Free The Moonlight Palace by Liz Rosenberg Page B

his blood from clotting, so his bruises grew worse—the cut over his eye became infected, and he had to go to hospital. Never was he without a military escort. It was disconcerting, to come downstairs and always find a policeman standing in a corner of the room, sipping a cup of the bitter green tea that Nei-Nei Down provided. She had a special fondness for the red-haired Irish policeman—a fondness I did not share. The Irishman was a great tease. He was especially prone to mocking my friend Bridget—her hair color, her long nose, her gypsy-length skirts. Nothing escaped his notice. And sometimes he played the penny whistle flute—a noisome instrument that Nei-Nei said reminded her of her childhood.
    On the other hand, Nei-Nei Down never forgave Geoffrey Brown for keeping Grandfather out so late that night of Deepavali. She could hold a grudge, my granny. And her dislike for Brown never wavered, no matter how kind and considerate he proved himself to be. Brown visited often. He was personally overseeing the case, Grandfather explained. His courtesy and thoughtfulness knew no bounds. He arranged medical transport for Wei; he spent hours talking alone with Grandfather. Sometimes he brought official-looking documents for Grandfather to sign—a symbol of the never-ending officiousness of the British government and its red tape—but more often he brought cakes for Nei-Nei Down and sweets for me; fresh fruit and flowers for the household. Sanang and Danai were charmed—he always remembered to bring them a little something as well.
    “He is the handsomest man alive,” said little Danai. “Like a British movie actor. Someday I marry a man like that.”
    Brown played games of chess with Uncle Chachi and loaned him books on the art of photography when he learned that Uncle Chachi had a camera. He once even brought by a new Kodak 16mm movie camera, but Nei-Nei Down forbade it, though he only wanted to film us around the palace. Perhaps Uncle Chachi was not his usual ebullient self around Geoffrey, but he seemed somewhat awestruck by our guest. Not Nei-Nei. She blamed him for everything that went wrong. If a window became stuck, it was because Mr. Brown had opened it. If a loaf of bread failed to rise, she blamed it on his heavy tread. She did not care for his cakes or his kindness. As soon as Brown left, she would tilt the gift cake into the trash, hearing it fall with a look of grim satisfaction. And she would not touch the sweets he brought.
    “They would turn my stomach to stone,” she said.
    “But Nei-Nei,” I protested. “Isn’t Mr. Brown kind to us all? Isn’t he saving Wei’s life?”
    For there was no question that others in the government would have had Wei put to death, merely on the suspicion that he had collaborated with a Bolshevik. The Singaporean authorities were ruthless in those days, and far harsher with the Chinese than with outsiders. It was one thing to be a crazy Muslim. It was another to be a Chinese radical whose politics threatened the Singapore way of life.
    “Yes, saving,” she said. Then she bit her lip and scraped the rest of the cake into the garbage. “I forget,” she added, “how young you are.”
    Everyone seemed to be secretly fretting and fussing about me—including Dawid, who hovered around me as if protecting me from some phantom enemy. This puzzled me, for I was obviously all right; it was Wei whose life would remain in danger until he could leave Singapore.
    “Where will you go?” I asked Wei. “Home to Taiwan?”
    Wei shook his head. “I cannot go home to my father in a state of disgrace,” he said. “I will go to Malaya.”
    “To visit Omar, you mean?” I was astonished that he had not turned his back on his friend. After all, their friendship had put Wei’s whole life in jeopardy. “What will you do in Malaya?”
    “There are more than one hundred rivers in Malaya,” Wei said, “and many islands are in need of bridges and causeways. They need engineers. I do