And then he came into view, splashing through the puddles on the muddy track through the plantation. He came towards the house slowly, as if afraid of it. It wasn’t until he was very close that I saw that, on the back of his bicycle, he was carrying something very large, covered with tarpaulin. I could not work out what it was that he was carrying, nor how the goods (if they were goods) were attached to the bicycle. His thin cotton shirt was soaked through; it stuck to his chest and stomach. I remember his baggy shorts too, heavy with water and bunched up around his thighs. There was something in the way he moved — with the freedom and uncertain strength of a young animal flexing its limbs — that imprinted itself in my memory. He peddled on unperturbed by the rain, as if he had spent his whole life exposed to the elements.
He disappeared from view, seeking shelter under the front verandah. I went out and stood at the top of the steps leading up to the house. I saw him sitting on the pedestal of one of the concrete stilts. He had a cigarette between his lips and was trying unsuccessfully to light a match.
“Are you alright?” I called out.
The sound of my voice made him leap to his feet. He seemed to be standing to attention, his hands by his sides and neck held rigid.
“It is raining,” he said. Those were the very first words he said to me.
“Would you like a hot drink? You might catch cold,” I said, but he simply stood staring at me uncertainly.
“What do you have at the back of your bicycle? Are you selling something?” I asked as I came down the stairs.
“Textiles,” he said. When he spoke the word it sounded odd, as if he had been practising it but had not yet become accustomed to its sound.
I smiled. “May I have a look?”
This seemed to take him by surprise, and he started towards his bicycle, placing his hand on the tarpaulin as if to protect his goods from me. “You would not be interested in this.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged his shoulders and frowned. I remember how worried he looked. He seemed a little confused, even sad.
“Are they secret things?” I said.
He shook his head. His hand was still firmly on the tarpaulin.
“Please,” I said. “I would like to see them.”
He looked at me for a very long time, as if searching for something. I went to the tarpaulin and undid the string that secured it to the bicycle. When I lifted it up I found a dozen bales of cloth. They were simple, unadorned textiles. I ran my fingers over them and felt their texture — hard-wearing and strong. There were a few lengths of batik too, folded up into thick cubes.
“Cheap textiles,” he said, drawing the tarpaulin back over the cloths.
“I think they are very beautiful.”
He looked at me and for a second I thought he was going to break into a smile; but then his face collapsed into a frown again. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said as he lashed the tarpaulin into place. “I lost my way.”
I do not know why I wanted him to stay. I cannot explain that feeling. Standing there under the house with the rain falling around me, I wanted to implore him to stay, but I could not say the words.
Just then I heard Father coming down the stairs. “What’s happening down there?” he said. “Who is there, Snow?”
“A cloth merchant,” I said as Father came to join us.
“So what do you have to offer us?” Father said, not seeming to notice that the poor boy was standing with his head bowed. “Come on, I haven’t got all day.”
The rain-sodden creature began to undo the tarpaulin, all the time keeping his head bowed.
“Where did this rubbish come from?” Father said, barely having looked at the cloths. “Who do you work for?”
“Tiger Tan.”
“I didn’t know Tiger had started selling this nonsense. He used to be a good merchant,” Father said. “What’s your name?”
“Johnny. Lim.”
“Well, Johnny Lim, you tell Tiger not to send these rags around here again.”
Johnny nodded.
“Come on, Snow,” Father said as he left.
As we went up the stairs I saw Johnny cycling off into the rain. I kept looking to see if he would turn back, but he did not. He pedalled steadily until he had crossed the yard. As he reached the path through the plantation he stopped cycling and looked back at the house. Through the deluge I couldn’t see his face clearly, but I convinced myself he was smiling. I turned away and lay on my bed, pulling a small pillow to my stomach. Even now, long after I misplaced that little beaded cushion somewhere in this house, I remember the gentle tickle of the embroidered flower patterns on my fingertips, just as I remember the smell of rain-wet earth blowing through the windows.
These are the things I have already lost, I know, but what will happen to the memories? Will they remain, or will they slowly fade away as old photographs do, bleached to nothingness by sunlight? I feel as if I am about to throw open the shutters and let the light in. The burning, burning light.
