“You look like you’d be good at it,” she’d said, and between this and our idle chatter, I’d made the mistake of taking the hem up a little too high for Mrs. Tham’s conservative guidelines. Laughing, Hui said it didn’t matter and that shorter was better. Later, I found out why, but by then we were already good friends.
Hui lived on Panglima Lane, the narrowest street in Ipoh. Cramped houses pressed against each other and strings of laundry hung overhead like gaily waving flags. Thirty years ago, it was notorious for its brothels, gambling, and opium dens, but now it was mostly private homes. In Cantonese, it was called Second Concubine Lane. I’d often thought it would be a terrible place for a rendezvous because the houses were so close to each other. You could practically see across from the upper floors.
“Hui!” I called out as I arrived.
“Upstairs.” Her landlord, an old man who chewed betel nuts and looked like a vampire because of his crimson-stained mouth, gestured towards the front room. I found Hui lying on her stomach in bed, leafing through a newspaper. She was wearing a thin cotton slip, her bare face shiny with face cream.
Her eyes opened wide when she saw my face. “Whom did you fight with?”
“How did you know?” I set two portions of nasi lemak, coconut rice wrapped in a banana-leaf packet with curried chicken and sambal chili, on the table. Hui’s room was larger than mine at Mrs. Tham’s, and littered with pots of rouge, face powder, and magazines.
“Those scratches—I’ve seen girls fight. What happened?”
I explained yesterday’s events as we started to eat.
“So it was the widow who did it,” she said, opening her packet of nasi lemak appreciatively.
I sighed. “Well, I can’t blame her—she was so upset.”
“I told you not to go! I hope you weren’t alone.”
“My brother went with me.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother. Does he look like you? Because if he does, I want to meet him.” Hui had been delighted by my fashionably short hair, helping me apply the unfamiliar pomade that kept its sleek shape.
“We don’t look alike at all. He’s my stepbrother so we’ve no blood relationship.”
“Oh,” she said, wrinkling her nose. Hui knew a little about my stepfather, although I tried not to discuss my circumstances at home. “Is he horrible?”
“No, he’s apparently quite a catch. At least, according to the women in Falim.” I rolled my eyes and she burst into a fit of giggles.
“But listen,” she said, “I meant to tell you that it’s better that you don’t come to work for a while anyway. On Sunday there was a man asking for you by name. Not Louise, but your real name.”
My spirits sank. The only customer that I’d inadvertently revealed my name to had been the salesman. “What did he look like?”
“Chinese. Ordinary. I told him that there wasn’t anyone here by that name.”
I wanted to hug her. “And then?”
“He left. Maybe he was looking for the finger. Did you leave it with the widow?”
“She wouldn’t take it.” Remembering that scene in the little wooden house, with Ah Yoke writhing and sobbing on the floor like a snake with a woman’s face, I felt deeply uneasy.
“So who has it?”
“My brother.” What was Shin planning to do with it anyway?
Hui sighed. Warm evening air wafted through the open window and you could hear bicycle bells ringing and the click of passing feet. “Where do you find such reliable men? I’m sick to death of the ones I meet.”
I hadn’t thought about it in that light before, but I supposed she was right. “We were close when we were younger, but not so much now. He’s turned into a womanizer.”
Hui gave a shriek of laughter. “I’m sure he can’t be that bad.”
I had to smile. “He’s working in Batu Gajah for the next few months.”
“Batu Gajah?” Hui waved the newspaper at me. “Did you hear about this? They found a body on Saturday. There’s a man-eater on the loose.”
It was a small article: a paragraph or two that must have been rushed to press. Body found in Batu Gajah rubber plantation. Headless female torso discovered by estate worker.
A tiger. From time to time, the newspapers carried gruesome reports of people strangled by pythons, taken by crocodiles, or trampled by elephants. But tigers were different. Referred to as datuk, an honorary title, there were charms spoken to appease a tiger when venturing into the jungle. A tiger that devoured too many humans was said to be able to take the form of a man and walk among us.
It had nothing to do with Shin or me, but I felt the cold touch of that shadow again, the one that undulated in the watery depths of my fears, as though it was searching for something.
* * *
By Friday, only my black eye lingered, having turned greenish-yellow. Fortunately it wasn’t swollen anymore, and I decided that with the judicious application of makeup, I’d be able to make my afternoon shift at the dance hall. Besides, I really needed the money. The numbers kept scrolling up and down in my head in red ink—a horrible shortfall. Missing a payment might result in the loan shark sending a nasty reminder to my stepfather’s house. I convinced myself that the risk of some man looking for me about the finger was minimal, and anyway, perhaps he’d already crossed the May Flower off his list.
It was a slow afternoon. The sun was baking down outside, and in the dim coolness of the dance hall, iced drinks were doing a brisk trade. I sat out a couple of dances, chatting with some of the other girls. Hui didn’t work on Fridays, but I’d made friends with Rose and Pearl. Rose was a widow, and Pearl never said, but I suspected she’d run away from her husband. Of course, those weren’t their real names, either. If I’d had a choice I’d rather be called May or Lily, something pretty and light unlike my serious Chinese name, but I was stuck with Louise. In fact, patrons referred to me by my hairstyle. “I want the one who looks like Louise Brooks,” they’d say, pointing at me, and I’d stand up and smile as though it were my birthday.
It was my fifty-third day of being Louise. In Cantonese, fifty-three was a homophone for “cannot live.” Another day with an unlucky number, and nine days since I’d danced with the ill-fated salesman Chan Yew Cheung. Rose had just finished telling us how she’d stayed up all night because her little girl had a bad cough, when she suddenly said, “Oh, he’s back!”
A customer was scrutinizing us. He had a narrow face with a crooked chin, as if his head had been caught in a vise. Guessing he was the man Hui had warned me about, I got up in alarm, but he was too quick for me.
“May I have this dance?”
I hesitated, but the Mama’s eagle eye was on me. I’d no reason to refuse, though my stomach twisted with dismay. Surprisingly, he was a good dancer. We went around the floor a couple of times; I was beginning to think my suspicions were unfounded when he said, “You must be Ji Lin.”
“I could be, if you wanted,” I forced a smile. “But I’m afraid my name is Louise.”
“I’m looking for a girl who picked up something last week. A family heirloom of mine.”
For an instant, I was tempted to come clean. I’d already fulfilled my obligation to the salesman’s family. But I no longer had the finger; if Shin had destroyed it, this man might be furious. Hedging, I said, “What does it look like?”
“It’s my ancestor’s finger from China that’s been in our family for generations. My friend borrowed it last week. He said he’d lost it here.”
“A finger?” I tried to look surprised, even horrified. He watched me carefully. I wondered if he was lying. According to the salesman’s wife, her husband had possessed the finger for the last three months. “I’ll ask around for you.”
“Let me know,” he said, staring intently. “You can leave a message for me here.” He scribbled down the address of a coffee shop on Leech Street together with a name: Mr. Y. K. Wong.
“If you find it, I’ll give you a reward. For sentimental reasons.” He smiled his sharp-toothed smile.
After that, he danced with several other girls, who later confirmed that he’d asked them the same questions: if they were called Ji Lin, and if they’d picked anything up, though nothing about missing fingers. I recalled the way he’d made a beeline over to me as soon as he’d entered and a shiver traced the back of my neck.
“I’m surprised you came in today,” said Rose, fanning herself vigorously during an intermission, while the band drank soda water and mopped their brows. Despite the face powder, her forehead was almost as shiny as the parquet dance floor, and I was sure that I was no better.
“I need the money.”
“If that’s the case,” said Rose, “want to make extra?”
I shook my head. “No call-outs.”
Call-outs were when a man would book a girl outside the dance hall, ostensibly to take her shopping or to eat a meal. They were lucrative, but everything came, of course, with a price. I’d explained to the Mama from the very first that I wouldn’t do them. The incident today with Mr. Y. K. Wong, if that was really his name, reminded me just how vulnerable I felt with a stranger. And we hadn’t even been alone—we’d been dancing in full view of dozens of people.