The sounds I heard turned out to be two puppet servants who stood outside the back door of the kitchen sluicing down large cooking pots with buckets of water. They ignored me, so I brushed past them into the large kitchen. The fires in the numerous charcoal stoves were already lit, and I had barely time to take note of my surroundings before the cook pounced on me. “You’re still here.”
“You told me to come in the morning,” I said.
“So I did. Didn’t really expect you, though.”
“Why not?”
“Ah, girls, you know. Flighty. Didn’t think you’d care much for the lodging.”
I blinked, realizing that most ghosts who had funeral offerings probably had their own houses and might well turn up their noses at such shabby accommodations. “It’s all right,” I said cautiously.
“Then get started.”
I soon realized that the cook didn’t need my help for any of the menial tasks such as plucking chickens, washing vegetables, or scouring pots. He had plenty of puppet servants to do that. Instead, he used me to relay orders, keep an eye on the puppet servants, and most important, help him taste and season the dishes. Breakfast was being prepared for an unnamed number of guests, and we were busy with cauldrons of rice congee laced with sliced raw fish, fried fritters, and scores of soft-boiled eggs nestled in little bowls with soy sauce and pepper. It was when I was directing a puppet servant to make kaya toast that I really felt tempted to eat. The thick slices of bread were toasted over a bed of charcoal on a wire net until they turned crisply golden. When done, they were smeared lavishly with butter and kaya, a custard-like jam made from caramelized eggs, sugar, and pandan leaves. Unthinkingly, I brought a smeared finger to my lips, then stopped, reminded of Er Lang’s injunction. With a stab of panic, I realized that I had no way of knowing how long I’d have to stay here or how much time had passed in the real world. Er Lang had said that time often passed at a different rate in the Plains of the Dead, and my anxious thoughts flew back to my comatose body, so far away from me.
“You don’t have to frown so much. Breakfast is almost done.” The cook’s voice made me jump. “Aiya, such a pampered miss like you. Just give up. Go home.”
“I’m fine.”
He gave me a skeptical glance. “Anyway, my other helper should be back tomorrow.”
“Your other helper?”
“You don’t think I do this by myself all the time, do you? She’s the one who usually helps supervise the puppets, but she ran afoul of the Second Wife and got boiling soup thrown on her. That woman is really a piece of work. Pretty as they come, but a bitch when she opens her mouth.”
“Who is she?”
“The Second Wife? She’s the old master’s bit of skirt.”
“I thought the master of this house was quite young.”
“The old master was seventy-two when he died. You must be talking about the young master.”
“How can there be two masters here? I thought that each home was burned as a funeral offering for an individual.”
“Sure. But it doesn’t mean they can’t combine them. It’s true that most of the wealth came with the young master when he passed over. But this was already a great house before. The old master is Lim Tian Ching’s great-uncle. I don’t know what happened to the grandfather. Probably already went on to the Courts of Hell. The Lim family’s seat was represented by the great-uncle until the young man died. And what a fortune he brought! His parents spared no expense on his funeral, I tell you. In any case, his great-uncle and he joined households. More convenient, I suppose. But the young master is hardly here anyway.”
Now that the breakfast rush was over, the cook ladled himself a steaming bowl of rice congee. He sprinkled cilantro and shredded ginger on top, and doused it with soy sauce and sesame oil. “What?” he said, catching my gaze. “You can eat too if you want. No shortage of food here.”
I drew a stool up near him and pretended to pick at a fritter. “Is he here now?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m just curious. I heard he’s young, about my age.”
“Want to marry him?”
“What? Oh no!”
The cook laughed coarsely. “Come off it. There are marriages arranged in the spirit world everyday. And your fiancé won’t even have to know about it.”
I shook my head vigorously, but the cook mistook my agitation for shyness. “You might change your mind. He’s quite a catch.”
“Isn’t he married already?”
“Who? The young master? Not yet, though they were making arrangements just the other day. A whole banquet hall done up with red lanterns and lots of food.”
I blanched, remembering the dream in which I had found myself alone with Lim Tian Ching in that spectral hall of red lanterns. That was where he had pressed me about the marriage and I had fled, forcing myself awake through the coiling mists of his dreamworld. But the cook was chattering away.
“It was supposed to be an engagement party. He was in a terrible temper after that, though. I think the bride didn’t show up.”
“She didn’t?” I asked faintly.
“If you ask me, I heard she was still alive. Can you imagine the cheek of that fellow? Even the Judges of Hell don’t take too kindly to such marriages. Oh, they might make an exception if the deceased and the living were in love, but in general it just proved to everyone how much favor Lim Tian Ching has curried with them.”
I pricked my ears up at this. “How is he on such good terms with them?”
“Beats me.” He placed one finger on the side of his nose and gave me a sly grin. “I’ll say no more, though, if I want to keep my place. Ah, the rich get richer and the poor get trampled down. It was the same when I was alive.” The cook had emptied his bowl of porridge and pushed himself away from the table. “Since you’re here, go and take some breakfast to my assistant. I’d send a puppet but they’re busy right now.”
He glanced at the courtyard where three puppet servants were busily butchering an enormous pig. Unlike a real pig, however, it stood motionless while the manikins dismembered it. Even as they carved off hams and shoulders, the pig showed no reaction. Neither did it bleed. As I watched, one of the servants whacked off the heavy head, leaving it blinking placidly on the flagstones. Suppressing a shudder, I picked up a tray with a bowl of congee and a teapot.
“Her room is close to yours, but it’s a single, not a dormitory,” said the cook. “Hurry up! I want you back here so that we can start lunch.”
I made my way out through the courtyard, averting my eyes from the bloodless porcine slaughter that was still going on. Even if Er Lang hadn’t warned me against eating food here, this would have permanently put me off. Unlike the food that Old Wong had offered me, this pig must have been a paper funeral effigy. No wonder the cook here complained constantly about tastelessness. As I wended my way to the servants’ quarters, I concentrated on not spilling the scalding porridge. My wrists began to ache and I began to understand why the cook had been so dismissive of me initially. No doubt it took strength to carry the food such great distances to the banquet halls. When I reached my quarters, I glanced around. Last night it had been so dark that I hadn’t noticed any other inhabitants, but spotting another door, I made my way toward it.
It was silent in the courtyard, and the light had a blank brightness so that the shadows lay on the paving stones like crisp paper cutouts. Setting the tray down, I knocked cautiously. The stillness convinced me that no one was there, so I was startled to hear a voice call out.
“Who are you?”
I sighed. In my brief existence parted from my flesh, I was invariably greeted with a lack of ceremony. Perhaps it was less a function of this ghost world than that I was now a wandering spirit, no better than a beggar, really.
“I’m the new girl,” I said. “I’ve brought your breakfast.”
/>
The door opened and a tiny old woman came out. At first glance I was startled, so striking was her resemblance to Amah. She too had a birdlike figure, bright dark eyes, and gray hair scraped into a bun. A closer look, however, revealed that her features were different. The eyes larger, the nose a little higher. Still, like Amah, she was dressed in the ubiquitous black-and-white uniform and the general impression, coupled with age, was remarkably similar. She could have been Amah’s older sister. As I got over my shock, I realized that the old woman was also staring at me.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“I’m girl number six,” I said, remembering the cook’s injunction against names.
“But who is your family?”
“My surname is Chen,” I said, cursing the perpetual nosiness of old ladies. The last thing I wanted was for rumors of my background to get around to the owner of this house.
“Chen . . .” she said. “I wonder whether you’re related to any of my friends?”
“Oh, probably not, Auntie,” I said, addressing her politely. “My family was from Negri Sembilan. We just moved to Malacca before I died.”
She nodded absently. “There’s a folding table inside. Can you bring it out for me?”
I glanced down, registering that her forearms were wrapped in bandages. “What happened to you, Auntie?”
“It’s nothing. Just some burns.” Catching my eye, her mouth quirked. “Injuries heal here faster than in the living world.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes, but as there’s no infection here, there’s no risk of gangrene. After all, we’re already dead.”
This was the second time she had alluded to death in our brief conversation, and it seemed contrary to the general aversion to talking about one’s demise among the ghosts.
“It must have been a bad accident,” I said.
She snorted. “Accident? The Second Wife threw soup at me. She was in one of her moods the other day. You’d do well to stay away from her.”
I went inside and brought out a rickety folding table and stool. It was a room far smaller than mine, though my quarters were, of course, designed as a dormitory for multiple servants. Though threadbare, it was scrupulously clean. There was nothing but a sleeping pallet, a wooden chest, and a few neatly folded clothes. Outside, I set up the table and stool with her breakfast.
“You don’t have to wait on me,” she said.
“I don’t mind,” I said truthfully. There was something about this old woman that made me feel comfortable. It might have been her resemblance to Amah, or simply that despite her initial wariness, she seemed friendly.
“The cook isn’t too bad,” she said as she began to eat. “He’s a bit coarse, but he won’t try to use you, unlike some others.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A long time. It’s hard to tell in this place. And you?”
I spun her the same story that I had given the cook about needing work and not having any place to stay. She nodded briefly. “If you want to stay in the kitchens and out of the master’s bedchamber, you’d better run along now. The cook gets impatient. But don’t worry, tell him that I’ll be back at work soon.”
I hastened back to the kitchen, suddenly anxious about having been away for so long. I wanted to ask the old woman more about this mysterious Second Wife who had scalded her. In my heart, however, I had a sinking feeling that I knew who she was. Back in the kitchen, the carcass of the pig had already been disposed of into neatly butchered chunks. The head, thankfully, was nowhere to be seen; though, gazing at a few enormous pots, I hoped that the cook wouldn’t ask me to lift their lids to stir. Fortunately, he was otherwise occupied. The lunch rush had already begun and he was shouting at the puppet servants who were washing, chopping, and stir-frying vigorously. I made my way timidly over to him and apologized for being late.
“Next time don’t get lost,” he said without glancing at me. Then, “How is she?”
“The old lady?”
“You can call her Auntie Three. Everyone does. She’s the third one we’ve had, at least that I know of.”
“She said she’d be able to work soon.”
He turned. “At least she didn’t go blind. I thought for sure the soup would scald her face.”
“Why did she do it?”
“The Second Wife? No reason. Boredom maybe. She’s like that. If she wasn’t so beautiful I think the old master would have got rid of her a long time ago. But there’s something about her. Maybe because I’m a man, but even I feel like I couldn’t refuse her anything if she jumped into my bed.” He gave a coarse laugh and told me to start checking the dishes. “That’s usually Auntie Three’s job. Let’s see how well you do.”
The next few days passed in a blur of activity. Though each morning I donned an amah’s uniform of plain white blouse and black cotton trousers, I discovered that by evening I would be wearing my own clothes again. Perhaps this was because the uniform was only borrowed, unlike my pajamas that renewed themselves and reminded me that Amah was still caring for my body somewhere in the real Malacca. Nevertheless, I slipped Er Lang’s scale into the pocket of whatever I wore. It was of no practical use here, but its cool weight gave me some comfort. The work in the kitchen was unendingly monotonous in the absence of smell. Without aroma, the food passed before me like wax models. I tried to press the cook for more information about the family, but he gave me only dribs and drabs. The steward would probably have been a better source, but he was always in a hurry when he came to the kitchen and ignored me. With only a few days left until I had promised to meet Fan, I regretted not taking some other job within the Lim household. If I were a waiter or a cleaner instead, I would have an excuse to eavesdrop in the main house. As it was, I felt a gnawing sense of frustration and anxiety with each passing day.
On the third day, Auntie Three came back to work despite the bandages on her hands. The cook was quite astonished to see her.
“Why so surprised?” she asked. “I told you I’d be back soon.”
“Ya, well I didn’t think you really meant it.”
“What did you expect me to do? Sit in my room and look at the wall?”
He shrugged but insisted on seeing her arms.
“It’s all healed, I tell you,” she said, but when the cook peeled back one corner of the bandages, I winced at the sight. Her skin was flayed where she had been scalded, though the wounds were bloodless and absent any color or pus.
“I don’t think you should be working yet,” he said.
“If you’re worried about her, I know how to keep out of her way,” she said, turning away. I watched her birdlike movements with a mixture of pity and curiosity. That small, stubborn figure clad in black and white reminded me of Amah in so many ways that my homesickness was almost palpable.
My chance came two days later. During the evening meal, the steward suddenly appeared in the kitchen. “Another steamed fish, quick!” he hissed.
“What happened?”
“Puppet servant collided with another. Now we’re missing a course, and the master has guests.”
“Guests?” asked Auntie Three, coming up behind the cook.
The steward started at this interruption. “Oh, it’s you. I’d ask you to serve but you know what happened last time. And she’s not in a good mood tonight.”
“What kind of guests?” asked Auntie Three again.
“You know,” he said. A glance flickered between the three of them.
“None of the puppets here have been trained to wait on guests. Aren’t there any others outside?” asked the cook.
“We’re low on servers. Some of them were damaged during the last banquet and haven’t been replaced yet.”
“I’ll do it,” I said.
They turned to look at me. “No!” said Auntie Three, but she was interrupted by the
steward.
“I forgot about you.” He gave me a measured look. “Yes, you might do.”
“She has no idea how to behave!”
“It’s not so formal tonight. Only the old master is present. The young master is still away.”
Pulse racing, I smoothed my apron and reiterated my willingness to serve.
“All right,” said the steward at last. “But be quick! We’re between courses and I asked the musicians to play first.” Grasping my elbow, he propelled me out of the kitchen, muttering instructions. “The puppet servants will bring the food from the kitchen to the sideboard. I’ll present the main dishes at the tables. You stand on the side to arrange individual portions and keep an eye on the puppet servants for me. This batch is unreliable. Hopefully, it won’t be necessary for you to approach the tables. Understand?”
I nodded, then, fearing he could not see me in the dim corridor, added “Yes, sir” for good measure. I was itching to ask him who the guests were, but he looked so preoccupied that I held my tongue. The saving grace was that Lim Tian Ching, the young master, was not here, though by this point I was so desperate to do some spying that I might have braved his presence anyway. As we walked swiftly down the corridors, I kept my eyes open for possible hiding places. I had tried to sneak into the main house before, but the cook always locked the great kitchen door at night. Now that I was on the other side, perhaps I could find a place to conceal myself before he did so.
The banquet room was lit with dozens of oil lamps. A trio of puppet musicians was performing—two er hu players and one yang qin player accompanying them. The sight set a shiver through me. The last time I had seen live musicians had been at the Double Seventh Festival at the real Lim mansion in Malacca, and there we had been entertained by such a trio as well. As I well remembered, Tian Bai had been one of the musicians. What was it about this ghost world that seemed to create uncanny parallels with the living? I thought of Auntie Three in the kitchen and how much she reminded me of Amah, and wondered whether these coincidences were intentional or merely part of a peculiar synchronicity between the two places.