“That must have been hard. To be a friend to her at that time.”

“I felt like it was a one-way street. She wasn’t telling me anything, so I was left to ask her all these questions. It must have been too much for her to hear.” Che Eng looked up at the ceiling fans, fighting tears.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to …”

“Oh, but where could she be?” she burst out. “I really thought she went back to Canada.”

“If she had, I wouldn’t be here.”

Che Eng pinned me with a searching look. “You’re still looking for her.”

“Yes, I was hoping you would know something.”

“I’m sorry. Wo m’zai, I don’t know.”

“And now you’re here in Ipoh. I was surprised because I had expected to meet you in Brunei.”

“Yes, my mother is from here. She’s ill, so I moved back for a while to take care of her.”

“So you didn’t live here when my mother was here?”

“Swee Hua was here? In Ipoh? I don’t think so.”

“Yes, according to a friend of hers. She told him herself.”

“No, that can’t be.”

I showed Che Eng the pub napkin Alfred had written the name of the kopitiam on for me. “Apparently, she worked here. You don’t think it’s true?”

“This can’t be correct. I can’t see Swee Hua coming here and doing this.”

“Well, nobody else seems to know where she’s gone. It’s my only hope.”

Che Eng fingered the napkin before handing it back to me. She hugged me and tucked my hair behind my ears. “I hope you find Swee Hua,” she said tearfully. “When you do, tell her I’m sorry, okay?”

As I walked away, Che Eng held my hand for as long as possible, as if she was not ready to let me go.

No closer to finding Mother, I ventured the next day with John and Leo to the kopitiam where she was last known to have worked. I kept checking the name Kong Heng written on the napkin against the sign above the open-air café. Satisfied that I was in the right place, I found a table while John surveyed the cuisine.

Hot woks fried blood cockles for char kuey teow, a mortar and pestle ground peanuts for tangy rojak, succulent satay smoked on the grill, popiah were rolled up on wooden cutting boards, sweet and sour asam laksa simmered in a large pot, and layered kueh lapis in a rainbow of colours beamed from a refrigerated counter.

Leo amused herself, seated on the plastic strips of a lawn chair set up as a makeshift high chair. The hot sun squeezed towards her through the bamboo shades crowning the opening of the kopitiam. She was trying to grab the dust particles floating in the air like fireflies.

My reverie was interrupted by a couple who paused as they walked by to pinch Leo’s cheeks, commenting, “Those eyelashes! Only Eurasian babies have such eyes!”