The Night Tiger(13)

“Ming asked about you—are you joining us for lunch tomorrow?” said Shin. Was it pity in his eyes? I didn’t want sympathy.

“I have to attend a funeral.”

“Whose funeral?”

I was annoyed with myself for not making up another excuse. “Nobody you know. Just an acquaintance.”

Shin frowned, but he didn’t question me further. In the lamplight, the angles of his cheekbones and jaw were the same, yet sharper, more mature.

“I need your help,” I said. Now was as good a time as any to show him the finger, without my mother or stepfather around to interfere. “It’s an anatomy question. Can you take a look?”

His eyebrows rose. “Don’t you think you should ask someone else?”

“It’s a secret. I can’t really ask anyone else.”

Shin’s face turned red, or perhaps it was just the low light. “Maybe you should ask a nurse. I’m not really qualified, and it’s better if a woman examines you.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s not for me, silly.”

“Well, how was I to know?” Shin rubbed his face, now even more flushed.

“Wait here,” I said. “It’s in my room.”

I hurried upstairs, treading softly to avoid the creaky floorboards, and slipped down the corridor to my room at the back of the house. Moonlight flooded the shutters like pale water. Nothing about that room had changed, not even the position of the bed, still wedged against the wall that separated Shin’s room from mine.

When I was fourteen, my stepfather had considered moving Shin downstairs, swapping his bedroom for my stepfather’s office, but it proved too inconvenient. He was afraid that Shin and I might sneak into each other’s rooms, which was ridiculous. Shin never came to my room. If we wanted to whisper we crept into the corridor outside or sat on his floor, but my room was mine alone. It was the sole concession to the fact that I was a girl.

Thrusting my arm into the rattan basket that I used as a traveling bag, I fished out the glass vial, tucked in a handkerchief because I didn’t like to look at it.

Downstairs, I laid it next to the oil lamp. “Tell me what you think.”

Shin unwrapped the handkerchief, his long clever fingers untying the knot. When he saw the finger, he stopped.

“Where did you get this?”

Looking at his dark brows knitted together, I realized I couldn’t possibly let Shin know that I’d lifted it out of a stranger’s pocket while working as a dance-hall hostess. No matter how I tried to rationalize the faded gentility of the May Flower or the hardworking girls, it sounded wretched. Worse still, it would reveal my mother’s gambling debts.

“I found it. It came out of someone’s pocket.”

Shin turned the bottle from side to side, narrowing his eyes.

“Well?” I squeezed my own hands under the table.

“I’d say it’s the distal and middle phalanges of a finger. Possibly the pinky, from the size.”

“Could it be an orangutan’s?”

“The proportions look human to me. Besides, look at the fingernail. Doesn’t it look trimmed?”

I’d noticed that myself. “Why does it look mummified?”

“It’s dried out, so maybe it happened naturally, like beef jerky.”

“Don’t talk about beef jerky,” I said gloomily.

“So how exactly did you get this again?”

“I told you, I found it.” Pushing my chair back, I said hastily, “Don’t worry, I’ll return it. Thanks for taking a look. Good night.”

As I retreated up the stairs, I felt his opaque gaze following me.





7

Batu Gajah

Friday, June 5th




Since his arrival, Ren has learned two important things about his new master. First, Ah Long informs him that William is a surgeon and therefore should be referred to as “Mr.” or Tuan Acton instead of “Dr.”

“Why’s that?” asks Ren.

“No idea. Is a British thing.” Ah Long is shelling giant river prawns. “But that’s how you address him.”

The second thing he’s learned is that his new employer prefers a tidy environment, worlds away from the lively and chaotic household Ren left in Kamunting. Dr. MacFarlane often left half-eaten sandwiches and banana skins in the muddle of papers on his desk. This new doctor, William Acton, places his utensils neatly on the edge of the plate. The shining surface of his desk is broken only by the archipelago of inkwell, blotting paper, and pen.

Ren has already memorized the exact position of each object and replaces it correctly each time he dusts. Maybe it’s a waste of time as he doesn’t know how long he’ll stay here. Until his task is done—though what comes after finding the finger and returning it to his grave, Ren has no idea. Dr. MacFarlane gave no further instructions. A wave of homesickness strikes him, so intense that tears well shamefully in his eyes. Ren tells himself that he’s too old to cry. Twenty-six days have passed since his old master’s death and he feels a rising panic. But nobody else has died. Unless dogs count.

Yesterday, Ah Long mentioned that the neighbor two houses over had lost a pedigreed terrier: a yappy, scrappy creature, worth more than a month’s salary. A tuft of fur attached to a stumpy white tail was all that was discarded. “Leopard,” grunted Ah Long. Ren hopes so. Not tiger.