“An old man like me can only take so much excitement on one night,” he said.
Nei-Nei steered Danai around, like a boat. “Too much excitement is bad for your heart,” she told Uncle Chachi sharply.
“There is absolutely nothing,” he declared just as sharply, “wrong with my heart.” But Danai sagged between them, and off they went, practically carrying the girl between them. Dawid offered to walk with them, but the old people waved him off.
“See that Aggie gets home safe!” Uncle Chachi called.
Wei slipped away from us when his Chinese friends from the university strolled by. In fact, I think the only friend he had in the world who was not Chinese was Omar Wahlid. The Chinese students ate together, studied together, dated one another, and supervised one another to be sure things stayed that way. I imagine they must have looked upon the stolid Wei as quite a rebel for having a Muslim friend. Unless, of course, he kept it a secret. One night, he showed me some poems he had written, and I was surprised. I had expected traditional Chinese landscape verse—odes to peonies and mountains, lines as stiff and formal as Wei himself. These were not like that. He wrote sad poems about his mother who had died. In the poems, she was always bent over and coughing, hiding in corners, as if her illness were a shame to the family. Perhaps it had been—since Wei’s father was a well-respected doctor.
On the hill above Kampong Glam, Dawid stopped, and we breathed in the clearer air. It was good to get away from the crowds and the smoke. He took my hand in his, and for a moment I felt like a little girl again, in dancing class.
“There is something I want to ask—,” he began. But he never finished that sentence, because it was then that he interrupted himself.
“I smell horses,” he said unexpectedly.
“Horses?” I smiled. Not since I was a child had the city been run by horses and carriages.
Dawid took a few steps forward, pulling me by the hand. Then I saw them, gathered at the horizon. At first, the horses looked like distant hills looming up in the darkness. There was something ghostly about them being so high above the ground, not where my eyes expected to settle. On the backs of dozens of horses sat mounted police. Their badges glittered in the moonlight, like many pairs of eyes. They had surrounded the Kampong Glam Mosque.
I pulled my hand from Dawid’s. “What’s happening?” I asked.
“Halt!” a voice commanded, one of the mounted police. His strong voice came from on high. There were more policemen on the ground, pacing around the mosque.
“Step into the light,” a voice instructed us. The man’s voice came straight out of the darkness, like a blow in the face. “Move quickly.” He raised a lantern and illuminated my face, then Dawid’s.
“Are you Muslim?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“No,” said Dawid. “Hindu.”
I am still not sure why I had said yes. I was only one-quarter Muslim, after all. I visited the mosque a few times a year. I never prayed on my own, the way Uncle Chachi did. But the way the policeman asked me, I had no choice. He made the word Muslim sound like a shameful thing. If he had asked me in the same tone of voice, “Are you a Negro? Are you a rabbit?” I would have answered the same way.
“I am Agnes Hussein,” I said. “We live here. What’s wrong?”
The officer was young. He took off his cap and rubbed his hair. It was cut short and stuck up in the back, like a baby bird’s feathers. I wanted to poke Dawid and joke about it, but of course I did nothing of the kind. The Singapore police are famous for their lack of humor. Everyone in Singapore is gentle and friendly toward strangers, except the police—a history that goes back to the old days of the fearsome temenggong. The man made a note on a pad of paper, nodding. “Hussein,” he said. “I have seen you in this neighborhood.” Then he pointed with his pen at Dawid.
“And who is this man? Your boyfriend?”
“This is Dawid. He boards with us.” My voice wobbled. “Please,” I said. “My great-great-grandfather built this mosque. What is happening here?”
“Someone tried to blow it up,” he said, but before he could get out another word, one of the officers on horseback galloped over.
“Who are these people?” the man demanded. He was older than the young policeman, probably in his forties, with thick black hair and a black moustache.
“They are from the Kampong Glam,” the young man answered nervously.
“Have you looked at their papers?” the older man demanded.
I was panic-stricken, but something kept me from blurting out all the questions rising in my throat. They would do no good, I sensed, and could only get the young officer into trouble.
“What’s going on?” I asked again. My voice sounded like a child’s. “What’s happening?”
The older officer demanded, “Do you have your identification papers?”
No one travels around Singapore without the proper identification. Too many foreigners, too much history of crime. The officer on horseback beckoned impatiently for the younger man with the lantern to step forward and examine our papers. We gave them to him, and he handed them to the man on horseback without another word.
“Go down to the palace,” the older officer said. He sounded even angrier now. “Someone will be there in a few minutes. Don’t stop to talk to anyone. You understand?”
“What—,” I began.
Dawid said, “Yes. Thank you, officer.” He bowed toward the younger man as well. “Thank you, sir.”
Now that my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I saw several men clustered near the mosque, all of them handcuffed, all watching us, none of them saying a word. All of the men were Malayan. All were Muslims.
It made no sense to me. Why would a Muslim want to blow up his own mosque?
I knew Dawid saw them, too, but he pretended not to notice. He took hold of my elbow. “Come, Agnes,” he said.
I felt like screaming. I managed to keep silent until my shaking hands found the front door keys, but the palace door swung open, and a claw-like hand reached out and dragged us inside. It was Nei-Nei Down.
“Shhh,” she hissed, and led us upstairs, along the hall into Nei-Nei Up’s old vacated bedroom, and then into a large walk-in closet used for storage. British Grandfather sat there as well, looking a bit stunned in his wheelchair, with a few of Nei-Nei Up’s silk blouses dangling from hangers near his face.
“Danai is somewhere in the palace with Sanang. Charles is talking with the police downstairs in the kitchen.” She used my Uncle Chachi’s British name—something I had never heard her do before in all my life.
“Where are the boarders?” I asked. “Where are Wei and Omar Wahlid?”
“Omar Wahlid,” she said, “strapped explosives across his body and was found wandering around behind the Masjid Sultan. He is at the Chinese Protectorate Office on North Bridge Road. I doubt we will ever see him again.”
SEVEN
Unclean Hands: What One Man Will Do to Another
The instant my nei-nei spoke those dreadful words about Omar Wahlid, it was as if darkness had fallen over all of us.
We barely had time to absorb their meaning when Danai came knocking at the door of the bedroom to fetch us all downstairs—yes, yes, British Grandfather, too, she said. Nei-Nei Down pinned two of his war medals to his jacket before she wheeled him to the elevator. She must have hidden them in her pockets. He tried to wave her off, but she kept buzzing around his white head, persisting.
I have neglected to say that the palace had an elevator, for fear you might then imagine a place far grander than where we lived. I will now tell you that three of the fourteen bedrooms had been sealed off from the rest of the house because the damage from the last monsoon was so bad. We had only one working indoor toilet and two working bathtubs, one set inside the bedroom where Nei-Nei Down and British Grandfather slept. As you
may imagine, this shortage led to long lines in the morning, though Uncle Chachi claimed he preferred the outhouse, and never used the indoor toilet. The family took scheduled turns in my grandparents’ tub, and our boarders and guests used the other tub, which was inconveniently located up on the third floor. Uncle Chachi also bathed up on the third floor. This may explain why we never had female boarders.
The pipes on the second floor had burst long ago, and when we learned the cost of repairs, Nei-Nei Down put a board over the top of the tub and ordered me to use it as a desk. Thus, I do my schoolwork sitting in a low chair at the claw-footed bathtub. It is one of the few times when being absurdly short has its advantages.
We installed the elevator in 1919, after the war ended, for Grandfather came home with both knees shattered, and he never walked right again. I believe that Uncle Chachi used all his remaining connections with the British to have the elevator paid for with reparations funds. We did not want British Grandfather to feel trapped on the first floor. The elevator builders must have been dishonest men, for now, less than ten years later, the machinery had begun to screech and moan terrifyingly. It ascended with short, jerky motions and dropped like a stone. We avoided it at all costs. But we used it that night.
“Say as little as you can,” Nei-Nei instructed us. She clutched my arm. “And you,” she added. “Say nothing at all. Just smile and look pretty.”
“Can’t I come with you?” Dawid asked desperately.
“No,” said British Grandfather. “I advise you to go back up to your rooms and—tidy up.”
“And—”
“Tidy up,” British Grandfather said firmly. “Put away anything that is out of place.”
“Out of place,” Dawid echoed, at a loss—and then a light seemed to dawn. “I understand, sir. Count on me. ”
Our palace’s front hall was chaotic, overflowing with young men in uniform. My friend Bridget would have been in ecstasy, had the reason for the crowd been different. I had not seen our house so full since I was a little girl, in the lost days when Uncle Chachi threw loud, elegant parties.
Some of these men were from the Chinese Protectorate. I recognized them by their dark jackets and drab ties. Others were policemen in uniform, including the man I had spoken to behind the mosque, with the moustache. There were Straits Settlement Police, in their own distinctive deep-blue caps, and one young, slim blond man in a pinstriped suit, whom I could not identify at all, but he seemed to be in charge. His hair was such a brilliant color that it looked like a cap of shining gold. His features were as even and fine as a movie star’s.
Nei-Nei Down caught me gawking and gave me a jab. “He is the most dangerous one here,” she said. “He is British liaison to the Chinese Protectorate.”
At that instant, the fair-haired young man looked up with the most electrifying smile I had ever seen. His appearance was perfect, though a few of his gleaming white front teeth were a little bit crooked. This tiny flaw made him even more charming.
“Ah,” he said, “the royal family.” And then he winked at me.
“You must be Mrs. Coleman,” he said to my grandmother, who nodded confusedly. No one ever addressed her by that name. Her name was Nei-Nei Down or Chao Lin, or wife of British Grandfather.
Then the man’s expression changed. Its charm and animation drained away. “And this must be Colonel Coleman himself. It is an honor to meet you, sir. My elder brother served in your battalion.”
“And he is?” my grandfather said slowly. He always dreaded to hear about one of the men who had died under his command.
“Alive and well, thanks to you,” the young man said. “I’m Geoffrey Brown,” he added. “My friends call me Geoff.”
“Mr. Brown,” Grandfather said gravely. “We will help you in any way we can. This is a grievous thing.”
The young man’s expression changed yet again. He could have been a stage actor, his face was so interesting, so full of shifting moods and emotions. His voice was soft, but it carried across the great hall. “Grievous,” he said. “That is exactly the word, sir. —And you must forgive me if we ask questions that seem intrusive, or even irrelevant to the case. It is all with an eye toward justice.”
But there was nothing strange about the questions the police and the Protectorate men put to us. They wanted to know where Omar Wahlid spent his days and evenings, what was the source of the income from which he paid his monthly rent. Did he have any friends or companions? Had he expressed himself as a radical? Did he read the Guang Hua Daily?
A red-haired policeman, the only other pale-faced Brit in the room besides British Grandfather and Geoffrey Brown, asked more bluntly, “Is he a Bolshevik?”
I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.
The redheaded policeman swung around and glared at me. “You think that’s funny, do yeh?”
I realized I had made a mistake. He was not British at all, but Irish.
“No,” I said, though Nei-Nei Down was pressing my arm so hard I thought she was trying to squeeze my mouth shut through my shoulder.
“Is he sympathetic to the cause of the Bolshevik party?” he asked.
“I—doubt it,” I said. “He’s not terribly sympathetic.” I remembered Omar Wahlid’s fervent words in praise of that man named Chairman Mao. I kept my mouth shut.
“Doesn’t he attend night school, then?” the red-haired policeman pushed on. Geoffrey Brown was watching us with interest, his soft blue eyes flicking back and forth as if at a table-tennis match.
“Does education make one a Bolshevik?” I retorted. Nei-Nei Down was now pulling on my arm so hard I was tilting sideways.
“She is a child,” Uncle Chachi asserted. It was past midnight, and he was beginning to look his age, like an ancient cricket that had been kept singing too long. His voice was scratchy; he sagged inside one of our worn upholstered chairs and wore a tattered silk muffler around his throat.
“Hardly a child,” said Geoffrey Brown. His voice was warm, and I turned toward him gratefully, but Nei-Nei Down cut him down.
“We mature at a different rate here in Singapore,” she said. “In any event, the child does not know. Omar Wahlid does not attend any night-school classes. He is not affiliated with the Communist Party. He is just a troubled young man who has been struggling with his faith.”
“In other words, he is a Muslim fanatic,” said the red-haired officer.
“That is not what my wife said,” British Grandfather said. “Nor is it what she intended.”
Geoffrey Brown broke in soothingly. “Brian, perhaps you could ask a few questions of the two maids. See if the young man seemed especially agitated over the past few days. If he’s done anything outside of his usual routine.”
“Well, he must have,” said the Irishman. “Unless he always walks around strapped with explosives.”
I nearly laughed again, but Geoffrey Brown gave the Irishman a look that sent him scurrying toward Sanang and Danai. “I wonder,” Brown said to Grandfather, “if you would accompany me back to headquarters.” He held up one hand to cut off the protests that began pouring instantly from Nei-Nei Down’s lips. “Of course, it’s entirely your own decision.”
“Will we see Omar?” I asked. “I want to go, too. Please, Grandfather. I can help.”
“Nonsense!” sputtered Nei-Nei Down.
Geoffrey Brown’s large eyes flicked from me to Grandfather to Nei-Nei. They rested on Uncle Chachi, who shrugged, as if hopeless. I did not understand why at the time.
“If you wish,” said Geoffrey Brown. “If it will not distress you too much.” It did not occur to me to question why a British liaison to the Chinese Protectorate was so careful of my feelings, why he was so polite. People around me had been polite all of my life; it is the Singaporean way to behave. If anything, it only made this Englishman seem more familiar.
Grandfather and I rode in Geoffrey B
rown’s large black automobile to the headquarters of the Chinese Protectorate. Nei-Nei Down trotted beside us for the first few feet, her clawed hand tapping on the side of our van, her eyes wide with anxiety. Grandfather and I rode facing backward—they had a sort of metal strap they secured Grandfather’s wheelchair with—and I sat beside him, facing two expressionless young police officers. Geoffrey Brown rode in front, with the driver. After thirty or forty minutes, we pulled up outside a small white building with white columns on either side of the door. Geoffrey Brown gestured at the building. “Built by Coleman,” he said. “A relation, I believe?”
“My uncle,” said Grandfather shortly.
The two policemen more or less carried him in his wheelchair up the stairs, and whenever this sort of thing happened, my grandfather stopped speaking. Just before we entered, though, he rested his long fingers on my arm and peered into my face, his blue eyes piercing and not at all humorous, for once. “Don’t be surprised by anything you see or hear,” he told me. And then we were inside.
The headquarters of the Chinese Protectorate was quiet, and rather pretty in an impersonal way, like the lobby of a small hotel. Women in heels tottered around carrying papers and cups of tea. There were police, of course, and other official-looking men in uniform jackets, but overall the place had a civilian, rather than paramilitary, air. This was all in the front office, a small waiting area sealed off from the back by two steel doors fastened by multiple security locks. There were no windows on either door, and the windows looking out to the street were shaded and curtained, though numerous lamps and white walls made the room seem as bright as day. A young woman came up as soon as we arrived, and she offered us tea and biscuits from an ornate silver tray. There were two types of sweet biscuits, and the tea was freshly brewed. The sight of food made my stomach turn.
“When can I see Omar Wahlid?” I asked.
“Let’s check,” Geoffrey Brown said. He nodded to a guard, who unlocked one of the two doors and then relocked it behind Brown. He was gone for several minutes, during which time Grandfather chatted with a man who introduced himself as head of Internal Affairs. But they didn’t speak about Omar Wahlid or even politics. They talked about books. The head of Internal Affairs collected old books of horticulture, and my grandfather had a great fondness for them as well. Both men were British by birth, and they spoke enthusiastically about secondhand bookstores on Charing Cross Road, in London, and their favorite one, called Foyles.