The Gift of Rain by Tan Twan Eng Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tan Twan Eng
that joins me to my home now,” he said, and then looked surprised at having uttered those words.
We walked out into the rain, the grass spongy beneath my bare feet. The boathouse was on the beach, and we climbed down the long flight of wet steps. Once I slipped, and the man’s hand shot out and gripped me tightly. I felt the strength of his arm and stopped struggling for balance. I looked at him and said, “I walk these steps every day. I wasn’t going to fall.”
He appeared amused at my annoyance. I felt the burn where his fingers had clamped onto me and I resisted the urge to rub it. I wondered why he had leased the island.
And then we were on the sand. There was only the roar of the sea and the wind. No other sound existed. Even the birds were gone from the sky. The wind was now stirring up the sea, streaking it white and whipping the unending rain into our faces and hair. At this moment, it was good to be alive.
We hauled out my boat and dragged it down the bay to a spot where it would be easier for him to row across the choppy water. We set it down at the waterline, where the backwash of the waves tugged at it insistently. From this part of the beach I could see only the edge of Istana, like the prow of a great ship rounding a point.
“Thank you for lending me the boat,” he said, giving me a slight bow, which I immediately returned without thinking. He looked back to the island and then turned to me. “Come with me. Let me repay your kindness by offering you a meal.”
He intrigued me, so I stepped into the boat.
He rowed smoothly, the prow slicing through the rough waves. He headed for the beach facing out to the sea, skillfully avoiding the rocks. Once we neared the island he stopped rowing and let the waves lift us and rush us in. We hit the shore with a shudder.
I stepped out into the water and helped him pull the boat onto the beach. The place did not seem to have changed. I looked around and found the tree where I had so often fallen asleep in the hot afternoons and the rock where I dried my clothes. I touched it as I went by.
We left the beach and walked through a clump of trees until we came to a small clearing. I stopped, taking in the one-storey wooden house with a shaded verandah running around it. “You built this?”
He nodded. “I designed it in the traditional Japanese style. Your father provided me with the workmen.”
The lines of the house were clean and simple, blending in beautifully with the surrounding trees. I felt sadness and resentment that the island was now changed by its presence. It was almost as if a large part of my childhood had disappeared without my knowledge, without giving me the time to bid farewell to it.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No,” I answered and, after a moment, added, “Your home is beautiful.” As I said those words I felt my earlier sadness lifting. If things have to change, if time has to pass, then I was glad he had built this house here.
He went in and lit the lamps, and the sliding doors with their rice paper screens gave off a welcoming glow.
I followed him inside, leaving my shoes outside as he had done. He gave me a towel to dry myself. There was no furniture, only rectangular padded mats around a hearth set into the floor. He lit a brazier, placed a pot over it, and threw in vegetables and prawns. Outside the rain was getting heavier, but I felt warm and protected within the house.
The stew began to boil and steam rose up into the small chimney over the hearth. The smell of it sharpened my hunger. He stirred the pot and, with a wooden ladle, filled two ceramic bowls, handing one to me.
He watched me as I ate. “How old are you?” he asked. I told him.
“And you have not let me know your name,” he said.
“Philip,” I said.
His eyes looked inward, then stared back into mine.
We walked out into the rain, the grass spongy beneath my bare feet. The boathouse was on the beach, and we climbed down the long flight of wet steps. Once I slipped, and the man’s hand shot out and gripped me tightly. I felt the strength of his arm and stopped struggling for balance. I looked at him and said, “I walk these steps every day. I wasn’t going to fall.”
He appeared amused at my annoyance. I felt the burn where his fingers had clamped onto me and I resisted the urge to rub it. I wondered why he had leased the island.
And then we were on the sand. There was only the roar of the sea and the wind. No other sound existed. Even the birds were gone from the sky. The wind was now stirring up the sea, streaking it white and whipping the unending rain into our faces and hair. At this moment, it was good to be alive.
We hauled out my boat and dragged it down the bay to a spot where it would be easier for him to row across the choppy water. We set it down at the waterline, where the backwash of the waves tugged at it insistently. From this part of the beach I could see only the edge of Istana, like the prow of a great ship rounding a point.
“Thank you for lending me the boat,” he said, giving me a slight bow, which I immediately returned without thinking. He looked back to the island and then turned to me. “Come with me. Let me repay your kindness by offering you a meal.”
He intrigued me, so I stepped into the boat.
He rowed smoothly, the prow slicing through the rough waves. He headed for the beach facing out to the sea, skillfully avoiding the rocks. Once we neared the island he stopped rowing and let the waves lift us and rush us in. We hit the shore with a shudder.
I stepped out into the water and helped him pull the boat onto the beach. The place did not seem to have changed. I looked around and found the tree where I had so often fallen asleep in the hot afternoons and the rock where I dried my clothes. I touched it as I went by.
We left the beach and walked through a clump of trees until we came to a small clearing. I stopped, taking in the one-storey wooden house with a shaded verandah running around it. “You built this?”
He nodded. “I designed it in the traditional Japanese style. Your father provided me with the workmen.”
The lines of the house were clean and simple, blending in beautifully with the surrounding trees. I felt sadness and resentment that the island was now changed by its presence. It was almost as if a large part of my childhood had disappeared without my knowledge, without giving me the time to bid farewell to it.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No,” I answered and, after a moment, added, “Your home is beautiful.” As I said those words I felt my earlier sadness lifting. If things have to change, if time has to pass, then I was glad he had built this house here.
He went in and lit the lamps, and the sliding doors with their rice paper screens gave off a welcoming glow.
I followed him inside, leaving my shoes outside as he had done. He gave me a towel to dry myself. There was no furniture, only rectangular padded mats around a hearth set into the floor. He lit a brazier, placed a pot over it, and threw in vegetables and prawns. Outside the rain was getting heavier, but I felt warm and protected within the house.
The stew began to boil and steam rose up into the small chimney over the hearth. The smell of it sharpened my hunger. He stirred the pot and, with a wooden ladle, filled two ceramic bowls, handing one to me.
He watched me as I ate. “How old are you?” he asked. I told him.
“And you have not let me know your name,” he said.
“Philip,” I said.
His eyes looked inward, then stared back into mine.