by Tan Twan Eng
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by Tan Twan Eng
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
AUTHOR’S NOTES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Copyright Page
Praise for Tan Twan Eng’s
THE GIFT OF RAIN
“Beautifully written and deeply moving, Tan Twan Eng’s debut novel is one of the best books I’ve ever read . . . Anyone who thinks the novel is in decline should read this one.”
—Frank Wilson, Philadelphia Inquirer
“An engrossing story of interlocking worlds . . . this deft first novel by Malaysian writer Tan Twan Eng stands as a lavish demonstration of the truth of William Faulkner’s dictum, ‘The past is never dead . . . It’s not even past.’”
—Alan Cheuse, The Dallas Morning News
“Glorious . . . Rain is a gift indeed, as robustly absorbing as it is achingly poignant.”
—Elysa Gardner, USA Today
“A powerful first novel about a tumultuous and almost forgotten period of history . . . The Gift of Rain is a war novel with a personal odyssey at its heart, one that complicates the stark lines of right and wrong during wartime . . . drawing the reader into a web of divided loyalties.”
—The London Times Literary Supplement
“Eng’s graceful prose evokes a time and place that is little known or remembered now, making it both exotic and familiar, and his beautiful narrative is woven with strong images and characters . . . The Gift of Rain is a gift to read.”
—Mary Foster, San Francisco Chronicle
“Thrilling, introspective . . . Tan Twan Eng’s lucid writing carries along the story effortlessly.”
—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
“Strong characters and page-turning action make this a top pick for historical fiction . . . Philip’s personal drama unfolds against the backdrop of fascinating glimpses into Chinese culture, British imperialism, and the Japanese occupation that eventually claims the lives of everyone around him.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“A true saga . . . overflows with mesmerizing beauty and wonder.”
—Minneapolis Star Tribune
“A riveting tale . . . [Tan Twan Eng] writes with deep insight into the history and topography of his native homeland and with deep feeling for its natural beauties.”
—The Washington Post
“[A] remarkable debut saga of intrigue and aikido . . . Eng’s characters are as deep and troubled as the time in which the story takes place, and he draws on a rich palette to create a sprawling portrait of a lesser explored corner of the war . . . measured, believable and enthralling.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“The Gift of Rain sends the reader back into the world of Somerset Maugham—the waning British Empire, the simmering discord between classes and races, the thick tropical surroundings that are both beautiful and suffocating—but at a different angle. Maugham cast a cynical eye on human nature and its frailties; Tan Twan Eng looks upon them with compassion, like a creator might view the imperfections of his handiwork.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
Also by Tan Twan Eng
THE GIFT OF RAIN
For my sister
and
Opgedra aan A. J. Buys—sonder jou sou hierdie boek
dubbel so lank en halfpad so goed wees.
Mag jou eie mooi taal altyd gedy.
There is a goddess of Memory, Mnemosyne; but none of Forgetting.
Yet there should be, as they are twin sisters, twin powers, and walk
on either side of us, disputing for sovereignty over us and who we
are, all the way until death.
RICHARD HOLMES,
A Meander Through Memory and Forgetting
CHAPTER ONE
On a mountain above the clouds once lived a man who had been the gardener of the emperor of Japan. Not many people would have known of him before the war, but I did. He had left his home on the rim of the sunrise to come to the central highlands of Malaya. I was seventeen years old when my sister first told me about him. A decade would pass before I traveled up to the mountains to see him.
He did not apologize for what his countrymen had done to my sister and me. Not on that rain-scratched morning when we first met, nor at any other time. What words could have healed my pain, returned my sister to me? None. And he understood that. Not many people did.
Thirty-six years after that morning, I hear his voice again, hollow and resonant. Memories I had locked away have begun to break free, like shards of ice fracturing off an arctic shelf. In sleep, these broken floes drift toward the morning light of remembrance.
The stillness of the mountains awakens me. The depth of the silence: that is what I had forgotten about living in Yugiri. The murmurings of the house hover in the air when I open my eyes. An old house retains its hoard of memories, I remember Aritomo telling me once.
Ah Cheong knocks on the door and calls softly to me. I get out of bed and put on my dressing gown. I look around for my gloves and find them on the bedside table. Pulling them over my hands, I tell the housekeeper to come in. He enters and sets the pewter tray with a pot of tea and a plate of cut papaya on a side table; he had done the same for Aritomo every morning. He turns to me and says, “I wish you a long and peaceful retirement, Judge Teoh.”
“Yes, it seems I’ve beaten you to it.” He is, I calculate, five or six years older than me. He was not here when I arrived yesterday evening. I study him, layering what I see over what I remember. He is a short, neat man, shorter than I recall, his head completely bald now. Our eyes meet. “You’re thinking of the first time you saw me, aren’t you?”
“Not the first time, but the last day. The day you left.” He nods to himself. “Ah Foon and I—we always hoped you’d come back one day.”
“Is she well?” I tilt sideways to look behind him, seeking his wife at the door, waiting to be called in. They live in Tanah Rata, cycling up the mountain road to Yugiri every morning.
“Ah Foon passed away, Judge Teoh. Four years ago.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“She wanted to tell you how grateful she was that you paid her hospital bills. So was I.”
I open the teapot’s lid, then close it, trying to remember which hospital she had been admitted to. The name comes to me: Lady Templer Hospital.
“Five weeks,” he says.
“Five weeks?”
“In five weeks’ time it will be thirty-four years since Mr. Aritomo left us.”
“For goodness’ sake, Ah Cheong!” I have not returned to Yugiri in almost as long. Does the housekeeper judge me by the increasing number of years from the last time I was in this house, like a father scoring another notch on the kitchen wall to mark his child’s growth?
Ah Cheong’s gaze fixes on a spot somewhere over my shoulder
. “If there’s nothing else . . .” He begins to turn away.
In a gentler tone, I say, “I’m expecting a visitor at ten o’clock this morning. Professor Yoshikawa. Show him to the sitting room verandah.”
The housekeeper nods once and leaves, closing the door behind him. Not for the first time I wonder how much he knows, what he has seen and heard in his years of service with Aritomo.
The papaya is chilled, just the way I like it. Squeezing the wedge of lime over it, I eat two slices before putting down the plate. Opening the sliding doors, I step onto the verandah. The house sits on low stilts and the verandah is two feet above the ground. The bamboo blinds creak when I scroll them up. The mountains are as I have always remembered them, the first light of the morning melting down their flanks. Damp withered leaves and broken-off twigs cover the lawn. This part of the house is hidden from the main garden by a wooden fence. A section has collapsed, and tall grass spikes out from the gaps between the fallen planks. Even though I have prepared myself for it, the neglected condition of the place shocks me.
A section of Majuba Tea Estate is visible to the east over the fence. The hollow of the valley reminds me of the open palms of a monk, cupped to receive the day’s blessing. It is Saturday, but the tea pickers are working their way up the slopes. There has been a storm in the night, and clouds are still marooned on the peaks. I step down the verandah onto a narrow strip of ceramic tiles, cold and wet beneath my bare soles. Aritomo obtained them from a ruined palace in Ayutthaya, where they had once paved the courtyard of an ancient and nameless king. The tiles are the last remnants of a forgotten kingdom, its histories consigned to oblivion.
I fill my lungs to the brim and exhale. Seeing my own breath take shape, this cobweb of air that only a second ago had been inside me, I remember the sense of wonder it used to bring. The fatigue of the past months drains from my body, only to flood back into me a moment later. It feels strange that I no longer have to spend my weekends reading piles of appeal documents or catching up with the week’s paperwork.
I breathe out through my mouth a few more times, watching my breaths fade away into the garden.
My secretary, Azizah, brought me the envelope shortly before we left my chambers to go into the courtroom. “This came for you just now, Puan,” she said.
Inside was a note from Professor Yoshikawa Tatsuji, confirming the date and time of our meeting in Yugiri. It had been sent a week before. Looking at his neat handwriting, I wondered if it had been a mistake to have agreed to see him. I was about to telephone him in Tokyo to cancel the appointment when I realized he would already be on his way to Malaysia. And there was something else inside the envelope. Turning it over, a thin wooden stick, about five inches long, fell out onto my desk. I picked it up and dipped it into the light of my desk lamp. The wood was dark and smooth, its tip ringed with fine, overlapping grooves.
“So short-lah, the chopstick. For children is it?” Azizah said, coming into the room with a stack of documents for me to sign. “Where’s the other one?”
“It’s not a chopstick.”
I sat there, looking at the stick on the table until Azizah reminded me that my retirement ceremony was about to begin. She helped me into my robe and together we went out to the corridor. She walked ahead of me as usual to give the advocates warning that Puan Hakim was on her way—they always used to watch her face to gauge my mood. Following behind her, I realized that this would be the last time I would make this walk from my chambers to my courtroom.
Built nearly a century ago, the Supreme Court building in Kuala Lumpur had the solidity of a colonial structure, erected to outlast empires. The high ceilings and the thick walls kept the air cool even on the hottest of days. My courtroom was large enough to seat forty, perhaps even fifty people, but on this Tuesday afternoon the advocates who had not arrived early had to huddle by the doors at the back. Azizah had informed me about the numbers attending the ceremony but I was still taken aback when I took my place on the bench beneath the portraits of the agong and his queen. Silence spread across the courtroom when Abdullah Mansor, the chief justice, entered and sat down next to me. He leaned over and spoke into my ear. “It’s not too late to reconsider.”
“You never give up, do you?” I said, giving him a brief smile.
“And you never change your mind.” He sighed. “I know. But can’t you stay on? You only have two more years to go.”
Looking at him, I recalled the afternoon in his chambers when I told him of my decision to take early retirement. We had fought about many things over the years—points of law or the way he administered the courts—but I had always respected his intellect, his sense of fairness and his loyalty to us judges. That afternoon was the only time he had ever lost his composure with me. Now there was only sadness in his face. I would miss him.
Peering over his spectacles, Abdullah began recounting my life to the audience, braiding sentences in English into his speech, ignoring the sign in the courtroom dictating the use of the Malay language in court.
“Judge Teoh was only the second woman to be appointed to the Supreme Court,” he said. “She has served on this Bench for the past fourteen years . . .”
Through the high, dusty windows I saw the corner of the cricket field across the road and, further away, the Selangor Club, its mock-Tudor facade reminding me of the bungalows in Cameron Highlands. The clock in the tower above the central portico chimed, its languid pulse beating through the walls of the courtroom. I turned my wrist slightly and checked the time: eleven minutes past three; the clock was, as ever, reliably out, its punctuality stolen by lightning years ago.
“. . . few of us here today are aware that she was a prisoner in a Japanese internment camp when she was nineteen,” said Abdullah.
The advocates murmured among themselves, observing me with heightened interest. I had never spoken of the three years I had spent in the camp to anyone. I tried not to think about it as I went about my days, and mostly I succeeded. But occasionally the memories still found their way in, through a sound I heard, a word someone uttered, or a smell I caught in the street.
“When the war ended,” the chief justice continued, “Judge Teoh worked as a research clerk in the War Crimes Tribunal while waiting for admission to read law at Girton College, Cambridge. After being called to the bar, she returned to Malaya in 1949 and worked as a deputy public prosecutor for nearly two years . . .”
In the front row below me sat four elderly British advocates, their suits and ties almost as old as they. Along with a number of rubber planters and civil servants, they had chosen to stay on in Malaya after its independence, thirty years ago. These aged Englishmen had the forlorn air of pages torn from an old and forgotten book.
The chief justice cleared his throat and I looked at him. “Judge Teoh was not due to retire for another two years, so you will no doubt imagine our surprise when, only two months ago, she told us she intended to leave the Bench. Her written judgments are known for their clarity and elegant turns of phrase . . .” His words flowered, became more laudatory. I was far away in another time, thinking of Aritomo and his garden in the mountains.
The speech ended. I brought my mind back to the courtroom, hoping that no one had noticed the potholes in my attention; it would not do to appear distracted at my own retirement ceremony.
I gave a short, simple address to the audience and then Abdullah brought the ceremony to a close. I had invited a few well-wishers from the Bar Council, my colleagues and the senior partners in the city’s larger law firms for a small reception in my chambers. A reporter asked me a few questions and took photographs. After the guests left, Azizah went around the room, gathering up the cups and the paper plates of half-eaten food.
“Take those curry puffs with you,” I said, “and that box of cakes. Don’t waste food.”
“I know-lah. You always tell me that.” She packed the food away and said, “Is there anything else you need?”
“You can go home. I’ll lock u
p.” It was what I usually said to her at the end of every court term. “And thank you, Azizah. For everything.”
She shook the creases out of my black robe, hung it on the coat stand and turned to look at me. “It wasn’t easy working for you all these years, Puan, but I’m glad I did.” Tears gleamed in her eyes. “The lawyers—you were difficult with them, but they’ve always respected you. You listened to them.”
“That’s the duty of a judge, Azizah. To listen. So many judges seem to forget that.”
“Ah, but you weren’t listening earlier, when Tuan Mansor was going on and on. I was looking at you.”
“He was talking about my life, Azizah.” I smiled at her. “Hardly much there I don’t know about already, don’t you think?”
“Did the orang Jepun do that to you?” She pointed to my hands. “Maaf,” she apologized, “but . . . I was always too scared to ask you. You know, I’ve never seen you without your gloves.”
I rotated my left wrist slowly, turning an invisible doorknob. “One good thing about growing old,” I said, looking at the part of the glove where two of its fingers had been cut off and stitched over. “Unless they look closely, people probably think I’m just a vain old woman, hiding my arthritis.”
We stood there, both of us uncertain of how to conduct our partings. Then she reached out and grasped my other hand, pulling me into an embrace before I could react, enveloping me like dough around a stick. Then she let go of me, collected her handbag and left.
I looked around. The bookshelves were bare. My things had already been packed away and sent to my house in Bukit Tunku, flotsam sucked back to sea by the departing tide. Boxes of Malayan Law Journals and All England Law Reports were stacked in a corner for donation to the Bar Library. Only a single shelf of MLJs remained, their spines stamped in gold with the year in which the cases were reported. Azizah had promised to come in tomorrow and pack them away.
