The House of Doors by Tan Twan Eng review / Tragedy in the tropics
I
The narrator is the austere Supreme Court judge Teoh Yun Ling, who has retired from public service in Kuala Lumpur to return to the Cameron Highlands, where she has unfinished business: her past and that of her country. As Yun-Ling reconnects with old friends at the hill station and the tone becomes contemplative, we slip into chronologically complex flashbacks. Slowly, the narrative turns to the main dramatic event: the fascinating relationship between Yun Ling and gardener Nakamura Aritomo.
Self-exiled from imperial Japan after a dispute with his employer Emperor Hirohito, Aritomo settles in the hilltops of Malaya and begins to build Yugiri, a "garden of evening mists". Into his life comes independent Yun Ling, daughter of a prosperous Chinese Malaysian family, and the sole survivor of a prisoner-of-war camp. It is 1951, and she is a prosecutor of war criminals and a hater of all things Japanese – except one. Her request to Aritomo is simple: build a garden for her sister who perished in the camp, and who loved the gardens of Kyoto. The taciturn Aritomo is not in the habit of pleasing anyone or apologising for his country's crimes. Instead he offers to teach Yun Ling the art of Japanese gardening, for two years. Almost against herself, she becomes his apprentice, then his lover, and finally, the canvas for his masterpiece: horimono, a full-body Japanese tattoo. The chapters in which this redemptive relationship unfolds through the rich metaphors of gardening, tattooing, tea-ceremonies, and Zen philosophy are the psychological core of the novel.
Meanwhile, we learn about existential gardening concepts such as shakkei, "borrowed scenery"; that "every aspect of gardening is a form of deception"; that the "Art of Setting Stones" is back-breaking; that a garden is the expression of spiritual states. We learn about archery, which Aritomo practices as a form of meditation. We learn about tea-growing, and about the sexually charged practice of horimono (did you know that the subject becomes addicted to the pain?), and chilling details about Japanese war-camps where those such as Yun Ling were "guests of the Emperor", as the obscene term went.
This is a novel that overflows with historical and specialist information, and like The Gift of Rain, it showcases Tan Twan Eng as a master of cultural complexities. The secondary character, Magnus, is a South African whose heart is in Malaya, and who – like Yun Ling – becomes entangled in the pre-independence turmoil of the 1950s. Indeed, all the characters, including the righteous Yun Ling and the wise Aritomo, are slowly revealed to be morally ambiguous, compromised by actions that haunt them. The theme here is remembering and forgetting, illustrated by a suitable double metaphor: there is a Mnemosyne garden statue, and Yun Ling suffers from aphasia.
This novel ticks many boxes: its themes are serious, its historic grounding solid, its structure careful, its old-fashioned ornamentalism respectable. The reason I found it impossible to love is the quality of the writing. There is no discernible personality in the dutiful, dull voice of Yun Ling, and non-events stalk us on every page: "for a timeless moment I looked straight into his eyes"; "For a long while he does not say anything. Finally he begins to speak in a slow, steady voice." The self-conscious dialogue resembles a history lesson collated for the benefit of the western reader, and everything is ponderously "like" something else, so it takes twice as long: "We were like two moths around a candle, circling closer and closer to the flames, waiting to see whose wings would catch fire first." Despite the dramatic events, the overall effect is one of surprising blandness, like something you've read before.
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