Remembering by Fives
Memories seem to favor certain images, especially when the memories are of places one has visited. I have found that no matter what country I have traveled, there are usually a few persons, out of the multitudes, whose faces stay in my mind and materialize in reminiscences.
Strangely enough, there are five people that I often remember from our trip to Malaya, partly because they are joined by a bond in that four of them I never really did see, while the other I saw but did not know it was he at the time.
Two of these images are mine all because of a mistake made by the manager of the Federal Hotel in Kuala Lampur. My husband and I were attending an American-Asian Assembly sponsored by Columbia University and the University of Malaya. The fact that my husband had been responsible for making all the arrangements for the Americans probably misled the hotel personnel into thinking that we were the richest and most prominent members coming. They couldn’t have been more deluded; however, what a happy mixup for us.
“Are you sure this is ours?” I asked Clifford after the bellboy had backed his way out of the room, with a tip of course. The bedroom was nothing unusual, just a good-sized one, typical of hotel rooms all over. It was the rest of the suite that left us dazed and doubting. With one other tenant, who had a bedroom next to us, we shared an aircooled Mandarin penthouse, plus a gardened terrace overlooking the city.
The Mandarin apartment had a living-room, so large that three sofas and nine chairs did not bump armrests. Besides, it also had many other objects the likes of which I had never seen outside a museum: oriental paintings, jade and ivory statues, glass enclosed cases of rare bric-a-brac, a gold-leaf ceiling, walls inlaid with dragons and mythical figures, and heaven knows what other things that were too dazzling to remember. Off the dragon room, as we called it, was a dining room with a table long enough to seat thirty well-padded guests. There were china closets containing all kinds of eating treasures. Off the banquet room was a temple room with a gold Buddha. In the temple room sat the keeper of the royal valuables, our Chinese house boy, who went with everything.
Into our suite we could not get unless we rang the outside doorbell; out of our suite we could not get unless we rang the inside bell for the keeper of the keys. Actually, I never could figure out whether the house boy and his assistant were there to serve us or to guard the priceless objects d’arte. In all, it was like being a political prisoner, and I even begged some of the other participants at the Assembly to change rooms with us, but everyone thought is was a delightful joke.
The morning after our arrival I had the lovely task of shampooing my own hair, since I did not have enough money to squander at a beauty shop. Undone, the strands reach my waist and while drying fly out in wild disarray, giving a witch-like appearance. To add to the enticing effect, I was without makeup and wearing a $2.98 robe, the one thing I thought I could economize on, since nobody but Clifford would ever see it. I hadn’t planned, though, on the wildlife of Malaya and was most disconcerted to find swarms of giant ants gluttonously feeding from the leftovers on the breakfast trays. Visions of these creatures finding the bed, prompted me to telephone for help.
In no time there was a great banging on the door. I opened it and in came a crowd — the house boy, his assistant, and a crew carrying bulky machines. I was shooed out into the imperial suite where I huddled down on a sofa and pretended to write a letter.
The bell to the apartment rang once, twice, and so on, until whoever it was started pounding on the door. Since the ant hunters were making such a racket with their machines and shouts, there was nothing to do but open the door myself. I figured that if I didn’t look at the person entering, whoever it was wouldn’t look at me either. All I know is that a male form rushed past, leaving a trace of rage in the air, and disappeared into the other bedroom. The next day I found out that our apartment-mate was William Holden, who was in Kuala Lampur making a picture. Not only had William not said “thanks” when I so modestly opened the door, but he also moved out of the adjoining bedroom that very afternoon of the ant episode. I suppose he chose living on the lovely 6th floor with the extras of his motion picture rather than up in the penthouse with the wild-haired eccentric in a three dollar robe.
Our house boy, who was called Hing, had a very primitive knowledge of English but could pronounce enough works to get his ideas across. After the expulsion of the ants, I asked him for nothing. Possibly, since I seemed so unobtrusive, he must have decided some requests should be in the making. Thus, on the third day of our stay he knocked on the bedroom door and asked if he might come in. His ensuing request, once understood, rather startled me. Would I be good enough to get his seventeen year-old sister a job in Malaya as a house amah. I’ve never been very good at getting jobs, even for myself, but after he explained that his mother had just died, and the girl was all alone and penniless, I promised to do my best. To him “my best” was the actualization of a promise. From then on every time he saw me he bowed and gave thanks.
What was there to do? I went about at meetings, making a pest of myself, asking anyone who looked Malayan, if he or she needed an amah. As some of the people did not understand English too well, no doubt they thought I was applying for the job myself. In any case, I received no offers, and still hadn’t when the end of our stay approached. There was only one last recourse left. When in the East, if you wish to make heavenly requests, speak to Oriental Gods. So I offered up a prayer to Buddha to find a job for this poor little girl.
The next day was the closing day of the Assembly and all the participants were invited to visit the tin mines. On the bus I sat in front of a Dr. Wang, who in the course of his conversation, told the man next to him that his family was coming to join him in Malaya, where he would be teaching at the University. Forgetting that I had been eavesdropping, I turned excitedly, asking, “Do you need an amah?”
“Do I!” he replied. “I’ve been searching all over for one.” That was the cue to draw Hing’s card from my purse. I handed it to him, explaining that the name written on it was that of a young girl searching for a job and the telephone number that of her brother at the hotel. Dr. Wang looked at the card, threw his arms up into the air and cried, “This is from the Gods.” When I revealed to him how it really was from the Gods, he threw his arms up again and looked at me in a strange manner.
The next day, before we checked out of the Federal, Hing brought his thanks and the good news that Dr. Wang had called and arranged for an appointment with the sister for that very afternoon. Whether or not she ever got the job, I do not know, and do not need to know. It would spoil such a lovely memory of Kuala Lampur, Buddha, Hing and the shy little girl whose imagined face has a special niche in my memories.
Another vivid recollection is our visit to meet the Queen, Sultana Somebody or Other, whose name I should not have forgotten. The meeting had been arranged for the wives of the Americans by the wives of the Malayan faculty. But leave it to the Americans.Some of the women had forgot to read the invitation; others neglected to pick it up from the hotel desk; and I just had the time mixed up, as usual. At 9 am the phone rang. It was the wife of the Vice-Chancellor of the University. “Peggy, are you ready; we should be leaving in ten minutes.” Ten minutes! I thought it was an hour and ten minutes off. For the Queen I got dressed in fifteen minutes, even leaving off my mascara. The rush was unnecessary, for when I reached the lobby, none of the Americans had yet arrived. With frantic phone calls, we managed to round up ten. As a result, when we entered the palace, we were an hour late.
Wasted, was our lively discussion on the way to the palace, as to how we were going to greet the queen: curtsy, bow, nod. We were met by a committee of royal attendants, who explained that the Queen had been suddenly taken ill. This was understandable since you just don’t keep a queen waiting an hour. To make up for not meeting her, we were given a tour of the palace. I didn’t think anything could outshine our Mandarin apartment, but the palace did, although I jealously complained that it was too big for comfort. Of all the treasures seen in all the rooms, the one that easily stole the show was a glass cabinet that contained rows and rows of scissors. On being asked why these were being saved, the guide explained that each had been used to cut the tape in the opening ceremonies dedicating a new school. After our tour we were served soda and cookies, and each presented with an unautographed picture of the royal couple. Munching our cookies like schoolgirls, we wondered if the Queen had been watching us from some hidden peephole.
Another person whom I never did see, yet gave me a memory of a chant that even today, as I recall it, fills me with awe. When I first heard the call, I had no idea what it was. All I know is that it hit me right in the solar plexus. I stood still, listened, wondered, and wished it would never stop. After it was over, leaving me with the most glorious feeling of mystery, I suddenly recollected having read about it. Of course, it was the muzzerin from his minaret calling devoted Moslems to prayer. How I wished to see him. Twice I walked miles to just stare at the Mosque from which he made his call. I never did dare to venture inside, for on questioning a passing Englishwoman about it she said that Moslems do not encourage unescorted women to visit their places of worship. It didn’t matter, for the call was recorded in my brain, and it had led me to mingle for hours with the many peoples of different nationalities, races and religions, living so harmoniously in that amazing city.
Practically every day, when I read of him in the newspapers, memories are brought back of Tanku Abdul Rahman and his beautiful home. I was pleased when I was told that we were going to a reception at the estate of the Prime Minister. Frankly, I didn’t who the Prime Minister was, but I love parties. This one I had to go to alone because Clifford, working on the final report of the Assembly, would not arrive until later. I hate receiving lines — to be on one or go through one. But this one was even worse, because, just the way that do it in the movies, there was a butler standing at the top of the marble steps leading into the garden. He was stationed there to shout out the names of the guests as they descended.
I really cannot remember whether I gave my proper name and I remember less those with whom I shook hands. But I was well aware of the tables of sparkling drinks and exotic foods. Too, I could not overlook the energetic man who kept going about during dinner, hugging waiters, bowing, waving, and helping guests to choose from the hundreds of dishes on the buffet tables. He even assisted me in overfilling my plate.
The place was so large, the guests so many, and the entertainment so absorbing that I didn’t notice him again that evening. For an hour or more, a troop of young native boys and girls danced continuously some kind of Malayan cotillion. The music was hypnotic and the dancing even more so, for never once did the couples touch each other, never once was a suggestive movement made, yet it was the the most sensual dancing ever to be seen. Is it any wonder my attention was centered.
The next day on the plane I said to Clifford, “You know I never did get to see the Prime Minister.”
“My dear woman,” he answered, How many drinks did you have. One couldn’t help but see him.” And he handed me the issue of Time magazine he was reading. There on the cover was the picture of the jolly man who had spooned Malayan stew onto my plate.
“Oh no,” I explained with much laughter that was unappreciated by Clifford. “I thought he was the head waiter.”
With my memories of Kuala Lampur and the five images, I more fully understand the oriental thought, “When you can see what you do not see, then you have truly seen.”
Peggy Stebbins Nelson
Circa 1960