LITMIR.BIZ

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head. When he woke he looked at his hands. They were strong and calm, but his pulse was throbbing heavily.

       6. Three Stars

      Some people are born with a streak of malice running through them. It poisons their blood for ever, swimming in their veins like a mysterious virus. It may lurk unnoticed for many years, surfacing only occasionally. Good times may temporarily suppress these instincts, and the person may even appear well intentioned and honest. Sooner or later, however, the cold hatred wins over. It is an incurable condition.

      I can pinpoint the exact moment when I knew for certain that my father was afflicted with this terrible disease. I had just left school and announced my intention never to return to the valley. I was eighteen. I did not want to see the Harmony Silk Factory again. Father did not flinch at my words; he merely nodded and said, ‘I will take you to your destination.’ It was raining heavily as we drove through Taiping, where he was to drop me off at the bus station. We drove through the Lake Gardens, along avenues lined with umbrellas of dropping jacaranda. Raindrops found their way through the gaps in the barely opened windows and fell lightly on my arms. Without warning, Father slowed to a halt and got out of the car. He walked on to the grass and stood in the rain, gazing out at the silvery lakes. I had no desire to get wet, so I remained resolutely in the car; I had no idea what he was doing. At last I could bear it no longer and, holding a spare shirt over my head, ran towards him. I stood at his side for a while and suggested that we move on. He had a curious expression on his face, as if concentrating on something in the distance. ‘Do you know,’ he said quietly as if speaking to himself, ‘the word “paradise” comes from the ancient Persian word for “garden”.’ I did not reply; I tried to remember if there had been an article on this subject in the latest Reader’s Digest. ‘The Persians had beautiful gardens. They filled them with lakes, fountains, flowers. They wanted to recreate heaven on earth.’ His eyes blinked as the wind blew fine raindrops into his eyes. I looked into the distance, trying to locate what he was looking at. I thought, perhaps my father was capable of appreciating beauty; perhaps he was not completely black-hearted and mean after all. In the midst of the downpour I began to feel guilty that I had judged him harshly all these years. I was scared, too – scared of discovering someone I had never known, a different father from the one I had grown up with. But then I heard a sharp slap, and saw that he had swatted a mosquito on his neck. A small black-and-red smudge appeared below his jowl where he had caught the insect. ‘Bastard,’ he spat as he walked back to the car. His voice was as hard and cold as it always had been, and his eyes were set in anger. As we drove away I knew that I had been mistaken. That tender moment had been a mere aberration; it changed nothing. My father was born with an illness, something that had eaten to the core of him; it had infected him for ever, erasing all that was good inside him.

      Why I did not inherit his sickness I do not know. Someone told me at Father’s funeral that sons never resemble their fathers. What passes from elder to younger lies far beneath the surface, never to be seen or even felt. Perhaps this is true, but if the inheritance remains undiscovered, how are we to know it exists at all? I am merely thankful that I have never known any of my father’s traits in myself. I could not, in a thousand years, comprehend the crimes he committed.

      It did not take Johnny long to become known across the valley. As Tiger’s right-hand man he automatically gained the respect of the people he met, and as Tiger became more withdrawn, Johnny’s presence was felt more keenly than ever. People even began to seek Johnny before Tiger if they had any information to share or money to give. It was during this flowering of confidence that Johnny went to Tiger with a proposal.

      ‘I want to give a lecture,’ Johnny said. ‘The kind you used to give, open to all. I have been reading, you see. Books.’

      Tiger’s eyes shone with pride. This boy was now truly a man.

      ‘Nothing too big,’ Johnny continued. ‘I want to tell them about the books I have read. About idealogy.’

      ‘Yes, i-de-o-logy. Good. Tell me, son, what has made you want to do this?’

      ‘I want to help people – just as you have helped me.’

      ‘How are our people these days? You have stopped bringing me news. I guess everything must be fine.’

      ‘Everything is fine. One or two small things. Nothing bothersome. I don’t want to trouble you with anything but the most serious.’

      ‘I see … thank you. Is there anything on your mind?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘If there is something, you must tell me. You are a fine, capable man but you are not yet ready for the whole world.’

      ‘Am I not?’

      Over the next few weeks Johnny spread the word that he would, under Tiger’s auspices, be holding a lecture in Jeram. Things were not going well in the party, he said. He had discovered this during his travels. There was a worm eating its way to the heart of the party and its awful progress had to be halted.

      ‘A lecture? What kind of thing is that?’ some people said.

      ‘A big meeting,’ said Johnny, ‘with free beer for all.’

      The lecture was held in a large wooden shack on the western fringes of the Lee Rubber Plantation near Kuah. The unruly shrubs of the jungle had crept in among the rows of rubber trees and it was difficult to see the paths leading to the shack. It was not a comfortable place. Many years ago it had been used to store processed rubber sheets, but it was too far from the administrative heart of the plantation and, long abandoned by the owners of the estate, it was now used as a not-so-secret place for local young men to meet and drink toddy and samsu.

      The shack was nearly full, with people squatting or sitting cross-legged on the dirt-covered floor. A few kerosene lamps hung from rusty nails on the walls, casting a poor, dull light on the small assembly. When moths fluttered too close to the lamps, the light would flicker and pulse, and huge shadows would flash around the room.

      ‘Strong leadership is key to survival,’ Johnny said as he walked round the room. He was wearing a coarse green canvas shirt. On its breast the three stars of the MCP were stitched roughly into the fabric. With one hand he brandished a copy of the Communist Manifesto (in English, for added effect) and with the other he handed out bottles of warm Anchor. Most of the people there were too poor to buy beer and many had never even tasted it before. ‘Without a strong leader we are doomed.’ He spoke with the loud, authoritative voice he had been practising for some weeks. ‘A weak leader, one who does not live with his men, is damaging to the Cause.’ He grasped the three stars on his breast.

      ‘Yes, damaging to the Cause!’ several people roared, raising their bottles aloft.

      ‘The Cause!’ others echoed.

      ‘This is no time to be soft. We cannot sit back and shake our legs. Resting On My Laurels, Westerners say. Look what’s happening in China.’

      ‘Look what’s happening in China!’

      ‘Look what’s happening in China!’

      Johnny suppressed a smile as he noticed the rapidly emptying beer bottles and reddening faces in the audience. ‘If the Japanese Army invaded the valley next month,’ he continued, ‘would we be able to fight them? No! Why? Because we are not prepared. Why? Because our leaders are not strong.’

      ‘Curse our leaders! Damn them!’

      ‘If we are not properly led, then the Japanese, the British – anyone can destroy us,’ Johnny said, opening a crate of whisky.

      ‘No, no one can destroy us!’

      ‘Not if our leaders are strong. But our leaders are not strong.’

      Bottles of whisky were passed among the men and women in the room. They drank straight from the bottle, taking one sharp gulp before passing it on.

      ‘What’s that coward

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