She brought her face close to his. “He would have been so proud of you. I know he would. If only he’d lived to see this. Bury me with him.”

•

“Kali” means “many times”, banyak kali, and “batang” means “branches”, like tree branches, but also branches in the river. The name of the place comes from the many streams that run through the town, criss-crossing and feeding into the main river, the Sungai Sendat. Thinking of the name recalls the river. Take this branch, or that one, it doesn’t matter, the current is bearing you on in one direction only. Sometimes it’s a matter of chance, the wind blowing this way or that.

This is one branch: soon after his 20th birthday, a new boy arrived at the workshop. Business was expanding, as the city prospered and more people wanted cars. Ah Lam, the new chap, was only slightly younger than Nam Teck. He’d just arrived from China, from Hainan Island, and he and Seng were able to chatter excitedly in Hainanese about the news from home. Ah Lam was now the apprentice, while Nam Teck graduated to full assistant, with slightly more money and a proper set of tools.

Although he was new in town, Ah Lam came with a ready-made circle of friends, acquaintances from the old country. When he invited Seng and Nam Teck along to a cultural evening one of his friends was organising, they went—Seng for the free food, Nam Teck because, despite his new-found confidence, he hadn’t yet acquired the knack of making friends easily.

The event took place in a dingy basement hall off Jalan Kuching. The dim light managed to make the room seem murky rather than atmospheric. Even for the austere times, this was shabby, the walls peeling badly, the furniture moth-eaten and grey. When Nam Teck said something about the strange smell of the room, Ah Lam replied cryptically that these people had their minds on more important things than decorating.

A stage of sorts had been rigged in a corner of the room, packing crates shoved together densely and covered with plywood boards. A red hand-painted banner drooped overhead: “Culture Programme, Art and Music.” The music component consisted of an all-girl choir, rather good, who presented some folk songs to the accompaniment of rudimentary coconut-shell percussion. They were wearing matching satin outfits that looked distinctly home-made. The ramshackle, amateur aspect of the show made Nam Teck feel at home. This was like the evening entertainments they used to get up in the village, on days when there was no travelling film show or medicine man to distract them.

There was a short break during which refreshments were served: over-diluted squash in plastic beakers and curry puffs cut into quarters. There were thirty or so people, most of whom seemed to know each other. Seng was gallantly complimenting a choir member on her singing, and brushed Nam Teck off when he tried to join them. Not having the nerve to invade one of the other bubbles of conversation floating around the room, he spent the rest of the interval nursing his soft drink and trying to look as if he was thinking deep, appreciative thoughts about the music.