House of Trembling Leaves, The (35 page)

Stan recalled looking at Lu See and seeing the panic mist her eyes. What's happened? he wanted to ask.

When she replaced the handset on the cradle slowly, defensively, she told him Mabel had gone to join the Communists. She spent the rest of the day with her head in her hands.

Stan wiped his brow with his sleeve and scanned the area. A small group of St John Ambulance girls waited by the post office, smoking by the colonnades amidst the scribbles of barbed wire. With a surge of invigoration, Stan climbed up on to the bonnet of an armed personnel carrier to get a better look at the crowds streaming in from Sultan Street. In the far distance he saw the giant billboards for the Rex Cinema. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a sweet. Popping a Caramel Bullet into his mouth, standing with arms akimbo, he could make out Robert Mitchum's droopy face promoting
The Night of the Hunter
.

He looked back into the throng that had gathered on the boundaries of the
padang
. A group of women with paper fans were sipping bottles of Green Spot out of straws, faces alight with pleasure. Moments later he heard a rallying shout. Two Sikh officers had fallen onto their backsides as they chased after a Chinese man on a bicycle. He had a long mane of hair gathered into a ponytail. Bursting though the junction, he rode the bicycle at speed, all the way up to the police line. Stan watched as he skidded to a stop, balanced a sandalled foot on the road, withdrew a pistol from his belt and aimed it at Stan's face. Before Stan could move, the man squeezed the trigger.

By ten the next morning, the corner of Macao and Hokkien was spilling over with gossip. ‘‘You heard about the attempted murder of the police inspector, is it? Yes, the one with the tombstone teeth! Cannot believe-lah! Him one damn-fierce lucky bugger! You heard that the gun got jam-jammed and misfired, otherwise he sure to be dead as doornail and pushing up daisies, no? What happened to the gunman? The shooter got away, lah. Ran off zigzag-aloo into the crowd and disappeared vanish!''

Lu See listened to the jawing and chitchat with a thankful heart. She mouthed a silent prayer that following their failure the perpetrators wouldn't make a second attempt at Stan's life.

Into the glare, she glanced down Macao Street, at the clock tower. She still felt a pang at no longer having Adrian's watch, but giving it away had cemented the reconciliation with the Woos.

The stretch of road was overflowing with cobblers, street-barbers and tin tinkerers using antiquated tools. Hawkers pushed trolleys, pinching squeeze horns as they passed. Small Indian boys went from door to door, skipping over the monsoon drains, peddling Hindu movie magazines and song posters, and with Hari Raya approaching the
serunding
stall owners were busy cooking vast quantities of meat floss, stirring the pasty mixture over low fires for hours on end.

Shielded from the sun, women gathered in the shade of the five-foot-way exclaiming over the price of pineapples and soap and the shortage of sugar as they returned from morning market. Despite the Malay economy emerging from the post Korean war slump, luxuries remained dear and fears lurked of currency depreciation.

Nearby, alongside the lake by the red mosque, a kite festival was taking place. Lu See could hear the squeals and laughter of excited children. Swigging from a bottle of milk of magnesia, she emerged from the restaurant's threshold into the steamy heat that swamped the city. A
zakat
collector had set up a counter by the roadside to raise alms for the poor. Several people were already lining up to pay the tithe before Hari Raya. Next to him, beside a ‘Drink Milo' advertising sign, a bill was being plastered onto the wall. It read:

‘‘Rewards for Information. Substantial rewards will be paid to all who cooperate with the authorities in providing information about Communist Guerrillas and Gangsters. Useful Information EARNS CASH.''

Suppressing a scowl, Lu See noticed a discarded rattan basket at the corner of the street. She went across and swept it up. Might come in use one day, she said to herself.

Shortly afterwards, an armoured police van rumbled by with a Magnavox public address system; a recorded message blared out that citizens were required to name known Communists and their supporters.

Inside, the phone rang. Lu See ignored it; she had long since stopped hoping that it might be Mabel calling and she did not accept reservations so she couldn't fathom why anybody would want to call her.

‘‘
Wai-eeee!
'' hollered an old man from within Il Porco. Old Fishlips Foo, the former MPAJA fighter, the resistance movement that fought against the Japanese, was eighty now and each day he planted himself in the same chair from ten in the morning to six in the evening. If he wasn't slurping his soup or shouting tyrannical orders, Fishlips was busy scratching his legs and burping whilst complaining about his long-dead wife. Almost as annoying was his constant staring at other people's food – and it wasn't a casual passing glance either, but a proper visual inspection. Only when his daughter came to fetch him at six o'clock did the restaurant get any respite. He did serve one useful purpose, however. Whenever the phone rang, Old Fishlips, perched near the telephone counter, would pick up the receiver with a resounding ‘
Wai-eeeee
!' and rail loudly at the befuddled caller about the terrible state of the world.

Lu See felt a wave of nausea coming on. She reached into her
samfoo
pocket and removed a small cut-glass atomizer of rose water, which she sprayed on her face. When that didn't work she applied a judicious smear of mentholated Tiger Balm to the points of her forehead and settled down in a corner of the restaurant where she self-medicated with milk of magnesia and fluffy white bread dipped in cabbage juice.

As she sat in one corner, she watched Old Fishlips in his cotton singlet scratch his legs in the opposite corner.

‘‘How's the soup today, Mr Foo?'' Lu See asked, smiling at the liver-spotted face.

‘‘Too hot! Always you try to burn me.''

Lu See touched her wrist to her forehead with exasperation. ‘‘Give it a blow and it will soon cool down. Who was on the phone, by the way?''

‘‘Dead man's head! Another crossed line, would you believe! These bloody rubber-estate gossipers! All they do is talktalk and badmouth us Chinese! What gives them the right to think they're better than us? Bumiputra they call themselves! Princes of the earth! Bloody joke!
Hum gaa chaan!
''

‘‘Mr Foo, language please.''

‘‘
Sai yun tau,
'' he muttered under his breath. ‘‘My grandson, Bong, he understands me. He knows what I mean.''

Colouring, Lu See sidled up beside him with coffee cup in hand, looking as if she'd dabbed spits of rouge on her face. ‘‘Mr Foo, please. We've talked about this before. We don't mention Bong in public, remember?''

‘‘You've known him since he was a boy.'' He blinked, arranging his thoughts. ‘‘The British gave our resistance fighters medals for what they did against the Japanese, awarded Chin Peng, the leader of the Malay Communist Party, an OBE – ''

‘‘Yes, yes I know. But the world was a different place then.''

Old Fishlips Foo grunted. ‘‘Yes, now only thing young people can think about is American imperialist cinema.''

Half way through her cabbage juice, a Ford Anglia police car puttered to a stop on the kerb, avoiding the monsoon drain. Seconds later, dressed in donkey-brown khaki with shiny silver buttons, Stan strolled in. Removing his cap he dropped into the chair beside her.

‘‘You look very dapper today,'' she said.

‘‘Do I? Thanks.'' He ran his fingers over his chin. ‘‘After my little brush with death I thought I'd treat myself to a proper haircut and shave at Cutthroat Chan's. You're not looking so bad yourself, by the way. In fact I'd say you look rather stunning this morning. Is that a new dress?''

Lu See's face reddened like a slapped bottom. ‘‘Sorry, I'm not good with compliments.'' She paused. ‘‘Fancy a cup of tea?''

Stan refused politely. ‘‘Actually, this isn't a social call.'' He cleared his throat. ‘‘52 Squadron air dropped millions of propaganda leaflets into the jungle last week telling everyone the war's over. There're rumours that the Reds might be planning a truce with the new Malay government. Of course there's no way in hell that'll happen.''

‘‘I heard the same on the wireless.''

‘‘Special Branch now has a detailed list of nearly all known Communist guerrillas across the whole peninsula, with photographic records of every bandit. Those that don't give up the fight within the next ten days won't stand a chance of survival.''

‘‘Why are you telling me this?''

‘‘Special Branch is aware,'' he cleared his throat again, ‘‘has been aware for quite some time actually, that Mabel's with the Reds and that she's the mistress of one of its hardcore elite, Bong Foo. They also know you're her mother and that you serve tea every day to Bong's grandfather.'' He aimed his chin at the old man.

‘‘What are you saying? That I'm under suspicion now?'' Stan stared at her. His silence turned her blood cold. ‘‘Am I going to be pulled in and interrogated?''

‘‘I hope not.''

Lu See watched her mother shuffle across the room. Mother didn't speak, but Lu See could tell she was listening. ‘‘Is that why you keep coming here? To keep an eye on me? To see if I'm passing secrets to the MCP?''

Stan put his hand on his heart. ‘‘No.'' He shook his head. ‘‘I come because I like the food here and I like you.''

‘‘So, you're saying I'm not a target.''

Stan patted her hand gently and smiled his toothy smile. ‘‘I'm an ex-RAF rear gunner. We never lie about our targets.'' He reached into a pocket and extracted a gumdrop. ‘‘All I want to do is bring Mabel home in one piece.''

Lu See looked at him with suspicion. ‘‘Does this have anything to do with the attempt on your life?''

The phone rang.

‘‘
Wai-eeeeee!
'' hollered Old Fishlips.

‘‘So, what do you suggest I do?'' she asked, making a helpless gesture.

‘‘Dead man's head!
Sai yun tau!
Crossed line again!''

‘‘I want you to find Mabel before it's too late,'' he whispered as though revealing a state secret. ‘‘The Reds that surrender will be treated well, some may be sent to a rehabilitation camp, but the majority'll be allowed to get back to their daily lives. Those that don't surrender face a mandatory death sentence. They'll be executed without trial.''

‘‘Oh, that's wonderful news,'' she said sarcastically, all of a sudden hearing a tone in her own voice she didn't recognize: irrational bitterness. ‘‘And how do you expect me to go and find her? Do you think I should wade through the
ulu
shouting her name?''

With a blister of curses rattling off her tongue, Lu See stormed out to the back of the restaurant to the small courtyard. Drying tablecloths hung on lines of rope attached to trees. Scrub boards leaned against the walls. Everywhere you looked there were pots and pots of rosemary bushes. This was her private garden. It was the garden where Mabel as a young teen learned to do headstands; where Mabel first announced she wanted to become a nurse; where she used to sit in the shade and revise for her Senior Cambridge Examinations, where she blew out the cake candles on her nineteenth birthday – the last birthday they'd spent together.

It was a place that held many memories. It was also a good place to think.

Twenty minutes later Lu See returned feeling as deflated as a tattered windsock. She sat down besides Stan and hung her head in despair. ‘‘Sorry about that. My stomach's been killing me. The truth is,'' she paused, ‘‘I feel so helpless.''

‘‘Don't worry, I have a plan,'' he said, keeping his voice low. ‘‘I want you to keep this to yourself. Can you do that for me?'' He threw a suspicious glance over his shoulder and then stared hard into Lu See's eyes. ‘‘I can find Mabel. I can bring her home. But it won't be easy and it's a little risky.'' Lu See encouraged him to go on. ‘‘I can't talk now.'' He slipped her a card with an address scribbled across it. ‘‘Meet me at this location tomorrow morning at ten. And make sure you're not followed.''

 

The address on the card led Lu See to an obscure building near the railway station. She made her way down Victory Avenue on foot, passing the Moorish domes and minarets, and turned discreetly into a narrow alleyway.

There was a door at the far end. Lu See knocked three times and was met by Stan. ‘‘Sorry for all the cloak and dagger stuff,'' he said, shutting the door behind them. Once inside she saw five women seated at a row of typewriters and a gigantic map of Malaya pinned to the back wall. The place smelled of rubbing oil and typewriter ink. ‘‘Is this your office?''

‘‘It's one of several we use.'' Noticing her wince, he asked. ‘‘How's your tummy?''

‘‘The same.''

‘‘Could be an ulcer.''

He led her through a gloomy corridor and into a communications room where a man in shirt-sleeves manned a bank of telephones. She saw two post-office clocks, one showing Malay time, one London time. Several other rooms branched off from here to the left and right, some with red lights lit over the closed doors.

Crouched by a filing cabinet, a Malay woman in tortoiseshell spectacles looked at her.

‘‘This is May,'' said Stan. ‘‘May, make sure I'm not disturbed.''

He grabbed a door handle and yanked it.

The interview room was windowless and bare apart from a small table and a pair of wooden chairs. They sat. Stan removed a gum drop from his pocket and popped it in his mouth.