The Night Tiger

by Yangsze Choo

  41

  Batu Gajah

  Saturday, June 27th

  Ren is walking, following the faint trail that wavers like a tiger’s stripe through the high grass. He has a vague memory of a hospital bed, but it fades. What’s real is this world of sunlight and wind, with the small pale woman, the one he found sitting in the grass. She’s the one who urges him on every time he pauses to look around.

  “We mustn’t miss the train,” she says.

  Ren wrinkles his brow. “Is there another one?”

  She gives him a sideways look. “I don’t know. Come on!”

  He doesn’t like the way she moves, her broken body inching forward, one shoulder bent and a leg dragging. No one should be able to walk with injuries like that, but he doesn’t ask about it. He’s afraid that she’ll grab his elbow again, the way she did earlier in that icy, bony clutch. But he’s sorry for her, and he can’t let her go alone. Besides, there’s a tiger in the tangle of grass and bushes. From time to time, he glimpses a lean striped shape, though whether it’s leading him on or warning him away, he can’t say. Ren has the sudden memory of an old man, a foreigner, wandering among the trees. It floods him with dread and pity and love, that dark loneliness, and he puts his head down and keeps walking.

  They head towards the train station in the distance. How long have they been walking—months, days, or minutes? But at last they arrive. The train station is remarkably similar to the Batu Gajah Station. Long and low, with deep eaves to keep the rain and sun off, it has wooden benches and a large round clock. A train is waiting, the big steam locomotive gently hissing. People mill around the station, though when Ren looks at them directly, they flicker and fade away. It’s only out of the corner of his eye that he sees their blurred figures. A shadow child runs across the platform, clutching the hand of its mother who enfolds it as they climb into a carriage. For an instant, Ren envies that warm gesture.

  “Hurry!” says his companion.

  “Where are we going?”

  She looks impatient and distracted. “Just get in!”

  “I don’t even know your name.” A moment of doubt strikes him. Why should he follow this strange lady onto a train—after all, wasn’t he looking for someone else? He strains to remember. Yes, Nandani. “I can’t go with you, I’m looking for someone.”

  “Don’t be silly! My name is Pei Ling,” she says. “I’m a nurse, so you ought to follow me.” But even she frowns, as though she can’t quite understand her own logic.

  “No, thank you,” says Ren politely.

  “Heavens! What a silly boy you are! Do come—I don’t want to go alone.” She makes a pitiful face, as though she’s the child and not him, and Ren wavers.

  “All right,” he says, putting one hand on the lintel of the train door. As soon as he touches it, he feels a deep quiver, a vibration that shakes his field of vision. In that instant, he can see everyone clearly—all the other passengers who are sitting or standing or getting onto the train. But nobody gets off, and none of them have luggage.

  Ren climbs in and there is Nandani, her heart-shaped face looking pensively out of the window. Delighted, Ren slides into the seat next to her. “Hello!”

  But to his surprise, she looks frightened. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was looking for you.”

  “No, you mustn’t! Don’t follow me.”

  Ren stares at Nandani, her curling hair and plump, pretty figure. Why isn’t she happy to see him?

  “Come here, little boy,” says the nurse, Pei Ling, patting the seat. “Sit next to me.”

  He shakes his head. He’d rather sit with Nandani than this pale lady with her crooked shoulder and dragging walk. In fact, the more he looks at Pei Ling, the more frightened he feels. He scoots next to Nandani, but she shakes her head anxiously. “Please get off. They’ll close the doors soon.”

  Ren can feel a deep low humming, as though the entire track is a live wire. Yi lies that way, somewhere at the end of that track. He’s sure of it. The two young women are arguing now in harsh whispers. Nandani wants him to leave, but Pei Ling is stubborn and says he should stay if he wants to. She reaches out to grab his hand and Nandani gives a gasp of outrage.

  “Don’t touch him!” she snaps.

  “Why not? I already did.” And it’s true, the elbow that Pei Ling grabbed earlier is cold and numb now.

  Ren feels worse and worse as they squabble. “I want to stay,” he says to Nandani. Her expression softens.

  “All right,” she says. “We’ll go together.”

  Ren closes his eyes, telling himself that it’s all right. He’s going to Yi.

  There’s a twitch. An electric tingle. The quiet loneliness with its undertones of sadness and blood—the one that’s been drawing him onward, reminding him of the old man wandering in the darkness—winks out abruptly. His cat sense blazes up. The hair on his head rises, his skin constricts. He hasn’t felt a signal this strong, not since the hospital. Pictures flood him. A girl digging with a spade. A glass bottle, dropping into a hole. And the hole widens, becoming a grave. What—no, who is it? Ren’s heart is thudding wildly, the first time that he’s taken note of it since he’s come to this strange land. And all of a sudden, Ren realizes that he doesn’t want to ride this train anymore, not with Nandani and especially not with small, crooked Pei Ling with her icy hands.

  But the doors are closing. He can hear them farther down the train as they slam shut, the sound getting nearer. Bang. Bang. The faint buzz, that promise of Yi farther down the line, weighs against him, pulling him down even as he struggles to rise, every nerve in his body twitching.

  “What’s the matter?” cries Nandani.

  Bang. The door in the next carriage crashes shut, as though slammed by an invisible attendant. Ren sees the door on their own carriage quiver as though it’s about to go as well. Desperate, he makes a mad dive. Feels the air cut his ears, the force of the door brush his skin. And it’s bright, so very bright now that he can only grimace and squint as tears leak out from behind his eyes.

  * * *

  Someone is mopping the floor. There’s the swish of water being wrung out, the clatter of a bucket. Ren is lying on a bed—a hospital bed, as he now recalls. His chest heaves, his heart races, because didn’t he just dive through a train door? He’s here yet still there, the fragments of the two places overlapping. If he closes his eyes he can still see Nandani’s shocked expression, the faint smirk on Pei Ling’s blanched face. No, he doesn’t want to think of her.

  “Awake, are you?” A wiry little man is looking down at him. In one hand he holds a mop. Ren blinks painfully and struggles to sit up. His mouth is parched, and the custodian pours him a cup of lukewarm water. “Shall I call the nurse?” he says in Cantonese.

  Ren shakes his head. “What day is it?”

  “Saturday.”

  There’s a bustle, some noise in the corridor, and one of the nurses sticks her head in. Gravely, she beckons to the custodian. “Can you lend a hand?”

  He follows her out. Ren can hear their voices from the next ward.

  “—move to the morgue?”

  “Yes, her family’s been contacted.”

  After a few minutes, the custodian returns for his mop, a troubled look on his face. Through the open door behind him, Ren glimpses a gurney being wheeled out. Someone is lying on it, covered in a white sheet. “Who is that?”

  “Another patient.”

  Two pale feet stick out. Slim enough that they can only belong to a woman. There’s something about their stillness that makes Ren’s stomach lurch.

  “Why is her face covered?” Ren says. “Is she dead?”

  The custodian hesitates, mumbling, “Sometimes it’s time for people to go.”

  Time to go. It gives Ren a mixed-up sensation. “Did you know her?”

  “She was a nurse here.”

  A sick feeling in Ren’s gut. Those narrow feet, the left one hanging at an odd angle. He tries to scramble out of bed;
he must see her face! But the pain in his side twists. He gives a cry of anguish. Alarmed, the custodian makes a grab at him. “What are you doing?”

  “I think I know her. Please, let me see her!”

  Drawn by the commotion, the nurse looks back in. “What’s happening?”

  “The boy says he knows her.”

  She purses her lips and shakes her head. “Out of the question!” and gives Ren an annoyed, disapproving glance, as though he’s done something wicked.

  The gurney is being wheeled away and Ren wants to cry. Instead, he digs his fingers weakly into his pillow. “What was her name?”

  “Pei Ling.”

  And now Ren is really sobbing. Not for that little nurse Pei Ling, but for Nandani, because he finally understands where she has gone.

  42

  Taiping

  Saturday, June 27th

  No sooner had I dropped the glass bottle with its withered finger into the hole I’d dug in Dr. MacFarlane’s grave than I heard Shin’s voice, deliberately loud to warn me of their approach. Frantically, I shoveled earth back into the hole and stepped away. As Shin and the caretaker’s mother came around the corner, I waved and joined them, tucking the spade back in the bag.

  “Seen all you wanted?” asked the old lady.

  Shin seized my hand in his. “Yes, we must get going.” We thanked her for her time, and let ourselves out of the churchyard as quickly as possible.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked him under my breath, as he set a brisk pace. “Why are you holding my hand?”

  In answer, he turned it over. It was streaked with red clay.

  “Do you think she noticed?”

  “Hope not. There’s some on your knees, too.”

  I glanced down. All my excursions lately had ended in dirt and grime. From the cobwebs and dust in the pathology storeroom, to Ren’s bloodstains, and finally this. Earth from someone’s grave.

  “Did you bury it?”

  “All done,” I said softly.

  Glowering clouds had hidden the sunset and gave the sky a hazy, bluish quality. A trembling dusk descended. I could taste the humidity in the back of my throat with every breath that I took.

  “What time is it?” Absorbed as we’d been in the old lady’s tale, I’d forgotten to check the clock at the church.

  Shin glanced at his wristwatch. “Twenty to eight.”

  The late train to Ipoh left at eight o’clock, and we were still a mile away from the station. I glanced around anxiously, but the street was deserted with not a trishaw in sight.

  Shin looked at the sky. “I think it’s going to—”

  The heavens opened and the first fat raindrops splattered, like flattened tadpoles, on the dusty road.

  “Run!”

  * * *

  I never could understand those English books in which people go on long damp walks over the heath (whatever that was) in the rain with only a deerstalker hat and an Inverness cape to protect them. Rain in the tropics is like a bathtub upended in the sky. The rain falls so hard and fast that in a few minutes you’re soaked to the skin. There’s no time to think, only the overwhelming need to run under shelter. And run we did.

  The nearest cover was a distant stand of shophouses, and we raced to the covered five-foot walkway in front, gasping. Water poured in hissing sheets from the eaves, turning the dirt road into mud.

  “What shall we do?” I said, after we’d waited a good five minutes. There was little chance of this downpour stopping, and meanwhile, the minutes were ticking off towards eight o’clock. How would we catch the train?

  “We can run for it,” said Shin.

  And so began our mad dash, zigzagging from one shelter to another like beetles scurrying out from under a flowerpot. There were intermittent blocks of shops and large rain trees, but it was no use. I knew it even as I fought down the panicky feeling of being late. That train would leave without us. My shoes were slick with water and twice I almost turned my ankle.

  “You all right?” asked Shin.

  I put my hand on the trunk of a tree to steady myself. “Yes,” I said, gritting my teeth. I’d never complained about things like this before and I wasn’t going to start now. If being a good sport was the best way for us to be together, then I’d keep playing along.

  Shin kept his eyes firmly fixed on my forehead. “Just a little farther,” he said. “Over there.”

  We still weren’t anywhere near the train station, and when I glanced at his wristwatch, the hands pointed at five to eight. It was impossible.

  “Do you still have the ring I gave you the other day?”

  I stared at him, wondering why he was suddenly bothered about it. I should have returned it to him earlier, and embarrassed, I unwrapped the handkerchief.

  “Put it on,” he said.

  “Why?”

  He looked exasperated. “Just put it on and follow me.”

  A few doors down, Shin stopped and glanced up at a signboard. Then he went in. It was a small hotel. I’d never stayed in a hotel before. When my mother and I had visited Taiping long ago, we’d stayed with one of her aunts, a fierce-looking woman who seemed to have inherited all the backbone that my mother lacked. I wondered if she still lived in this town and what she’d think if she saw me going into a hotel with a man. Even if he was my stepbrother.

  The other girls at work had taught me to be wary of hotels. Never meet a man there. Not even in the reception area. It was a test, they said, to weed out those girls who would, and those who wouldn’t. And now here I was, about to step into one. A rather rundown one from what I could tell. But today’s circumstances were different, and besides, I was with Shin. That was all right, wasn’t it?

  The interior of the hotel was gloomy and dank. A single electric lamp lighted the front desk, where Shin was signing a book. The clerk was an older woman, and she gave me a piercing glance. “No luggage?”

  “We missed the train back,” said Shin easily. “So we’ll just need one night.”

  She looked at him, and then at me again. I did my best to appear unruffled, as though I missed trains every day. Speaking of which, why was Shin so familiar with this process? How many women had he taken to hotels? I stared at his back and the older woman met my eyes knowingly.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Lee,” she said, reading the register. “Newlyweds?”

  “No,” he said, “We’ve been together for a long time.” He put his arm around me, careful to show off the ring on my finger.

  “Do you want a meal?”

  Shin looked at me. “Just tea and toast.”

  “We’ll send it up,” said the clerk. She squeezed her bulk around the desk and led us up a worn flight of stairs. “You’re lucky tonight, this is the only room left with a private bathroom.”

  The room was small and sparsely furnished, with stained-glass window shutters in a flower pattern that overlooked the rainy street in front. But I was staring at the bed, not the view. Neatly made up with sheets and two stiff high pillows, a thin cotton blanket stretched tightly over it. A double bed. What had I been expecting, two twins?

  “Shin,” I said as soon as the clerk had left us. “Why didn’t you just say we were siblings?”

  “We don’t have enough money for two singles. Besides, claiming you’re my sister sounds more suspicious since we don’t look alike.” He spoke reasonably, but there was something about his averted face that made me think that he was nervous. I’d never seen Shin like this before, and felt even more skittish. It was best to be hearty, I decided.

  “I’ve never been in a hotel before,” I said cheerfully.

  Silence. I couldn’t really ask him if he’d ever been in one, because clearly he had, though I’d no idea under what circumstances. Perhaps it was all my imagination, but I couldn’t help thinking of Shin meeting women in hotels. Eager young women, sophisticated older women. What did it matter since it wasn’t my business?

  “I’ll go and wash up,” I said.

  To my surprise, Shin
opened the brown paper bag he’d bought earlier and, after rummaging around, produced a brand-new men’s shirt. It was plain white cotton, packed flat and tight with the collar still bound in cardboard and pinned into place.

  “Here,” he took out the pins and passed it to me. “You can have this.”

  “Don’t you need it?”

  His clothes were wet, too, but he shook his head. “Go ahead.”

  When I went into the adjoining bathroom, a small tiled boxlike space, I understood why. One glance in the narrow mirror, and I was mortified to discover that my wet dress clung to me. No wonder Shin had kept his eyes glued to my forehead. Shivering, I stripped off and washed up with the thin, hard cotton towels. Then I put on the men’s shirt. Somehow, though less revealing than what I’d been wearing earlier, it looked far more provocative. Not knowing what to do, I stood in the bathroom for a good long while, trying to gather enough courage to go back out. But when I pushed the door open softly, Shin was gone.

  A tea tray sat on the bed. I drank the tea, ate most of the toast, and even brushed my teeth with the toothbrush he’d bought at the pharmacy. Then I climbed into bed and turned the lights out. Unreasonably, tears of disappointment threatened to squeeze their way out of my eyes. What had I been thinking, that Shin would finally make a move? That was clearly never going to happen. The things he liked about me—blunt, straightforward, a good sport—weren’t descriptions anybody used for heroines in novels. They were only good for sidekicks like Dr. Watson. I buried my head beneath the hard pillows and sobbed silently.

  The door opened, and I froze. Shin stood silhouetted against the corridor light. Then he shut the door with a quiet click, went into the bathroom and started washing up. It was best to pretend I was asleep. Gritting my teeth, I vowed I’d never let him know I’d cried. No sooner had I decided this than he came back in again and slid into bed beside me.

  The sound of the rain had lessened, but it was still drizzling steadily. I could hear water running off the roof, the creak of the bed as Shin lay down. I held my breath, heart pounding so fiercely that I was afraid he could hear it.