Free The Harmony Silk Factory by Tash Aw Page B

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 As Tiger’s right-hand man he automatically gained the respect of the people he met, and as Tiger became more withdrawn, Johnny’s presence was felt more keenly than ever.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 Kuah. 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 Jeram. The unruly shrubs of the jungle had crept in amongst 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