“Yes, ma’am,” she repeats a little louder.
“Now the maid agency says you can cook. Is that right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. I want you to cook simple nutritious meals for the children. One meat, one vegetable, a soup and rice. I myself don’t know how to cook so you take charge of the menu. If you don’t know anything, ask. See this stack of cookbooks? You can look at them. I bought them for the last maid. You can read, can’t you?”
A slight movement of her head. Neither a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’. She’s unsure of the consequences if she should admit that she’d only been to school up to grade four.
“I’m very particular about cleanliness. When I come back from the office, I don’t want to see oily stains all over the stove or walk on an oily floor. This kitchen must be clean and spotless. You understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“If you run out of detergents, cleansers or anything, tell me. Don’t keep quiet like the other maids Don’t tell me at the last minute or when I ask or when I find out we’ve run out of food and things. I’m busy working every day. I go to the supermarket once a week so you must let me know in advance. Here. This notebook and pen are for you. Write down all the things I’ve got to buy for the week. You understand?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“See this box? I’ve put fifty dollars inside. It’s for little emergencies. You run out of condiments or the children need to buy something in school, then you take the money from this box. Always ask the shopkeepers downstairs for a receipt. Put the receipts inside. I’ll check the box once a week and replenish it. You understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her head is reeling. Fifty Singapore dollars. How much is that in peso? That is …that is…that is two thousand pesos. She’s amazed but she’s careful not to smile. Two thousand pesos for her to buy things each week. She has never had so much money before.
“Let me see. What else do I have to tell you? Oh yes. Do you know how to use the washing machine? I’ve pinned up the instructions here. Just read and follow the instructions. If you don’t know how operate it, ask John. He’s the oldest. John! John!”
“What?” The boy is surly at being called into the kitchen.
“Show Gloria how to operate the washing machine, and the other electrical things if she doesn’t know.”
“Very simple to use, what! Just read the instructions.”
“I will teach Gloria, Mummy!”
“Timmy! You teach Gloria?” Sarah runs into the kitchen, wagging her finger at the little one. “Hahaha! He’ll teach her all the wrong things, Mummy!”
“But I know! I know!”
“Quiet. You children, out. Go on. Out of the kitchen. I want to talk to Gloria.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The agent has explained things to you. But I will go through it again. You get three hundred dollars a month. The agency will deduct two hundred and seventy every month for ten months until you finish paying back what you owe them. So I will give the agency two hundred and seventy dollars, and give you the remainder, thirty dollars, each month. Do you understand? You get thirty dollars every month. The rest goes to your agent. So you must spend within your means. I’m sick and tired of maids borrowing money from me. No borrowing. My last two maids always borrowed. Father ill. Brother sick in hospital. Mother dying. Sister getting married. Brother going to college. Or uncle lost his harvest in floods and typhoons. All sorts of stories I’ve heard. I lost six hundred dollars just listening to the stories of the last two maids. Sir said, no borrowing. No advance payment. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you clear about the meals and kitchen? And the schedules of the children?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t just say yes ma’am, yes ma’am when you don’t understand. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
* * *
“Eeee! The pork tastes funny!”
The girl spits out the meat on to her plate. Timmy follows suit.
“You don’t like pork, Sarah?”
“This pork tastes funny. What is it?”
“Pork adobo.”
“Yuks! I don’t like it. I want fish fingers.”
“Me too! Me too!” Timmy claps his hands. The doorbell rings. She runs out to open the door for the eldest boy back from school.
“What’s for lunch, Gloria?”
“Yukky pork!” the girl giggles. “We’re having fish fingers instead.”
“Yeah, I want fish fingers too, Gloria.”
Without a word, she goes to the freezer. “How many you want?” she asks.
“Ten,” the eldest boy says.
“Me too,” the girl follows.
“Me too, me too,” Timmy clamours.
But there are only fifteen fish fingers in the box. She heats some oil in the frying pan, and empties the whole box into it. When the fish fingers are a golden brown, she gives the eldest boy seven pieces, and the two younger ones four fish fingers each.
“It’s not fair! You gave John more!”
“Cos I’m the eldest!”
“You’re not!” the girl shouts.
“I am!”
“You’re not!”
“I’m the oldest!”
“I was the oldest before you came to live with us!”
“You think I want to live here with you? You lizard face!”
“I’ll tell my Mummy you called me lizard face!”
“Tell-lah! Tell-lah! Cry baby! This is my Dad’s apartment!”
“It’s also my Mummy’s apartment!”
“Children! Children!” She tries to calm them.
“Mummy!” The girl is already calling her mother on the phone.
She is summoned to the phone.
“Yes, ma’m. No, ma’m. Yes, ma’am.” The children watch as her eyes brim over. “I understand, ma’am.” She puts down the phone and goes to the moneybox.
She takes out the fifty-dollar note. She likes the crisp, clean feel of the white and blue note. It’s not limp, dirty and crumpled like the red Limampung Piso, the fifty peso note that she’s used to handling. Fifty dollars. She can buy so many sacks of rice, so many kilos of fish, especially the bangus and tilapia that her children dream of eating, and so many yards of cloth to sew shirts for Bet and Vern, may be a blouse and skirt for Mol and Suzie, and buy shoes for Ninoy and Beng. Ahhh, a great many things she will buy with two thousand pesos!
“Gloria! Where’re you going?” the girl asks.
“The shop downstairs. Your mummy says to buy more fish fingers.”
“I want to go too,” Timmy insists.
With the two children leading the way, she has no trouble taking the elevator from the 21st floor to the ground floor. She doesn’t tell them that the speed makes her dizzy. But she will tell her children when she sends a letter home. Timmy and Sarah lead her across the empty car park, which in the evening will be filled with shiny clean cars parked in neat straight rows. Everything is clean, neat and orderly in her ma’am’s condo. No one says sub-division here. Not like in Manila. She will write and tell her children. They walk past the rows of palm trees, the swimming pool and the tennis courts. What Sarah calls ‘our neighbourhood shop’ is in fact a small air-conditioned supermarket like the ones back home where the rich people in Quezon City shop, and where she has gone with Tita Flora to deliver the laundry. She’s working in a rich neighbourhood for a rich family. Her ma’am scolded her just now because she didn’t spend the fifty dollars.
What’s the matter with you, Gloria? You know there’s only one box of fish fingers. You know it’s not enough. Why didn’t you go downstairs to buy another box? What’s the money in the box for? I don’t want the children to quarrel just because there’s not enough food. For goodness sake! Use your brain. Go to the shop and buy another box of fish fingers! What’s so difficult about that? I’m in the middle of a meeting. I don’t want the children
to call me about these little things. Do you understand?
She walks down rows of bottled soft drinks, cans of beer, bottles of soy sauces, fish sauces, tomato ketchup, spices, condiments, and boxes of cereals she’d never seen or eaten before; and milk powder packed in tins, pasteurised milk in packets and bottles, and jars of jams, tins of meat, chicken and fish crowded the shelves. The tins of Spam, and sardines in tomato sauce make her mouth water even though she’s still full from her lunch of rice and pork adobo. Ahhh, she feels blessed. She’s walking through this wonderland, armed with the knowledge that she has money power. She has fifty dollars. But the shopkeeper doesn’t understand her when she speaks. He behaves as though she’s not speaking English.
“What, ah? You new, ah?”
“Uncle, she’s our new maid. Her name is Gloria,” Sarah, the little busybody, explains.
The shopkeeper looks at her. “Oh, Glori-ah. What you want to buy, ha?”
She opens one of the glass doors of the refrigerators and takes out a big box of Bird’s Eye Fish Fingers. Then for good measure, to show that she’s in charge, she walks over to the other side of the shop, and picks out two pink kitchen towels, a mop and a red plastic pail. When the children ask for ice cream, she lets them choose what they want. Two years, may be three years, from now if her ma’am extends her contract, she will let Migoy and Amy choose what they want in the supermarket in Fairview. One day. Some day. She hands over the fifty dollars to the Chinaman shopkeeper.
That night, her ma’am tells her not to cook pork adobo any more.
“The children don’t like it. You have it for lunch tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her brood would’ve rushed for the adobo. When there was enough pesos, she would buy the leftover fatty pork from Jong Boy’s meat stall on the corner of the narrow lane between the tricycle and motor repair shops and Nana Ahchut’s sari-sari store. Nana Ahchut had refused to let her buy on credit, not even the stale bread loaves and egg-sized pan-de-sal for the children’s breakfast. If I do that, Gloria, I will have to close down. Touch wood! I’ve many mouths to feed like you! Nana Ahchut shouted through the iron grille, her fat face framed in the small window through which all the store’s transactions were made. No one was allowed to enter the tiny store. Been robbed too many times. Nana Ahchut glared at her as if what Alex did was all her fault. The kids learnt to go without breakfast. They learnt to make a bit of rice and salted fish last until dinnertime when she returned from the laundry where she waited with other women to do the washing. If she were lucky, she had more kilos of clothes to wash, and earned more pesos. But that was not enough. Never enough to feed ten mouths. Her children were always hungry and scrawny like the chickens in Tita Flora’s backyard scratching the dirt for scraps.
She scrapes into the bin the chunks of half eaten pork, rice and vegetables that the three children and their parents have left on their plates.
“We don’t eat leftovers. Throw them away unless you want to eat them for lunch tomorrow,” the ma’am said.
Why should she eat leftovers in this island of plenty? For once in her life, she will not eat leftovers. She’ll even have an egg for breakfast.
* * *
Her new radio alarm rings. She gets out of bed and starts to dress. At six-thirty, just as the sky brightens, the ma’am comes out of her bedroom. They leave the apartment together, and take the elevator down, she carrying the basket and the ma’am carrying her purse and car keys. It’s Saturday, the day when the children have tuition classes instead of school. It’s also the day she goes to the fresh food market with the ma’am. She looks forward to this weekly trip although the ma’am dislikes the wet market, and would rather shop in Cold Storage, but Sir does not like the meat from the supermarket.
She sits in the front passenger seat with the basket on her lap. The ma’am starts the car; they rarely talk in the car. When they reach the market, the ma’am parks the car and strides ahead in her tee shirt, denim shorts and high-heeled slippers. She follows with her piece of paper and the blue plastic basket. Their routine has not changed this past one year. But today, she intends to vary things a little.
“Two chickens.” She points to two large freshly slaughtered chickens. By now, the chicken man is used to her. Then she points to a bag of chicken bones and adds it to her usual order. “To make soup, ma’am,” she says. “Timmy likes chicken soup.”
“Ok. Is this enough?”
“Enough, ma’am.” She keeps the pleasure out of her voice.
They move on to the Malay butcher’s stall to buy beef, and then walk to the other side of the market to buy pork from the Chinese butcher. By now, she’s used to this funny way of selling meat in the markets in Singapore. Only the Chinese sell pork, and only the Malays sell beef. Back home at Jong Boy’s stall, things are easier. No one makes a fuss if a leg of mutton or beef is hanging next to the head of a pig. When she mentioned this to the other maids at the church she goes to on Sundays, they laughed. Last year, when she was still a new arrival, they had told her that all Chinese in Singapore are Buddhist, and all Indians are Hindu, and they don’t eat beef.
Of course, we eat beef, Gloria. Cook beefsteak for us if you know how to do it. As long as the children eat what you cook, and Sir does not complain, that’s fine with me. I just don’t want to come home and hear a host of complaints from the children. You understand?
Her ma’am does not care how much food she buys and cooks these days.
“Pork one and a half kilo,” she points to the rump, which has a bit more fat. “And lean pork one kilo. The bones four dollars.”
At the fish stall, she adds two kilos of fish and half a kilo of shrimps, and tells herself to stop; don’t over do it. The ma’am might ask questions even though the ma’am’s mind is always busy at the bank, and she works late like Sir. Both earn a big fat salary. They won’t mind paying extra. They won’t even miss it. She knows because the ma’am and Sir talk at the dinner table. Last Christmas, the ma’am’s bank gave her six extra months’ salary as a bonus. The family bought a new car, and went to America for a holiday. During the two weeks they were away, she worked for the ma’am’s mother, and the old lady gave her fifty dollars. When the ma’am returned, she also gave her fifty dollars on Christmas Day. It was the first time that she’d received so much money. The money is in the bank now. She can’t touch it. The ma’am had made her deposit her money in the neighbourhood Post Office bank.
Don’t be stupid, Gloria. You maids always sent your money home. You shouldn’t. How do you know that your family is not wasting your hard earned money? You must save for yourself. Put the money in the bank here. Earn interest. I’ll use my name to open a joint account with you. Don’t worry. I won’t run off with your money. And you keep the book. At the end of your contract, you can withdraw all the money and go home with a lump sum. Do you understand?
“Gloria! What’re you thinking? Are we through?”
“Sorry, ma’am. I forgot to buy sweet tauhu.”
“You’re still saying tauhu. People here will think you want bean curd for frying. It’s tau-huay for sweet bean curd.”
“Sorry, ma’am. Timmy wants.”
“Here’s ten dollars. Go quickly. The market is getting crowded. I’m tired.”
The ma’am will let her buy anything if it’s for the children. Her ma’am walks ahead carrying her purse and car keys. She follows with the blue basket loaded with food and two large pink plastic bags filled with enough meat and veg to feed eight adults for a week. And the ma’am hasn’t questioned her. Is this a sign? Is God being fair at last? Maybe God knows her troubles and gives her this chance. She can’t be choosy. If she’s given the chance, wouldn’t she be a fool not to take it? Suzie is gone.
I know this will break your heart, Gloria. Suzie has left home. She didn’t tell anyone. Not me. Not her brothers. Not her sisters. Not a soul. Oh, Gloria, she left them in the dark. Such a shock to me when Migoy came running to say their sister is gone.
Tita Flora wrote.
She remembers holding that letter in her hand as the tears gathered and the news sank in. Bent over the kitchen sink, she had clutched her breasts. Her heart was broken again. How long could a heart remain a heart? Her heart had been hacked too many times. First, by Alex, then Ninoy and her drunken Tatay, the father she wished she’d never had. All day she was poorly. The ma’am, thinking she had caught the flu, had taken her to the clinic where the nurse had made her take a blood and urine test. Just to be sure, the ma’am said to the nurse in Chinese. Just to be sure, the nurse’s silent nod agreed. Did they think she was stupid and diseased? That she would infect them with her broken heart? That she was too stupid to understand their Chink-chong code? Did the ma’am think that she’d caught something and would pass it to the children? Just to be sure. Always, it’s just to be sure. The ma’am who has everything wants to be sure of everything. She who has nothing is never sure of anything. She cannot even be sure of the child who dropped out of her womb. Suzie’s gone. Her flesh and blood has left her.
No letter. No phone call. Not even a note. Did Gabriel Jose leave the village too? Did she elope with him? Did you check with Gab’s family? Did you ask them? She had cried and screamed into the public phone at the post office till her phone card ran out of money. How did this happen? Who could tell her? Would Suzie have run away if she were there? If her Papa were there? Alex. Alex. He was a fool to think he could leave the warehouse without the guards knowing. A fool to get himself arrested. A fool that no lawyer would defend because there was no money! Fool! Fool! Fool! Susie. Her child! Her baby. The first in the family to graduate from high school. Her pride.
She had to ask herself: What do you do when your only hope runs off because she’s afraid of the burden you placed on her thin shoulders? She runs away because she doesn’t want to end up like you and her aunts fucking, eating and shitting in the hovels under the bridges of Pasig and Quezon City. Cardboard palaces that the typhoons blow away and the floods wash away. Can you blame Suzie for taking off? Can you blame your daughter if she doesn’t want to be like you? What do you do? Where can you find her? O God! Where can I find her? Is this why you have given me this opportunity? This skill? These men?
The Man Who Wore His Wife's Sarong Page 13