“Home!” he said to his gharry driver in Malay.
Inside his small carriage, he sat for a long time without changing his position, his angular face and unseeing eyes turned away from the window. But when his gharry had left the crowded streets behind, the calm mask fell and his face betrayed anguish and bewilderment. Self-loathing and anger fought for primacy. He had looked forward to the ceremony for months, so proud that he’d been selected for what everyone had regarded as a great honour, and yet here he was, feeling empty and belittled. Was it for this that he’d spent a thousand taels of gold to buy the high rank of a mandarin? So he could appear in silken robes and be counted among the lesser beings? If it hadn’t been for Wong-soh, he wouldn’t be wearing the silk robe and peacock feather of the Qing dynasty which had killed his father. “To be a mandarin official is the highest honour a son can bring to the family, an honour which will bless all your descendants. This will be so, Qing or Ming, as long as the Son of Heaven sits on the dragon throne. You’re the only Wong left in your family and upon your shoulders rests the honour of the Wongs.” How could he fight that? And so he’d agreed. But his rank had meant nothing to the white gods. And his adoptive brothers. The gulf between them was as wide as the Western Ocean. They stood on the red carpet and he, behind a rope.
Shame and anguish bit deep into his heart. Imagine what Boon Leong would’ve said had he heard him muttering his miserable speech to the governor—ten words he had rehearsed again and again. And the great white god didn’t even spare him a glance. He gripped his knees till his knuckles turned white. The more intense his shame, the more he wanted to hit out and hurt that cockatoo who had turned up his nose at him and referred to him disparagingly as a China-born bumpkin.
Boon Leong and his brothers had turned against him after the death of Tai-kor Wong. And when Baba Wee, their grandfather, passed away, the entire Wee clan had excluded him from their circle. Envy. That was the only reason he could think of. This moneyed family of arrogant English-speaking cockatoos couldn’t bear the thought that a China-born had more business acumen than any of them! Was more wealthy than any of them! Old wealth jealous of new! Envy gnawed at their entrails! They sneered at his inability to speak English, Malay and Penang Hokkien. But money is louder than words anyway. As the towkay of a ship chandling business, an import-export company and a tin mine, why should he care what they thought of him? The Wees for all their pride were on the decline. Didn’t someone tell him recently that one of Baba Wee’s daughters-in-law was reduced to selling beaded slippers she’d sewn herself?
A thin dry smile spread over his bespectacled cleanshaven face. He adjusted his well-oiled queue and silk hat and smoothed out the creases of his robe. A thousand thanks to his ancestral gods! He was no longer an impoverished clerk slaving for the Wees but a respectable merchant and leader of the China-born immigrant community, the Tai-kor of the White Cranes and someone to be reckoned with!
The steady clip-clop clip-clop of his fine horses down the tree-lined avenue, the sighing of the breeze among the angsana trees, the comfort of the plush seats in his carriage and thoughts of the wealth he’d accumulated began to have a soothing effect on his spirits. He looked out and waved to the naked urchins staring in awe at the fine carriage.
“Generosity” and “gratitude”. These two characters should be engraved in his heart. He was not some ungrateful wretch who’d crossed the river and destroyed the bridge. No, he could never forget that it was Baba Wee who’d adopted him as his grandson and given him the chance to work and acquire wealth. True, he wasn’t a grandson on the same footing as Boon Leong and his brothers. More like a poor dependant.
After the death of Tai-kor Wong, Baba Wee had given him work and shelter in a two-storey shophouse fronting the boat quay. That became his home for twelve years. At first he was employed as a junior clerk and spent his days hunched over the counter with a Chinese brush and ink, filling in the large ledgers under the supervision of the senior clerk. The shop serviced many merchant ships. His quick mind soon grasped the nature of the work and he rose to supervisor when he was twenty-two. Later, when none of his sons showed any inclination to take over the shop, Baba Wee entrusted him with the day-to-day running of the business.
He mastered very quickly the art of getting orders from the ships and he made sure that his coolies delivered the supplies on time. He even went out of his way to court the English merchant ships and ships of the Royal Navy which paid better than the Asian vessels. After years of shameless hustling, he became one of the few Chinese on Penang’s waterfront who could parrot the English seaman’s tongue. At first his fellow workers and coolies guffawed at the sight of him, pigtail swinging, trotting after the hairy six-footers, hollering at the top of his voice in what sounded like gibberish. But as more and more orders came his way, their jibes soon yielded to a grudging respect and they began to refer to him as the young man with the silver tongue.
Then Baba Wee died and the business suffered because of constant squabbling among the heirs. One day, in a fit of bad temper and rage, Baba Wee’s eldest son sold the shop to him for peanuts, amidst much acrimony from other members of the family, in particular Boon Leong’s mother. Siok Ching accused him of taking advantage of the Wees. “Thief!” she hurled the label at him as though it was he and not her brothers who had raided the family coffers. “Interloper!” “Marauder!” The others joined in the name-calling. Their bitter words rankled to this day. Siok Ching’s dislike of him sprouted into open animosity when he bought over the ship chandling business. “Big eyes, small stomach! Let’s see how much he can chew!”
To prove her wrong, he started to acquire land and properties that belonged to the Wees. If Baba Wee’s sons were more interested in women, opium and gambling, then he was at liberty to buy up whatever they would’ve squandered away or sold to strangers anyway. At least he was half kin, even though they refused to recognise him.
Boon Leong and his brothers, Boon Haw and Boon Pin, kept away from him too. Not that they were ever close to begin with, even though the young Boon Pin had once taught him how to eat durians. A whole world and a foreign tongue separated them. Boon Leong and his brothers had been brought up as English-educated gentlemen, the sons of the land. Siok Ching made sure that, like her brothers, her sons would be the scions of a Straits-born family and subjects of an English king. She even changed their surname from the Cantonese “Wong” to the Baba-Hokkien “Ong”, so that although the written character remained the same, the pronunciation didn’t. A betrayal of their Cantonese ancestors, he thought. Over the years he’d watched in dismay as Boon Leong and his brothers became more and more like the English. They dressed like them and even cut off their queues and prayed in church, the followers of a man who had allowed his enemies to nail him to a cross! What madness could’ve possessed Siok Ching to permit her sons to forget their father and ancestors?
Could anyone blame him then if he assumed the duties of an eldest son? He wasn’t out to usurp Boon Leong’s place. But Tai-kor Wong must be honoured, if not by his own flesh and blood, then at least by the son he’d adopted. He set up Tai-kor Wong’s memorial tablet next to his parents’ so that Tai-kor Wong would continue to receive the incense and offerings of his descendants. And he’d done this quietly without accusing Boon Leong and his brothers of betraying their father. That they should continue to treat him as an outsider he could only put down to their arrogance and ingratitude.
“Slow! Slow!” his coachman shouted, reining in the horses as his carriage swept into the driveway.
How grossly inadequate his once spacious bungalow appeared to him now. The house, a simple squat building of brick styled like a Malay kampong house and raised above the ground by eight stone pillars, had belonged to Baba Wee’s youngest son. It had eight windows on each side, eight rooms and eight stone steps leading to the front and back entrances—eight being an auspicious number for the Cantonese, sounding much like the character for “prosperity”. This feature had caught his fancy and he’d bought the bungalow when its owner was strapped for cash.
At the time of its purchase, he was still foolishly nursing hopes of being accepted by the Wee relations; he’d thought that owning one of their bungalows would enhance his status, especially since he had saved it from falling into a stranger’s hands. But instead of appreciating what he’d done, they had castigated him as a China-born marauder and vulture who had preyed on their weakness. The very people who’d praised him as a diligent boy years ago and seemed eager to help him rise in the world slandered him now. Even his wife, Choon Neo, chosen for him by Baba Wee, thought he wasn’t good enough for her. He would show her one day who was good enough! He frowned as he alighted from his carriage.
“Papa is home!” Kok Seng called out.
“Uncle is home!” his son’s little cousins echoed.
“Children, out of the way!” The amah shooed off the little ones and scooped up the youngest toddler before greeting him, “Towkay!”
Old Mr and Mrs Khoo, his parents-in-law, came out to greet him. His brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law and their children crowded onto the verandah. Standing just behind them was Dr Lee.
“They’ve all come to offer their congratulations,” Choon Neo whispered as he came up the steps.
She was a slim handsome woman who wore her long hair in an elegant chignon held in place by several gold hairpins. He noticed that she was wearing her best sarong and kebaya embroidered with a design of flowers and leaves for the photo session he’d arranged.
“Father is so very proud. He hasn’t stopped talking about you the whole morning,” Choon Neo purred.
“It’s a good start, a very good start! You never know what this might lead to.” His father-in-law came up and shook his hand warmly. A thin sprightly man in his sixties who still adhered to the fashion of his clerical days, he wore the colonial clerk’s white tunic, white trousers and black leather shoes. “Did his excellency shake hands with you?”
“I ... I shook his hand, Father-in-law.”
“There, Dr Lee! I told you they’d shake hands!”
“Aah, what an honour, Old Khoo, for your family,” Dr Lee murmured.
“Mr Paterson also shook my hand when he said goodbye. Very nice man, you know. Never failed to wish us good morning or good afternoon whenever he met us. I was his clerk for fifteen years before he went back to London. He gave me a book before he left.”
And they had to listen once again to his father-in-law talk about the time he had worked for the English trader.
“The photographer is waiting to take our picture. Tua Koh, are you ready?” Choon Neo asked him, using the Hokkien honorific, “elder brother”, to address him. He couldn’t fault her for lacking in wifely respect in public.
“Are the children ready?” he asked, looking round the room, his face showing no trace of the disappointment he had felt earlier.
“Kok Seng! Gek Lian! Gek Kim! Come out!”
“Here’s something for you. Put them on before we sit for our photograph.”
As her parents and relatives looked on, Choon Neo tore open the red packet. A pair of gold bracelets encrusted with jade and diamonds glittered in her hand.
“So very pretty!” his mother-in-law exclaimed.
“Must’ve cost a lot of money, Brother-in-law!” Choon Sim exclaimed, her eyes full of envy. She had not married as well as her sister and the thought pleased him. It meant that in marrying him, Choon Neo was regarded as having made a good match.
“Choon Sim, the things you say sometimes! Of course they are expensive! Just look at the jade and diamonds!”
Old Mrs Khoo helped Choon Neo put on the bracelets and went on in a loud voice, “Such a good husband, so kind and generous. Where to find one like him?”
He smiled at that. His mother-in-law liked to talk in this manner. But she wasn’t like this in the early days. Choon Neo thanked him and was pleased with his gift. It gave her much face and she certainly ought to be grateful.
“Seng! Come in with your sisters!” he called out to his twelve-year-old son.
“Come, Boy-boy! Let Grandma look at you.”
But the boy was awkward and shy.
“Towkay, if you’re ready, we can take the pictures now.” The photographer bustled in with his camera and stands.
Everyone got up and started to move out of the way.
“Mak! Pa! Please be seated. No need to get up,” Choon Neo called out to her parents.
“Please remain seated,” he too called out. “Take the seats in the centre, Mak.”
“Cannot! You should be in the centre. You’re in your official robes.”
“Mak, Tua Koh really wants you and Pa to sit in the centre. There on the rosewood chairs, right or not?” Choon Neo turned to him.
He nodded and invited his parents-in-law once again to take the place of honour.
“Please, Father-in-law, I beg you not to stand on ceremony.”
He led Old Khoo to the rosewood chair and then insisted that his mother-in-law should take the other seat. Despite their protests, his parents-in-law were very pleased. “They are respectable but not rich.” This was what Baba Wee had told him when the match was arranged. Choon Neo’s father, a distant cousin of the Wees, was a clerk in one of the English shipping companies which used the chandling services of Wee & Sons. Old Khoo had obtained the match for his daughter. A China-born son-in-law with good prospects was much sought after by the poor Straits-born.
And he had not disappointed his in-laws. In the beginning, Old Khoo, who spoke English fluently, had laughed at him when he heard him on the waterfront, shouting, “Yesee, sir! Can do, sir! Can do, sir!” Uttered with such eager-beaver cheerfulness that Old Khoo had immediately dubbed him “Yesee sir”. But as his business prospered and expanded, Old Khoo dropped the absurd name and referred to him as “Towkay Wong, my son-in-law”.
And he, in turn, accepted the change of name as his due. But to show that he was pleased, he appointed Chong Beng, Choon Neo’s brother, as the manager of his ship chandling trade and properties in Penang.
In his quieter moments, he would admit that he had been lucky. With thousands of Chinese immigrants pouring into the Malay Peninsula, he’d found opportunities and success, married two women and crowned his glory with an official rank bought from the Qing government in Kwangtung. Thousands of coolies had died still wearing the same tattered tunic they’d arrived in.
“Towkay Wong, we’re ready,” the photographer came up to him, bowing and smiling all the while.
“Where shall I sit?”
“Over here, Towkay. And Towkay-neo, please sit over here. Now, everyone! Please look front and don’t move!”
The photographer disappeared behind his black cloth to peer at the company assembled before him.
Old Khoo and his wife sat on either side of a small rosewood table, a porcelain spittoon beside the table. Tuck Heng and Choon Neo sat stiffly on either side of them, he in his mandarin silk robe and she in her batik sarong and kebaya of embroidered organdie, pinned down the middle with three large kerosang of gold and diamonds. Kok Seng wore his school uniform of starched white tunic and trousers. His sisters wore embroidered blouses over pink ankle-length skirts. Their Uncle Kim Hock sported a hat and wore the fashionable colonial clerk’s outfit, a white tutup with a high stiff collar and a row of metal buttons made from Siamese coins, and a pair of white twill trousers. Uncle Chong Beng wore a Chinese merchant’s long gown and a short silk jacket with frog buttons. Their aunts were in embroidered kebaya and sarong, like their mother.
Dr Lee busied himself with the young children and, with the help of the amah, sat them in a straight row at the feet of their elders. Then he stepped back to admire his composition.
“Very nice, very nice!”
Neither he nor the photographer raised their brows over the family’s sartorial mismatch. Malayan society was fast changing and this was reflected in its fashions and customs, one of which was to have a photograph taken to mark an important family event.
“Towkay, Towkay-neo, ready? Children, please don’t move. Look straight here, into the camera. Don’t move. Don’t move.” A blinding flash!
“My heart nearly dropped!” his mother-in-law exclaimed. “I hope the photo is nice!”
“Very nice, madam, very nice! Good fortune and blessing on your family!”