The Harmony Silk Factory (17 page)

“The professor comes from a famous samurai family,” Father said. “He is a
marquis.
”

“Professor Kunichika is certainly a distinguished-looking man,” I said. There was something elusive in his face, something that reminded me of the dark, delicate features of the foxes that emerge from the jungle to prey on our chickens. When disturbed, they simply stop and stare at you with cool eyes, their white faces shining in the night.

“Well, he is the handsomest man
I
have seen,” said Mother.

“What are you a professor of, Professor?” I asked.

“You seem disbelieving,” he said.

“You don’t look much like a professor to me.”

Mother said, “He’s too handsome to be a professor, isn’t that right?”

He shrugged and said, “A little bit of everything.”

“Such as?” I said.

“Linguistics, Western literature—particularly Russian, philosophy . . .”

“Philosophy,”
Mother breathed, nodding at me.

“Jack-of-all-trades.” He laughed. “Your father is a famous scholar, and I hear you take after him.”

“I don’t aspire to any great heights,” I said.

Mother snorted again and mumbled something.

“I will certainly never be a professor,” I added.

“That is a shame,” he said with a sad smile. “Tell me—if I don’t look much like a professor, what do I look like?”

“I’d say you were a military man.”

He laughed out loud. His voice was rich and clear. “Look at these hands—I can’t even hold a shovel, much less a gun!”

Mother and Father both laughed loudly.

“It seems I am mistaken,” I said.

As they turned to leave, Kunichika said, “I sincerely hope I will have the honour of meeting you again—and your husband too.”

Mother said, “If that good-for-nothing fool is ever around, that is.” “Please,” Father said, smiling.

I watched Kunichika leave and walk across the yard. I tried to hide behind the shutters but it was as if he sensed my presence, and he looked straight at my window; I had no choice but to acknowledge him. He took off his hat and waved at me, and then continued walking towards the path leading into the plantation. He did not have a motorcar or even a bicycle. The walk through the plantation is a long one—very nearly a mile—particularly in this heat. How did he get here? I remained at the window for a while, watching him vanish into the shadows.

IN RECENT DAYS I have not been able to stop thinking about my early times with Johnny. I suppose this is unsurprising, given what I have decided to do. When I remember the things we did I seem to be recalling events from a very distant past. I have to remind myself that all these things happened little more than a year ago. The details are still fresh in my mind, but I do not know how long they will last.

One of the things I think about most often is the very first time I saw him. It was in the middle of the monsoon season and it had been raining hard for two days. I had not set foot outside the house all day and was feeling somewhat restless. I stood at the window watching the storm turn the front yard into a paddy field. On such days all I can hear is the rain. Although we are surrounded by forest, I have noticed that birdsong and the call of cicadas cease, resuming only when the downpour eases. But on that particular day there was another sound, one I could not place at first. It began as a faint tinkling, like a small child cheerfully playing with three keys of a piano. As it got louder I realised it was a bicycle bell. I could not believe that anyone would be cycling in such weather.

And then he came into view, splashing through the puddles on the muddy track through the plantation. He came towards the house slowly, as if afraid of it. It wasn’t until he was very close that I saw that, on the back of his bicycle, he was carrying something very large, covered with tarpaulin. I could not work out what it was that he was carrying, nor how the goods (if they were goods) were attached to the bicycle. His thin cotton shirt was soaked through; it stuck to his chest and stomach. I remember his baggy shorts too, heavy with water and bunched up around his thighs. There was something in the way he moved—with the freedom and uncertain strength of a young animal flexing its limbs—that imprinted itself in my memory. He peddled on unperturbed by the rain, as if he had spent his whole life exposed to the elements.

He disappeared from view, seeking shelter under the front verandah. I went out and stood at the top of the steps leading up to the house. I saw him sitting on the pedestal of one of the concrete stilts. He had a cigarette between his lips and was trying unsuccessfully to light a match.

“Are you alright?” I called out.

The sound of my voice made him leap to his feet. He seemed to be standing to attention, his hands by his sides and neck held rigid.

“It is raining,” he said. Those were the very first words he said to me.

“Would you like a hot drink? You might catch cold,” I said, but he simply stood staring at me uncertainly.

“What do you have at the back of your bicycle? Are you selling something?” I asked as I came down the stairs.

“Textiles,” he said. When he spoke the word it sounded odd, as if he had been practising it but had not yet become accustomed to its sound.

I smiled. “May I have a look?”

This seemed to take him by surprise, and he started towards his bicycle, placing his hand on the tarpaulin as if to protect his goods from me. “You would not be interested in this.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged his shoulders and frowned. I remember how worried he looked. He seemed a little confused, even sad.

“Are they secret things?” I said.

He shook his head. His hand was still firmly on the tarpaulin.

“Please,” I said. “I would like to see them.”

He looked at me for a very long time, as if searching for something. I went to the tarpaulin and undid the string that secured it to the bicycle. When I lifted it up I found a dozen bales of cloth. They were simple, unadorned textiles. I ran my fingers over them and felt their texture—hard-wearing and strong. There were a few lengths of batik too, folded up into thick cubes.

“Cheap textiles,” he said, drawing the tarpaulin back over the cloths.

“I think they are very beautiful.”

He looked at me and for a second I thought he was going to break into a smile; but then his face collapsed into a frown again. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said as he lashed the tarpaulin into place. “I lost my way.”

I do not know why I wanted him to stay. I cannot explain that feeling. Standing there under the house with the rain falling around me, I wanted to implore him to stay, but I could not say the words.

Just then I heard Father coming down the stairs. “What’s happening down there?” he said. “Who is there, Snow?”

“A cloth merchant,” I said as Father came to join us.

“So what do you have to offer us?” Father said, not seeming to notice that the poor boy was standing with his head bowed. “Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

The rain-sodden creature began to undo the tarpaulin, all the time keeping his head bowed.

“Where did this rubbish come from?” Father said, barely having looked at the cloths. “Who do you work for?”

“Tiger Tan.”

“I didn’t know Tiger had started selling this nonsense. He used to be a good merchant,” Father said. “What’s your name?”

“Johnny. Lim.”

“Well, Johnny Lim, you tell Tiger not to send these rags around here again.”

Johnny nodded.

“Come on, Snow,” Father said as he left.

As we went up the stairs I saw Johnny cycling off into the rain. I kept looking to see if he would turn back, but he did not. He pedalled steadily until he had crossed the yard. As he reached the path through the plantation he stopped cycling and looked back at the house. Through the deluge I couldn’t see his face clearly, but I convinced myself he was smiling. I turned away and lay on my bed, pulling a small pillow to my stomach. Even now, long after I misplaced that little beaded cushion somewhere in this house, I remember the gentle tickle of the embroidered flower patterns on my fingertips, just as I remember the smell of rain-wet earth blowing through the windows.

These are the things I have already lost, I know, but what will happen to the memories? Will they remain, or will they slowly fade away as old photographs do, bleached to nothingness by sunlight? I feel as if I am about to throw open the shutters and let the light in. The burning, burning light.

I AM TRYNING TO REMEMBER when I arrived at my decision. I do not think I can point to a single moment in time and say yes, that is when I decided I would leave my husband.

Leave my husband.
The sound of those words thrills me and frightens me. I am shocked by how the words appear on the pages of this diary, clear and indelible. Their sentiments will endure long after I am gone.

If I am being honest, it was only a few days after we got married that I first knew (or should have known) that I would not remain with Johnny forever. Mother and Father invited a few friends to the house to be introduced to him. I insisted they do so—I did not wish for my husband to be treated as a leper, something awful to be ashamed of. About eight people came, friends of Father’s whom I have known since I was very young. One of them had a daughter who was my age. Her name was Lemon and she was not yet married. She led me by the hand down the dim corridor leading to my bedroom; she padded quickly across the bare boards, the pale soles of her bare feet flashing against the dark teak floor. Giggling, she locked the door. She could not wait to speak about the experience of being married.

“What’s it really like?” she asked, sitting elegantly on the mat with her legs folded under her (something my inflexible bones will not permit me to do).

“It’s nice,” I replied, “though really no different from being on your own. Life goes on just as it did before.”

“But surely it must be more exciting now, what with a man in your room!”

I laughed. “Excitement? I’m not sure that is the object of marriage.”

“Snow, come on,” she said, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial manner. “
Your
marriage is all about excitement.”

I paused. “What do you mean?”

She played with her jade pendant, rubbing it between her fingers. “You know exactly what I mean, Snow. After all—Johnny Lim, well, isn’t it exciting being with this type of man? Answer truthfully now.”

“What sort of a man is he?”

“Snow!” she exclaimed, throwing her head back in laughter. “How you tease me! Alright, if you want to hear me say it: he is a strong, healthy, labouring man, totally uneducated and wild. He’s different from us. He’s almost . . .
savage.
That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? Admit it!”

“No,” I answered, “it isn’t what I want. He isn’t savage.”

“Ooohhh,” she continued giggling, “you’ve always made me laugh, dear Snow. Anyway, it’s good that there are no secrets between us. I’m glad you tell me these things. After all, everyone in the Valley has been talking about you and Johnny. Everyone knows you wanted a husband who is different from you, different from the rest of us. You’ve always been a naughty thing.”

I did not answer. I looked at her slim neck, encircled by the delicate gold chain around it. Next to her I felt tall and ungainly.

“Tell me,” she said, “are your parents still very angry with you?”

I shrugged. “Father gave his consent to the marriage in the end, so he has no reason to be angry.”

“My parents told me that your mother threatened to disown you if you married Johnny, but you insisted on doing so. Is that true? Oh, tell me it is, Snow—it’s a wonderful story!”

I paused. “No,” I said, “that is not quite how it turned out.”

“Father said he would flog me if I followed your example—or sell me to the brothel in Kampar. That’s where I’d belong, he said. Isn’t that hilarious?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to raise a smile.

“So what do you and Johnny talk about?”

“Everything,” I said. “Everything.”

“You do surprise me, Snow,” she said as she rose from her folded-flower position. She crossed the room and picked up my wedding photograph. She replaced it on my dressing table and looked around the room. “You should furnish this place more luxuriously now that you are a married woman,” she said. “Books alone are not very decorative, you know.”

We rejoined the others in the sitting room. Johnny was clearly uncomfortable. He looked very small in his large rosewood armchair and moved constantly, like a mouse caught in a box. The long calligraphy scrolls hung on the walls above him, unfurled like long tendrils trying to touch him on the shoulder.

“Your husband has been telling us how he has taken over Tiger Tan’s shop,” Lemon’s father said. “He sounds as if he is doing very well—that is a good little shop he has there.”

“He is very proud of it,” I said, sitting next to Johnny. I looked at him and saw his eyes soften with my presence.

“He should be,” Chan Toh Kwan said. “Everyone needs towels now and then.”

“How fortunate he is to have married into this family,” Lemon’s mother said.

“If you need to dress your servants,” said Mother, “send them to Johnny. He knows exactly how servants dress.”

“Lemon,” I said, “why don’t you play the piano?”

She did not need persuading. She crossed the room and seated herself at the piano. Her reflection gleamed in its polished upright face. She said, “What shall I play?”

“How about some Mozart,” Father said.

She began to play a delicate piece, playful and bright, her fingers moving easily over the keyboard. When she finished she turned around and smiled. “That’s one I have learnt recently. Can you guess what it is?”