WHEN THE RAIN STOPPED, Raj found a rickshaw. The runner wiped the handrail dry and spread newspaper upon the damp seat before heaving up the shafts as his passenger climbed in, muscles knotting in his shoulders under the sudden weight. Eventually Raj reached Middle Road and alighted outside the Japanese draper Echigaya where, within glass cabinets, rolls of bright silk and kimono fabric could be seen. Shoulders back, stomach pushed out, Raj swung his arms vigorously as he walked, eyes focused firmly ahead. He did not appear a man to hinder and people stepped aside to let him pass. Middle Road was home to many Japanese shops, mostly of the ten-cent variety selling toys, knick-knacks, buttons and thread, chinaware and household items such as graters and sieves. There were also Japanese photographers, dentists, barbers and brothels, whose expertise was always in high demand. The Japanese community in Singapore overflowed with shopkeepers; there were few rich men amongst them. It was this uniformity of status and lack of ambition that led to the rumour that they were all spies. It was said that through information gained from their citizens in Singapore, the Japanese government prepared for expansion into South East Asia
Soon, Raj reached the shipping agency, Nanyo Kaiun, sandwiched between Ono’s Barber Shop and Dr Mori the Dentist. As he climbed the narrow stairs to the office above, the odour of fermented pickle drifted to him. In the beginning when he had first met Mr Yamaguchi, the acrid odour of this pickle had turned Raj’s stomach. The Yamaguchis accompanied every meal with these sour pickled vegetables, which were stored in wooden tubs in a kitchen cupboard. The pungency permeated their home and conjured up for Raj the very essence of Japan.
As he pushed open the door Mr Yamaguchi looked up from his desk and gave a distracted smile. Raj saw with annoyance that the diplomat, Mr Shinozaki, was sitting with him again, and knew by the disapproval on Shinozaki’s face that he had intruded. In spite of this Mr Yamaguchi smiled, pointing affably to a chair beside a standing fan.
‘We will not be long,’ he said.
Raj glanced nervously at Mr Shinozaki, who met his gaze with a deadpan stare of enigmatic appraisal. These days, Shinozaki was to be found with increasing frequency in Mr Yamaguchi’s home. Both men were hunched over a map of Singapore spread out on the table between them. Raj settled down to wait, listening to the rapid exchange of Japanese and staring at Yamaguchi’s bowed and shaven head shadowed with a four-day stubble. The sour odour of the mouldering pickles reached its peak in this room, and Raj moved close to the fan. His linen jacket was tight about the armpits and held the heat, and he thought constantly of that moment at the end of the day when he could change back into the comfort of an old dhoti.
Under Mr Yamaguchi’s tutelage Raj had discarded his traditional loose attire of dhoti and kurta for Western-style suits of white cotton. He had also adopted the habit of wearing a gold watch-chain across his waistcoat, just like Mr Ho the biscuit maker. The Western clothes were constrictive after the soft flow of a dhoti, but to move successfully in his new world, Mr Yamaguchi advised, he must wear its uniform. Yamaguchi was an old seafaring man of earthy humour who, despite his counsel to Raj, was often found in a loose batik shirt. Raj noted that the intellectual Mr Shinozaki, press attaché at the Japanese Embassy, always dressed in a dark suit whatever the heat. It was a mystery to Raj what men from such different worlds could have in common, that they should meet so frequently.
‘We have both roamed the world for too long. We no longer know exactly where we belong,’ Yamaguchi said, laughing when Raj questioned him once. During the Russo-Japanese war Yamaguchi had been taken as a POW to Petrograd after his ship sank in action. When the war ended he was sent back to Japan, but on the way stopped in Malaya where he met and married Japanese Mrs Yamaguchi, and never returned to his country.
Yamaguchi’s small office was an untidy affair with shelves of dusty files, and sheaves of browning paper that rustled as the breeze of the fan swept over them. The large map the men were huddled over lifted in its wake; Yamaguchi held it down with a fleshy hand on which was tattooed an anchor. On the wall above Yamaguchi’s desk hung a painting of Mount Fuji in winter. The bare branches of trees and the gleaming white slopes of the snowy mountain fascinated Raj. He could not imagine cold such as Yamaguchi described, where water froze and fingers turned blue. Yamaguchi’s talk of these strange things projected Raj into distant landscapes, so that he often left Middle Road in a state of expanded experience.
Raj, who had been learning Japanese for some months, strained his ears to understand what the men were discussing in lowered voices. The ships Raj replenished with supplies were exclusively Japanese vessels, and Yamaguchi had suggested that some knowledge of the language would give him an advantage over other local ship chandlers. Listening to the conversation, Raj found that although he understood words here or there he could not fit them into a meaningful context. As he watched, Shinozaki leaned across the desk to Yamaguchi, speaking in an earnest manner, his arms folded upon the map, his long face lined with anxiety. Before joining the Japanese Foreign Office Shinozaki had been a journalist and worked in China. Yamaguchi told Raj that, as a young diplomat, Shinozaki had been posted to the Japanese Embassy in Berlin. There he had fallen in love with a German woman and for such inappropriate behaviour had incurred the disapproval of the Ambassador.
Eventually, Shinozaki ceased speaking and drew back glumly in his chair. Yamaguchi folded up the map and replaced it in a drawer and then picked up a small blue teapot on his desk. Shinozaki put away his notebook and lifted his empty cup for Yamaguchi to refill with lukewarm tea. Yamaguchi poured a further cup of tea for Raj, and pushed it across the desk towards him.
‘Hitler will soon invade England and win the war.’ Yamaguchi grinned displaying his many gold teeth. Raj did not know how to reply to this statement and stood before Yamaguchi, teacup in hand. The year before in faraway Europe a war had started. Although Raj could not yet see what relevance such a distant event had for Singapore, Yamaguchi and Shinozaki discussed it often.
When the door finally shut behind Shinozaki, Yamaguchi walked over to the window and beckoned to Raj, pointing down into the road below. ‘Watch that fat Malay in a checked sarong in front of Mr Nemoto’s photograph shop. See what happens when Shinozaki-san appears.’ With Yamaguchi Raj looked down at the peeling colonnade with its food hawkers, overflowing merchandise and mouldering shop signs. Within a moment Shinozaki emerged from beneath the office of Nanyo Kaiun and hailed a rickshaw. Immediately, the Malay stepped forward to follow Shinozaki in another rickshaw.
‘The British authorities now think all Japanese are dangerous people. Shinozaki-san is a high-ranking diplomat and receives his orders directly from the Japanese government, so of course Special Branch detectives have their eye on him. A Chinese in a straw hat, who will be waiting somewhere in the shade, always follows me. I am just a nobody, but I have caught the authorities’ interest because Shinozaki-san is my friend,’ Yamaguchi admitted.
‘Come, let us settle our accounts,’ he continued briskly, turning to his desk.
Once the business of accounts was over Raj followed Yamaguchi into the living area behind the office. In these cramped rooms where the odour of pickles and dried seaweed was joined by that of honey buckets and disinfectant fluid, Mrs Yamaguchi ruled. She devoted much of her free time to the making of Japanese dolls with delicate white faces and elaborate hairstyles speared with ornate pins. They stood in glass cases about the room, one looking much like another and none bearing any resemblance to Mrs Yamaguchi with her wide jaw and a wart in the fold of her nose. Seeing Raj, she bustled forward to fuss about them. Soon, a Malay houseboy appeared with square lacquer boxes of cold noodles, bottles of beer and small plates of peanuts and pickles. Yamaguchi settled himself on a cushion before a low table and began to suck up the noodles with relish; Raj declined the meal but accepted the beer and peanuts. He had yet to acquire a taste for Yamaguchi’s strange food with its odours of the sea and fermentation, but he had begun to enjoy the bitter taste of beer. The liquid washed through him, stretching him open inside and he had come to like these loosened sensations.
‘I could not understand what Shinozaki-san was saying; it sounded as if he was asking about guns. Is that possible?’ Raj asked. The beer gave him the courage to question Yamaguchi and he was rewarded by seeing his startled expression, before the man broke into a chuckle.
‘Your grasp of our language is better than I thought. He did indeed mention guns, and also military installations. This is a British colony and, although the war in Europe is far away, Japan has just made a pact of friendship with Germany. Now, can you see how such a pact would reflect on us Japanese here, obligating us to Britain’s enemy?’ Yamaguchi sucked up a further mouthful of noodles with a loud appreciative slurp. The beer had weakened his usual discretion and he picked his teeth as he considered the situation, his small shrewd eyes resting on Raj as he continued.
‘When the Japanese army reaches Singapore you Indians will have nothing to fear,’ Yamaguchi said. Raj looked at him questioningly but Yamaguchi did not respond, looking down instead at his wristwatch.
‘Nakamura-san is late today,’ he commented, shaking his head.
Every Monday evening Raj came to Mr Yamaguchi’s home for a Japanese lesson. Yamaguchi had arranged these lessons, but the fee was so nominal Raj suspected the old seaman might be subsidising the lessons in order to help him. He had come to regard Yamaguchi as a mentor, just as he had Mr Ho before him.
When Takeshi Nakamura at last arrived, Mrs Yamaguchi fussed about him in her usual motherly manner, pressing beer and cold somen noodles upon him. Takeshi responded with grateful delight, dipping up and down like a tall crane, in small obligatory bows. Takeshi was a mystery to Raj. At first, observing his slim frame, tall skull and ears prominent as wings, Raj had taken him to be a student, and was surprised to find he was thirty-four. He was a teacher at a Japanese language school on Bencoolen Street but, even in the middle of term, he seemed able without difficulty to leave his duties to visit a sick uncle in Bangkok and might be gone for days at a time. It was not his business to wonder at such occurrences, Raj eventually decided; he had only to learn the language. Beside him now Takeshi ate his noodles hungrily, sucking them up with relish. Yamaguchi, red in the face from an excess of beer, pushed the empty dishes to one side and leaned over towards him.
‘I have already taught him some new vocabulary. He has learned gun, military installation, naval base and defence,’ Yamaguchi informed him in amusement. Takeshi looked up over his chopsticks and nodded approvingly. As Mrs Yamaguchi reached to refill his glass with beer, Takeshi stopped eating and dabbed his wet mouth on a napkin in a womanly manner.
‘He is a good student and will be a credit to us both,’ Takeshi smiled, his Adam’s apple rising in his throat like the bubble in a spirit level. Raj could not hide his pleasure at such praise, but he noticed the glance that was exchanged between the teacher and Yamaguchi. He also noted Takeshi’s conspiratorial tone, and was puzzled.
When Raj returned again to Middle Road the following week for his Japanese lesson, the street lamps were being lit. He looked up at the weathered façade of Yamaguchi’s office and was surprised to see it in darkness. At this time Mr Yamaguchi was usually still working, and a light shone in the window. Raj climbed the stairs to Yamaguchi’s door and rapped the small brass knocker in the shape of a fox. After a while, the old Malay servant opened the door a crack and Raj saw Mrs Yamaguchi’s frightened face peering at him from behind the man. Recognising Raj, she stepped forward immediately.
‘Very sorry for inconvenience, we keep everything dark; better people think nobody here. I am afraid they will take the Master away. Sorry also, no Japanese lesson today. Teacher send message he is gone to Bangkok to visit sick uncle. But, please, come in, you are welcome,’ she bowed, smiling.
In the small living room behind the office Raj found Yamaguchi, shirt unbuttoned, sitting morosely at the low table, a bottle of whisky before him; the room was hot and airless. Mrs Yamaguchi picked up a paper fan and kneeling beside her husband waved it vigorously about to cool him. Mr Yamaguchi offered Raj some whisky but he refused, finding the drink like fire-water. The servant appeared as always with a bottle of beer, and Mrs Yamaguchi filled a glass for Raj. In spite of the heat Yamaguchi wore a high, knitted harumaki wrapped about his waist, his bare chest beneath the open unbuttoned shirt glistening with sweat. Usually, Yamaguchi was unshakeably affable and it filled Raj with alarm to observe his bloodshot eyes and grim expression.
‘War in Europe is now causing us Japanese in Singapore much trouble. Because Japan has become Britain’s enemy we are now a suspect people here in Malaya, arrests are being made on any suspicion. They arrested Shinozaki-san after a visit to me yesterday.’ Yamaguchi swilled the whisky absently about in the glass.
‘Maybe tomorrow they will come for me,’ he said, forcing a smile.
‘Why should a war so far away affect you here?’ Raj was still unable to understand the full implications.
‘The world is just a large pond. When a stone is thrown in, the ripples reach everywhere.’ Yamaguchi sighed and stared into his whisky glass before looking again at Raj.
‘Shinozaki-san is in Outram Prison. He has sent a message to me asking for some books from his house, and foodstuffs and cigarettes to be brought to the prison. I cannot visit him but there is no danger for you,’ Yamaguchi said, his voice lifting on the thought.
Raj was conscious that Yamaguchi’s gaze, focused intently now upon him, contained the weight of his obligation to the man. He thought of the help Yamaguchi had given, the business pushed his way, the Japanese lessons, the meals, the beer, the waving now of Mrs Yamaguchi’s fan, ordering coolness in his direction, and knew this was the moment when Yamaguchi expected a return.
Outram Prison was weathered black by age and the mould of tropical dampness. A high wall fringed with iron spikes surrounded bleak blocks of cells. As the gate swung shut behind Raj the clang of metal reverberated and he faced a bare yard with a few spindly trees. The Chief Warder, a European with muttonchop sideburns, considered Raj from across his desk as he placed the things Mrs Yamaguchi had tied in a blue silk carrying cloth, upon the table. The cloth was printed with the design of a stork in flight, and Raj stared at the delicate pattern of its wings wrapped about the bundle as the warder opened the cloth and took out a pile of books. Holding each up to the light, he examined the titles with interest.
‘Crime and Punishment; Old Chinese Poetry; Nanking Road. I see our Mr Shinozaki likes highbrow stuff.’ The warder turned the books over in his hand and then poked about amongst the packets of foodstuff Shinozaki had requested. They were mostly bags of dried fish and squid and a variety of strong-smelling bottled mixtures to eat with white rice. The warder took the tops off these bottles, peering at them closely and turning his nose up at the contents. At last he seemed satisfied and replaced everything in the carrying cloth, except the cigarettes.
‘We have to ration their cigarettes,’ he said as Raj tied the ends of the cloth together again.
Shinozaki was imprisoned in a smaller block where Raj was told to wait in a meeting room, bare except for some high-backed wooden chairs and a small square table. The dank smell of old brick was everywhere. At last Shinozaki entered the room with a warder, his footsteps echoing on the concrete floor as he walked towards Raj. The dark suit he still wore was badly crumpled, his unshaven face drawn and his tie off centre; he stared at Raj in surprise. The guard settled down by the door to wait, squinting at them uninterestedly from time to time.
‘Do you have a cigarette?’ Shinozaki enquired immediately, in an urgent voice, and Raj pulled a packet of Naval Cut from his pocket. Shinozaki fumbled for a cigarette with trembling hands as Raj struck a match, and after a few deep inhalations grew calmer. The glare of two bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling cast distorted shadows on the wall as Shinozaki leaned forward to talk.
‘I am as yet just detained here. I am not yet charged with anything. I am still allowed a bath and have a reading light. I get three cigarettes and three matches each day and a small pork chop for lunch. I do not yet have to live with a toilet bucket or broken rice full of weevils, but this may change after the trial if I am found guilty of spying. They may send me to Changi Prison if I am convicted. Of course it is nonsense. I am not spying on military installations like they say,’ Shinozaki said. Blowing smoke indignantly from his nostrils, he reached forward to examine the things Yamaguchi had sent, picking up the books appreciatively.
‘I cannot live without my books, they are my real friends.’ Shinozaki caressed the worn spines and held up the volume entitled Nanking Road.
‘I particularly like this book. It is about a Chinese man who marries a French girl and returns with her to China after the civil war. There is a character in it that says, “A dog during peace is better off than a man during war”.’ Shinozaki smiled and Raj remembered Yamaguchi telling him that Shinokazi had once been in love with a German woman. Raj listened, at a loss for a reply, feeling awkward conversing alone with the diplomat who had always seemed dismissive of him.
‘In the present circumstances, I suppose my arrest was to be expected but things may soon change. Japan is making great military advances in this region and soon our troops will look towards Malaya. Keep this in mind and continue to study the Japanese language; your skill may be of value soon. When that time comes I shall remember you. We Japanese do not forget a favour,’ Shinozaki confided in a low voice as the guard came towards them to lead him back to his cell.
‘Is there anything else you need?’ Raj asked as Shinozaki stood up.
‘I need my spare glasses and some extra razors for shaving. And I need more books. You are a good boy; I shall remember you,’ Shinozaki repeated over his shoulder as the warder led him away. Raj was left alone in the silent room; beyond a small grimy window rain had begun to fall.
By the time Raj returned to Middle Road from Outram Prison the street lamps were once more being lit. Looking up to Yamaguchi’s office window, Raj saw that a light was now burning and hurried into the shophouse and up the stairs, his mind full of Shinozaki and all he had to tell Mr Yamaguchi.
‘The Master is not here,’ the old Malay servant said as he opened the door, surprising Raj. He went to call Mrs Yamaguchi and Raj sat down to wait in the small airless sitting room. Mrs Yamaguchi’s dolls in their glass cases surrounded him like an aviary of exotic stuffed birds; the aroma of pickles lingered as always in the air. When Mrs Yamaguchi at last appeared Raj saw she had been crying.
‘Soon after you collected the things for Shinozaki-sama, policemen came to take the Master away. I do not know where he is. Did you see him in that prison where they have Shinozaki-sama?’ Mrs Yamaguchi drew a trembling breath. Raj tried to absorb this news as Mrs Yamaguchi continued to explain the situation, her face set with the effort of control.
‘Just recently Shinozaki-sama brought two high-ranking Japanese military men, Colonel Tanikawa and Major Kunitake, to our house. The men wanted to travel around Singapore examining the coastline. As the Master’s work takes him out to the shipping lanes, they had many questions to ask him. Afterwards, the Master became very nervous because of this visit. He felt he had endangered us by meeting them, but he could not refuse Shinozaki-sama.’ Mrs Yamaguchi pulled a small folded handkerchief from her obi and dabbed her eyes.
‘What kind of questions did they ask?’ Raj queried, his concern rising.
‘I remember Colonel Tanikawa saying “It’s impossible to attack Singapore from the sea. Attack is possible only from the north.” At that time I took no notice of these remarks. I was pouring tea, refilling cups at the table. The spout of the teapot was troublesome and I was trying not to spill a drop of liquid. Afterwards, the Master told me that Colonel Tanikawa is Planning Chief at Imperial Army Headquarters in Tokyo. At that time I felt flattered that such men should seek out the Master. The day after these military men left Singapore to return to Japan, Shinozaki-sama was arrested. And now the Master has also been taken away.’ Mrs Yamaguchi pressed her lips together, stifling her sobs.
Raj soon left Mrs Yamaguchi and on Middle Road hailed a rickshaw to take him to Race Course Road where he was to meet Krishna at the Indian Youth League. He was filled with anxiety for old Yamaguchi but, as the rickshaw bowled along, he wondered with a pang of fear if he too was being watched because of his association with Mr Yamaguchi and Mr Shinozaki. As they neared the League the rickshaw swerved to avoid another rickshaw that had halted suddenly before them and was swaying dangerously about on a broken wheel. Raj was thrown off his seat and clung to the side of the contraption, expecting to be flung to the ground. The two runners at once began arguing heatedly, and passers-by stopped to follow events. Hurriedly Raj climbed out of the rickshaw, and turned to stare at the offending vehicle. He was amazed to see that the passenger alighting from the broken rickshaw was the Eurasian he had met at the tea stall. Striding forward he took Howard’s hand, pumping it up and down in greeting; Howard greeted Raj with no less surprise and enthusiasm.
‘It is destiny that you have stopped outside the Indian Youth League. My brother-in-law Krishna, who I told you about, is to speak here tonight; he is my guru, he has risked his life in the cause of Indian freedom. You must come and listen to him. Afterwards, we will all have a beer,’ Raj insisted.
The accident had shaken Howard and the mention of a drink was tempting. He had not forgotten the man at the tea stall whose strange ideas had revolved in his mind, and was immediately drawn to his suggestion. Raj steered him across the road to a small bungalow before which a crowd of young Indian men were gathered.
‘We’re just in time,’ Raj said, leading Howard up the steps and into a large room where rows of chairs were quickly filling up. Krishna was sitting at a table shuffling papers. He nodded gravely when introduced to Howard but did not smile. Unlike Raj, who was smartly dressed in a white cotton suit and exuded pragmatic energy, Krishna, with his wire-rimmed spectacles, cloud of black hair and traditional dhoti, appeared distant and austere.
They took seats in the first row and soon, as the room quietened, Krishna stood up and began to speak. At first Howard had difficulty understanding him, but as the audience grew attentive Krishna’s voice gained strength and his eyes grew bright behind his spectacles. For the first time Howard heard the name of Mahatma Gandhi, a lawyer who wore only a loincloth, aligned himself with the poor and preached the novel concept of passive resistance to British rule. As he warmed to his subject, Krishna became more and more animated, his eyes flashed and his hands gestured freely as he told the story of the Salt March that had galvanised India.
‘All salt was heavily taxed to the detriment of the poor. The Mahatma wished to break the terrible burden the colonial government had imposed upon the local people. In the broiling sun Gandhiji marched at the head of a two-mile procession, like a conqueror, refusing all gifts of food. “We are marching in the name of God, on behalf of the naked, the hungry and the unemployed. So, how can we ourselves eat so plentifully?” he said. At last he reached the sea and on the beach bent to pick up a lump of salt. The following week a storm swept across India at this symbol of defiance. Everyone began gathering salt, burning foreign cloth, boycotting everything English, acting in disobedience of colonial rule in any non-violent way they could.’
Howard sat forward on his chair; everything he heard was new to him and the story of Gandhi’s rebellion stirred him deeply. He could imagine the small man, half naked, his dhoti drawn up between his spindly legs, a wooden staff in his hand, positioning himself fearlessly against the might of colonial rule.
‘A nation of three hundred and fifty million does not need the sword or the bullet. It needs a will of its own.’ Krishna’s voice rang out. A burst of clapping interrupted him and when it died down he began to speak about a different revolutionary, a younger man, Subhas Chandra Bose. This leader of men he described as a burning rock, a leaping flame and a springing tiger. It appeared there was so much burning and springing within this man that he had quickly upset the saintly Mahatma. Subhas Chandra Bose was a man of military leanings who inspired the throwing of bombs, the assassination of British officials and the martyrdom to be acquired through this violence. He had no patience with the slow pace of passive civil disobedience adhered to by Mahatma Gandhi.
‘Once more Subhas is in jail and is on a hunger strike. He drinks only a few drops of water each day. By now you must all be knowing that Europe is at war. England’s fight against Germany will divide the world. Germany is aligned with Japan, and both these nations support India’s struggle for freedom. Subhas Chandra Bose predicts that England will be defeated and surrender to Germany. At that time the Indian people must make an immediate demand for a Provisional National Government.’ The cheers went on for some time as Krishna finished speaking.
Afterwards, as promised, Raj suggested a beer and led the way to a table in the library where the atmosphere was quieter and free of the groups of young men who still stood around, arguing about the things Krishna had said.
‘Krishna has taught me everything I know,’ Raj informed Howard as a Tamil waiter placed drinks in front of them. Krishna inclined his head in gentle acknowledgement, his fiery tongue now folded away like the sting of an innocuous insect.
Howard stared at him in admiration, self-conscious before someone of such radical conviction. ‘We must end British rule here in Malaya as well,’ Howard enthused, his imagination stirred by the notions the man had voiced. To his surprise Krishna frowned and replied primly.
‘The situation here is different from India. In India our culture is an ancient one and we yearn for freedom to regain our soul. Malaya was never a country stripped and raped and imprisoned upon its own soil. Singapore was a mangrove swamp, a pirates’ den, when Raffles set foot upon it. The British took nothing from Malaya; instead they created opportunity here for anyone who sought it. Singapore is a transient place; it has no ancient culture; it is nobody’s homeland. People come to make money, and then return home.’ Krishna picked up his beer dismissively.
Howard stared at the man in perplexity, filled with a sense of loss, struggling to crystallise his thoughts. He remembered Olive de Souza. A homeland is where your heart is, she had said. If England was the de Souzas’ heartland, where then was his? He was not a transient person: he had been born in Singapore and knew no other place. He remembered Wee Jack and his communist revolution in faraway China. Looking through the doorway into the room beyond, he observed the ardent young Indian men, their faces aflame with patriotism, still discussing their fight for freedom. Indian or Chinese, he was surrounded by men who would lay down their lives for their country; a feeling of emptiness welled up in him. Howard too was convinced he could lay down his life, if only he had something to lay it down for.