“He said that if I’d like to apply for a scholarship to study nursing, he’d put in a word for me.”
This was an old, sore argument that we’d had. My stepfather didn’t consider nursing a suitable job for a young woman, what with having to bathe and perform intimate acts for all manner of strangers, including men.
He turned to look at me. “It’s not a job for a single girl. But if you’re married, you can do as you please.”
I could hardly believe my ears. “Why does it matter whether I’m married or not? The job’s the same.”
“You’ll be your husband’s responsibility then.”
“Does it matter to whom?”
My stepfather removed the toothpick from his mouth and regarded it. “As long as he makes a living, I don’t care who you marry or what you do afterwards.”
I took a deep breath. “Do you promise?”
He looked me in the eye. It was impossible to know what my stepfather was thinking at times like this.
“Yes,” he said. “Once you’re married, you’re not my responsibility anymore. Nor your mother’s.” He nodded at the black scrape that Robert’s car had left on the curb. “But learn how to drive properly.”
26
Batu Gajah
Saturday, June 20th
It’s Saturday, the day of the party. Ah Long let Ren sleep in, and it’s almost nine o’clock in the morning when he wakes with a start. The fever has gone and the mysterious sensation of well-being still remains.
Hurrying, he scrambles into his white houseboy’s uniform. Ah Long is already busy in the kitchen, stirring a large pot of beef rendang, slow cooked with coconut milk, and aromatic with kaffir lime leaves, lemon grass, and cardamom.
“Fever gone?” he asks.
Ren nods, bright-eyed.
“It’s nice to be young,” Ah Long grumbles, but he seems pleased, and after Ren has eaten breakfast, he sets him to work on the hundred-and-one last-minute preparations for the party.
William is around. Ever since the tiger print was discovered at the edge of the garden, he hasn’t gone out in the evenings but has, instead, locked himself up in his study and written more letters.
Ren often wonders where those letters go. The postman comes by and picks a few of them up, but never the letters with the thick, cream-colored envelopes addressed to a woman named Iris. Ren puzzles over this and can only conclude that William takes them to the Club and drops them in the postbox there. Or perhaps he hands them directly to her at some sprawling colonial bungalow. As much as he tries, Ren can’t picture what this Iris lady looks like. The only foreign woman who comes to mind is Lydia. She’s the one that he imagines opening the letters, drinking tea on the veranda. Going to the hospital with William. The funny thing is that they almost get along. It’s just that the master always pulls back, as though Lydia reminds him of something he wants to avoid. It must be very disappointing for her; there’s no one else around so well suited, according to servants’ gossip.
Ren sets the long table with plates and silverware and starched napkins cunningly folded into peacocks. The cutlery is real silver, from William’s family in England with a crest and a curling, ornate “A” engraved on each piece. Ren spent all of Wednesday morning polishing it. Each spoon and fork is weighty. Ah Long says it’s a measure of the master’s quality. The last doctor he worked for had stainless knives and forks, not good silver like this. When Ren timidly asks William if his family is famous, William only laughs shortly and says something about black sheep, though what sheep have to do with silverware isn’t clear to Ren.
William is on edge today. He smokes cigarette after cigarette, leaning on the wooden railing of the veranda and gazing at the lush green leaves of the canna lilies that surround the bungalow. It must be because of the note he got this morning, delivered by a Sinhalese youth of thirteen or fourteen with a sullen look.
Ren is shaking out a dustcloth at the front door when the boy comes by on a bicycle.
“Tolong kasi surat ni pada awak punya Tuan.” Give this letter to your master, he says in Malay.
It’s a folded handwritten note. The writing has a childish, unformed air as though the writer isn’t very confident about the letters. Mr. William, it says.
“Do you need something from my master?” asks Ren with curiosity.
The youth looks scornful. “Not me. My cousin. Tell him she wants to see him soon. Her leg is acting up.”
Ren has a flash of understanding. “Your cousin is Nandani? How is she?” Ren remembers the warmth of Nandani’s smile, the curling strands of her pretty black hair.
“She wants to see him.” He purses his mouth. “I guess you wouldn’t know, a little kid like you. How old are you?”
“I’m almost thirteen.”
The other boy laughs. “Don’t lie. You’re ten. Maybe eleven.”
He’s the first person to guess, and Ren falls silent. At this victory, the other boy says in a friendlier manner, “Give him the note, all right? You know, her father found out.”
“About what?”
“Never you mind.” He scowls and cycles off, leaving Ren holding the note. Not knowing what to do, Ren goes into the house and hands it to William. To his surprise, William doesn’t open it but puts it into his pocket.
“Do you need to send a reply?” Ren wonders why William won’t open the note.
“No. It’s just a misunderstanding.” William turns and walks back out onto the veranda.
* * *
At seven o’clock in the evening the first guests arrive, the men in light tropical dinner jackets made of cotton drill, the two women in pretty frocks. Lydia towers over the other lady, a mousy little brunette who’s the wife of one of the young doctors.
They mill around the front room, sipping drinks mixed by the waiter hired for the evening. He’s a friend of Ah Long’s, a young fellow Hainanese who works at the Kinta Club. His deft hands squeeze limes and shake ice into submission. Ren would like to watch, but Ah Long has him scurrying about so he only catches snatches of conversation amid the clink of glasses and laughter.
There’s Leslie, the red-haired doctor who’s on good terms with William, saying anxiously to the mousy wife, “I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. Banks. I didn’t realize there’d be ladies tonight and I arranged for entertainment. Dancing, you know. Girls, but a very decent sort.”
“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” she says, although she looks worried.
Ren ducks past them with a tray, wondering which of the men is Dr. Rawlings. Guiltily, his thoughts fly to the buried finger in the garden. Has the doctor noticed that the specimen is missing from the shelf? Ren recalls that tingling electricity, like a burst of static before a message comes through, that he sensed near the pathology room. He tilts his head from side to side, wondering if his cat sense will tell him if the source was indeed Dr. Rawlings.
But there’s no time to look. The long side buffet in the dining room is laden with tureens of rendang and fragrant, steaming rice. Sour green mangoes are shredded in a kerabu: a salad tossed with mint, shallots, and dried shrimp drizzled with lime and spicy sambal sauce. William likes local food and it’s fashionable to serve a curry dinner, though as a nod to the less adventurous, Ah Long has turned the breasts of the three chickens into cutlets, smothered with onion gravy and tinned peas. The dark meat has been twice-fried as Inchi Kabin, and there are little glass dishes of pickles and condiments.
And now they’re sitting down, William escorting little Mrs. Banks in on his arm, since married women take precedence over spinsters. Ren, standing at the sideboard to assist, scans the long table and the animated faces of the men, as they unfold starched linen napkins and sip from glasses. Real crystal glasses, as Ah Long informed him.
Lydia is at the other end of the table from William. She laughs often, easily outshining timid Mrs. Banks. Leslie leans over, murmuring something to William, who looks exasperated.
“Dance-hall girls? What on earth were you thinking?”
“—didn’t realize there’d be ladies tonight.” Abashed, Leslie drops his voice as William shakes his head.
“You ought to have told me.”
“I thought it would be more fun to surprise everyone.”
William beckons Ren over. “Tell Ah Long that there’ll be some girls coming. How many?”
“Five,” says Leslie. “And a chaperone. From a respectable establishment.”
“Very well. Five young ladies. When they arrive, show them into my study. I hope,” he says glancing at Leslie, “this is not a disaster.”
“It’s just dancing. Nothing more than you’d get at the Celestial on a weekend afternoon.” Leslie’s hair is such a surprising color, the sort of gingery orange that Ren has only seen on cats. With a start, he realizes he’s been staring and the two men are watching him in amusement.
“The dance hall will send a chaperone,” Ah Long says when Ren scampers off to inform him of this exciting development. “They’re quite strict about these things, otherwise they can’t do business.”
“Why’s that?” Ren wipes a dish.