“Thank you,” I said, resenting the number of gifts I had managed to acquire over the three days. People felt the need to provide me, the only son, with tokens of their respect for Father. And so I received an array of useless objects: small crystal swans, plaster-of-paris Eskimos, and mugs bearing the prime minister’s portrait. I did not stop to open the box and hurried instead to the car. I threw the cloth-wrapped parcel into the boot together with all the other unwanted presents; its contents rattled as it landed on a cuckoo clock.
The Englishman followed me out, wheeling himself along the uneven road. “Where are you going, my son?” he said.
“Swimming,” I said as I got into my car.
I didn’t drive back to KL. I headed east instead, crisscrossing the winding river until I found myself in the swampy flatlands of the coast. I veered north, turning into ever-narrowing roads until I could smell the salty winds coming in off the sea. Just south of Remis I caught the first glimpse of the foam-tipped waves through a thin forest of casuarinas. I had not been here for many years. I drove along until I found somewhere to leave my car. I undressed slowly under the trees, the dead needles tickling my feet. It was midafternoon and there was no one but me on the wide white beach. I walked across the hot sand into the water, watching the tiny crabs scurrying away from my path. Where the water was deeper, the waves folded over gently, catching the sun on their crests so that the light sparkled across the surface of the water. It was as if someone had cast tiny jewels all over the ocean. I swam far out from the shore, floating calmly in the blue-green water.
ACCEPT YOUR FATE. Accept your fate. Mother’s words invade my dreams. I pray I do not talk in my sleep. Johnny must not know. Not yet.
SOMEONE NEW came to visit us today. I was having my afternoon rest, dozing uneasily — my mind boils constantly, never capable of rest — when I heard voices in the yard at the front of the house. I became aware of one of the servants chattering rapidly. The second voice was unfamiliar. I lay in bed listening to it for a while, but could not recognise it. It was a man’s voice, deep but not rough — a true baritone, I think Father would say. He was speaking flawless Malay, of the variety rarely heard in the Valley nowadays — that is to say, old-fashioned courtly Malay. As I listened more carefully, however, I detected the slightest hint of an accent, though again it sounded unfamiliar to my ears. He asked to speak to Father; he said that he had recently arrived in Kampar—“from abroad”—and had been advised to call in on the famous T. K. Soong. He apologised for the inconvenient timing of his visit but wondered if the servant would nonetheless announce his arrival to Mr. Soong. He mentioned his name but I did not hear it.
Eventually I heard Father come out of his study.
“Professor? Welcome, welcome,” he said. “Thank you for your letter. How good that you are here.”
“Please,” the visitor said courteously — in Mandarin, as if to make a point—“you embarrass me with your kindness.”
Father laughed and replied in English, “It is an honour to meet you.” There was a strange quality to Father’s voice, one I had never heard before. He sounded nervous. He led the visitor into the large sitting room and I could no longer pick up their voices clearly. Across the corridor I could sense Mother pacing about in her room. Cupboard doors opened and closed. Her small jewellery box dropped and scattered its contents onto the floor.
After some minutes I decided it was no use trying to rest — the weather is so hot now that it is impossible to sleep at night, much less during the day — so I resumed my reading. I am revisiting Persuasion, which I am finding curiously annoying.
T WAS MOTHER who knocked on my door. “Are you decent?” she asked, and broke into a laugh. I could tell immediately that she was with our visitor.
I opened the door to find her standing with a very tall man dressed in a light-coloured linen suit. I thought he was Chinese, but his features seemed wrong. I remained standing at the narrow doorway with my arms folded.
“This is our daughter, Professor,” Mother said. “Nothing to look at, I told you, didn’t I?”
“On the contrary,” the man said, bowing slightly. “Kunichika Mamoru,” he said, extending his hand. On his little finger he wore a ring of muted gold, heavy and stately in the European style.
“The professor has just arrived in the Valley — all the way from Japan,” Mother said. She pronounced her words like a schoolgirl, stretching vowels interminably and emphasising special words. “All” became “aaaaaall,” and “Japan” “Jap-an.”
“Don’t speak so loudly,” Father said, appearing behind Mother. “You’ll embarrass the professor.”
“How can you embarrass someone so clev-er?” said Mother, pushing past me into my room.
The man laughed.
