battalion.”
“And he is?” my grandfather said slowly. He always dreaded to hear about one of the men who had died under his command.
“Alive and well, thanks to you,” the young man said. “I’m Geoffrey Brown,” he added. “My friends call me Geoff.”
“Mr. Brown,” Grandfather said gravely. “We will help you in any way we can. This is a grievous thing.”
The young man’s expression changed yet again. He could have been a stage actor, his face was so interesting, so full of shifting moods and emotions. His voice was soft, but it carried across the great hall. “Grievous,” he said. “That is exactly the word, sir. —And you must forgive me if we ask questions that seem intrusive, or even irrelevant to the case. It is all with an eye toward justice.”
But there was nothing strange about the questions the police and the Protectorate men put to us. They wanted to know where Omar Wahlid spent his days and evenings, what was the source of the income from which he paid his monthly rent. Did he have any friends or companions? Had he expressed himself as a radical? Did he read the Guang Hua Daily ?
A red-haired policeman, the only other pale-faced Brit in the room besides British Grandfather and Geoffrey Brown, asked more bluntly, “Is he a Bolshevik?”
I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.
The redheaded policeman swung around and glared at me. “You think that’s funny, do yeh?”
I realized I had made a mistake. He was not British at all, but Irish.
“No,” I said, though Nei-Nei Down was pressing my arm so hard I thought she was trying to squeeze my mouth shut through my shoulder.
“Is he sympathetic to the cause of the Bolshevik party?” he asked.
“I—doubt it,” I said. “He’s not terribly sympathetic.” I remembered Omar Wahlid’s fervent words in praise of that man named Chairman Mao. I kept my mouth shut.
“Doesn’t he attend night school, then?” the red-haired policeman pushed on. Geoffrey Brown was watching us with interest, his soft blue eyes flicking back and forth as if at a table-tennis match.
“Does education make one a Bolshevik?” I retorted. Nei-Nei Down was now pulling on my arm so hard I was tilting sideways.
“She is a child,” Uncle Chachi asserted. It was past midnight, and he was beginning to look his age, like an ancient cricket that had been kept singing too long. His voice was scratchy; he sagged inside one of our worn upholstered chairs and wore a tattered silk muffler around his throat.
“Hardly a child,” said Geoffrey Brown. His voice was warm, and I turned toward him gratefully, but Nei-Nei Down cut him down.
“We mature at a different rate here in Singapore,” she said. “In any event, the child does not know. Omar Wahlid does not attend any night-school classes. He is not affiliated with the Communist Party. He is just a troubled young man who has been struggling with his faith.”
“In other words, he is a Muslim fanatic,” said the red-haired officer.
“That is not what my wife said,” British Grandfather said. “Nor is it what she intended.”
Geoffrey Brown broke in soothingly. “Brian, perhaps you could ask a few questions of the two maids. See if the young man seemed especially agitated over the past few days. If he’s done anything outside of his usual routine.”
“Well, he must have,” said the Irishman. “Unless he always walks around strapped with explosives.”
I nearly laughed again, but Geoffrey Brown gave the Irishman a look that sent him scurrying toward Sanang and Danai. “I wonder,” Brown said to Grandfather, “if you would accompany me back to headquarters.” He held up one hand to cut off the protests that began pouring instantly from Nei-Nei Down’s lips. “Of course, it’s entirely your own decision.”
“Will we see Omar?” I asked. “I want to go, too. Please, Grandfather. I can help.”
“Nonsense!” sputtered Nei-Nei Down.
Geoffrey Brown’s large eyes flicked from me to
“And he is?” my grandfather said slowly. He always dreaded to hear about one of the men who had died under his command.
“Alive and well, thanks to you,” the young man said. “I’m Geoffrey Brown,” he added. “My friends call me Geoff.”
“Mr. Brown,” Grandfather said gravely. “We will help you in any way we can. This is a grievous thing.”
The young man’s expression changed yet again. He could have been a stage actor, his face was so interesting, so full of shifting moods and emotions. His voice was soft, but it carried across the great hall. “Grievous,” he said. “That is exactly the word, sir. —And you must forgive me if we ask questions that seem intrusive, or even irrelevant to the case. It is all with an eye toward justice.”
But there was nothing strange about the questions the police and the Protectorate men put to us. They wanted to know where Omar Wahlid spent his days and evenings, what was the source of the income from which he paid his monthly rent. Did he have any friends or companions? Had he expressed himself as a radical? Did he read the Guang Hua Daily ?
A red-haired policeman, the only other pale-faced Brit in the room besides British Grandfather and Geoffrey Brown, asked more bluntly, “Is he a Bolshevik?”
I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.
The redheaded policeman swung around and glared at me. “You think that’s funny, do yeh?”
I realized I had made a mistake. He was not British at all, but Irish.
“No,” I said, though Nei-Nei Down was pressing my arm so hard I thought she was trying to squeeze my mouth shut through my shoulder.
“Is he sympathetic to the cause of the Bolshevik party?” he asked.
“I—doubt it,” I said. “He’s not terribly sympathetic.” I remembered Omar Wahlid’s fervent words in praise of that man named Chairman Mao. I kept my mouth shut.
“Doesn’t he attend night school, then?” the red-haired policeman pushed on. Geoffrey Brown was watching us with interest, his soft blue eyes flicking back and forth as if at a table-tennis match.
“Does education make one a Bolshevik?” I retorted. Nei-Nei Down was now pulling on my arm so hard I was tilting sideways.
“She is a child,” Uncle Chachi asserted. It was past midnight, and he was beginning to look his age, like an ancient cricket that had been kept singing too long. His voice was scratchy; he sagged inside one of our worn upholstered chairs and wore a tattered silk muffler around his throat.
“Hardly a child,” said Geoffrey Brown. His voice was warm, and I turned toward him gratefully, but Nei-Nei Down cut him down.
“We mature at a different rate here in Singapore,” she said. “In any event, the child does not know. Omar Wahlid does not attend any night-school classes. He is not affiliated with the Communist Party. He is just a troubled young man who has been struggling with his faith.”
“In other words, he is a Muslim fanatic,” said the red-haired officer.
“That is not what my wife said,” British Grandfather said. “Nor is it what she intended.”
Geoffrey Brown broke in soothingly. “Brian, perhaps you could ask a few questions of the two maids. See if the young man seemed especially agitated over the past few days. If he’s done anything outside of his usual routine.”
“Well, he must have,” said the Irishman. “Unless he always walks around strapped with explosives.”
I nearly laughed again, but Geoffrey Brown gave the Irishman a look that sent him scurrying toward Sanang and Danai. “I wonder,” Brown said to Grandfather, “if you would accompany me back to headquarters.” He held up one hand to cut off the protests that began pouring instantly from Nei-Nei Down’s lips. “Of course, it’s entirely your own decision.”
“Will we see Omar?” I asked. “I want to go, too. Please, Grandfather. I can help.”
“Nonsense!” sputtered Nei-Nei Down.
Geoffrey Brown’s large eyes flicked from me to
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