Ling explained that he was the son of a farmer who had gone bankrupt. Thanks to the efforts of a group of Catholic missionaries, he had received a good education, including a very good grounding in English, and had been planning to pursue a career in the United Bank of Penang, but had been distracted from this by having fallen in love with the daughter of one of the elders in the village towards which they were heading. He had decided to postpone the accountancy course he had enrolled in until his girlfriend was ready to leave her family and marry him.
This would not be for a year or two yet, he explained, as a result of the illness of her grandmother, to whom she was particularly attached.
“The old lady does not have long to live,” explained Ling.
“The doctors doubt if she will last a year. My fiancee wishes to
spend as much time as possible with her, and I support her in this decision.”
“That is very considerate,” said Edward Hong. “You will make a fine son-in-law.” And then he added quietly: “Not for me, of course, but for this chap in the village.”
Ling thanked him for the compliment. He then turned to Domenica. “Mrs Macdonald, may I ask you a question? What exactly do you want to find out in the village?”
“As you know,” said Domenica, “I am an anthropologist. I was thinking of a new project, at the suggestion of my dear friend, Dilly Emslie, a few months ago, and it occurred to me that it would be interesting to do an anthropological study of one of these modern pirate communities. And so that is why I’m here.”
Ling looked thoughtful. “Well, I suppose that you have come to the right place. There certainly are pirates operating in the Malacca Straits. It’s quite dangerous for shipping these days.”
Edward Hong had been studying Ling with care. Now he interrupted. “Tell me, young man,” he asked, “are you involved in piracy yourself?”
Ling looked shocked. “Certainly not! I would never get involved in that sort of thing. It would hardly be a good start for my career, would it?”
“No,” said Edward Hong. “But then you do live amongst these people, don’t you?”
Ling sighed. “Some of us don’t have much of a choice, Mr Hong. The fact of the matter is that my future father- in-law may know these people quite well, might even be slightly involved in their activities – I have no evidence of that, of course
– but as far as I am concerned it is nothing whatsoever to do with me.”
Edward Hong nodded. “Very well,” he said. “I understand.
But will you be able to ensure that Mrs Macdonald has adequate access to them? Will you be able to do that?”
“Of course I will,” said Ling. “It’s a small village, you know.
Everybody knows everybody else’s business.”
Domenica looked reassured.
118
“I’m sure that Ling will be very good to me,” she said to Edward Hong. Then, turning to Ling, she said: “And I really am very grateful to you for giving up your time to help me. It’s very generous of you, you know.”
“I have little else to do,” confessed Ling. “Assisting the occasional anthropologist helps pass the time.”
This remark was succeeded by complete silence. Domenica, who had been winding her watch, glanced up quickly. “You’ve had anthropologists before?” she asked.
Ling did not seem to notice the anxiety in her voice. “We’ve only had one.”
Domenica looked at him searchingly. “And who was this person?”
“He was a Belgian,” said Ling. “I never found out his surname.
We all just called him Andre.”
“And what happened?” Domenica pressed. She had visions of her study being rendered completely otiose by the imminent appearance, in one of the prestigious journals, perhaps
And what would they think of her when she returned to Edinburgh after only a few weeks and announced that there had been no point in proceeding? She would be a laughingstock, and everybody who made comments about the foolhardiness of the study would feel vindicated.
Ling, who had been looking out of the window, transferred his gaze to Domenica.
“He is still there,” he said.
Domenica gasped. There was no situation more tense, more fraught with difficulty, than the unexpected encounter by one anthropologist of another – in the field.
If this Belgian were still in residence, then she would have to ask Edward Hong to instruct his driver to turn the car round without delay. There would be no point in proceeding, and they might as well return to Malacca and listen to Edward Hong’s daughter playing Chopin.
Then Ling spoke again. “Yes,” he repeated. “He’s still there.
Down by the place where the fishing nets are hung out to dry.”
Then he added: “Still there. In his grave.”
