shutters were now being closed, and he was clearly puzzled as to why I hadn’t emerged yet. I recognized him right away. As I feared, it was the young man with the narrow face who’d asked me about the finger: Y. K. Wong. My shoulders tensed. One way or another, I’d better not return to the May Flower for some time.
Cutting back to the dusty street behind, I hailed a trishaw, leaving my pursuer still waiting fruitlessly in front of the store. I hoped he’d stay there a good long time. Listening to the crank of pedals, the wheels humming in the falling velvet dusk, I closed my eyes and wished fiercely that I could leave this place. Leave everything and start over somewhere else.
* * *
To my surprise when I got home, Mrs. Tham was waiting for me in the front room. She looked both excited and a little put out, an expression that I recognized with a sinking feeling.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
“Just finishing up.” It was no later than my usual time on a Friday.
“One of the rules of this house,” she said, her little bird face alight with indignation, “is no male visitors. I can’t imagine what you could have been thinking, Ji Lin, to tell a man to come and wait for you here!”
I flinched. I’d left the mysterious Mr. Y. K. Wong standing in the street at the other end of town. How was it possible that he’d found the dressmaker’s shop? It was like witchcraft; the man was a demon. Or perhaps he had a twin, a doppelgänger that heralded death.
“He stood outside for the longest time. I thought he was waiting for a customer, peering into the shop the way he did, but finally he came in and asked for you. When I said you were out, he left right away. Though I must say he was very good-looking.”
“Oh,” I said, understanding dawning. “Was it my brother?”
“Your brother? You don’t look anything alike.”
Not wanting to explain any further, since Mrs. Tham had obviously heard bits and pieces of my family history and was eager to ferret out more, I simply said, “People often say that.”
“If he was your brother, why didn’t he say so?” she said indignantly. “Making me worry like that!”
I’d no idea, to be honest. Had my mother given Shin this address? And why was he here so late in the evening? There were too many mysteries today.
11
Batu Gajah
Saturday, June 6th
Ren is waiting anxiously at the door when William returns. “Selamat datang,” he says. Welcome home. That is the correct way to greet his master; servants should be lined up at the door for arrivals and departures. Ren had always done it for Dr. MacFarlane. The old doctor used to joke he didn’t feel right leaving home without Ren’s quiet goodbye. Today, Ah Long has joined him, his usually taciturn face animated as he takes William’s medical bag.
“Tuan, is it a tiger?”
“Probably,” says William. “I want the doors locked at night. And don’t go out in the evening or early morning alone. That goes for you, too, Ren.”
Ren nods. He thinks the new doctor looks ill. His face has a fish-belly pallor and his eyes, behind the thin-rimmed glasses, are bloodshot. There are so many questions that Ren wants to ask, but he hesitates, wondering how to broach the subject.
Ah Long asks, “Who died?”
“A plantation worker.” William passes a hand over his eyes. “I need a bath and a drink. A whisky stengah, please.”
William goes off to the tiled bathroom, where he’ll rinse himself off with a bucket dipped in a pottery jar of water. Ah Long turns to Ren.
“Know how to make one?”
Ren looks dubious. Dr. MacFarlane drank things from bottles, but he never asked Ren to mix them for him.
“Now’s a good time to learn. Watch me.”
Stengah comes from the Malay word setengah, meaning “half.” Ah Long fetches a block of ice from the cold box in the kitchen, where it’s kept buried in sawdust. Chipping away with an icepick, he fills a tall highball glass.
“Don’t make the ice too small,” he warns. “Otherwise it melts too fast.”
Next, he fills the glass one-third full of a medicinal, tea-colored liquid that he pours out of a square bottle. It has a picture of a man in a tall black hat with white trousers. Johnnie Walker Blended Scotch Whisky reads a label that seems to have been slapped half-heartedly on the bottle.
“Why is the label crooked?” asks Ren.
“It’s not