Golden Orchid came and went quietly, so shy, so well-mannered, she was not a presence, but a fragrance in the house. Unnoticed physically, one was conscious of her as a sweetness within. After her coming a softness descended upon us all. From the kitchen, raucous heart of the house, I often heard Ah Mei’s voice, soothed, lulled, talking to Golden Orchid, of the wash drying in the sun, of her arms, from which the leech bites were fading, telling stories of the latest wayang[1] opera. The children romping after the pompous mynah birds, too fat to fly, or coming back in triumph loaded with stolen mangosteens, clung to Golden Orchid, holding her fingers, peering up into her face. Even Cookie’s wife did not belch so loud, it seemed.

Golden Orchid helped Ah Mei with the housework, and I always knew when she had done it, because where Ah Mei was inclined to slapdash, Golden Orchid did everything perfectly. But I never heard her voice. To this day I cannot say that I heard her speak more than a whispered Yes, or Thank You, so low that it was not a voice speaking. It was a disembodied presence, a fragrance and a sweetness, when Golden Orchid made her stay with us.

*  *  *

I remember precisely the first occasion when I became uneasy concerning Ah Mei. There is no name for this tremulous imperfection of doubt, which one refuses at inception, nor can I define in words that quality in Ah Mei’s voice, the precise gesture, which gave birth to this unease in myself.

Let me try to say that it was a sudden awareness, that with some people there is such a thing as the habit of betrayal; that this habit is more widespread than one likes to think; that it would not matter, were it not for the fact that in our days political suspicion has the fervour and confident condemnation of religious fanaticism.

For we no longer need proof, to punish; we are condemned by idle speech, by the gay words in the mouths of our friends. In Malaya, where the informer system is the only way to some kind of control of the suspect population, I became suddenly, nauseatingly aware of betrayal – its power, and its corruption.

With some S.E.P.s, and perhaps with Ah Mei, the necessity of providing material for the police, once dictated by survival, had now become addiction. Like professional witnesses in some other countries, like blackmailers, she and they and so many others stored minute fragments of information in their agile and retentive minds, to be used, later, in case of need …