He proceeded to regale me with the entire history of semiconductors until three beers later he mercifully fell asleep.
I noticed everyone around me was sleeping, so I risked putting on the white face mask. After all, better safe than sorry. Then I blew up a neck pillow, stuck in orange earplugs, set up a portable folding footstool, and took out my laptop.
Not a day without a line!
I typed: A Novel by Vassar Spore.
Then stopped. The Big Secret beckoned me. I typed the words I’d overheard barely two weeks ago:
Bubble. Birth. Too young. Rubber ball. Dying. Egg.
All together they added up to something capable of sending Dad for Tums and Mom for Valium.
But before I could brainstorm any further—I fell asleep.
PART TWO
Malaysia
CHAPTER ONE
The Malaysian Cowboy
Where was Bag #8? Bags #1 through #10 were all accounted for, with the sole exception of Bag #8. They stood in a row like soldiers, each black piece affixed with a giant chrome VS. (“Much more efficient once you’re in baggage claim. Saves you at least thirty seconds per bag identification,” Dad had said. He was so right: Not one other passenger had giant chrome monograms.)
I moved closer to the baggage claim conveyor belt to scrutinize every suitcase chugging by.
Ahh! There was the tardy Bag #8 finally sliding down the chute, easily identifiable from all the other black suitcases. With the help of two kindly businessmen, I loaded Bags #1 through #10 onto four luggage carts.
“Starting your own import-export business?” asked the heavy one, winking at the thin one as he plopped the last bag on the pile.
“No, simply prepared,” I said.
The rest of my flight had been uneventful—except when I lined up for the bathroom forgetting I had my face mask on. Highly embarrassing. Especially when I made a toddler cry.
I consulted my PTP and scrolled through the To Do List Upon Arrival: #1: Arrive safely, disembark at 3:05 p.m. (don’t forget anything!), and get luggage. (Check!) #2: Meet Grandma Gerd in airport lobby. #3: Drive from Singapore to Melaka, Malaysia (time frame approximately three hours).
It took a bit of maneuvering to propel all four carts into the lobby—that and help from various middle-aged men who just could not stand by and watch as I inched my way across Singapore International Airport. As I guarded my ten pieces of VS luggage, I searched the milling Asians, twenty-something U.S. and Canadian backpackers, and businessmen and businesswomen. Over in a corner, a pack of international engineers gathered under a royal blue banner that read: MODERN COMPONENT TECHNOLOGIES ANNUAL SEMICONDUCTOR CONFERENCE! They all wore white polos or button-down blue shirts with royal blue MCT logos whether they hailed from America, Africa, or Asia.
But I saw no one who looked grandmotherly. Not that I was worried. After all, my flight had been early. Grandma Gerd still had exactly nine minutes and twenty-four seconds to meet her granddaughter.
“Hey, little lady. You dropped your money belt,” said a husky male voice with a slight twang.
An Asian guy a couple inches shorter and a couple years older than me pointed at a flesh-colored money belt at my feet. He wore a straw cowboy hat, a button-down Western shirt, jeans, boots—and thick black sideburns shaved to points on either side of his mouth. He sucked on a Chupa sucker, the white stick shifting side to side. I involuntarily backed away.
“Oh, no. Mine’s around my …” But before I could say “waist,” he picked up the money belt, unzipped it, pulled out the passport, flipped it open, and read, “Vassar Spore—what, no middle name? Born 19—”
I snatched the passport out of his hand and, in doing so, managed to drop my leather briefcase—sending all six travel guides whizzing across the airport floor, narrowly grazing the feet of two passing Thai flight attendants.
“Good aim,” he drawled. “Somebody bowls.”
I scrambled to retrieve the guides and briefcase. He followed me, his boots making loud staccatos on the tile floor.
“Mis-sus Vas-sar Spore. What’s it like bein’ saddled with a name like that?”
Since ignoring wasn’t working, I tried dismissive: “Thank you for my money belt and passport. Good-bye.” I couldn’t believe my money belt had slipped right off me! It must have been all that physical exertion with Bags #1 through #10. In the future, I’d have to cinch my money belt extra tight. Thank goodness it had happened in a relatively safe environment. I pushed the record button on my PTP:
“Note to self: Buy safety pin for money belt cinching.”
As I turned away, a warm hand gripped my arm.
“What’s your hurry, little lady? Hanks Lee,” he said, and held out his hand. “Hanks plural, not singular.”
I hesitated, wondering whether it was advisable to shake hands with a strange guy, especially one with unfortunate facial hair channeling John Wayne—or was it Elvis?
“Hanks, the van’s here,” my seatmate, the American engineer with the goatee, called over to him, motioning for him to join the rest of the Modern Component Technology group.
While “Hanks” was thus distracted, I backed away, leaving him standing there with his hand extended. I painstakingly pushed all four luggage carts towards the front entrance—which was easier said than done, especially with one hand guarding my waist. Are all Southeast Asians this forward? From the movies I’d seen, I expected gracious, polite, retiring types. And I would never have taken that “cowboy” for an engineer! What a strange world this was.
As I slowly made my way through the glass doors of the airport (inching each cart forward ten feet at a time), humidity enveloped me like a warm, damp towel. My skin—used to the mild Pacific Northwest—didn’t know what to make of such a climate. Each pore independently opened and secreted moisture.
Bodies surged forward, waving papers printed with RAFFLES, THE LAMBERTS, STEPHEN CHO, MR. JOHAANSON, TURTLEDOVE HOSTEL, and ANNE MILKY written on them—but no Vassar Spore.
“Whoa there, don’t go runnin’ away now. Aren’t you the same Vassar Spore who needs a ride to Melaka?” There he was again. He pulled a folded-up piece of paper out of his back pocket.
So after sneaking a look at my passport he thinks he can lure me away to who knows where?
I decided to nip this in the bud. “Thank you for your concern, but I don’t need your help.”
Without missing a beat, he refolded the piece of paper and returned it to his back pocket.
“Someone’s awful cocky for a non-traveler.”
How did he know I was a non-traveler?
“I’m not a non-traveler. I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“All righty, then,” Hanks said, backing away, his arms in surrender position, his boots clicking.
I checked my PTP: one minute, seventeen seconds left. My first time in a foreign country and no Grandma Gerd to pick me up. Why was I not surprised? I should have planned on her deserting me. Maybe she honestly forgot I was arriving today. I started perspiring even more. Mild panic set in. Breathe in, breathe out. Head between my knees, my ponytail grazing the floor, I gulped air as I tried to focus.
Upside down, I saw him watching me from the MCT group, not at all hiding the fact he was laughing at me. He said something to the engineers, and they laughed with him. Then they all migrated toward a line of silver vans, each one with the Modern Component Technology logo on the side.
Should I hire a taxi? After all, I knew the name of the guesthouse in Melaka: The Golden Lotus.
I tried my PTP cell phone. No reception.
International calling card to the rescue!
Although they must have been sleeping, Mom picked up on the first ring, her voice completely alert.
“What is it? What’s happened? Are you hurt? Stranded? Sick? In prison? Abducted?”
I had to remain calm for her mental well-being. “The good news is, I’ve arrived safely—other than being bored to death by the businessman sitting next to me who may have ha
d the beginnings of a cold. But fear not, I wore my mask. The bad news is—” Careful, Vassar! “Uh, not so much bad as unfortunate … Grandma Gerd isn’t here to pick me up—”
“What!?!”
Uh-oh.
I could hear Dad’s sleepy yet concerned voice in the background, “Give me the phone, Althea. I’ll take care of this. Come now, let go of the—”
“Mom, don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” I said in as cheerful a tone as I could muster. “I’ll just get a taxi—”
“By yourself!? Alone!? Stop it, Leon, I’m talking to Vassar!”
There were rustling sounds, then Dad got on the line. “Vassar, what’s going on?”
“Sorry, about this, Dad. It’s just that—”
“Vassar Spore?”
I wasn’t forgotten after all! I whirled around to behold a fifty-year-old Asian man wearing the crispest of crisp white MCT polo shirts and a mild frown. He had a slight stoop, a comb-over, and silver-rimmed bifocals.
“Yes, I’m Vassar Spore. Are you—”
“This luggage cannot all be yours,” he said in an emotionless, abrupt tone.
“Well, yes, it is—”
“It was my understanding you were only staying the summer. Obviously, I was misinformed.”
“Actually, I am—”
“Henry Lee, Sr.,” he said, holding out his hand. “I sent my son to find you. However, he cannot accomplish even the simplest of tasks.”
“Oh, so that was your—”
“Gertrude is waiting for you in Melaka. She was not able to meet your plane. Fortunately, we were coming here to pick up the engineers for the conference.”
I felt oddly depleted. Henry Lee, Sr. was the type who sucked all the energy out of the room even before he’d stepped through the door.
“Dad? Grandma didn’t forget after all. Tell Mom everything’s fine. I’ll email you later.”
After hanging up the phone, I followed Mr. Lee over to the last remaining MCT van. I should have known. He slid the side door open to reveal six travel-creased engineers—and Hanks smirking in the backseat. He unfolded his piece of paper to reveal VASSAR SPORE written on it in black marker.
Mr. Lee frowned at him. “Junior, she was standing right over there. How could you have missed her?”
“Hard to see anything behind all that luggage—”
“This is my son, Henry Lee, Jr.,” said Henry Lee, Sr. with little enthusiasm.
“Hi, Junior,” I said.
“Hi, Spore.”
Although there was an empty seat next to Hanks, I chose the seat next to my former seatmate, the goateed engineer, who was already snoring, mouth wide open, head against the window.
“You have too many bags. We must send them in a separate car,” said Henry Lee, Sr.
“But—but—” I got out in time to see the rest of my luggage—Bags #2 through #10—shoved into a black-and-pale-blue taxi.
“Are you sure Bags #2 through #10 won’t get lost?” I asked Mr. Lee. “They contain the majority of my outerwear and essential emergency supplies—”
“The taxi will follow directly behind us,” he said, sitting in the front passenger seat. As soon as I sat back down, we drove out of the airport and onto the main street.
Singapore looked just like Seattle—except bigger skyscrapers, more greenery, and a whole lot cleaner. I failed to spot even one piece of trash somewhere, anywhere. However, the humidity was still the biggest shocker. I was relieved when the driver cranked up the AC.
I darted a look behind me. Hanks reclined across the empty seat beside him, his cowboy hat covering his eyes. He wasn’t like any of the boys I knew at the Seattle Academy of Academic Excellence, that’s for sure.
“How do you know my grandma?” I asked Henry Lee, Sr. But he was already asleep. I looked around: The entire van was sleeping.
How can they sleep when they’re in an exotic foreign country!?
Once we left the pristine metropolis of Singapore and entered Malaysia, it finally sunk in: I was in Southeast Asia. And a comprehensive first impression would be crucial for my novel! I took out my laptop and typed:
Rickety buses crammed full of people. Monkeys in palm trees. Smoke from rubbish fires in fields. Roadside stands selling mounds of prickly skinned red fruit.
Such descriptions would add verisimilitude to my story. But what should I call myself in the book? How about … Sarah Lawrence.
By now the whole van was a symphony of deep breathing, wheezes, and snores.
I snuck another look at Hanks—but this time his dark brown eyes were wide open. He gave me a wink. Embarrassed, I turned back around.
Upon arrival at the Singapore airport, Sarah was accosted by an oddity dressed as if he’d just finished a day’s roping. His name was Wayne … .
CHAPTER TWO
The Golden Lotus
Over three hours later, the MCT van pulled up in front of a hotel, a marble modern wonder with neatly uniformed doormen flanking the glass doors. The engineers awoke and unfolded themselves. One by one, they grabbed their sole piece of compact luggage and entered the luxurious lobby.
“The Golden Lotus looks like a Ritz-Carlton,” I said, pleasantly surprised. I’d been a touch wary about my bohemian relative’s choice of accommodations. But this would do just fine.
“It is a Ritz-Carlton. The Golden Lotus is the next stop,” said Henry Lee, Sr., as he assisted an elderly Korean engineer out of the van and steered him toward the entrance. Hanks followed him, carrying the engineer’s suitcase.
“Whatcha writing?” he asked as he passed by.
I closed my laptop with a snap. “Nothing.”
Once the engineers had checked into their sumptuous home away from home, Mr. Lee and Hanks got back into the van.
I removed my Genteel Traveler’s Guide to Malaysia and Savvy Sojourner’s Malaysian Guidebook to help me interpret the sights.
We cut down a side street, passing the trishaws (bicycle rickshaws) and bicyclists riding alongside the narrow river that curled through town. Traditional kampongs (village houses) were sandwiched between kedais (food stalls).
Now we were twisting through a Chinatown lined with shops and antique stores. Black Chinese characters on red signs. Some in English: FASHION FINERY, HOTEL SUPERB INN, MOST FORTUNATE BAR. I noticed many of what my guidebooks called “spirit houses”—basically miniature temples on platforms outside houses and shops. Each one had offerings of joss sticks, fruit, cakes, and even the odd bottle of Orange Fanta complete with striped straw.
Then we careened down another side street, and another, and another—
Was that an A&W Root Beer restaurant, complete with life-size dancing bear?
A couple more turns, then we abruptly stopped—our shadowing taxi barely avoided rear-ending us.
“We are here,” said Mr. Lee in his unemotional tone.
The Golden Lotus Guesthouse was a colonial mansion with peeling white paint and fading gold trim that had seen better decades. Battered rattan chairs with faded honeycomb patterned cushions and side tables covered with brown coffee rings were scattered around the lobby. Worst of all: no air-conditioning. Only a lackluster ceiling fan wobbling overhead.
My clothes felt like I’d put them on straight out of the washer.
“Selamat malam,” said the jovial Malay owner, salaaming me—her hands pressed together at chest level. Her permed black hair was pulled back in a purple headband that matched her purple blouse, purple eye shadow, and purple nails. She waved her hand with a purple flourish. “Good evening and welcome to The Golden Lotus. Have a seat, please. You must be Cik Vassar, correct? I am Paun Azizah. My son will bring you some refreshment shortly.”
I momentarily perked up, recognizing that Paun meant “Mrs.,” Cik meant “Miss,” and selamat malam meant “good night.” Look how fast I was picking up the culture!
The drivers and Hanks carried in Bags #1 through #10. Henry Lee, Sr. finished a halting and confusing conversation with Azizah, then turned to me a
nd shrugged.
“You must wait for your grandmother—she has taken the only key. Paun Azizah gave her the original after she lost the spare. But she expects her back very soon.”
“Yes, your grandmamma, she is so very forgetful,” said Azizah, shaking her head merrily. She held up an embroidered wallet. “Again this morning she leave wallet on my counter. Last night she forget this.” She held up a dried starfish. “Artists.” She laughed.
On his way out, Hanks paused in front of me, a quizzical expression in his dark eyes. “You gonna be all right?”
“Of course,” I lied. “Thanks for carrying all my—”
“No problem. Nighty night.” Hanks tipped his hat at me and followed his dad back to the van.
I sat down on the lumpy rattan couch and checked my PTP: 6:16 p.m. Where was Grandma Gerd? What was going on?
The metal fan, creaking as it ineptly wafted warm air through the humidity, made me even more irritable. Azizah flipped on the black-and-white TV behind the counter and settled back to enjoy a turgid Malaysian soap opera. Two scrawny amber cats ambled in and flopped onto the cement floor.
A barefoot boy in red shorts and a Spider-Man shirt presented me with thick black coffee with a lot of sugar and condensed milk—Malaysian kopi. Slowly and precisely I read from my guidebook’s page of Useful Malay Phrases: “Terima kasih.” He slowly and precisely replied: “You’re welcome” as if I were simple.
I did not like Malaysian coffee. It was too thick and too sweet and made me sweat even more. And the shrill voices from the melodrama were giving me a headache.
I wanted a shower. I wanted food. I wanted quiet. And I wanted Grandma Gerd here. Now.
I opened my Latin Quote for the day: “Non calor sed umor est qui nobis incommodat.”
It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.
They got that right, I thought, as I fanned my face with my guidebook.
To pass the time, I scanned the room for details to put in my novel. Something hanging on the wall behind the counter caught my eye: a piece of cardboard with five slices of glazed white bread nailed on it—and five cherry cough drops glued on each slice.
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