The Harmony Silk Factory. Tash Aw

      Before long, Johnny was given more important tasks, such as counting stock and then, finally, serving customers. Tiger gave him two new white shirts to wear when serving in the shop, and Johnny kept them clean and neatly pressed at all times. It turned out he was a natural salesman with an easy style all his own. Like Tiger, Johnny was never loud nor overly persuasive. He pushed hard yet never too far. He cajoled but rarely flattered. Although he always tried to sell the most expensive things in the shop, he knew it was better to sell something cheap than nothing at all. He had a sense for what each customer wanted, and he always made a sale.

      The incident with the White Woman, for example, became legendary. Like so many other things in Johnny’s life, this incident seemed to happen without the faintest warning or explanation. Why she should have picked him instead of any other person in the shop no one will ever know. Perhaps there was no reason at all, just one small step on the curious path of fate.

      The White Woman was a mixed-race widow of great and strange beauty. She stood a full six feet tall and although all who saw her agreed that her features were striking, none could agree on exactly what her features were. Everyone said different things of her face. Was she moon-faced or gaunt? Doe-eyed or cruel? Butter-skinned or powdery-white? She was the mistress of a rubber planter in the valley, a Frenchman named Clouet (‘Kloot’ was how people pronounced it) who drank too much samsu and did not care for his plantation. He had suffered badly in the great crash at the start of the thirties and now all he had left were a few hundred acres of dry rubber trees and a wife who hated the mosquitoes and skin rot of the tropics. He had a woman he loved, but their lives were a forked path. He could not live with her nor be seen in public with her for fear of losing his job. He wasn’t even allowed to take her with him into the Planter’s Club. Every so often, her washing lady would come into town and spread gossip about Clouet taking the White Woman away to France. But everyone knew it would never happen.

      A hush crept across the shop when she entered. She stood for a second, casting her gaze from shelf to shelf, inspecting the bales of cloth and the neat piles of folded-up clothing. Three times a year, she came into Tiger’s shop to buy the best of the new merchandise. Usually, she would send a note in advance of her visit to let Tiger know when she would be arriving and what she needed to buy. In addition to all the usual items on a wealthy woman’s list, such as French tablecloths and plain unbleached Indian cotton for the servants’ clothing, she would also include camisoles or nightdresses because she knew that Tiger would prepare discreet little parcels for her, protected from the gaze of the other customers. Tiger would make sure that he was personally on hand to receive her, but on this occasion, no note preceded the visit. The White Woman had unexpectedly passed through Kampar. The recently built bridge at Teluk Anson had been swept away by floods the month before and work on a new one had not yet started. Her diverted journey took her too close to Tiger’s shop for her to resist temptation. Tiger, however, was not there that day, and all who were present in the shop noticed her displeasure. She kept her hat on and picked at the beads on her purse while she looked around the shop, casting her gaze upon the assistants until finally, her scowl came to rest on Johnny.

      ‘I will assist you if you wish,’ Johnny said. He was the only one of the people in the shop who dared to speak.

      ‘Where is Mr Tan?’ the White Woman said.

      ‘He is away today – on business,’ Johnny said. ‘I am in charge today.’

      The White Woman approached the counter and laid her purse on the glass cabinets displaying lace handkerchiefs. Johnny noticed the soft black satin of the purse. Across the black surface, little beads were stitched meticulously into the shape of a dragon chasing a flaming pearl across a stormy sea.

      ‘What would you like, madam?’

      ‘Show me something beautiful,’ the White Woman said, looking at Johnny. ‘Do you think you can do that?’

      Johnny looked her in the eye. ‘I think so,’ he said.

      He moved slowly from one end of the shop to the other, touching bales of cloth, feeling their texture before deciding whether to take them or leave them. Sometimes he unfurled a length of fabric against the light and narrowed his eyes. No one in the shop knew exactly what he was looking for – he seemed to be searching for something hidden All this time the White Woman watched him with increasing fascination, her initial irritation beginning to fade. She could not figure out what this curious young man was doing. There seemed to be a mysterious logic to this actions – but what?

      ‘Here,’ he said at last, ‘these will make you happy.’

      ‘What’s this one?’ she said, feeling some cloth between her fingers. It was thin and silky with a single cream-coloured flower printed across it.

      ‘It’s French.’

      ‘It doesn’t look French to me. The pattern isn’t very rich.’

      ‘But it is French, madam, the very latest, I am told. You can wear it next to your body, even in the hot months. See how it touches your skin,’ Johnny said, gently sweeping it over her hand.

      ‘I’d use it for tablecloths.’

      ‘This,’ said Johnny draping another length of cloth over his shoulder, ‘is very special.’

      ‘It has no pattern at all.’

      ‘That is true. But see how the light shines on it, and through it?’

      ‘Am I to wear that?’

      ‘Of course not. But your windows – are they big? I thought so. Use this to make curtains.’

      ‘Curtains? Without a pattern?’

      ‘I have seen them in the latest American magazines,’ Johnny said, holding up the cloth in front of his face. ‘I can see you but can you see me?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Next, my favourite, something so beautiful it will take your breath away,’ Johnny said, undoing a brown parcel.

      ‘It’s batik,’ the White Woman said, plainly and somewhat quizzically.

      He pushed a plate of pink lotus cakes towards her and refilled her teacup.

      ‘We are exporting this,’ Johnny said, dropping his voice to a whisper, ‘to Europe. No one knows about this yet. This is specially made for us –’

      ‘But it looks like ordinary batik.’

      ‘A batch of the very same material with exactly the same pattern has just been sent to Port Wellesley for shipment to London, Paris, America.’

      ‘I see.’

      The people in the shop were intrigued. This was the first they had ever heard of batik being shipped to Europe. Their minds raced. Was it possible that the same sarongs used by their grandmothers would be used in London? How did Tiger keep this secret?

      The order was placed, the notes counted out and the goods dispatched that same day to the White Woman’s home.

      ‘You sold her batik,’ Tiger said over and over again, reaching for the whisky when he learned what had happened. ‘She will never come back to the shop again.’ His mood lightened, however, when he realised that Johnny had sold the entire stock of unsellable batik which had languished for many months at the back of the stock cupboards. He had also got rid of a large quantity of cheap Chinese gauze at a highly inflated price. The peony-printed satin, an expensive lapse in Tiger’s judgement (he had over-ordered from the new mill in Singapore before he had even seen a sample), was sold without a single cent’s discount.

      After a few days a note arrived from the White Woman, thanking the Tiger Brand Trading Company for always keeping beautiful yet practical textiles in stock. The note singled out Johnny for special praise, and Tiger proudly showed it to all his customers. He also began to regard Johnny in a new light.

      During the time he worked in the shop, Johnny lived in Tiger’s house along with several other