The Red Thread (19 page)

Had they looked up carefully, they would have seen that a small section of the entrance roof had been removed, and through this spyhole a pair of pretty eyes looked down on them. Baba Tan's first daughter contemplated the two men below. From her vantage point she could see their faces quite well as they turned from time to time towards the street and the door and looked up at the ornate ceiling.

Her decision was easy. From the moment she laid eyes on Zhen's face and looked over his figure, which was clad only in loose trousers, she felt a thrill. This one would be her husband. She had seen few men close up, for she had been confined indoors since she had turned twelve years old, but most of the coolies she saw from behind the window screen were thin, sad fellows. She felt a rush of affection for her parents for selecting such a man. The other fellow with him she barely took in. Her eyes feasted on Zhen. She was ready for marriage, ready for family. The stirrings inside her body as she gazed at this man began to overwhelm her, and she could not drag her eyes off him. He would not see her until the marriage night, but she could dream of him until then. She was happy beyond her wildest dreams and ran to tell her father and kiss his hands. Although her mother had sworn her to secrecy, she thought with pleasure of how, when they saw him, her sisters too—all her acquaintance, she was sure—would be jealous of her good fortune.

Zhen and Qian got to know well the crowded little Chinese town of Si Lat Po. Sometimes there was a Chinese opera performance in front of the Cantonese temple on the beach side or at the Teochow temple in Philip Street. A stage would be erected opposite the temple gates so the deities could watch, and the air would ring with the high-pitched whine of the singers' voices and the clashing sounds of the orchestra. The street was always packed with men, clapping and laughing. In the side streets, the gambling dens did a busy trade. At New Year, the streets became a mighty din of exploding firecrackers and beating drums. Lanterns and paper signs, red and gold, adorned every shop, every door. This was when it felt most like home.

Sometimes they listened to the storytellers at the quayside at Bu Jia Tian, the place that never sleeps, where the river opened out into the shape of a carp's belly, a symbol of good fortune. Sitting on a small stool, the taleteller would light an incense stick and put it in a sack of sand. He would begin to weave a tale of old China, heroic deeds, strange doings and hilarious antics. As soon as the incense had burnt down, he stopped. Naturally this occurred at the most interesting part. When the sound of coins had jingled into the cup to his satisfaction, he would begin again. If you sat, you paid, if you stood you didn't.

Fights broke out but stopped as fast as they started. Knifings were not unknown, and sometimes a Malay would run amok, but these incidents were not bothersome enough to worry the vast majority of the coolies. Drinking houses, gambling and opium dens were full most nights, and lines formed outside the
ah ku
houses as men sought escape from their urges, from the airless, cramped sleeping quarters and the monotony of their lives.

Zhen would watch when foreigners appeared on the far bank, hoping for a glimpse of the woman, but she seemed to have disappeared. Nothing beyond the river mouth was visible from the quayside. It seemed to Zhen that this small stretch of river was a thousand miles wide, such was the separation between the Chinese and European towns. Neither he nor Qian had ventured over the bridge or to the other bank since their trip into the jungle.

Sometimes Zhen would visit one of the
ah ku
houses along Hokkien Street. His need for sex had become urgent in the last months. He often found himself thinking of the foreign woman. Her face came to him in dreams. Then he would go to Hong Min, the
ah ku
he had chosen. Her house was relatively clean. He went only to her, hoping to steer clear of disease. He felt sympathy for these poor women who were slaves to the mistress of the house, kidnapped or sold into prostitution for pennies.

Min was a girl from a village near Zhangzhou, whose parents had sold her to the dealer who visited the area every couple of months. She was pretty and was very happy that Zhen, this handsome man, came to her. She would have liked him to take her out of the
ah ku
house, but she knew any talk like this would get her beaten or killed; it had happened to others. Zhen treated her well, was gentle with her but had only friendly feelings for her, she understood. He did not try to kiss her, which she had been glad of in the beginning but soon wished for. He showed her how to use her hand and mouth to satisfy him.

Recently he had begun to realise she no longer served him ritually but truly desired him, and he allowed her to kiss his body and run her tongue over his skin, pleasuring her with his fingers. It heightened his own desire, and he enjoyed giving women pleasure, knowing he was good at it. She often pulled his face down to her breasts, wanting him to run his tongue round her nipples and tempting him to enter her but in this Zhen was very disciplined. He had seen the hideous cankers, the rashes and fevers of the men in his village who came to his father for treatment. One of his uncles had died delirious and deranged. His father had given him ample warnings. From an early age he and his brothers had been given a tea made of various barks and roots, which his father had told him could protect them from these diseases. He had a condom made from gut, but felt so little passion in the wearing of it that he did not bother. Min's mouth did well enough.

In his youth he had been awakened to sex and taught well by the fourth concubine of the local mandarin. She had seen him delivering a prescription of medicinal herbs to the
yamen
when he was fifteen, already well built and good looking. She had arranged for him to be smuggled into her quarters by her young maid, and between the two of them he had received an unexpected and pleasurable education. This had lasted three years, interrupted by his year in the Taoist monastery, and only severed forever when his family's financial ruin had forced them to move into a village in the country. He had missed them both very much and still recalled their last time together and the tearful farewells. For a while he had written poetry about them and fancied himself living a life of sad seclusion far away in the misty mountains. But the harshness of this new life had soon brought him back to reality. The
kongsi
had saved his family from starvation, and he had served it willingly.

Before and after each time with Min he would wash himself with a lotion his father had taught him to make; he made her do so too. Although she had thought it strange at first, she always obeyed his instructions. Every day she drank the tea and chewed the oily seeds he had given her, although they were bitter and distasteful. This was to prevent disease and pregnancy, he had told her. She had always used a pessary and oiled paper and washed assiduously after each encounter, but extra didn't hurt, she agreed. So far it had worked. She had already had one abortion, by massage and herbs, which had been painful and made her very sick. When she had her period or a fever, Zhen brought her herbs. On those occasions, he would often simply lie in her soft arms and caress her. She knew that for many of the men, this was sometimes what they wanted. They often stayed overnight to sleep with her and talk about home—and for this she got a little more money.

Every week she took half her money and sent it home to her parents in the Chinese village through the Teochow money office, which she trusted. She knew she would die in this place and never go home, but her sense of duty was strong. When it all became too much, she would eat opium. When she told Zhen this, he had taken her face in his hands.

‘No, do not think this. Harden your heart a little. Become good friends with the mistress and help her. The way out is to become the mistress yourself. I am nothing now, but one day I will have some influence here and you will benefit. I have told the mistress that you are a good girl and to treat you well.'

She had thought this was just the usual talk. The men often boasted of such things. But after each encounter with Zhen, her spirits had risen and she had begun to believe him. With such belief came, she realised, love, and this was a dangerous thing for an
ah ku
whore to have. She hated the filthy mistress of the house, but from Zhen she drew the strength to hide her real feelings. The old mistress liked Zhen and grew sickeningly coquettish in his company. Although she cared nothing for the stupid girl he went with, she had heard through the owner of the brothels that he was a
kongsi
man and had found favour with powerful families here. It was enough for her to keep her temper under control.

Zhen and Qian met one cool evening on the riverside. Qian had news. He was convinced now that they were being considered as marriageable material.

Zhen had been getting the same idea. They had talked to other men in the godown and on the quayside and learned the family situation of the two
towkays
—daughters requiring husbands. Zhen and Qian had discussed it at length over glasses of grog in the drinking houses on Hokkien Street. It was only a matter of time before the proposals came from one direction or another, and they would take them up immediately. No family, no aid, no women in Si Lat Po for them. Both men knew that only this way could they find wives and wealth in one fell swoop. Their first hand view of how poor coolies struggled with the hardships of life here—a great swarm of men who would never know family, children, home, who would end up broken, addicted to opium, deprived of affection and dead at a young age—had been a stark lesson. Fortune had truly smiled on them.

They had talked about their preferences. Qian favoured marriage into the family of Baba Tan, who seemed an equable man despite all the peculiar habits of the house. Zhen was not sure. He couldn't always understand Baba Tan, but Tan did make an effort to speak more regular Hokkien with him. Sang was a hideous old creature, but even though he was Cantonese, they could speak together easily. Well, it was out of their hands anyway. They could merely wait.

The wait was not long. Two days later Incheck Sang and Baba Tan met at Sang's house. After the usual pleasantries they got down to business.

Tan was slightly anxious and wiped his face with a large handkerchief. Sang eyed him curiously, a long fingernail curled over his lips. As he waited for Sang to speak, Tan thought about his daughter's happy, grateful face. She would make a wonderful wife for this man Zhen, she had told him, and give him many grandsons. Only now had he begun to realise that he might have made a terrible mistake by letting her see this fellow. Sang was always going to get first choice. The words fell like stones upon Tan's ears.

‘I have decided to get the tall one, Zhen, for my daughter.'

Tan's heart sank. Before him rose a storm of domestic trouble. His mind was working so hard he felt his brain might explode. It had never occurred to him that the old corpse would choose the man who so resembled the son-in-law who had run off with his money.

Tan had been certain that Qian would be Sang's choice. He had to change the old skeleton's mind somehow, but he had to be careful.

‘Really, that is interesting,' Tan said calmly. ‘I thought Qian would have been more suitable. A quieter man, more obedient, perhaps. But I am just as well pleased to get him. Zhen seems more willful. May I ask your reasons for this choice? I have other daughters to consider, and your wisdom on this matter would be helpful to me.'

He coughed slightly into his handkerchief at this blatant lie.

Sang eyed him with a rheumy gaze. He was not deceived.

‘I may not have long for this world,' he said. ‘I need a man in this house, fresh masculine blood. One who can make a grandchild quickly. He is clever, learns fast. He is not like the other bastard son-in-law. I made a mistake with that one, I see it now. You cannot speak clearly with Zhen, but I can. He knows the
kongsi
ways. You have seen him; he is powerful, and his blood will enrich my line. In many ways he reminds me of myself when I was young.'

Tan's eyes narrowed in an effort not to laugh at the vain old fool.

‘This Zhen takes risks but is smart with it,' Sang said. ‘I will make him an offer that he will find very acceptable. I will make him my heir officially, and immediately and he will take my name.'

It was a lost cause. Baba Tan had never seen Sang so animated. He had made his choice, and Tan knew there was nothing he would be able to say to change the old man's mind. When he left Sang's house, a black cloud followed him up High Street, along North Bridge Road and over the rickety bridge.

Zhen was in the back of the cool, dark godown when Tan came back along Boat Quay. He watched the
towkay
quietly. The man was deep in thought and sat heavily on one of the seats outside. Some decision had been taken, Zhen felt it.

Then the figures of some foreigners, two men and a woman, appeared in silhouette in the door frame. Tan rose and greeted them. Zhen moved slowly forward to the window beside the covered way. As he looked through the shutters he saw the woman's face. It was her. She was looking around, and for a moment she gazed straight at the shutter. He thought they might enter the shop, but within a few minutes they had taken their leave and moved out along the quay. He retreated from the window.

She was beautiful, more than he had remembered, her eyes like the evening sky. Who could he ask about her? Baba Tan, of course, but he didn't know the words, and it might be somewhat dangerous. The old clerk was messing about upstairs, sorting and weighing pepper into small sacks. Zhen ran lightly up to the next floor and, to the old man's shock, grabbed him by the neck and pushed him towards the window. The shutters stood open, and he thrust the fellow's head out of the window. The foreigners had moved only a short distance down the quay and were now talking to some Arab fellow in white robes and another Chinese bloke who went by the name Whampoa.