I heard my father put down the telephone receiver in his office. I went over to his room. One look at his face, contorted with grief, and I knew.
He finally noticed me standing at the door. “That was the Naval Office in Singapore,” he said.
“William?” I asked in a subdued voice.
“His ship was completely destroyed by Japanese planes.” My father lowered his face into his palms. I hesitated, unsure of what to do. Then I went behind him and placed my hands on his shoulders. Through the open windows the cars went by on the street below. From across Weld Quay a ship’s horns sounded as it began its voyage—all the usual noises that had threaded their way through our lives all these years.
I took control without further thought. Brushing aside the staff’s questions I informed them that the office would be closed until the situation became clearer to us. They would still be paid their salaries, I assured them. I telephoned Edward in Kuala Lumpur, asking him to return to Penang, and then I took my father home. I caught Uncle Lim looking at me in the mirror as he drove and his daughter’s words of warning came to me again—the Japanese would come and cause us suffering. I avoided his eyes and looked out the window.
“What’s happened?” Isabel asked, rising from a rattan chair on the veranda. Peter MacAllister was with her, and he too stood up when he saw us.
“William’s dead,” I said. She listened as I told her what we knew. She did not say anything, but MacAllister sensed her anguish and reached out to hold her.
I went into the house and poured my father a generous measure of whiskey. He took it from me and finished it and then carefully placed the glass on the table. “Your brother’s gone. Gone! His ship’s gone down in the sea.” I thought back to his dreams of being a dolphin, swimming the depths, now searching for his lost son. Isabel leaned against MacAllister and began to cry quietly. We stood there, that afternoon, the clouds uncaring above, the flowers nodding sagely in the wind, the trees brushing the air, a lock of hair over my father’s eyes. My hand moved out and gently pushed it away.
* * *
How do you prepare for a funeral when there is no body? There could only be a memorial service, and empty words spoken as sad reminders of a once-full life. That was all we were left with. My father asked me to organize it. “I just can’t do it,” he said. “I’m sorry to burden you with it.”
“I know, Father. It’s not a burden.”
“I don’t want a joint service with the other families,” he said. We were not the only family that had suffered a loss, for William had been accompanied by many sons of Penang. A heavy mantle of despair had settled over the island and the streets of Georgetown.
The shop owners where I obtained the necessary items for the service expressed their sorrow to me. “Please tell your father we all grieve for him,” more than one said, and I thanked them for their kindness.
The ministry sent William’s personal possessions to us. We opened the dented box and found an envelope of the photographs I had taken and sent to him. My father shuffled them, removed one and showed it to us. It was the photograph taken on the day he left Istana for Singapore. We were still smiling then, when Uncle Lim had taken it.
* * *
Isabel cried throughout the service at St. George’s Church, and I watched MacAllister comfort her. Edward and I flanked our expressionless father. In spite of my decision to stop seeing Endo-san, deep inside I had hoped for his presence.
But you’re the enemy now,
I said to him in my mind.
How right you were. The cycle of pain and sorrow has begun.
The service was short, as we had requested. Through the crowded pews behind me I saw Endo-san at the back. Our eyes met. I shook my head and closed mine. They were so tired. So tired. I realized I had not slept much since the day we were told the news. I thought of William’s final words to me on the day he left his home and of our unfulfilled plans for a trip. The pain of losing him left me feeling weak, ready to fall. I sent my mind out to the faraway place Endo-san had revealed to me but it was done with a sustained effort, as it should never be, and the struggle was exhausting. Somehow I held on and turned the flooding tide of grief. I gripped the pew in front of me and forced myself to take on the unyielding countenances of my father and my remaining brother. I would not be the one who let them down, the one who lost the face held by my family for generations. The load could not be lightened, the burden never shared.
We left the church and returned home. My father wanted the memorial stone to be erected in the eastern corner of Istana, instead of in the church cemetery where previous generations of my family had been buried. I had obtained a wooden box and now asked Isabel, Edward and our father to put something of William’s inside it.
A hole had been dug where the stone would be erected. Before I closed the box I put William’s Leica camera into it. And then the box, like a baby being put back in the cradle, was gently lowered into the gaping ground, and covered with earth. I said a silent farewell to my brother.
My grandfather approached his son-in-law. The two men faced each other. “Now, finally, I know how you felt when she died,” my father said.
“It is not something a father should ever have to go through,” the older man answered. He looked at me with concern and I nodded slightly to show him I was holding up. He moved away from my father and said to me, “I have to return to my old house in Ipoh to make preparations, and to ensure that the servants have a safe place to hide.”
“How long will you be gone?” I asked.
“I do not know.”
“It won’t be easy for you to come back here, when the fighting starts,” I said. I wanted him close to me here. “You really shouldn’t go.”
He shook his head. “You know where to find me, if I am not at my house in Ipoh. I will be safe.”
I was desperately searching for more reasons for him to remain in Penang but he held up his hand and stopped me. “You must take care of your aunt and your family.” He opened his arms to me and I embraced him, trying to extinguish the feeling that I would never see him again.
Above us we heard planes patrolling the skies. Fear had gripped the inhabitants of Penang and an exodus had begun. People were fleeing for the safety and impregnability of Singapore, perhaps sailing even as far as India. But, as I had pointed out to Tanaka, how does one outrun a world war?
* * *
After a listless dinner later that evening, my father said, “You should all leave for Singapore. It’ll be safer there.”
“We have no intention of leaving you behind,” Isabel said. Edward and I agreed.
“We should all go,” I said.
But my father stubbornly refused. “Someone has to run the company,” he said, leaving no room for argument. “This is our home and it’s been our home all our lives. The Malays aren’t leaving, the Chinese and the Indians aren’t running away. I won’t desert them. If I did, I would never be able to live here again.”
“But we’ve heard what the Japanese are capable of. The women aren’t safe,” Edward said, looking at Isabel.
“I’m not leaving, Edward,” she said.
“We have to make sure the company’s safe, that we’re safe,” my father said. He turned to me. “Can you find a way to ensure our safety without compromising our integrity? Can you talk to Mr. Endo?”
I wanted to tell him that this was going to be war, so why still be concerned with integrity? Instead I shook my head. “To guarantee our safety we’ll have no alternative but to work with the Japanese. They want our company. They want all of Malaya.”
“That’s quite unacceptable,” Edward said immediately, scowling at me. “You are not to make overtures to them.”
“They’ll take it anyway, eventually, when the troops march into Georgetown,” I said.
“Our lads’ll turn them around,” my father said but he was not as certain now, his emotional balance tilted. I saw my opportunity and moved in firmly, taking control, bringing his balance to mine. “We should take some measures anyway. Just in case.”
He leaned back in his chair, and said finally, “Edward, tomorrow, start phoning our plantations and our mines. Tell the managers to destroy all our stocks and equipment. And you,” he said to Isabel, “get your hair cut short. You can wear some of William’s clothes. But I want you up on Penang Hill until we are certain that it’s safe here. If you say even one word, I’ll send you to Singapore,” he added as Isabel opened her mouth to object.
A sense of relief returned to me. After the last few days of appearing lost, our father was now back on his feet.
* * *
I went down to the beach later. It was a timeless moment of the day, the sand still wet and silky from a downpour that had occurred earlier. Dark clouds were racing away inland, leaving the seaward sky clear. The moon was already out, a pale companion to the sun that was setting reluctantly.
Birds flew low along the surface, while some pecked on the beach for the almost invisible baby ghost crabs. I could not see them as they scuttled across the beach, only the tracks they left behind them, marking the sand like writing etched by a ghostly hand.
It was quite chilly, the wind carrying a trace of the rain that now fell almost as unseen as the baby crabs, as though the clouds had been scraped through a fine grater. A solitary figure stood staring out to sea as waves unrolled themselves around his feet like small bundles of silk. I walked up to him, feeling the coldness of the water.
“The sky is on fire,” he said.
I looked. It was. The sun lit the sky on the horizon with streaks of red and ocher. Every now and then there appeared bright, silent sparks in the sky.
“What are those?” I asked.
“An air battle. Japanese and British warplanes. A war in Heaven.”
I watched without feeling, unable to fathom the aerial struggle. All so senseless it seemed, so distant. Strange that it could have anything to do with this world.
He turned around. Backlit by the sun, his face was shadowed. I had not spoken to him since the night I saw him on his island, signaling out to the darkened ocean.
“Thank you for coming to my brother’s memorial service,” I said.
He reached out and touched my cheek softly. “Never say things you do not mean. We must always be honest with ourselves. Perhaps you even feel you want to hurt me.” He sighed. “I do not blame you.”
“But I do blame you. You lied to me. You used me, used my knowledge of the island. You asked me to take you around so you could take photographs of it. And your trip to Kota Bahru last year. Now I know.” I moved away from his hand. “And all the other things—all false, aren’t they?”
He looked distressed. He lifted his hands, almost as if he thought he could heal me, but when I took a step away they fell back to hang limply by his sides.
“I can’t trust you anymore, Endo-san.”
“Remember my words to you at the party for William,” he began, but stopped, unable to continue.
I thought back to what he had said at the party: that even though we would soon be on opposite sides, I should never forget what he felt for me. I found that to be bare of comfort now.
“Why haven’t I been able to do what is right?” I asked, puzzled.
“Oh you will, my poor boy. You will,” he said.
And out to sea the sparks grew brighter and more frequent, lighting up the darkening skies like a shower of falling stars.
Chapter Two
As I walked up the road to Towkay Yeap’s home, a squadron of planes flew over me and left behind a trail of white petals that floated down gently. Some of these petals fell onto the tops of the trees, where they flapped, puzzling the birds. The rest covered the road and the lawns and I stooped to pick one up.
It was a piece of paper, written in English, Chinese, Malay, and Tamil. It urged us to surrender peacefully, to welcome the Imperial Japanese Army. No one would be harmed if we did so. I folded it neatly and placed it in my pocket.
These papers had been falling from the planes for the past week now, all over the island, as more and more of Malaya surrendered to the Japanese army. The harbor was crowded with passengers boarding ships that would take them to Singapore, impelled by an unspoken but almost palpable sense of hysteria.
I rang the doorbell, but no one came. I pushed the doors open and walked around the house, to where Kon’s father was standing, staring at his prizewinning white orchids, lost in thought. He saw me and his eyes cleared.
“You must be looking for my son,” he said.
“I was hoping he had told you where he’d be.”
He shook his head. “He has left. I have not heard from him and I doubt if I will. Please sit down.”
I sat on the edge of a wooden flower box. “He told me he would let me know,” I said and the older man nodded.
“Did you try to stop him from joining?” I asked.
“No. Could I? You of all people should know that we all have our own roads to take.”