The Harmony Silk Factory

For scent, I will have another of my sentimental favourites: frangipani, or what the locals call cempaka. Nothing rivals the fragrance of the tropical garden. The smells of an English garden after a light June rain shower seem tragically reticent compared to the seductive perfumes of a single tropical flower such as the frangipani. Many times in the past I have found myself strolling in the evening and catching the first scents of this flower, released by the onset of darkness, when its odour is most compelling. I have marked it on my plan, dotted around the garden in sites where I think its balletic shape will be admired as much as its scent — next to the verandah where we sometimes take high tea, for example (imagine the smell of frangipani mingling with that of buttered toast and dry beef curry! O the champak odours, sweet thoughts in dreams!), or next to the proposed fishpond. I knew, of course, that having frangipani in the garden would not be popular with the other residents. “Cempaka?” Alvaro said, a frown of deep anxiety disturbing his normally placid sandstone features. “We really can’t have that here.”

“Why on earth not?” I said, knowing what the answer would be.

“It’s the tree of death,” he said. “Muslims plant it in their cemeteries.”

“Superstitious claptrap,” I said. “This country is riddled with it. I’m surprised you of all people indulge in it, D’Souza.”

“It’s not superstition,” he said earnestly, “it’s just — well, no one will like it. For whatever reason, they won’t like it.”

“Rubbish. The Siamese at least have a decent excuse for not wanting it in their back gardens. Their word for cempaka is virtually the same as that for ‘sadness.’ But that doesn’t stop them from planting it in monastery and temple gardens. The monks are above superstition. If it’s good enough for devout Buddhists, then it’s good enough for a bunch of ageing papists like us.”

“This is a Muslim country. If Muslims wouldn’t do it, then I don’t think we should either.”

“Am I going mad? May I remind you that you’re Roman Catholic — you aren’t supposed to believe in this nonsense.”

“As I said, it’s cultural.”

I knew it was hopeless arguing with him. Moreover, he is the most reasonable character in the house, and the others will be much more violent and nonsensical in their arguments; and so, with much reluctance, I have pencilled PROVISIONAL in brackets next to the sites marked X: FRANGPN. I fully intend to erase these unsightly parentheses once the fuss has died down and the Tree of Death has been engulfed by the senile forgetfulness of this place. Stealth is the only way to survive here, and I must have my frangipani.

In Penang, shortly after the war, I once stood on the windswept shores near the Snake Temple, looking out at the choppy waters. It was early in the evening but there was still a faint glow of light from the sea. I wandered down some broken stone steps that led from the winding hilltop road to the beach, picking my way through a thicket of trees. I stumbled and fell and lost my way. When, finally, I emerged in a clearing, I saw around me the slim, sinuous trunks of old frangipani trees. I looked around and realised that I had wandered into the ruins of a Muslim cemetery. I sat on the cracked, crumbling ramparts that encircled this burial ground and looked out to sea. The wind gusted gently and carried with it the thick scent of frangipani — sweet, heady, sad. I wept silently in the dark, letting the hot tears run down my face. I was not thinking of the war. I did not think of the three years I spent in prison in Changi — I had forgotten the beatings and the meals of watery rice porridge and the cigarettes made from rolled-up Japanese newspaper. I could barely recall the staring eyes and hollow cheeks of the men who died from dysentery and gangrene and sheer exhaustion. What were their names — Chapman? Le Fanu? Shepherd? I doubt I ever knew. I worked from sunrise to sundown and endured the torture as everyone else did, but that was not the end of it. I volunteered for extra work, taking the place of weakened compatriots. I surrendered my meagre rations to those dying of starvation. I did so willingly and refused to accept thanks. I spoke to no one; my suffering had already begun, and it was worse than anything the camp could inflict. The war was insufficient punishment for the things I had done; prison alone was not enough to expunge my sins. I barely felt the passing of those three years.

That was why I cried, sitting alone at the edge of the cemetery, infused with the scent of frangipani. I had not suffered enough; I had not atoned. Nothing could ever be enough.

I WAS SEIZED BY DESPAIR when I saw Johnny at work repairing the broken-down motor. There was something in the way his hands moved over each rusty bit of metal — cradling, cajoling, caressing — that suggested that salvation was imminent. We would soon be on our way, and the strange fleeting intimacy I shared with Snow the previous night would be lost forever.