‘But it would not matter if he was Genghis
khan or Deng Tsao Ping the communist; what does it matter that he led the
seamen out on strike at the moment of independence. His real crime was his
blood. How could it be different ? White, Chinese and Dayak; this is what they
could not stand. His guilt was the chain of his being, his secret, the core of
his shame.’
‘Muddied blood; they
wanted him to serve as all they were not.’
Her words poured like a torrent at a religious feast.
The detective looked at me. He began
the interview in a room with curtains at the windows. There was a small lamp on
his desk that shone on the wooden chair where I had to sit while he
remained at a little distance in the
cool dusk. The rain beat down on the windows.
I’d read of scenes like these in
American detective books and it all seemed like a game to me. After our
conversations however, I studied him more carefully, I saw a small man, like
me, with delicate features and deep blue eyes. There was Chinese in him and
perhaps he saw something of it in me. The top positions do not favour them in the civil service and
the police; something inimical to my Ma
and Da and why Dada caused them so much trouble. My father’s acts of contrition
were always preceded by torrents of abuse and what followed after.
‘You should not provoke him about
your Dada ‘my mother would say.
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