MALAYSIA
Nick borrowed his father’s 1963 Jaguar E-Type roadster from the garage at Tyersall
Park, and he and Rachel headed onto the Pan Island Expressway, bound for the bridge
that linked Singapore to the Malay Peninsula. From Johor Bahru, they drove up the
Utara-Selatan Highway, detouring to the seaside town of Malacca so that Nick could
show Rachel the distinctive crimson-hued façade of Christ Church, built by the Dutch
when the town was part of their colonial empire, and the charmingly ornate Peranakan
row houses along Jalan Tun Tan Cheng Lock.
Afterward, they stayed on the old road that skirted along the Negeri Sembilan coast
for a while. With the top down and the warm ocean breeze on her face, Rachel began
to feel more relaxed than she had since arriving in Asia. The trauma of the past few
days was dissipating, and at last it felt like they were truly on holiday together.
She loved the wildness of these back roads, the rustic seaside hamlets that seemed
untouched by time, the way Nick looked with day-old stubble and the wind whipping
through his hair. A few miles north of Port Dickson, Nick turned down a dirt road
thick with tropical vegetation, and as Rachel looked inland, she could glimpse miles
and miles of uniformly planted trees.
“What are those perfect rows of trees?” Rachel asked.
“Rubber—we’re surrounded by rubber plantations,” Nick explained.
They pulled up to a spot right by the beach, got out of the car, took off their sandals,
and strolled onto the hot sand. A few Malay families were scattered about the beach
having lunch, the ladies’ colorful head scarves flapping in the wind as they bustled
around canteens of food and children who were more interested in frolicking in the
surf. It was a cloudy day, and the sea was a mottled tapestry of deep green with patches
of azure where the clouds broke.
A Malay woman and her son came toward them, hauling a big blue-and-white Styrofoam
cooler. Nick began talking animatedly with the woman, buying two bundles from her
Igloo before bending down and asking the boy a question. The boy nodded eagerly and
ran off, while Nick found a shady spot underneath the low-hanging branches of a mangrove
tree.
He handed Rachel a still-warm banana-leaf packet tied with string. “Try Malaysia’s
most popular dish
—nasi lemak
,” he said. Rachel undid the string and the glossy banana leaf unfolded to reveal
a neatly composed mound of rice surrounded by sliced cucumbers, tiny fried anchovies,
roasted peanuts, and a hard-boiled egg.
“Pass me a fork,” Rachel said.
“There’s no fork. You get to go native on this—use your fingers!” Nick grinned.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope, that’s the traditional way. Malays believe the food actually tastes better
when you eat with your hands. They only use the right hand to eat, of course. The
left hand is used for purposes better left unmentioned.”
“But I haven’t washed my hands, Nick. I don’t think I can eat like this,” Rachel said,
sounding a little alarmed.
“Come on, Miss OCD. Tough it out,” Nick teased. He scooped some of the rice into his
fingers and began eating the
nasi lemak
with gusto.
Rachel gingerly scooped some of the rice into her mouth, instantly breaking into a
smile. “Mmmm … it’s coconut rice!”
“Yes, but you haven’t even gotten to the good part yet. Dig a little deeper!”
Rachel dug into her rice and discovered a curry sauce oozing out from the middle along
with big chunks of chicken. “Oh my God,” she said. “Does it taste this good because
of all the different flavors or because we’re sitting on this gorgeous beach eating
it?”
“Oh, I think it’s your hands. Your grotty hands are giving the food all the added
flavor,” Nick said.
“I’m about to slap you with my grotty curry hands!” Rachel scowled at him. Just as
she was finishing her last bite, the little boy from earlier ran up with two clear-plastic
drinking bags filled with rough chunks of ice and freshly squeezed sugarcane juice.
Nick took the drinks from the boy and handed him a ten-dollar bill.
“Kamu anak yang baik,”
*
he said, patting the boy on the shoulder. The boy’s eyes widened in delight. He tucked
the money into the elastic band of his soccer shorts and scrambled off to tell his
mother about his windfall.
“You never cease to amaze me, Nicholas Young. Why didn’t I know you spoke Malay?”
Rachel said.
“Only a few rudimentary words—enough to order food,” Nick replied modestly.
“That conversation you had earlier didn’t sound rudimentary to me,” Rachel countered,
sipping the icy sweet sugarcane through a thin pink straw tucked into the corner of
the plastic bag.
“Trust me, I’m sure that lady was cringing at my grammar.” Nick shrugged.
“You’re doing it again, Nick,” Rachel said.
“Doing what?
“You’re doing that annoying self-deprecating thing.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
Rachel sighed in exasperation. “You say you don’t speak Malay when I hear you yapping
away. You say, ‘Oh, this old house,’ when we’re in a friggin’ palace. You downplay
everything
, Nick!”
“I don’t even realize when I’m doing it,” Nick said.
“Why? I mean, you downplay things to the point that your parents don’t even have a
clue how well you’re doing in New York.”
“It’s just the way I was brought up, I guess.”
“Do you think it’s because your family is so wealthy and you had to overcompensate
by being super-modest?” Rachel suggested.
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. I was just trained to speak precisely and never
to be boastful. Also, we’re not
that
wealthy.”
“Well then, what are you exactly? Are you guys worth hundreds of millions or billions?”
Nick’s face began to redden, but Rachel wouldn’t let up.
“I know it makes you uncomfortable, Nick, but that’s why I’m prodding you. You’re
telling me one thing, but then I hear other people speaking as if the entire economy
of Asia revolves around your family, and you’re, like, the heir to the throne. I’m
an economist, for crying out loud, and if I’m going to be accused of being a gold
digger, I’d like to know what I’m supposedly digging for,” Rachel said bluntly.
Nick fidgeted with the remnant of his banana leaf nervously. Since he was old enough
to remember, it had been ingrained into him that any talk of the family wealth was
off-limits. But it was only fair that Rachel know what she was getting herself into,
especially if he was (very shortly) going to ask her to accept the canary diamond
ring hidden in the lower right pocket of his cargo shorts.
“I know this may sound silly, but the truth is I really don’t know how rich my family
is,” Nick began tentatively. “Now, my parents live very well, mostly due to the legacy
my mum received from her parents. And I have a private income that’s not too shabby,
mainly from stocks left to me by my grandfather. But we don’t have the kind of money
that Colin’s or Astrid’s family does, not even close.”
“But how about your grandmother? I mean, Peik Lin says that Tyersall Park must be
worth hundreds of millions just for the land alone,” Rachel interjected.
“My grandmother has always lived in the manner that she has, so I can only presume
that her holdings are substantial. Three times a year Mr. Tay, an elderly gentleman
from the family bank, comes up to Tyersall Park in the same brown Peugeot he’s driven
ever since I was born and pays a visit to my grandmother. She meets with him alone,
and it’s the only time her lady’s maids have to leave the room. So it’s never crossed
my mind to ask her how much she’s worth.”
“And your father never talked to you about it?”
“My father has never once brought up the subject of money—he probably knows even less
than I do. You know, when there’s always been money in your life, it’s not something
you spend much time thinking about.”
Rachel tried to wrap her mind around that concept. “So why does everyone think you’ll
end up inheriting everything?”
Nick bristled. “This is Singapore, and the idle rich spend all their time gossiping
about other people’s money. Who’s worth how much,
who inherited how much, who sold their house for how much. But everything that’s said
about my family is pure speculation. The point is, I’ve never presumed that I will
one day be the sole inheritor of some great fortune.”
“But you must have known that you were different?” Rachel said.
“Well, I sensed that I was different because I lived in this big old house with all
these rituals and traditions, but I never thought it had anything to do with money.
When you’re a kid, you’re more concerned with how many pineapple tarts you’re allowed
to eat or where to catch the best tadpoles. I didn’t grow up with a sense of entitlement
like some of my cousins did. At least, I hope not.”
“I wouldn’t have been attracted to you if you went around acting like some pompous
prick,” Rachel said. As they walked back to the car, she slipped her arm around his
waist. “Thank you for opening up. I know it wasn’t easy for you to talk about these
things.”
“I want you to know everything about me, Rachel. I always have, which is why I invited
you here in the first place. I’m sorry if it has felt like I wasn’t forthcoming—I
just didn’t think any of this money talk was relevant. I mean, in New York, none of
this really matters to our life, does it?”
Rachel paused for a while before answering. “It doesn’t, especially now that I have
a better understanding of your family. I just needed to be sure that you’re the same
person I fell in love with back in New York, that’s all.”
“Am I?”
“You’re way cuter now that I know you’re loaded.”
Nick laughed and pulled Rachel tightly into his arms, giving her a long, lingering
kiss.
“Ready for a complete change of scenery?” he asked, kissing her chin and then moving
down to the tender spot on her throat.
“I think I’m ready to get a room. Any motels close by?” Rachel breathed, her fingers
still entangled in his hair, not wanting him to stop.
“I don’t think there are any motels you’d want to be in. Let’s race to Cameron Highlands
before it gets dark—it’s only about three hours away. And then we can pick up where
we left off on the most
ginormous
four-poster bed you’ve ever seen.”
They made good time on the E1 highway, passing through the capital city of Kuala Lumpur
toward Ipoh. When they reached the
town of Tapah—the gateway to the Cameron Highlands—Nick turned onto the picturesque
old road and they began the ascent up the mountain. The car climbed the steep hill,
with Nick expertly negotiating the twists and turns, honking the horn at every blind
curve.
Nick was anxious to get to the house before sunset. He had called ahead and given
explicit instructions to Rajah, the majordomo. There were going to be votive candles
in white paper bags lining the way down to the lookout point at the end of the lawn,
and a stand with chilled champagne and fresh mangosteens right next to the carved
wooden bench where they could sit and take in the scenic view. Then, just as the sun
was sinking behind the hills and thousands of tropical birds descended into the treetops,
he would get down on one knee and ask Rachel to be his forever. He wondered which
was the correct knee to get down on? Right or left?
Rachel, meanwhile, found herself clutching at her seat-belt buckle tightly as she
gazed out the window at sheer drops down into jungle-like ravines. “Uh, I’m in no
hurry to die,” she announced anxiously.
“I’m only going forty miles per hour. Don’t worry, I can drive this road blindfolded—I
used to come here almost every weekend during the summer holidays. Plus, don’t you
think it would be a glamorous way to die—careening down the side of a mountain in
a classic Jag convertible?” Nick cracked, trying to diffuse the tension.
“If it’s all right with you, I’d rather live a few days longer.
Annnnd
, I’d rather be in an old Ferrari, like James Dean,” Rachel quipped.
“Actually, it was a Porsche.”
“Smart-ass!”
The hairpin curves soon gave way to a breathtaking view of undulating green hills
punctuated by bright swaths of color. In the distance, Rachel could make out flower
orchards tucked along the hillsides and quaint little cottages.
“This is Bertam Valley,” Nick said with a flourish. “We’re about twelve hundred meters
above sea level now. Back in the colonial days this was where British officers would
come to escape the tropical heat.”
Just past the town of Tanah Rata, they turned onto a narrow private road that snaked
its way up a lushly planted hill. Behind another curve, a stately Tudor-style manor
house on its own hillock suddenly reared into view. “I thought you promised you weren’t
going to take me to some luxury hotel,” Rachel said in a half-chiding tone.
“This isn’t a hotel, this is my grandmother’s summer lodge.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Rachel said, gazing at the beautiful structure. The lodge
wasn’t nearly as big as Tyersall Park, but it still looked formidably grand with its
gabled roofs and black-and-white timbered woodwork. The whole place was aglow with
lights blazing from the casement windows.
“Looks like we’ve been expected,” Rachel said.
“Well, I called ahead for them to prepare for our arrival—there’s a full staff all
year round,” Nick replied. The house was situated halfway up a gentle slope, with
a long, paved stone path leading up to the front door. Its façade was partially covered
in ivy and wisteria, and lining both sides of the slope were rosebushes that grew
almost up to eye level.
Rachel sighed, thinking she had never seen such a romantic mountain haven in her life.
“What enormous roses!”
“These are special Cameronian roses that only grow in this climate. Isn’t the scent
intoxicating?” Nick chatted on nervously. He knew he was only minutes away from one
of the seminal moments of his life.