Free The Gift of Rain by Tan Twan Eng

cries of children, grandparents shouting at their servants, and even the sound of an erhu player coaxing mournful wails from his stringed instrument.
     
     
And there were the smells, always the smells that remain unchanged even to this day—the scents of spices drying in the sun, sweetmeats roasting on charcoal grills, curries bubbling on fiery stoves, dried salted fish swaying on strings, nutmeg, pickled shrimps—all these swirled and mixed with the scent of the sea, fusing into a pungent concoction that entered us and lodged itself in the memory of our hearts.
     
     
I pointed out Armenian Street to him, where immigrants from Armenia had lived and carried on their trades. “That’s what I was named after. My middle name, Arminius, although I never use it. My mother chose it. Some people have roads named after them; I have it the other way round,” I said, and he laughed.
     
     
People stared as we walked through the town. Even in his Western clothes Endo-san looked out of place, his features too refined, too aristocratic for a Chinese. He walked slowly, his back straight, his eyes taking in the surrounding stalls and hawkers.
     
     
He surprised me when he took me into a small Japanese community just at the edge of the Chinese quarter, on Jipun-kay, Japan Street. It was a busy area and there were camera shops, restaurants, bars, and shops supplying food and provisions. To me there was hardly any difference between Jipun-kay and the Chinese quarter: even the signboards looked the same, although I was hardly an expert since I could not read Chinese. However the streets here were very clean. People bowed to Endo-san as they passed.
     
     
“There it is,” Endo-san said, pointing. “Madam Suzuki’s restaurant. “
     
     
Entering the shop, I found it furnished pleasingly: low wooden tables, shoji screens and framed paintings of scenes of nature. Madam Suzuki, a slim woman with small eyes and lacquered hair, greeted us at the entrance. Endo-san nodded to a few patrons as we made our way to our table.
     
     
“I never realized there were so many Japanese in Penang,” I said as a young Japanese woman laid our table. I stared at her, watched her quick certain movements. She was much shorter than me, her face painted white, her lips a controlled explosion of red.
     
     
“They’ve been here for years. All attracted to the wealth in this region.” He ordered for me, the waitress’s voice like the sound of wind chimes as she repeated the orders after him. The food came quickly. Most of the dishes were cold and uncooked, which I found disconcerting. It was also quite bland. I was used to the spicy food of Penang, food that squeezed perspiration out of me like a sodden sponge. I told him this and he smiled.
     
     
“I have not grown used to your curries and spices here,” he said. “Do you like the tea?”
     
     
I took a swallow. It tasted bitter and melancholic, which puzzled me, for how could a beverage capture the essence of emotion?
     
     
“I have no explanation for it either,” he said, when I asked him. “The Fragrance of the Lonely Tree. It is grown on the hills not far from my home.”
     
     
“What are you doing in this part of the world?” I was curious. He had never told me much about himself. I had looked up the atlas in the library and thought the islands that collectively formed the nation of Japan made it look like a tilted seahorse swimming against the currents of the ocean.
     
     
Endo-san’s eyes took on a faraway look and he clasped his hands together on the table. “I grew up near the sea in a beautiful place within sight of Miyajima Island. Do you see that painting of the large structure rising out from the sea?” He pointed to a wall behind me.
     
     
I turned to look and nodded.
     
     
“That is called a torii —a gate to a Shinto temple. It is a famous shrine in Japan. Our village has one that is very similar to that, although I admit it is not as impressive. Each