Read Online The Moonlight Palace by Liz Rosenberg - Free Book Online
Authors: Liz Rosenberg
Ads: Link
Grandfather to Nei-Nei. They rested on Uncle Chachi, who shrugged, as if hopeless. I did not understand why at the time.
“If you wish,” said Geoffrey Brown. “If it will not distress you too much.” It did not occur to me to question why a British liaison to the Chinese Protectorate was so careful of my feelings, why he was so polite. People around me had been polite all of my life; it is the Singaporean way to behave. If anything, it only made this Englishman seem more familiar.
Grandfather and I rode in Geoffrey Brown’s large black automobile to the headquarters of the Chinese Protectorate. Nei-Nei Down trotted beside us for the first few feet, her clawed hand tapping on the side of our van, her eyes wide with anxiety. Grandfather and I rode facing backward—they had a sort of metal strap they secured Grandfather’s wheelchair with—and I sat beside him, facing two expressionless young police officers. Geoffrey Brown rode in front, with the driver. After thirty or forty minutes, we pulled up outside a small white building with white columns on either side of the door. Geoffrey Brown gestured at the building. “Built by Coleman,” he said. “A relation, I believe?”
“My uncle,” said Grandfather shortly.
The two policemen more or less carried him in his wheelchair up the stairs, and whenever this sort of thing happened, my grandfather stopped speaking. Just before we entered, though, he rested his long fingers on my arm and peered into my face, his blue eyes piercing and not at all humorous, for once. “Don’t be surprised by anything you see or hear,” he told me. And then we were inside.
The headquarters of the Chinese Protectorate was quiet, and rather pretty in an impersonal way, like the lobby of a small hotel. Women in heels tottered around carrying papers and cups of tea. There were police, of course, and other official-looking men in uniform jackets, but overall the place had a civilian, rather than paramilitary, air. This was all in the front office, a small waiting area sealed off from the back by two steel doors fastened by multiple security locks. There were no windows on either door, and the windows looking out to the street were shaded and curtained, though numerous lamps and white walls made the room seem as bright as day. A young woman came up as soon as we arrived, and she offered us tea and biscuits from an ornate silver tray. There were two types of sweet biscuits, and the tea was freshly brewed. The sight of food made my stomach turn.
“When can I see Omar Wahlid?” I asked.
“Let’s check,” Geoffrey Brown said. He nodded to a guard, who unlocked one of the two doors and then relocked it behind Brown. He was gone for several minutes, during which time Grandfather chatted with a man who introduced himself as head of Internal Affairs. But they didn’t speak about Omar Wahlid or even politics. They talked about books. The head of Internal Affairs collected old books of horticulture, and my grandfather had a great fondness for them as well. Both men were British by birth, and they spoke enthusiastically about secondhand bookstores on Charing Cross Road, in London, and their favorite one, called Foyles.
“I suppose you know nothing about this unfortunate affair,” the man said finally, rocking back on his feet.
“Nothing, I’m afraid,” said Grandfather. “I’ve always liked the young man. I can’t imagine he meant any harm.”
“He had bombs strapped all over his body,” said the head of Internal Affairs, in a voice as even and pleasant as my grandfather’s. “He will have to be deported.”
“Oh, of course.” My grandfather nodded. “I suppose there’s no alternative.”
“Deported!” I exclaimed.
“The alternative is worse,” said the man.
“We understand,” said Grandfather. He took my hand in his and held it, as if I were a little child again and not nearly a grown woman. “Did you know Mr. Foyles personally?” he asked the Internal Affairs
“If you wish,” said Geoffrey Brown. “If it will not distress you too much.” It did not occur to me to question why a British liaison to the Chinese Protectorate was so careful of my feelings, why he was so polite. People around me had been polite all of my life; it is the Singaporean way to behave. If anything, it only made this Englishman seem more familiar.
Grandfather and I rode in Geoffrey Brown’s large black automobile to the headquarters of the Chinese Protectorate. Nei-Nei Down trotted beside us for the first few feet, her clawed hand tapping on the side of our van, her eyes wide with anxiety. Grandfather and I rode facing backward—they had a sort of metal strap they secured Grandfather’s wheelchair with—and I sat beside him, facing two expressionless young police officers. Geoffrey Brown rode in front, with the driver. After thirty or forty minutes, we pulled up outside a small white building with white columns on either side of the door. Geoffrey Brown gestured at the building. “Built by Coleman,” he said. “A relation, I believe?”
“My uncle,” said Grandfather shortly.
The two policemen more or less carried him in his wheelchair up the stairs, and whenever this sort of thing happened, my grandfather stopped speaking. Just before we entered, though, he rested his long fingers on my arm and peered into my face, his blue eyes piercing and not at all humorous, for once. “Don’t be surprised by anything you see or hear,” he told me. And then we were inside.
The headquarters of the Chinese Protectorate was quiet, and rather pretty in an impersonal way, like the lobby of a small hotel. Women in heels tottered around carrying papers and cups of tea. There were police, of course, and other official-looking men in uniform jackets, but overall the place had a civilian, rather than paramilitary, air. This was all in the front office, a small waiting area sealed off from the back by two steel doors fastened by multiple security locks. There were no windows on either door, and the windows looking out to the street were shaded and curtained, though numerous lamps and white walls made the room seem as bright as day. A young woman came up as soon as we arrived, and she offered us tea and biscuits from an ornate silver tray. There were two types of sweet biscuits, and the tea was freshly brewed. The sight of food made my stomach turn.
“When can I see Omar Wahlid?” I asked.
“Let’s check,” Geoffrey Brown said. He nodded to a guard, who unlocked one of the two doors and then relocked it behind Brown. He was gone for several minutes, during which time Grandfather chatted with a man who introduced himself as head of Internal Affairs. But they didn’t speak about Omar Wahlid or even politics. They talked about books. The head of Internal Affairs collected old books of horticulture, and my grandfather had a great fondness for them as well. Both men were British by birth, and they spoke enthusiastically about secondhand bookstores on Charing Cross Road, in London, and their favorite one, called Foyles.
“I suppose you know nothing about this unfortunate affair,” the man said finally, rocking back on his feet.
“Nothing, I’m afraid,” said Grandfather. “I’ve always liked the young man. I can’t imagine he meant any harm.”
“He had bombs strapped all over his body,” said the head of Internal Affairs, in a voice as even and pleasant as my grandfather’s. “He will have to be deported.”
“Oh, of course.” My grandfather nodded. “I suppose there’s no alternative.”
“Deported!” I exclaimed.
“The alternative is worse,” said the man.
“We understand,” said Grandfather. He took my hand in his and held it, as if I were a little child again and not nearly a grown woman. “Did you know Mr. Foyles personally?” he asked the Internal Affairs
Similar Books
