The Moonlight Palace

  At Kahani’s, too, business had slowed. There was a brief flurry of after-Christmas sales into the New Year, a handful of remorseful late gifts, but these soon sputtered to a halt. The Christmas bills had now arrived. Serangoon Street became a ghost town. The bright holiday stalls folded up like flowers and disappeared. Much of our temporary holiday staff followed suit. I was afraid that Bridget, too, would lose her job, but Mr. Kahani promoted her into the ranks of estate jewelry, where he still all but forbade me to set foot.

  “The two of you are always gossiping, every chance you get. So stay away from your friend during business hours, please. The estate customers are a particular clientele. They do not want to hear the chatter of teenagers. You are free to talk as much as you like whilst your friend smokes out back.”

  It was impossible to keep secrets from Mr. Kahani. Much less the scent of our cigarettes. Still, I was offended that he dismissed our conversations as mere gossip. Bridget and I thought of ourselves as true modern women, forward-thinking; we talked eagerly about new ideas, new inventions, books, socialism, politics, women’s suffrage, our obligations to the rest of humankind, science—Bridget was especially interested in new scientific discoveries—and of course, men. But Mr. Kahani made it sound as if all we talked about was men, and this was not true.

  For the first time, my workday at the store seemed to drag on, and I watched the second hand move around the face of the large store clock with morbid fascination, for it seemed to move more slowly every day and every hour. I cleaned and tidied and sprayed the glass display cases with diluted white vinegar, wiped the strands of pearls with a soft cloth, but I could not trick the time into going any faster. My feet ached from standing. I began to share Ron’s contempt for the customers’ endless debates, their long, drawn-out indecision. Compared to what was happening at home, in the world, their worries seemed trivial. What did it matter, after all, if this young man bought a circle of diamonds or a solitaire? What was the difference between a ruby and a sapphire? You liked red or you preferred blue—that was all there was to the matter. No one’s life hung in the balance.

  Mr. Kahani invented more clerical jobs for me, working beside me in the back office. I believe he was trying to give me time to clear my mind. And in our hours together, which we normally spent in business correspondence, he devoted more time to the reading aloud of newspapers, and even more to the discussion of books. Around this time, he began to suffer from severe headaches, which debilitated him to the point where he lay for hours, nearly immobilized, on the sofa in his office in his twitching stocking feet, a pillow propped under his head. On the floor, enchanting customers, Mr. Kahani could pass for a handsome man of forty. But in the throes of these attacks, he looked to be in his late sixties. It soothed him, he said, to talk about books.

  Yet he fell asleep more often than not, sometimes while we were in the middle of a conversation about Arnold Bennett or the Rossettis. Silence might have helped more. Only in the mute interstices of our conversations did his face ever relax. I wished I could rub his hands in my own, the way Nei-Nei Down had taught me to cure a headache, massaging the inside muscles of the palms—but she had also taught me never to touch a strange man. Even shaking hands with a man felt daring. It did not matter that I had absolutely no romantic feelings whatsoever toward my employer; my impulse came of pity. I had been taught to resist pity as well. So, we talked about books, and I found that Mr. Kahani made many wise recommendations. My library includes many volumes that he suggested back then.

  One day, I was called into his office and found a strange man sitting there, with the tea tray and tea things propped in front of him. He was a very small man—his body, hands, and feet all so tiny, and only his head appeared to be the size of a grown man’s, thus preternaturally large on his small body. He looked, in fact, like a doll sitting in front of a doll’s tea set. This man was introduced to me as Mr. Singh, editor and publisher of the Singapore Gate newspaper’s evening edition.

  Mr. Singh was perhaps an inch or two shorter even than I was, but was extremely upright. His hair was slicked back into two distinct parts and shone like the wings of a raven. Even his eyeglasses sparkled. He wore a red-and-blue-striped suit that must have been purchased in the boy’s department of a store.

  “I am very pleased to meet you,” he said, in a voice that made it clear that I should be the one who was pleased. “I understand you are interested in literature.”

  “Yes.” Mr. Kahani spoke for me. “She is a great one for reading.”

  “Many young people do not appreciate the power of words,” said Mr. Singh, squinting at me severely.

  “Miss Agnes has a great reverence for language,” said Mr. Kahani. “She is not like most young women nowadays.”

  “I am glad.” Mr. Singh nodded.

  Mr. Kahani warmed to his subject. “She would like to live by her pen,” he said. This was news to me.

  Mr. Singh angled his body a degree further in my direction. “Is that true?” he asked.

  I had sent out a few stories and poems to local magazines and newspapers. All of them had come back. The only one that had included a handwritten note had chastised me for not including the correct return postage. “I would like to live by my wits,” I said.

  Mr. Singh had a high, eerie laugh, like a child’s—almost a giggle. “—I need certain office help for the Singapore Gate evening edition. Are you familiar with it?”

  “We read it together,” Mr. Kahani asserted.

  “You like newspapers?”

  “I love them,” I said honestly. I named the six or seven papers to which Mr. Kahani subscribed.

  Mr. Singh looked duly impressed. “How fast can you type?” he asked.

  “I type forty-five words per minute,” I said.

  He pursed his lips. “That is not very fast,” he said. “But perhaps you are very accurate?”

  “Not terribly.” I was nothing if not honest.

  Mr. Kahani was about to interrupt again. Mr. Singh hurried on. “Perhaps you could tell me then,” he said, “what you consider to be your best qualifications as a secretary.”

  “I am loyal and hardworking,” I said. “I keep confidences. And I like to keep things tidy.”

  “I am not looking for a wife,” joked Mr. Singh.

  “I am not looking for a husband, sir.”

  Mr. Kahani put his oar in then, while Mr. Singh and I sat glaring at each other. “Miss Agnes underestimates herself,” he said. “She is too modest. She is very organized, very thorough. She is always looking to take on extra duties.”

  We all relaxed a little. Mr. Singh started again. “Allow me to ask your impression of the evening edition of the Singapore Gate. How would you say it differs from other papers?” He dabbed at his brow with a small colored handkerchief he’d drawn from his breast pocket. Inside Mr. Kahani’s office it was always warm. Mr. Kahani must have had thin blood. “And kindly do not tell me, ‘Because it comes out at night.’ —Believe it or not,” Mr. Singh said to Mr. Kahani, “this is the answer I get from most applicants.”

  In fact, the Singapore Gate was in my opinion a mediocre Straits newspaper—nothing like the papers from London and New York. I tried to think of something neutral to say. “It deals with local and international news in equal measure.”

  “Very good,” said Mr. Singh encouragingly. “And if you could change one thing about our newspaper, what would it be?” Again he turned to Mr. Kahani. He did not appear to treat his friend any differently because he was blind. “You see, I am always asking questions. Always learning. It is possible to learn from anyone.” He beamed at me. “Go ahead,” he said.

  “I would get more advertisements,” I said.

  Mr. Singh’s reaction startled both me and Mr. Kahani. He leaped to his feet. “Exactly!” he shouted, galvanized into waving his short arms. “That is exactly right! We need more advertisements. Not longer ar
ticles or shorter articles. Not more good news or more bad news. Advertisements! That is the key to everything.”

  “Everything,” agreed Mr. Kahani.

  “You are a clever girl,” said Mr. Singh. “Very astute. Your teachers must be saying all the time, ‘She is a clever one, that Miss Agnes.’”

  “Not so much,” I said.

  “Perhaps they are not clever enough themselves. You are too subtle for them.”

  “We have excellent teachers at Raffles Girls’ School,” I said loyally. “Much better than at Nanyang High School.”

  “But how do we get these advertisements?” Mr. Singh said, sitting down. “That is the real question. That is not so easy to do.”

  “You have no social columns,” I said. “No wedding announcements. No fashion.”

  “We are not a ladies’ magazine,” said Mr. Singh. Now he was back to glaring at me again.

  I decided to ignore this. I myself liked to read about weddings and funerals and fashion. And I was not a trivial person. People were naturally curious about other people; there was no shame in that. “But if you had a fashion column,” I went on doggedly, “you could write some puff pieces about the local stores. Then they would take out more advertisements in your paper.”

  “It is possible,” Mr. Singh said slowly.

  “People like to read about themselves in the newspaper,” I said. “So if you write about the wedding of a businessman’s son, the businessman is more likely to place an advertisement,” I said. “Not to mention the businesses who make the bridal dresses and provide the wedding rings.”

  “I take a monthly ad in the Singapore Gate evening edition,” said Mr. Kahani mildly. “Kindly do not encourage more ads from my competitors.”

  “Mr. Kahani has great respect for our newspaper,” Mr. Singh said. “We will always be loyal to our established clients. But not everyone appreciates an evening newspaper,” he added. “In the old days, gentlemen would read the newspaper after work. They would relax after the long day.

  “But nowadays,” he said, warming to his subject. “People have to know the news as soon as they open their eyes. What will happen today, they want to know. This minute. Rushing blindly around. Morning newspapers,” he said with contempt, “are not prognosticators. They can only tell you yesterday’s news. In fact, they are worthless. If you want to know what happened that day, if you want fresh news, then you must read the evening paper! That is all there is to it!”

  “Of course, Miss Agnes can only work in the evenings,” said Mr. Kahani, trying to bring matters closer to hand.

  “I don’t need a secretary at this time,” said Mr. Singh. “I have an excellent typist in the office. She can pour me an occasional cup of tea. What more do I need?”

  I sank back into my chair, defeated. Apparently, I had just talked myself out of a job.

  “But,” he said. “I want this clever young woman to write a few columns for me. These puff pieces, as you call them. Weddings, engagements, etcetera. I can’t pay you for these columns, but it is excellent experience, excellent . . .”

  “My dear Mr. Singh—,” Mr. Kahani protested.

  Mr. Singh looked startled. Perhaps he had forgotten that Mr. Kahani was in the room. “I mean I cannot pay at the same rate I would pay professional writers, men with degrees. Three of my writers have bachelor of arts degrees. One has a bachelor of sciences degree from America. While you are . . .”

  “Still in high school,” I finished for him.

  “Precisely!” He glared at Mr. Kahani half-triumphantly, half-apologetically. “But we will work out a fair rate . . . You need not have any worries about that. Well, now,” he said, jumping to his feet again. I would learn this was simply his way. Mr. Singh never stood, he always leaped. He never opened a door, he flung it open. “My newspaper will not write itself,” he said. “Are we agreed?” He put out his small, manicured hand for me to shake. His handshake was vigorous. He pressed Mr. Kahani’s arm as well. “I am grateful to you,” he told his friend, “for introducing me to this young lady. I think she will do very well.”

  I hurried home that night with my morsel of good news. It had been so long since anything hopeful had happened in our family. We had all suffered; our lives had fallen under a cloud. I was eager to share my good fortune with the rest of the household. I flung open our heavy front door, Mr. Singh-style, and hurried to the dining room where my relatives gathered for their evening tea; even British Grandfather was there, as it happened, looking pink-cheeked, if a bit shrunken in his wooden wheelchair. I stood in the doorway, breathless and triumphant.

  “I am a newspaperwoman!” I announced.

  ELEVEN

  The Sheik

  Like any teenager, I had trusted my victory to be a stay against disaster. Grandfather rallied at my morsel of exciting news, it is true, but a few days later, he insisted on being taken out for a long, damp stroll and developed a fever worse than the one he’d had right after Christmas. Thereafter, he would rise and fall on the ocean of failing health, only to sink a little lower each time, just out of our grasp.

  Our household became very quiet. I had never really felt the vastness of the silver palace around us till I felt its emptiness. Dawid had gone home for the month of heavy rains. The uncles and aunties and elderly cousins of course came around, but not in the usual chattering groups, jostling and shoving to be first through the door, bearing the fragrance of cardamom and cooking oil, carrying along their latest arguments, complaints, and bits of gossip. Uncle Chachi’s “business associates”—all of them retired now—had always visited on a nearly daily basis, for Uncle Chachi was a compulsively social human being, happiest in the company of others. Now, the visits of his old cronies slowed to a trickle. Relatives and friends still came, but one at a time, quietly removing their shoes at the door. Each came bearing something—a tin of cookies, a pot of chicken rice.

  I was too young to remember, or I would have recognized it for what it was, a Singaporean deathwatch. We Singaporeans are a noisy bunch; we reserve our silence for important occasions. In the face of grave danger, in battle, in courtship, or in the presence of illness or death, we preserve a deep silence. It is certain that Geoffrey Brown was the most talkative boyfriend I had ever had, and his chatter sometimes made me doubt his sincerity. A Singapore boy would have been much quieter in his devotion.

  Geoffrey, of course, could not understand the silence that descended over our palace. He tried time and again to show his care for British Grandfather with friendly visits, and time and again he was rebuffed. I could do nothing to alleviate his anxiety; Grandfather was ill, and Nei-Nei Down was in charge. When I tried to talk about it with Uncle Chachi, he refused to discuss it. When I complained to Sanang, she snapped at me, “You are a very stupid girl.”

  Only little Danai was sympathetic. Watching Geoffrey trudge from the house, his step heavy, his head lowered, she said to me in a quiet voice, “Such a pretty man. It seems a shame to send him away.”

  I squeezed her hand in gratitude, and that afternoon in Little India I bought her a bag of the sugared jellies she liked so much and a postcard of the screen actor Rudolph Valentino in The Sheik.

  Geoffrey and I continued to meet, but secretly, away from the palace. Now that I was working at Kahani’s and also at the Singapore Gate, while still attending school, my free time was limited, and I spent as much time as possible near Grandfather. I felt—or imagined—him calmer when I was nearby. Certainly Nei-Nei Down seemed less anxious when I was within calling distance. So my meetings with Geoffrey Brown became rarer, and for that reason all the more precious.

  I had never given my grandparents any reason to distrust me; they were out of the habit of suspicion. Like many children raised by the elderly, I had been foolish in my rebellions, which were few—smuggling sweet and salty snacks into my room, listening to music they considered scandalous, wearing my skirts too
short. They had no reason to believe I would ever sneak out to see a man behind their back. And I was so positive they would come around to admire Geoffrey Brown that my own guilt in these matters was minor. In the end, they would love him as I did. For the time being, I did not need to stir things up. Or so I liked to tell myself, whenever my conscience pricked me.

  The old folks were unusually distracted, in any case. I had been seeing Geoffrey on the sly for nearly two months and nothing terrible had come of it. What was the harm if he snuck an arm around my waist or stole an occasional kiss? It was no less and no more than Singapore schoolboys had tried. Yet I always felt that Geoffrey’s intentions were deeper, more serious than anyone I had ever known. He was not a trivial high-school boy; he was a grown man, and I could not get to the bottom of him. Perhaps that is the secret to love—it must have about it some sense of mystery. And also, perhaps, some bit of danger. With Geoffrey I felt both, in about equal measure.

  If I announced that I was going out to study at the library, or meeting Bridget for a soda, the old folks waved me out with the usual warning to bring an umbrella and not stay out too late. Now and then, when I had no plausible excuse, Dawid would walk me as far as the Pahang Road. I could see how uncomfortable it made him, and I pitied him from the bottom of my heart. “Try not to make a fool of yourself,” Dawid told me once at the palace gate, and that was as close as he ever came to expressing resentment or offering advice.

  I held my tongue. Eventually they would all come to see Geoffrey as I did. They would have to realize how hardworking he was, how dedicated and noble. You had only to look at his profile to see that Geoffrey was a man of high ambitions and lofty aims. Could the bones of a human face lie?

  Geoffrey was open about his humble beginnings, and they only endeared him to me more, though one might say that my family had followed the opposite path: from riches to destitution. Still, I felt we were alike. “I came up the hard way,” Geoffrey once told me. “There is nothing posh on my family tree. My brother and I lived with my granddad awhile, when my mum got tired of paying. Those were my happiest years—then my mother came and took us back. I still remember how I howled at the sight of her. My brother went to war; I went out to work.”