AS SOON AS Chuang walked in, I realised that this was not one of his routine tours of inspection. His movements were that of a marionette, full of someone else’s purpose. The sing song tones in which he, like many Chinese-educated persons, spoke English were strident and I thought I detected a touch of aggression in their cadences.

“I am hoping you will take what I am going to say in the genuine spirit, Perera,” he began.

I looked up from my desk, surprised.

He continued, “You are Singaporean too. It is clear to all Singaporeans that, like crystals, we must be tough, but flexible. The third Minister for Defence and Commercialism soon, cried out for Singaporean to be like good-quality panty-hose. We must stretch and stretch but never tear. Otherwise how can we fight our enemies from outboard or,” he added darkly, “inboard?”

He spoke as though he were a medium, some itinerant spirit having taken over his vocal cords, and my mind slipped back some twenty years. At the bottom of the road where I lived as a little boy was a small Chinese school. Every time I passed, I saw classrooms of little schoolboys in identical white uniforms intoning, in unison, the words of some Chinese sage. Their teacher (had he not mastered the teaching of the ancients this way?) made them repeat words and phrases again and again, tapping out rhythms with his ferrule, his ears pricked for unacceptable, if slight, variations. Thus had wisdom percolated down the ages. In Chuang’s manner this morning was the conviction not merely that he spoke the truth but that he spoke the truth over which he had been give proprietary rights.

“Remember, Perera,” he said, “flexibility is strength.”

“I always thought unity was…” I began.

“And unity is strength too,” he said triumphantly. “Yes, my friend. As ancient Chinese scholar once exclaimed, a bundle of twigs getting knotted is strong as log of wood.” He smiled round the room. “Correct, Perera, my friend?” he said. “The board, Benson’s directors are united. Benson’s must adopt more Asian image.”

“Meaning?” I prompted.

“Higher productivity,” he said. Ignoring the bewilderment on my face, he continued, “We must flung out false Western values leading to moral decay, unemployment and social welfare. No more imitating falsity. Right here in furniture department,” he waved his arm expansively, “We install traditional Asian values. Soon we sell antique Chinese furniture—”

“But, Chuang,” I interrupted, “antique Chinese furniture is too expensive for most Singaporeans and jolly difficult to come by.”

“We manufacture cheap,” he said.

“You mean imitation antique furniture,” I suggested.

“Modern Chinese antiques,” he snapped. Singaporean-manufactured, by skilled Chinese carpenters.”

“Oh,” was all I could manage.

“Here we recommence true Asian spirit of co-operation and co-prosperity. Vanquish cut-throat competition from Manila, Jakarta and Thailand.” He leaned conspiratorially towards me: “You are the first to behold the good news. We have under-the-table joint venture with Teng’s. By next month, even, we stock Teng’s latest antiques.” He rubbed his hands together and beamed at me.

I am not proud of my work and am quite cynical about the aesthetic standards of department stores. Nevertheless Teng’s disgusted me. From its mock pagoda front to its faintly ammoniacal latrines, it epitomised all that was nasty about things Chinese. The look of distaste on my face must have been obvious, but Chuang, intent on whipping up his enthusiasm, failed to notice it.

“You will find collaboration so happily with their furniture manager—Rex.”

“Rex who?” I asked.

“Ah,” he said. “You are already known. Good. But,” he smiled confidentially, “one correction. You must say his name rightly. Z-H-U. Rex Zhu.” He smiled (I thought inscrutably) and went on. “Rex Zhu has business diploma in America but birth and upbringing in Hong Kong only.”

I knew the type and hated the man already. He would be one of a breed of smooth young men who sported bright bow-ties and alligator shoes. He would have spent just enough time in an obscure American college to have learnt to roll his r’s slightly, but would have difficulty containing his sibilants and disguising his truncated vowels.

“When does this co-operative effort begin?”

“Ah, already you are impatient to start. Highly positive, highly positive. But be patience, my friend, which the Chinese poets say is the parent of virtue.” He patted my shoulder. “Next week meeting,” he proclaimed as he left.

The implications of what Chuang had said were not lost on me. Collaboration with Teng’s indicated more than a simple sinophilia. It meant modernisation, capitulation to the mass market. Soon, my haven on the ground floor of the oldest departmental store in Singapore would be invaded by predatory housewives in hot pursuit of bargains, by bushy-tailed honeymooners selecting soft furnishings to feather love-nests, by Australian spinsters seeking orientalia for drawing-rooms in Perth. Even worse, I would be beleaguered by systems analysts, advertising consultants, marketing expert…

I saw it all coming, yet couldn’t find the energy to be afraid. A large part of my mind was focused on my story. I was listening to voices, watching intentions becoming events, inventing phrases in which to trap them. I was halfway through “Homecoming” and I couldn’t wait to get back to my typewriter, tap the keys and watch letters form words, words sentences, sentences paragraphs; to type a page of dialogue, then, turn it on its side and see the skyline of a city; to decorate with commas, colons and question-marks. Impatient, I avoided looking at the office clock, hoping that my indifference would tempt it to sneak forward a bit, and stared instead at a brochure on my desk. When Ahmad shook me awake, it was just after three.

“Missus,” he said, pointing to the telephone.

“Hern,” said Sylvie, in an alarmingly calm voice, “Dr Chan the specialist wants to see us in the hospital today. Can you get off work early?”

“I’ll leave right away,” I said. I was anxious to finish my story. Whatever the specialist had to say, it couldn’t take more than an hour.

I met Mother and Sylvie in a side room of the ward and, shortly after I arrived, we were joined by Dr Chan. The specialist was a small man, smooth-faced and looking younger than his years. He used medical terms freely and directed his remarks exclusively to my mother. His clipped, Singapore accent interfered greatly with his efforts to speak in a slow, deliberate manner and the effect he finally achieved was that of a requiem gone wrong.

“When the malignant process is widely disseminated, as it is in Mr Perera’s case, the long-term prognosis is unfavourable.” He shook his head slowly to disclaim any responsibility for his patient’s plight.

My mother, looking confused and frightened, asked: “What does all this mean, Doctor?”

“Cytotoxics,” he said, looking sternly at her. “With the presence of metastases in the liver and cervical lymph nodes,” he glanced at Sylvie and me as though daring us to challenge him, “metastases proven by biopsy, mind you, there is certainly no place for radical surgery or radiotherapy.”

“Hern,” my mother appealed to me, her eyes glistening with bewilderment.

“Is my father’s case terminal, Doctor?”

“Terminal?” he said, turning the word round his tongue as though unused to its taste. “Terminal?” He cocked his head to one side and looked into the distance. “I think I see what you mean, but these crude, lay terms never give you the true picture.” He smiled at my mother, a benediction. “We don’t think like that any more. I would say that Mr Perera’s disease is advanced. I would say that it is more than a single-organ problem. I would say that had he come to me earlier I would have been able to do more for him. I would say that, as things now stand, my therapeutic options are limited.”

“How long has he got, Doc?” I snapped.

He ignored me and, continuing to address my mother, said, “Terminal is an ugly word. An unnecessary word. Let us together, Mrs Perera, look on the bright side of things. I have proved the diagnosis. I am now going to offer him the best treatment modern medicine has.” He smiled, acknowledging, in anticipation, our gratitude.

“Can we expect my father to live for a few years,” I persisted, “or does he have a few months, or, perhaps, even just a few weeks left?” He held up a hand but I continued, “From what you just said, I understand the cancer is pretty widespread.”

“In cases like this, madam,” he chanted at my mother, “you must at all times be prepared for the ultimate eventuality.”

“You mean Fred might die suddenly … and quite soon?” said my mother, her eyes round with fear.

“To think of his survival in years would be unrealistic. To talk in terms of weeks would be unduly pessimistic.”

“What shall I tell Fred, Dr Chan?”

“We leave that sort of thing entirely to the next-of-kin,” he said, putting his hands together. Mass was over. “Mrs Perera,” he said, leaning forwards and shaking my mother’s hand.

He glanced at me, and my mother said, “My son, Hern.”

“Mr Perera,” he said shaking my hand. Then, turning to Sylvie, he said, “Your daughter, I guess. So much like her mother.” And, shaking her hand, he murmured, “Mrs Perera.”

God, I thought, this self-centred bastard—too stupid to realise automatically that two Mrs Pereras cannot be mother and daughter, even if the tremendous difference in their looks had not made this unlikely—was the person who was going to preside over my father’s dying. A flood of tenderness washed over me. I put an arm around my mother and drew her close. She leaned on my shoulder for a bit, then I felt her stiffen and draw away. Standing very straight, she first extracted from her handbag a tiny lace handkerchief and with it she began meticulously to dab her eyes. Then she drew out a silver compact and began making minute repairs to her make-up. A change had come over her. At first I failed to understand what was happening. Then I did.

The church is hushed and the lighting low. In the background an organ plays. The coffin at the altar is simple but well made and of an expensive black wood. Its edges are trimmed with silver. Real silver. There are little murmurs as Clara Perera, unsupported and alone, walks slowly up the front pew. Under the fashionable hat her head is held high and her eyes, behind the black lace veil, are dry. As she walks by, people whisper one word: “brave”. She takes her place in the front and looks at the coffin, unafraid. The organ is replaced by a choir. The singing lifts up her heart and warms it. Strengthens her faith. Yes, Fred and Clara will meet again. Death’s parting is but temporary. The singing reaches a climax. It’s the conclusion of the Mozart Requiem. “Agnus Dei,” lamb of God. No, that’s wrong. It’s not “Agnus Dei” that she hears. It’s “Crying in the Chapel”.

“Come along then,” said my mother. “Let’s go tell your father what’s been happening.” She held her head high, her chin turned slightly to the left. She had to be sure that her better profile appeared in the final close-up.

“Well,” said my father as we trooped into his room, “what had young Dr Chan to say? Now, remember that Fred Perera is only interested in the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“Everything is going to be all right,” said my mother, sitting down on the bed beside him.

The outright lie stunned me into silence. I had not expected her to come out and tell Father that his condition was terminal, but I expected her story to have, at least, a foundation of truth to which we could add as his condition progressed, so that, in time, he would realise himself that the end was not far.

Before I could say anything, she continued, “They are going to give you this brand-new treatment and you’ll be as right as rain. As rain, d’you hear?” She laughed and tossed her head girlishly. “Just think of the worry we went through for nothing.”

My mother’s behaviour puzzled me, but only momentarily. Clara knew Fred was dying. She had already rehearsed his funeral. She had decided she was going to be brave and she was going to be brave alone. No one, not even her beloved Fred, was going to share her moment of courage. Her jaw assumed its upward tilt and there was a faraway look in her eyes.

“But what did he say was wrong, my darling?” asked my father querulously. “And what about the gland in my neck? What did that show?”

“A rare virus,” said Clara.

“It’s cancer, isn’t it?” said my father in a toneless voice.

“Oh, you silly-billy-kins…” Clara began.

But he cut her short. “It’s cancer. I gathered this quite easily from the bits and pieces of conversation I garnered while they were in the process of doing the biopsy.” He looked at us all and smiled, his upper lip fluttering between tears and a show of courage. “From what I gather, the disease process began in my lungs, then spread to my neck and—correct me if I’m wrong— my liver.”

“Oh dear, oh dear!” said my mother, deflated.

“Dad,” I said, gathering myself together. “You’re right. But I gather from Dr Chan that nowadays, with the latest drugs…”

He held up a hand. “There’s no need for all that, Hern. I’m fully cognizant of the fact that I am dying of cancer.” He looked at the three of us and managed to smile a little more resolutely. “I near my journey’s end and soon must shuffle off this mortal coil.” He reached across for his wife’s hand. “Yet I feel no older, not a single day older, than when I began it. The skin wrinkles, gets mildewed and discoloured and begins to smell a bit, but the inside remains the same.” He paused to breathe. “There’s a light burning in each and every one of us, and it continues to burn, undimmed, till the moment it is finally extinguished.”

Clara looked at him unblinking, her eyes alight with genuine adulation. She was not quite sure what Fred was going on about, but intuitively knew that a heroic pose had been struck.

“Oh, Fred,” she said, “you are so brave and so lovely.”

“Whatever happens, my pet, we’ll take that honeymoon trip up the east coast.” He forced a lecherous look to cross his face.

Sylvie gazed at them, entranced, her eyes overly bright.

I looked at them and thought that in half an hour, an hour at most, I could be back home and at my typewriter.

Back in my room I realised my story “Homecoming” existed by default. I had begun by trying to illustrate something I thought experience had taught me and been distracted from my theme by a chance remark of my father’s. As I wrote, memories my grandmother had shared with me crept in. Pulled this way and that, my narrative was distorted. What finally appeared was quite different from what I had intended. It seemed disfigured, and yet I was reluctant to disown it. Finally I decided what I would do. I would keep it secret. I tucked it away in a drawer, away from my other stories.