfortunately, the trip as far as the family is concerned was an absolute disaster and a very frightening experience.” She was not going to say that everything was fine when it was quite the opposite. It would be incongruous given what she was going to say next. “In fact, I have come to ask you for advice. I intend to hand in my resignation.”

Sandra took in the information without a comment. She sat with her hands on the armrest for a moment and then hauled herself up, pressing hard on the chair to get up.

“I gather this is just an informal sounding out and that nothing has yet been done or decided.” She looked curiously at An Mei. Her brown eyes were serious.

An Mei shook her head. “I’ve not spoken to anyone. I came to you as a friend.”

“Ahhh! Then as a friend I invite you for coffee at the terrace bar.” She looked at her wristwatch. “You came just at the right time. I’ll let my secretary know.”

She walked to the adjoining door and put her head round the doorway. An Mei could hear her speaking in her low melodic voice. Sandra had the most calming effect when she spoke. Her voice sounded like the strumming of a harp. Although she was not beautiful, she gave an impression of beauty and calm when she spoke. An Mei found herself responding to its beneficial effect.

They said little as they took the lift to the top floor. They stepped out, rounded a corner and went into the bar, a large room with a long counter, and were immediately accosted by the loud clatter of cups and saucers.

“
Un caffè macchiato! Un caffè latte, Due cappuccini! Un lungo! Doppio! Espresso! Caffè latte fredo!
” The barmen, smart in their black and white uniforms, yelled the orders in loud voices that reverberated across the counter. Queues formed and dwindled. Cigarette lighters popped, a flare of light was followed by spirals of smoke.

“Would you like a pastry? Which would you like, plain, chocolate or custard?” asked Sandra, looking longingly at the basket piled high with
cornetti
.

“Not for me, thank you, but you have one.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! Yes!”

Loaded with cups of steaming coffee, they stepped out onto the roof terrace that ran the entire length of the building. They were temporarily blinded by the bright sunshine and a clear blue sky.

“Let’s go over there, the corner that overlooks the
Circo Massimo
. There is some shade and not many people so we should be able to talk undisturbed,” Sandra suggested.

They stood companionably sipping their coffee in silence; steam rose from their cups like little puffs of smoke in the cool dry air of the autumn morning. They leaned on the stone balustrade and looked out on to the
Circo Massimo,
two figures looking at the remnants of the ancient Roman chariot racetrack.

“This is so beautiful. It hits me every time I come up here, even after seeing it for all the 20 years I have been in service. Look at the old Roman Baths over there.” Sandra pointed to the crumbling stonewalls and arches of the
Terme di Caracalla
to the right of her. The bright sunshine lit up the walls turning them fiery brown against the sapphire blue of the clear sky. Canopies of the aptly named umbrella pine trees rose above the walls.

“Can you bear to leave us? And what has brought this on?” asked Sandra turning to look at An Mei. She rested one elbow on the top of the low wall. “You know how difficult it is to get into the organization. You love your job and you are good at it. Every performance appraisal has marked you out as, as … excellent.”

“I have no choice. You see…” In a quiet voice, An Mei told her about Tim’s kidnap, Hussein’s threat and what Mr. Tay had told her. “It means that should Tim fall into their hands again and be brought to Malaysia, the chances of my getting him back would be minimal. I need to be with Tim all the time to make sure that he can never be abducted again.”

“Where is Tim now?”

“I left him with Mark. Mark took the day off. I trust no one else.”

“I don’t quite follow, all the legal bits I mean,” said Sandra.

“My former husband cannot compel me to appear before a Malaysian court, but, by the same token, if he abducts Tim, I cannot compel him to attend an English or Italian court if I were to take legal action against him for the return of Tim. If I take a case against him, I would have to fight in a Malaysian court and I doubt whether I would be deemed as a suitable mother for bringing up Tim as a Muslim.”

She looked out over the ruins. Her voice caught and wavered. “I was so happy when I heard that Hussein had no legal power to make me return to Malaysia. I thought that if I brought Tim back here we would be safe. But that is only so if I can make sure he is not abducted. The warning that the solicitor gave me at the very last did not sink in. I was so elated that we were able to leave. It was only in the airport in Kuala Lumpur that the full significance of his parting words became clear. He said that Tim must not return to Malaysia while he is a minor. That is why I have to resign so that I can be near him all the time.”

Sandra looked away. She could not bear the anguish in An Mei’s eyes. “Are you sure Tim would be in danger? Do you think that they would actually come here to take him?”

“That’s the problem. I am not sure of anything. I am jittery all the time. I suspect every passer-by who shows any interest in him. I fear strangers looking at us. I jump at every corner. I worry when he is in bed and I am not near to him. I thought that I could trust leaving Tim with my aunty, but, ever since the kidnap, I worry when I do. Not because I do not trust her, but because I fear the long reach of my former husband’s arm. I know he hates me; he hates me not only because of Tim but because I have rejected him for Mark.”

“Are you exaggerating this, building up this fear in yourself?”

“Perhaps. Nevertheless, to me it is real enough. In the immediate days following the release of Tim, I was not so afraid. Since then the fear has grown in me like a cancer. My mind keeps going back to the day when I caught Hussein accosting my aunt and Tim.”

An Mei reached into her bag and fished out an envelope. She pushed it towards Sandra. “This is a copy for you. I am going to see my boss now.” Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“Wait! There might be a way out. Let me explore this. Meanwhile, hold on to this,” said Sandra pushing the envelope back into An Mei’s hands. “Go to your office and ask for a day’s leave. Go back to Tim. I’ll take the matter up with your department.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I am going to find out if you could have extended unpaid leave under these extraordinary circumstances.”

“No! I have made up my mind to leave. Thank you.”

T
he fishing boats were lined up on the volcanic beach. There were fifteen of them, long narrow-bodied canoes, each tied neatly to a log hammered deep into the black ash. The
jukongs
were all painted, some were red with white stripes, others blue and yellow and yet others in hues ranging from orange to deep mauve. Their jutting bows, carved in the shape of the mythical elephant fish, had painted black eyes that glared fiercely. The wind blew hot from the ocean lending to the air a salty scent of the sea. Ahmad could see fishing boats coming to the shore, their beautiful sails unfurled, balanced gracefully on the outriggers. He heaved himself from the empty barrel. He felt stiff. Black ash and sand encrusted the sides of his shoes like granulated sugar. He pushed a fist into his lower back to ease the pain. He had lain cramped at the base of a boat for hours, staring into the pitch-black sky sprinkled with stars. Every bone in his body had protested with each creak and sway of the boat. The journey from Singapore to these Indonesian shores had taken three weeks. They had stopped at many islands and fishing villages to replenish supplies and the nine hundred nautical miles had seemed endless as they sailed close to shore. He sniffed, repelled by his own unwashed odour and then, stamping his feet to awaken his aching muscles, lumbered laboriously towards a hut. At the top of a short flight of stairs that led to the entrance to the hut, a lady stood waiting. She smiled revealing a gap in her front teeth and waved him to the back of the hut. With a quick motion of her hands, she indicated that he was to wash. She cackled pointing to his shoes and clothes.