“Do you have money to make the needed repairs?” I asked.
“As I said, we have only very minimal funding.”
Barely enough for his own salary, I thought. “Then no,” I said. “My grandfather passed away just a few months ago. We are still in mourning.” I stood. “Perhaps you can come back at a later time.”
“I am here to protect vulnerable young women like yourself,” he said.
“Oh, sure,” I drawled, with a wry smile. It was such a corny line.
“What do you mean?” he said. He was clearly offended.
“I assume you also protect vulnerable old women,” I said. “My grandmother, for instance.”
“Of course I do,” he said. “That is our job—to protect both edifices and people.” He knitted his eyebrows. “I am engaged to be married,” he said, apropos of nothing. “I am very much in love. My fiancée and I—her name is Marisol—are exactly suited. She is from Nebraska. We will be married a year from next month.”
I was sorry I had twitted him about wanting to protect a young woman—taking it as a note of flirtation. I groaned inwardly. Would I never stop putting my foot in it? He must have taken me for some kind of desperate vamp. I determined to imitate his businesslike approach.
“Congratulations,” I said. “And does she inspect these historical buildings with you?”
“Please let me show you my list of properties,” he said. “This may convince you.”
He produced a notebook filled with drawings, photographs, and annotations. It was arranged by Singapore districts, and within those by neighborhood. The notebook was alarmingly thick, and he began to read from it in a droning voice, yet his enthusiasm was real. “Number 45 Market Street. First shophouse in district, rumored to be a gambling house in the late 1800s. Fine example of the Oriental-style pitch roof, forty-five degrees, with scrollwork requiring repainting, minor repair to the acacia wood, and small area of termite damage.”
Avoiding my stupefied gaze, he went on with a long list of sites and buildings. Each one, it seemed, was in need of repairs. Each had some tenuous connection to the history of Singapore. Our palace, rich with history and rife with rot, was a positive plum. No wonder he was pursuing it so diligently. He showed no sign of stopping or even slowing in his recitation. I was starting to perspire inside my school uniform.
“Are any of these private residences?” I interrupted.
He stopped midsentence. “Well, no,” he said. “Not exactly.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Not exactly?”
He seemed embarrassed. “Some of them are former residences,” he said. “Governmental regulations do not allow us to make repairs for private individuals.”
“Well, that leaves us out then,” I said. “We ourselves are private individuals.” I jumped to my feet and began to herd him toward the front steps. He tried to sidestep me a moment, but I was relentless. “Extremely private,” I added. I was sick of ambitious young men trying to take over our home.
“I recognize,” he said, “that we are often the court of last resort.”
“When we get to the last resort, I’ll let you know,” I said.
He put his hand on the top of the marble balustrade and stood his ground. “You may be closer than you suppose,” he said. “Do you think that Brown was the only one with his eye on this property? Or that only suitors want the Kampong Glam Palace?”
I winced. How many more people knew about my shameful history? “There are many crooked officials,” he went on. “Singapore is in an era of prosperity. I don’t believe it will last—not here, and not in America. But right now, the speculators are making their fortunes. Unscrupulous men have their eye on every piece of real estate standing. God knows what they would do to a place like this.” His words were harsh, but his voice remained gentle. “Your claim here is tenuous, and the building is crumbling around you. These are the facts. I have not invented them. You know them as well as I do. If we cannot keep you living here forever, with the Kampong Glam as a private residence, at least allow me to help you explore your other options.”
“Why would I trust you?” I asked.
He put one hand to his face, rubbing his cheekbone as if I had slapped him. His eyes were large and slanted for a Caucasian. With his high cheekbones and taut skin, he could almost have passed for an Asian, had his complexion not been so pale and lightly freckled. “You wouldn’t,” he said. “Of course.”
We stood still for a moment, each taking the other one’s measure. “Think about it,” he said. “Discuss it with your family. Investigate my background.” He pulled out a typed sheet of paper and handed it to me. The name Adrian James was typed at the top. I caught a glimpse of the words Harvard University. Uncle Chachi had spoken of that place as if it were an academic mecca. I could not help but feel just a flicker of hope. “Here are my references,” he went on. “Don’t rush into anything one way or the other. Just consider it,” he said. He was at the bottom of the steps now, but he turned and looked at me and at the palace behind me. There was no greed in his gaze. I recognized this difference between him and Brown. “What would you make of this place if you had nothing to be afraid of?” he said.
It was a question I had never asked myself. All my life, I had been so afraid of losing the Kampong Glam Palace. I had never thought about what would happen if we simply let it go.
That night, I broached the subject very gingerly at the dinner table—with Uncle Chachi at the head of the table, as always, and Nei-Nei at the foot, as always. Dawid beside me, and across the table sat Sanang and Danai.
“A government man came by the palace today,” I said
“What kind of man?” asked Nei-Nei suspiciously.
“Not one of Brown’s men. The opposite. I think he wants to protect it. He was—very stiff. Like a tin soldier.”
“How old was he?” she demanded.
“Not old.” I did not quite meet her gaze. If she knew that Adrian James was a young man, she would dismiss him outright.
“I can protect the Kampong Glam,” said Uncle Chachi. “I am the man of the house. I am the heir.”
I was prepared for this. “Yes, of course,” I said. “This is why I wanted to ask your opinion. You know the palace best. —You said yourself that you were tired of all the upkeep. You and Nei-Nei both.”
“When did I say such a thing? I am never tired,” said Uncle Chachi. “Why do people assume that I am tired?”
“Maybe because you nap all day,” declared old Sanang.
Uncle Chachi looked outraged. “When do I nap? Never! I am the Hussein heir.”
Nei-Nei spoke from her end of the table. “It is time,” she said. “Time to let go.”
Uncle Chachi stared down at the table, as though he saw something hiding in the wooden grain. Nei-Nei’s words seemed to sink down into the wood. He did not look up for a while. His hand rested on the table—a small brown hand. He made it into a fist and then opened it. A few teardrops—only a few—fell from his bent head onto his dinner plate. We all pretended not to see this. He rubbed his face with the heel of his hand, while we waited for him to regain his composure. “How about a gambling casino?” he said.
“A gambling casino?” I said, incredulous. Old Sanang glared at me across the table. “What an interesting idea!” I corrected myself.
“Gambling is very popular,” said Uncle Chachi. “Why should the Malays get all the profits?”
“Interesting,” I said. I closed my mouth firmly to keep any other words from popping out.
“I think it should be a candy factory,” said little Danai. Then at least we were allowed to laugh.
“Why not an elegant hotel?” said Dawid.
“How about a hotel and gambling casino?” said Uncle Chachi.
“Who is going to do all of the running and fetching?” said Nei-Nei Down.
“What abou
t a home for old people?” suggested Sanang.
“Not a bad idea,” said Uncle Chachi.
“Too many stairs,” grumbled Nei-Nei Down. “And the elevator is too small.”
“What about a restaurant?” I said. “Maybe Nei-Nei could cook.”
“Tschuk!” exclaimed Nei-Nei. “I only cook for those I love.” She looked across the table at Uncle Chachi. “He always thought it should become a school.” We knew she meant British Grandfather. She was very delicate about referring to her late husband around Chachi, but she never let any of us forget about him, either. “I never could bear the thought of all those young men and women running up and down the stairs, shouting.”
“You talked about this?” I asked.
“We talked,” she said. “When it would end, how it would end. Uncle Chachi and British Grandfather and I . . . the three of us. We never worried about ourselves. But for you . . .”
“Will the government provide us with another place to live?” asked old Sanang. She had a strong practical streak.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You need to find out,” she persisted. “I am too old to sleep in the street.”
“How long before they move us out?”
I shrugged.
“Will they preserve the integrity of the palace?” asked Uncle Chachi. “What about the mosque?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“When do we meet with this not-old man, this tin soldier?” asked Nei-Nei Down.
“When do you want to meet?” I asked, relieved to be the one asking a question for a change.
Uncle Chachi answered. “There is no time like the present. Time and tide wait for no man.”
“In other words, soon,” I said.
FOURTEEN
Adrian
I need not have dreaded the family’s first meeting with Adrian James. Nei-Nei and Uncle Chachi took to him as quickly as they had turned their backs on Geoffrey Brown. And the cause of their affection for him was absolutely trivial, and typically Singaporean.
We invited our visitor to lunch before we attempted any serious conversation, and Adrian demurred at first, just as any native would have done. But when he finally sat down at our table to eat, he put away two bowls of chicken rice and, urged by Uncle Chachi, accepted a third, pulling it toward him with a sigh of contentment. “It’s heaven,” he said.
Remember how Geoffrey Brown felt about chicken rice? But the clincher came shortly after lunch. We four adjourned to the Rose living room. This was the room where the wallpaper had peeled the least, the room that had suffered the fewest leaks, and where most of the furniture was still intact.
But Adrian James went almost unerringly toward a precarious chair made of woven rattan. It was a small, humble-looking piece of furniture, kept there strictly for sentimental value. I believe it was the oldest chair in the room, and may have been part of the original palace furnishings. Anyone else would have overlooked it.
I said, “Please be careful,” but then stopped, because Uncle Chachi was right at my heels, and my aging uncle could not bear for anyone to point out any of the defects of our household. So instead of finishing my sentence as I wanted to do—“please be careful of the seat on that chair”—I was left like some old-time oracle, pointing toward the middle of the room as if issuing a general warning: be careful.
Adrian James raised his eyebrows. He must have thought I was warning him not to offend my elder relatives. He sat down in the ancient chair, which creaked ominously. He said, “I hope you don’t mind my being here.”
“Not at all!” said Uncle Chachi genially. “We invited you to our home. You are welcome.”
“I would like to discuss the future of the palace,” said Adrian. “If that is all right with you.”
Uncle Chachi nodded. “If one wishes to divine the future, one must study the past,” he said. “Confucius.”
“Exactly!” said Adrian. “This palace is a historical treasure. It deserves our respect—our attention. And I want to tell you that I think I can help.”
Perhaps he bounced a little in his chair to emphasize the point. Perhaps not. I can’t be sure. I only know that at exactly this moment the chair beneath him splintered completely, the seat flew out from under him, and Adrian collapsed onto the floor, the chair in pieces around him. He lay there stunned a moment, on his back, then scrambled to his feet, his face bright red.
“Oh my God, I’ve busted it,” he said.
I said, “Are you quite all right?”
“That chair very old,” said Nei-Nei. “Very bad. Terrible.”
“It is not—,” Uncle Chachi began, outraged. “—Yes,” he said. “Terrible.”
“Terrible,” Nei-Nei Down repeated. “Not your fault. Nothing you did.”
“We all hated that chair,” I added.
Uncle Chachi looked wounded. “Yes,” he said. “Hated.”
“It was probably a precious antique,” said Adrian, accurately. “And I’ve gone and smashed it to pieces.”
“Sit on the sofa,” I said. “It’s much sturdier.”
“I can’t,” said Adrian.
“Of course you can,” I said. “Sit down. It won’t break.”
“I can’t,” he repeated. He put his hand to the back of his head and it came away smeared with red. “I think I’m bleeding,” he said.
After we had all fussed over him—including little Danai, who was fascinated by all things medical, and old Sanang, who was the only one of us who actually knew what to do and where things were kept—and gotten him patched and plastered back together again, we finally got down to brass tacks, as British Grandfather would have said. The fall had broken the ice. We covered all of the basic history and facts; Adrian restated the urgency of our finding the missing papers; and we made our request to the Singapore City Building and Preservation Department. It is much easier to speak of these things in the mudroom near the garden when one of you is dabbing with Mercurochrome, and one of you is wincing and trying to be brave. I thought about Adrian’s fiancée and wondered if she was exactly like him, if that was how two people became suited to each other. But I could not really imagine a female version of Adrian.
By the time we had gone over everything two or three times, and promised to search the palace for the missing documents, we had covered quite a lot of ground, and Adrian had stopped bleeding. We allowed Adrian to drone on about numerous historical buildings he had identified and helped to restore. He listened attentively to our proposal. Uncle Chachi was our family spokesman, as we had agreed in advance. It was a role he relished, and he excelled at it; after all, he had been the family’s representative to the outside world for more than fifty years.
“This was my idea,” Nei-Nei asserted. She couldn’t help herself.
“It is a fine idea,” said Adrian.
“Truly,” said Uncle Chachi. “It is the best idea.”
I nodded.
Adrian’s hands were on his knees; he sat on a wooden bench in the mudroom, where we’d gotten him washed off and fixed up. He turned his hands over, palms up. “Then we will try to make it happen,” he said.
“Can you promise,” said Nei-Nei Down, “that you will succeed?”
“No,” said Adrian. His voice was so soft and earnest that it sounded like yes. “There are no guarantees, I’m afraid. But I will do my best. I will let you know what is happening every step of the way. I have not yet had a recommendation of mine turned down. I am very proud of that. If we run into a problem, I will let you know. I’ll try to work with absolute . . .” He held his hands in front of his face, like a window frame.
“See-throughness?” suggested Nei-Nei.
“Yes. Like glass. Very much like that.”
She nodded. “It is a good way.”
“I think so, too.” He rose to go. “But,” he a
dded, “I would feel much more secure if we had those papers, Mrs. Coleman.”
She pressed her lips together. “We will look again.”
I could not bring myself to tell Adrian James about the bonfires my grandfather had held shortly before his death, when he had stirred the blackened pages with a long stick.
“And if we never find them?” I ventured.
Adrian glanced at me, his green eyes glinting like a cat’s. “Then we will work without them. It will take longer. I will have to be more convincing.”
“We will find them,” Nei-Nei promised. “We will look hard.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Coleman,” he said.
“No,” she said. “I would rather—no one calls me that,” she said.
Adrian looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What shall I call you, then?”
It was a decisive moment. She looked from Adrian James to me and back again. “Call me Nei-Nei,” she said with a sly smile.
FIFTEEN
Secrets of the Moonlight Palace
Have you ever tried to find something in a palace? There are endless nooks and curves, balustrades and alcoves and crannies, and secret, hidden places under stairs; not to mention room after room piled with more than a hundred years’ worth of our relatives’ treasures and trash. When we had been unable to distinguish which was treasure and which was trash, we had just kept both.
The Kampong Glam Palace held a large collection of kebaya embroidery; ceramics; books; beadwork; cookware; linens; wall hangings; photographs; rugs—some of them whole, some in pieces. Some in rags. Shelves housed records of domestic and national events: newspaper clippings; family records, household finances; every scrap of paper on which any family member had noted anything, including one diary by a great-uncle who had recorded nothing but each day’s weather, and scribbling by someone who seemed to be a distant relative or house-guest, who had scrawled endless columns of numbers, which might have been a record of every Straits dollar they had ever spent, or of the number of ants seen crawling over the peonies. These papers, too, had been kept. Some pages of some daybooks had melded together into something like a loaf of paper bread. Others fell apart at a touch into tiny paper shards. Yellowed, curling like the petals of flowers, brittle, fragile, torn, as age spotted as my grandfather’s hands. He had kept everything—everything, that is, except what we needed most.
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