We Asians take mother nature seriously. When the sirens blare the children rush to take cover while teachers and mothers cluck round efficiently, sweeping the last errant child out of harm’s way. The taxi drivers take cover and refuse to take calls. Driving is erratic and, during the intense rainstorms, can become lethal. Even the birds congregate to witness its power. Worms dive beneath the soil’s surface and snails make their way to the dome-leafed plants for cover. Everything dips and plunges, races and leaps to avoid the machine-gun blasts of rain. Singapore shuts down for a little. And the crack and cry of industry recedes, leaving nature a short time on stage to explode in its wake.
The taxi home takes a little time. Madam sits in the front and I am relegated to the back. If it was legal to stow me on the top of the vehicle I’m sure she would do that. Any prolonged contact with me in a tight space leaves her feeling acutely uncomfortable. I wonder how she would cope if we were stuck in a lift together. I smile involuntarily. Is this a kind of happiness? I can’t remember what it feels like and I can’t afford to relax into it. So I stuff it back down to my toes and curl them tight to keep it there. Madam goes for a rest when we get back. This means I unpack everything myself and it is a dangerous job. Madam is very particular about where things go. Certain items go in certain places and if I don’t get it right or lose concentration for a minute she punishes me. I breathe slowly through my mouth and out through my nose as I stack and line up cans and packets. Trying to remember what shelf in the fridge the pak choi goes and where the spices are put exactly. Sadness is an easier emotion to embrace. It numbs you and makes you sensitive simultaneously. But the long periods of blankness allow for better concentration. I find myself slipping back to the Indo girls’ smiles and the spice seller’s wink and reliving them like tiny film clips. I bite my lip until it bleeds while I finish my task. I can’t take much more physical punishment. It eats away at me like a pestilence and I have become weak and fearful. I will do almost anything to avoid Madam’s anger.
Sitting down outside with my back to the wall I take five minutes to shovel in the noodles that I’ve been given to eat and watch the butterflies dance. There are some cold carrots waiting to be thrown out and I stuff them in my back pocket for later.
Later I find some freshly baked biscuits in a secret place between the fences that divide the properties. The Ebony Ma’am must have left them there for me. She had wrapped up the sweet rounds in a plastic bag to keep the ants out. I haven’t got the courage to remove them yet but I will later. I will smuggle them into a little spot I’ve made under the sinks outside. My Madam never goes there unless it is to inspect my handwashing and to criticise the quality of it. And so I will take this gift of more than food, this gift of love and acknowledgement, and I will hug it to me, like Sara Crewe’s crumpets dripping with butter. The emerging comprehension like a lemony dawn that somebody else sees me in this place. Somebody sees me.
MADAM EUNICE
134 Sabre Green
It has taken me a long time to actually speak to Little Ping. She has clearly been enjoying her short power trip and I have allowed her to have it. I have left several messages that became quite satisfyingly bleating by the final one. She will have found satisfaction in that, I think. Eventually, I received a call. It was short and unfriendly. She asked exactly what I wanted and why. I responded in kind and said I would be so grateful if she could give me the address of the fortune teller so I could go and see him in person. I could almost sense the pause from down the wire. A slight hesitation as Little Ping wondered if she could eke out my punishment just a little longer. She has been waiting for years, hasn’t she? Quietly biding her time until I have an obvious need. Something she could help with and something where she could hold a little back. Then she said she would email it to me.
I was used to these games, having played them hundreds of times with countless acquaintances. Keeping everybody on their toes. Sowing tiny amounts of discord, just enough to keep a slightly bitter taste in everyone’s mouth, and spreading a light dusting of paranoia, just enough to keep friendships from becoming too close. I was quite majestic in my instincts. I had ruled the roost for a long time and been knocked off by a woman whom I had never really considered at all.
Little Ping was tolerated. Her barrenness kept her low in the rankings and out of harm’s way. I had never really considered her at all. But thinking about her now several notions cross my mind. She is very attractive, probably the most attractive of our circle, and that gives her a currency. She also has a law degree from Shanghai University so she is bright, in a professional, not an academic, way. That means she might well outsmart me in the short term. But not in the long run.
Enjoy it while it lasts, Little Ping, I think, as I wait patiently for the address to come through. A few minutes later it does, along with a short note informing me that Little Ping sees our friendship as dissolved and she will not be communicating with me again. I don’t bother to reply, just answer with an amused snort. I have barely been aware of her friendship – the loss of it means very little. It might be awkward at some social functions – a polite but embarrassed shuffling of name cards and a staggering of appearances. But I also know, as Little Ping does, that my social worth far outweighs hers. Even though I might be shadowed by rumours of demons and possession by a spirit, the old guard would never turn their backs. I have too many pictures of too many closets. My husband has taught me very well about storing information about everybody. I practise this on a much smaller scale than my husband, who uses it to protect his political interests. That is politics I suppose, and no different from the guile and machinations that women perfect during the fan dance of acquaintance.
I have a beautifully lacquered cabinet with a secret drop that I can push things through, and they will be completely invisible to even the most practised of thieves. In here I have photocopies, and indeed originals, of passionate and slanderous letters, printouts of emails, photographs of all kinds of people in flagrante delicto. You would be surprised at the lengths people will go to just to be near their heart’s desire. The risks they will take, the indiscretions they will perform, the three-act kisses in the alleyway just lit enough for a grainy but well-defined image. But I have nothing on Little Ping. I have never thought to bother. She has always seemed so insubstantial. Perhaps I have underestimated her.
I squint into the sun that is flaring behind the new build beginning to thrust its way upwards towards the gods. It is ugly and utilitarian. Created for rentals and profit. The paintwork is grey and the landscaped and terraced flowers are wilting already as if announcing their sadness over the whole affair. The artists’ impressions are almost unrecognisable if you compare the actual site with the pictures. They should remove those soon otherwise complaints will start flooding in.
So much money to be made here in Singapore, but for hard work. The agents are out in the roads, waving down cars like western prostitutes and cold-calling houses. A reasonably pretty girl with an eye-wateringly short skirt is sashaying down the road, a trickle of cars following in her wake. I see her stop and look astonished. Then she smiles sweetly (what an actress) and hands out the developer’s particulars to each car granting them a little bow. I see her return to the end of the street and start the whole process again. She is young but she has a very cool head on her shoulders. Two older men in suit trousers and shirts watch in dismay as she collars almost the entire neighbourhood with one jiggle of her hips.
I glance back at the address Little Ping has sent and I resolve to go tonight. Why wait? I would just be pacing and irritable and I don’t want to take it out on the children or even Lisa for that matter. She may be a total fool but she tries hard and is of a sunny disposition unlike some of the more ill-disposed maids around this neighbourhood. It occurs to me that I haven’t pushed for a move lately. I think my husband’s position deserves one, further into the city. Sabre Green is a good area for the suburbs, but not a prestigious one. It’s comfortable, safe and has a few
well-regarded shops, but it is not lux by any means. I need to see this man as soon as possible to dispel any ideas he might have and to task him with getting rid of the damn thing if that’s possible. I’m not thinking too deeply about my actions or what I propose to do. There is very little point. I have to rectify this situation if I am going to rid myself of this spectre and I have no idea how to do it. But the address is a start and Little Ping’s abasement will have to wait.
My next anxiety is how I look. I have these scratches on my face. I don’t know how they got there. I can only assume that in the madness of that episode in Mr Lim’s shop one of those panic-crazed maids went for me. They have healed enough now for me to cover them with concealer and make-up and a good layer of powder. And what to wear? I suppose a casual outfit is called for and not one that will draw attention to me in any way. I disrobe and lay my silk and lace and good cotton garments across a chair in my dressing room. I pull on a pair of jeans I haven’t worn for years and a hooded sweatshirt that I used to exercise in. A pair of slippers will do for my feet. In the garden I roll around on the grass, hoping nobody happens to be peering out of their windows, and endeavour to make the clothes look older. And then I call a taxi.
I give the address to Uncle expecting him to roll his eyes or perhaps mutter under his breath, but he just shrugs and asks which way I want to go. The reasoning is that if the fare chooses the way the driver cannot be held accountable for any traffic snarls or jams. Chinese people expect fast and excellent service. I tell him to take the East Coast highway and go from there. Uncle mutters something under his breath but I couldn’t care less about his thoughts or opinions. Just shut up and drive, I think to myself. I watch the sky darkening as it does every night at around 7.15 in the evening. I give thanks to Taisui for my beautiful babies and the life I have had so far. I am determined to hold on to it but I’m not counting on Taisui to help me accomplish that. No, I’m on my own here and that is a state I am very comfortable with.
The traffic lessens as the very short rush hour dismisses the cars into filter roads and driveways. The taxi drivers have started to calm down and there are fewer exclamations and shakings of fists and heads. Lurching to a stop he taps the meter and holds his hand out. I slap ten dollars into his hand and get out quickly. The HBD winks in the blackness. It looks like a self-appointed beacon of knowledge, and the thrill of it, the anticipation, and even the concrete path leading up to the block, excite me. Then the temperature drops suddenly around my head and the back of my neck explodes with raised follicles. Is he coming? I can feel the same sensation of the air being sucked out of the world and time standing still. I make a run for the first block, concentrating on getting to the safety of the doorway, refusing to look around me.
Like a small child I believe in that moment that if the ghoul can’t see me he can’t hurt me. I have committed the address to memory and can see I am at the wrong block. The atmosphere is still being squeezed by a supernatural vice and I am getting more breathless. The block I need is about 100 metres away and the apartment is on the tenth floor. I shudder as something flickers in my peripheral vision – a silent horror movie. My knees buckle and I sprint for the next block. I stagger into the doorway and try to climb the stairs but the feeling of there being no oxygen makes me giddy and I have to pause, checking the stairwell. The light bulb begins to fade in and out and my fear propels me up those stairs for ten floors until I burst out of the stairwell into a darkened corridor. Eighteen pairs of eyes at least turn in my direction noting perhaps my ashen face and my flustered appearance. I ignore them, quite used to my fellow Asians’ inclination towards the interested stare. Glancing about for something to sit on, I feel I might be too late. Boxes, crates, piles of newspapers and a couple of deckchairs are occupied by the devotees of the fortune teller. Everybody looks preoccupied and serious, holding their offerings tightly. Some have brought money, others spirits and fruit. This man is held in deep regard.
And so we wait for our turn. For the moment there is a kind of calmness in me. Whoever was with me on the stairs is quiet for now. I know I am in for a long wait because I seem to be the last person to have arrived. I am patient. Asian women understand patience and we practise it with ease. Our faces start to relax and our eyes become heavy lidded. Limbs and joints stretch out or in and heartbeats slow.
Time becomes irrelevant and the waiting is everything. I try to empty my mind. The fear, the worry, the bemusement and the nagging voice of reason that keeps asking me what the hell I am doing here in a rag-tag building with a group of people with whom I have nothing in common but a shared need. This I suspect brings us together like any crisis would. Cataclysmic or otherworldly events tend to bring out the best and worst in humanity. Some stretch themselves between their conscience and their God, rising above the devastation and becoming the better woman, seeking the good in people and in the events past and still to come. Others just throw their moral compass out of a speeding car and don’t even give it a backwards glance as it bounces and then settles, slightly battered, in the desert ground, companion only to sidewinders and crickets.
And then, very suddenly, it is my turn. There doesn’t seem to be an order. A stooped figure appears, dusty and indistinct in the gloom, and beckons at one of the petitioners. The sequence of appointments appears to be arbitrary and even though there are a number of us crouched or sitting in the cramped corridor we know exactly whom the figure is pointing to. I feel a distinct chill and stand shakily, gently shifting the feeling back into my legs. They protest only a little before the blood begins to tingle my nerves back to life. I wonder as I step over feet and bird-cages if anybody else can see the spirit that is haunting me. Do they seem to withdraw slightly as I pass or is it just polite considerateness? I feel tainted. An indistinct malaise that seems to engulf my spirit. Is this madness, or the reality of a haunting by a perfidious spirit? I shake my head in amazement at these strange thoughts and pick my way down the hall and into the darkened room at the end of it.
LUCILLA
19 Sabre Green
Tonight I lie with Rory in Ma’am and Sir’s bed waiting for him to sleep. We both feel languid and happy. Curled and cuddled he tells me a child-sweet story. A little girl is captured by a dragon who steals her away to its cave full of gold and huge gems the size of Scotland. There are weapons from warriors long devoured, and maps to forgotten places. The dragon, Rory confides, is very hungry and pops the little girl into his mouth but, she being intrepid (and Scottish, so Rory tells me), her bright red hair bursts into flames and scorches the dragon’s mouth. The dragon is used to hot things but unused to flaming hair so spits the little girl out and she grabs a sword and slices through the dragon’s neck before he can react. And everybody lives happily ever after. So Rory says.
That was a lovely story, darling, I tell him but his eyes are already fluttering as sleep nips encouragingly at his lids and his breathing slows. We lie together with his little legs hooked over mine to keep the chill of the air conditioning out. Like me he is a product of the tropics and catches the cold easily. This is a strange expression for me. If you catch a cold then why not release it so you don’t get sick? Rory chuckles in his sleep and twitches. I think what a very happy boy and maternal love soars upwards and then dives into his sleeping form.
My Sir has taken Ma’am out on their date night. Nearly every Saturday they dress up and go for dinner. When they return they are giggling and flushed with wine and love but the first thing Ma’am does is go upstairs and kiss her child.
She told me once that it’s like being in love. The depth of it, the strength of it, the sheer weight of it consumes you, and you are overwhelmed by this child you love so much. That you never sleep properly again or feel completely relaxed because the emotional investment is so absolute. And Ma’am looks radiant when she tells me this. I think this love must crown the world.
I brush silky strands from his face and watch his chest rising and falling and I think about my own childhood. It w
as very happy. Poor but so happy. My parents showered me with love and taught me the importance of goodness and faith in God. Being Catholic is a badge of honour for me. It raises me up and gives me both hope and strength. Prayer costs nothing and is part of my armour against this world. And I am happy here, caught in the sparkling brilliance of a child sleeping and a woman that calls me her heart sister.
When I have brushed those few strands of hair away and checked the covers are lightly covering his body and delivered an impassioned kiss on his cotton-soft brow I return downstairs. There is a little more ironing to do or I could watch a film. My boyfriend is picking me up later and we are going to Little India. I check the time on my watch that Ma’am brought back from one her trips. They will be back soon, so perhaps it is time to get ready. I pull on a pair of tight jeans and a pretty flowered top. The birthday shoes I was given will be perfect. The soft leather moulds round my feet and the block colours are eye-catching. I don’t like to wear short skirts any more. The attention I receive is not flattering and I don’t want to be mistaken for a bar-girl. I don’t enjoy being ‘devoured’ on the street by predatory men who make me feel like cheap material in the seconds basket. I don’t want to be hissed at or nipped by fingers as I walk past.
I notice my hair has grown past my waist now. It seems thinner but shines with life like a cascade of dusk shadow. Slicking it with a touch of oil I smile involuntarily. Are women of my age allowed such vanity? I think in the privacy of my own room it is acceptable. I have my working clothes and my party clothes. If Ma’am sees me dressed up she always compliments me and tells me I look beautiful. I always feel very shy but I’m screwed up with delight inside. Every woman likes a compliment and from another woman – they are even richer.
Bitter Leaves Page 17