you? Because if he does, I want to meet him.” Hui had been delighted by my fashionably short hair, helping me apply the unfamiliar pomade that kept its sleek shape.
“We don’t look alike at all. He’s my stepbrother so we’ve no blood relationship.”
“Oh,” she said, wrinkling her nose. Hui knew a little about my stepfather, although I tried not to discuss my circumstances at home. “Is he horrible?”
“No, he’s apparently quite a catch. At least, according to the women in Falim.” I rolled my eyes and she burst into a fit of giggles.
“But listen,” she said, “I meant to tell you that it’s better that you don’t come to work for a while anyway. On Sunday there was a man asking for you by name. Not Louise, but your real name.”
My spirits sank. The only customer that I’d inadvertently revealed my name to had been the salesman. “What did he look like?”
“Chinese. Ordinary. I told him that there wasn’t anyone here by that name.”
I wanted to hug her. “And then?”
“He left. Maybe he was looking for the finger. Did you leave it with the widow?”
“She wouldn’t take it.” Remembering that scene in the little wooden house, with Ah Yoke writhing and sobbing on the floor like a snake with a woman’s face, I felt deeply uneasy.
“So who has it?”
“My brother.” What was Shin planning to do with it anyway?
Hui sighed. Warm evening air wafted through the open window and you could hear bicycle bells ringing and the click of passing feet. “Where do you find such reliable men? I’m sick to death of the ones I meet.”
I hadn’t thought about it in that light before, but I supposed she was right. “We were close when we were younger, but not so much now. He’s turned into a womanizer.”
Hui gave a shriek of laughter. “I’m sure he can’t be that bad.”
I had to smile. “He’s working in Batu Gajah for the next few months.”
“Batu Gajah?” Hui waved the newspaper at me. “Did you hear about this? They found a body on Saturday. There’s a man-eater on the loose.”
It was a small article: a paragraph or two that must have been rushed to press. Body found in Batu Gajah rubber plantation. Headless female torso discovered by estate worker.
A tiger. From time to time, the newspapers carried gruesome reports of people strangled by pythons, taken by crocodiles, or trampled by elephants. But tigers were different. Referred to as datuk, an honorary title, there were charms spoken to appease a tiger when venturing into the jungle. A tiger that devoured too many humans was said to be able to take the form of a man and walk among us.
It had nothing to do with Shin or me, but I felt the cold touch of that shadow again, the one that undulated in the watery depths of my fears, as though it was searching for something.
* * *
By Friday, only my black eye lingered, having turned greenish-yellow. Fortunately it wasn’t swollen anymore, and I decided that with the judicious application of makeup, I’d be able to make my afternoon shift at the dance hall. Besides, I really needed the money. The numbers kept scrolling up and down in my head in red ink—a horrible shortfall. Missing a payment might result in the loan shark sending a nasty reminder to my stepfather’s house. I convinced myself that the risk of some man looking for me about the finger was minimal, and anyway, perhaps he’d already crossed the May Flower off his list.
It was a slow afternoon. The sun was baking down outside, and in the dim coolness of the dance hall, iced drinks were doing a brisk trade. I sat out a couple of dances, chatting with some of the other girls. Hui didn’t work on Fridays, but I’d made friends with Rose and Pearl. Rose was a widow, and Pearl never said, but I suspected she’d run away from her husband. Of course, those weren’t their real names, either. If I’d had a choice I’d rather be called May or Lily, something pretty and light unlike my serious Chinese name, but I was stuck with Louise. In fact, patrons referred to me by my hairstyle. “I want the one who looks like Louise Brooks,” they’d say, pointing at me, and I’d stand up and smile as though it were my birthday.
It was my fifty-third day of being Louise. In Cantonese, fifty-three was a homophone for “cannot live.” Another day with an unlucky number, and nine