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 Return to Malaya
storm. She swayedand rolled and zigzagged
acrossthe street; she lookedas if she weregoing
to fall. Butshe managed in time to straighten
out the bicycle. Andshe gave a soft happy
laugh. A fewmoreof suchnights and she could
sail on her own.Whatfun ! A few moremonths
of saving from her wages--about 8-9 per
mensem--andshe would be able to buy a
third-handbicycle. At least, there wasthe hope.
Fromthe end of the street, a hawkercried
out his waresin a thin quaveringvoice, andhis
cry was answeredby the children whochased
after himwith shrill mewingvoices as though
they werea flock of gulls, gliding, sweeping,
divingandriding on the air, behinda ship.
His small assistant walked ahead of the
hawker. The boy kept on clacking the bamboo
clapper as thoughhe wastrying to repair the
engine-roomwith a hammer.This waskept up
continuously. All the time they swept up and
downthe street: the hawker,swayingunder a
long pole from which two panniers hung,
tipped with light, and bobbedcrazily like
buoys in a rough sea; his small assistant
hammeringon the clapper with a fired and
patient lookon his face.
It was,in a way,sad to think that theywerea
graduallyvanishingtribe, or at least, a stagnant
tribe. For numerousfood-stalls, growingup
along the roadsideand pavements in the centre
of the town, had offered the solitary hawker
andhis assistant, with their small means,very
severe competition.
Onedrizzling night before 1 lost mybicycle
I set out for one of those eating-places. Fine
fluffy snowydrops of drizzle blew against my
face; and in the tropics this waslike having
points of sunlight on ones face on a cold
winters morning,say, in London.
But whenI got down,the unpleasant fetid
exhalation of the wet, warmroad pricked my
nostrils. Howthe smells wont let mynose
alone!AsI walkedcloser to the eating-stalls, I
had less and less of a choice of odours. The
smells wereso terribly and intricately mixed;
the good and bad smells becamealmost in-
distinguishable. SometimeswhenI thought I
was smelling the sweet, disturbing smell of
eau-de-cologneuponlifting mynose higher I
foundthat I wasinhalingintolerable quantities
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of humanodour whichcarried with it, like a
wavedraggingalong minutegrains of sand in
its rush up the beach,traces of the mustysmell
of dry dust, of salty sweat,of tingling sulphuric
spices, andof foul petrol andoil andpowder.
Thecrowdswere so thick that I could not
get a chair. It wasalmost impossibleto move
freely in these surroundings: I hadto sit downas
quicklyas possible.
Aroundme were the rough woodentables,
midgetstools, four-wheeledstalls with zinc
roofs, long and low-like those of the quayside
sheds, and tiers of meat-balls, fish, noodtes,
red chillies, neatly stacked in pyramids,and
storm-lampsand oil-burners in cylindrical
frameswhichflashedout like beacons--allthese
transformedthe alley into a busynight-harbour
as the lights glintedandslitheredacrossthe wet,
glossysurfaceof the road.
The crowdsgrewthicker and thicker. Soon
faces becamelacqueredwith layers of sweat.
Handkerchiefswerein constant use. I shouted.
several times; the waiters ignored me;all the
moreso, as there wasa half-finished bowlon
the table I had grabbed, leftovers from the
previousdiner. So I sat and watched.
I noticed several, familygroups; they pos-
sessedthe peculiar mannerof eating in a family
way:the youngones lifting their chop-sticks
with identical inclinations; besides, the sons
usually hadtheir mothersroundface and their
fathers glowingsnubnose.
Further along, amongthe better tables, sat
the wealthy, in clean white drill shirts and
trousers, distinguished from the rabble by,
perhaps,the possessionof secondwives(called
tsips), and dark powerfulautomobileswhich
wereparkedon the road like the stout supports
of pontoonbridges.
Their second wives were usually much
prettier, thoughnot as reproductiveas their
first ones. Theysuckediced-coffee carefully
through straws; the tumblers were soon
drained dry, leaving fat chunksof ice on the
bottom. Mouthswere delicately rounded to
receive bales of noodles, their hands, with
elbows resting on the table-tops, working
ceaselessly like cranes. Andwhenthey had
finished, theylickedtheir lips softly andlooked
at their masters.
6 l:~ncounter
In nearby coffee-shops, the ceiling fans walls behinda high barbed-wirefence. Some-
whirred continuously, sending cool sprays of times, planted on a roadside, wesaw a huge
air downwards.The night-flies attacked and blackboardwith thin neat whiteletters painted
attacked again the bright lamps. Somecrawled on it in a schoolmastershand,proclaimingthe
on the white clay lampshades. place to be a WVaTE Aa~A in three languages--
Somewhere, not far awayfromme, the usual the area was safe from the troublesome
willowy dark-brown womensat, already "bandits" and trigger-happyboys. Aslate-grey
attractively got up in their cheong-sum, their buffalo waspatiently munching the grass below
hair permedand patted downwith oil, while the board.
their eyes, liquid witha calculatingshine, were Wehad to pick up somepassengers. The bus
set like jewelsin their roundpowder-pufffaces. stoppedby the side of a canal while wewaited
A numberof menhad fixed their gazes upon for a passenger whowas still packing her
these women.A subterranean flow of comments clothes on the other side. The conductorhad
came from the men. The sloe-eyed women scrambled across a narrow bridge and was
pretended innocence; but as one turned rotmd urgingher on in a loud voice.
to talk to her companions,she cast a swift, A few Malayboys were diving off from the
gatheringglanceat the men.Shefannedherself banks into the yellowish canal. Their bodies
briskly ; takingout her handkerchief,
she slowl.yshone like polished rosewood.Their eyes were
dabbedher cheeksand leant backslightly. velvety and dark and their hair hungdripping-
Suddenly,striding downthe alley, a belated wet over their brownforeheads;their features
theatrical figure madehis appearance:tall, well-proportioned and smooth; nowand then
fearsome,high in the nose, with stormysun-set they raised their armswith swan-likegrace and
complexion, wearing a bow-tie and flowing plungedneatly into the canal.
nylon shirt: and, without turning his head, SomeMalaywomenwere walking along the
bore himself like a dreadnoughtthrough the path beside the canal. Theywerewearingmany-
crowdsas thoughhe hada missionto fulfil, or coloured sarongs and shawls. The file moved
as if, a neighbourcommented, he werehunting along slowly and stately: somehad rattan
for the lavatory. In other words,an Englishman baskets balancedon their heads, somecarried
had walkedby. nakedbabiesin their arms.
A youngwomanraised her face and laughed
r~Wdays agoI travelled inland. It wason as her babytried to clutch her breast in the
A a hot burningafternoon. folds of her garment; her expression was
As our bus passed an army camp, a womau, dreamyin the sunlight. She then adjusted her
sitting behindme, said to her daughter: "Look sarongandofferedher breast to her babyas she
at them,those soldiers, playingfootball in the walkedalong.
hot sun ! Howfoolish !" Theycrossed a log-bridge, balancingnimbly
"Theyvegot such hairy legs," her daughter on its round surface, and madefor a group of
replied. huts amongthe coco-nut trees and rain-trees.
"Dont say that," her mother snapped, "I The thatched attap-houses or huts looked as
neveraskedyouto lookat their legs." shaggyas a bear; but they had somegraceful
Wewent through miles and miles of rubber andsharplines aboutthe roofs. Just outsideone
plantations whichlined the main highway-- of these huts, I sawa gleaming,highlypowered
greenleaves with slenderalbino trunks arranged car standing beneatha thatchedcoveringwhich
evenly like tufts on a hairbrush. R.oadside was supported by four bamboopoles. Some-
villages cameinto sight. The plain wooden oneliving there hadconstructedthis garagefor
shacks were crammedwith cheap goods and his car. There were so manystories about
half-asleep semi-nakedoccupants. gadgets and the Malay peasant who had
Wepassed those NewVillages which were recently benefitedby the favourableprices for
as attractively plannedas a poultry farmwith his crop. One was about a peasant whohad
their newzinc roof~ and rows of bare wooden brought a refrigerator to his hut whichwas

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 Return to Malwa 7
unblessedwith electricity, thinking it wasa Adark-green military truck crawledwarily
combinationof a wardrobeand a wireless-set. behind. Sullen-eyed HomeGuard boys stood
At least he had the inventive mind of a erect in the openbackof the truck--like green
specialist; whathe lackedwere the tools and bottles stackedin the case. Theirfaces wereas
knowledge! woodenas masks; they hardly talked; they
Thebus took meto a small town. seldomchangedtheir positions; and they vcore
Nothing seemed muchchanged. Only the their berets very low over the forehead in a
old bridge wasbeing pulled down,and a new straightline.
million-dollar bridge, the talk andgrumbleof Walkingover the old bridge, I cameto the
the town, was going up very slowly. A number mainstreet. I called on twoold friends.
of local hooligans had wonthe Government The wife, plump,with round piggy cheeks
Social Welfare sweepstake. (Howthey all and a nose like a sparrowsbeak, wassitting
havethe luck! Butsoon, youll see, they would on a chair, her legs drawnup sideways,when
spend every cent they had won,a wrinHedold I entered. Asshe sawme, she gave out a loud
womangrimly forecasted, nodding her head yell, andhastily stoodup, wrapping her sarong
at me.) Westerndemocracywas beginning to tight round her chest. She asked mea lot of
seep through the townin brightly coloured questions. Did she look muchfatter? HadI
posters and bannerscarrying sucha messageas noticed that her hair was nowthicker? She
WE WELCOME YOU, YOLFR EXCELLENCY. wasnot so bald now,wasshe ? DidI bring her
Thebus stoppedin the middleof the market somemarvellous hair restorer? Whenwas I
square. I got offin the glaring sunlight. getting married?
Thefirst personI sawwasAi Chye,meaning Shefannedherself briskly wlfile talking, and
"short fellow" in Cantonese. she studied mecarefully with her small nimble
Hewassitting on top of a boxwith his wares eyes. Thenher husbandcameout, tall andbony,
around him. Alarge bamboo-plaitedhat with puffing a cigar. Hebent swiftly over and blew
a sharp apex covered his head. He had pro- a cloud of smokeon her head. "Mycure for
truding gold-fish eyes. They were weak, he her baldness," he said. His wife burst out
apologised for not seeing me--because for laughing and hollered," Now,you can see why
someyears he had to get up at three in the I have grownfat. Hemakesmelaugh all the
morningto preparethe soft bean-curdsfor the time."
market,andhe hadto do his workin badlight. A few more desultory remarks and I left
Hesmileda lot whenhe talked. Hesold every- them.
thing, he wavedhis handroundand said--salt- Thegreen chicks with huge Chinesecharac-
fish, ground-nutoil, lard, vegetables,baskets, ters in faded yellow were lowered over the
fresh fish, soyasauce,chilli, cinnamon, butter, front of the coffee-shop.Theshop wasalmost
and margarine. But he had to pack up by ~ in empty. White marble table-tops seemedto
the afternoonas the marketdosedat that time. float in the darkenedinterior like manyround
Then he went round the town trying to sell piecesof ice-floes. Almostthe sameas before.
illegal lottery tickets, called ~,oooand~o,ooo The proprietress sat on a stool behindthe
characters, whichhadbeenraging clandestinely woodencounter, her big head snuggledin her
amongthe adult population. At night he arms; as I entered, she raised her head, moving
spread out his book-stall; rows of books her massivebodylazily, andstared at me. She
stackedon a canvasby the side of a road; and dozedoffagain whenI walkedpast her.
he sold cheap Chinese love stories, serious Herhusband sat on a high-backchair, his left
Chineseclassics, semi-pornographic periodicals, leg clampedhard on the edge. Fie fondled his
American comics,and surprising translations of longstraggly dark beard, rolling the endsround
Nanaand La Dameaux Camglias. his little finger, meditatively.Hehada bony
AsI left the market,twolorries, piled high face, andfromhis sunkenlacqueredeye-pits his
with sacks of rice, trundled along the highway hard eyes gazedhypnoticallyinto the afternoon
towardsme, ploughingup clouds of red dust. glare; his nose curved harshly above his

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 .Encounter
fleshy lips. Hesawme.Quicklyhe rose up, all
smiles, andstriding over to his wife, shookher
and pointed to me. She noddedat meweakly.
Softly he asked me: "Goingto see your grand-
aunties ? Good."I noddedmyhead. Hesmiled.
As I walkedinto the house, he had returned to
his chair andclampedhis leg on the edgeof the
chair, broodingsilently over his dwindb.ing
business.
It wasdarkerstill in the hall; the atmosphere
was moist and heavy. Fromthe enclosed air-
well a pale weaklight floated slowly down-
wardsas though it had to penetrate several
fathomsof water. I just could makeout the
shadowyformof the high altar at the back. of
the hall. A faded picture of the Goddessof
Mercyhungabovethe joss-pots.
Myfirst grand-auntysat on a low mahogany
bench.She wasa shapelessbundlein the dark.
She turned round and sawme. Thenher greet-
ing reached me like an echo, distant and
reverberating.
My second grand-aunty had walked in
swiftly from the back of the house, hurrying
along a small child with shrill commands. She
had grownvery thin; the bones stuck out: in
her face ; her smallgrey bunwasheld by a large
hair-pin. She wore a sombre-colouredsarong
and her thin arms were covered by a long-
sleevedblouse. Thechild beganplayingon the
brick floor, picking things up and nibbling
them.Shekept on addressingthe child; scolded
himfrequently and laughedso faintly that at
first I thought she wasweeping.She kept her
eyes from me.
I then sat downbeside myfirst grand-aunty
who in a low quavering voice asked me:
"Whendid you come back?"
She paused and wiped her mouth. "Doyou
knowthat your grand-unclehas gonedea:~?"
she continued, "Youll haveto shout whenyou
want to talk to him: he cant hear. Sometimes
he canhearverywell. I thinkhes like a wireless-
set; he dependsso muchon good weather. He
hears very badly whenit rains. Now,remem-
ber, you mustopenyour mouthslowly; fox: he
has to watch your mouth whenyou talk to
him." She scratched her head slowly with her
hand.Her face wasas yellowand wrinkled.as a
sponge.
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Suddenly mysecond grand-aunty spoke to
me: "Lookat him"--pointing to her grand-
child--" hes very disobedient.Hecrawlsabout
everywherelike a worm.Hewontlisten to my
scoldings. Whenhe wants anything he must
have it. So naughty! Hes getting worse and
worse. I think he wants to ride a bicycle.
Yesterdayhe bit the pedalswith his four teeth.
So naughty." Andshe laughednervously.
Myfirst grand-auntypulled meby the arm:
"Look!heres your grand-uncle. I dont know
if he can recogniseyou. I do hopehe doesnt.
Youdbetter shout out at him. Kemember, open
your mouth slowly. Here he is." She waved
her hand and shouted "Hoi, there. Do you
knowwhothis is ? Canyouhear me? Hoi, there,
wireless-set!"
Mygrand-uncle walkedup to me, his plump
monkishface expandinginto a smile, and asked
me, without answering his wife: "Whendid
you come back?"
"Its a great pity he recognisedyouat once.
Usually he takes a longer time," myfirst
grand-auntywhispereddisappointedly." Some-
timesI amnot sure ifhes deaf. Heslike a small
boy, alwaysplaying tricks on me."
She turned to her sister and said: "Stop
watchingthe child! Youllfrighten himbefore
he growsup. Goand get mycheroots from the
box. Ai-ya!" she sighed, pulling me by the
arm,"the price of cherootshas goneup again."
AWAOODEN
sampancarried meacross the river.
s it drewup against the woodenquay,
I threwdownten cents to the rowerandhastily
clamberedup the woodensteps. A few women
were bathing, pouring downbuckets of water
over their sarong-soaked bodies. They were
plump and amiable. Under a low-spreading
rain-tree, three youths in crumpled muddy-
white dress stood idly gossiping. Besidethe
tree wasa lowhut. I lookedinto it.
In the middleof the floor there werethree
tables, each higher than the other, arrangedin
the shapeof a high altar. Smalltea-cups lay on
the top table which had on either side two
earthen joss-pots. A worn mouldycloth, em-
broidered with the designs of a dragon, was
flung on the lowesttable. Aroundthe sides of
the hut were long strips of magic paper.
 Return to Malaya
From the poles of the roof numbers of
red paperswith gold letterings dangled, flap-
ping loosely in the breeze. Stragglytrails of
white joss-smokerose up towardsthe ceiling.
Everythingelse wasgrey. Someone must have
beenpraying this afternoon. Perhapsfor luck
in the ~o,ooocharacter lottery. Dreamsof huge
fortunesamassedsuddenly! Theyhadsuch trust
in miraclesandluck!
I followed a small lane whichskirted the
crumblingwalls of the village huts and led
diagonallyacross the bare, hard-bakedsquares,
where naked children and mangydogs slept
in the hot sun. R slimy glacial waste, viscous
greenishsurfacewith boils, lay inert in a wide
dug-out.
Thehut stoodto the left. Onthe lintel of the
door, I saw another red piece of paper with
gold writings. Otherwise,the front of the hut
wasbare.
I could not see clearly whenI entered, as
there wereno front windows.I walkedinto the
backof the house.
In the next partition I sawa nakedbabysound
asleep in a rattan cradle whichwasattached
by meansof four rough cords to the poles of
the ceiling. There was a raised woodenbed
beside it. Ayellowmat lay on top of the bed.
Still I could not find her. So I strode into
the smallairless kitchenat the back.
She wassitting on a stool, her armshugging
a huge earthen jar in the corner. Her torn
sarong waswrappedround her body under her
armpits. Shedid not see me.
In front of her, about five feet away,wasa
slight depression on the mud-floor. A puddle
glinted in its corner like an evil eye. A tiny
shallow drain led the water away but the
egress wasblockedup with rubbish and cans.
She wasstaring at the piles of clothes and
dishes lying beside the puddle.Her son, a slim
youngboy with finely cut features and pale
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9
transparent complexion,saw me and started
towards me, crying out: "Why,whendid you
comeback ?"
The womanthen turned round. I smiled at
her, expectingthat she wouldlet loosea torrent
of wordsand jokes, for she had a witty and
ironic tongue.Instead she glancedat mefor a
while and then fixed her gaze uponthe puddle
again.
Her son madea signal with his hand; and
then comingclose to me he whispered: "My
mother cannot talk very muchnow."" Why,"
I asked. "I dont knowexactly: but for some
monthsshe could not moveher legs at all.
Shes muchbetter now;she can say a few words
at a time."
"Whydidnt you get a doctor?"
"Ai-ya! Do~ctorsare very expensive, you
know."
Slowly with great difficulty, the woman
movedher lips. "Whycant I talk? Tell me.
Why... cant... I taLk now?"
"But, mother," her son answeredquickly,
"youre muchbetter now."
"Whycant I talk? Whycant..." She got
up fromthe stool andwalkedoff.
"But mother, youre talking. See, you are
talking."
I talked softly to the boy. As weleft the
kitchen, I sawher sitting on the bed, her legs
crossed before her. Herlips werefirm and she
held her bodyerect. Hersmallhandslay on her
lap: her eyes were wide-open and red with
checkedtears. Thebabywasstill soundasleep.
Suddenlyshe gavea sigh.
"Dontworry,youll soonget well," I said.
I walkedout swiftly. The red piece of paper
wasflappinggently in the breeze.
AsI rodeacrossthe waters,I heardthe voices
of the children, screamingand laughingon the
banks. They must have been born with lusty
lungs.
 Leslie A. Fiedler
McCarthy
ECENTLY a major wire service carried
R the story of a man,releasedfromprison
after morethan fifty years, whocon-
fessed to never havingheard of Joe McCarthy.
For the unlucky rest of us, McCarthyand
McCarthyism--theproper noun and the com-
monone--are familiar to excess. Themanhas
becomea legend, and the legend a man.
Evento himself, McCarthyis apparently a
mythical figure. His wayof referring to his
official self in the third personis well known;
andthere appearsto be a real differencebetween
"McCarthy,"the public presence, humourless
and vindictive, and "Joe," the private person
whojokes and sets up the drinks. Beinghis own
legend has indeed becomea full-time job, so
that the real Joe comesto have less and less
leisure to exist. Somewhere along the line he
found a momentto marry Jean Carr, whohad
beenhis assistant, but he has nevermanaged to
unpackhis weddingpresents ; and one sees him
camped among the unopened boxes, his
palsied headtrembling,his throat plaguedwith
streptococci, as if his bodyandhis voicewere
rebelling against the role into whichthey are
forced. The manhas becomeas vividly unreal
as a political slogan.
His unreality is an essential attribute. Our
age is a time for nightmaresand the need to
project them. The CommunistMenace, which
for years remaineda journalistic luxury, a
Halloweenfalse-face for bored chauvinists,
comes to resemble more and more the bad
dream from which we cannot awaken, the
bad dreamof history. Thosewhobelieve, on
the one hand, that everyone whochallenges
Io
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middle-classorthodoxyis a lackey of Kussia,
or on the other, that anti-Communistsare
incipient fascists, havelong been trying to
maketheir stereotypes flesh. Theyhaveevoked
McCarthy;the rest of us merely suffer him.
Butfor all of us, he comesinto existenceat the
samemoment,sometime just after 8 p.m. on
the night of February9th, 195o.
FI~OMthe moment he rose before the
WomensRepublican Club of Wheeling,
West Virginia, to announcethat he had the
names of 205 Communists in the State
Department,McCarthyshistory has been in
the public domain. Whatmost people know
of his earlier career in the Senate:his opposi-
tion to sugarrationing and public housing;his
leading, thoughunofficial, role in savingfrom
their death-sentences .Germanstorm troopers
convicted of shooting downzSo Americanand
Belgianprisoners at Malm~dy in x944--all this
has beenreinterpreted in the light of the un-
brokenseries of charges and counter-charges
that havefollowedthe WheelingLincoLnsDay
Address.
McCarthy on the one side ; the State Depart-
ment,the Democratic Party, the internationalist
Republicans on the other; a threatened
Americabetween--this is our modern"East
Lynne," a melodrama played over and
over with an almost mindless persistence and
lack of variation, in the newspapers,over the
radio, on television. But whois the hero, who
the villain ? Sitting in the sameplayhouse,two
audiencessee two quite different plays acted
simultaneouslyby the samecast.