The door was answered by a pubescent child — a girl, I think, though she was dressed as a boy. I searched her face for a resemblance to me but found none. She stared at me with fierce eyes.
“What are you selling?” she snapped. She sounded much older than I had thought.
“Tupperware,” I said, suddenly feeling confident at the sound of the word. I stepped aside and pointed at my car. Large piles of Tupperware rose into view through the windows.
“We don’t need. .”
“Tup-per-ware,” I said slowly. “Would you kindly ask your mother?”
“She’s not here.”
“Anyone else here?”
She closed the door and bolted it. “There’s a tall man selling things,” I heard her call out to someone inside. When the door opened again a young woman stood at the entrance. She looked at me coldly but did not speak.
“I’m selling Tupperware,” I said. “It’s from America. It’s very useful.”
She remained silent. I felt my nerve begin to weaken. I had to make a final attempt. “May I come in and show you?” I smiled.
She held my gaze for several seconds. I held my breath to hide my nervousness and tried not to blink.
“OK,” she said, and she let me in.
I stood in the middle of the large sitting room and looked around me. The room led out to a verandah which ran along the entire length of the back of the house. Through the half-open shutters I could see that the land fell away to the jungle, which appeared as a soft green carpet. The walls of the room were decorated with long scrolls bearing Chinese calligraphy. They were executed in a flowing and flamboyant hand, the characters swirling and greatly exaggerated. One scroll caught my eye. It was the famous Tang poem by Li Po:
Moonlight shines brightly before my bed,
like hoarfrost on the floor.
I lift my head and gaze at the moon,
I drop my head and dream of home.
“What are you looking at?” the woman said. She had a slim face and clear skin. She too looked nothing like me.
“I was just admiring your calligraphy,” I said. “It’s very beautiful. Did you do it?”
“No,” she said, suppressing a smile. Her shoulders dropped and her voice became softer. “No, that was done by my great-uncle.”
“Really?” I said. “He must be a famous artist.”
She giggled. “No, he wasn’t. He’s dead now. He died during the war. My family saved all his paintings from the Japanese, and we put them back on the walls just like they were when Great-uncle T.K. was alive.”
“That’s interesting. He died during the Occupation, did he? What was his name? Maybe I’ve heard of him.”
“T. K. Soong,” she said. “Say, you’re asking a lot of questions, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I apologise. It’s not every day a poor salesman like me sees calligraphy of this standard, you see.”
She smiled again.
“And like I said, I may have known him.” I looked at the scrolls once more, keeping my back to her so she could not see my eyes. Though my head remained tilted upwards, my gaze scanned the sideboards and cupboards for signs of photographs or mementoes — anything.
“I don’t think you could have known him,” she said. “How old are you, exactly?”
“Look who’s asking questions now.” I laughed. “How old do you think?”
“Let me see. .” she said. I turned around and presented my face to her, smiling. “I’m usually good at guessing people’s ages, but you’re difficult.”
Behind her I caught sight of myself in an old mirror. The glass was scratched and blurred and dusty, silver strips peeling away behind it.
“Why are you touching your cheek?” she said. “Are you alright?”
“Yes.” I smiled. “So how old am I?”
“I’d say in your forties. Late forties maybe.”
I opened my eyes in mock horror. “Not too far wrong.”
“Then you definitely wouldn’t have known Great-uncle T.K. Or if you did you must have been a tiny baby. He died in 1943.”
“How did he die?”
“Well. .” she said, looking at her fingers, “you know. .”
“I’m sorry I asked. I’m just a stranger after all.”
“It’s OK, really. I’ll tell you — the Japanese. That’s what everyone says. I don’t know the details.”
“Did he have any children?”
“Just one. My mother’s cousin. No, second cousin — I’m not sure.”
“Did she live here too? Your great-uncle’s daughter, I mean.”
“Of course. Don’t all children live with their parents? In fact she lived here even after she was married.”
“That’s nice.”
“She was married to Johnny Lim, you know — the notorious Johnny Lim.”
“Oh yes, I think I’ve heard of him — I’m not from around here, you see.”
“Oh. Where are you from, then, Mr. Tall Man?”
“KL.”
“Wow, long drive.”
“It’s not bad. I stay in Ipoh for a week at a time.”
“Sounds like you miss home.”
“Not really. So your mother’s cousin who was married to Johnny. .”
“Lim.”
“Johnny Lim, yes. I guess that must have been her room,” I said, pointing to a door which seemed to open into a larger room.
“No, that was my great-uncle and great-aunt’s room. That one was Johnny and Snow’s,” she said, pointing to a closed door. She paused and looked me in the eye, as if remembering something. “Hey,” she said, taking a step towards me, “how did you know my great-uncle’s child was a girl? I didn’t tell you it was a girl.”
