Bitter Sweet Harvest (36 page)

Mark withdrew his arm from around her; he sensed that she was withholding something from him. Her face was an open book. The wistfulness had lit her eyes for but a second when he mentioned Hussein, but he saw it as though it was written in bold letters. Hurt and anger took over. “Huh! Where is this Chinese inscrutability that people speak about,” he mumbled to himself. He went to Tim’s bed and bent over to kiss him lightly. He grabbed a shirt and headed for the door. Jealousy filled him; and fear, fear of losing her.

“Mark!”

“I’m going for a walk.”

“We need to talk.”

“Yes! We do, but I need to think first. You do too.”

“Please!”

He went back to her. “I’m not angry, just hurt. Until you tell me everything we cannot be talking truly. I am leaving you some space to think, as I need to think myself. If you wish to keep Tim, if
we
wish to keep Tim,” he corrected himself, “we must not return to Malaysia where we will immediately come under a legal jurisdiction about which we know so little. I have been doing a bit of research and have called up old friends in the UK on claims of paternity. We’ll discuss this when I come back.”

He hesitated a moment and then planted a kiss her on her forehead and left. She watched his departing figure, the slump in his shoulder. A deep remorse welled up in her. She went back to Tim. She stood looking at her son, trailing her finger on his sleeping form. “Mummy is a fool,” she said to him. “What an idiot I am.” For in that instant when Mark turned away and left, she knew that between the two men, she valued and loved Mark more. What she felt for Hussein was nothing more than nostalgia for something that never really was. She suddenly felt afraid. She feared she might lose Mark.

A shadow fell across the bed. She looked over her shoulder.

“An Mei,” said Nelly. “Why did Mark leave? What have you said to him? He looked so sad, so bewildered.”

“I have been stupid.”

“Is it Hussein? Think carefully. He is not worth it.”

“I know, I know. I keep thinking of the past, of the good times, the love that Hussein and I had when we were young and a sense of regret keeps returning to my thoughts. It keeps drawing me back. At the same time, I feel anger and shame; I am ashamed of myself. I feel that I am betraying Mark even by having these thoughts.”

An Mei pressed her fist between her breasts. She needed the physical pressure to relieve the pain building within her. “I am all muddled up. Deep down I know Mark loves me. I trust him. He would not betray me like Hussein has done. And I do love Mark. I will not trade him for Hussein. Believe me. Now I have hurt Mark. He knows that I am keeping something back from him. I did not tell him about Hussein’s proposal that we get back together. If I tell him now, he will be suspicious; he will think I am contemplating that possibility. I have made him distrust me by holding back information from him.”

Nelly walked round the bed to face An Mei. “I think you have to be clear and truthful to yourself. Love is not just sexual love; it goes deeper; it is about friendship and trust as well. The first may decline with time. Friendship and trust, however, last and will stand the test of time.”

H
ussein marched, with Ghazali close on his heels, into the Detective Superintendent’s office without knocking. He went straight to the desk. He spread his arms out wide and gripped the edge of it. His knuckles, little bony protruding hillocks, waxed white with the hardness of the grip. He stood for a moment bent over the desk, shoulders hunched up, aggressive, his eyes glaring at Kam’s bowed head. Kam looked up in surprise. Before he could say anything Hussein sat down; one leg crossed over the other to reveal the sharp crease of his trouser leg; his elbows resting on the armrest, hands linked together in front. He looked in utter command of himself. He wanted to convey that message. He wanted Kam to know that he expected him to obey his commands.

Kam’s displeasure was thinly veiled. He made no effort to get up from his desk. He knew that he should have stood up to acknowledge the presence of a Minister, even if this was an unofficial visit. Resentment made him pose a counter argument. Hussein was a Minister but not in Singapore; he had not made any attempt to follow any rules or code of behaviour and could not swagger in and expect everyone to be at his beck and call. He reflected on his conversation with his superior. He had said, “Grant our neighbour help, of course, but I leave it to you to show judgement. On no account, should you give the impression that our police force is subservient to theirs.”

Kam knew that relationship between Singapore and Malaysia had its up and downs. He knew that in the past month, it had soured somewhat. He knew also that this decline was transitional and would pass, just as in the past. Singapore had made rapid progress in its manufacturing industry and its northern neighbour remained a major source of raw materials. It also provided a major market for the manufactured products. In fact, it was impossible not to be aware of the ties of geography, economics and kinship. Even his Prime Minister, Lee Kuan Yew, had made reference to it. Yet, his resentment at being treated like a flunky clouded his thoughts, even though he knew that his job could be at stake if he made an undiplomatic blunder. No wonder, he mused. His thoughts strayed to what Nelly had told him about An Mei and his sympathy for her became doubly reinforced.

Kam nodded to the police officer in the doorway, indicating that the situation was under control. It was necessary. He had lost face even in his own office. The officer had hurried after Hussein in an attempt to stop him from barging into Kam’s office and had witnessed his superior’s helplessness in handling the situation.

Hussein fumed, impatient with Kam’s slow acknowledgment of his presence; he was taken aback by what he considered a lack of courtesy. Over the past few years, he had grown accustomed to having his words hung onto by all and sundry.

“You have found my son?” he growled.

“We have found Tim, the little boy.”

“Why was I not informed immediately?” Hussein glared at him.

“We informed our Malaysian counterpart, the police, immediately. We would have called you this morning but you have already pre-empted us.” Kam looked at his watch to illustrate the earliness of the hour. It was, after all, only just after eight in the morning and he had been up all night.

“Where is he now?”

“With his parents.”

“Mind what you say!” Hussein’s voice grew louder. He half rose from his seat and wagged his finger. “Mind what you say. I am the father. You remember that.”

“Sir, Datuk,” said Kam, his tone conciliatory, reasonable, “all I know is that I returned the child to the mother. The mother says that the father is Mr. Hayes. I am not here to judge. Both Mr. and Mrs. Hayes reported the kidnap to us and we, the Singapore police, executed the rescue successfully. You, sir, reported that someone called Ahmad had kidnapped a child, whom you believe is yours. You have not met this said child. The mother has said it is not yours. We are in the process of interrogating the two men found holding the child. We will report to you the progress we make in the case. If there is a link between the two men and
Encik
Ahmad, I will keep you informed.”

Kam stood up. He extended his hand.

“Sir! Datuk Hussein! Thank you for coming to our office.”

“I have not finished with you,” growled Hussein. “Who are you to keep my child from me. Why was he not returned to me?”

“Sir! It is not my position or responsibility to return the child to you. It is a matter for a court. And now, if you will excuse me, I have to attend to the matter of the two men we caught. I am sorry I cannot be more helpful; it is not my intention to offend.”

Kam bowed briefly and walked to the door. Hussein got up crashing the chair behind him and brushed passed Kam without a glance, leaving Ghazali to pick up the chair.

They marched through the long corridors flanked by security guards. People stepped aside as Hussein’s men barged past them, an early morning throng of people who were arriving at the station: officers reporting for duty, people coming in to report all and sundry, cleaners, clerks, secretaries, drivers. They looked on in astonishment and pressed against the wall to free the passageway. Some clucked their tongues and wagged their heads in dismay. “Disgraceful!” they said. “Who is he?” they asked of his departing back. Someone whispered in Cantonese, “
Gon mmn cheet, hui san fun!
Hurrying to his graveyard!”

Hussein ignored their talk. He stepped out on to the pavement. His car was waiting; his driver held the door open and he slipped in followed by Ghazali. The car rolled smoothly forward. Ghazali stole an anxious glance at his boss.

Some twenty minutes into the ride, Hussein sighed, “I behaved badly, didn’t I? I shouldn’t have gone in and made all those demands. No way to conduct diplomatic relations or to gain the help of the other party.” He glanced at his secretary, huddled in a corner, holding his brief case. “You are free to speak. Tell me the truth.”

“No sir! You would not have done this in the early days.” Ghazali reflected on Hussein’s early days of political campaigning. Young and old had warmed to his charm. He showed care and respect for all who he met.

“What has happened to me?” Hussein said to his reflection in the driver’s rear mirror. “Too much power,” he said to himself, grimacing at his own image. The anger lines seemed engraved on his face, making deep grooves from the side of his nose to the corner of his lips. He looked again and saw the furrows on his forehead. He knew the answers. It was this big, big void, this emptiness that was eating him up. It had grown steadily since he divorced An Mei. He had filled it with political success. He had almost got used to this void until Ahmad’s call. Remorse and regret gnawed at him afresh. He wanted to make amends, ask her to have him back. He thought he would win her back by rescuing their son. Her denial that the boy was his was bad enough; then to find that she had remarried! He winced. Her rejection, especially her off-hand dismissal of his overtures, offended him. He could not let her go. He must see this boy to verify for himself if there was any truth in Ahmad’s claim.

“Turn around,” he instructed the driver.

T
he field was parched dry, more yellowy brown than green. An Mei ran down the slope, ignoring the sharp blades of
lalang,
and their plumes of dried seed heads. They brushed against her, leaving fluffs of seeds, whispery white trails of cotton that dotted her long indigo-blue skirt. Lifting a hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the dazzling sun, she looked towards the river. No one could be seen. She quickened her footsteps; her sandals crunched against the dried stalks of grass, flattening them to the ground. Until the monsoon breaks, the heat would continue to build. She felt the trickles of sweat on her body; her face burned with the heat. She placed both hands around her mouth and hollered, “Mark, Mark! Where are you?”

Her voice echoed across the field, and then tailed off with the wind; hushed whispers that had no form, just resonance of sound. The maid had told her that Mark went out by the side gate of the back garden. She waited and waited for his return and when he did not come back, she grew alarmed. She decided to go in search of him, leaving also by the side gate, fighting her way through the undergrowth that had choked the narrow path leading out to the fields beyond. She remembered Mark asking her if the path was equivalent to public footpaths in England, which would end up normally in good walking grounds. She had laughed. “People,” she had said, “do not usually walk for pleasure in Singapore. It’s the same in Malaysia and I daresay elsewhere in the region. It is too hot.”

She did not know if the fields were good for walking. Jane had mentioned that they used to be divided into vegetable plots. A few families had planted and tended them with care, growing vegetables for the local market. Each morning would find them watering and hoeing the ground, their faces hidden under wide woven hats, making ridges of rich black earth from which would sprout delectable greens,
choi sam
, mustard greens,
kai lan,
kale, and fat Chinese cabbages, their white tubular forms and wrinkly lime green leaves, bursting from the earth ready for harvesting. Now, the fields were barren, left unattended, wild, waiting for another residential housing estate to be built on the land.

She made her way down the gentle slopes to the river. It was brown and in places, almost silted up. Dry outcrops of rock stood at the side. Many days had passed without a single drop of rain as the season built up to one giant ball of heat before the onslaught of the monsoon. She looked to the left and right of her. Which way? she wondered. She turned to the right and broke into a run. She followed the dirt path, kicking up dried earth as she ran. Soon her skirt was plastered with pellets of brown earth. She rounded a bend, following the lazy meandering of the river and came to a stop. For there, seated on a rock, was Mark.

He saw her and waved. Her heart lifted. He was not angry with her. She smiled walking up to him and he returned it with a tiny quirk of his lips, but as she got closer, she could see the wariness in his eyes. She guessed he was expecting her to say she wanted to leave him for Hussein and he was steeling himself to take it on the chin. She could see his hurt. She ran, ignoring the dirt, her skirt trailing, and her sandals, their straps slipping down on her heels and becoming unfastened under unaccustomed use. She reached him. She looked at him for a second and then put out both her hands and took hold of his and hauled him up. Then she kissed him, a gentle kiss that grew in intensity, murmuring all the while that she was sorry. She told him of her dilemma, of Hussein. He listened. When she finished, he asked, “Are you sure? Are you sure you wish to be with me?”

She buried her head into his chest. She had thought and thought the whole morning. She loved Mark. Hussein was the past, a love that she had imagined to be more than it had proved to be.