Читать книгу The Gensui's Treasure - B J Le Chêne - Страница 4

Yoshiro Kawaguchi stopped the car at the rest house in Kuala Lipis and drew a deep breath. He looked at his mobile phone photo gallery. Yes! he thought, excitement tickling his mind. The building had originally been the British Resident’s house. After such an important beginning, and ignominious end, it was still here! Still red and white but looking very rundown.

No one cares about colonial buildings here anymore, Yoshiro thought. He shrugged his shoulders. His father had loved the place. He had said that he thought it was still in the same place, that is sitting upon its own hill proudly overlooking the old town. Much had changed since the second world war in this town deep in the south-west of the state of Pahang in what had been Malaya in 1941, but was now, with the addition of Sarawak and Sabah, known as Malaysia.

Yoshiro parked the land rover and walked up the steps to the entrance. A Malay man dressed in a Baju Melayu(3) came forward and asked if he could help. Yoshiro asked for tea and a bowl of mah mee. The man smiled sweetly and said, ‘No food! Well, not here now, sir, kitchen’s closed.’ He looked discomforted. Yoshiro looked into his eyes, assessing him. He had a handsome, rounded face with well-marked eyebrows and large dark eyes. Those eyes looking back at him now, were merry but slightly calculating. Yoshiro picked up his briefcase and turned to leave.

‘Wait!’ the man said, smiling broadly and showing a set of remarkably neat white teeth. ‘I’ll make something for you. I mean, I’m not Chinese, but I can make mah mee.’ Yoshiro looked at him. The man, from a deeply proud race, looked straight back at him keeping his eyes steady. Yoshiro nodded and walked into what must once have been a reception area. Its proportions were beautiful, but the paint had faded and was flaking off in some areas. The old marble tiled floor was clean. He sat in a cane easy chair which had small, broken bits of rattan sticking out here and there. He wondered vaguely about the cleanliness of the cushions as he placed his briefcase on a small table which wobbled slightly.

There was no view as such from where he sat so he pulled his briefcase forward and took out an envelope containing old photographs. He peered at one of them trying to make the faces of the men who had been so important in nineteen forty-two, come alive. The faces were of five men. Nothing odd about them. He narrowed his eyes. They appeared to be normal, pleasant-looking men in uniform. His father was standing to attention to one side, two were laughing heartily at some joke. Two other men sat, face still. Five fiends in all. Yoshiro’s Father had insisted he should come here when he received word to do so. He obeyed when the summons came but had only a a deep sense of unease as to the reason. He put the photos back in their envelope and sighed.

The noodles were ready and the Malay man called him to come to a table in a room dotted with tables and chairs, in what must have once been a formal dining room. He spoke English well and Yoshiro asked, ‘How long have you worked at the rest house?’

‘I’ve run this rest house for twenty years now,’ he answered.

‘You look young to have overseen such a grand building for so long.’ Yoshiro looked up at him.

The young Japanese was a handsome man, Rashid decided. His skin was fair and his sharply defined brows and black, slightly wavy hair above wide eyes, coupled with a strong, bony jaw and a straight firm nose, gave him a look of strength. A beautifully-shaped mouth made the difference though, softening a haughty proud face.

Rashid returned the smile. ‘Not so grand now, sir. Next to the Sultan’s palace or, as we call it, “Istana,” in Malay, it used to be the most important house in Kuala Lipis. But, you know, the British left and the capital moved to Kuantan on the coast so we became a sleepy old town. I took over the rest house when the last proprietor retired.’

‘Why would you do that? I mean is running a guest house interesting for a man like you?’

‘After the war it was for a Malay man. There were not many jobs for people like my father then you see? I worked for him for ten years prior to that so I knew the local tastes and how to run the place. Then they rediscovered gold and built bigger, more modern hotels. Tourists come here just to see the house now.’ He looked at Yoshiro. ‘To, to feel it, you know? Those who are interested in history. They don’t mind the look of it - if it’s clean.’

A little abashed, Yoshiro said truthfully, ‘It’s a wonderful building. Kuala Lipis must have grown and changed since my father was here seventy years ago. A town can change a lot.’

‘Indeed, it can. Have you been here before, sir?’

’Not I. My father and grandfather have though. I am trying to see the town through their eyes.’ Yoshiro blew the steam from the bowl of noodles and began to eat. ‘These are very tasty,’ he said. The man was pleased and showed it by offering to pour tea.

‘I am called Rashid,’ he said. ‘Will you be staying in Lipis tonight?’

‘I am not sure,’ Yoshiro lied a little. ‘I had thought to return to Raub, but maybe a night’s rest from driving would be nice.’

‘We do have rooms here, sir. Not as grand as the new hotels of course, but comfortable and clean. Perhaps you would care to see one?’

‘Thank you, Rashid. I would like to do that. Perhaps later, you can fill me in on some of the history of Kuala Lipis? I want to go for a drive first though, just to get the feel of the place. My father said the old British Residency was rather grand, he was right. The house he stayed in should be close by on Jalan[2] Bius. No,’ he put up a hand, ‘don’t tell me. I want to see if I can find it from his instructions.’

‘Your Malay pronunciation is very good, sir. Most tourists can’t get the names right. Do you know what the word “bius” means?’

‘No. Actually, I have not thought much about it.’

‘It means, anaesthetised. Or perhaps, unconscious! I have to wonder why a road, or indeed the hill itself, should be given such a name. What, I wonder, happened to make it remain in folk memory as such?’

Yoshiro laughed and was about to reply when an irritated voice interrupted. ‘Papa, really!’ The woman who appeared silently from an inner doorway caused Yoshiro to jump a little in surprise. She was very lovely with an almost voluptuous figure. Her large, soft brown eyes, and thick, waving black hair caught in a loose bun were exotic. Her skin, in the midday light, was a soft, golden-brown. Yoshiro watched fascinated as she walked towards them. She swayed slightly as she walked, making his skin prickle. She was dressed in an old-fashioned batik sarung and a tight fitting, traditional lace baju held in front with a kerongsang, a three-tiered brooch, made of thick gold pins looped to each other with thin gold chains. She looked both shy and amused.

‘I am sorry, sir. My father is an amateur etymologist. He has a thing about words and is always trying to have tourists pronounce Malay words properly.’

‘But the gentleman asked me,’ Rashid defended himself saying, ‘Sir, this is my daughter Salmiah. She tells me what I may or may not do.’

Yoshiro bowed and said, ‘I am pleased to meet you. I am grateful for your father’s information. I will never forget the name now. I have an interest in the history of towns and places I visit - this one is fun.’ He smiled at Rashid and said, ‘You and your daughter speak perfect, grammatical English.’

The woman smiled at him and said. ‘My father insisted on all of his children speaking any language properly. No slang words in our house, so we speak unnaturally well.’ She glanced at her father and shook her head. When she smiled at Yoshiro again his insides took a sudden nose dive then rose to a strange new height. He blinked. She looked startled, blushed and turned towards the office. Rashid, aware of the slight strain in the room, lifted both hands. He raised his eyebrows in a comical gesture and smiled at her retreating back. Abashed, Yoshiro finished drinking his tea and asked for the bathroom and if he could inspect the bedrooms. He was offered the Clifford suite which made him smile. Sir Hugh Clifford had been the last British administrator. The old house really was rundown, but as Rashid had claimed, it was clean.

The bathroom made him blink at the hideous yellow tiles. When he stepped out again, he said, ‘Oh my, are all the bathrooms this glorious?’ He found his question answered by Salmiah who had come silently behind him.

‘Yellow is the royal colour,’ she said emphatically.

‘So,’ he said smiling at her, ‘we all have our bathrooms in royal yellow?’

‘Only if you are the lessee of an old, rather splendid, former British resident’s home,’ she answered. Her lips quivered slightly and Yoshiro met her eyes and held. He felt the shock run down his spine and he blinked again. Her lips curved in a complete smile and he answered with one of his own. Neither of them spoke but something was settled in that moment and he felt a sense of wellbeing. She left him then, saying she had an errand to run. He was suddenly not worried.

He opened the doors to the huge red-tiled balcony which had a view over the older part of the town. He stood quietly looking at the roof tops from the residence. Glancing down, he saw Salmiah step out onto the driveway and watched her for a minute or two admiring her long back, narrow waist and swelling hips, swaying slightly, as she walked down the old road towards the town. His heart beating faster and smiling with pleasure, he booked the room. A boy of about eighteen brought his bags from the car. Rashid, looking on, was interested to see numerous stickers on the worn leather bags the boy carried.

‘What is your work, sir? If you don’t mind me asking. I couldn’t help but notice your luggage tags. Do you speak many languages?’ Rashid asked.

‘Well, yes I do. I studied geology at college and I’ve spent considerable time traveling the world. My father was a diplomat to Great Britain and America for a time, and speaking the local tongue is easier than using a book. I am a mineralogist, by profession and inclination.’

‘We have two large gold mines in Kuala Lipis district now, and a few small ones. The town has always been known for gold. We almost lost it for many years. The present owners have exceptional mines here now, and they would welcome visitors, I’m sure.’

‘That’s interesting. I have heard of them, of course. Maybe I’ll visit if I have time. This is a nostalgic trip. Purely to see the places my father spoke of. Volcanoes are my abiding delight. I’ve just come from Indonesia and, as Malaysia was close by, I decided to come and see the places he talked of. He fascinated me with stories of jungles and animals. Tigers almost in his garden and shooting wild boar from his doorstep I believe.’ He smiled at Rashid. ‘Do you see many tigers in your gardens nowadays?’

‘Goodness, no, sir! I am afraid they have learned to stay in the jungle. We don’t hunt them as the British did for sport. But I won’t deny that some folk do try to get a skin now and then. It is definitely not legal, of course, but well, people…you know?’ Yoshiro smiled, liking the man’s candour.

He went out to the Land Rover he had hired and drove down the narrow road onto Jalan(4) Pekeliling. He followed it until he turned off onto Jalan Bius. The road wound up among the trees and scrub passing the royal Istana and old government bungalows on the right. When he saw the side road, he turned into it and continued along it for a short distance coming to a stop slightly below a large fenced compound. The number on the gate was 55/1. Yoshiro got out of the vehicle and walked a few steps up the driveway to a massive gate. He peered over the steel barrier and saw the house he had come so far to find. He took a deep breath and gazed at the building in front of him comparing it to the black and white photographs in his pocket.

The house was a typical early British government servant design, a square block consisting of a central reception area with a wide staircase. A sitting room, dining room and two bedrooms made up the ground floor. The first floor contained two more huge bedrooms with attached bathrooms and a very large sitting room, a good half of which formed a portico over the drive or carriage-way in front of the house. A veranda ran along the back of the first floor and he could just see a wooden stair leading down to a kitchen and a row of servant’s quarters lining the path at the back of the house. A sweeping driveway split to surround the house coming to a large two-car garage at the back. The extensive gardens were a mass of orchid beds set in formal rows. The gate was locked and a guard house stood near the gate, though empty now he guessed that it would have a man stationed there most of the time.

Yoshiro returned to the car and sighed. How on earth was he to surreptitiously place his father’s ashes in the grave of his first wife and unborn child in that compound? He decided to ask Mac when he saw him. He let the car run silently down the road towards Jalan Bius and stopped near the junction. He pulled the packet of photos from his pocket and studied the faces of the four men pictured. Three men were seated around a low table in a corner of the living room of the old residence. His grandfather was smiling and two relaxed-looking men were laughing heartily. The fourth man was his father who was standing to one side staring at them and he was not smiling. Four harmless-looking men. Four fiends. His hands shook as he replaced the pictures in the envelope and returning it to his pocket he drove back down the hill.