Lake Like a Mirror

by Ho Sok Fong

The woman looked at her curiously through the rising coils of smoke. Then she went to sit in her chair, kicking away a pile of magazines so that she could pull it closer to the desk.

  “It went like this,” she said, bending forward to open a drawer in the bottom left-hand side of her desk: she mimed taking something out and then, hugging a ball of air to her chest, sat back up and arranged it on her knees. “They said that when I bent forward, that was against the Quran. It was wrong.”

  “Oh, shit,” she replied, not knowing what she was supposed to say. They had packed seven or eight boxes.

  “We should go. This will take more than one day,” said the woman, taking a final, decisive drag on her cigarette. “Although the sooner it’s done, the better.”

  Even after the cigarette had been stubbed out and the ashtray emptied, the smell lingered and she felt it seeping into her clothes and hair.

  The end of June shook in her ears.

  “Where do you live?” she asked, nervously. “I can drop you. It’ll be hard to find a taxi at this time of day.”

  The woman lived on the north side of the city, in a suburb near the national zoo. She knew the way because she’d been to the zoo before, to look at those lifeless animals in their cages. During the whole car ride, she felt her attention drawn to her left. They didn’t exactly know each other, but neither were they complete strangers. Their offices were a few rooms apart and they had often passed one another in the corridor, gone to the same meetings, waited for one another to hand over their teaching groups. And now the woman was being singled out as an example. It was hard to fathom. She knew she should keep quiet, was aware the woman wasn’t in the best mood, but they still had an hour to go. She started chatting about this and that, making fun of some stupid TV show, complaining about public transport being as shitty as ever. Then a press conference came on the radio and they both fell silent, listening as someone attacked the administration for being a festering pile of trash.

  “What will you do next?” she asked, from the driver’s seat.

  Her passenger shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “What did they say to you?”

  “They’re smarter about these things now. It was all very civilized. They said my contract was up. That courses are being restructured and the faculty is moving in a new direction, so my services are no longer required. They didn’t mention anything about student complaints.”

  “So that’s how they played it. I guess you can’t argue with that.”

  “Argue what?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Argue that I’m the victim here? Because that’s not what I want.”

  Things were more complicated than that, she added. Much more complicated than that.

  The after-work traffic was like a tide, car after car after car stretching along the outer ring road, all six lanes blocked like a huge outdoor parking lot. Horns blasted impatiently. The cars inched forward, lining up for the better part of an hour just to pass through the toll booth. In the shimmer of the setting sun, they were part of a sea that stretched all the way to the horizon.

  “I might apply to go abroad, if I can find a course,” said the woman, without much enthusiasm. “What about you? Things are fine now, I take it? You can stay.”

  She gave a small, hesitant nod, and then shook her head.

  “I don’t know, I hope so. Really hope so.” Her voice was strained.

  “I saw the video. It has nothing to do with you, some people just love to talk shit,” said the woman. “English literature has nothing to do with it. They have nothing better to do than intimidate people, and try to make examples of them.”

  She listened silently, at a loss for words. She was sure that the woman was speaking the truth. But what was true had nothing whatsoever to do with what was safe. The two things were miles apart. Truth was further from safety than two islands at opposite ends of the earth.

  They arrived and waved goodbye. Exhausted, with nothing left to say, she quickly drove off and headed home.

  The car turned off the ring road and climbed uphill, entering the vast wooded area that spanned the north of the city. The last rays of sunlight lingered over the treetops, and the narrow road snaked through dark tree trunks and their hazy shadows. Shrubs and branches melded into walls of greenery on either side until, abruptly, they gave way to a wall of billboards. A whole row of advertising for real estate.

  It was here that the animal sprang out of nowhere—an elk, or at least something a lot like an elk, appearing all of a sudden outside the window on the driver’s side.

  Those marvelous antlers. It raced past, the forest trailing behind. Perhaps it wasn’t an elk; perhaps just an ordinary deer. She couldn’t be sure because biology had never been her strong suit.

  She couldn’t see the whole thing, just parts of it, flashes of head and body, bobbing frantically up and down as it ran, as though being chased by a wild beast. Or as though jumping for joy, just released from a cage. For a few seconds, she completely forgot that she was driving, and couldn’t tear her eyes away: such a creature, and for it to have come so near! Right outside her window, silky fur so close she could have touched it. Antlers within easy reach. These were shorter and smaller than the antlers she’d seen on television; a little like broken branches, as though battered by the elements, left hardened and gray. Its neck was long, and its eye seemed to stare straight at her from the side of its head, even while it was running away at full pelt, toward something she did not know and could not see.

  Briefly, they ran together along the silent road, the shadows of the trees sheltering them like a nest. In the ink-blue twilight, it was as if she’d crossed into a dreamworld, her everyday consciousness peeled back and replaced by a new, peculiar sensitivity that surged like a wave, so powerful that she felt she might fly. Might leave the surface of the earth, be swept beyond the horizon and no longer belong to any time, or any place.

  It was just a split-second thing. Then there was a giant bend and the car spun and she snapped awake, slamming on the brakes. The wheels screeched. The animal overtook the car, continuing its elegant, carefree sprint around the bend. One second and it had abandoned her, becoming a shrinking gray dot at the end of the road.

  The car leaped the curb, left the road, and charged into the wasteland that surrounded the lake. It was over before she could scream.

  She slowly came to her senses, and found herself still in her seat. Gingerly, she checked the rearview mirror and, seeing no cars on the road behind, began to reverse. Her back wheels jammed in a muddy ditch. No matter how the engine roared, they would only spin on the spot.

  She turned off the engine. A cloud of mosquitoes flew up, and her ears flooded with an insect whine. The flickering gleam of the water. She could make out a pile of abandoned furniture. There was a sofa right at the edge of the lake—close enough that, if you sat on it, you would surely be able to touch the water with your toe. It was an enticing prospect, beckoning to her like a holiday, but as she walked closer she realized it was impossible to reach. It was surrounded by old wood and assorted junk. She examined this collection of messy, damp objects, hoping to find boards to put under her wheels.

  The mosquitoes attacked her arms and legs. She returned to the car and restarted the engine, but it was no good. She remained trapped as the sky and the lake turned completely black, desperately trying to phone for help. There was no reception; all she heard was the electronic recording from the service provider, over and over again.

  She was wild with frustration. There wasn’t a single streetlight.

  She knew that she was some distance from the lake. But she couldn’t see anything; her eyes were wide open and she couldn’t see. The absolute darkness distorted her perspective. She thought of those creation myths and their revered heroes, tearing order from chaos; of their incredible courage. Their astonishment when they saw the first ray of light, and discovered they had eyes. She knew all she had to do was turn on her headlights, but couldn’t decide
which was safer: to alert others to her existence, or continue to hide in the dark?

  She sat quietly for a moment, listening carefully. Listening to the unfamiliar noises out there in the night, the jagged harmony of the trees and insects. Confronting the pitch-black chaos. The wind gusted across the lake. She heard it blowing across her car, through the shrubs and the undergrowth, and she had the weary thought: that’s how it is, that’s how it is. Now rest for a while.

  The Chest

  AN YAH BENT DOWN to the sideboard next to the sewing machine. It was almost as old as she was, its clear plastic door speckled with brown. Dust clumped thickly over the hinges and she had to wrench to get it open. Today, she planned to clear out the junk inside. There was a wooden chest in there, once home to an old-fashioned gramophone. Until about nine years ago, black vinyl records were always spinning on the gramophone’s turntable, their old tunes accompanying the steady rumble of the sewing machine pedal. But the gramophone was gone. Sold off, along with all the records, following its owner out of this world and into the past. An Yah heaved the chest toward her and saw it was filled with odds and ends from who knew when, that she couldn’t remember putting there. A dusty cobweb hung off one side. At the time, she hadn’t been able to bear the thought of giving it away. Now, she just wanted to be rid of it, and free the space for two big sacks of plastic slippers.

  It was heavier than she’d expected. Or maybe it was just that she was bent over, at a bad angle for pulling. Her cream slacks were covered in dusty gray fingerprints. Over the last two years, she had been increasingly lax about cleaning; she was too busy. The gaps between cabinets and the out-of-the-way corners were full of cobwebs, and a thin layer of dust covered all the goods in the shop. Customers didn’t seem to care—they usually tracked in dusty, muddy footprints of their own—and it had never bothered An Yah. Dust, mud, spiders, geckos: they were part of life. Once upon a time, a large plump hand had brandished scissors, unrolled bolts of cloth across the counter, cut off lengths, rolled the remaining cloth back up, and the dust had stayed away. Now there was only her, and there was so much dust that it didn’t really matter whether she cleaned or not.

  In the reflection of a cabinet door, she watched Wood Lim enter the shop. He turned up every few days with a bundle of vegetables, appearing once he’d closed up his stall at the morning market. It was pure speculation on his part, because An Yah didn’t recall ever having asked him to do it. But the vegetables were always fresh and he gave her a good price, so she allowed it to continue.

  She called out a greeting, still tugging at the chest. It was half out, tilting toward the floor.

  Usually, Wood put the vegetables on the counter, took his money, and left. But today, seeing what the situation was, he strode over to help.

  “Here, let me!” He pushed aside the sewing machine, a shoe-display cabinet, and a rattan chair.

  An Yah moved out of his way, leaving the box teetering over the edge of the cupboard.

  “I can do it by myself!” she protested.

  “Come on, this thing is heavy!”

  And it was, surprisingly so. Who’d have thought that such a decrepit old sideboard could hold such a weight? The pulled-out end balanced precariously on Wood’s knee. An Yah rushed to support the left-hand side, which looked on the verge of crashing to the ground. Perspiring heavily, the two of them finally managed to get the chest out and carefully set it on the floor.

  “What the hell have you got in there?” muttered Wood.

  She wasn’t entirely sure herself. It looked like bits of leftover fabric. Denim, linen, flannel, cotton, bits of polyester. Dust flew up as soon as she touched them. Wood sneezed.

  An Yah went behind the counter to fetch him his money.

  “One fifty,” he said.

  She gave him two.

  “You’re pretty strong,” he remarked, as he took it.

  He rested for a moment in a chair behind a glass cabinet. Threads of morning sun crept through the seams of the window blinds. There was a pleasant breeze. Sparrows chirped beneath the eaves. Through the blinds, down by the river, there was a mango tree. Some flowers. Some wild vegetables.

  Wood had nowhere to be. He had never known the shop’s former towkay; by the time he started bringing vegetables over on his scooter, Big Man had been dead for several years. If he’d still been around, perhaps they would have chatted. An Yah was absorbed in tidying up her junk pile, and hadn’t said a word. After a while, Wood spotted the lady next door out for a walk and, curious, got up and left.

  The chest used to have a lid, but who knew where that had ended up. In the old days, the gramophone used to sit on top, its needle traveling inward. Even after cassette tapes took off, Big Man insisted on listening to records. He took great pleasure in the little rituals that went along with it, carefully wiping the records with a scrap of velvet, inspecting their grooves, then sliding them back into their cases. He had over a hundred of them, filling three drawers and a cupboard. An Yah remembered all his old habits. Thirty years of marriage, during which they had changed both enormously and hardly at all. The sewing machine, gramophone, bamboo blinds, sideboard, and various other furniture had been in Big Man’s family since long before the two of them married. For the better part of half a century, the room had barely changed. The major transformation had happened when Big Man died and An Yah became a widow. This old place had become hers.

  The chest stayed where An Yah and Wood had left it. A whole day went by and An Yah did not touch it. Customers came and went. A few curious children peered inside. Some tried to bury their faces in the old fabric scraps and were scolded by adults. Eventually, a couple of customers, looking for somewhere to sit down and try on shoes, found it was in the way and helped her push it behind a shoe rack. Then they carried over a low stool and used the chest as a back rest. No one seemed to mind the dirt.

  “Towkay, I didn’t bring enough money. I’ve only got fifteen.”

  An Yah looked at the shoe box and saw she had written “Same Fit” on it. “Same Fit” meant this pair had cost twelve ringgit. Same, fit, fancy, flat, good, big, small, long, pair, tie. Ten family code words, telling her the trade price. This code had been passed down from her parents-in-law, who had taught it to Big Man, who had taught it to her and the children. Outsiders would never be able to crack it. Even within the family, she was the only one who could still decipher it; her children and Big Man’s younger brothers had long since forgotten.

  “Eh, but that leaves nothing for me. Come back with enough money next time.”

  “Can I owe you?”

  An Yah nodded reluctantly. “But remember to pay it.”

  She turned and made a note on the whiteboard behind the counter.

  “And don’t go around telling everyone.”

  The customer grinned, pausing on the way out to ask, “What’s cooking back there? Smells good.”

  “Nothing,” said An Yah.

  She hadn’t cooked at lunchtime since her children left home. She needed to keep her eyes on the shop. Big Man used to stay in the front while she cooked in the back, taking her time, pans wheezing and clattering, filling the shop with the rich fragrance of stir-fried scallions and garlic. But now the most practical course of action was to get food delivered. For fifty-five ringgit a month, a lunchbox of one meat and two vegetable dishes was dropped at her door daily, meaning she could eat in between customers. When one walked in, she closed the container and slid it under a newspaper. Usually, she ate half and saved the rest for dinner. If she got too hungry and finished it all, then in the evening she’d boil Wood’s vegetables and eat them with rice.

  The chest had given off an odd, musty smell, like rusting nails after a rainstorm. But after sitting with it for a while, she found it started to smell cleaner and sweeter, like hay. The scent drifted into the center of the room, where she noticed that some customers seemed hungrily drawn to it; unconsciously, they’d move closer to the box and inhale deeply. Others remained oblivious, t
heir body odor overpowering enough to mask it.

  A boy came in to buy a loose cigarette. He borrowed a lighter and exhaled a heady cloud of Marlboro, which instantly curled around the shop. Then he asked for some shoelaces, a pair of socks, and some wrapping paper, in quick succession. As An Yah packed up the items, she saw him lean back against the chest and casually flick his cigarette butt onto the floor.

  She watched numbly, still unsure what to do about the chest. I should just get rid of it, she thought. But when there was finally a lull in customers, she felt she should seize the chance to go to the toilet.

  It was one of the difficulties of running the shop by herself: she often had to ignore the urge for hours at a time. To lessen the need, she drank little water, which in turn made her constipated. Her daughter warned her that if she didn’t drink enough, she’d get kidney stones. But every time she left the shop and went into the back for a glass of water, or to turn on the lights, or the fan, she felt uneasy, worried that a thief would take advantage of her absence. Once, her daughter had left her phone beside the shop’s ancestral shrine, and when she’d gone to pick it up a little while later, it had vanished.

  When An Yah came back from the bathroom, she noticed the hay scent again, coiled about the room like a snake. She sat on the little stool, leaning back against the chest. This close, the smell was intense. She inhaled deeply, filling her chest with it, and felt herself relax. She sighed, and then sighed again, and had the vague impression of Big Man wavering before her, although his face was hazy. He said something but she didn’t catch it. It made her suddenly anxious and she wanted to say, Speak up! You’re all fuzzy. But the words lodged in her throat.

  “Hey, towkay!” called a Malay kid, summoning her back to the present.

  At six o’clock that evening, she heaved over the two heavy wooden door panels that stood leaning against the wall. No one else had doors like this anymore; they’d all upgraded to lightweight aluminium roller shutters, and installed iron grates over their windows. She would have liked to replace her panels with iron grates—then she could just pull them closed and go to the toilet, take a nap, or have a shower, without having to worry. But the wooden doors had been there since her in-laws first started the shop. People often remarked that they were the oldest of all the old curios in town. She had a photo of her in-laws, in which her mother-in-law was barely twenty and dressed in a traditional Chinese jacket and pant suit, while her father-in-law stood stiffly beside her in a neat Western-style one (it was hard to imagine that such a well-turned-out young man would go on to become such a slave to his opium pipe). In the background, embedded sturdily in their frame, were the wooden doors. By the looks of things, they had been there much longer than the couple: in the year after the in-laws had arrived from China, while they were moving between relatives’ houses, trying to find their feet, the doors would have already been in place.