The Night Tiger(59)
When William and Lydia stand together in the front room of the bungalow, Ren is struck again by how similar they look. Tall and pale, with large high noses and long hands. He can’t tell whether Lydia is attractive or not, but she seems used to attention from the toss of her hair, and the confidence with which she crosses her long legs in their white leather sandals.
“How is the patient? Nandani, I mean?” Ren asks shyly, but William’s face brightens.
“Doing well. Do you want to see her?”
“Yes.”
“It’ll be educational for you to check her progress,” says William. “I’ll bring her over to the house one day.”
Ren glances at Lydia, but she’s studiously examining the bookshelf and gives no indication of hearing their plans. She walks through the house with William, giving suggestions about arranging the furniture for the upcoming party. Some of it, Ren thinks, is actually quite good advice.
“There won’t be many women on Saturday,” says William solicitously. “Are you sure you want to come? It might be awfully boring for you.”
She slips her arm through his. “Oh no, I’d love to. Would you like me to arrange the flowers?”
From the alarmed look in William’s eye, Ren knows that flowers are the last thing on his mind. It’s almost comical, except his master is suffering.
“No need. Ah Long here will manage everything.” And with that, William takes her out to the car to send her home.
* * *
Remembering this, Ren asks Ah Long later whether they should get flowers for the house. Ah Long frowns. “Yes. We’ll need a centerpiece for the table and something near the front.” Despite his air of long suffering, he’s enjoying the party preparations.
On Tuesday, Ah Long decides to bleach and starch the table linen again, though it was put away clean last time, because it has yellowed. On Wednesday, Ren dusts and wipes, turning the spines of the books out and aligning them neatly. Ren recognizes some of the titles, the same as in Dr. MacFarlane’s house. Gray’s Anatomy, issues of The Lancet and Annals of Tropical Medicine and Parasitology. The long words had first been pronounced by Dr. MacFarlane and later Ren learned to copy them out, sitting at the kitchen table. He nods at them, old friends, as he mops the floor.
Three plump chickens are in the wooden coop at the back. They’ll be made into chicken cutlets and Inchi Kabin, crispy twice-fried chicken served with sweet-and-spicy sauce. Local beef is tough and lean, and comes from water buffalo, so Ah Long will make beef rendang, slow-cooked dry curry with coconut, to round out the main dishes. In the meantime, on Thursday they move all the furniture in the living room and wax the floor.
“In case they want to dance,” explains Ah Long. “Though there are only two ladies coming.” Still, he hauls out the gramophone while Ren sharpens the needles. There’ll be another Chinese waiter hired for that evening to serve drinks. William takes little interest in this flurry of preparations. When Ren asks about him, Ah Long shrugs. “He’s got a new hobby.”
Now that he’s mentioned it, Ren realizes that his master has taken to disappearing after dinner. “Didn’t he use to go for walks in the mornings?”
“Morning, evening, what does it matter? As long as she’s willing,” Ah Long mutters under his breath.
On Friday morning, the gardener delivers cut flowers to the kitchen door, and Ren carries a heaping armful to the dining room to sort out. If there were a lady in the house, she’d arrange the flowers on the day of the party, but tomorrow will be devoted to cooking. Food spoils quickly in this heat, so everything must be freshly prepared. As Ren trots back to the kitchen for a second load of greenery, he finds the gardener deep in discussion with Ah Long.
“You, boy!” says the gardener. He’s Tamil, his wiry squat body burned dark by the merciless sun. He’s the friendly one who speaks Malay; the other gardener speaks only Tamil. “Mau lihat? Want to see something interesting?”
Excited, Ren follows the gardener into the garden. Ah Long stumps moodily after them as they go around the back, right up to where the manicured lawn peters out into undergrowth. This is the frontline of the gardeners’ endless struggle against the surrounding jungle. Walking around the perimeter of the garden, they approach the patch of uneven ground where Ren buries the household garbage—and where the finger that he stole from the hospital is interred, the glass vial safe within its empty biscuit tin.
Ren’s pulse quickens. His eyes fix on the stone that he placed as a marker. It looks suspicious on a patch of newly turned ground. He didn’t expect anyone to come to the garbage dump. Nobody does, only Ren.
“Sini,” says the gardener. “Here and here. Can you see?”
He points out traces: bent and broken branches and a print pressed into the soft wet earth. It is a tiger’s pugmark.
At least, that’s what the gardener says although Ren can’t really tell from the blurred half impression. But something has definitely passed that way. Something large and heavy. Deeper in, under the trees, the dry leaves form a thick carpet. It’s only where the bare earth is exposed that there’s a print. The men squat near the pugmark, wider than the palm of a man’s hand.
“Left front paw,” the gardener says.
“How do you know?” asks Ren.