“Zam! Here! Here can!”
His Malay chauffeur stopped some way from the temple gate and he got out of his open-top Bentley, one of the first on Malayan roads. That was still his passion—to be among the first of the rich and powerful.
His hand reached up to sweep back his windblown hair. The years had flecked it with grey although his thin serious face had retained its unsmiling smoothness and the eyes behind their wire-rimmed glasses were as keen and hungry as a newly arrived immigrant’s. His nose still twitched at the whiff of a risk or a chance to increase his stakes in a venture. No stranger to adversity, his nerves had been steeled by setbacks and opportunities won and lost in the cutthroat world of doing business in the Federated Malay States, where British traders were trying to break the Chinese stranglehold on tin mining.
He had tried to fight off the encroachment of the foreign devils whenever he could, but in the process, he had antagonised several big dogs in the government and many of his projects were blocked. He was no idiot, however, and one day, he wised up to the colonial game. Teh susu! A “tea-and-milk” company. Me, the tea and he, the milk! As any tea-drinking Chinese would tell you, tea is of the essence, not milk. Only the white man is stupid enough to dilute his tea with milk, he mused.
The next day, he invited the retired Inspector Ian Thomson of the police force to sit on the board of his tin mining company and Thomson, eager to increase the size of his retirement egg, readily agreed. With a white man on his flagship company, his fortunes rose steadily. He soon gained the trust of foreign banks and ready access to the English officials in the Land and Mines Department. Eventually he was able to acquire several thousand acres of rubber plantations, more tin mines and mining rights and a stake in the highly profitable opium revenue farm in Perak as well.
“My troubles in Penang taught me a lesson. Never forget who’s the new emperor of Malaya,” he said to Ah Fook.
“Don’t forget the poor buffaloes you left back in the mines,” Ah Fook chided him. “Thousands of Old Sticks are stuck in those dung holes.”
“So you think the gods are sending me a sign? Wong-ma’s death was a sign?”
“Better read it as a sign than regret later, right or not?”
He believed Ah Fook was right. So when his mourning period for Wong-ma ended, he vowed to Heaven that he would set up a medical hall in every town and village in the country. From Ipoh to Kuala Lumpur to Singapore, he would see to it that coolies and their families would be able to buy herbs and medicine cheaply and consult a physician at no extra charge. Word was sent to Sum Hor inviting poor physicians to work in Malaya.
“On my last trip to Singapore, I met some of them. All Hokkien-speaking. Old-fashioned clods still clinging to their pigtails! And they think I’m half a foreign devil because I’ve cut mine off!”
“So why keep a Hokkien woman in Singapore?”
“I need someone to teach me to speak Hokkien!”
That had so tickled the Cantonese bone in Ah Fook that the old man had roared and ribbed him about how pretty Hokkien girls were some of the best teachers in the world. That was five years ago and it was the last joke they’d shared before the old man joined his ancestors.
He passed through the moon gate of the temple and stopped to admire the pair of green dragons sitting on its roof. The glazed green tiles had caught the light of the setting sun, but within these high walls a deep sea green silence shaded the courtyard, broken now by the soft patter of the grey-robed priest hurrying down the steps to welcome him. He caught the look of mild surprise in the old priest’s eyes. The temple was not due to open till next week.
“Si-fu,” addressing the priest as “highly respected teacher”, he bowed. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just want to walk around a bit and pay my respects ...”
“Towkah Wong, no need to apologise,” the old priest’s soft Cantonese voice stopped him in midspeech. “If not for you, there’d be no temple here. Please feel free to come any time, I’d be only too happy to attend to you and your family.”
“No, no, Si-fu. I didn’t mean to trouble you. I just want to visit the ancestral hall and walk around a bit before the grand opening. It’s quiet and peaceful now.”
“I understand. Please follow me, Towkah Wong.”
“Si-fu, no need to trouble yourself. I can find my way. Please accept this.”
He pressed some money into the old priest’s hand.
“I’ll light the lamps and announce your gift to the gods, Towkah.”
And with that, the old priest left him to find his way through a side gate, past the shrubbery and into the ancestral hall lined with rows of memorial tablets of the White Crane coolies and miners. He lit three joss sticks, planted them in the brass urn and kowtowed three times. That done, he entered a much smaller chamber dominated by an elaborately carved altar of blackwood. The memorial tablets of his parents, his adoptive parents, his son, his comrades and former White Crane elders gazed down on him. He lit three joss sticks again and planted them in the brass urn just as the deep tonal chimes of the temple bell announced his offering.
Kneel.
Kowtow.
Stand.
Move on to the next tablet.
Kneel.
Kowtow.
Stand.
But he could not bring himself to kneel before the small wooden tablet bearing his son’s name. Little Kok Wah would be fourteen today if he had not forced his family to leave Penang so suddenly: the little fellow had a high fever. But after the police had searched his house so unceremoniously, he couldn’t bear to stay another day longer on the island. Consumed with shame and hate at the time, he could think of nothing else except vengeance.
Forgive me, Wong-ma. Little Kok Wah was your favourite. Is he with you now? Or has he been reborn as someone else’s son? Someone who’s a better father.
He wished he could talk to his wife, but not a word of blame had escaped Lai Fong’s lips. Her self-control had mocked him. His lack of new sons after Kok Wah’s death pained him. If he’d had a few more sons, the loss of one wouldn’t have made such a difference. Kok Wah’s death had left him with Kok Seng and Kok Kiong.
Bad luck comes in threes, he sighed. Wong-ma, Siok Ching and Kok Wah had died within the same year. No wonder his fortunes had plunged to dangerous depths. Fortunately he had friends and benefactors in the brotherhood and also among the dead.
Uncle Ah Fook, I can never thank you enough. In life and death, you’ve helped me. Please don’t worry about your sons and daughters. I will personally see to it that they are well-settled. I regret to report that their mother is ill. Ah Fook-soh has not been in good health for many months. When the gods decree that she joins you in the next life, everything will be done to ease her passage into the next world. I, Wong Tuck Heng, kowtow and pay my respects to you, Uncle Ah Fook. May your spirit rest in comfort and continue to bless and protect your descendants.
He knocked his head lightly three times on the cool tiled floor. Then he got up and moved down the row of memorial tablets till he came to Old Stick. He got down on his knees.
Old Stick, I hope you’ve received the three baskets of gold and silver I asked Lai Fong to burn for you on the fifteenth of last month. I was away on business in Ulu Tilang. And I visited Old Buffalo and his wife. I had reported earlier that their three daughters went missing on the night of the terrible riot. Old Buffalo and his wife had searched for them everywhere. No news of them for years. At the time I had my own problems so I couldn’t help them. Then last month, out of nowhere, one of the daughters went home to see them. Old Buffalo said she looks like a Malay woman now. She was big with child and brought along three of her six children. They were brown and half-dressed. Her husband’s a Malay fisherman. At first Old Buffalo wanted to kill her. But his daughter knelt and cried. One of her sisters had been raped and killed herself. The other was living in a brothel in Taiping and didn’t want to go home. Old Buffalo and his wife wept. I told them, “Be glad. You still have one daughter, six grandchildren and one more on the way.” Who would’ve thought that Old Buffalo, so very careful about his daughters, would end up like this.
He lit a stick of sandalwood incense.
Old Stick, I hope you’ll be happy in this new temple. Please continue to watch over my business. Every year I’ll bring you your weaknesses.
He took out the bottle of rice wine in his pocket and his eyes lit up as he poured a generous libation onto the floor and invited Old Stick’s spirit to partake of it.
Drink up, old friend. I know you used to like Three Stars rice wine and I’ve even brought you your other weakness. Take it and enjoy it.
He placed the canister of opium in front of Old Stick’s memorial tablet. Outside, the sun was sinking below the hills. He left the ancestral hall and followed the path to the tombs. He’d ordered a stonemason to build them in memory of his adoptive parents, Tai-kor Wong and Wong-ma. When the time came for him to join his ancestors, he’d be buried here too, the site of the White Cranes mining settlement.
Once he’d dreamed of returning to Sum Hor in his old age, but his last visit home in 1910 had proved disappointing. When he arrived in Sum Hor, he was surprised that nothing had changed and yet everything seemed to have changed. Unchanged were the brigands and warlords who continued to pillage the countryside. Unchanged was the corruption and greed of the officials and landlords who ruled the peasants’ lives. The floods, droughts, plagues of locusts and other calamities of heaven and earth had continued to claim lives. What had changed were the people he knew as a child. They were either dead or had left Sum Hor for the South Seas or the Gold Mountains in America. Only the very old, very young and women had remained behind. After more than thirty-seven years in Malaya, he found that he had no family to return to in Sum Hor. His close relatives had all been killed because of their ties with his father. Those who called themselves his relatives were mostly strangers who treated him as a goldmine. At first he didn’t mind for they were so poor. He distributed gifts of cash and goods, rebuilt their houses and donated to schools and temples. But the more he spent, the emptier he’d felt. Emptiness hung about the mountains, rivers and rice fields. When he was slogging in the Bandong mines, he’d dreamed of revisiting these places of his childhood. Yet when he returned, he realised that the past was a country he could only revisit in his memory.
So what had changed? he’d asked himself again and again. He or Sum Hor? He stooped to pick up a clod of earth and crushed it between his fingers. Bits of sand fell to the ground. Thirty-seven years was a lifetime away from China. Could he have transferred his feelings from the land of his birth to the land of his adoption?
He walked past clumps of bamboos, willow trees and the pagoda. The temple grounds gave way to bush and thicket. As he waded through the lallang, their sharp blades cut his skin and the sting reminded him of his youth. Once again he was the fleet-footed deer who’d dashed through the wild lallang to warn the White Cranes of the Black Flags’ ambush.
A cool breeze came up from the river. He took a deep breath. The scarred land of the opencast mines, the earth devoid of any vegetation except scrub and lallang, greeted him on the far banks. From the mines to the banks of the Bandong River, he could see the distance he’d travelled since those days when he was a fifteen-year-old mongrel fighting for food in the mines. Bandong was where he had started out, and Bandong was where he’d returned to build his temple to honour his ancestors. When he first arrived, he was a refugee, an exile without a country. Bandong gave him refuge and a new life. Bandong was where he became a man with two mothers—one gave him life, the other gave him an upbringing. To whom should he be more grateful? Both sides of a man’s hand are of the same flesh.
The murmur of rushing water drew him to the riverbank. The Bandong River had carried him to safety and danger. He had sailed its waters and found work and friendship in the mines. He had almost drowned in its waters when he was shot by the Black Flags. Bandong River had flowed steadily between its banks, marking the rise and fall of kongsi and kampong, Chinese kapitans and Malay rajas and the death of Datuk Long Mahmud and Tai-kor Wong. Abruptly he turned back. Musa Talib had drowned there.
Large drops started to fall and the sun had dipped behind the trees. Quickening his pace, he ran through the lallang, but age had slowed him down. By the time he reached the main hall of the temple, he was soaked. The brief tropical twilight had ended and the sky was dark.
“Aiyah, Towkah, come in, come in.” The old priest ushered him into his lamp-lit quarters at the back of the temple.
“Looks like I’ll have to wait out the rain, Si-fu.”
“You’ll catch a cold in those wet clothes. If you don’t mind, you can change into these dry ones and have dinner with me. I seldom get visitors.”
He liked the old priest and accepted his invitation to stay for dinner. He changed out of his wet shirt and trousers and put on the loose cotton pants and tunic the priest had lent him. Having stripped off the trappings of his modernity, he squatted on the wooden bench like a coolie and began to eat.
“Sweet potato porridge and salted eggs. Aah, it’s been years since I’ve eaten such good food.”
“If the company is good and the conversation excellent, even a drink of plain boiled water will taste like heavenly wine.” The old priest chuckled.
“How true, Si-fu. But good friends are difficult to find in this world. And we trading people have too many worries and too few friends.”
The old priest refilled his bowl with more sweet potato porridge.
“How many sons does Towkah have?”
“Only two, Si-fu, only two.”
“Better than only one, right or not?”
“That’s true, Si-fu.” He sighed and lapsed into a long silence. The old priest ate slowly and did not try to engage him in conversation.
“How very different from each other, those two,” he began after some time. “Like a duck and a chicken.”
“Mmm?” The priest was surprised.
“My son, Kok Seng, attends the English school, speaks the foreign tongue and thinks like a foreign devil. Like he’s got no Cantonese bones and Cantonese blood. But it’s my fault, Si-fu. I’ve stayed away from Penang and don’t see the boy often enough.”
The old priest nodded encouragingly.
“Kok Kiong, my other son, is better. Quiet, serious and filial. I’ve sent him to Canton for further studies. Just to make sure that he’ll be Chinese. He’s coming home soon to help in the family business.”
He drank more tea and glowed with pride as he spoke of Kok Kiong and how a good modern education was a nation’s strength.
“Some people say that I’m wise. One son educated in English and another in Chinese. It’s like having one foot in China and the other on the foreign devil’s land.” He chuckled softly.
The old priest plied him with more porridge.
“Thank you, Si-fu, thank you. When Kok Seng comes over from Penang, I’ll ask him to be a merchant like me. But an English-speaking one. Then he’ll do even better than me and outfox the white men, I hope. The English are full of trickery. In China, they sell opium to us. Even bombed Kwangtung when we refused to let them bring it in. Here in Malaya, where they’re the rulers, they pass laws forbidding us to sell opium.”
“Is this not the right thing to do?”
“But Si-fu, the English government makes money from opium too. And also gambling. These English hypocrites condemn us with one side of their mouth and use the other side to sell even more opium to China. That’s why, Si-fu, I won’t give up the opium farm. But I’ll use my profits to open more medical halls. It’s hard enough being a coolie in Malaya, away from home and family. They need a bit of sweet smoke to get by each day.”
“Coolies are arriving by the shiploads each day,” the old priest added as he fanned away the mosquitoes buzzing round them.
“Tin and rubber prices are high now. So the foreign devils want coolies and pass laws to make it easy for plantation owners to bring them in. But when prices fall, they’ll kick out the coolies and send them back to China like pigs and cattle! These English are very clever at changing the law to suit themselves!” He snorted, blew his nose and stood up. “I should know, Si-fu. My adopted brother in Penang is an English-educated lawyer. His tongue is slippery as a snake’s.”
“May the peace of Lord Buddha be with you, Towkah.”
“Thank you. The rain has stopped. I must get going. Very good dinner. Thank you.”
“Come any time, Towkah.”
“Thank you. I hope everything will be ready for the opening ceremony.”
“Don’t worry, Towkah. The chief abbot of Bright Hill Temple will be here.”
“Good, good! I want everything to go well.”
His eyes resumed their hard glint behind the wire-rimmed glasses. He insisted on changing back into his shirt and trousers still damp from the rain and was all businesslike once he was dressed. Even his speech became brisk.
“Good luck, good fortune! The more I make, the more I give you.” He snorted and blew his nose.