On the island later that evening, Endo-san rubbed his camphor ointment on my chest. “You will meet all kinds of people. Some are good; some will be like Goro-san. You have to be prepared.”
I no longer asked what I had to be prepared for: I suppose, deep within me, I already knew the answer.
I watched him as he moved around preparing our evening meal. I thought of that day when he had walked from the sea into my life and transformed it completely. We had grown closer in that time, settling into a warm routine, although we were still extremely careful not to be seen in public together. Anti-Japanese feelings were running high, continually kept on a flame by the Aid China Campaign. There were, however, always social and commercial occasions when we were thrown together. Then we would make polite conversation that was loaded with guarded references to our life. We developed our own language to the extent we could ostensibly talk about the dock workers’ demands while actually referring to a class the night before.
There was more gray in his hair, and he looked fatigued. I thought back to the evenings I had spent with him and the things we had talked about. He had opened my mind, and set it ablaze with his. I thanked him for the ointment. “I like this smell,” I said.
“Do not grow accustomed to it,” he said. He put away the bottle and came back to sit with me by the hearth. “What is it?”
I wanted to ask him about the heavy presence of the military at the consulate. It came on top of all the other things that had been worrying me. Those rubber purchasers I had met in Kampong Pangkor—what were they really involved in? I recalled the questions Endo-san had often asked me and saw in my mind the boxes of photographs he had taken. I wondered about his frequent trips around the country. What was he actually doing?
But how did one ask? And—which made me more fearful—what would be the answers and their effect on my association with him?
He repeated his question and yet I knew my own queries and doubts would never be voiced. Even then, perhaps, I knew but I chose to ignore, to push away. Such was the strength of my bond to him that I needed and wanted no explanation for my acceptance. Even then I already loved him, although I did not realize it, never having loved before.
“Do you remember you told me how beautiful the sea looked, that first time we met?” I said softly. Through the
shoji
doors we could see a fragment of the night sky through a gap in the trees. It was crowded with stars. Far away the surf raced along the sand, hissing as it melted into the beach.
He smiled but his voice was subdued. “I remember. I saw your eyes soften. It was like seeing stone turning to honey.”
Thoughts floated by like intoxicated butterflies: of taking care of him, preparing his meals, spending the rest of my life learning under his guidance; thoughts which would always remain thoughts, never becoming real, when even to acknowledge him in public was fraught with risks. So many things most people take for granted.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, as he yawned.
And I said, with not a small trace of sadness at the way of the world, “Butterflies.”
Chapter Seventeen
I increased the frequency of my visits to Kon’s home. I had never been close to the other boys at school and it was only with Kon that, for the first time in my life, I was made aware of the possibility of such a friendship.
I learned a lot from Kon. We spent evenings breaking down our techniques and trying out new ones. I found Tanaka-san’s
aiki-jutsu
much gentler than Endo-san’s, the movements much more circular than those I had been taught. Kon, in turn, found my near-linear motions effective and fast, so we found an equilibrium, a harmony between the circle and the line. I told him about my classes with the consulate staff and he said, “That’s nothing. You should try some of the illegal matches that take place every month.”
“What’re they?”
“The triads run a match every fortnight in one of the godowns in the harbor. Anyone may enter for a fee. There are no rules, no restrictions whatsoever. You can be eighteen, or younger or older, male, female, it does not matter.”
“Have you ever fought in them?”
“Yes, once. When
Tanaka-sensei
found out he was very angry and even threatened to stop teaching me. I stopped going immediately and on his insistence gave the money I’d won to a temple.”
“We do so much just to please our teachers,” I said, and I could see he understood.
We dried our bodies and changed out of our soaked training
gi.
The question came out of me before I could reconsider or reframe it—”Have you ever killed anyone?”
He folded his clothes into a neat bundle, creasing them firmly with his palm. “No, I have not,” he said. “To ask that question, I think you must have.”
“No, but I injured a man.” The admission came out quickly, before it could be taken back and hidden away deep within me. I told him what had happened, the steps I had taken to protect my father and myself. “I’m worried now that these things will come easier to me.”
“You shouldn’t have done that. The MCP members are vicious. You’d better warn your father to be alert.”
“You think they’ll retaliate?”
He shook his head for he had no answer but I felt better for having talked to him. “Come to the party,” I said. “Bring your father and Tanaka-san.”
“I will,” he said. “But come with me. I have something to show you.”
I saw the excited look on his face and followed him down the wrought-iron spiral stairs into the courtyard, sending the pigeons flying up to the eaves. We went outside to the garage at the back of the house. He opened the doors and the light caught the silver of the car hidden inside.
“I can’t believe it,” I said, staring with wonder at the MG. “Your father’s?”
“No. Mine. A present for my birthday. Like it?”
“You lucky sod,” I said. I stroked the warm metal of its low, sleek body. He opened the top and jumped inside. He started the engine and the walls of the garage suddenly seemed too flimsy, as though they were unable to contain the low rumbling noise.
“Want to go for a drive?”
We took it slow within the streets of Georgetown, aware that we were the center of attraction and loving it. Once we were on the coastal road he opened up the throttle, hurling us around the narrow curves while scarcely slowing down. The hard rock face of the cliffs rushed by on one side while, on the other, a terrifying drop into the rocky seas kept him alert. A municipal bus passed us on the opposite side as Kon overtook an army lorry and we just managed to squeeze back onto our side, almost scraping the rock-face. The troops in the lorry cheered us and I turned and waved to them. We left them behind and went our way in the speckling sunlight that waited above the weave of the trees.
The road was heavily shaded and it seemed that sometimes we traveled within a cool, damp tunnel that smelled of earth and mulch. Through the gaps in the leaves, the sea shone blue and warm in the light, and tiny sailboats from the Penang Swimming Club appeared like colored thumbtacks on a sheet of brilliant baize.
Kon drove well and the MG hugged the road, sticky as a caterpillar on a branch. We drove all the way until the road finished, past the beaches of Tanjung Bungah and Batu Ferringhi—I barely saw Istana before it dropped behind us. He turned onto a dirt road to the Bay of Reflected Light at the northeasternmost tip of the island, scattering the chickens in a Malay village. He drove on until the tires started to sink into sand and then he stopped.
I let out a breath. “That was ...” I shook my head and laughed.
We got out of the car and sat on the beach, watching the green, glowing waves, feeling the adrenaline that had intoxicated our blood seep away. Fishing boats were beached on the sand and we heard the cries of the cormorants tied to the boats. The fishermen often put them on leashes to catch fish, supplementing their harvest from the nets.
Kon’s face was gleeful, young, and so filled with life. Now, when I am old and with so much having happened to us, that is how I recall him, on that day when we broke all traffic rules, when we sat at the end of the world, watching the sea where the Straits of Malacca meet the Indian Ocean.
“You know about my father, of course,” Kon said, without preamble.
I wondered what he wanted me to say and, not knowing, decided to speak the truth. “I’ve heard—well—rumors and stories.”
“Have you heard of the triads?”
“Uncle Lim has told me about them. But I’d like to hear it from you.”
He took in a long breath then said, “The triads are a strange product of history. The name comes from their use of a triangular diagram signifying the relationship of Heaven, Earth, and Man. They were formed originally as resistance to Mongol rule over China. There are heavy influences of Buddhism—in fact most of the founding members were Buddhist monks. But the details of these are now lost in time. My father is of the view that the triads as we know them stem from the start of the Ching dynasty. When the Manchu people conquered China in the seventeenth century, they attempted to wipe out all forms of resistance ...” Kon explained that through the centuries, a more criminal element had crept into the makeup of the triads. The mass migration of the Chinese helped spread their influence and power beyond China. Triad members communicated and recognized fellow members in public by means of elaborate hand signals.
He stopped and I struggled to understand what he had said. It sounded confusing, a secret brotherhood, like the Freemasons of which my father often joked about Mr. Scott being a member.
The British had outlawed all forms of secret societies as a way to curb the triads. It was useless of course. The triads were a law unto themselves; nobody could control them except their Dragon Heads, the leaders of the societies.
“Is your father a Dragon Head?” I asked Kon, crossing over the boundary of friendship. But Kon was already on the other side of it, waiting for me.
“He’s the head of the Red Banner Society.”
I knew I had heard that name before and not just from Uncle Lim. I searched my memory and recalled that the newspapers had, at one time, written a detailed story about the violence and unrest created by warring societies out to enlarge their territories. The Red Banner Society had made a name for itself as being a well-organized, ruthless group. Its roots lay in the Hokkien province of China, from where so many of the Chinese in Penang came. It was said to be one of the strongest societies.
“When my father steps down, I’ll be the new Dragon Head. I hope this won’t affect our friendship,” Kon said, and I heard the way he tried to hide his worry, that I would not be his friend anymore.
I was touched, and I said to reassure him, “It won’t; you have my word.”
He looked relieved but then swiftly hid his emotions, and I suddenly saw how isolated he was, how the reputation of his father had resulted in him having very few friends. Like me he had decided to be satisfied with his own company. I saw so much of myself in him, especially the hardness within us that had been the result of our decision to walk alone and so protect ourselves from being hurt.
“Let me show you something,” he said. He laced the fingers of both hands into a pattern, thumbs facing forward, the smallest fingers pointing down. “This is the sign that will lead you to my father. The market in Pulau Tikus is controlled by us, and anyone you show it to will have to obey.”
I practiced creating the sign. “Why are you telling me this?”
“If you ever need help, make this sign and you will be given assistance.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever need it,” I said.
“Learn it. You never know,” he said.
I knew that, through this offering, an unspoken vow of friendship and even of brotherhood had been sworn between us. It did not have to be voiced, which only made it stronger.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go into town for dinner. Here,” he threw the keys at me. “Your turn.”
* * *
Georgetown after dark was a different world, and the place Kon took me to was something I had never encountered at night before. We parked the car and walked into Bishop Street. The five-foot passageways outside the shops were crowded with hawkers cooking under the light of hurricane lamps. I had been warned against walking into this area of town at night but with Kon beside me I felt safe.
“Ah, the White Tiger; you honor us tonight.” The porridge seller greeted him with good humor, asking after his father. He wiped the oily table with a face towel slung around his meaty shoulder and we sat down on wooden benches along the passageway. A fat man in a singlet dipped strips of dough into a cauldron of bubbling oil and, when they turned a golden brown, picked them up with a pair of chopsticks a foot long. This
yew-char-kway
would be dipped into our fish porridge, which would be garnished with shallots, spring onions, a few drops of sesame oil and slivers of ginger.
“Why did he call you that?” I asked.
