Bitter Leaves

by Tabatha Stirling

  I haven’t put my shoes on and the path is still warm beneath my feet although the sun set some hours ago. I put my hands on the bar of the security gate and stare out. Do I dare? What would be the consequences? Dismissal, perhaps, a beating certainly. With a burst of courage I find I don’t care.

  This moment is too important to ignore. I must grab it. I must be brave and so I am. I hold my breath and climb over, landing cat-like on the other side. I use only my eyes to search the blackness of the night for figures. I need to work out if they are employers or maids. Two middle-aged Singaporean women walk quickly past, pumping their arms and matching strides. I shrink back into the shadows, willing them to walk even faster.

  I bolt towards the park opposite. Finding my legs I begin to run around the path, swinging my arms and listening to my lungs becoming breathless and raw. The park is small, no more than a kilometre square, but for me it’s the race-track of the world. I begin to jump and whoop, quickly stuffing my fingers in my mouth to stop my giggling.

  Evening-off maids emerge from the shadows and steamy alcoves, phones clamped to their ears, while Bangla men hover uncertainly. Eventually, I have to slow down. Lack of good food means that I tire quickly so I wander through the grass and touch the leaves and trace the parched bark of the rain trees. The moon seems to shine harder here as if freedom enhances its beauty and the air is sultry and thick with moisture.

  And then a man steps into the path and stares at me. I don’t recognise him. Why would I? Never much leaving the house – but I recognise his intent. In the darkness his eyes glow red with fatigue and I can smell stale onion sweat from his body.

  We stare at each other for a few seconds and then when he lunges towards me I side-step, and then I run for the house. His footsteps pound after me but stop abruptly as I leap onto the gate like a dancer and climb over it. Heart hammering and pounding, and grabbing huge lungfuls of air, I retreat to the darkest shadows and watch from safety behind the big main gates. Could he climb over? He stops on the pavement and I can see the battle between lust and fear. Those frightening red-rimmed eyes search the darkness of the car porch over and over. I stay still because he can’t hear my breathing from where he stands. A crack of thunder, horribly loud, and a flicker of lightning up the street leaves this man exposed. He backs away quickly and disappears into the undergrowth. For a moment I see his eyes, still searching, and then they disappear.

  My breath whooshes out but I’m smiling. Huge, happy smiling. I have risked so much tonight and I have passed my own test with flying colours. My colours are rust red, lemon yellow and verdant green. The colours of earth, sun and life. They are everywhere tonight, even in the darkness. I see them brushed by the moon, I see them in the woody bark and terracotta pots, I see them in the honeyed mangoes and damp, lime-green leaves of the hibiscus. These colours represent my life and my blood.

  I run for the kitchen quarters. My feet are caked in dirt, in freedom, and I feel a brief sadness as I wash them quickly with the outside hose. The water feels unusually cool from a tap in the tropics and my skin bounces with the shock.

  Then I hear the gates groaning open and hurry to dry my feet in time to greet my Madam as she returns.

  MADAM EUNICE

  134 Sabre Green

  The room is thick with rancid food, old sweat and incense. It feels bloated, too full for anything else, and on the edge of sickness. I squint and cough trying to orientate myself. Through the gloom I can see a figure at the end of the cramped room, cross-legged and slightly bent. Two red lanterns beam a weak glow around him, and as he looks up they inadvertently cast a strange shadow over his thick glasses, making his eyes glow demon red for an instant. I draw a sharp breath and take a step backwards. The man, at least I think it is a man, beckons me forward and down and I comply gratefully, feeling dizzy from the intense smoky perfume and thick fug of concentrated humanity.

  The fortune teller is not imposing. Slender, of middle age, but with that particular brand of ageing that confuses between young and old, and a disastrous combover. But something reverberates around him. Not shimmers, nothing as delicate or as weak as that, but a definite actual vibration. I find myself drawn undeniably to this man. Perhaps the incense is a narcotic and is intended to make supplicants weak and suggestible, but I don’t care at this point. Sinking to my knees I face the man. For a long time he stares at me. Not in a lascivious way but as if he wants to understand me. And I am held rapt by his gaze. Trapped by the theatre of it all.

  At last he speaks. Just a fragment of a sentence to start with. ‘Your demon is awake.’

  ‘Why me? What did I do?’ I ask.

  ‘Not you. Someone close asked this of me. To wake your demon.’

  ‘You did this?’ I snap.

  The man shrugs as if it matters little to him. ‘I do many things for many people.’

  ‘And you do it for money?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I am not particularly shocked at the bland honesty but I am anxious. My heartbeat is gathering speed and my breathing is becoming laboured and difficult. ‘How do I get rid of it?’

  ‘I can do that for you.’

  ‘How much?’

  The man leans back and examines my face. ‘You are a rich woman, I think. But I always ask for something that is difficult to give. Impossible even.’

  I hesitate as the icy fingers return to plague my spine. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Your firstborn child.’

  I smother a giggle. He must be toying with me, testing my limits. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  The man cocks his head to one side, eyes glowing crimson. ‘There is another way. Perhaps the most concrete way. Chop off the poison at the source.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I think you do.’

  ‘Please, stop talking in riddles. I don’t feel well.’

  ‘You must end the life of the person who asked for this curse. And do it fast. Bad spirits attract other bad spirits. Yes, you must do this thing quickly.’

  ‘Who? Who asked for this wretched thing?’ A silence follows my question that stretches out as it gathers weight and power.

  Finally, the man speaks. ‘You know her as Little Ping.’

  I sag against the wall. This is unexpected. I am far more shocked that Little Ping has such cunning in her than by the fortune teller suggesting murder to me. After all, I am still not convinced that the demon actually exists. I refuse to analyse it at all. Pushing the possibility away whenever it pokes through my conscious mind. In the way that children pretend things don’t exist to stop them existing.

  Barely aware of the people crowded in the corridor like refugees awaiting placement I push my way to the lift and stand there feeling absolutely lost. The lights in the hallway begin to flicker oddly and the air grows very still, but I refuse to be cowed by this fear.

  I am the formidable Eunice Tan.

  I will find another way to rid myself of this madness. Tomorrow I will make an appointment with Dr Chan and together we will make sense of this. Disassemble the past few weeks into what it is. An episode of some kind. And take practical steps to make it disappear.

  This planning helps me feel better. Being practical by nature, for me details are always important. The ‘big picture’ makes me wary and I much prefer starting at the beginning and plotting a course without the distractions of creativity or genius. Yes, tomorrow Dr Chan, and putting this nonsense to bed. I draw myself up and set my jaw firmly in the tradition of burdened Asian women. These are just interesting times. My interesting times.

  And then the door of the lift opens and standing in the flickering, spoiled-egg light stands the most exquisite little girl that I’ve ever seen. Her braided hair gleams like polished obsidian and her complexion is strawberries and cream. Only her eyes seem faded and lacklustre as if sadness is a disease that has taken root in her young body and death is not far away. Her mouth opens and closes as if she is trying to say something, and tears form at the corne
rs of her eyes and spill heavily onto her cheeks.

  ‘What, little one? What?’

  The child can’t or won’t speak but raises her arm and points into the space behind me, and I notice something is terribly wrong with her arms. The veins in the crook of each arm and at each wrist are distended and almost black. And then the air stills once more and I know the other creature is behind me. Despite my shaking hands and the real fear pounding in my chest I turn because I have to, and there stands the cowled thing. Mocking me from the doorway of the room I have just left, dragging the fortune teller’s limp body in one hand and holding his still-beating, bleeding heart in the other.

  I back up to the lift doors, determined to protect the child but the girl, if that is what she is, is laughing so hard that her mouth has begun to change shape. Her teeth have become elongated and fang-like, her dark eyes shine with corruption and as she reaches towards me the lift doors close abruptly and the hall bulbs resume their half-light glow.

  I spin round to see if anybody else has seen the foul girl-like thing in the lift or the spectre in the corridor, but nothing has changed at all. People are still sitting side by side hunched with anxiety, waiting for the young–old man to bestow his particular brand of commercial evil on them, the man whom I had just now seen, or thought I had seen, being pulled along, half-alive, minus his heart, by my hooded figure.

  Our superstitions and our regard for diviners and soothsayers are as old as civilization. Asia is certainly not alone in its groping through the murky waters of the esoteric. But what I can understand now, whether I am experiencing a savage psychosis or am plagued by an actual haunting, is that I am in a very dangerous place. Dr Chan, Dr Chan, softly chanting his name like a protective talisman, and I don’t stop as I flee the building, blindly taking the stairs down two at a time, not caring about the twisting of my ankle or the muttered obscenities from an old couple that I push past as if the devil himself is behind me.

  Because maybe he is.

  LUCILLA

  19 Sabre Green

  I have the biggest news. Today my Ma’am told me that her Sir is not renewing his contract with the school so next year they will be leaving and going to a different country in Europe. And Ma’am has asked me if I want to go with them. Not just to work, Lulubell, but to study and learn to drive. Lots of things, Lulubell. You are so capable and clever. So wasted here washing our clothes and cleaning our bathrooms.

  I see that my life will change and it frightens me. After all, I am a village girl from Leyte. I will be far away from my parents and family. And even though I’m not convinced my boyfriend is the way to my happiness he is all I’ve got. And I do love him in my way. He may not be the most rich or the most handsome but he is mine and if I leave to go to Europe I will be leaving behind certain things.

  Ma’am has said that I can return home at any time. But what do I know of European contracts? It might be worth as much as Filipino contract in Singapore. And will ignite like a hot kindling in the dry winter. I trust my Ma’am but I don’t trust the world. It’s not for trusting. Too much has happened in my life. Too many knocks and stings. Too many cuts and bruises.

  I’m leaving the house early today to send money home. I have to get to Lucky Plaza before 7pm. The queues are hours long at the weekends so I try to go in the week and I have a Western Union Gold Card that makes the process quicker. I often see someone I know. But it’s not all smiles and ice cream. Even with the large sisterhood, we still get the snake and scorpion girls. The ones with too much damage, lah! Too much at stake for them to be soft again. They carry chips of ice in their hearts and I stay out of their way if I can. My contentment is obvious and it earns jealousy. Best to keep it quiet and low. I know the girls think I’m suplada, unfriendly, but I’m just being careful. You need to know how to move carefully in prison. Put one foot in front of the other and breathe. Keep your head down and hope for the best.

  If I go abroad how will I start again? Friendships are worth everything and nothing here. Without our shaky sisterhood it would be very lonely. The exchange of language, food, memories and experiences keeps us sane. I love my Ma’am but we can never be equal. It is a sugar confection in her head. She will always be my queen. To my Ma’am, I will always be Lucilla, her heart sister, but the place of the lighter-skinned woman in the world and the place of her darker-skinned sister are very different. Some call it privilege, I call it history. Ma’am says we are both women and the same red blood runs through our veins. But her skin is that bit lighter and mine is darker and our world has very definite ideas about the colour of a woman’s skin and her worth. Sometimes, she will pick a frangipani blossom and tuck it behind my ear and kiss my cheek. Always, I worry about my smell and the fact that I’ve sweated. I don’t want to get my stink on Ma’am. And when I protest she just holds me tighter and whispers, I don’t care, Lulu. It is nothing to me; and just like that my feelings are dismissed. And sometimes she will look forlorn as if her heart is bending in a strong wind like broken rushes by the river and will ask for a cuddle. She holds me tight as if I am family. As if she is trying to remember being held by her mother and I might hear a stifled sob in my ear and my heart hurts for her.

  So I would be safe in Europe with my Ma’am but the idea is too difficult. It is a dream and I have never thought it would be achievable, and now here it is laid on a wooden platter for me and that makes it more frightening.

  I have another concern, a secret really. My auntie in Manila has adopted a wonderful boy called Peter. He is a good boy, devout and clever at his lessons. Auntie is getting old and frail now and worries about how Peter will live when she is gone. I agreed to be his legal guardian so how can I leave and go to the other side of the world? What if Auntie dies soon and Peter needs me? So many worries and questions. I will have to speak to my Ma’am about this. I always feel so anxious before I ask her something important. It is an echo of my past employers who made such requests feel like murder. And drew them out until they were stretched to breaking point. And my nerves would squeak like unoiled chain and my mind would flare with the bruises of one thousand fresh hurts.

  We are on this earth for a short time and I try to turn my mind from the inequality of the world. From comparisons between pampered, honey-fed children with lazy, complacent smiles and scarecrow children from Tondo slums in Manila, thin and rickety but wearing the cleanest clothes because of a mother’s pride. Happiness can be found anywhere. Even under rocks where a tiny lizard has hidden successfully from a hungry owl. Even in Tondo where a newborn is cradled and proclaimed the most beautiful and baptised into God’s love.

  Maybe it is possible. Maybe.

  MA’AM LESLEY

  35 Sabre Green

  I find myself looking forward to Norfolk’s visit more than is absolutely necessary. I haven’t had the opportunity or the inclination to flirt with a man for so many years. Cowed by Ralph and stunted self-esteem I ate and gorged my way to oblivion in a land where physical beauty is a common currency. But Norfolk seems uninhibited by the usual rules and seems to think nothing at all about my scruffy appearance. I have experimented, disastrously, in the mirror with a pair of kitchen scissors and now my hair sticks up in questioning tufts and ridges. It looks ridiculous but has a certain gamine quality that when I was fat I could never have pulled off.

  My Madeira cake sits fat and smug and preparing to share itself at teatime. I won’t let Jocelyn have any until Norfolk has been served. I feel proprietorial towards this cake. A ridiculous feeling but it is all I have to offer him.

  I hear Jocelyn calling, a different, more timid, tone to her voice, and take the stairs two at a time. I have boundless energy today despite being bemused by my middle-aged infatuation. I have no thought of what might happen past enjoying this fleeting, random visit. I’ve shuddered at the thought of older women who fly to the Gambia and believe they are being genuinely seduced by young and nubile Gambian men. In a country where land can be bought for the price of a dinner for four in a
decent restaurant in the west these woman are genuinely respected, but they are ‘used’. Poverty brings with it a barter system and you must give if you want to receive. The attentions of these young black men are not free. They do not have that luxury and fighting for crumbs and self-respect is a dirty business.

  The door to my old bedroom is only half open but I can hear her laboured breathing from outside the door. Not now, not now, I whisper. You are only eight months. Just stay a while. A few more weeks. Please, my darling.

  I find Jocelyn sitting at the end of the bed with her legs splayed in a parody of the grotesque. Her belly, distended and ripe, looks ugly against her tiny frame.

  ‘It hurts, Ma’am. Oh! It hurts. You think the baby comes now?’

  The truth is I have no idea. I’m not a midwife and have never given birth. I do remember that contractions called Braxton Hicks are quite common during the later months as a dress rehearsal for the real thing.

  I hum and haw a bit and feel her belly. Certainly the baby is very active, pushing, shoving and kicking. I watch with some delight as a tiny foot imprints itself against the tight drum of Jocelyn’s stomach. That must hurt, I think.