An Mei shook her head. “I’ve not spoken to anyone. I came to you as a friend.”
“Ahhh! Then as a friend I invite you for coffee at the terrace bar.” She looked at her wristwatch. “You came just at the right time. I’ll let my secretary know.”
She walked to the adjoining door and put her head round the doorway. An Mei could hear her speaking in her low melodic voice. Sandra had the most calming effect when she spoke. Her voice sounded like the strumming of a harp. Although she was not beautiful, she gave an impression of beauty and calm when she spoke. An Mei found herself responding to its beneficial effect.
They said little as they took the lift to the top floor. They stepped out, rounded a corner and went into the bar, a large room with a long counter, and were immediately accosted by the loud clatter of cups and saucers.
“Un caffè macchiato! Un caffè latte, Due cappuccini! Un lungo! Doppio! Espresso! Caffè latte fredo!” The barmen, smart in their black and white uniforms, yelled the orders in loud voices that reverberated across the counter. Queues formed and dwindled. Cigarette lighters popped, a flare of light was followed by spirals of smoke.
“Would you like a pastry? Which would you like, plain, chocolate or custard?” asked Sandra, looking longingly at the basket piled high with cornetti.
“Not for me, thank you, but you have one.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes! Yes!”
Loaded with cups of steaming coffee, they stepped out onto the roof terrace that ran the entire length of the building. They were temporarily blinded by the bright sunshine and a clear blue sky.
“Let’s go over there, the corner that overlooks the Circo Massimo. There is some shade and not many people so we should be able to talk undisturbed,” Sandra suggested.
They stood companionably sipping their coffee in silence; steam rose from their cups like little puffs of smoke in the cool dry air of the autumn morning. They leaned on the stone balustrade and looked out on to the Circo Massimo, two figures looking at the remnants of the ancient Roman chariot racetrack.
“This is so beautiful. It hits me every time I come up here, even after seeing it for all the 20 years I have been in service. Look at the old Roman Baths over there.” Sandra pointed to the crumbling stonewalls and arches of the Terme di Caracalla to the right of her. The bright sunshine lit up the walls turning them fiery brown against the sapphire blue of the clear sky. Canopies of the aptly named umbrella pine trees rose above the walls.
“Can you bear to leave us? And what has brought this on?” asked Sandra turning to look at An Mei. She rested one elbow on the top of the low wall. “You know how difficult it is to get into the organization. You love your job and you are good at it. Every performance appraisal has marked you out as, as … excellent.”
“I have no choice. You see…” In a quiet voice, An Mei told her about Tim’s kidnap, Hussein’s threat and what Mr. Tay had told her. “It means that should Tim fall into their hands again and be brought to Malaysia, the chances of my getting him back would be minimal. I need to be with Tim all the time to make sure that he can never be abducted again.”
“Where is Tim now?”
“I left him with Mark. Mark took the day off. I trust no one else.”
“I don’t quite follow, all the legal bits I mean,” said Sandra.
“My former husband cannot compel me to appear before a Malaysian court, but, by the same token, if he abducts Tim, I cannot compel him to attend an English or Italian court if I were to take legal action against him for the return of Tim. If I take a case against him, I would have to fight in a Malaysian court and I doubt whether I would be deemed as a suitable mother for bringing up Tim as a Muslim.”
She looked out over the ruins. Her voice caught and wavered. “I was so happy when I heard that Hussein had no legal power to make me return to Malaysia. I thought that if I brought Tim back here we would be safe. But that is only so if I can make sure he is not abducted. The warning that the solicitor gave me at the very last did not sink in. I was so elated that we were able to leave. It was only in the airport in Kuala Lumpur that the full significance of his parting words became clear. He said that Tim must not return to Malaysia while he is a minor. That is why I have to resign so that I can be near him all the time.”
Sandra looked away. She could not bear the anguish in An Mei’s eyes. “Are you sure Tim would be in danger? Do you think that they would actually come here to take him?”
“That’s the problem. I am not sure of anything. I am jittery all the time. I suspect every passer-by who shows any interest in him. I fear strangers looking at us. I jump at every corner. I worry when he is in bed and I am not near to him. I thought that I could trust leaving Tim with my aunty, but, ever since the kidnap, I worry when I do. Not because I do not trust her, but because I fear the long reach of my former husband’s arm. I know he hates me; he hates me not only because of Tim but because I have rejected him for Mark.”
“Are you exaggerating this, building up this fear in yourself?”
“Perhaps. Nevertheless, to me it is real enough. In the immediate days following the release of Tim, I was not so afraid. Since then the fear has grown in me like a cancer. My mind keeps going back to the day when I caught Hussein accosting my aunt and Tim.”
An Mei reached into her bag and fished out an envelope. She pushed it towards Sandra. “This is a copy for you. I am going to see my boss now.” Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“Wait! There might be a way out. Let me explore this. Meanwhile, hold on to this,” said Sandra pushing the envelope back into An Mei’s hands. “Go to your office and ask for a day’s leave. Go back to Tim. I’ll take the matter up with your department.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I am going to find out if you could have extended unpaid leave under these extraordinary circumstances.”
“No! I have made up my mind to leave. Thank you.”
Chapter 48
The fishing boats were lined up on the volcanic beach. There were fifteen of them, long narrow-bodied canoes, each tied neatly to a log hammered deep into the black ash. The jukongs were all painted, some were red with white stripes, others blue and yellow and yet others in hues ranging from orange to deep mauve. Their jutting bows, carved in the shape of the mythical elephant fish, had painted black eyes that glared fiercely. The wind blew hot from the ocean lending to the air a salty scent of the sea. Ahmad could see fishing boats coming to the shore, their beautiful sails unfurled, balanced gracefully on the outriggers. He heaved himself from the empty barrel. He felt stiff. Black ash and sand encrusted the sides of his shoes like granulated sugar. He pushed a fist into his lower back to ease the pain. He had lain cramped at the base of a boat for hours, staring into the pitch-black sky sprinkled with stars. Every bone in his body had protested with each creak and sway of the boat. The journey from Singapore to these Indonesian shores had taken three weeks. They had stopped at many islands and fishing villages to replenish supplies and the nine hundred nautical miles had seemed endless as they sailed close to shore. He sniffed, repelled by his own unwashed odour and then, stamping his feet to awaken his aching muscles, lumbered laboriously towards a hut. At the top of a short flight of stairs that led to the entrance to the hut, a lady stood waiting. She smiled revealing a gap in her front teeth and waved him to the back of the hut. With a quick motion of her hands, she indicated that he was to wash. She cackled pointing to his shoes and clothes.
“Sana! There!” She pointed again to the back yard. “Cuci! Wash!” She threw him a sarong.
He hardly looked at her but grudgingly grunted a thank you. His shoes, battered and scuffed, dragged on the ground leaving a trail in the dirt as he walked towards the backyard. A large stone urn, with a wooden ladle hung at its side, stood behind the house. The courtyard was small, hemmed in by fruit trees. A mangosteen tree grew to one side, laden with dark purple fruits the size of apples on branches that harboured masses of thic
k elliptical glossy leaves. Some twenty yards apart was the cempedak tree. A few cempedak clustered low on the tree trunk. Someone had placed a white cotton kerchief around the fruits to protect them from insects. They were large and globular, a foot long, and heavy in their ripeness. He could imagine the turgid, sweet, butter-coloured, fleshy seeds embedded in the large pineapple-shaped fruits. Stricken with hunger, he swallowed and took a deep breath of the rich aromas of the fruits.
A woman stared at him from across the yard. She sat with a trestle between her knees. Her hand held a stone pestle. She was pounding the contents of a mortar with vigour; a light sea breeze carried the smell of fermented shrimp, onions and chillies to him. It smelt so much like home, but this was not home. He was in a village somewhere near Bali. He had been dropped there and told to make his way to the hut where he would be fed and sheltered until someone came to collect him.
He turned his back to the woman and stripped off his shirt. He took the ladle dipping the coconut half shell into the cool water and sluiced it over his head. Someone had sprinkled rose and jasmine petals and kaffir lime leaves into the urn. They fell with the water around his feet. He washed himself vigorously, rubbing his limbs and body, washing hair that had grown long and lank, ridding himself of the stench of fish and grime.
He heard a laugh and turned to see the woman with the pestle and mortar gesticulating towards him with a grin so wide that her eyes disappeared into the folds of her cheek. A group of little boys gathered around her laughed. Their little brown bodies writhed and shook as the woman said, “Kotor! Kotor! Dirty!”
He turned his back to them, pulled the sarong over his head and tied it around his middle. He then dropped his trousers, struggling with his underpants, tripping as he tried to disengage from them without losing hold of the sarong. He held on to the urn to steady himself. He gestured fiercely at the children. They ran off. He walked to the front of the house. He felt whole again and he was hungry. He smelt wood burning and cooking smells. Hot, spicy, pungent. He had not had a proper meal for weeks. He walked up the short flight of wooden steps. The woman who had pointed him to the backyard was again waiting for him. She gestured with a folding of her fingers pointing towards her mouth. “Makan! Eat,” directing him to a small wooden table. It was decked with a plastic tablecloth decorated with green and red flowers. On the table the woman had set an enamel plate piled with white rice and an assortment of small dishes. He ate, barely waiting to stop between the balls of food that he doled into his mouth with his fingers. His fingers gathered and moulded rice and meat, rice and vegetables, over and over until they grew slick with oil and spice. Finally replete, he sat back and dipped his fingers into the finger bowl. Then he got up and walked out to the front of the house and back on to the beach.
He had done everything like a robot since he landed. He had no thoughts in his head, no feelings either. His whole being was geared towards the basic primal needs of food and rest. During those short hours he had almost been at peace with himself in a way he had never experienced before. He saw the beauty of the backyard, despite the obvious poverty of its surroundings. A broken bicycle with rust-encrusted wheels leaned on a wall. A few scrawny chickens pecked away in the dirt yard. He heard the laughter of the children. They were barefoot and their clothes were mere rags, patched and re-patched. Yet there was joy in their play.
He stepped on to the beach, his shoes crunching on the black volcanic sand, and walked on until he found the barrel where he had sat when he first landed. Lowering himself on to it, he stretched his feet out in front of him, and looked out to sea. The sound of crashing waves filled the air. Darkness approached. In the distance a flash of lightning lit up the whole sky, tingeing the cumulous balls of dark clouds. The wind picked up speed. He heard the wailing of the elements. His thoughts seemed to mimic the approaching tempest. They began with a flicker of resentment and grew into a storm of hate. They crowded his mind. He thought of all that he had been forced to leave behind. He looked at the small wooden houses behind him. The beauty and calm he saw just moments ago vanished. He did not belong here. He had to find a way to return to his homeland.
*****
Two men collected him the following day. They came in a jeep. Beyond a curt nod and an instruction for him to get in, they barely spoke. He clambered into the back of the vehicle and sat amidst an odd assortment of ropes, oilcans, and baskets that reeked of fish. The jeep rolled forward, bumping along the dirt road; the cans rattled and the baskets slid around. They passed villages similar to the one they had just left behind: a group of huts, some vegetable plots, fruit trees, a well, a school and children playing sepak takraw. They ran in pursuit of a rattan ball, kicking it high in the air. Every now and then, anguished cries of despair rose from their midst; someone had failed to keep the ball in the air. He looked at the passing scene. He did not register the images. He was impatient to reach the city. He needed new clothes, money and, above all, he needed a telephone.
The jeep turned on to the main highway and the dirt road gave way to sizzling tarmac. Soon he was leaving the countryside; the green smell of the forests and plantations gave way to smoke fires and diesel fumes. The traffic grew denser. By the time they reached the city, the roads were thronged with bicycles, cars and three-wheeled vehicles. Bajaj and bechak competed for space. Passengers crowded into them, sheltering behind the plastic covers of the brightly coloured three-wheelers. The noise of the streets rang loud. Ahmad’s spirit rose; he felt at home, alive. There were people; there were nightclubs, cinemas. The city smelled of activity and money. The jeep came to a stop. The driver jumped out and indicated that he should alight. He pointed to a shop with a neon-lit sign and said, “Boleh tukar wang sana. You can change money there. You will be met by someone.”
Ahmad walked towards the shop, a small unpromising edifice with an enclosed glass counter behind which sat a young man of Indian origin. He had not come to change money; he had none beyond the few crumpled Ringgit and Singapore dollars he had in his pocket when he fled. He needed some cash and he had come to collect. He waited his turn at the counter. The man looked at him. Ahmad pushed a piece of paper across.
“Please wait!” the man said. He reached over, the baggy sleeves of his white cotton shirt flapped as he rang a bell. A side door opened and he signalled Ahmad to enter.
Ahmad stepped through the doorway and instantly, the door slid shut behind him. He walked on down a narrow dusty passage and came to a room. There was no one. A small suitcase stood on the lone table in the room. He looked around expectantly. He waited. Still no one! He circled the table, looking at the suitcase. He reached for it, snapping open the catch. In the case was an assortment of clothing, a small wash bag and a parcel wrapped in brown paper with a further outer wrapping of plastic film. He tore it open. Rupiahs! Wads of the Indonesian currency, all neatly accounted for and in bundles tied with rubber bands. On top sat a note with an address. He smiled, pleased at his own ingenuity in having made prior arrangements for his flight here. He pocketed the address and pushed the money back into the parcel. He locked the suitcase. Grasping it firmly in his hand he went back to the door. Within minutes he was out of the shop.
*****
“I did it for you,” said Ahmad. His voice was muffled and low. “If you had done what I had asked, your grandson would have been with you this very moment. Instead, you let it all slip away, landing me in trouble.”
Faridah clutched the phone. The temptation was strong. Her longing for her grandson had grown by the day, ever since Hussein returned empty handed. She was starting to doubt that she would ever be able to see him, let alone have him returned to her and this seemed a Godsend. “Can you … will you help return him to us?” she whispered holding the receiver close to her lips.
A long silence followed.
“It depends. It is going to be much harder this time. It will also cost more. More importantly, can you get me off the charges? Can you arrange for my return to Malaysia?”
�
�I’ll see. I’ll try,” she corrected herself. She wanted to promise, but she could not do it without help and was reluctant to commit herself.
“Not good enough. I need more than that.”
Faridah looked at the phone in her hand. He had hung up on her. She dropped the receiver back into its cradle and backed away from it as though she had been stung. She heard a movement. She turned. There was no one.
*****
Ghazali was appalled by what he had overheard. He walked soft-footed along the corridor to Rahim’s office. He stood outside the closed door wondering if he was doing the right thing. He raised his hand to knock, hesitated and then turned to walk away. Was he overstepping himself, if he were to tell? He asked himself. What if it was not taken as it was intended? Is it possible that Rahim himself was in agreement with his wife’s actions? It would be a catastrophe for his master Hussein if it were to be discovered. He turned and walked back to Rahim’s office. Driven by concern for Hussein, he did not stop to think further about the possible implications of his actions for himself. He knocked; a purposeful rap that echoed in the corridor.
“Masuk! Come in!” Rahim said.
Ghazali entered. It was dark in the room. Only the desk lamp was on, lighting up the dark wood of the desk with its yellow glow. Long shadows masked the paintings on the walls. Rahim was sat at the desk, his body half submerged in the shadows.
“Good! Just the person I want to see,” he said. He leaned further back into his chair and the shadows. With a wave of his hand, he indicated that Ghazali should sit, a gesture that took Ghazali by surprise. Despite the number of years he had worked for Hussein, his parents had never treated him as anything other than a member of staff. He sat down on the edge of the seat, knees closed together and hands folded on his lap. He did not want to be the first to speak now that he knew Rahim wanted to see him. So he waited in silence.
Bitter Sweet Harvest Page 32
