Dada 81

I remember Dada’s stories of Liverpool and being attacked and how they had to duck and weave. Through his fine white hair you could see he had odd, misshapen ears that drooped down and whose lobes were blood-red and fat which is a sign of good luck and a fertile life in southern China. The light struck against his lined face. The funeral director told us where to stand. The priest was at the front, followed by his helpers and the hearse, and around it, the four panel-bearers. Behind them came the doctor and myself ; completing the funeral procession was the nurse and Kim Song,  Dada’s old sparring partner.

The sky was already bathed in sunlight. It was beginning to weigh down heavily on the earth and the heat intensified with every passing minute. I don’t know why we waited so long before setting off. I felt hot in my black suit and cap, with a piece of Dada’s cloth on my shoulder. I was glad my Ma and Da did not attend. I could not stand their disdain. I wondered what they would think about the old man not only having a formal Chinese funeral but a Catholic one as well. Maybe they would have laughed. It would only confirm his betrayal and how they both had to work doubly hard to be Malay for his sins to be forgiven. The thought made me want to laugh as well; me in my Malayan skin and pirate soul of a sea Dayak.

 The old man had put his hat back on but now took it off again. I turned slightly towards Kim Song while the Doctor told me about him. He said that my Dada and he often used to walk to the village together in the evening, accompanied by a nurse. Sometimes they took a glass of beer or wine. I looked at the countryside all around me. When I saw the rows of blue leaved Cyprus trees leading into the hills high against the sky, and the green and reddish land, the houses dotted here and there, I understood how Dada must have felt.