him, but he ignored me. Ming smiled his gentle smile as he helped lift the melon out of the basket. The top button of his shirt was missing, though with his usual air of bemused dignity, he didn’t seem aware of it. If Ming had fallen in love with me, instead of some girl from Tapah, I’d gladly have mended his shirt.
I went upstairs to pack. It was best to leave before my mother came home and forced me to stay for lunch.
“Not joining us?” Ming looked surprised as I passed through the front of the shophouse. The bouquet of newspaper-wrapped chrysanthemums was tucked in my basket. A single snowy bloom peeked out, and Shin glanced at it sharply. He said nothing, however, as I made my goodbyes. Under the flowers, the finger was a guilty burden in my basket. I felt compelled to return it. And what better place to leave it than at a funeral?
* * *
According to the newspaper obituary, the salesman’s funeral would be held in Papan, a nearby town. The sun broiled down from a cloudless blue sky; my only consolation was the giant rain tree that shaded the bus stop. I’d dusted my face with a little rice powder and applied a smudge of lip rouge, but feared it would soon melt off.
The bus arrived with a rattling roar. It had the body of a lorry, the sides circled with a wooden railing, and was always a bit difficult to climb up into when wearing a dress, particularly a pencil-slim cheongsam. I boarded last to avoid showing too much leg to anyone standing behind me. Still, I struggled, silently cursing the modest side slits that didn’t allow me to take large steps. To my horror, someone lent me a hand from behind. A man’s hand, from the feel of it, that slid over-familiarly down the small of my back and shoved me up into the bus. I swung round and slapped him.
It was Shin.
“What did you do that for?” He looked annoyed.
“Nobody asked you to help. What are you doing here?”
The bus driver honked his horn, and I sat down hastily on the wooden bench. Shin swung himself up and squeezed in next to me. With a jerk, the bus roared off.
I glared at him. “What about lunch with Ming?”
Ignoring the question, Shin looked pointedly at the rattan basket that I hugged on my lap. “Is it in there?”
I knew he was talking about the finger, but didn’t reply. What cheek, after being so unfriendly earlier!
“That was quite a slap you gave me.”
“How was I to know it was you?”
I’d reacted unthinkingly, a lesson learned from dancing with strangers. Feeling rather sorry, I peeked at his face to see if I’d left a mark.
“So are you going to tell me about this finger?”
There was no point holding out as Shin was clearly planning to follow me, so I gave him an edited version of events. How the salesman had come by my (unnamed) place of work and dropped the bottle with the finger, and how the next day he had died.
“And that’s all,” I said. “Now will you please go home? It’s rude of you to ditch Ming.”
“I didn’t leave him alone. Or are you worried that Ah Kum will make a move on him?”
“He’s engaged!” I snapped. “And besides, Ah Kum is only interested in you, not Ming.”
He turned his head to look out of the window. I felt rather guilty. Shin was, in his own way, looking out for me.
“Friends?” I said, holding out my hand after a while. Shin could stay quiet for days but I could never hold a grudge against him. There wouldn’t be anyone to talk to in that house if we didn’t make up. He didn’t look at me, but stuck out his right hand, and we shook, a little too heartily, to show that everything really was all right between us.
The bus deposited us on the main road in Papan and roared off in a cloud of dust. I coughed violently. Never mind the face powder I’d applied—I was now covered with white dust. Shin’s lips twitched, but mercifully, he didn’t laugh. We had to ask around for the address, as Papan had quite a few streets with small houses on them.
“That’s the Chan house,” an old lady said. She studied my grey cheongsam and bouquet of white flowers. “Did you mean to come for the funeral?”