The Night Tiger(73)
He’s the first person to guess, and Ren falls silent. At this victory, the other boy says in a friendlier manner, “Give him the note, all right? You know, her father found out.”
“About what?”
“Never you mind.” He scowls and cycles off, leaving Ren holding the note. Not knowing what to do, Ren goes into the house and hands it to William. To his surprise, William doesn’t open it but puts it into his pocket.
“Do you need to send a reply?” Ren wonders why William won’t open the note.
“No. It’s just a misunderstanding.” William turns and walks back out onto the veranda.
* * *
At seven o’clock in the evening the first guests arrive, the men in light tropical dinner jackets made of cotton drill, the two women in pretty frocks. Lydia towers over the other lady, a mousy little brunette who’s the wife of one of the young doctors.
They mill around the front room, sipping drinks mixed by the waiter hired for the evening. He’s a friend of Ah Long’s, a young fellow Hainanese who works at the Kinta Club. His deft hands squeeze limes and shake ice into submission. Ren would like to watch, but Ah Long has him scurrying about so he only catches snatches of conversation amid the clink of glasses and laughter.
There’s Leslie, the red-haired doctor who’s on good terms with William, saying anxiously to the mousy wife, “I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. Banks. I didn’t realize there’d be ladies tonight and I arranged for entertainment. Dancing, you know. Girls, but a very decent sort.”
“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” she says, although she looks worried.
Ren ducks past them with a tray, wondering which of the men is Dr. Rawlings. Guiltily, his thoughts fly to the buried finger in the garden. Has the doctor noticed that the specimen is missing from the shelf? Ren recalls that tingling electricity, like a burst of static before a message comes through, that he sensed near the pathology room. He tilts his head from side to side, wondering if his cat sense will tell him if the source was indeed Dr. Rawlings.
But there’s no time to look. The long side buffet in the dining room is laden with tureens of rendang and fragrant, steaming rice. Sour green mangoes are shredded in a kerabu: a salad tossed with mint, shallots, and dried shrimp drizzled with lime and spicy sambal sauce. William likes local food and it’s fashionable to serve a curry dinner, though as a nod to the less adventurous, Ah Long has turned the breasts of the three chickens into cutlets, smothered with onion gravy and tinned peas. The dark meat has been twice-fried as Inchi Kabin, and there are little glass dishes of pickles and condiments.
And now they’re sitting down, William escorting little Mrs. Banks in on his arm, since married women take precedence over spinsters. Ren, standing at the sideboard to assist, scans the long table and the animated faces of the men, as they unfold starched linen napkins and sip from glasses. Real crystal glasses, as Ah Long informed him.
Lydia is at the other end of the table from William. She laughs often, easily outshining timid Mrs. Banks. Leslie leans over, murmuring something to William, who looks exasperated.
“Dance-hall girls? What on earth were you thinking?”
“—didn’t realize there’d be ladies tonight.” Abashed, Leslie drops his voice as William shakes his head.
“You ought to have told me.”
“I thought it would be more fun to surprise everyone.”
William beckons Ren over. “Tell Ah Long that there’ll be some girls coming. How many?”
“Five,” says Leslie. “And a chaperone. From a respectable establishment.”
“Very well. Five young ladies. When they arrive, show them into my study. I hope,” he says glancing at Leslie, “this is not a disaster.”
“It’s just dancing. Nothing more than you’d get at the Celestial on a weekend afternoon.” Leslie’s hair is such a surprising color, the sort of gingery orange that Ren has only seen on cats. With a start, he realizes he’s been staring and the two men are watching him in amusement.
“The dance hall will send a chaperone,” Ah Long says when Ren scampers off to inform him of this exciting development. “They’re quite strict about these things, otherwise they can’t do business.”
“Why’s that?” Ren wipes a dish.
“They don’t want any trouble, at least the decent places don’t.”
“What about the not-decent places?” asks Ren.
“Those places you shouldn’t go to. Not even when you’re older.”
Ren would like to hear more about dance halls, but he has duties to perform. The furniture must be rearranged and the floor powdered for dancing. As he drags the furniture to the sides, there’s laughter and the clink of glasses from the dining room. Ren wonders whether there’ll be leftovers, but even as he considers this, his sharp ears catch a discordant note from the kitchen.
“Nanti, nanti! You cannot go in there!” That’s Ah Long’s voice. Then, more urgently, “Ren!”
Dropping the tin of talcum powder, Ren sprints back. Is it the dance-hall girls? If so, why are they in the kitchen? But there’s only one young woman—Nandani. She looks completely out of place as she tries to explain something to Ah Long. Furious, he’s barred the door with one arm, still clutching a wok chan, the steel spatula he uses for stir-frying.