Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10 — BOOK I

 

Across the River

 

(Kuching, December 1999 — January 2000)

 

Kuching arrived with humidity first.

 

Not the kind that announced itself loudly, but a weight that settled without asking permission—warm, damp, insistent. It clung to skin and fabric alike, as if the air itself had decided that resistance was unnecessary.

 

The flight had left Sydney in clean summer light. Seatbelts clicked. Trays folded. The familiar routines of travel carried them forward, orderly and contained. Geoffrey slept in fragments, waking to the hum of engines and the sense of distance stretching quietly beneath them.

 

When he looked out of the window again, the world below had changed.

 

The Sarawak River curved wide and brown through the land, catching the light as if it had always known where it was going. Rooftops gathered along its edges—metal, tile, concrete—interrupted by minarets, shopfronts, and roads that did not bother to pretend they were temporary. Beyond them, green pressed outward in every direction, dense and unapologetic.

 

Geoffrey rested his forehead against the glass and watched the city come into focus.

 

Beside him, Embong noticed without looking.

 

“We’re here,” he said simply. “Welcome to Kuching.”

 

Geoffrey exhaled slowly.

 

He had crossed oceans before.

 

This felt different.

 

The airport terminal was modern and busy, air-conditioning humming steadily as families moved with the confidence of people who knew exactly where they were going. Neon signs advertised phones, drinks, and services Geoffrey recognised easily enough. The dissonance caught him off guard—not because it was unfamiliar, but because it contradicted assumptions he hadn’t realised he still carried.

 

Outside, the heat pressed closer, softened only slightly by a passing breeze heavy with the promise of rain. Cars idled. Horns sounded briefly, conversational rather than angry. The city did not rush, but it did not wait either.

 

As they drove, Geoffrey tried to keep track of everything at once—petrol stations, shop lots, apartment blocks rising beside older houses on stilts, children in neat uniforms crossing the street without drama.

 

“You look like you’re counting,” Embong said.

 

“I’m recalibrating,” Geoffrey replied. “I thought… I don’t know. People said this place was different.”

 

“Different how?” Rusaldi asked, glancing at them in the rear-view mirror.

 

Geoffrey hesitated, then decided honesty was better than pretending. “Head-hunters. Spears. That sort of thing.”

 

Rusaldi laughed—not loudly, but with genuine amusement. “Ah. The classics.”

 

Embong shook his head. “What, you thought we’d cook you in a pot?”

 

“Not exactly,” Geoffrey said, flushing. “But I didn’t think—this.”

 

“That was long ago,” Embong said. “And even then, it wasn’t the whole story. The Dayaks are teachers, lawyers, pastors, politicians. Some of Bapak’s closest friends are Iban and Bidayuh.”

 

“And very competitive at badminton,” Rusaldi added. “Do not underestimate them.”

 

Geoffrey smiled despite himself.

 

They crossed the bridge as the river widened beneath them, Kuching opening up with the quiet confidence of a city that had learned not to explain itself.

 

Wisma Megat

 

Wisma Megat rose cleanly near the river, its lower floors anchored by a bank branch and brokerage offices that stayed busy without fuss. The lift carried them upward, the numbers ticking past until the city thinned and the river felt held rather than crowded.

 

“This is where Bapak works,” Embong said as the doors opened.

 

Geoffrey stepped out—and stopped.

 

He had expected a corridor.

 

Instead, he found himself standing in an enclosed, covered courtyard.

 

The marble floor spread wide and pale beneath their feet, cool and quietly reflective. At the centre of the space, a low fountain moved steadily, water circulating with deliberate calm, its sound soft enough to be noticed only once everything else had settled.

 

Above it, a gold-domed ceiling rose gently, catching the glow of a large chandelier suspended at its centre. The lampshades softened the light, casting warmth rather than glare—the kind of illumination designed to slow people down without announcing the intention.

 

Couches and chairs surrounded the fountain in careful symmetry, arranged not as a waiting area but as a place where waiting felt unhurried. Office doors opened out from the courtyard on all sides, set back just enough to preserve privacy without isolation.

 

“It doesn’t feel like an office building,” Geoffrey said quietly.

 

“That’s the point,” Embong replied.

 

Closest to the lift were two adjoining offices. One belonged to Awan. The other—smaller, but no less orderly—belonged to Emily Song.

 

They turned toward Awan’s door.

 

Inside, the tone shifted without breaking.

 

Italian marble ran cool beneath their feet, veined softly, polished but never gleaming. The walls were lined with natural timber panels—warm, even-grained—lit by table and wall lamps placed to soften the space rather than dramatise it.

 

The furniture carried weight without excess.

 

An English leather settee sat opposite a low coffee table, the leather worn just enough to suggest use rather than display. At the centre stood a Boulle desk—dark wood inlaid with brass—paired with a matching leather-and-wood swivel chair. Nearby, a round Boulle table held four leather swivel chairs arranged with deliberate symmetry, as if conversation itself had been anticipated.

 

“This feels… old,” Geoffrey said carefully. “But not outdated.”

 

Embong smiled. “Bapak says fashion changes. Standards shouldn’t.”

 

Awan was already there.

 

He stood by the window with his jacket folded neatly over one arm, the Sarawak River laid out beneath him like a considered choice rather than an accident of geography. When he turned, his expression softened immediately.

 

“There you are,” he said. “I hear you’ve been inspecting my furniture.”

 

Geoffrey straightened. “Yes, sir.”

 

Awan smiled faintly. “Good. It keeps it honest.”

 

He moved behind the desk with unhurried familiarity and sat, resting his hands lightly on the leather blotter as if the room answered to him by habit rather than command.

 

“This is Geoffrey,” Embong said, though the introduction had already been made.

 

“I know,” Awan replied. “You’ve told me a great deal.”

 

Awan gestured lightly around the room. “This company is Sinar Cahaya Sarawak,” he said. “Light must be steady if people are to rely on it.”

 

Geoffrey listened carefully, absorbing more than just the words.

 

“Our offices downstairs share the building with the bank and the exchange,” Awan continued. “Finance is not about money alone. It is about trust.”

 

A soft knock came from the courtyard side.

 

The door opened and Emily Song stepped in from her adjoining office, a slim folder tucked neatly under her arm. She took in the room in a single glance—Awan seated, the boys standing—and adjusted without hesitation.

 

“Dato’,” she said politely. “Your four o’clock has confirmed.”

 

“Thank you, Emily,” Awan replied. “You’ve met my son.”

 

“Yes,” she said, smiling at Embong. Then she turned to Geoffrey. “And you must be Geoffrey.”

 

Geoffrey nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

“No need for that,” she said lightly. “You make me sound much older than I am.”

 

Emily set the folder down and reached into her bag.

 

“I thought you might enjoy these,” she said, sliding two blank business cards across the desk.

 

They were heavy. Cream stock. Clean print.

 

SINAR CAHAYA SARAWAK

KUCHING

 

Embong picked one up carefully. “These are real?”

 

Emily nodded. “Very.”

 

Geoffrey hesitated. “What would we put on them?”

 

Awan watched them with quiet amusement.

 

“That,” he said, “is the right question.”

 

Emily considered for a moment. “You could start with Assistant to the Chairman,” she suggested. “Very impressive. Very non-committal.”

 

Geoffrey smiled. “What about representatives?”

 

“Representatives of what?” Awan asked.

 

Embong thought carefully. “Of learning.”

 

Awan nodded once. “Acceptable.”

 

Emily smiled. “I’ll have them printed.”

 

Geoffrey blinked. “Really?”

 

“One day,” she said, “you’ll look back and realise this was the easy part.”

 

As they gathered their things, Geoffrey noticed a framed photograph near the bookshelf—an earlier team, a woman standing beside Awan, smiling with quiet assurance.

 

His gaze lingered.

 

Emily followed it and softened. “That was Chew Ai Ling,” she said gently. “She was very good at her job.”

 

Awan inclined his head. “We miss her.”

 

No one added anything else.

 

They stepped back into the courtyard, the sound of the fountain returning as the door closed behind them. The city lay spread beyond the glass, steady and patient, and Geoffrey felt the weight of possibility settle—quietly, without ceremony—into his pocket.

 

Evenings by the River

 

That night, they walked along the waterfront. Lanterns glowed. Sampans drifted lazily across the river. Across the water, the white palace stood calm and assured, as if it had learned long ago that attention was optional.

 

Geoffrey leaned on the railing, the scent of satay smoke curling past.

 

“Not bad,” he said.

 

Embong grinned. “Careful. People get very proud about that phrase.”

 

“I can see why,” Geoffrey replied. “It feels… settled.”

 

Rusaldi nodded. “Because it is.”

 

Santubong

 

The days that followed unfolded without urgency.

 

They drove out toward Santubong, where the mountain rose sharply against the sky and the sea glittered blue beneath it. At the cultural village, Geoffrey wandered through longhouses and tallhouses, watching demonstrations, listening to stories, letting history sit beside the present without being asked to choose between them.

 

During the performance, he volunteered for the blowpipe before thinking it through.

 

The first attempt missed badly.

 

The second struck true.

 

Applause startled him into laughter—unguarded, surprised—before he realised how much he’d needed it.

 

Mosquitoes

 

That night, the mosquitoes arrived.

 

Geoffrey slapped at the air, groaning quietly as bites bloomed along his arms.

 

“Welcome to Sarawak,” Embong said from the other bed. “These are our elite units.”

 

Rusaldi passed the doorway, paused, and handed in a bottle of repellent. “Think of it as training,” he said mildly. “Builds character.”

 

“Of what?” Geoffrey muttered.

 

“Tolerance,” Rusaldi replied. “Very useful.”

 

Y2K

 

By the end of December, the city buzzed with fireworks and talk of Y2K.

 

Embong hovered near his laptop as midnight approached, glancing between the screen and the window as if one might contradict the other.

 

Delima waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing will happen. Computers are not so dramatic.”

 

The clock rolled over.

 

The screen held steady.

 

The city kept breathing.

 

Rusaldi checked his watch. “See? Still here.”

 

Fireworks

 

They returned to the waterfront for the New Year.

 

Fireworks burst over the river, colour scattering across water and sky. Families cheered. Strangers hugged. The air smelt of smoke and sweetness and river.

 

Geoffrey leaned on the railing, smiling without effort.

 

“Embong,” he said quietly, “thanks for bringing me here.”

 

Embong looked at him, expression open. “Told you. There’s more to it.”

 

Geoffrey watched the lights fade and understood something he hadn’t known he was waiting to learn.

 

He wasn’t visiting anymore.

 

He was being included.

 

When they returned to Sydney weeks later, the air felt cooler, sharper—but not unfamiliar.

 

Geoffrey unpacked slowly, aware that something had shifted without making noise.

 

Asia was no longer a place he had visited.

 

It was part of how he understood his friend.

 

And part of how he understood himself.

 

They only knew that, once noticed, neither had moved again.

 

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