The Garden of Evening Mists. Tan Twan Eng

he had only arrived from London a few weeks before to take over from his predecessor who had been killed by the CTs.

      ‘It’s always been a convenient name for the rag-tag collection of territories the British had obtained control of,’ I explained before Hamid could reply. ‘First there were the Federated Malay States, each one headed by a governor and situated on the west coast.’ It shocked me that such ignorance among the Europeans sent out to administer Malaya was still common; no wonder the Malays had had enough and wanted the Mat Sallehs out. ‘Then there were the Non-Federated Malay States,’ I continued, ‘ruled by their sultans with assistance from British advisers. And then there were the Straits Settlements – Malacca, Penang and Singapore.’

      ‘And all stolen from us Malays,’ Hamid said.

      ‘Who were too lazy to have done anything with it,’ Emily cut in. ‘You know very well, Hamid, that we Chinese built up the tin industry. We established towns, and we brought in commerce. Kuala Lumpur was founded by a Chinese! Don’t pretend you didn’t know.’

      ‘Hah! We were far too clever to want to spend our days slaving for the Mat Salleh in the tin mines, unlike you orang China.’ Hamid leaned forward with his plate. ‘Eh, Emily, some more of your belachan please.’

      The discovery of tin in the Kinta Valley in the eighteenth century had compelled the British to ship indentured coolies from southern China to work the mines, as the Malays preferred to remain in their kampongs and till their own fields. The Chinese immigrants came with the intention of returning to their homeland after making their fortune. Many had stayed on, however, preferring the stability of life in a British colony to the wars and upheavals in China. They established families and fortunes in Penang, Ipoh and Kuala Lumpur, and opened the way for more of their countrymen from the southern ports of China. These immigrants soon became part of Malaya. I never wondered about it, just as I never thought it strange that I should also have been born beneath the monsoon skies of the equator, that with my first breath I would inhale the humid, heated air of the tropics and feel immediately and forever at home.

      Magnus rubbed his one good eye with his knuckles. ‘I remember a couple of years ago I was sitting in my study, listening to the evening news,’ he said. ‘What I heard made me despair.’ He turned to Crawford and Toombs. ‘Your Mr Attlee, giving official recognition to that fellow Mao’s government in China, while the communists were killing hundreds of us in Malaya every month.’

      ‘Don’t forget there’s an election in a couple of weeks,’ Crawford said. ‘We might get Winston back.’ Magnus simply grimaced, looking singularly uninspired by the prospect.

      ‘If you do,’ said Frederik, ‘he’ll inherit Mao on this side of the world, and Mau Mau in Africa.’

      ‘You’re terrible-lah,’ said Emily, covering her laugh behind her hand.

      ‘What Yun Ling mentioned just now, about old countries dying – well, she’s right,’ Magnus said. ‘There isn’t one that’s older than China, and look at it now. A new name, and a new emperor.’

      ‘Emperor Mao?’ said Frederik.

      ‘In all but name.’

      ‘For goodness’ sake,’ Emily cut in. ‘Let’s talk about something else, can we not? Has anyone here read that new book by that Han Suyin? She came here for a visit last year, you know. Eh, Molly, is it true, they’re going to make a film of it? With William Holden?’

      Lunch was winding down when one of the servants came out from the house and whispered to Magnus. He got up from his seat and went in through the kitchen, the ridgebacks padding after him. He looked troubled when he returned to join us a few minutes later.

      ‘That was one of my assistant managers on the telephone, he said, looking around at all of us. ‘CTs torched a squatter village in Tanah Rata an hour ago. Chopped the headman up with a parang. They forced his wife and daughters to watch. I’m not trying to get rid of you lot, but a six o’clock curfew’s been put into place.’

      Enchik Hamid sprang to his feet, crumbs scattering from his lap. ‘Alamak! My wife is alone at home.’

      The others got up too, and I realised that the High Commissioner’s murder had frightened them more than they cared to admit. Magnus and Emily showed the guests out while I remained in the garden. I walked past the statues of the two sisters and stopped at the low stone balustrade, leaning over it. On the terrace below lay a formal garden where oak leaves were scattered on the lawn like pieces of an uncompleted jigsaw puzzle. A peacock chased its mate across the grass and their tail feathers raked over the leaves. To one side of the lawn was a rose garden, the bushes planted in a spiral pattern.

      At first I thought the noise was coming from a lorry struggling up a steep road somewhere over the next ridge. It grew louder within seconds, exploding into a bone-penetrating rumble as an aeroplane flew over Majuba House, circling the tea fields.

      ‘A Dakota,’ Frederik said, coming out from the house to join me.

      The door near the plane’s tail opened and a brown cloud spilled out from it, breaking into pieces an instant later. For a second I thought the aircraft was disintegrating, its body flaking away. ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

      ‘Safe conduct passes and notices, urging the CTs to surrender,’ Frederik said. ‘Hell of a mess to clean up when the wind blows them over the tea, Magnus says. The coolies complain bitterly.’

      The Dakota banked around a hill, the noise of its passage gradually sputtering away. Sheets of paper eddied towards the house. I went to the far end of the lawn and plucked one from the air. I had heard about these notices issued by the Psychological Warfare Department, but I had never seen one till now. Printed on it was a pair of photographs, placed side by side. The first showed a bandit at the moment of his surrender, scrawny and malnourished and dressed in rags, his face all cheekbones and buckteeth. ‘Comrades, my name is Chong Ka Heng. I was once a member of the Fourth Johor Regiment,’ I read aloud. The other photograph was of the same man, grinning and well-fed, looking like an office clerk in a smart white shirt and black pressed trousers, his arm around the waist of a plain but smiling young Chinese woman. ‘The Government has treated me well since I surrendered. I urge you to think of your family, of your mother and father, who all miss you. Give up your struggle, and return to the people who miss you.’ The offers of amnesty and rewards were repeated in Malay, Chinese and Tamil. The paper was thin and light brown in colour, as though it had been soaked overnight in the dregs of tea. ‘Odd choice of colour to use,’ I said.

      ‘It’s deliberate. Makes it less conspicuous for a bandit to pick it up.’ Frederik cleared his throat. ‘Magnus lets me use one of the bungalows. It’s on the other side of the estate.’ He added, after a pause, ‘Come and have a drink?’

      ‘The curfew’s on.’

      ‘We’re already inside the estate.’

      ‘Not today, Frederik,’ I said, crumpling up the notice. ‘But thank you, for driving me back this morning.’

      Pain started up in my left hand when I returned to my bedroom, throbbing in time to my pulse. My fury at Aritomo, which had abated during the party, resurfaced. The nerve of the man, making me come all the way from KL only to turn down my offer so quickly and with hardly any serious thought given to it. Bloody Jap. Bloody, bloody Jap!

      Opening the bedside drawer, I took out my notebook. It was heavy, thickened by the newspaper clippings I had pasted in it. I turned the pages without really looking at them; I knew their contents by heart. When I had worked as a research assistant in the war crimes trials, I had collected newspaper reports about the trials in Tokyo and other countries the Japanese had occupied. I knew intimately the offences the Japanese officers were charged with, but I still read the clippings regularly, even though I had long ago accepted that there wasn’t a name that I recognised or a familiar face in a photograph. There was never any mention of the camp where I had been imprisoned.

      Inserted between the pages at the back of the notebook was a