The Red Thread (40 page)

Noan sat as the
sangkek um
combed her hair. They said that she could tell if a bride was a virgin during this hair-combing ritual, that if the hairline along the forehead refused to respond to the comb but curled disobediently, then the girl was not innocent. Noan watched anxiously, praying for compliant hair, as the mistress of ceremonies combed the fringe and trimmed it neatly. She was terrified of this hard-eyed woman, who pinched her if she did not respond immediately to what she was told. She dreaded the rehearsal for the wedding ceremony tomorrow, for she knew she would be pinched incessantly. The combing must have gone satisfactorily, for the
sangkek um
did not frown. The fringe was tied in tiny tufts at both sides of her head with white ribbon.

Zhen had been briefed all day on the vowing ceremony tomorrow night and the procession and the rituals of the wedding day. He had a headache. He had been watched incessantly for five days, and he was fed up with it. He wanted to see Charlotte, knowing it was impossible. He went into the cool bathroom and lay down on the floor, ladling water over himself. In two nights he would have to make love to
her
. He would, too, one, two, three. She wouldn't know what had hit her. He wanted her pregnant as quickly as possible. Then for twelve nights he would have to sleep with her, leaving in the morning, returning in the evening under the keen gaze of all the family. He groaned and poured water over his head.

38

Takouhi was hopeful. Meda had improved in the cool air of the high slopes of the Buitenzorg hills. Tigran's home here was an elegant double-storey house with a wide verandah, surrounded by trees and flowers and the vast, terraced reaches of the seemingly endless rows of brilliant green tea plants. There was a huge aviary filled with black-and-crimson orioles, and Meda had adopted a pair of scarlet sunbirds which came frequently to the tree near her window.

They were sitting on the old battery at Scandal Point, enjoying the cool evening air, occasionally waving to passers-by. George looked better, rested, Charlotte thought. He was telling them the news from Java. He had ridden over on Matahari, and she stood snuffling by his side, her reins loosely in George's hands. The day had been hot and very humid, but now the breeze was delicious, the tide was high and the water lapped the beach. Stars were appearing. Soon, Charlotte knew, the vault of the sky would be pinpricked with the light of the million stars of the Milky Way. Over the water could be heard the soothing echoes of voices raised in Javanese songs from luggers down the bay.

George, too, was gazing out at this tropical splendour so dear to his heart. Charlotte could almost see what he was thinking. To her he had revealed his deep hope of their return. Takouhi missed him dreadfully; so did his daughter. He had spared her blushes with what followed next, but he had been glad to read it. Takouhi wrote to him in Malay, a language in which she was very expressive.

Robert rose, bidding farewell to George; then he and Charlotte began the walk along the beach back to the bungalow before darkness fell completely. George had lit a cigar and continued his vigil over the Straits.

When they got home, Charlotte went to her room and took out the red paper, sinking onto the chair in front of her mirror. The wedding invitation. Tomorrow was his wedding. Tomorrow night he would be in some other woman's arms. She closed her eyes. Unbearable, don't think. He loved her; what did it matter if he made love to this wife of his. But it did, and she rose, agitated suddenly. He would arouse this other women as he had her, take her down the same scented corridors.

Charlotte started to shake, a black mist enveloping her. Hand trembling, she looked at the paper again. In five days she and Robert were invited to meet the bride and groom. Charlotte was certain as she could be that Zhen did not know about this, but it stood to reason. Baba Tan would have invited all the prominent Europeans in Singapore, proud to show off this auspicious union, his wealth and position.

Robert called to her. Would she take a wee dram? Dear Robert. He knew, and was trying to distract her. Then, suddenly, she was tired, couldn't wrap herself in this cloak of quivering and draining emotion any more.

She took from the cupboard the backgammon set Aunt Jeannie had given her and looked at it. It had become warped in the humidity. She tried to straighten it, pushing the wood against the table, but the invisible moisture had penetrated it, loosening its structure. Did it mind, the wood, being twisted? Or had it merely returned to its natural state before the hand of the carpenter had moulded it? She looked into the mirror, then ran her hand over the smooth surface of the box. It would never be quite the same again, but it would serve. She moved towards the verandah. At this game she always beat Robert.

The time for the
cheo thau
vowing ceremony had arrived. Zhen's head swam with these names which assailed his ears daily. The eleventh hour at night had been selected as auspicious for this most sacred and solemn event, the
pak chindek
had told him. Zhen felt the portent of this time in the pit of his stomach. But retreat was folly, and now it was here. Zhen had been dressed in the white silk garments. As the melancholy strains of the bamboo flute and cymbals of the
seroni
band began, he was led to the space between the altar to his ancestors and the
sam kai
altar to the gods of heaven, earth and the moon. The Boyanese
pak chindek
who had overseen the stringent scrubbing of Zhen's body and hair and the fresh shaving of his head thought the young Tan daughter might very well be pleased with the choice of husband, though he said nothing. Zhen had remained stony-faced throughout the entire process.

The altars were covered in offerings of flowers and tea, carved papaya and red fruits. The two red candles had been lit, and on either end of the
sam kai
altar there were two glass lamps. For the duration of the wedding, Zhen had discovered, a man would be responsible for the flames in these lamps, for if they went out it would be terribly bad luck. On the floor between the altars was a large, round, bamboo tray, and on a red spot in the centre stood a wooden tub, mouth upward, covered in a red cloth. Zhen knew he was supposed to sit on this open tub and had had to stifle a desire to laugh, especially when he thought of his prospective bride doing the same thing at the same moment at Tan's house. Perhaps her arse was so big she couldn't fall in, he thought and had to swallow hard at both the comical and horrible possibilities that this created in his mind.

He recalled the story of the ritual cat his Zen master had told the young men in the monastery.

When the teacher and his disciples began their evening meditiation, the cat that lived in the monastery made such a noise that it distracted them. So the teacher ordered that the cat be tied up during the evening practice. Years later, when the teacher died, the cat continued to be tied up during the meditation session. And when the cat eventually died, another cat was brought to the monastery and tied up. Centuries later, learned descendants of the spiritual teacher wrote scholarly treatises about the religious significance of tying up a cat for meditation practice.

In the presence of half a dozen of Tan's employees, the master of ceremonies and three pageboys, he stepped, at the appointed moment, onto the bamboo tray. The air was heavy with
stanggee
incense.

Noan sat down on the tub without a grimace, although it was thoroughly uncomfortable. She took the
Book of Fate
from the pageboy into her lap as the mistress of ceremonies loosened her hair. A Chinese scale was passed over her head and down to her feet as a reminder to weigh all her actions fairly in life. A Chinese ruler came next, followed by a pair of scissors and a razor, exhorting the exercise of sincerity, good judgement and care. Noan's mother and youngest sisters were now sobbing quietly. Noan, too, had tears running down her cheeks; she was exhausted by the day spent greeting the female guests seated unsmilingly on the hard chairs and the endless rehearsal, the melancholy strains of the
seroni
music in the half-darkness, the flame of the glass lamps bringing the realisation of her passage into her new life.

Zhen wanted to squirm but sat stock still. Finally it was over and, rising, he paid obeisance to the two altars and left the room, his hair hanging loose down his back. When everyone had left, he joined Ah Pok and the other old Malay servant in the kitchen, got out the rice wine and proceeded to get as drunk as he was able. This marriage, which he had embraced as fortunate beyond his dreams, now seemed like a trap.

The next morning, when he was wakened rudely by one of the
pak chindek's
assistants, he regretted the drinking bout. Really, where was the bloody privacy in this house? He was naked and hot, and the old man was chattering at him in incomprehensible Baba Malay. He rose, growling, and the old man ran out of the room.

The barber again, this time a thorough cleaning up. The razor was sharpened on the leather strop and run rapidly over Zhen's head, down the cheeks, around the neck and between the eyebrows and eyelashes. Pulling back Zhen's head, he scraped his tongue and cleaned the teeth with a sharp wooden stick. Then with small scissors he searched for stray hairs in his nostrils and ears, then cleaned the ears with tweezers. Finally he took his hands, scraped each nail and cuticle and massaged his hands. This ritual complete, he gathered up his tools and left. Now Zhen was again scrubbed and rinsed and sprinkled with scented water. He felt like a pig being prepared for the spit. Finally he was allowed to rest until it came time to dress in the heavy costume. Ah Pok made him some tea and rice, and he threw himself into a chair.

Noan, too, was sitting, for the wedding garments she was wearing were so heavy they made movements hard. She was hot, although the day was cool, and a servant fanned her constantly. The white silk outfit of the previous night had been covered with garments made of thick cotton to absorb sweat, then a rigid outfit of bamboo, over which lay the stiffly embroidered heavy silk skirt and coat. She felt like a trussed-up chicken. Her hair had been dragged into a topknot and pinned with a hundred gold pins, each finished with a floret, giving her the appearance of wearing a crown. The tightness of the hair hurt, and the pins rubbed her scalp. Her mother's heavy gold-and-diamond jewellery covered her chest, hung from her ears, festooned every finger. The last thing to go on would be the crown of gold, covered in little bouncing peonies and phoenixes over a band of the eight Taoist immortals. She could hardly breathe and sat steamily waiting for the groom's arrival. She drank only a little water, for the idea that she might need to urinate was terrifying.

As the procession was announced, her heart started to beat faster. She thought she might faint, and only the
sangkek um's
fierce looks stopped her. She took some water and calmed down a little. The only blessing was that her period had not started.

Zhen stood behind a pair of six-sided silk lanterns flanked by two young men Tan had chosen to be his companions, followed by the
pak chindek
richly dressed in Malay costume. Qian had been invited to the groom's banquet that afternoon, but he had come down to see this procession and watch as Zhen left his house. First came the wailing band, then two lanterns with his name in characters and two gong beaters banging as loudly as they could. Red tassels and bunting came by, then a severe-looking fellow carrying an open fan, shielded from the sun by a large umbrella carried by a bearer. Qian saw Zhen and tried to catch his eye, but his friend looked straight ahead, impassive.

He wore a short red jacket with a dragon motif and gold border over a long, red-and-gold gown with black-and-gold beaded slippers. Qian wanted to tell him he looked ridiculous. On his head was a black mandarin cap with a brooch of gold and diamonds and a diamond button on the top. He carried a large fan covered in pink phoenixes and peonies. Qian thought he looked like a Mongolian princess and was dying to impart this good news. He raced ahead of the procession desperate to catch Zhen's eye. Finally, as they turned into Market Street, he called his name and Zhen looked at him. Qian mimed small, mincing steps.

From behind his fan Zhen beckoned him with all four fingers, palm upwards, as you would a piece of low scum you'd like to beat, and passed by as impassive as ever. A shallow basket of bamboo stood in the doorway of Tan's mansion, covered with paper flowers. As soon as Zhen stepped over this basket, the fireworks under it were lit and he was ushered forward to the inner courtyard in a deafening hail of explosions. Behind him the bridges were burning.

Here, eager relatives rushed to sprinkle him with scented water and shower him with saffron-coloured rice. Zhen saw Baba Tan trying to suppress a smile, supposed that the plump, darker woman by his side was his wife. There were the three sisters. He had seen the youngest, for she was only nine and came sometimes with her father to the godown. She was a skinny child, quite plain. The other two were standing by their mother's side, getting a first look at their sister's new husband. The second daughter was lost for words. Zhen was the best-looking man she had ever seen. She was suddenly blackly jealous of Noan.
She
was the pretty one; he should be
her
husband.

Zhen took them in. The second daughter was very pretty, light- skinned and slim, dressed in pink, but she looked rather sour-faced. The third one was pretty too, but short, and her eyes seemed too close together. Doubtless Tan loved them all.

Then he was led through the door and into the main hall. The light grew dimmer.

Noan jumped as she heard the crackers go off, and the mistress of ceremonies rushed to fit her crown and cover her head with a black veil. As she heard the master of ceremonies call that the time had come for bride and groom to meet, the woman helped Noan to her feet and led her out.

Zhen looked at this woman he had contracted to marry. She was short, and in these thick clothes she looked squat. Her head was lowered, and he could see nothing of her face through the veil. Noan kept her eyes down, but she felt his body close to hers, like a furnace, remembering the sight of him so long ago. With the
sangkek um
and
the pak chindek
on either side, they were led slowly upstairs to the bridal chamber. Noan thought her legs might fail her and leaned on her mistress of ceremonies. The guests swarmed like locusts behind them.