THOMAS L. CHIU
HE CALLED HER
ANTONIA
I came upon Antonia in 1967 in Sarawak, located in the northernmost
part of Borneo, while on a research assignment.
She was in her mid-forties, a tiny woman about four feet eight inches, wearing
the customary Malay sarong outfit. Lean of frame, she moved ever so swiftly
around the house where she was employed as a servant, carrying on her "duties."
She always responded to her employer's call, "Antonia!" by running
out from somewhere and saying, "Yes, Sir." She never seemed to
need a repetition of requests or instructions. Then off she disappeared.
That first time I saw Antonia was at tea time, when I was invited by her
employer. No sooner had I sat down (tea was always served in the garden)
than she came out with a clean table cloth, napkins, silver, a pot of tea,
and sandwiches. Closely following her was her daughter, no more than six
years of age, with a plate of marmalade. A son, about four, trailing behind,
came out with a dish of fruit. No words were exchanged. I watched with fascination,
noting the detailed movements of each of the servers.
"Good afternoon, Sir," she said with a shy smile. Then, after
quickly assembling the various items on the table, she moved on to other
tasks.
I enjoyed this very first tea in the wilderness of Borneo, and looked forward
to it every weekend.
I learned very little of Antonia. I seldom spoke with her, nor had I the
opportunity to talk with her children. There were six of them, all under
age ten. Her husband was a farmer whom I never met.
The house was always immaculate; orchids abounded, the furniture was orderly.
Sometime after my first year in Borneo, her employer had to leave town for
an unspecified period of time. I stopped going for the tea. Months passed.
I began to miss the ritual and the music of Mozart, which invariably was
amplified from the living room to the garden where we had our soiree. I
ached for those moments. Finally, one day, almost on impulse, I drove the
seven-and-a-half-mile trip to the residence unannounced, almost arriving
at tea time.
To my astonishment, there was, in the same spot in the garden, the table
set for everything as usual, including my favorite chicken sandwich.
"I was waiting everyday, Sir, for Dr. S. and you. You don't come."
"I am sorry, Antonia. I disappointed you. I did not know."
"It's alright, Sir. I am happy you come today. Tomorrow you come."
"Yes, Antonia, I shall come tomorrow and everyday until Dr. S. comes
back".
It has been more than two decades since I left Sarawak. I still see the
devoted Antonia and her six children in my reveries. I still admire her
long periods of waiting.
I do not wish to know why she was devoted or why she persevered in waiting
everyday for Dr. S. I only see the beauty of that simple character before
me. This is more than enough.
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