The Harmony Silk Factory (18 page)

Mother turned to Johnny. “Do you know what that is?”

He frowned and looked down into his cup of tea.

I said, “Well, I for one do not recognise it.”

Lemon pouted like a girl ten years younger and said, “Oh, Uncle T.K.,
you
know what it is, don’t you?”

Father laughed. “It’s part of the allegro from a piano sonata. I can’t remember which one, but I do know you’ve only played a small part of it, you naughty girl.”

She giggled. “Sorry.”

“As you play so beautifully, we shall forgive you.”

“What next?” she asked.

Father said, “Some Chopin?”

“T.K.,” Mother said, laughing, “are you sure that’s appropriate?”

“Mazurka or waltz?” asked Lemon.

“Johnny?” Father said. “What is your preference?”

Johnny shrugged, head bowed.

“It appears Johnny has no opinion on the subject of music,” said Father.

“Nocturne,” I said. “Johnny would like to hear a nocturne.”

“Oh,” said Lemon, frowning, “I haven’t practised any nocturnes.”

“Can’t you remember anything?” I said.

She began to play something slowly. Her fingers were hesitant, but she produced a pleasant tune nonetheless, one I recognised from Father’s gramophone. Then she stopped. “I can’t,” she said. “I don’t remember the rest.”

“Father,” I said, “why don’t you play? I’m sure you can play this one.”

“T.K.?” his friends chorused. “We didn’t know you played the piano. What a thing! And we thought only the women played musical instruments!”

Father stiffened. “I don’t. My playing days are long over. I never play nowadays.”

When the guests had left and the house was silent again, I remember, I felt a sense of strength. Johnny and I remained in the sitting room, alone, holding hands as we sat in the fading afternoon light. It was as if we had overcome some huge obstacle, crossed an invisible boundary. Now, replaying that day in my head, I can see that it was not strength I felt but something closer to blindness. I had overcome nothing; the obstacles were insurmountable. The boundaries, I have realised, are still there.

THE NEW BISHOP came to dinner tonight. He has recently arrived from Hong Kong, where he was Dean. The detestable Frederick Honey is taking him on a “driving tour” of the Valley. This presumably means showing off to the bishop the extent of the British tin-mining empire, which seems to have grown rapidly since Honey took over as head of the Darby concern. Honey has also acquired a new motorcar, an enormous black creature whose roar can be heard a mile away.

“Climate, churchmanship, lack of spiritual discipline,” the bishop said, counting out his doubts about his new posting by holding up his stubby fingers one by one. He had drunk a considerable amount and his face had become redder and more rotund as the evening progressed. “Responsibility and loneliness. Lack of friends—though I am hoping this will change.”

“Of course it will,” said Honey, without looking up from his plate.

“And obviously,” the bishop continued, “there is the whole question of the children’s education.”

I saw Father stiffen. “I agree, a child’s education is of utmost importance,” Father said.

“A waste,” Mother whispered under her breath. I am certain no one heard it but me.

Father continued, “But I am sure you will find the schools in Singapore more than adequate.”

“But,” the bishop said, as if no one else had spoken, “there is the significance, yes, the
significance,
of being a bishop. Who knows, I might be offered something more congenial in the future.” He raised his glass and winked.

“So, thinking of leaving before you have even arrived,” Johnny said. Father glared at him, but he continued eating without once looking up, taking great care to hold his knife and fork as I have taught him to.

“I believe,” said Father, smiling kindly, “that you will find Singapore very congenial indeed. I have heard it said that Singapore today is very nearly as entertaining as Hong Kong—though I cannot speak from personal experience.”

There was gentle laughter around the table, Mother’s shrill notes rising above the rest.

Honey leaned sideways and nudged Johnny gently. “Perhaps we should go to Singapore sometime, without the wives, you know—have a bit of fun?” Everything Honey does seems stiff and calculated, as if he has read a book on How to Make Jokes or How to Appear Friendly.

I said, “Frederick, my existence does not depend on my husband. The two of you are free to go wherever you wish.”

“Please, not in front of the bishop,” Father said, smiling in his threatening way. It struck me that he has an extraordinary range of smiles.

Mother said, “Anyone for a cognac?”

I got up and helped clear away some dishes. In the kitchen Mei Li was sitting on a low wooden stool, dipping little pink balls of sweet dough into a bowl of flour.

“Don’t sit with your legs like that,” Mother hissed at her. “Only whores behave like that.” She looked to see if I was listening. “Only
whores
behave like that,” she said again.

We returned to the table and sat in silence for a while. A weak breeze rustled the tamarind tree outside. The bishop went to the window and stood before the open shutters with his hands on the ledge. His cheeks were red and clammy, and he must have been glad that the night was cooler than usual. When he turned around he looked very grave. He asked us about the Japanese.

“What about them?” Johnny said, looking into his glass. I thought he said it somewhat too sharply. I looked at father and saw the little muscle in his jaw twitch.

“What do you think they will do next?” the bishop said, staring out the window. “They’re marching straight through Indochina as if it weren’t there.”

Johnny took a gulp at his whisky. “We don’t give a damn about them. There are things we can do to them, you know.”

Honey went through to the next room and lifted the cover of the gramophone. He visits Father so often nowadays that he has come to regard this house as his own. (Even Johnny remarked the other day that Honey seems more welcome here than he does.) We heard him humming away in his How to Be Cheerful manner.

Father cleared his throat. “I hope you understand, Bishop, that Johnny merely speaks with the empty fury of youth. In fact, we are not at all worried about the Japanese. The monsoons will soon be upon us, and the Japanese will make little progress through Siam in such weather. I personally do not believe the Japanese are quite as bad as people make them out to be. Did you know that there has long been a small but very well assimilated Japanese community in Malaya? The local barber, for example, is Japanese. My view of them is that they are a very civilised race. I have met many fine Japanese—why, just a few days ago I made the acquaintance of an exceptionally cultured Japanese gentleman.”

“Yes,” Mother enthused, “he is a marquis—we must introduce you to him.”

“Besides,” continued Father, “with the British to protect us, what is there to worry about?”

“If you were the only girl in the world . . .”
Honey sang, out of tune.

“Are you drunk?” I asked.

“No, Snow, I’m merely having a jolly old time,” he replied.
“There would be such wonderful things to do, there would be such wonderful dreams come true.”

The bishop returned to the table and poured himself some cognac. He seemed jolly again, and launched into another story. “Have I told you about my first visit to St. John’s? I thought I’d call in at what would soon be
my
cathedral. I was on holiday, so I dressed in lay clothing. Do you know what? The parish priest failed to include a prayer for me—because of my attire! He told me later that he wasn’t sure of the status of a bishop-elect in collar and tie, so he decided to play it by the book. How ridiculous!” His laughter filled the room, competing with the music and the gentle, never-ending pounding of the mortar and pestle from the kitchen.

“You should have known,” said Johnny quite unexpectedly, “that you were coming to a diocese with a High Church tradition. Conformity with clerical dress is always taken for granted there.” He got up and took his glass into the kitchen, where I could see him exchanging pleasantries with Mei Li.

The table fell silent with astonishment. The bishop looked blankly at Honey. Their expressions said it all: where did a person such as Johnny gain such information? Where did he learn to speak like that? From Father? No—for all his learning, Father knows little about Christians and would not converse with Johnny anyway.

I found myself smiling to hide my annoyance. Only I knew: it was another piece of trivia Johnny had picked up from Peter.

THE WORST TIMES are when we are together, alone, and I see in his face how thrilled he still is to be married to me. He wears the expression of a young boy who has found something precious in the fields and keeps it hidden in his room. He loves me as he would a lost diamond or an opalescent gemstone; he admires me and is fascinated by me. Yet he never touches me. He is afraid to.

No one else will understand this, and I have resolved to tell no one. It was my decision to marry him, I know. I remember Mother’s reaction when I attempted to speak to her about my situation a few weeks ago. “You are his wife,” she laughed simply, as if there was no more to say. Later, as an afterthought, she came to my room and said, “We could try and find you another man, but no one in the Valley—in the whole country—will have you now. You must accept your fate.”

My fate.
It seems I do not enjoy the luxury of limitless choice. Either I follow the course of
my fate
and remain with Johnny, unhappily, or I leave him, disgraced. The first option is full of dreadful clarity, the second cloudy and fathomless. I wish I lived in Europe: a nunnery would be the simplest solution, easy and face-saving. But I live here, and my decision is made. I plunge into the murky depths.

THIS EVENING we took Professor Kunichika to the
wayang kulit
theatre on the outskirts of Kampar. He said he had read about the
wayang
and was curious to see if it really was as wonderful as he imagined. Father seemed very keen to organise an outing. “Something to welcome our visitor to the Valley,” as he put it.

We arrived just as the music was starting and the crowd settling down. Our little party had seats laid out specially for us—the rest of the audience sat on the dirt in front of the white canvas screen. Johnny had, predictably, asked Peter to come too, and I found myself in a chair next to him. “How macabre,” he whispered, all gangling elbows and knees. I found him most irritating. The flat, discordant sounds of the wind instruments had a disquieting effect on me, and I tried my best not to show my discomfort. Kunichika had taken a seat on the other side of me, so now I was sandwiched between him and Peter.

The first of the puppet shadows began to dance across the screen, huge and horrible against the pale, glowing light.

“What’s happening now?” Peter kept asking.

I remained calm and did my best to explain, although I have never found the
wayang
particularly absorbing. “It’s a story from the Hindu epics—the Ramayana, I believe. The figure on the left is the hero, the one on the right is the villain who is about to steal the hero’s beloved from him.” For some reason, I could not recall their names, even though I had heard them a thousand times before.

“I see,” Peter said, affecting boredom, “the same old ‘good versus evil’ chestnut.”

“In a manner of speaking,” I said, my patience wearing thin.

“The beauty of the Malay shadow theatre,” Kunichika said quietly in his deep voice, “lies in its ability to transform a great Indian text into something distinctively local. Look at the figures, delicately carved from buffalo hide. Their features are not Indian. The setting, the music—these are clearly Indo-Malay.”

“Thank you,” Peter said.

“The figure on the left is Bhima, the other is Duryodana,” Kunichika added.

I shifted in my seat and caught the smell of Kunichika’s clothes: cut grass and eau de toilette.

No one stirred. The shadows arched and fell across the yellowed screen, illuminated by a swollen, distorted light. I closed my eyes and envisaged the path I have chosen for myself. Johnny. How will I leave him? I thought about it again and again, as I have so often in recent weeks. The shadows seemed larger, more terrifying than I ever remembered. They swooped on each other, thrusting their misshapen heads and kicking their bony legs. The music—gongs, sharp drumming, and shrill windpipes—rose in a crescendo.

“Snow, are you alright?” Peter asked, prodding me with a knobbly finger.

“Yes,” I said, pulling away. “It’s nearly finished now. The show’s almost over.”

I excused myself the moment we arrived home. Johnny and Peter have gone out somewhere, as they frequently do nowadays. Kunichika is enjoying a drink with Father. I am alone writing this. It is a comforting thing for me to do. Silly, I know—as if by recording every detail my resolve will be strengthened. Nonetheless, writing may soon be the only thing I have left.

IT MAKES IT WORSE for me, more painful, that Johnny seems not to have a clue about what I am about to do. He does not know what I am thinking—I am certain of that. To be fair, I have given him no clue whatsoever. I behave completely as normal. The pretence is exhausting; the effort of it occupies every second of my day and night. I hope the right moment presents itself soon. I do not know how much longer I can continue this subterfuge.

WHEN FATHER SUGGESTED the trip, no one responded. We simply did not know what to make of it. “After all,” he said, “there is a thing Westerners call ‘honeymoon.’ It is a chance for newly married couples to go away and enjoy being in each other’s company.”