To understand why he was hated so much by the Communists — those people who, after all, were once his own — you have to go back to the war. You have to remind yourself, as I have many times, that he was a Communist but also the second-richest man in the Valley. You must also remember that the richest man was his father-in-law, T. K. Soong.
But even the undisputed Number One Tycoon would have to defer to a god. Johnny knew that much.
HEN, IN MID-1941, the Japanese began to make landings in Thailand, Johnny seemed to be the only man in the Valley who thought that they might, someday very soon, invade Malaya. One or two of the people who came into the shop muttered quietly about “what the bastards are doing in China,” but otherwise people went about their business as usual. Even the English planters whom Johnny met while with T.K. are unconcerned. Over stengahs of whisky they joked about what would happen if, God forbid, the Japs did invade.
“I’d mow them down with my Bren gun. Every bloody one of those slit-eyed animals.”
“I’d feed them to my dogs.”
“I’d invite them to tea with my mother-in-law and murder them with hospitality.”
T.K.’s response was similarly placid. With the unshakable assurance possessed only by the very wealthy, he behaved as if life would go on as usual for him and his circle of friends, even if war did eventually come to Malaya. “British, Japanese, Dutch, Russian — all the same,” he said with a shrug. This attitude surprised Johnny but did not alarm him. On the contrary, it made him feel cleverer than even the wisest old men. Only he knew that the Japanese would reach the Valley — the question was how long it would take. So Johnny began to listen to the crackling World Service broadcasts on his wireless set. He did not blame T.K. and the other old fools for believing that Malaya would never fall, for the reports sounded calm and full of confidence in the might of the British army.
But Johnny knew better than this. He drew a line on a piece of paper, dividing it in two. He headed one column “Date” and the other “Place,” and then he made notes from the wireless reports. He made entries which simply read: 24th July | Camranh Bay. When the piece of paper was merely half full, Johnny knew for certain that he had been right all along. The Japanese were moving swiftly and inexorably southwards, unimpeded, it seemed, by mountains or jungles or oceans. A quick mental calculation told Johnny that they would be in Malaya before the end of the year. As a Communist, he was especially at risk. He had heard rumours of Japanese torture methods and he did not want to find out if the rumours were true. He had to act quickly.
At dinner that evening, he looked at T.K., who was wearing a silk shirt with a perfectly cut mandarin collar. With his silvery hair and thin nose, T.K. radiated silent authority. Johnny remembered the time Humphrey Yap, another of the rich old tin-mining men, came to visit, together with Tuan Frederick Honey. The four of them had withdrawn after dinner to talk about various matters such as the future of the mines, the new district officer — all the usual inconsequential things. For a time Johnny felt honoured to be in such company; he could not have envisaged this several years previously. He tried to contribute to the conversation but found it nearly impossible to do so. Everything he said was ignored, passed over without comment. Not once did the other men address him directly, and Johnny felt invisible, as if he had dissolved into thin air. Without looking at him, Tuan Honey called out to him to ask for some tea, and then a glass of cognac, and then a refill. All this time they had been laughing and joking, even breaking into song — but never with Johnny. T.K. was who the important people wanted to see, not Johnny. Johnny imagined a Japanese general standing astride an armoured tank, riding into the conquered lands for the very first time. “Bring me the most important and powerful man in the Valley,” the general would say, and there would be no hesitation: everyone would point to T. K. Soong, not Johnny Lim.
Johnny thought of the shop. How long would it take, selling textiles, for him to become as respected as T.K.? Perhaps never. The shop itself was still named after Tiger, for God’s sake. He thought of the rows and rows of textiles, rolled up in tight bales stacked against the old wooden shelves. He had never truly been interested in them anyway. How demeaning it was to sell these dull, limp rags that people wore next to their crotches, next to their sweaty skin. His shop, the most famous in the Valley, was just a shop, a goddam useless shop. He was admired, even loved, but not by the people who mattered. When the Japanese came to Kampar they would only see a shit-worthless shop and a shit-worthless shopkeeper.
Unless, of course, something was done.
Sitting there at dinner looking at T.K., Johnny knew at once what he had to do.
