Stories from Deli

From Tropical Fever by Laszlo Szekely.

Lim Ah-Yung was busying himself on the edge of the forest showing the places where further seedbeds were to be made.

“Ah-Yung! … Ah-Yungaaaa!! … ” I cried.

“Hoy ! ” replied his strident voice.

And he came hurriedly trotting up. A red thread was woven into his long pigtail, which he had wound round his head. His topi sat boldly and crookedly on his head, his squinting, false, cunning eyes sparkled understandingly.

Ah-Yung had worked here for ten years now. He knew everybody. Faces he had once seen impressed themselves upon  his  memory,  and  yet all  white  men really looked as alike to him as the Chinese  do to us. Ah-Yung was the best   arithmetician in the world.

The   complicated calculations  for  which  we  Europeans  need  pencil  and  paper  and  which  give us _a quarter of  an  hour’s  headache,  he  worked  out  m  his head in half  a minute.  Never once  had  anyone  managed to catch him making an error. Ah Yung  had no need of  books. He carried everything in his head.

What  the  coolies  owed,  what  they  had  paid  off, the  interest,  the  arrears  and  the  due  dates  of  their payments.  Ah-Yung  could  give  the  names  of   the Europeans who had worked on the plantation for the last ten years; of course he pronounced them in a way that made them barely  recognisable, for his language, consisting mainly of  vowels, did  not include some of the   consonants;  these  he  would  replace  by  others, which  made  it  hard  for  one  to  understand  him.  He could  give  the  names  of  all  the  nyays  of  the  tuans in  chronological  order,  and  that  meant  a  great  deal, as  certain  tuans  who  loved  a  change,  had  employed incredibly many nyays. Woods, for instance, had seventeen  nyays in the previous year. Either they did not  suit  him,  or  they  became  pregnant,  so  that  the pan-European   Briton   had   sent   them  back    to   the kampong  without  a  thought.  He  certainly  did  not want half-caste children!

Ah-Yung  knew  how  much  pay  every  one  of  his coolies  had  received  ten years ago at the final settlement. Ah-Yung was the memory of the  firm.

“Ah-Yung,  do you  know the gentleman  who  was here   just  now  with  the  Tuan  Besar  m  the  steam coach?” I asked the rascal.

“No, Tuan, I don’t know him, he’s not from these pans,  he comes from  over there, from  the other side of   the  water.  But these  plants  here,  we  won’t  be transplanting  them,” he volunteered,  pointing  to the greening  hot-bed.

“Oh? But why not, Ah-Yung?”

“We won’t  be transplanting  these  plants now,  the Tuan may believe me,” the cunning Chinese

repeated stiffly and firmly.

“All  right,  all  right.  But  why  not?  Just  tell  me.” “Because rubber is to be planted here too, as on the Bandar Bulan  plantation.  We   already have kabar angin about  that.”

Kabar angin means air news. Where it comes from, who brings it, no one knows. Many hundreds of   kilometres  away,  in  some  hidden  corner  of  the  island, something  or  other  happens arising  of  coolies,  the murder  of  a  European,  or  the  like and  within  an hour  that  makes  kabar angin  out  here.  Despite  our telephone,  despite  our  police  and  despite  our  telegraph  wires the Chinese  know everything  before we Europeans do. The kabar angin  brings news of things that are happening  outside the island, which  we hear only many  days later. And  how?  No way  of  telling. And  the  news  is  always  reliable,  always  accurate. There is no way of  entering  into  the mysterious  life of  the Chinese. Their connections  are unfathomable their secret conspiracies  entangled,  and complete  obscurity envelops their laws. The  fingers of their secret leagues  stretch  to  the  farthest  corners  of  the  earth. The  members of  their leagues are mandarins,  millionaires, coolies, robber-murderers, and beggars. He  who betrays the league or will not serve it, has to pay for it. And pay for it in such a way that an uninitiated, but especially  a  white  man,  never  discovers  whether  the attacked  was  the  victim  of  revenge  or  whether,  in clearing  the  terrain,  a  tree  felled  him.  The   Chinese know,  but they  keep silence. It is no  business  of  the whites,  the  laws  of   the  whites  are  different. 

The white  man,  it  is true,  knows  a  lot for  he  is master of  the  world, but  in  many  things  he  is  considered ignorant  and  unorganised. The  affairs of  the Chinese are not to be his concern-so think the yellow sons of the Celestial Kingdom  .  .  .