The Moonlight Palace by Liz Rosenberg Read Free Book Online Page A

of her skin. I kept her hand pressed close to my side, to keep her from protesting.
    “No salary,” said Nei-Nei Down.
    “We must pay her something,” I said. “Otherwise it is against the law.”
    Nei-Nei Down squinted at me, but I could see her taking in the worn gray shirt on Danai’s thin back, the too-short skirt, and the sandals with the soles coming apart and flapping. She agreed to a sum that was more than I could have bargained for. Uncle Chachi fell in with the plan. As it turned out, Danai was surprisingly handy at re-plastering. She knew something about plumbing, too, young as she was, and fixed a broken pipe, saving us great expense. She was an eager learner, always polite and soft-spoken. So, in the end, even old Sanang was won over, though she had been bitterly certain at first that Danai was only there to take her place. Once Sanang realized she was not going to be thrown out into the street, she happily began bossing Danai around.
    Still, we possessed no solution to the larger problem. The grains of sand were still sliding away from us each day, piling higher into a heap at the bottom. But it was something, a beginning. So we fixed a few leaks and made a few repairs, and all was peaceful for a time in the Kampong Glam Palace.
    And then, on the night of Deepavali itself—which always occurs on the darkest night, the evening of the new moon—something happened that changed the course of our lives forever.

SIX
    The Smell of Horses
    D awid and I were heading home after the last of the fireworks when he said, “I smell horses.”
    Horses were becoming uncommon in Singapore. Our generation, the bright, young, fast set of the twenties, had long ago turned to motorcars and trolleys and bicycles.
    It had been a brilliant Deepavali. Uncle Chachi, Nei-Nei Down, and skinny Danai strolled with us through Little India, marveling at wonders. Green, yellow, red, and golden lamps glimmered in every window, hung from the branches of acacia trees, decorated the peddlers’ carts, and swung from the hands of the children milling about. The streets were festooned with paper flowers, stars snipped from bits of foil, cutout elephants; images of gods and goddesses unfurled across cloth banners. The air smelled of cinnamon and burnt sugar. British Grandfather was all set to come along with us, but at the last minute he refused to change out of his pajamas and dressing gown. So old Sanang stayed home with him in the palace, grumbling but glad to have an excuse not to go. She dreaded crowds.
    She would have hated this Deepavali. Every street in Little India boiled with passersby; each nook and cranny was occupied, sometimes three or four people deep. There were moments, inching along Serangoon Road, when the gathered crowd swelled so that we could not move at all. Luckily, there was always some new marvel around us to see. Even Nei-Nei Down was impressed.
    “The Indians know their festivals,” she said. “A bit gaudy, but lively.” I knew she was comparing Deepavali with the Chinese holidays—New Year, the Dragon Boat parade, the Moon Festival.
    Thanks to Dawid’s careful navigation, we found ourselves on the Victoria Bridge with a fine view out over the water as the fireworks began. Nei-Nei Down surreptitiously stuffed cotton batting into her ears, while Uncle Chachi gazed at the sky in frank delight—his deafness for once becoming an advantage. Our Chinese boarder Wei had arranged to join us there, and I looked for the sullen Omar Wahlid at his side, but Wei stood alone, looking lost. He had been unable to persuade Omar Wahlid to come, he admitted.
    The crowd oohed and aahed appreciatively at the fireworks display, sighing and gasping with one breath. This year, we watched flowerlike fireworks bursting in bright blues and purples no one had ever seen. Even the smoke died on the air in the shape of falling petals.
    After the last crackle died down and the smoke drifted over the river, Nei-Nei looked the worse for wear,