Bitter Sweet Harvest (14 page)

The door opened and Mimi put her head in to announce Hussein. He did not wait for her to finish. He strode in, weaving from behind her without a backward glance, leaving Mimi aghast at his boldness. She hovered for a minute and then left, quietly closing the door behind her.

An Mei saw him approaching. She sat frozen in her seat. She was determined to keep some distance between Hussein and herself. She motioned him to the seat in front of her desk. He ignored her and walked purposefully towards her, skirting around the desk.

“No, please take a seat.” She had difficulty controlling her voice. It came out high-pitched. Her face was grave as she waved him back to the chair. She did not smile. She felt a smile would be her undoing. She remained very stern even while she greeted him and went through the formality of asking how he was. Her expression gave no inkling that her legs felt like jelly and that, if she had stood-up, she would not have been able to remain standing. She examined the face that had been so dear to her in her memory. Her heart continued its wild flutter. This would be the last time she saw him, she told herself.

“An Mei, why have you stopped taking my calls? Have you nothing more to say to me than mere pleasantries?” He stood up and made as though he was going to come round the desk to her again.

“No!” she said sharply, panic in her voice. “No, stay where you are. I do not have much time. I have a client coming to see me in five minutes. So please say what you have to say. We should not see each other again. I took your calls only because I felt that I should be polite, and I wanted to know how you were. I know now and what else there is to learn I can read in the newspapers. You are doing well. You are making a mark in politics. It is what you wanted.”

“An Mei, have you not heard what I have been saying to you all this time. I love you. Will you marry me?”

Taken aback, she went death-pale. She grasped the edge of the table.

“Why?”

“I have always wished us to marry. It is just circumstance that did not allow it.”

“And these circumstances have changed?” she asked. She could not avoid the sarcasm that crept into her voice.

“Yes, my father has agreed to our marriage.” Hussein dropped his eyes. He let out a sigh. Linking his fingers and clasping both hands together as though in prayer, he brought his forehead down towards them. He stayed in that position, head on the clasped hands, both elbows resting on his knees, looking at the floor. He could not bring himself to look at An Mei because he was not telling her the caveat his father had attached to the agreement. “You are a Muslim. You are entitled to four wives. She should know her position. And I expect you to take at least another wife, this time a true Muslim girl, a Malay girl, preferably someone with good connections. You can divorce An Mei after you tire of her. So have her, if you must. It seems that this is a price I have to accept in order to get you to focus on your career.”

He kept his head bowed, muttering to himself that he would never do this to An Mei. That he would not take another wife. He convinced himself that there was no reason to tell An Mei and upset her when he had no intention of doing what his father had demanded. All he could think of was to be together with An Mei and the immediate gratification of having her to himself.

An Mei misunderstood his posture; she thought he was not able to look at her and kept his head bowed because he feared losing her and regretted his past actions. She stood up and went to him. She knelt next to his chair; she placed her head close to his and without thinking, kissed the top of his head. And the very next moment, she found herself in his arms.

She pushed him away. “Wait, wait, not here. Please go.” She rushed back to sit behind her desk. Everything was going too fast and contrary to all that she had planned. She could not deal with it. She could not absorb the situation fully. She was alarmed, appalled even at her own actions.

“I’ll see you later, but not at home. Aunt Nelly will not allow it. Meet me at the Lake Club after work.”

He made as though to go to her. She shook her head. “No! Go! Please,” she pleaded.

Hussein walked into his parent’s residence with barely a glance at the tall columns in the entrance, standing incongruously in the tropical surrounds. The columns, huge and imposing, were inspired by the ‘wedding cake’ in Rome’s Piazza Venezia, the famous
Monumento Nazionale a Vittorio Emanuele II
. His parents were awed with what they saw in Italy and made a grand building of similar design a ‘must have’ in their list of things to acquire. He had tried to talk them out of it, but they ignored him. “Son, you do not know of such things. A building of such size and grandeur is bound to impress people,” they had replied. “It will be a wonderful place in which to entertain and will soon become the envy of everyone in Kuala Lumpur.”

His father and mother were waiting for him in the drawing room. They sat facing the French windows with their heavy gold damask curtains draped artfully on either side. His mother had her back to him as he entered the drawing room. His father, who was sat at a half angle facing the window turned, cocked his eye questioningly, and asked, “
Sudah?
Done?”

“
Sudah,
” Hussein replied.

“Then, let us get on with the planning in preparation for the next party meeting. We will put you forward as the candidate for the ministerial post.”

“Isn’t that a bit presumptuous? I am still new and learning the ropes. Shouldn’t we wait?”

“Leave it to us,” Rahim replied, waving away Hussein’s protestation with impatience. “Get
Tengku
Ahmad to join us. He is in the library,” he instructed the servant, before turning to address his son. “We need young people like you with new ideas. Have you not heard our new Prime Minister’s instruction? He said he needs young leaders who are grounded in the Muslim faith and Malay culture, and who can debate both in English and Malay, to take up ministerial posts. Wouldn’t you say you fit the bill? Or have I wasted my money sending you to Oxford?”

Hussein could only shrug his shoulders. He felt that to argue with his father would just be a waste of energy. It was far better to go along with what he said. He was also feeling increasingly tired, a lethargy that seemed to sap his very lifeblood. The oscillations between energised jubilation and extreme lassitude were becoming an all too frequent occurrence. He fought to shake off his fatigue and put on a smile.

“Of course! Not a problem at all,” he said brightly. He tried to instil in his voice an enthusiasm that he did not really feel. “Of course I can debate. I was President of the Oxford Union, one of the world’s most famous debating societies. I just thought that as I have only been recently...” His voice trailed off. He knew that his father was not listening and any protestations would fall on deaf ears. Already his father’s attention was switching to Ahmad who had entered the room.

“Here, study this,” said Ahmad, handing him a folder. “It contains some of Lee Kuan Yew’s speeches. Singapore idolised their Prime Minister for his oratory skills and, I am sad to say, even people in this country do as well.” Ahmad had caught Hussein’s pronouncements that he could debate. He smiled in amusement at his blustering, drawing comfort from his discomfort. He had not forgiven Hussein for reneging on Shalimar. “See what you make of it. It might serve you well if you are to be our champion in parliamentary debate.”

“We’ll get someone to draw up your next speech to your constituency. Jot down some ideas and we’ll work on it. You may go, unless you have something to say. That is, something other than to do with your preoccupation with that girl, An Mei.”

“He is besotted! All he can think of is the girl!” Faridah exclaimed after Hussein left the room. She was exasperated with her son. “I have enlisted the
bomoh
to see if this Chinese girl has cast some evil charm on him. I suspect so. Why else can he not give her up? We present him with Shalimar, such a beautiful girl, and he refuses her.
Minta maaf
, apologies, Ahmad, but we have even lined up other equally beautiful girls who he has also steadfastly refused. I see nothing in this Chinese girl. Nothing!” She waved her hand dismissively.

Hope stirred in Ahmad. Perhaps all was not lost and there might still be a small chance that Hussein could be persuaded. He kept a low profile, bowing his head to maintain a humble attitude that he knew pleased Faridah.

Unchecked by both men, Faridah became even more expansive and outspoken. “The
bomoh
has given me some potions to undo her evil charm and I will see to it that it is infused in his drinks.” She sniffed in frustration, her nose creased up at its bridge, before exclaiming, “
Kepala sakit!
Headache! Let us hope that he recovers from this malady. Otherwise, we will have to go ahead with this sham marriage.”

Rahim broke his silence. He was tired of his wife’s meddling with charms and potions that had become increasingly costly and senseless to him.

“Remember,” he said, “it is such an opportune time to launch his career now with a new Prime Minister that we should let him marry her if only to get him to settle down to some serious work. You have spoilt him, giving in to his whims all the time since he was a little boy. That is why he expects the same now. I say, let him have her, tire of her and then we can get on. In any case, it is too late to obstruct this marriage. I have given my word. Your role is to make sure she converts to the Muslim faith. She is to be presented in the future as a devout Muslim imbibed with our culture. You make sure she learns it.”

“No! Let me try one more time to make him see sense.”

“And I say, let him have her. It will not last. It is just
gatal,
an itch that will pass. You make sure that the wedding preparation goes to plan.”

“
Adoi!
All I get is the hard work. Do you know how many ceremonies are involved?

“Get a wedding planner,” retorted Rahim.

“You are good at it,
Datin
,” said Ahmad. He was bitterly disappointed, but he hid his feelings behind an affable smile. “I will help if you need me.”

“How I wish my son was a bit more like you,” Faridah responded.

T
he wedding took place in Kemun, his hometown and the constituency that he hoped to gain in the next election. Hundreds of people congregated in the grand hall of his parents’ house to participate in the
bersanding
ceremony. The residence was open to the public for the special occasion.

An Mei sat next to Hussein on the
pelamin
, a raised ornate dais, beneath a canopy of drapes and silk flowers of different hues, yellow, blue and gold. She looked down at her feet. She felt nothing, a coldness clutched at her heart. She stared at the
Mehndi
, the intricate light orange and deep brown, henna-stained patterns on her hands and feet. They were a symbol of love and fertility, she had been told. The artist had spent hours patiently grinding the dried henna leaves, mixing oil and water before painting them. People came to the dais, chanting blessings and prayers, scattering
beras kunyit
, rice stained with tumeric,
bertih
, fried rice grains and
tepung tawar
, scented water, around her. The music was unending as was the queue of people who came. Young and old, some with their entire family, people from the surrounding villages and towns, trooped in with their gifts. Still she sat, detached, the custom as alien to her, as she was to them, her
hijab
, an unfamiliar constraint.

The wedding was rushed. Things moved quickly from the time Hussein proposed to her. Her mother-in-law who had been dead set against the marriage worked at breakneck pace to speed it up. She had not softened in her stance towards An Mei. She hardly looked at her other than to give her cutting glances. “I just want it over and done with,” she would say. The various complex stages of a traditional Malay wedding were reduced to two. Nor did Faridah, her voice, loud and brusque, hesitate to say why it was so. “If you had been one of us, the
Akad Nikah,
the signing of the wedding contract, and the
Bersanding
or wedding ceremony would have been in your family home; needless to say, we have had to pay for everything.”

Yes, my family or the absence of it, An Mei thought. She’d had so little time to prepare her parents. She looked to where Nelly sat and caught her eye. Nelly, despite her father’s threats, had flown to Kemun from Kuala Lumpur to be with her.

Hussein sat next to her, resplendent in a silk top, a beautifully woven sarong tied over silk pants, a
songke
t headgear and the traditional silver dagger, the
keris,
at his waist. “It will be soon over. I’ll make it up to you,” he whispered, sensing her sadness. His voice was drowned by the start of loud recitations of the Koran and blessings. An Mei almost jumped at the loud intrusion. She closed her eyes tighter, reminded of the
Khatam Al-Koran
that had been conducted in the mosque the previous day. Surrounded by women folks, she had recited the last few pages and verses of the Koran. It signified that she had completed reading the Holy Book and that she, An Mei, now renamed Noraidin, was transformed into an adult responsible for bringing up her own children and family in the Islamic way. She trembled in memory of the Imam’s interrogation. She had lied about her circumcision. With the support and agreement of Hussein, she had betrayed the faith even as she had professed to grasp it. Hussein reached over and held her hand. Gritting her teeth, she steadied herself, taking deep slow breaths.

Throughout the ceremony, her thoughts flitted to the events that followed after she accepted Hussein’s proposal of marriage. One in particular kept coming back to haunt her.

“Why the hurry?” Nelly had asked. “Why this sudden change in mind? I have no time to prepare your father. An Mei, have you really thought it through? It is not just about love and being with Hussein. It is also about giving up all that you have worked for, including your family, culture, religion...”