NEXT MORNING at breakfast Sandilands noticed some of the other guests smiling at them, with goodwill; they were being recognised as a honeymoon couple. He did not mind. He was the happiest and proudest man in Singapore and did not care who saw it. Perhaps in the smiles directed at him there was a small element of mockery, in that he was a man of thirty-six or so as delighted as a child with a cherished toy. He remembered Christina’s joy in her red bicycle; but in the smiles given Leila there was nothing but amazed admiration. No wonder, for she was astonishingly beautiful, because she was also astonishingly happy.
A servant crept up to say that there was a telephone call for Mrs Azaharri.
‘It can’t be for you,’ said Sandilands. ‘You’re Mrs Sandilands.’
She kissed his cheek as she got up. ‘I’ll put them right, whoever they are.’
She was soon back, looking sad. The old Chinese who was to visit her wasn’t able to come: he was too ill. If she wished she could go to see him. She had said that she did wish. She hoped Andrew wouldn’t mind. She promised not to be long. This was an old man whom she honoured and whom she had known all her life.
‘I’ll go with you,’ said Sandilands.
She was doubtful. Was it possible that she loved him and yet did not trust him? Yes, it was.
‘Are you sure you want to?’ she asked.
‘Very sure.’ He wanted to be in her company always.
‘It’s in a rather run-down part of the city.’
‘All the more reason I should go with you.’
‘I was warned I might be followed.’
‘By policemen, do you mean?’
‘Yes. He’s regarded here as a dangerous revolutionary. Everyone who visits him will come under suspicion. Even you, Andrew.’
He did not smile. ‘Has he, as a revolutionary, ever advocated the use of force?’
‘As a last resort, yes, I suppose he has.’
He smiled now, pretending that the question he was about to ask was playful. ‘Would you and your father ever advocate force?’
‘It would be very foolish of us to do so in Savu, wouldn’t it? Look at all the might His Highness could use against us. Hasn’t he an understanding with the British? Troops would be flown in. Besides, you’ve said yourself how peaceable our people are.’
He had to admit it. ‘So they are.’
They took a taxi. They held hands. He glanced through the rear window to see if they were being followed. A dark-blue car kept close behind them.
‘Mr Lee, like Mr Anderson, was a prisoner of the Japanese,’ she said. ‘He too was tortured. You will see. Two of his fingers are missing. They were chopped off.’
Just then Sandilands saw on the pavement a group of Japanese tourists, laden with cameras. They were enjoying themselves in the Lion City where they were welcome guests. This time they came with wads of yen, not swords.
Soon they were in a district of tall bleak apartment blocks. Here the car following them was more conspicuous.
At a closemouth a young Chinese man was waiting for them. He reminded Sandilands of Albert Lo. He had the same guarded smile and watchful eyes. He greeted Leila with respect. As lawyers she and her husband had, at risk to themselves, defended dissidents.
Sandilands was given a quick curious glance and then ignored. He was not a comrade.
There was no lift. They trudged up six flights of stairs. The place was clean but sour-smelling. There were no graffiti.
Who was it, thought Sandilands, that said the poor would be with us always? For all the singing there would be no overcoming.
They came to a door, like all the others, painted a dull green. There was nothing to indicate that within, dying, was an old man who had once been a professor of philosophy and who still believed in a time when poverty, war, and exploitation would be abolished.
Their escort knocked cautiously. The door was opened by a Chinese woman with grey hair and tired, stern eyes. She smiled when she saw Leila. They embraced, Sandilands was embarrassed. Here was a Leila he had not known and, to be truthful, did not want to know: a Leila who would never be made welcome in the Golf Club.
The woman was not sure how she should greet Sandilands. Leila introduced him as her husband. She smiled at him then, but not cordially.
The room was barely furnished – no carpets on the floor and no pictures on the walls. It was not a home but a place of refuge, not to be stayed in long. There was a bed. On it lay a shrivelled old man. His eyes were shut and would never, it seemed to Sandilands, be opened again. If he was breathing it was not detectable.
Leila took the old man’s hand. Sandilands noticed that the fingers were missing. She spoke, in English, but the old man did not hear her, or if he did was too far away to answer.
The visit was fruitless. Leila might have got herself in trouble for the sake of an old man who was dead or very close to it. At any moment there might come a banging on the door. The rest of the honeymoon might be spent in separate jails.
But there was silence, except for a contemptuous snuffling made, Sandilands realised, with shame, by himself. What he meant by it was that it made little difference to a private man who governed, whether the autocracy was a despot’s or a parliament’s. All he himself wanted was to be let live in quietness with Leila and Christina. He could not remember ever having voted. He had lived so long abroad that his name was on no electoral roll at home. He had never regretted it. Yet here he was, in this miserable room six storeys up, with secret policemen waiting below, in the presence of suspected revolutionaries.
The young man spoke in Chinese, the woman nodded, and then in English said to Leila that they should go now. If her father awoke she would tell him that Dr Abad’s daughter had come to see him. He would be very pleased.
Leila kissed the old man on the brow. It was a kiss that declared her love for him and also defiance of his and her enemies.
Sandilands was shocked by that kiss and by the tears in her eyes. Had she forgotten that she was now his wife?
They went down the stairs in silence.
The taxi was waiting. So was the blue car. Sandilands could see the two men in it. They looked bored. He felt sure they had been talking to the taxi-driver, who seemed nervous.
‘What now?’ asked Sandilands. ‘Would you like to do some shopping?’
Too late he realised he was being insensitive and unsympathetic.
‘I’d rather go back to the hotel.’
Only then did he try to understand what a strain it had been on her. It had meant nothing to him but surely, if he loved her, it should have been agony seeing her suffer.
‘I hope you don’t mind, Andrew,’ she said, humbly.
‘No, of course not.’
They said very little on the way to the hotel.