Spirits Abroad, page 7
“But why are you a Chinese?” said the St. John’s Ambulance man.
“What’s that? First I’m not allowed to stand up for my community’s rights. Suddenly I’m not allowed to be Chinese also?”
“No, my learned friend has raised a very good point,” said Farid. “Orang bunian is a Malay folktale.”
“We live in the same Malaysia as the rest of you,” said the invisible man. “You look around you. Does everybody look the same race to you?”
“I am Chinese also. But I always heard that orang bunian are supposed to be devout Muslims,” said Annabella Lim.
“This is what is wrong with our country!” Datin Zainab burst out. “You younger generation do not know how to accept. You don’t know how to live together. In my day, whether somebody was Chinese, Malay, Indian, Orang Asal, Sikh, Kristang, anything—we didn’t care. When we went to school together and played on the playground, do you think we chose our friends based on race? No. Muthu sat with Ah Ming, Ali played with Jaspreet. There was no division.
“Now people have grown intolerant. They only want to see their own race. The state of the country has become bad, very bad. I remember when I was a child, I used to play in the village with my friend Miriam, she was a Christian, and I would eat my lunch in her home. Yes! My parents didn’t worry that they would serve me food that was not halal. We trusted her family and they trusted us. That was what it was like in the old days.”
“That’s right,” said the lawyer. “Things were better then.”
A haze of nostalgia settled over the table.
“I remember when I was young,” said the consumer association rep. His eyes went dreamy behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. “Us estate kids used to play by the road after school, and the Malay boys would come up from the village on the bullock cart. They used to buy bags of kacang putih from the roadside stall and give them to us to eat.”
“You young people don’t know what it was like,” said the lawyer to Ming Jun and Esther. “You see what we have come to—parading cow heads and attacking churches. In the seventies, our country was so beautiful.”
“No, no,” said the consumer association rep. “In the fifties, it was more beautiful.”
“Looks like you all made a mess of it, then,” said Ming Jun distinctly.
This was the American influence in him coming to the surface. Esther winced. Shocked silence reigned over the table.
“How are you humans bringing up your children?” said the orang bunian’s voice. “My child would never talk to his elders like that.”
Datin Zainab sat back and put her hand over her eyes.
“You have children?” said Khairul.
“How do you think orang bunian reproduce?” said the voice, with asperity. “I must say, Zainab, humans have become stupider since our time.”
“It’s the education system,” said the Datin. Her eyes were still hidden. “The standards are falling.”
This would be like a red flag to a bull. Esther knew she had to speak quickly before anyone got started on the inadequacies of the education system if she wanted an answer to the question that had been bothering her.
“Datin,” she said. “How do you and the orang bunian know each other?”
“Eh, I have a name, please,” said the irritable spirit. “Tan Chor Seng. But you young ciku must call me uncle lah.”
Datin Zainab took her hand away from her face. Esther saw with horror that her eyes were wet.
“We met,” she said, “a long, long time ago.”
“It was not so long for me, Zainab,” said the orang bunian.
“I have changed, I know,” said the Datin.
“Not so much,” said the voice. For once it was not so grumpy. “Voice is still the same.”
“Ah, but when it comes to appearance!” said Datin Zainab. “I am a grandmother now. Hair no longer black. Wrinkles, hunched back. . . .”
“My eyesight was never very good,” said the orang bunian. “My hearing only. First time I met you I thought, this woman has the most melodious voice I have ever heard. It is like the stars singing. Now I hear you again, that’s still true.”
Ming Jun was frowning down at his BlackBerry, his fingers flying. Esther was not surprised when her phone buzzed with a text message:
“R they flirting?!”
As the youngest people at the table, Ming Jun and Esther had to keep their speculation electronic. The delegates were older and did not feel the need to be quite so discreet.
“When you say you met,” said the consumer association rep to the Datin, “met means dating or what?”
“None of your business,” snapped the orang bunian’s voice.
“Don’t cry, mak cik,” said Annabella Lim. She took a pack of tissues out of her handbag and passed them to the Datin. “What is wrong?”
Datin Zainab wiped her eyes.
“I have never told anybody,” she said. “I was a young girl then. Thirty-five, thirty-six years old only. I liked to go hiking. My husband didn’t like these strenuous activities. He liked staying home and watching TV. But he was always very supportive of my hobbies. We lived near the jungle and I used to go on walks by myself.”
“Singing,” said Chor Seng’s voice. “She used to sing as she walked.”
“I wanted to scare off any animals in case they wanted to bother me,” the Datin explained.
“All of us orang bunian used to stop to listen when she sang,” said Chor Seng. “I was also young in those days. I was impulsive. I heard her singing, but I wanted to know what her speaking voice sounded like. So one day when she was walking past my house I said hello to her.”
“That is how it started,” said the Datin. She looked down at her hands with their exquisitely manicured nails. “We were very young and foolish. When the child came . . . how could I explain that to my family? Chor Seng’s family took me in. A whole year I was gone. I told my family I got lost in the forest but I didn’t remember anything else. They took me to a bomoh and he told them a spirit enchanted me when I was out walking. He said the year had felt like only a few hours to me.
“Never waste your money on bomoh,” Datin Zainab told Esther. “After this, I realized most of them are cheats. He didn’t know anything about what happened to me. Guessing only.”
“But you were married,” said Khairul.
Datin Zainab glared at him.
“And you have never done anything wrong in your life?” she said. “It is for God to judge, not you. I regretted. You think I didn’t regret? But I suffered enough for my mistake. After that incident my husband did not let me go walking alone in the forest anymore. We moved when he got a new job, and I never heard my child again.”
“You abandoned the baby?” said Farid.
“Encik,” said the Datin with exaggerated patience. “If you know how I could have brought up an invisible child, please can you tell me. I am only a weak woman and I thought it might be difficult when it came to sending him to school. When he raised his hand, the teachers would not be able to see.”
“Boon Yi takes after me more,” Chor Seng’s voice agreed. “His mother not so much.”
Datin Zainab folded her hands.
“How is Boon Yi?” she said quietly.
“Doing well,” said the orang bunian. “Studies hard. Good at writing but very lazy to do mathematics. I am raising him to be Muslim, like you asked. He goes to my neighbor’s house twice a week to mengaji Quran.”
“That is good,” said Khairul, mollified.
“Nobody asked you, busybody,” said the orang bunian’s voice. “Boon Yi is very big now, very clever. Can understand a lot of things. He asks about you every day, Zainab. He wants to hear all the stories about you. He wishes he could know his mother.”
“I left him my photo,” said Datin Zainab. Annabella Lim pressed another tissue into her limp hand.
“Boon Yi is like me. His eyesight is not so good,” said the orang bunian. “You know to us sound is more important. He has never heard your voice. That is why I came. His birthday is coming up soon—”
“February twenty-second,” said Datin Zainab. “I always buy a birthday cake on that day. When my family asks, I tell them it is to celebrate the fact that even mistakes can have good consequences.”
“I want to give him something meaningful for his birthday,” said Chor Seng. “I want to give him the sound of your voice. That is why I came. Will you come with me to talk to him?”
“From here?” said Datin Zainab. She laughed a little. “Chor Seng, where you live is so deep in the jungle. How would I get there?”
“Walk,” said Chor Seng, as if this was obvious. The table scoffed as one person.
“At her age!” said Annabella. “In this hot sun! Old lady like that, how to walk so far?”
“You are not being practical,” said Farid. “You should have planned ahead.”
“Orang bunian age more slowly than us,” said Datin Zainab. “It is not his fault. But they are right, Chor Seng. My body cannot take it anymore.”
There was a silence.
“I forgot that humans work differently,” said Chor Seng. “I’m sorry. It is good that I did not tell Boon Yi. He won’t be disappointed.”
“Ne more of this n Im going 2 cry,” texted Ming Jun to Esther.
Esther put her phone down on the table, feeling as depressed as everybody else looked.
Her eyes fell on the Dictaphone.
“There is no need to disappoint Boon Yi, Uncle,” said Esther. “We have a Dictaphone here. If Datin records a message inside, Uncle can take it back to play for your son to hear. Come with me and we will do it outside in the corridor. In here it is too noisy. And while we are outside maybe Ming Jun can get on with the discussion. There’s only fifteen minutes left, and we only covered five of the questions.”
“Shit!”
“We’ll record over that part,” said Esther.
Outside in the corridor Esther tried to make herself scarce while Datin Zainab recorded her message, but she had to go over to help them find the “stop” button.
While she fiddled with the Dictaphone, a thought occurred to her. Esther said: “Uncle, if you came to get Datin’s voice, why did you say all that about minority rights?”
“Our rights are also at stake what,” said the orang bunian. “Cannot do two things at the same time meh? Let me tell you, girl. Life and politics is equally important. Cannot separate the two. Both also you must take seriously. What I said, you must remember to tell the government, OK?”
“OK,” said Esther dubiously. She was going to warn him that going by previous record it didn’t seem likely that the government would be interested in invisible minorities’ rights, but Datin Zainab started speaking.
“Tell Boon Yi to study hard,” said the Datin. “And tell him he must make sure to respect women and treat them with consideration. That is the best way to show respect to his mother. Tell him I always save one piece of the cake for him. Just in case. Tell him—”
“Why don’t you come with me and tell him yourself?” said Chor Seng gently. “We are old already, Zainab. We don’t have so many obligations anymore. Can’t we please ourselves? You used to love the forest, remember? You could come back.”
Datin Zainab paused.
“I have grandchildren,” she said. “And I have my work with my women. I cannot simply go where I want. And I am old, Chor Seng. My bones like to have soft cushions to lie on. They like to be driven around in a Mercedes. If I’d stayed with you, back then . . . but I am too used to my lifestyle now. The jungle, romance—these things are for young people.”
“Wrong,” said Chor Seng. “Nobody can be too old for romance.”
“It is rude to contradict a woman,” said Datin Zainab.
“I’m just going to go to the toilet,” said Esther. “The exit is over there—Uncle knows, right?”
But they were still there when Esther came back. Datin Zainab was standing by the doors at the end of the passage, talking softly. The blinding sunlight outside made a black silhouette of her body. Her arm was stretched out, the hand wrapped around air.
After a while her hand dropped to her side. The murmurs died down. She stood in the doorway for a long time, listening for the goodbye.
Odette
Odette’s time for hope was short.
Early that morning, the first morning of the rest of her life, she’d gone out of her house to the end of the garden. The air was as pure as the breath that first animated the clay of Adam’s flesh. She looked out over the island and saw no limitations.
But then she saw him—Uncle Andrew, in his polo shirt and khaki shorts, coming out for his daily morning walk. He pretended not to see her as he opened the gate and passed her by, but he knew she was there.
Odette realized her life had not changed after all. She would have to live with Uncle Andrew for the rest of her life.
He had only died the day before.
Uncle Andrew had insisted on being discharged from the hospital.
“If it is my time, I will die with dignity,” he said. He spoke slowly, pausing between words to struggle for breath. “A Christian shouldn’t be scared of death.”
It wasn’t Odette’s place to disagree. Uncle Andrew’s friends from church stepped in for her.
“Andrew, God helps those who help themselves,” said Auntie Gladys. “You are still so young. Don’t you think it’s too soon? Let the doctors treat you.”
“God can wait for a while,” said Auntie Poh Eng. “He knows how much we all need you!”
All this was no less than what Uncle Andrew expected, but he was inflexible. “The doctors have had their chance. They poke me here, there, everywhere also, they still don’t know how to cure me. God is calling me back to Him. I’m not so foolish as to put my faith in humans over God.”
Auntie Poh Eng took Uncle Andrew’s hand. Her eyes were full of tears.
“God has been good to let us have you for so long,” she said.
Auntie Poh Eng was Odette’s favorite of their church friends. Her only flaw was an unfailing affection for Uncle Andrew. But this was a flaw shared by all Uncle Andrew’s friends. It was not Odette’s place to complain.
Her place was by Uncle Andrew’s side, except when she was in the laundry room, or the kitchen, or in the dining room polishing the heirloom silver. Just because Uncle Andrew was about to die didn’t mean he was about to let standards slip. They had a cleaner who came in every day to go over the house, but the clothes Uncle Andrew wore and the food he ate had to come fresh from Odette’s hands. As for the various antiques and other treasures Uncle Andrew had accumulated over the years, they could not of course be entrusted to a cleaner who only earned RM600 a month.
Uncle Andrew had collected enough that looking to the upkeep of his possessions, cooking for him, keeping him in clean clothes, and nursing him was too much for one person. Odette suggested that perhaps the cleaner could cook and do the laundry.
“Then I can put a hundred percent into looking after you and the house, Uncle.”
“You should already be putting in hundred percent,” said Uncle Andrew. “Who is paying for you to live? Not like you have so much to do. When Beatrice was alive she did all this and more. She didn’t even have a degree, not like you. She never complained. You young people are spoilt. Given too much.”
“Auntie Letchumi is a better cook than me. Maybe you’ll feel like eating more, Uncle. It’ll be good for your health.”
“Instead of learning to cook better, you want to pay someone else to do,” said Uncle Andrew. “You’re useless! If not for my money I don’t know what you’d do—end up lying in the street like a tramp. I don’t eat all this Indian food.”
“If you don’t want her to cook for you, what if we ask her to do the laundry? It will give me more time.”
“What else are you doing with your life? Do you have a job? Do you have a husband? All you have to do is take care of your uncle who has done so much for you. Even that you don’t want to do. I sacrifice for you and still you are so selfish.”
Odette was of the unfortunate mold that does not grow less sensitive with time and use. She fell silent. Crying irritated Uncle Andrew to a fury. He took it as an unjustifiable assertion of self.
“After I die, your life will be very easy,” said Uncle Andrew. “My time left here is short. But you can’t even wait until God takes me.” He coughed.
“I’m sorry, Uncle,” said Odette.
“There’s no use saying sorry,” said Uncle Andrew. “You shouldn’t be so selfish in the first place. If your hand causes you to sin, cut it off.”
He banged the bedside table, but though Odette jumped she wasn’t really scared. Five years ago the force of the blow would have rocked the table back and forth on its legs. Now Uncle Andrew was so weak it barely rattled the glass of water Odette had brought him. She watched the surface of the water tremble and go still, and hid a smile.
Uncle Andrew only spoke this way when they were alone. His friends did not see this side of him.
The friends watched Odette bring in meals, give Uncle Andrew his medicine, serve him hot drinks, fluff his pillow. They didn’t see her change his bedsheets every day, bathe and dress him, do the laundry, eat only in the brief intervals granted her between chores—standing at the kitchen counter, stuffing the food into her mouth, dry-eyed.
Auntie Poh Eng told her: “You are taking Jesus’ life as your model. Life is hard now, but God will reward you in the end.”
Odette only shook her head. “I don’t need His reward, Auntie.”
After all, Uncle Andrew had always been so kind to her. He was known for this kindness. A pillar of the church, counsellor to his friends, benign dispenser of advice to their children.
