The Night Tiger(26)

The May Flower was on the outskirts of Ipoh, quite far from Mrs. Tham’s. Having just missed the bus I decided, despite the falling dusk, to walk partway. It was dinnertime, and I could smell fish frying, hear the scratchy sound of a radio playing Chinese opera. Crossing the street, I narrowly avoided a bicycle that swished past. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man follow across, though the light was too weak to make out his face.

Hui and the other girls had warned me to expect the occasional customer who’d wait outside. Pearl said once a man pursued her all the way home, and her mother had threatened him with a kitchen knife.

“And did he leave?” I’d asked.

“She chased him off, shouting that my husband was a pork butcher!”

We’d laughed about it then, but right now I wished heartily for pork-butcher relatives of my own. Whoever was following me did so at a cautious distance. When I walked faster, he did, too. When I stopped, he slipped behind a pillar. I ducked under a hanging bamboo chik, or blind, into a dry-goods store, crowded shelves packed with glass jars of sweets, cast-iron woks, and wooden clogs. It was almost closing time as the shopkeeper, an elderly man in a white singlet, informed me.

“Please,” I said, “do you have a back door? There’s a man following me.”

I must have looked frightened for he nodded. “Go through, past the kitchen.”

I hurried through the long shophouse, apologizing to his startled family who were sitting down to fish soup and fried tofu. The back door led to a narrow alleyway between the shophouses. The wise thing, of course, would be to leave as quickly as possible, but it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Silently, I peeked round the corner.

My pursuer stood staring at the dry-goods store. The shutters were now being closed, and he was clearly puzzled as to why I hadn’t emerged yet. I recognized him right away. As I feared, it was the young man with the narrow face who’d asked me about the finger: Y. K. Wong. My shoulders tensed. One way or another, I’d better not return to the May Flower for some time.

Cutting back to the dusty street behind, I hailed a trishaw, leaving my pursuer still waiting fruitlessly in front of the store. I hoped he’d stay there a good long time. Listening to the crank of pedals, the wheels humming in the falling velvet dusk, I closed my eyes and wished fiercely that I could leave this place. Leave everything and start over somewhere else.



* * *



To my surprise when I got home, Mrs. Tham was waiting for me in the front room. She looked both excited and a little put out, an expression that I recognized with a sinking feeling.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“Just finishing up.” It was no later than my usual time on a Friday.

“One of the rules of this house,” she said, her little bird face alight with indignation, “is no male visitors. I can’t imagine what you could have been thinking, Ji Lin, to tell a man to come and wait for you here!”

I flinched. I’d left the mysterious Mr. Y. K. Wong standing in the street at the other end of town. How was it possible that he’d found the dressmaker’s shop? It was like witchcraft; the man was a demon. Or perhaps he had a twin, a doppelg?nger that heralded death.

“He stood outside for the longest time. I thought he was waiting for a customer, peering into the shop the way he did, but finally he came in and asked for you. When I said you were out, he left right away. Though I must say he was very good-looking.”

“Oh,” I said, understanding dawning. “Was it my brother?”

“Your brother? You don’t look anything alike.”

Not wanting to explain any further, since Mrs. Tham had obviously heard bits and pieces of my family history and was eager to ferret out more, I simply said, “People often say that.”

“If he was your brother, why didn’t he say so?” she said indignantly. “Making me worry like that!”

I’d no idea, to be honest. Had my mother given Shin this address? And why was he here so late in the evening? There were too many mysteries today.





11

Batu Gajah

Saturday, June 6th




Ren is waiting anxiously at the door when William returns. “Selamat datang,” he says. Welcome home. That is the correct way to greet his master; servants should be lined up at the door for arrivals and departures. Ren had always done it for Dr. MacFarlane. The old doctor used to joke he didn’t feel right leaving home without Ren’s quiet goodbye. Today, Ah Long has joined him, his usually taciturn face animated as he takes William’s medical bag.

“Tuan, is it a tiger?”

“Probably,” says William. “I want the doors locked at night. And don’t go out in the evening or early morning alone. That goes for you, too, Ren.”

Ren nods. He thinks the new doctor looks ill. His face has a fish-belly pallor and his eyes, behind the thin-rimmed glasses, are bloodshot. There are so many questions that Ren wants to ask, but he hesitates, wondering how to broach the subject.

Ah Long asks, “Who died?”

“A plantation worker.” William passes a hand over his eyes. “I need a bath and a drink. A whisky stengah, please.”

William goes off to the tiled bathroom, where he’ll rinse himself off with a bucket dipped in a pottery jar of water. Ah Long turns to Ren.