The Harmony Silk Factory

The White Woman was a mixed-race widow of great and strange beauty. She stood a full six feet tall, and although all who saw her agreed that her features were striking, none could agree on exactly what her features were. Everyone said different things of her face. Was she moonfaced or gaunt? Doe-eyed or cruel? Butter-skinned or powdery-white? She was the mistress of a rubber planter in the Valley, a Frenchman named Clouet (“Kloot” was how people pronounced it) who drank too much samsu and did not care for his plantation. He had suffered badly in the great crash at the start of the thirties and now all he had left were a few hundred acres of dry rubber trees and a wife who hated the mosquitoes and skin rot of the tropics. He had the White Woman, whom he loved, but their lives were a forked path. He could not live with her or be seen in public with her for fear of losing his job. He wasn’t even allowed to take her with him into the Planter’s Club. Every so often, her washing lady would come into town and spread gossip about Clouet taking the White Woman away to France. But everyone knew it would never happen.

A hush crept across the shop when she entered. She stood for a second, casting her gaze from shelf to shelf, inspecting the bales of cloth and the neat piles of folded-up clothing. Three times a year, she came into Tiger’s shop to buy the best of the new merchandise. Usually, she would send a note in advance of her visit to let Tiger know when she would be arriving and what she needed to buy. In addition to all the usual items on a wealthy woman’s list, such as French tablecloths and plain unbleached Indian cotton for the servants’ clothing, she would also include camisoles or nightdresses because she knew that Tiger would prepare discreet little parcels for her, protected from the gaze of the other customers. Tiger would make sure that he was personally on hand to receive her, but on this occasion, no note preceded the visit. The White Woman had unexpectedly passed through Kampar. The recently built bridge at Teluk Anson had been swept away by floods the month before and work on a new one had not yet started. Her diverted journey took her too close to Tiger’s shop for her to resist temptation. Tiger, however, was not there that day, and all who were present in the shop noticed her displeasure. She kept her hat on and picked at the beads on her purse while she looked around the shop, casting her gaze upon the assistants until, finally, her scowl came to rest on Johnny.

“I will assist you if you wish,” Johnny said. He was the only one of the people in the shop who dared to speak.

“Where is Mr. Tan?” the White Woman said.

“He is away today — on business,” Johnny said. “I am in charge today.”

The White Woman approached the counter and laid her purse on the glass cabinets displaying lace handkerchiefs. Johnny noticed the soft black satin of the purse. Across the black surface, little beads were stitched meticulously into the shape of a dragon chasing a flaming pearl across a stormy sea.

“What would you like, madam?”

“Show me something beautiful,” the White Woman said, looking at Johnny. “Do you think you can do that?”

Johnny looked her in the eye. “I think so,” he said.

He moved slowly from one end of the shop to the other, touching bales of cloth, feeling their texture before deciding whether to take them or leave them. Sometimes he unfurled a length of fabric against the light and narrowed his eyes. He seemed to be searching for something hidden — no one in the shop knew exactly what he was looking for. All this time the White Woman watched him with increasing fascination, her initial irritation beginning to fade. She could not figure out what this curious young man was doing. There seemed to be a mysterious logic to his actions — but what?

“Here,” he said at last, “these will make you happy.”

“What’s this one?” she said, feeling some cloth between her fingers. It was thin and silky, with a single cream-coloured flower printed across it.

“It’s French.”

“It doesn’t look French to me. The pattern isn’t very rich.”

“But it is French, madam, the very latest, I am told. You can wear it next to your body, even in the hot months. See how it touches your skin,” Johnny said, gently sweeping it over her hand.

“I’d use it for tablecloths.”

“This,” said Johnny, draping another length of cloth over his shoulder, “is very special.”

“It has no pattern at all.”

“That is true. But see how the light shines on it, and through it?”

“Am I to wear that?”

“Of course not. But your windows — are they big? I thought so. Use this to make curtains.”

“Curtains? Without a pattern?”

“I have seen them in the latest American magazines,” Johnny said, holding up the cloth in front of his face. “I can see you but can you see me?”

“No.”

“Next, my favourite, something so beautiful it will take your breath away,” Johnny said, undoing a brown parcel.

“It’s batik,” the White Woman said, plainly and somewhat quizzically.