Late in the evening while I am sweeping the porch steps and feeding the koi fish that swarm to the side of the pool whenever my shadow darkens the water, I steal a little time leaning on my broom for a few seconds to gaze wearily through the fence at the family next door. What I see is like a picture from the tatty western book our Ebu used to read from at night. Even as little ones, my sisters and I never understood that what we were hearing might actually be real. The story was called A Little Princess. It was about a western girl who had lost her Ebu but her Bapa loved her more than anything. She was sent away to a school, which to us sounded like a terrible punishment, but western ways are different and strange. Then her Bapa died and she was made to live upstairs in the attics. My youngest sister, Yuli, used to say that the house must have been a mountain to have so many floors and how was it a punishment that she had a bed for sleeping, and four walls and a fire and no cockroaches. Yuli is a spirit of the air. She likes to fly free. Then in the story the rajah who lived next door transformed the young girl’s attic into a fairy cave where she ate and drank and took care of the other poor girls. Soon she was rescued and lived happily ever after. I used to believe in ever after and fairytales. Now, I believe even more in monsters.
Next door is like the good queen’s kingdom. Ebony Ma’am wears her heart in her smile. Her helper is from the Philippines and laughs and hugs her and the little boy. I love that little boy. He looks like an angel from my Bible books. He has a tan skin but blonde hair like his Bapa and green eyes like his Ebu. Their helper, Lucilla, is very friendly to me but it is difficult because I am forbidden to speak to her. But she whispers that she can go out every night and every weekend. She has a lovely room with her own shower and her Ma’am gives her birthday day off and brings back presents from her travels. Every year the maid visits her parents and Ebony Ma’am pays for it.
Sometimes Lucilla will press an apple into my hand or hide some homemade sweetmeats in a hollow between the fences. Once they gave me a necklace for Christmas. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen and I keep it under my pillow.
I am not supposed to speak to her, but some days Ebony Ma’am will reach through the slats of the fence and hold my hand softly. She looks me in the eyes and says God bless you, Babu. She tries to speak my language and has stuck signs on the tall marble pillars in her garden that read ‘We love you!’ and ‘Don’t give up!’ in Javanese.
Madam gets very angry when she sees them and wants to know what they say. I tell her I don’t know what language they are speaking but smile secret and wrap my arms around my skinny chest keeping the memory of the words close. Madam can’t do anything about the signs because they are not on her property. Ebony Ma’am knows this and laughs at her. Madam hates her very much. She spits in private about Indians knowing nothing and how they are just jumped-up chapatti workers. Through a clenched mouth she say that the immigrants in this country are bringing it down and it is time to stop tolerating the trash. She says the darker the skin the more animal is in you. She stares at me when she says this because I have dark skin. And black, downy hair on the sides of my face. Madam says I look like a monkey and laughs. Sometimes she says it in front of her friends that look like glass. They play cards for hours, slamming and slapping them onto the table.
Why are the Chinese so loud? It hurt my ears and head but I have to wait to the side of the table, staying still, and they play and talk about me while I stand there in full view. How lazy I am. How hairy. How dark.
The darkness is in their hearts. Not mine.
MADAM EUNICE
134 Sabre Green
Singapore is not what it used to be. And not just geographically, where it has changed out of all recognition, but demographically as well. I told Little Ping and Joyce that the dark-skinned maids and Indian man would soon swamp us for construction. And, praise Taisui, that they need to have their bottoms kicked.
My husband is a very well-respected man in the community and he says the Indian man is lazy to his bones and that he grumbles about everything. The wages, the lodgings and the long hours. No Hokkien man or woman would complain about having a job, and long hours are to be expected and embraced.
We have a good end-house so the chi can flow between buildings. It has five bedrooms and three bathrooms. We only use four of the bedrooms – for my mother, our two children and myself. Both our children, Philip and Bernard, are doing exceptionally well at their studies. They do many after-school activities at which they both excel. Philip is eight and already has won the science prize at his school. Bernard is younger and now speaks Mandarin, English and can do many maths problems. I tell them time and time again that to succeed you must work and practise hard. Childhood is short but life is long. Do you want to spend your time playing with toys, or preparing yourself for a successful adult life? They are both quiet children and very respectful to their parents. I approve of that. Xiào is the most important virtue in our culture. In English it would translate as ‘filial piety’, which means your parents are sacred and you should spend your life both inside and outside the home honouring their names and their lives. The adult offspring must work hard at their careers and be able to support their parents in financial need, always display courtesy, ensure male heirs, show sorrow after their parents have died and then manifest that sorrow in sacrifices.
This is our way.
I am proud to say that I have two obedient and hardworking sons and that I have done my duty. I feel both pity and contempt for my friends, Joyce and Little Ping. We call her Little Ping because she is very tiny. Under five foot and with small-girl hands and feet. Joyce has managed only girls and Little Ping cannot conceive. A sad but unforgivable thing for a woman. Surprisingly, her husband still loves her. My husband would have divorced me instantly and I would have bowed my head in understanding because having children is our duty.
Having boys is better.
Little Ping told us confidentially at our last Mahjong game that she’d been to an HDB – a Housing Development Board apartment block – on Serangoon Avenue last Friday night to visit a psychic her cousin’s wife had recommended. The oracle had apparently told her cousin’s wife that all her children would be male – to much rejoicing. Little Ping will not disclose what she herself was told by the oracle, but she seems lighter somehow, and I feel irritated by this. I am used to feeling superior, and her constant tristesse was reassuring. This change in her heart is frustrating. Wah piang eh? Is it not enough that her husband still loves and cares for her when she has failed so utterly in her duty? Who will look after them both when they are old and frail? She is fortunate indeed if she does not end up in Nightingale Nursing Home on Braddell Road, lah!
Our Mahjong battles happen on a weekly basis and are born of duty and social warfare. They are seemingly genteel but hiss just below the surface like a trapped rat; subterfuge and distrust join hands, in mutual loathing. We play with my great grandmother’s set. The tiles are made of the finest ivory and the images, though faded, are painstakingly etched and coloured with what were the most expensive inks of the time. It is becoming very difficult to get ivory sets, with the elephant’s numbers dwindling and with the western hysteria that surrounds the issue. Elephants do not need saving! They have tonnage to crush and tusks to pierce. I think they would be humiliated to be ‘saved’ in this way. At the university we had many robust discussions about ‘saving the planet’. My stance was and always has been a practical one. When this world is done then it is time. There is no need to try holding back the world ending.
The western men come here, fat and wealthy, and you would think they would pick only the most vibrant blossom from the tree. But they choose ugly, ugly woman or woman with little virtue like Filipina or Indo. Mesmerised by whatever dark magic is woven between their legs and then thinking they are Bojing and Peacock emperors. Their own women so thin and bony with straw hair and washed-out eyes and skin that hates the sun and so it marks quickly.
And always interfering! Telling us h
ow to treat our maids. I give the girl a roof over her head, a mattress to sleep on and food in her stomach. I expect her to work hard, I won’t deny that, but I also work hard. And why does she need a day off? What is she going to do with it? Get a boyfriend and get pregnant, that’s what, and then there is another mouth for her family to feed. These village girls are very lazy, lah! Any excuse they will sit down and dream.
My father used to say the stone cannot be polished without friction nor the man perfected without trials.
The western attitude towards Singaporeans is insulting, and what do they know about Asian ways? We are not Americans and do not expect the same culture as America. We are not ang moh. They come here for two, five years and suck what they can from Singapore and all the time they whine about the weather, the food and human rights.
There are no ‘rights’ in China but working together collectively makes things smoother like grease and cogs. I remember at a party, several years ago, being rendered almost speechless by the ignorance of a British woman on the subject of China. I asked her, what do we have a right to in this world? We have to make our way and take what we can, when we can. She and the other western women were outraged as I knew and hoped they would be, but their men regarded me differently. Some with admiration and one or two with sexual pique.
I’m a Tiger Mother and I roar with love and pride. My Bernard is a Pig so I have to continually keep him on track. He needs extra tuition in maths and English and so as I said he is enrolled in an after-school programme. Sometimes, he cries at night and I run to comfort him because he is still so small and in his pyjamas he looks such a little boy. My husband forbids it but I do it anyway. My one rebellion in such an obedient life. Sometimes, and I wouldn’t dare tell his father, his sheets are damp in the morning. My husband would say it is a sign of weakness, and cane him. They sell short, spiteful Malacca canes in all the yībān shāngdiàn. It is the Asian way, though I myself was beaten very little because I excelled at being dutiful.
I will shout this in my head: I will not beat my sons. Do you hear me? Not for honour, duty or the Chinese way.
Privacy is a strange thing for the Chinese. We are used to living with big, extended families and one or two live-in maids. The maids are slipper quiet and, sometimes, I forget that Lisa is even here. That’s not her real name but I can’t pronounce her village name so Lisa is easier. My maid was quite vocal about it initially but she has learned her place now. It is a western name so she should love it, but the initial look of horror on her face! You would have thought I wanted to eat her children! Look, these maids clamour for western things all the time. Western clothes, food, phones and those ‘rights’. So why is she so ungrateful about the name? Yesterday, I saw Lisa with an apple. I asked her where she got it. She said the maid next door had given it to her. Lies! And she knows that to take food without my express permission is forbidden. So, I gave it to the dog and made her watch. I think she understands. She gets three meals a day unless we are out and then she has to wait, but it is more than a lot of her village could count on.
I hear the doorbell and take one last look in the mirror to satisfy myself that when the maid opens the door to Little Ping and Joyce they will see only what I allow them to see.
A flawless sculpture carved from ice.
LUCILLA
19 Sabre Green
It is Saturday and the sun is shining very brightly today. I am luckier than most helpers as I have every Sunday off and all the evenings too. Many of my friends have no day off or only one day off a month. My Ma’am always puts her hand over her mouth when I remark on these things. Sometimes she talks about her adopted country, England, and describes the free medical care and schooling and as I listen my eyes widen. And on other occasions she speaks quietly about her birth country and how terrible the poverty is there. But then my Ma’am looks sad and says she wishes she could do more and that she feels so useless and hand-tied because she has no voice.
I look sympathetic but if you have never had a voice that has been heard what is there to miss? As a woman in a very poor Asian country you have tiny strangled voice, weak and brittle from lack of use. As a little girl the only voice I used was for shooing chickens or soothing the little ones. As a young woman the only voice I had was to say yes to leaving my village and my family. And here, in Singapore, my voice is kept in a big box at immigration. But my Ma’am has encouraged me to speak of painful and hurtful things past that are like a wood splinter digging deep into my skin.
And I say, Ma’am, I’m so lucky to be working here – my mother is so happy now and doesn’t worry so much – thank you, Ma’am.
And my Ma’am, her eyes fill with tears and she say, no, Lucilla, I am the lucky one. You are my heart sister. And my Ma’am will take my hand and touch it to her forehead. This gesture shows great respect for me. I know of no other Ma’am that would do that. And I look at her deep into her green-that-sparkle-with-tears eyes and I think I am lucky, I am so very lucky.
Sir and Ma’am have nice friends too. The men are respectful and don’t allow their gazes to linger too much although men can’t help the looking, it is in their nature. But my Sir never does that. Sometime it seem that he is frightened of me. Like I might break easily and he keeps a great distance between us. Not like those Sirs I mentioned who have an agreement with the maid and pay headache money to them.
Many of the other helpers in our neighbourhood think that my Sir is very handsome because he has a good figure and fair skin and he runs everywhere for fitness. My Sir was born in Scotland and I hear him sighing how much he misses the mountains and the space to cycle for miles. In our village we are lucky to have a few battered cycles and maybe two mopeds. These mopeds are very old but the bus service is changeable. Like Leyte rain, sometimes it comes, sometimes it doesn’t; it has no timetable. Just like the buses.
My Ma’am is also trying to keep fit. It shows as she is becoming thinner. Sir grabs her even more and rains love and honey down on her shoulders and lips. He has more love for her than even Dian Masalanta, our goddess of love. And my friends giggle and discuss and some of the other helpers who don’t know me also discuss and say, yes, your Sir is very handsome. Very tall. I wouldn’t mind him running after me. Then they giggle and put their hands over their mouths and I shout, don’t be foolish, cha! Are you crazy? My Sir loves only my Ma’am. And the other girls raise eyebrows at me and sometimes they stare sour at me like bitter fruit is in their mouths.
My friend Marlene she tell me they complain. That Lucilla, she boast too much. Just because she has good employer she think she better than everybody here. I am not better but I am happier. My friend, Mimi, who works up north in Ang Mo Kio, she works for an okay western family but every year they forget her birthday. Each birthday she wake up and no card or present and no offer of a day off. She is very heavy-hearted and holds it against them. She doesn’t make the extra effort and takes her time and does just what she can and no more. Always she is sad but that is because she misses her babies back home. She has two beautiful little girls, but her sadness has twisted her and she carries her missing like a Wakwak. It makes her a little less human every day. She stumbles like zombie through the park, the dog leading the way, and Mimi, she just follow like her mind is not her own. Sometimes she receive text and she bite her lip and soft tears fall. She wipes these away with anger. Always, she is angry. She is trapped in this country working for her babies.
This is why marriage to western man is such a prize. Compared to most Filipino men they are powerful and rich. Even my parents want me to marry western man. But I cannot marry for anything but love even though an ang moh can help Asian girl with money and status. If you have proper western boyfriend or husband then you are someone. The government has to treat you better. You can even get British passport if you are lucky. I’ve heard that with the British passport you can get into any country without a visa and they welcome you and treat you like a queen. Every country I go to I need a visa and most countries don�
��t want to give visa to a Filipina because our voices are silent, our bodies weak and our value little.
I watch the black women here and they are expensively dressed and smell sweet. They have glossy, black skin the colour of molasses or earthy roots. And it glows like dark stars in coconut oil. They look free to me.
On Sundays I like to go up to Lucky Plaza on Orchard Road. On this day it bustles and hustles with many Filipinos sending money, trying to transfer employer, or just being social. Even the older helpers dress up in their best and make up their faces with bright lipsticks like sharp flowers from the garden. I usually meet up with Marlene, my best friend, and we giggle and swish our way through the crowds greeting the odd person we know.
Then Tagalog becomes the first language and the city exhales a sense of homeland. The foreigners have long lunches and sit drinking cold wine and beer from glasses, sagging with sweat. The women wear dark glasses so they can pretend not to notice when their man is looking at the sunbirds walking and flying past him. Sometimes there are groups of western men drinking late into dusk. They are preparing for the tea dances and clubs of Orchard Towers. Some sit with world-tired guides who are paid to take these men on sex adventure and they wear masks of shame and excitement. If they catch your eye they will smile lazily as if they are the most handsome men in the world. They should look in the mirror more. But Asian mirrors tell western men lies, they think because they have a pretty girlfriend they have suddenly become good-looking overnight. They haven’t. They are still ugly and fat. I don’t mean to sound harsh or bitter.
Bitter Leaves Page 3