NLY ONE PHOTOGRAPH survives of my mother. In it, she is wearing a light-coloured samfu decorated with butterflies. The dress clings delicately to her figure, slim and strong like the trunk of a frangipani tree. Her hair is adorned with tiny jewels too small for me to identify. When I hold a magnifying glass to the picture, the poor quality of the old paper makes the image blurred and soupy. Her face is young and soft. Sometimes, I stick the photo into the frame of a mirror so that I can see my own face next to hers. My eyes are her eyes, I think. The photo is too old to give me any more clues. I found it when I was fifteen, in an old tin box in Fathers closet, together with the pictures of Tarzan. It was in a cracked leather frame far too big for it, and when I looked carefully I could see that it was because the photo had been carefully torn in half. Two, maybe three other people would have been in it, but only my mother and father remain, sitting close to each other but clearly not touching. They sit at a table at the end of a meal; before them the remains of their feast appear as dark patches on the white tablecloth. Behind them, merely trees. Beyond those, a part of a building a ruin, perhaps, somewhere I do not recognise. I am certain it is not in the Valley. Throughout the years I have looked at hundreds of books on ruins: houses, palaces, temples, in this country and abroad. Not one resembled the place in the photo. I do not know where it is. Perhaps it does not even exist.
On one side of this incomplete portrait, a hand rests on my mothers shoulder. It is a mans hand, of that I am certain. His skin is fair that too is obvious. On his little finger he wears a ring, probably made of gold. It looks substantial, heavy. Time and time again I looked at the ring through my magnifying glass, but it gave me no clues. It was just a ring.
I took the picture and hid it in my bedroom. Father never mentioned it, and neither did I. I wanted to ask him whether there were any other photographs of my mother, but I never did, because then he would have known that I had stolen the picture. I never dared ask him about my mother; I never knew what questions to ask. Besides, I know he would not have told me about her even if I had. All I have to go on is that single photograph. Whenever I look at it I fold it in half so that Johnny is hidden and I can see only my mother.
FEW YEARS AGO I did something I thought I would never do. I succeeded in visiting the old Soong home, the house my mother and father lived in. I had always known where it was, tucked away a mile or so off the old coast road, west of the River Perak, yet I had never seen it. Partly this is because it is difficult to get to. There are no bridges here, and to get across the river you have to drive a long way south and then double back, travelling slowly northwards along the narrow roads that wind their way through the marshy flatlands. During the latter half of the Occupation, the house was used by the Japanese secret police as their local headquarters. They brought suspected Communists and sympathisers there to be tortured in the same rooms where T.K. and Patti and Snow and Johnny once slept. The cries of those tortured souls cut deep into the walls of the house, and when I was a boy I knew as all children did that the place was haunted. In those days I did not know that the house had been Snow and Johnnys. Back then it was merely one of those things children feared in the same way they feared Kellies Castle or the Pontianak, who fed on the blood and souls of lone travellers on the old coast road. We were taught to fear these things and so we did, never once questioning them. We believed in those things as we believed in life itself. When, several years ago, I finally learned of the significance of the house, I simply smiled, as if someone had played a joke on me.
How funny it is that the history of your life can for so long pass unnoticed under your nose.
HEN I SAY I VISITED the Soongs old home, I am exaggerating slightly. My first attempt to visit the place was not entirely successful. I had planned everything meticulously, but in the end my efforts proved to be fruitless.
I decided to go as a Tupperware salesman. This was the first thought that came into my head, and it seemed a sensible one, as Tupperware was all the rage in the Valley at the time. I purchased a large selection of Tupperware in different colours and sizes and loaded it into my car. I stole a brochure from my dentists waiting room and bought a new briefcase into which I packed several order forms, which I had typed myself. I put on a tie, of course, and combed my hair differently. I had of course allowed my hair to grow longer than usual, as I thought this would help me to feel like a different person. I gave myself one last look in the rearview mirror of my car before I set off, and I was pleased with what I saw. My own mother would not have recognised me.
The door was answered by a pubescent child a girl, I think, though she was dressed as a boy. I searched her face for a resemblance to me but found none. She stared at me with fierce eyes.
What are you selling? she snapped. She sounded much older than I had thought.
Tupperware, I said, suddenly feeling confident at the sound of the word. I stepped aside and pointed at my car. Large piles of Tupperware rose into view through the windows.
We dont need. .
Tup-per-ware, I said slowly. Would you kindly ask your mother?
Shes not here.
Anyone else here?
She closed the door and bolted it. Theres a tall man selling things, I heard her call out to someone inside. When the door opened again a young woman stood at the entrance. She looked at me coldly but did not speak.
Im selling Tupperware, I said. Its from America. Its very useful.
She remained silent. I felt my nerve begin to weaken. I had to make a final attempt. May I come in and show you? I smiled.
She held my gaze for several seconds. I held my breath to hide my nervousness and tried not to blink.
OK, she said, and she let me in.
I stood in the middle of the large sitting room and looked around me. The room led out to a verandah which ran along the entire length of the back of the house. Through the half-open shutters I could see that the land fell away to the jungle, which appeared as a soft green carpet. The walls of the room were decorated with long scrolls bearing Chinese calligraphy. They were executed in a flowing and flamboyant hand, the characters swirling and greatly exaggerated. One scroll caught my eye. It was the famous Tang poem by Li Po:
Moonlight shines brightly before my bed,
like hoarfrost on the floor.
I lift my head and gaze at the moon,
I drop my head and dream of home.
What are you looking at? the woman said. She had a slim face and clear skin. She too looked nothing like me.
I was just admiring your calligraphy, I said. Its very beautiful. Did you do it?
No, she said, suppressing a smile. Her shoulders dropped and her voice became softer. No, that was done by my great-uncle.
Really? I said. He must be a famous artist.
She giggled. No, he wasnt. Hes dead now. He died during the war. My family saved all his paintings from the Japanese, and we put them back on the walls just like they were when Great-uncle T.K. was alive.
Thats interesting. He died during the Occupation, did he? What was his name? Maybe Ive heard of him.
We dont need. .
Tup-per-ware, I said slowly. Would you kindly ask your mother?
Shes not here.
Anyone else here?
She closed the door and bolted it. Theres a tall man selling things, I heard her call out to someone inside. When the door opened again a young woman stood at the entrance. She looked at me coldly but did not speak.
Im selling Tupperware, I said. Its from America. Its very useful.
She remained silent. I felt my nerve begin to weaken. I had to make a final attempt. May I come in and show you? I smiled.
She held my gaze for several seconds. I held my breath to hide my nervousness and tried not to blink.
OK, she said, and she let me in.
I stood in the middle of the large sitting room and looked around me. The room led out to a verandah which ran along the entire length of the back of the house. Through the half-open shutters I could see that the land fell away to the jungle, which appeared as a soft green carpet. The walls of the room were decorated with long scrolls bearing Chinese calligraphy. They were executed in a flowing and flamboyant hand, the characters swirling and greatly exaggerated. One scroll caught my eye. It was the famous Tang poem by Li Po:
Moonlight shines brightly before my bed,
like hoarfrost on the floor.
I lift my head and gaze at the moon,
I drop my head and dream of home.
What are you looking at? the woman said. She had a slim face and clear skin. She too looked nothing like me.
I was just admiring your calligraphy, I said. Its very beautiful. Did you do it?
No, she said, suppressing a smile. Her shoulders dropped and her voice became softer. No, that was done by my great-uncle.
Really? I said. He must be a famous artist.
She giggled. No, he wasnt. Hes dead now. He died during the war. My family saved all his paintings from the Japanese, and we put them back on the walls just like they were when Great-uncle T.K. was alive.
Thats interesting. He died during the Occupation, did he? What was his name? Maybe Ive heard of him.
T. K. Soong, she said. Say, youre asking a lot of questions, arent you?
Oh, I apologise. Its not every day a poor salesman like me sees calligraphy of this standard, you see.
She smiled again.
And like I said, I may have known him. I looked at the scrolls once more, keeping my back to her so she could not see my eyes. Though my head remained tilted upwards, my gaze scanned the sideboards and cupboards for signs of photographs or mementoes anything.
I dont think you could have known him, she said. How old are you, exactly?
Look whos asking questions now. I laughed. How old do you think?
Let me see. . she said. I turned around and presented my face to her, smiling. Im usually good at guessing peoples ages, but youre difficult.
Behind her I caught sight of myself in an old mirror. The glass was scratched and blurred and dusty, silver strips peeling away behind it.