Ministry of Moral Panic

by Amanda Lee Koe

  Bee hoon, please, plus a chicken drumstick. No no, drumstick, not wing. Drumstick.

  She pointed at the cut of meat from the other side of the display glass.

  Sorry, he said in accented Mandarin, putting a hand to his head in an apologetic salute.

  Delia found herself searching for something to say. You’re new here, she said in Mandarin as she pressed the coins and notes into his outstretched hand.

  Yes.

  Are you from China?

  Yes, Harbin.

  I hear its cold there.

  Oh yes. Our winter winds blow from Siberia.

  Is that why your cheeks are so rosy?

  He looked at her, amused and perplexed. He reached up to touch his cheek, leaving a grease mark. He couldn’t have been more than twenty.

  Someone appeared in line behind her, ordering a kopi O.

  She took her styrofoam-packed lunch in its thin coral-pink plastic bag in both hands and moved on.

  • • •

  I was just thinking, you might not have been shown around Singapore. Only tourists go sightseeing, right? And, I’ve noticed, you work weekends too. I was wondering, perhaps if we could go for supper? I know a really good place with chilli crab—it’s a famous Singaporean dish—just around the corner.

  That’s really nice of you, but oh, I don’t know.

  Why not?

  Maybe I should head home and have a shower and change into something nicer?

  No, don’t worry about it. Look, I’ll buy you a new shirt you can pull over right now, how about that?

  Now he’s in a t-shirt from Bossini, the ones that say I ♥ SG, an incredibly bad rip-off of Milton Glaser’s iconic I ♥ NY, the ratty singlet a sour potpourri of testosterone and no-minimum-wage labour in his bag. And there she is, Delia, finding herself peeling crab for him.

  He is sucking on the claws, making these little guzzling sounds, popping the proffered succulent white flesh into his mouth. She is watching his plump red lips. She breaks off a mantou and mops up some gravy with the doughy interior, handing it to him.

  Do you eat crab in Harbin?

  When we catch it ourselves. We fish for carp and crab by the creek. It’s too expensive to eat it in restaurants. He realises what he’s said and he looks at her sheepishly.

  Oh, don’t worry about it, she says, realising that she hasn’t eaten anything, absentmindedly chewing on some plain bit of the other half of the fried mantou, and then she adds a qualifier: As long as you’re enjoying yourself.

  He puts down the vermillion crab claw and looks at her seriously, Yes, I am, I am.

  She pays and they leave the eatery. She feels exultant walking beside him. She catches herself staring at the vein trailing his forearm, his work-roughened hands. At the bus stop, she ensures he knows which bus to take, east-bound to his cheap shared dormitory apartment. Her bus is pulling into the bus bay. She bids him goodbye.

  Is there anything I can do for you? His face is earnest.

  Now that the question is out in the open, it catches her by such surprise.

  She’s lifted a foot, about to board the bus, she hovers midstep. She opens and shuts her mouth. He sees from her face that there’s something he can do for her but that she doesn’t yet know how to say it, and he springs from the bus stop bench and boards the bus with her, pulling her in, along. The doors swing shut.

  Lei, she says his name breathlessly, as if he’s crossed an ocean for her, and perhaps he has. Dismay, mixed with obvious pleasure.

  What is it? he asks, face warm and open and genuine. For a split second, Delia catches herself thinking, It was just one crab. Just one crab and now you’re wagging your tail at me, rolling over. She thinks it in a grateful, simpering way, as if she might like to cry.

  It was just—I was wondering if you might walk me home.

  Delia has never been walked home ever, and she almost says this, pulling back at the last moment: There’ve been a couple of armed robberies in my estate lately, you see.

  That’s all?

  It sounds suddenly, precariously, like a scoff, but then he’s smiling that wide-open smile again, saying, Of course I can do that. Of course I can walk you home.

  The three hundred metres from the bus stop to her block of flats have never been dearer. Lei gets the elevator for her, asks after her floor level, presses eight. He walks her all the way to her gate, where the unwieldy potted plants—with their eggshells in the soil and the red ribbons tied to their branches—and her mother’s pink plastic sandals, grimy and splitting apart, embarrass her.

  But she realises he is completely unperturbed, looking at her as a child might.

  Thank you, she says.

  No problem.

  Goodnight.

  Goodnight—will you buy lunch from me tomorrow?

  Yes.

  You’ve been buying the same thing from me for a whole week now. Don’t—it’s not so healthy to eat that every day, is it? Get some soup instead.

  She smiles and takes out her keys, glancing at her watch.

  Gosh, it’s past midnight. How are you going to get back? There’ll be no more buses, and taxis will be carrying a surcharge. Here—she passes him twenty dollars—Take this.

  I can walk, he says, but already he is reaching out to accept the two red and beige notes.

  • • •

  Delia’s in a dress, one size too small. The form of her love handles is visible from the back, dribbling over the elastic band of her underwear. She has bronzed her eyelids. She is wearing mascara, already slightly smudged though it is only lunchtime.

  Lei sees Delia in her dress, the make-up. The moment he does, he knows he’s won. A small smile plays out inside his lips, around the corners of his mouth. There’s a space on either side of our lower lips, under the corners of our mouths, where our canine teeth would have been; traces of things we’ve lost through the course of evolution. Lei knows he’s won, and Delia doesn’t even know this is a game.

  The pretty women had swallowed their surprise at Delia’s appearance—not all of it, just enough to remain polite. Delia, you look so different! Delia couldn’t have cared less. She kept her eye on the clock on the wall, filing her reports diligently, sitting up straighter.

  Bee hoon, please—

  And a drumstick?

  Yes.

  She’s smiling at him. She checks to see his boss isn’t around: Dinner tonight?

  • • •

  Lei comes home to his dorm mates crowded around the floor of their cramped room, lights turned off but for the glow from his brand-new 15-inch laptop and the intermittent blue light of his mobile internet stick. They have hiked the volume all the way up and the moaning from the low-fidelity AV is sharp as broken glass. Some of his dorm mates have their cocks in hand, others are squatting around, staring intently at the screen.

  Our man, Lei, one of them says.

  Lei comes around, sees the two Japanese girls onscreen, slim but with large, fake breasts, the man penetrating them in turn, his penis huge and hairless. The girls are moaning, out of sync with one another, and one of them is squeezing her breasts together with her small hands.

  Shit. Look at these Japs. If I ever got my hands on one—

  I told you guys not to touch my stuff without asking me, Lei says.

  So selfish, Lei.

  Don’t you want to share your goods with your comrades, Lei?

  Lei, can your woman buy me a handphone too?

  Suck my cock, Lei says.

  At least I didn’t say laptop. Give me your handphone and tell her you lost yours and need a new one.

  I said—suck my cock.

  Really?

  Lei looks at his dorm mate in disgust. Another chimes in: Does she suck your cock, Lei?

  If I wanted her to.

  Why wouldn’t you want her to?

  A fourth: I’ve seen her. She looks like a yak.

  She’s not that bad, Lei says defensively.

  Ooh, Lei. Do you care for her?
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  Howls of laughter all around, the slapping of thighs. The Japanese ménage a trois is coming to a climax, together, one of the women masturbating whilst watching the other woman get fucked.

  Our Lei here is a precious little gigolo, isn’t he?

  Lei bends over and snaps the laptop screen shut. Hey motherfucker, one of his dorm mates says, gesturing with his left hand to the erect penis in his right. Give it here, pussy.

  Lei thinks about putting a fist in the face of his countryman. He picks up the laptop with one hand, turns, but there’s nowhere for him to walk off to, no door to lock unless it is the toilet. He looks around—the eight of them, the four bunk beds, the clothes laid out to dry on the frames and stepladder rungs of their bunk beds, the electric stove and the rice cooker. Their polyester duffel bags under the bed, most still with baggage tags on, denoting their city airport codes: HRB, DLU, PVG, JJN.

  Lei eases up. He puts his laptop down, reopens the screen, sits down. His dorm mates crowd around him. He takes the porn from the top. When it resumes, amidst the jerking hands and guttural grunts of his compatriots—augmented with a slap on the back, a friendly grab at his crotch, fraternal encouragement to get into it—Lei feels like he is home, away from home.

  • • •

  Delia and her parents are watching the 9pm Chinese drama serial on the box telly in the living room. The show ends and the credits roll. Delia’s parents agreed this morning that they would bring it up tonight, to come right out and say it after three months of unspoken oscillation between disgruntlement and concern.

  Ling, why have you cut down our allowances?

  Delia keeps her eyes glued to the screen.

  Are… are things okay at the office?

  Things are a bit slow.

  Pay cut?

  Delia nods. Her parents exchange glances and her father swallows.

  Ling, don’t worry, her mother says gently, have a job very good already.

  Delia nods vacantly, excuses herself from the worn PVC sofa, where the parts accommodating bottoms and thighs are cracked through, peeling like ripe fruit. She goes to her room, closes the door. Outside, scored by the 9pm Chinese theme song, her parents look at each other, worried they have upset their daughter. Delia’s mother begins peeling an orange. Delia’s father turns on the radio, tuned to the Chinese oldies.

  In her room, on the bed she’s had since she was fourteen, Delia lies on her back, next to the stuffed toys that still share her bed. She picks up her phone, begins typing a message to a contact she has saved as 宝贝. Baby, like they always said on the radio, and now she has one to call her own.

  Baby I miss you, she types in Chinese characters.

  Five minutes later, the reply, Me too.

  What are you doing?

  Thinking of you.

  Before that?

  Still thinking of you.

  Before before that?

  Doing my laundry.

  Can’t wait to see you tomorrow after work.

  Me too. Rest early, sweet dreams.

  Delia’s mother knocks on the door. Ling? I cut some oranges.

  Delia doesn’t reply, and the knocking continues, tentatively.

  Leave it outside, Ma. I’ll eat later.

  • • •

  It’s Christmas and she’s watching him unwrap his presents. He’d told her previously about the beautiful ice sculptures they have in Harbin every year in January, and she’d said, You must take me there one day, maybe next year? They’re sitting in a café in a touristy part of town, near a canal that is called a river, plied by repurposed bumboats chockfull of Caucasian and Japanese tourists.

  He holds the gifts up, a crisp long-sleeved shirt and smart pants. He’s been waiting for an excuse for a while now, an exit strategy. What’s this, he demands.

  I thought you’d look handsome in them.

  Are you embarrassed to be seen with me? Because I don’t work in an office? Is this what this is?

  No, no, Lei, it’s nothing like that. I just thought—

  Well, don’t think I’m so happy to be seen with you either. Even the girl who cleans the toilet is better-looking than you.

  What girl?

  She’s from Malaysia. She cleans the toilet in our building. Haven’t you seen her around? Slim and fair, with a heart-shaped face.

  Lei—

  What.

  Lei—

  He stands up. She’s started crying.

  What do you want, Lei? I can go get it. I only bought you these because I’d gotten you everything else already—the phone, laptop, mp3 player—I thought it’d be fun, I just thought you would look handsome, really, that’s all.

  I’ve had enough of your face.

  Lei, don’t you love me? You said you loved me.

  He doesn’t even bother to feed his lines properly, just makes to go. She catches his wrist.

  Don’t go. I’ll—I’ll pay you to stay.

  This he did not expect. He’d expected to be called a cad, to have been reviled. Angry tears, demands for the gifted items to be returned. But this, this was a whole new level.

  He pauses, and she holds her breath—maybe this was all an awful mistake, he would say, What kind of question is that, baby, what do you take my affection for?—he’s opening his mouth now, and he says:

  How much?

  • • •

  He’s in the shirt and pants she got him for Christmas, and a pair of shiny leather brogues. They’re strolling down Robertson Quay, and she’s looking up at him adoringly. He looks so handsome, really, he does.

  The women they stroll past stare a split second too long at the unlikely couple. It isn’t so uncommon for a man here to have a girlfriend out of his league, but you seldom saw an ugly woman with a man much too handsome for her. With a good job too, by the looks of the brogues and the branded leather briefcase.

  Whether they are single, or with partners in tow, there’s an indignant, bitter taste rising from the backs of their throats, because what she has is one in a million—he must truly see past the physical hull of her, right into her. This must be love, then.

  And in that shining moment as the lips of these women curl, even if it is to turn to their partners to say, Would you still love me if I looked like that?, the facts of the matter are no longer important. The logical direction of the food chain, obvious only a moment ago, is suspect. It’s a fact, not a question: the question is not her love for him, his lack of love for her, if there is love, or even what love is; the fact is that love is out of the question. Only power is left and the turning table is, in passing, suspended—and for now, with precipitant clarity, he is ancillary, and she is queen. As the women bat their eyes in contemptuous envy, injudiciously affronted by the anomaly of the pair, Lei is supplanted, and Delia wins.

  The King of Caldecott Hill

  HE DOESN’T LOOK exactly the way he does on the telly, and it surprises her that this surprises her, because, obviously, showbiz is showbiz, and she’s twenty-one; she’s come of age, she knows better.

  In a way, he has always been the leading male presence in her life. After her father left, her mother never stayed with one man for more than two years a pop, but the Channel 8 Chinese drama serials were always on at 7pm and 9pm. With his popularity, she could count on him to be on every other new show, it was a matter of two months at most—the TV station works on a 30-episode basis, generally. He’s barely gone to seed at all though he’s verging on fifty now.

  The King of Caldecott Hill clicks his fingers at her. She’s been idling. She can’t move, she’s seven again, watching him on the telly when her mother waltzes into the living room with a new man, just as the then fresh-faced King of Caldecott Hill announces to the baddie with the awful perm—yes, the same unfortunate dude who always plays the baddie—“我就以这十块钱赢你这家赌场!”1 He’s in a white shirt with a silver bowtie and a matching cummerbund. Her mother says, Say hi to Uncle, and she ducks her head to keep watching—

  Irrashaim
ase, she says automatically as she approaches him.

  I’ve always wanted to know, what does that actually mean?

  He speaks in Mandarin, she is so relieved by this. She’s heard the Channel 8 celebrities of his generation speak in English on talk shows, she’s felt embarrassed for them.

  It means, ‘welcome’. Can I take your order, sir?

  He looks at her for a moment, perhaps ascertaining if she knows who he is. She wonders why he’s alone—his wife is in local showbiz too, a second-tier actress.

  Do you have any recommendations?

  I’ve heard the salmon oyako kamameshi is good.

  You’ve heard, but not tasted?

  No, sir.

  Well, your manager should see that his staff knows what their dishes taste like. It’ll make you a better waitress.

  She says nothing. She wants to say, But I don’t want to become a better waitress; I want to believe I will do more with my life.

  Very well, I’ll try it either way.

  She scribbles down the order, gives a small bow and makes her way to the kitchen.

  • • •

  She serves him the kamameshi.

  She’d suggested this dish to him because it came with a performative element when served. The server had to place a tiny hourglass—registering a minute of fine white sand—atop the wooden box which concealed the hotplate, where the fish and rice would sizzle. It was just a gimmick, but one that was popular with customers.

  You’ll have to wait a minute. Be careful when removing the lid—the plate is hot.

  Thank you.

  She is turning to go, and he has leaned back in his seat. She turns back.

  You were always the good guy.

  Sorry?

  You were always the good guy in the shows. Even when you were the bad guy, you were the good guy.

  He laughs. It’s true.

  Why?

  I don’t know. They decided I have a good-guy face.

  Who?

  The directors, producers, demographers.

  What are demographers?

  They study society and trends to see what people want to watch.

  Oh.

  The fine sand in the hourglass has trickled down. She indicates this to him with a polite sweep of her hand, and he removes the lid.