The Harmony Silk Factory

I HAVE OFTEN WONDERED how Johnny must have felt when he cycled back from his triumphant lecture, tasting real power for the first time. I imagine his eyes black and hard, his mind calculating, always calculating, as he cycled home. I have travelled along many of those same tracks, both as a child and as an adult. The roads are surfaced now, mile after mile of broken grey bitumen. There are still many potholes; not even tar can withstand the force of a flash flood. Recently I decided I would cycle the route from Jeram to Kampar, from the site of the long-destroyed shack to where the Tiger Brand Trading Company once stood. I did not know where to begin this journey. The jungle had long ago swallowed up the old rubber plantation, so I made a rough guess and skirted along the notional western border of the vanished plantation. The hut and the rows of rubber trees were no longer there, of course. They were only phantoms of the mind now.

I struck out for Kampar in the weakening five-o’clock sun. The road was deserted. There was — is — little reason for anyone to visit Jeram, and in many places the surface of the road was hidden under layers of pale mud. The rain had carved shallow gullies in this mud, and I decided to follow these scars, travelling in broad arcs along the road. I imagined they were Johnny’s tracks, made just after his lecture. They were not straight, because he had been intoxicated with power. Like Johnny, I cycled like this for many miles, my sweat-soaked shirt stuck to my back and my eyes blinded by the sun.

Still I could not feel Johnny’s wild excitement; I could not understand.

His thoughts did not become mine, and so I cannot tell you why he would go on to do the things he did.

A month after the lecture, Tiger Tan was found dead in a clearing in the jungle not far from his home. He had been shot twice, in the face and in the heart, though the postmortem could not determine which shot had killed him. Either way, it seems certain he knew his killer. The shots were clean and accurate, fired from very close range, suggesting that he had been in the company of his murderer. Of his face, all that remained was his mouth. In the numerous newspaper reports following his killing, his mouth was described simply as being “open.” It was obvious to all, however, that the wide-open mouth was an expression of shock and terror, his last stifled cries ringing hollow in the endless jungle. Maybe he did not even cry out. Maybe he opened his mouth one last time to ask, “Why?” It was a terrible way to die, for sure. Many years later, a young boy who did not believe in the Legend of Tiger Tan went fishing in the area where Tiger was killed. Perhaps he even walked over the exact spot where Tiger’s body lay. As he waded through the cold shallow water he became aware of a man strolling aimlessly through the trees. The man kept appearing and then disappearing in the dense foliage. He was wearing old, simple clothes and he seemed to be talking to himself. “Must be a madman,” the boy chuckled to himself as he continued fishing. As he was leaving the jungle, the boy heard that the man was repeating the word “Why” over and over again. “Why what, old man?” the boy called out as he approached him. It was only when the figure turned around that the boy saw his face, a seething, boiling mass of shapeless flesh.

Nothing had been stolen from Tiger’s pockets. Neither his gold wristwatch nor his jade ring had been taken. Later, the police gave these items to Johnny. They folded them up in a white brocade cloth the chief inspector had bought from Tiger’s shop sometime before, and placed the delicate parcel in a black lacquer box. They brought it to the shop, where Johnny was making preparations for the funeral. They bowed low and gave Johnny the box. Witnesses to this scene say that the great Johnny, who was never known to cry, had “bloodred” eyes, “glasslike” with tears. He accepted the box graciously and said quietly, “This is the beginning of a new time.” All who were present felt the truth of these words.

The box remained with Johnny for the rest of his life — a symbol of triumph, perhaps, or at least the start of a new life.

The funeral lasted three days, during which the shop remained closed as a mark of respect. On the third day, once the minor ceremonies were over, the final offerings to Tiger’s spirit were made in the middle of Kampar. Anyone who had ever known Tiger was free to attend. A crowd began to gather before the morning became hot. Many people had travelled overnight to attend the occasion, and now stood waiting patiently for their turn before the great, dead man. Even small children queued up to pay their respects. When they approached the coffin they peered nervously at the body. “Pai!” their parents commanded, and so they did, bowing their heads and lowering their burning joss sticks three times.