The Harmony Silk Factory

“Sure, of course not,” Gun continued, eyes squeezed shut with laughter. “Come, sit down.”

“Who told you — Tiger?” Johnny said, watching Gun carefully. The parang was balanced between Gun’s knees, glistening and hot.

“No, everyone knows. Like I said, you’re famous, brother. Why do you think you’re still alive and healthy? Why do you think you’re always able to find work? Have you thought about that? It’s because we — our people — take care of each other here in the Valley. In the whole damn bastard country, in fact. The whole bloody wide world. Do you agree?”

“I suppose.”

“Okay, look. I’ll explain something to you. Come, sit down, I said. You’re still new, fresh, as far as I can tell — even though you’re one goddam murderer already!” Gun broke into laughter once more, baring his cigarette-stained teeth. “You have backsides for brains. You have no idea about the work we do.”

“I know everything about the shop.”

Gun looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Not the shop, you goddam idiot, the army. The Communist army. M — C—P,” he said in a slow, under-the-breath voice. “Know what that stands for? Malayan Communist Party. That’s who we work for.”

“I knew that, sure,” Johnny said, kicking a clump of grass. “Where do you work?”

“You think I’m going to tell you, you bloody dogshit? You’re not one of us. Not yet, anyway. Trouble is, Tiger wants you in the shop, not out there doing what the rest of us do.”

“What do you do?”

Gun lifted the parang and held its blade erect before Johnny’s face. He looked at it with cold black eyes and smiled, showing his yellow-brown teeth. With a single fluid swipe of his arm he brought the blade down onto the ground before them. It sliced sharply into the earth, clinking against the tiny pebbles in the soil. He smiled at Johnny, the corners of his upper lip curling back hard. “That’s what we do.”

Johnny’s face coloured. His blood ran hot. He had felt the rush of air against his cheek as the parang swept past him. He had seen the sun glinting off the blade. At last, he knew he was truly and irreversibly a Communist.

“What I think,” Gun said, as he prised the parang from the soil and wiped it clean with his fingers, “is that anybody who can cut up and kill an English big shot, well, that person might be very useful to us.”

“Will I fight for the liberation of man’s soul from the chains of the bourgeoisie?” Johnny said.

Gun stared at him blankly.

“What do you want me to do?” Johnny said.

Gun laughed. Johnny could not tell if it was in contempt or in friendship. “That’s up to Tiger,” he said.

The only problem with being a Communist — for Johnny and for Tiger — was that it interfered with business. It interfered with running the shop and serving customers and deciding which clothes to display in the glass cabinets. For Tiger, the problem was one he had faced for many years now. He had become accustomed to it all — the rotten, ever-present fear of exposure and arrest, the risk of betrayal. Sure, he was among his people; and yes, he knew he had their trust. All the same, he was careful not to make enemies. He never took advantage of suppliers or customers. People are people, he told himself. A single vengeful word whispered in the ear of the district police inspector would be sufficient for Tiger to be locked up in Tambun Prison for the rest of his life. For more than a decade, this fine gentleman had coordinated the activities of the Perak guerillas from the genteel surroundings of his shop. Now, as the 1930s drew to a close, the strain of this duplicity weighed heavily on him. The knowledge that he was sending young men to be shot, maimed, or imprisoned for life began to disturb his sleep. He wanted to close his doors to the world, to shut himself in his home with his books and furniture and fruit trees, but no: the call from China was becoming more urgent, more violent. The Japanese were in Manchuria now and Chinese all over the world were being called to arms. These were times for action, the Party said, for the enemy was at the gate; but all Tiger longed for was to grow the perfect guava. He felt age in his bones and reluctance in his heart. In his sleepless nights he had the same thought over and over again: he had to stop, he could not go on.

He was glad he had Johnny.