Bitter Sweet Harvest (41 page)

“
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 thick 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.

Ghazali wondered why Rahim wished to talk to him. He wondered too why Rahim had chosen to sit in darkness. Things had not been the same since Ahmad had contacted them. Everyone was behaving strangely, going his or her separate ways. Hussein’s family was no longer a family. They were disunited. He squirmed in his seat, wishing that he had not come. He felt himself at a definite disadvantage because he could not see Rahim sitting there in the shadows.

“Tell me,” said Rahim. He moved forward, coming out of the shadows to lean his elbows on the desk. His leather seat groaned with the shift of his weight. His dark eyebrows, peppered white, were raised, but there was no fire in his eyes. He looked tired, haggard. The jowls in his face seemed to have lost their firmness and strength, leaving his cheeks loose. Long deep lines broke on either side of his mouth when he spoke. It had been more than a month since Ghazali had met with him in this very room. Then Rahim had struck a commanding and decisive figure. That figure was gone replaced by a shadow.

“Please sir, why do you wish to see me?”

“This,” said Rahim, waving some sheets of paper at him. “Mutterings of dissatisfaction from our constituency in Kemun and not so gentle complaints from the capital. Apparently Hussein has been distracted. He is not working well; he has missed appointments and deadlines; he says the wrong things… you name it… its all here.” He threw the papers down on the desk. “What is up?”

“He is completely wrapped up with the idea of retrieving the boy, ‘Tim’ I believe he is called,” Ghazali explained. “He is convinced that the child is his son. It has consumed him, sapped all his energy. He spends hours talking to lawyers and looking into the possibility of getting Tim. I did warn about this before. He is in Kuala Lumpur at this moment. He sent me here to deal with some constituency matters on his behalf.”

“I am very worried about Hussein. He was doing so well until that ill-timed, cursed phone call from Ahmad. I wish he had never called. It has stirred up the past, a past that is best forgotten. My son is obsessed with his former wife. I don’t understand it. He would never have got this far if she had remained in his life.”

Over the past month, Rahim had become increasingly convinced that Tim was not his grandson. He had spoken to all the women folk, including the servants, and none had any inkling that An Mei was expecting. He had questioned in particular Fawziah, An Mei’s maid. Only she amongst all the others had hesitated in her answer. In the end she too had affirmed what they said. It must be Ahmad’s way of getting back at them and to get more money. A grunt of annoyance escaped him. He stood up, pushing his chair away. He walked towards the windows and looked out to the distance. “Any news of Ahmad? Have they captured him?”

“No! I do not believe they have captured him. Neither did they manage to catch Ah Cheong, his accomplice. The Singapore police blamed it on the porosity of our borders allowing criminals to move with ease between countries.”

Ghazali had stood up when Rahim walked to the window. He now walked to stand behind him. He lowered his voice. “Sir!” he said hesitantly.

“Yes?” asked Rahim as he spun around to face Ghazali.