turning around.
‘The Darby mine. Everybody knows.’
‘So what? I can’t even remember that.’
Gun began to laugh – a high-pitched wail, like a wounded animal’s call in the middle of the jungle. ‘Hey, brother, don’t have that hard look on your face. You’re a real big-time hero, don’t you know that? Everyone talks about the guy who chopped that English bastard’s leg off.’
‘I didn’t chop his leg off.’
‘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.’
‘OK, 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 with his yellow-brown teeth. With a single fluid swipe of his arm he brought the blade down on to 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 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 guerrillas 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.
Early one evening when the sun had calmed to a deep amber, an idea came into Tiger’s head which made him shiver gently with happiness. He had spent the day planting papaya seedlings he had grown from the seeds of his own fruit. Though the work was not heavy, it was enough to make a man of his age feel as if he had earned a rest. After dousing himself with cold water he sat in the cane armchair in his library with his supper of cold noodles. When he finished those he poured himself a small glass of cognac. He had not been to the shop at all that day. He thought of Johnny, he thought of the customers; he tried to fill his ears with the noise of the shop, the smooth-sharp sound of heavy scissors cutting through cloth, Johnny’s low mumbling voice, the clink of coins on the glass counter. He wondered how the shop looked without him in it, and the image of the Tigerless place did not trouble him. He knew then that the Tiger Brand Trading Company would survive his death and, more than that, would flourish. His whole world – which he had created – would grow unendingly. The thought was cemented when, at that moment, he saw Johnny running up the stairs at the front of the house, leaping two steps at a time. Elation mixed with relief, that is what Tiger felt. Now he knew there was no more reason for him to continue the struggle.
‘Johnny,’ he called, no longer able to keep his thoughts to himself.
‘What’s the matter, Tiger? Are you all right?’ Johnny’s brow creased with uncertainty.
‘I want you to sit down with me,’ Tiger said.
Johnny sat perched on the edge of a chair facing Tiger. He could feel the frame of the chair pushing through the thin upholstery, cutting into his buttocks.
‘Courvosier?’ Tiger said, holding up the bottle of cognac.
‘No, thank you.’
‘It is said,’ Tiger said, his face glowing and puce-coloured, ‘that tending to your garden is good for your soul. I can certainly testify to that. After a day’s work I feel cleansed. Funny, isn’t it?’ He chuckled gently.
Johnny looked mystified.
‘I don’t know how to explain this feeling to you. It is as if the work I put into looking after my plants makes me a better man. It makes me feel that I am a good person –’
‘You are a good person –’
‘– and for those few hours that I am in the garden, none of the bad things I have done in my life matter very
