The Red Thread (5 page)

Returning from this remarkable visit to an empty house seemed an anticlimax. She had not known what Singapore would really be like, but this colourful and intimate kaleidoscope of people and languages was the furthest thing from her expectations. To know Takouhi Manouk alone was, she felt, worth the journey. She had received a swarm of invitations, and when finally she had stepped down from Takouhi's carriage, she longed to tell Robbie. However, she soon was glad of the silence. She struggled out of her hot dress and rinsed quickly, ladling water from an earthenware jar over her hot skin. In her camisole she lay back on her bed in the shuttered, darkened room. She began to think about the last two days since her arrival in Singapore, and then, within minutes, she was fast asleep.

2

By the time Zhen and Qian began descending the rope ladder, it was late afternoon. They were anchored in a large bay. Smudgy islands, dark and indistinct, lay like sleeping dragons along the horizon. Since dawn, the junk had been surrounded by boats, more arriving as the sun rose, giving the harbour the appearance of a floating fair. At each fathom the junk gained bulk until she slowly trailed into the bay surrounded by a dense mass of boats. The captain stood atop the quarter deck surveying the scene.

For many of the coolies it was good to hear voices speaking their language, asking for news, calling out names. The merchant boats were haggling for trade, assuring the captain of best price, best quality. In addition to human cargo, the junk carried porcelain and earthenware, paper umbrellas, vermicelli, dried fruits, joss sticks and joss paper, raw silk and nankeens, medicine, tea and ornate roof tiles. The junk's owner had ordered a return shipment of guns, opium, gambier, sapanwood, red sandalwood, saltpetre, dragon's blood, elephant teeth, pepper and cloves.

The captain, who had been many times to Si Lat Po, listened imperiously to the din but would deal with the only men he trusted: the biggest coolie agent in Singapore, Guan Soon, and Inchek Sang, the richest merchant. They had all known each other since Malacca days and had come to Singapore immediately after its founding, at the call of Raja Farquhar, the first resident of the new settlement and former governor of Malacca; Farquhar was a man they knew and trusted from long acquaintance.

The attractions of Singapore were manifold, but first and foremost was its status as a duty-free port. No ship which docked paid port duty; no cargo which landed was taxed; no transaction attracted fees. Nothing stood in the way of the freedom and profit of trade. This made Singapore unique. As a consequence, honest and dishonest tradesmen, steely ship's captains, pirates, cut-throats, wily country traders, fishermen and farmers, missionaries, ne'er do wells, the poor labouring masses of the surrounding lands and merchant princes all flocked to its verdant shores.

The wide
tongkangs
bumped against the junk, and the captain watched the coolies being unloaded. He had been involved in the pig trade for years. Incheck Sang asked him to look out for likely candidates to work for him and made it worth his while. The rich merchant
towkays
needed a big force of docile labourers for their gambier and pepper plantations and tin mines, for the turnover was high, but occasionally they also needed smart, strong workers, and the captain kept his eye out during the voyage. He had noted Zhen and Qian from the beginning. They were two of only three who could read and write, and the third looked sickly. He would talk to Inchek Sang later, for now they would go, like all the rest, to the
kang
coolie houses in Gu Jia Chue, the Water Bullock Cart Chinese town. He was looking forward to some amusements in town, a good meal and maybe a visit to the women at the
ah ku
whorehouses, or some gambling.

First, though, he would go to the new temple he could see on the beach side. A Hokkien temple. Better than the Fuk Tak Chi temple, which was built for bloody Hakkas and Cantonese. He spat a gob over the side. He would go to the temple of his own people and make offerings to Ma Chu, Goddess of Heaven, Goddess of the Sea, and give thanks for a safe journey. He had lit incense to her shrine on the poop deck of the junk and, throughout the morning, all his cargo had proceeded slowly past the shrine to make their thanks. Now he contemplated the lighters as, heavily laden, they made their way to shore. Over 200. Profits would be good.

The disembarkation was slow. Zhen and Qian watched as each skinny, brown coolie, with his bundle of rags, stepped up over the edge of the lighter and walked unsteadily down the gangplank, over the stones onto the beach. The sun was searingly hot, and both men wore their wide-brimmed straw hats. In his hand Zhen carried a yellow cloth. From time to time he opened it out and wiped his face. Qian had seen this cloth once on the ship. It carried the black printed outline of three peaches, and the characters for ‘peach garden'. When he had asked about it, Zhen had said his father had given it to him as a good luck token. This made sense; the peach was a symbol of longevity, and the three peaches represented the great Lord Guan Di, God of War, and his bond brothers, Zhang Fei and Liu Bei, symbolising loyalty and friendship, all things his son might need in a new land. But from their conversations, Qian had discovered that Zhen, though penniless like himself, had other reasons for leaving China. He suspected that Zhen had been in trouble with the authorities. Zhen was always circumspect on the subject, and he asked no more. However, he knew that Guan Di and his boon companions were used as a spiritual glue for the forbidden Tian Di Hui brotherhood society in China, which had vowed the overthrow of the Qing dynasty. Qian sighed. He was sure Zhen was involved with the brotherhood. He did not like it, but realist that he was, Qian knew that these ties could be useful here in Si Lat Po, where they knew no one.

Finally, their turn arrived. Zhen had helped Qian descend the rope ladder from the ship, for the latter had a slight limp and a weakness in one leg, the result of a bout of sickness as a child. He was easily able to negotiate the gangplank. Nevertheless Zhen preceded him in case he needed to hold onto him as the plank trembled. Zhen had felt a strange protectiveness for this skinny fellow the moment they had met on the road to Amoy. Qian reminded him somewhat of his youngest brother, the runt of the litter, second child of his father's fourth wife, who had died in childbirth. Zhen's mother had raised this boy as her own, teaching him her Beijing dialect.

They joined the throng squatting along the road, all patiently waiting for what came next. Now that Qian was on dry land, his spirits lifted and he began to take an interest in his surroundings.

Hills, covered with a profuse and smothering array of vegetation, surrounded the bay, an arc of sandy and gravelly beach lapped by clear waves. Fishing platforms dotted the shallow waters. At the western end he could see mangrove swamps and coconut palms. A large house on a hill stood surrounded by numerous trees of varieties beyond his meagre knowledge. He was sure he could see monkeys and bright-winged birds flitting and skipping through the jungle growth. At the eastern end, the way they had come, lay a number of buildings, the most prominent of which had a large, double octagonal red roof and projected out over the water.

The main street was home to a variety of houses and shops, mostly of two storeys, some well built, some ramshackle, some with verandahs and some which fronted directly onto the street. There was an ancient wooden attap-thatch building. Up the street stood a building with square, pagoda-like towers and small green domes projecting above the upper floor. Qian had no idea what this building could be for. Beyond that, he could make out a smaller Chinese temple.

Men of every shape and hue moved up and down the beach side, carrying trays and poles laden with goods and foodstuffs the likes of which they had never seen. One fruit seller passed by with a large prickly fruit which smelled strongly of urine and rotten eggs. The coolies, not generally sensitive to even the most hideous smells, nevertheless covered their noses against this violent stench. The multifarious population of the beach side seemed to barely notice it.

Along the length of the beach, big craft and small had drawn up on the sand, unloading their catch. Buyers for the fresh fish came and went in a steady stream. Dark-skinned men were sorting and mending fishing nets. Other lighters disgorged coolies. Agile, wiry men jumped out of small, sleek, almond-eyed craft and made them secure, quickly offloading their cargoes in straw bundles or rattan baskets. Clacking, thumping, voices calling, ducks quacking, dogs barking: the din of commerce.

The middle of the bay was dominated by the temple, close to which the coolies had been gathered. Qian could read the black and gold plaque that hung over its entrance: ‘Thian Hock Keng' (the Temple of Heavenly Happiness). He could see it was newly built, the green of its gleaming roof tiles glinting in the lowering sun, and his heart rose. The heavy perfume of incense wafted over the walls and mingled with the fish, vegetable, fruit and cooking smells and the heat of the dusty street.

‘Zhen Ah,' he said, turning to his companion. ‘A temple for our people here; it is a good sign, don't you think?'

‘It's a sign that there's money in the place, anyway. It looks like it was built by the fat cats. Always sucking up to the gods. We shall have to see how we can get our hands on some of it and become fat cats ourselves, eh? It's lively, all right. Have you ever seen men like them?'

They stared at a gathering of merchants. Blue, silk-gowned Chinese, white turbans on thick, black beards, long moustaches and high hats on red hair, a green-and-brown skirt on a short, fat-framed man. Red-coated, dark-skinned soldiers and ships' officers in blue and white strolled by. Ruddy-skinned, orange-haired sailors mingled with darkly bearded shopkeepers and long-queued Chinese. Around them a din and clamour of incomprehensible language mixed with general calls of hawkers and tradesmen. They laughed, amazed; there was too much to take in.

A doe-eyed bullock harnessed to a heavy water cart pulled up dustily, and the bullock keeper began filling up tubs which the coolie overseer passed around the thirsty men. All the men stared at the handler, for they had never seen an Indian man before. He was a lean, dark Tamil, his skin as black as ebony and he was wearing a small, jaunty turban of brilliant orange and loose trousers of a similar hue. He flashed a smile of red-stained teeth at the gaping crowd and spat a squirt of red juice on the ground. His bullock dropped a steaming deposit. The bullock keeper pocketed the coins the overseer passed him, and with a ‘yup yup' moved the cart and his muscled companion on down the beach, squishing the hot pats into the ground. The pungent smell of cow dung assailed their nostrils.

A pale-skinned man dressed in black approached the group, leading a small pony. From the box attached to the animal's back, he took out a slim book. Holding it up, he began to address the group of coolies, who eyed him with alarm. He took off his wide-brimmed hat to mop his brow, showing his yellowing teeth in a grim smile, then began distributing books to the men. The overseer gazed impassively and said nothing. Zhen and Qian looked at one of the books. It was written in Chinese, but as far as they knew, they and only one other were literate. On the cover page were the crossed lines of the number ten, but strangely wrought, the downward stroke being longer than the horizontal. When the man had left, the overseer simply said,

‘I dunno what this book is for, but every time a ship comes, they give them out. The paper comes in handy for wiping your arse.'

He began mustering them into groups, and a big, shaven-headed man with a pocked face ordered them to move off. They walked away from the harbour, along a dusty street of closely packed houses, goods spilling out onto the pavement. Awnings projected out into the street, closing the sky above. Red, black and gold shop signs hung from every façade, huge characters advertising their names and wares. Children spilled from doors and played in the rubbish-strewn street. They stopped to watch the men go by. Living cadavers sat crouched on low chairs, sucking on soup and noodles. A Chinese barber had set up his stool in the shade of a ramshackle wooden building. A line of customers crouched, waiting.

Zhen ran a hand over his head and face and felt the prickly growth. A shave would be wonderful. A bath would be heaven. All the coolies stank of sweat, their clothes stiff with dried seawater.

Two imposing, dark-skinned men with fierce, dark eyes, massive red turbans and great black beards walked slowly by, eyeing them. The overseer and his coolie group instinctively moved aside to let them pass.

‘Police,' the overseer called to the group, pointing to a building on the corner of the bayside street they had left. ‘That's the police station. Stay away from them and do as you are told; there'll be no trouble.'

The town was small, and just two streets later they shuffled into a dilapidated building, the
kang
coolie house. Seeds sprouted in the walls of the narrow building. Saplings struggled for life along the parapet. Spidery ferns clung to every crack, as if the jungle were determined to take back its territory. Dark, slimy stains ran the length of the façade. The upper floor was shuttered. There was an air well towards the middle of the building, and another at the very back, next to the kitchen. Here was a chipped stone bench with two clay stoves covered in soot. Wood was stacked under the bench; bent and beaten iron woks and crusty utensils hung from the scorched, greasy yellow walls. In the back well there was an open stall with a stinking bucket, black and brown lumps encrusted on its side. Insects spawned on the dirt-strewn surface of a shanghai jar filled with stagnant water. Hollow-eyed, bony-chested men lay on shelves on either side of the squalid passage, unmoving as the newcomers passed.

Pock Face pointed to two shelves at the back of the building, one above the other, close to the waste and slops cupboard. It was better than the ship only because it was not rocking. The smells of stale cooking oil, stale air, stale sweat, shit and opium fumes were overpowering. A feeling of hopelessness stole over Qian. He sat on the low shelf, drew up his legs and stared at Zhen. His left eye began to twitch.