The Promise Bird Page 5

  2

  She was in bed when the knock came. Him, at the window. Even in the heavy rain, he was still, expressionless, his great body as strong and stern as a temple.

  He must have noticed that Chun Chi was crying. Did he realise he was the cause of her tears? Probably not—he had been a blunderer from the start. Yet his slightest movement was enough to fill her with delight. They say there is a delicate-featured puppet in the kingdom of Siam, half human height, controlled by a white-haired man who can, with a skilful twitch of his wooden stick, make the puppet respond, and pluck its strings into a frenzied dance. The puppet is tormented yet joyful, for it never needs to consider what it will do next.

  Chun Chi believed many women were like her, content to be guided by masterful hands in an endless dance of madness.

  He first probed her with his eyes, and then — on this wet afternoon in March — he twitched her strings through the half-open window. She didn’t struggle. Perhaps this is what she’d wanted all along. Wide with expectation, she opened the door to him. Their entanglement began here. He was a native-born Baba, dark-skinned, his speech a mixture of Malay and Fujianese. He knew Mandarin, but seldom spoke it.

  She stood before him, inadequate, and haltingly explained, “After the great wave — my mind, it’s been a blank. I can’t remember — when I saw you following me, I didn’t know what to do, if I seemed — I’m sorry.”

  He looked at her with suspicion, silent for a long time. She could make out rage, disappointment. Would he abandon her, just like that? She rambled fearfully. “This won’t last forever. If you could just remind me — I might be able to find —”

  “Let’s go,” he muttered.

  “I can go now, right away. I don’t need to bring anything with me.” As she spoke, she looked around her. There was, indeed, nothing here that she would miss.

  He nodded, and allowed her to follow him outside. As they walked through the old temple corridors, she heard the women giggling, on their way back from dinner. She urged him to walk faster, even run, terrified of encountering Tsong Tsong. Their feet splashed sharply through the rain puddles. His palms were hot, seeming to pump warmth into her body, fending off the chill threads of rain.

  Chun Chi’s heart was light, as if she’d just won a battle. If those women saw a man taking her away, how they would shriek. Wasn’t that what they were all waiting for, a man to take them away? None of them would have expected mousy, downcast Chun Chi to be the first one to escape. As she ran, a smile spread across her face.

  They left through the back door, fleeing uphill. Chun Chi hadn’t known she had such strength in her. It was as if she’d been storing it up these last months, swollen with it, until it all splurged out in this thunderstorm. How mysterious, how wonderful human beings could be. She had no idea what would happen next, but was happy to let herself go. Her body was a wild animal, finally free, pulled along by instinct.

  3

  It was almost dark by the time they reached the shore. The rain had stopped. Like two animals from the sea, they crawled forward along the beach, dripping wet. The great wave had flattened the bustling village that once stood here. They had seen no one all the long way, only crushed and fallen houses, slumped at odd angles like decaying teeth inthe bleeding mouth of the island.

  The only words that passed between them were the man telling Chun Chi his name: Camel. She searched her mind, but couldn’t remember what this animal looked like, only that it had nothing to do with this sodden, mottled country.

  Later, she found out that the camel is a strong-footed beast with a taste for solitude. Self-sufficient and self-controlled, it would never be derailed by desire. On a long journey, it sees only the road before it, everything else irrelevant scenery, not tempting in the least.

  Chun Chi had imagined Camel would take her far away, but they stayed where they were, on the seashore. She was starving. The strong evening winds made her body quiver and moan like a flute. Her eyes began to take on a hint of reproach. Camel’s brows were furrowed, his eyes fixed on the horizon, his fierce breath like a flock of startled nightbirds. In the last gleam of daylight, Chun Chi scrutinised him: his height, his thick-haired arms, his clouded eyes, his mouth buried in a thicket of beard. When he spoke, his voice seemed full of echoes, as if it came from very far away.

  As night fell, two weary-looking boats arrived. Chun Chi felt a surge of renewed joy — Camel must mean to take her away. Then she saw their decks were piled high with corpses, pale flesh bobbing in the rising tide. Even all these months after the tsunami, bodies were still floating to the surface. Chun Chi hid behind Camel, clutching his shirt, trying to drag him away. Instead he pulled her along, and when she cried out, swatted her away, boarding the boat alone.

  There were a few strong, young men onboard, probably fishermen from the islands. They greeted Camel familiarly and spoke to him in Malay, seemingly respectful, answering him with great attention. Chun Chi watched from the beach, a little afraid of these large men. They began heaving bodies ashore. Camel grabbed a pair of arms as someone else lifted the corresponding legs. The air filled with the smell of rotting flesh, marinated in seawater. Chun Chi fell to her knees and vomited energetically on the sand.

  When the corpses lay stacked on the beach, Camel exchanged a few more words with the other men, then walked over and lifted Chun Chi by the arm. She recoiled, thinking how much dead flesh he’d just touched, but his big hands were suddenly gentle, closing around her wrists until she was still.

  4

  They spent that first night in the ruins of a hut, its roof washed away by the tsunami. Someone had tried to create a temporary covering out of palm leaves, but the afternoon’s storm had wrecked that too. The place was empty apart from a hammock, which turned out to be surprisingly comfortable. Chun Chi counted herself fortunate to be there, stirred into wakefulness by the sea breeze, gazing at stars and sky with her hair full of moonlight. Camel, having settled her down, was off foraging.

  She leaned against the broken wall. Spread flat before her was the troubled sea. In the weak light she could make out a few local children stroking its wrinkled surface with feet the colour of unpolished rice. None of this made sense to her. The bearded man was a Malay-speaking Baba, maybe a leader of men. How could they have been lovers before? What story brought them together, before the storm took her memory?

  Camel was a good hunter. Before too long he had bagged a handful of sparrows and crows. He also brought back a couple of coconuts, as well as a long tube made of palm fronds, which he filled with resin from the tree called “Dammar” — when lit, this became a torch. Three of these, anchored with stones, illuminated the little hut.

  Next he lit a bonfire to roast the little birds, but they were all too lean, not a drop of fat in them. They turned shrivelled and black as the twigs piercing them, barely edible. Chun Chi was hungry enough to try one, gnawing determinedly.

  They stared at each other in silence, even though they both had something to say. Finally, Camel asked, “You don’t remember anything at all?”

  Chun Chi could pick out the meaning in his words. She nodded, apologetic, unwilling to see him disappointed. Without noticing, she had assumed a deferential position, her words carefully worked out to skirt around his moods. Now, she said softly, “If you could tell me anything about the past — I’ll try hard to remember —”

  But it was as if she had said nothing. He sat on the hammock, chomping at his meal. She knew he was angry, and dared not speak again. Her situation was disastrous. If the past continued to elude her, surely it was a matter of time before he got rid of her.

  Camel seemed to sense her unease and edged towards her. His breath was a sudden sprouting seed, exploding into a gigantic tree beside her. He grabbed her hand forcefully and pulled her to him, gesturing at the thick brass necklace around her neck. “And this? Do you remember?”

  She shook her head. “At the camp, they said it was tight around my neck when they found me.” Trying to gu
ess from his expression whether it was his gift. “They said, it must have been something I didn’t want to lose, looped so many times, so tightly.”

  The necklace gleamed in the light spilling through the roof. Now even the ocean was quiet. The cold metal seemed to whisper as it shimmered. Around the last loop hung a small golden knife, its edge scattered with tiny crushed red jewels.

  Camel reached out and nestled the small knife in his palm. From the cloth bundle around his waist he pulled out an identical necklace, only the knife was slightly bigger. The same gilded blade, the same brilliant rubies. The two knives fitted together like a single bronze mirror. She thought she could see images of her past reflected in the dull, scarred surface. A shock of happiness: so they were a couple, a man and his woman.

  The man wiped the smaller knife with a corner of cloth. “You’ve let it get dirty. It’s not shiny at all.” Sure enough, her necklace was old and faded next to his.

  “The sea damaged it,” she explained, gently running her fingertips over it. How precious it was to her now. To think she’d once lost it in the courtyard, and hadn’t bothered looking for it. It was Tsong Tsong who insisted on finding it for her, in case it was a present from someone special. That evening Tsong Tsong appeared before her, having searched for it all day in the rain. “Maybe you’ll thank me for this, one day,” she’d said, arranging the dripping wet necklace across Chun Chi’s chest.

  This was the first time she’d thought of Tsong Tsong since leaving the shelter. She shivered to think of those words, which now had the ring of prophecy.

  Chun Chi held the two knives as if gently rocking them to sleep, like small lost creatures finally reunited. When she closed her hands, they clinked softly together, two souls escaping into another world. Each time those two blades touched, all that long night, she felt moved to tears. Their coming together was a sign that her days of drifting were over. She had exchanged Tsong Tsong’s companionship for this good fortune.

  Her spirits high, she broke the silence. “Please, could you tell me a little bit about the past —”

  But this angered Camel, who seemed to prefer her silent, a small captive bird. He pulled her close by her hair and growled, “Can you really not remember?”

  She shook her head frantically. His grip was powerful enough to rip her scalp in two. They stayed there for an eternity, frozen, until the man opened his hand. Only then could Chun Chi draw breath. She’d never encountered such explosiveness. The few men in the refugee camp were shrivelled, cowardly specimens, their spirits washed away with the tsunami. She’d assumed all men were like them. Now, with Camel, she knew what a man could be. The pain faded from her head, but she could feel the imprint of his hand, as if he might swoop down on her at any time. His rage didn’t frighten her. Rather, she took comfort in thinking he would only show such temper to his closest intimates.

  They stayed there for some time, listening to the nearby waves. Finally, Camel reached for the coconuts. Slicing the top off one, he handed it to her. Without its little round lid, it was full of liquid. Although coconuts were everywhere on this island, they didn’t eat them in the refugee camp. Now she found the smell familiar, a whisper of happiness. She gulped a little of the water and was suddenly awake, refreshed, anguish gone. She said to Camel, “I know this smell. I think I must have liked coconuts, before.”

  He finished his coconut-water in a single swallow, and then looked at her, eyes alight. “Would you like to know what else you used to like?”

  A prickling sense of what would follow made Chun Chi stiffen. Her trembling hands spilled coconut-water everywhere. She could no longer hear the sea, only Camel’s breath as his hidden mouth pressed urgently against her ear. She cried out, but in an instant her mouth too was lost in his beard. Inch by inch, he pressed himself to her, flesh meeting with a click of recognition, like the faint chime of jade pieces coming together. Layers of rolling mist melted away as the deepest parts of her body responded to him.

  Even as she resisted him, she wanted him to cleave her in two, like lightning, to illuminate the dark reaches of her body so she could finally see herself clearly, her clouded past. She was guarding a city without knowing what lay within its high walls, defending it from invaders she secretly wished to surrender to. She wanted thousands of horseback soldiers to burst through the city gates, flooding it, filling its emptiness.

  He thrust his firmness into her surprise. The hardened earth begin to tremble and crack, slowly becoming softer, moist. The land gratefully received the new shoot thrusting down into it. Encouraged, the plant put out roots, and each grain of soil it touched shivered with unbidden joy.

  Her own shuddering happiness made her feel ashamed.

  They rolled into the spilled coconut-water and didn’t notice. A little damp could hardly put out the fire they had started. Before her tears started to fall, he had breached the ice-cold cavern, neglected for so long.

  5

  They were only together for seven days.

  This week was marked by its ordinariness. Even many years later, Chun Chi was able to remember every detail. Camel made love to her, and then went out to collect more bodies from the sea. In the evening, he caught birds and rabbits for their supper. It was the most primitive kind of life, and also the most satisfying.

  Each night he took lavishly from her body, and she allowed him to fill her completely. She lived only for him now. On the third day, he thatched a grass roof for their hut, but still the wind blew in from all directions, freezing cold at night when the tide rose. They slept on the shaky hammock, which would only be still if she shrunk herself to fit entirely on top of his body. Face to face they slept, the man’s snores growing louder as he fell into deep sleep. She woke late at night with a start, certain she was floating on the ever-changing sea. She loved the hammock; no other bed would allow two people to be this close together, body breathing body, as if sharing a womb.

  It was the cold that woke her in the mornings, the fire reduced to embers. She snuggled her face into the hollow of his neck and ran her hands over his scalding body, and soon was warm again. The sea was calmest at this hour. Kingfishers perched on the broken walls, their bright feathers drawing colour from the water behind them. They must have been lonely after the great wave, and now they were drawn to this strange tangle of living human flesh.

  The first few days, Chun Chi kept perfectly still after waking, fearful of disturbing Camel. Then she realised he would probably sleep through a second tsunami. She crawled off his body, relieved herself outside, and then went walking on the beach. She found a spring in the jungle nearby and splashed handful after handful of water over her body. She noticed the tiny changes in herself, her skin thicker yet softer.

  Her eyes closed, she ran her fingers over herself, feeling the places his breath had reached. She followed the trail past her belly to that misty, cloudy expanse that still glowed with heat. A spark here would ignite at once, a burst of red like a volcano cloud.

  Washing herself like this made his scent grow stronger on her. Perhaps it would never fade. She returned to the hut, sometimes stopping to pick some vanda orchids. These little flowers, which grew on the lower branches of trees, were speckled with deep purple, their drooping stems asking to be plucked.

  Camel was still asleep when she got back, although his snoring was a little quieter. Perhaps he was going through the dregs of a dream. Chun Chi walked over and smoothed his brow — this dream didn’t look like a pleasant one. He looked much older asleep, without the boundless energy of his waking self. Looking at him now, it seemed he had been sleeping too long, his face a little sunken, as if decay was setting in. When she touched him, he felt like something wrapped in spider silk, an umbrella put away while damp and now dried into wrinkles, smelling of mould, suffocating — but such an umbrella can still be precious, if it has accompanied you long enough.

  The wrinkles were thickest just below his eyes. Caressing them, she felt she had watched his time pass, understanding in her he
art each of his victories. His age was precious to her because she had seen him acquire it.

  Mornings seemed especially long because so quiet. Sunlight poured onto the sea, only to be pushed back ashore by incoming waves, staining the top layer of sand grains shiny gold. Chun Chi wavered, then decided that the best way to use this soft, slow time was to sleep a little longer. She crawled back on top of Camel. The orchids fell from her hand and blew away along the ground. Her hair freed itself from its bun and dappled across his chest, causing him to reach out a hand and scratch in his sleep.

  Sometimes he had bad dreams that made him want to turn over, but he couldn’t, bound by the hammock. Now he woke, panting, to find it was her weight stopping him breathing. He wrenched her off him. Still half-asleep, she found herself in mid-air, weightless. His hands were tight against her ribs but she refused to struggle or call out in pain. When his rage had passed, he brought her slowly back down. As soon as her skin touched his, she flung her arms around his neck, terrified of being separated again.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked softly.

  “I dreamt my brothers’ boat met a giant wave that swallowed them.”

  “Your brothers?”

  “It’s been so many months, maybe they really did meet that tsunami.”

  So that was why he looked so hard at each body as it came from the sea.

  “It was just a dream,” she said, holding his hand. “Many people were taken by the wave and managed to survive.” Like me, she could have added.

  He was silent, his eyes uncertain. After a while, he sighed and shut his eyes, drifting back into sleep. Chun Chi smoothed his brows flat again. She liked him when he was angry or hurt. He looked so helpless, like a small child waiting to be comforted.

  The only thing still making her uneasy was the way he asked, every day, what she remembered. They could be eating dinner in silence, when out of the blue he would take her wrist and say, “Have you thought of anything yet?” His grip was tight, his eyes blazing and impossible to hide from, until she shook her head.