Love Over Scotland (13 page)

35. Setting Off

Domenica had an early breakfast in the courtyard of her small hotel in Malacca. The couple who ran the hotel, the da Silvas, brought her a plate of freshly sliced tropical fruits–paw-paw, watermelon, star fruit–and this was followed by a fine white porridge, sweetened and flavoured with cinnamon, and after that by scrambled eggs in which chopped smoked fish had been mixed. She ate alone at her table; it seemed that she was the only guest in the hotel; she had seen nobody else since she had arrived, and the da Silvas had urged her to stay as long as possible. “There is plenty of room,” they said, wistfully, she thought.

The courtyard suited her very well, as it had two frangipani trees in blossom and she could just pick up the delicate, rather sickly scent of their white flowers. She liked frangipani trees, and had planted several in her time in Kerala, all those years ago. But not everybody shared her enthusiasm; the Chinese often did not like them because they associated them with cemeteries, where they often grew. Tree associations interested Domenica. In Scotland, it was well known that rowan trees protected one against witches, just as buddleia attracts butterflies. And then there were the ancestor trees in Africa–a tree which one should not cut down, out of respect for the ancestor who might inhabit it. In India, the same rule applied to banyan trees, and she had once travelled on a highway where a banyan tree had been left growing in the middle of the road. Surprising as it was, that, she thought, demonstrated a proper sense of priorities. In her view, the car should give way to spiritual values, although it rarely did. And, of course, there were places where the car was even accorded an almost spiritual status. Had somebody in the United States not insisted on being buried in his car? It was so absurd.

Her breakfast over, Domenica returned to her room and packed her bags. In an hour’s time, Edward Hong would be calling for her, as he had agreed to drive her to meet the contact who would lead her to the pirate village. He could not drive all the way, he explained, for reasons of security.

“I’m afraid that they’re a little bit unwilling to let me go to the village itself,” he said. “And you will be obliged to walk the last couple of miles. But everybody knows where it is, of course. I suppose they like to maintain at least some sense of clandestinity. Good for their self-image, I suspect.”

When Domenica expressed astonishment that the location of the pirate stronghold should be widely known, Edward Hong waved a hand in the air. “But that’s the way things are, you know. The police are probably rather frightened of these pirate fellows, I imagine. A policy of live-and-let-live is easiest.”

Domenica had experience of this in India, where the law could be enforced sporadically, but surely piracy was different…

Edward Hong sighed. “They make an effort,” he said. “They announced the hanging of a couple of pirates a few years ago, but nobody thought they were really hanged. Maybe just suspended.” He glanced at her sideways and they both laughed. It was difficult to tell these days whether people still appreciated humour. He was pleased to find out that Domenica did; but of course she would, he thought–she is clearly a woman of discernment and wit.

“It’s rather difficult for the authorities,” he went on. “Poor fellows. They have so much to do, and it does get frightfully hot out here.” He took a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow. Domenica noticed, with approval, the gold embroidered initials on the corner of the handkerchief: EH, worked in fancy script.

Edward Hong looked at his watch. “If you’re ready,” he said, “we can go. My driver will take us to pick up this reprobate, and then we shall take a little spin out to the village, or as close as we’re allowed to get. Have you brought a good sun hat?”

Domenica nodded.

“And insect repellent?”

Again she nodded.

“I can see you’ve been in the field before,” said Edward Hong appreciatively. He paused. “Are you absolutely sure that you want to go on with this? You know, I doubt if anybody would think the less of you if you decided to do something different. We have a very interesting set of Chinese secret societies here in Malacca; I’m sure we could fix you up to study those.”

Domenica assured him that she was well aware of the risks and that she was determined to continue with her project.

“Oh, it’s not the risk I’m thinking of,” said Edward Hong quickly. “It’s more the discomfort. You know these people have a pretty primitive cuisine–I gather that pirate cooking is just awful. And the boredom of the conversation. They’re not brilliant conversationalists, you know, and you’ll be talking pidgin into the bargain. I’m afraid that you’re in for a rather thin time of it socially.”

Domenica pointed to her trunk. “I have a good supply of books,” she said. “I shall not want for reading matter.”

Edward Hong inquired as to which books she had brought with her, and she told him of the last six volumes of Proust that she had tucked away in the trunk.

“Proust!” he exclaimed. “The ideal companion for a mangrove swamp! That sets my mind at rest. I shall picture you in that steamy swamp with your little notebooks and your Proust.”

“I’m not so sure that Proust is the right choice,” said Domenica. “But at least it will fill the hours. And, of course, I shall be busy with my fieldwork. I have so many questions to ask these people. I doubt if I’ll have all that much spare time.”

They left the hotel and got into Edward Hong’s waiting car. Then, negotiating a series of pothole-ridden backroads and alleyways, they arrived at a small café on the front of which was a block of Chinese script and a large sign in Baharsa Malay advertising the merits of Tiger Balm.

Edward Hong said something to the driver, who climbed out of the car and walked into the café. A few minutes later, Domenica saw him come out with a striking-looking young man with a blue headscarf tied across his brow. He was wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of denim jeans. His feet were in sandals.

The driver gestured to the passenger seat in the front and the young man got into it. He turned and gave Domenica a wide smile, exposing a brilliant set of teeth. Then he winked at her. She wondered if she had been mistaken, but then he winked again, and she realised that she had not. I cannot afford to have a romance with a pirate, she said to herself. Not at my stage of life. I just cannot.

36. Singapore Matters

As they drove out of Malacca, heading north, Edward Hong entertained Domenica with an account of his life. He had a strange way of talking–that style sometimes encountered which conveys the impression that the listener already knows what is being said and the narrator is merely adding detail.

“We’re a Malacca family,” he said. “My grandfather, Sir Percival Hong, was one of the first locals to be on the bench. He was a very popular man–everybody liked him, and he was the one who built our house, actually. He had a very good collection of early Chinese ceramics which he built up with the help of a dealer in Hong Kong. I remember that dealer coming to the house when I was a boy. I thought that he was the last word in sophistication back then. He had a pencil moustache and wore his handkerchief tucked into the sleeve of his jacket, which impressed me greatly, for some reason.

“Then, after my grandfather’s death, when we had the appraisers in to value the collection, we discovered that virtually every piece was a fake. A clever fake, mind you, and an aesthetically-pleasing one, but a fake nonetheless. My grandfather simply had not known enough to tell what was genuine. And the dealer, it transpires, was a charming crook. And I must say it was better that my grandfather never found out, don’t you agree?”

Domenica looked out of the window. They were on the outskirts of the town now and passing a small section of paddy field that abutted onto a warehouse of some sort. A group of children stood at the edge of the paddy field, throwing stones into the water. At the far end, a large white egret rose slowly into the air, circled, and headed off on some business of its own.

She answered Edward Hong’s question. “I suppose it is better. It’s never easy to discover one’s been taken in.”

Edward Hong nodded. “Then there was my father,” he said. “He was destined for the law, too, but really couldn’t knuckle down to his studies, and so he joined a cousin of his who had a business in Singapore. I was actually born in Singapore, you know, and spent my childhood there. We had a rather nice house just off Orchard Road, which wasn’t so built up in those days. My father chose that in order to be close to the Tanglin Club, where he always went for a whisky after work. They had an arrangement whereby you could leave your own bottle of whisky in the club and be served from that if you wished.

“I felt a bit trapped in Singapore. I did not mind the government there, of course–it wasn’t that. In fact, I rather liked Lee Kuan Yew. He used to come for dinner at the house from time to time and he would talk about things they were proposing to ban. Chewing gum, for example. You did know that chewing gum is illegal in Singapore?

“I must say that I happen to think that that is the most remarkably enlightened bit of legislation. I can’t bear to see people chewing gum–they look so vacant, so bovine. I’m sorry, but when I see somebody chewing gum, I can’t help but think that they look like a cow. It’s such a moronic activity!”

Domenica thought of Edinburgh, and the chewing gum that had disfigured its pavements. In some parts of the city, the pavements had become covered in gum, which was difficult and expensive to remove. There was something to be said for a chewing-gum ban, she thought.

“You can say what you like about Singapore,” went on Edward Hong, “but it’s safe. They don’t tolerate crime, and as a result they have very little.
Post hoc, propter hoc
. And they don’t tolerate drug addiction, and again they don’t have too much of that. Drug users, you see, are put into an institution at Changi and kept there for six months. They teach them a trade and they wean them off drugs.”

Domenica looked doubtful. “And does it work?”

Edward Hong shrugged. “They claim a reasonable success rate, but…” He paused and looked at Domenica. “But tell me, what do you do for your drug addicts back in Scotland?”

Domenica thought. She was uncertain what was done, but she thought it was very little. Could we say, we leave them to get on with it, or would that imply a lack of concern? Or was the problem simply too big to be dealt with any more, with twelve-year-olds and the like starting drinking, with the connivance of adults? Where did one start?

“I can see that it’s difficult,” said Edward Hong sympathetically. “I understand. You have so much freedom, don’t you, and then you find that freedom leads to complications. Would one rather live in London or Singapore, do you think?”

Domenica was about to laugh, as if the answer were so obvious, but she hesitated.

“Yes,” said Edward Hong, shaking a finger. “You see, it’s not quite as simple as one might imagine. In London, unless you’re very fortunate, or rich, you have to worry a great deal about being mugged, or worse. You have to contend with crowded trains, and a lot of frustration. You have to struggle for everything. In Singapore, everything is tremendously clean. A woman can walk about anywhere in the city, anywhere, without fear of being molested or attacked. Children can play outside, on their own, wherever they like, in perfect safety. And there are no threatening beggars on the streets.”

“But if there are no beggars on the streets,” said Domenica. “Where are they?”

Edward Hong looked puzzled. “I don’t understand,” he said. “There are no beggars on the streets because nobody is allowed to beg. People can go about their business unmolested–it’s as simple as that.”

“So the beggars are gainfully employed?” asked Domenica. “They aren’t just moved on?”

“Of course,” said Edward Hong. “Besides, there’s nowhere to move them on to. If you moved anybody on from Singapore they’d fall into the sea. So nobody is moved on.”

“How interesting,” said Domenica.

37. Ling’s Story

Both Edward Hong and Domenica were surprised to find out that the young man who was to act as her guide spoke passable English. This surprise, though, was accompanied by a great deal of relief. If Ling, as he was called, spoke English then the prospect of having to communicate in some form of pidgin, or to rely on gestures and body language, receded, and this meant that Domenica’s fieldwork became all the easier. Of course, there was something to be said for studies in which no verbal communication took place between anthropologist and subject–such studies were free of the filtering effect of language and could therefore be more insightful than those in which language was used. There had been several well-known studies which had been completely compromised by the anthropologist’s having accepted explanations given to him by the hardly disinterested subject. In a polygamous society, a man might lie, for example, as to the number of wives he had, a larger number being associated with greater wealth. Or he might exaggerate his position in the village hierarchy, thereby confusing the anthropologist’s understanding of authority within the community. Such dangers disappeared completely if mutual incomprehension was the order of the day.

Ling explained that he was the son of a farmer who had gone bankrupt. Thanks to the efforts of a group of Catholic missionaries, he had received a good education, including a very good grounding in English, and had been planning to pursue a career in the United Bank of Penang, but had been distracted from this by having fallen in love with the daughter of one of the elders in the village towards which they were heading. He had decided to postpone the accountancy course he had enrolled in until his girlfriend was ready to leave her family and marry him. This would not be for a year or two yet, he explained, as a result of the illness of her grandmother, to whom she was particularly attached.

“The old lady does not have long to live,” explained Ling. “The doctors doubt if she will last a year. My fiancée wishes to spend as much time as possible with her, and I support her in this decision.”

“That is very considerate,” said Edward Hong. “You will make a fine son-in-law.” And then he added quietly: “Not for me, of course, but for this chap in the village.”

Ling thanked him for the compliment. He then turned to Domenica. “Mrs Macdonald, may I ask you a question? What exactly do you want to find out in the village?”

“As you know,” said Domenica, “I am an anthropologist. I was thinking of a new project, at the suggestion of my dear friend, Dilly Emslie, a few months ago, and it occurred to me that it would be interesting to do an anthropological study of one of these modern pirate communities. And so that is why I’m here.”

Ling looked thoughtful. “Well, I suppose that you have come to the right place. There certainly are pirates operating in the Malacca Straits. It’s quite dangerous for shipping these days.”

Edward Hong had been studying Ling with care. Now he interrupted. “Tell me, young man,” he asked, “are you involved in piracy yourself?”

Ling looked shocked. “Certainly not! I would never get involved in that sort of thing. It would hardly be a good start for my career, would it?”

“No,” said Edward Hong. “But then you do live amongst these people, don’t you?”

Ling sighed. “Some of us don’t have much of a choice, Mr Hong. The fact of the matter is that my future father-in-law may know these people quite well, might even be slightly involved in their activities–I have no evidence of that, of course–but as far as I am concerned it is nothing whatsoever to do with me.”

Edward Hong nodded. “Very well,” he said. “I understand. But will you be able to ensure that Mrs Macdonald has adequate access to them? Will you be able to do that?”

“Of course I will,” said Ling. “It’s a small village, you know. Everybody knows everybody else’s business.”

Domenica looked reassured.

“I’m sure that Ling will be very good to me,” she said to Edward Hong. Then, turning to Ling, she said: “And I really am very grateful to you for giving up your time to help me. It’s very generous of you, you know.”

“I have little else to do,” confessed Ling. “Assisting the occasional anthropologist helps pass the time.”

This remark was succeeded by complete silence. Domenica, who had been winding her watch, glanced up quickly. “You’ve had anthropologists before?” she asked.

Ling did not seem to notice the anxiety in her voice. “We’ve only had one.”

Domenica looked at him searchingly. “And who was this person?”

“He was a Belgian,” said Ling. “I never found out his surname. We all just called him André.”

“And what happened?” Domenica pressed. She had visions of her study being rendered completely otiose by the imminent appearance, in one of the prestigious journals, perhaps
Mankind Quarterly
, of an extensive Belgian study of a pirate community on the Malacca Straits. It would be bitterly disappointing.

And what would they think of her when she returned to Edinburgh after only a few weeks and announced that there had been no point in proceeding? She would be a laughingstock, and everybody who made comments about the foolhardiness of the study would feel vindicated.

Ling, who had been looking out of the window, transferred his gaze to Domenica.

“He is still there,” he said.

Domenica gasped. There was no situation more tense, more fraught with difficulty, than the unexpected encounter by one anthropologist of another–in the field.

If this Belgian were still in residence, then she would have to ask Edward Hong to instruct his driver to turn the car round without delay. There would be no point in proceeding, and they might as well return to Malacca and listen to Edward Hong’s daughter playing Chopin.

Then Ling spoke again. “Yes,” he repeated. “He’s still there. Down by the place where the fishing nets are hung out to dry.”

Then he added: “Still there. In his grave.”