‘Ah-ah! Uncle is not honest,’ the girl giggled.
‘Hey, I didn’t lie. I just kept quiet. They thought I did it. I wasn’t going to tell them they were wrong. Everyone in the unit hated that ang moh sergeant anyway. When the new sergeant took over, the chap was very polite to us. And all my friends said it was because I spoke up.’
‘Interesting story, Uncle. You were very brave.’
‘Nah!’ He brushed her compliment aside and took a gulp of his coffee to hide his pleasure.
‘Really, Uncle,’ she insisted.
‘Nah! My wife, she complains that I talk too much. She says I shouldn’t open my mouth and tell people such things.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, what’s past is past. She says we’re English speaking in Singapore now, and young people don’t like to hear bad things about English people.’
‘But the Philippines is not English. We were colonised by the Americans.’
She had studied history in high school and hoped to go to America to be a nurse some day, she told him. But first she had to save enough money to help her parents, who were poor farmers.
‘Young people like you like America and Hollywood. So you see, that’s why I should keep quiet about such things. My wife always says the world has changed. Singaporeans speak English, and we speak English at home so we shouldn’t talk bad about the English.’
‘But, Uncle, you say you were a rebel.’
‘I was and I am,’ he huffed.
‘Am?’
‘Yes! Am!’ She was teasing him, but he couldn’t let it pass.
‘I always tell people that speaking English is one thing. Worshipping the English arse is another thing. Not the same. Not the same.’
He broke a chunk off the cheap French loaf he had bought from the Chinese bakery that morning, and dipped it into his coffee, slurping up the brown mush with relish. It was something he rarely had a chance to do these days. His wife disapproved of his working-class habits. Dipping bread into his coffee would drive her berserk. Had he become so soft that he minded what she thought? The question troubled him. He started to talk rapidly.
‘I’m a rebel, I tell you! I’ve never let people push me around! Even in those days when I lost my job. You know how terrible it was for me when the British pulled out of Singapore? Overnight, we lost our homes and our jobs. My family was living in army quarters. We had to move out. And I had no job. Luckily I was in the technical wing so I could find work in a tractor company. But my first year was hell. Those Chinese fellas in the company called me English bootlicker, you know! Just because my Chinese was not so good, you know! Those Chinese-speaking fellows knew nothing about the likes of us Babas. They didn’t know we spoke Malay and English at home. They wouldn’t talk to me. Okay, I thought. You don’t want to talk to me, never mind, I can still talk to you. I was very determined. I wanted to keep that job so I wasn’t going to let their stupid attitude push me into leaving. Who would’ve suffered most if I’d left? Not them. It would’ve been my family.
‘Sometimes those chaps answered me when I asked them a question. Sometimes they just walked away, you know. Many things they just kept quiet. Never said anything. Never told me. Called me English shit behind my back, you know. I had to find out things for myself or just make mistakes and let the boss correct me. I knew those buggers’ tricks. They wanted to show me up. Prove to the boss that I was no good even though I had worked for the British army for a long time. But I kept quiet. I pretended I didn’t notice anything. I needed the job. And they knew it, those buggers!
‘All year I watched them, I watched my back and bided my time. Some nights I even went to their favourite kopi tiam, their neighbourhood coffee shop where a whole bunch of them used to gather. I’d have a beer and watch them play Chinese chess. I wanted to show them that their behaviour had no effect on me. I was not going to be cowed. Then one night one of the ringleaders challenged me to play. As a joke, you know. He thought I’d refuse but I accepted his challenge. “You pay for my beer and everybody else’s if you lose,” I said. “No problem, Uncle,” he laughed. And his friends, they all laughed! They felt sure the old man was going to lose. But that night I got my chance. I really hamtam the fella, as the Malays say! Hammered him. Those jokers were shocked. Wah! Uncle, you can play Chinese chess, ah! “Pay for my beer,” I told him, and straightaway I ordered Tiger stouts for everybody. That night I must have burnt a big hole in his pocket. There was a big crowd there. It was Saturday night. After that he never challenged me again. Then, slowly, the men in my workshop started talking to me. Now, even after my retirement, they come to see me and ask my advice.’
Maria clapped her hands like a child. Little Jason looked up from his building blocks on the floor and clapped too so that all three of them ended up clapping and laughing as Maria coaxed the two year old to finish his rice porridge and fish. Then later, as his grandson played with his blocks, he and Maria had their lunch, eating the rice and fish curry that he had bought from the market that morning. When the meal was over, he fished out a white plastic carrier from his canvas bag.
‘Open it.’ He pushed the parcel across the table.
She peered into the carrier and gasped.
‘Try it on. I bought it in the market this morning.’
The girl ran into the bathroom. A few minutes later she came out wearing the pink blouse with tiny white flowers.
‘Thank you, Uncle. I shall wear it to church on Sunday.’
‘Good.’
Then he scooped up his grandson from the floor and made for the door.
‘Uncle?’
‘I’m taking Jason to the playground.’
‘But it’s so hot.’
He shut the door and headed for the lift.
Inside the lift he took a deep breath and hugged the little boy against his beating heart. It was beating a wee bit too fast. That girl was too bloody attractive for his old heart.
‘Koong-koong!’ his grandson cooed.
That night his daughter phoned.
‘Pa! Did you buy a blouse for Maria?’
‘Ye-es?’ He was cautious. Pat’s voice was shrill over the phone.
‘Why? Why do you have to do that?’
‘Why what? It’s not a crime, is it?’
‘I didn’t say it’s a crime.’
‘Then why ask this and that?’
His wife came and sat in the armchair facing him. He didn’t look at her. Pat was going on and on in her usual excited way. He could feel his temper rising from the pit of his belly, like a bull preparing to charge at the red cloth of a matador. Finally he said, ‘Do you know that all the girl’s clothes are old?’
‘How do you know? Did Maria show you her clothes?’
‘No.’
‘So she didn’t complain about her clothes? Did she ask you to buy her some clothes? Hinted that she had no clothes or something like that?’
‘No! No! I have eyes! I can see!’ he yelled into the phone. ‘You think old people have no eyes? Did you take a look at her slippers? They’re fit for the dustbin. The girl’s got no shoes. And is she listening to all this?’
He had a vision of Maria crying in the kitchen, her shoulders hunched over the dirty dishes in the sink, listening to his daughter yelling over the phone.
‘Did she ask you for shoes too, Pa? Did she?’
‘No! She didn’t ask for anything! And she didn’t ask me for a new blouse.’
‘Pa, these maids are not stupid. They know that retired old men have plenty of money to spend.’
‘You dare to insult me like this? I’m still your father, you know!’
‘I know, Pa!’
‘The hell you know! You think my brain goes soft the minute I leave my job. And you worry about my money. Don’t worry! Even if I lose every cent of my CPF, even if I have to beg, I won’t come to you!’
‘There you go again, Pa. I wasn’t trying to insult you or anything like that.’ Pat’s tone softened, and she started talking to
him as though she were placating a child throwing a tantrum. ‘Pa, listen, I’m not worried. Why should I worry? It’s your money. You earned it. I just want you to be careful. What you want for the maid, I can buy for her, you know. I just don’t want you to spoil Maria and raise her expectations. Why don’t you go travelling? Go with Mum. Join a tour group. Or go to JB or KL to shop and eat. Things are so cheap there. Find something to do that you and Mum like.’
He banged down the phone. Damn it! Like mother, like daughter. Both of them have dirty minds. Did Pat think he was dense? He was sickened by his daughter’s talk and what she’d left unsaid. Did Pat think …? Did his wife think he was a dirty old man going after the maid? That he was a retiree with too much time dripping from his hands? Go on a tour with the old lady! What rot! What utter rot! Spend money and be nagged day and night in a foreign country? No, thank you. Couldn’t they see who he really was?
He went out and stayed out. When he returned to their tiny three-room apartment around midnight, his wife had gone to bed. He pushed away the three pieces of white lace that covered the back rest of the sofa. They fell onto the floor and he kicked them aside. Why must she cover every darn thing in the flat with white lace? White was for weddings or mourning. He felt like tearing off the lace curtains that covered the windows. Lace doilies and lace tablecloths—he loathed the sight of them.
Their sitting room was a long narrow rectangle leading to the tiny kitchen at the back. On its right were the two bedrooms, one of which belonged to their daughters before the girls had got married.
‘Give away their beds and cupboards,’ he’d said.
‘No. Can still use, what! Sekali, the room empty, you bring back rubbish and put inside. No, thank you,’ she’d said.
And so the ugly furniture remained, kept scrupulously spotless, dustless and lifeless. He swept off her neat little cushions from the sofa and kicked them into a corner of the room. She’d fluffed and straightened, beaten and dusted every stick of furniture in the flat. The two armchairs looked as though they had never been sat on. They still had their plastic covers on, to keep out the dust she’d said when he complained about sitting on plastic. He kicked aside two pairs of slippers placed side by side by the door, slippers he would never wear at home.
‘Ya, he’s always like this—barefoot and half naked in a sarong,’ she’d complained to her relatives. How could he do it in this flat then? So clean. So neat. So dead.
He poured himself a glass of cold water from the fridge, drank it and fell asleep on the couch.
He woke with a start. The phone was ringing. He picked it up.
‘Pa.’ It was Pat again. ‘Pa, you don’t have to come today. I’m bringing Jason and Maria over.’
‘Hm.’ He put down the phone. He wasn’t born yesterday. He knew why Pat was doing this, and he didn’t like it one bit. But that’s how everybody thinks these days. A man is not allowed to be kind to a woman. What woman? Maria is a slip of a girl! The snort in his thoughts escaped him. His wife came out of their bedroom. He brushed past her and made for the bathroom.
‘Was that Pat?’ she hollered outside the bathroom door.
‘Yes!’ He turned on the shower, grateful for the cold rush of water over him.
‘Is she bringing Jason over?’
‘Yes! Yes!’
Then it struck him. The bitch had planned it and now she was pretending that she hadn’t. Just as well. Pat’s apartment would be empty today. They’d forgotten that he still had the keys to his daughter’s apartment. This would be a perfect day to start then. He hummed jauntily as he dressed, busily planning the day ahead of him. An empty apartment all to himself. The whole day. To do what he liked as he liked. All day long. They wouldn’t be back till evening. By then he would have cleared up everything. No one would know. As long as he made sure that the front door was bolted and the windows closed. Ah, what a luxury privacy is to a man, especially to a man who has had to share his bedroom and his bed with a shrew for more than forty years. When did he get married? No matter. Since his wedding day he hadn’t had a room to himself. No wonder the rich in England and China in the old days used to have separate rooms. The husband had his library, and the wife her boudoir. A man has to have a room of his own, especially after he’s retired. He opened the bathroom door.
‘Oi! Wipe your feet on the mat, lah! Whole morning since five I cleaned the house, you know! Just mopped the kitchen and you’re dripping all over the floor! Here! Wipe your feet!’ She pointed to the cloth.
Had she ordered him around like this when he’d been working? Or had he been too busy to notice it then? Anyway, when he’d been working he’d usually left the house by half past seven. These days, he had nowhere to go. But today would be different. Today, hm, hm, today … he hummed and got dressed.
‘Are you going out or staying in for lunch?’
‘Out.’
‘But Jason’s coming today, and today you’re going out. I thought you said every day you must go to Ocean View because you must see your grandson? Then grandson coming and you go out.’
‘Cannot change my mind, is it? Go out, you grumble. I stay in, you grumble. Today you have company, I go out, you also grumble.’
And people wonder why so many retired men sit in the kopi tiam and drink black coffee all day long! Those people should ask the wives!
With great effort, he gave her one final shove and she was in. Now careful. Don’t leave any marks. No scratches. Now gently. Gently. He half pushed and half lifted till he had her on the rug. Then he half pushed and half dragged her out onto the balcony. She was a beauty. And he was lucky that the men from Public Works were cutting trees downstairs.
‘Hey, Inche! Can I take this?’ he’d asked.
‘Take! Take!’ They laughed at him, an old man wanting a bit of wood. He’d had to strip off her leaves and branches and leave her out in the sun and rain for weeks.
Sweat poured out of him and dripped onto the floor. He ran his hands across her rough surface, gazing intently at her shapely form. He had come to look at her every day under the pretext of visiting Jason.
He closed the apartment door behind him and bolted it. The moment the door closed he sensed that the Other was waiting. He shut his eyes and rested his head against the wall, allowing himself to be enveloped by the silence and emptiness inside the apartment. They were a welcome presence. The traffic on the expressway below was muted and seemed to be floating in from a great distance away. His eyes remained shut while he took deep breaths to still his excited heart. A light breeze blew in from the balcony and lifted the few remaining strands of grey on his head. The sea air smelt of freedom and solitude. Ah, blessed solitude. Sweet solitude. Few, other than monks and nuns, understood his need to be alone on this noisy, crowded island where freedom ends at the tip of your nose. Six thousand bodies per square kilometre. More if you count the tourists and migrant labourers. Public places are littered with signs saying: don’t and do not. don’t spit. don’t swim. don’t fish. do not litter. do not enter. do not cycle here. do not walk there. do not breathe. do not live. Might as well die. Where can a retired man go to be alone other than the cemetery?
He looked out to the sea beyond. He was on the twenty-fifth floor. Alone. Ah, such a sense of space in an empty spacious apartment with a balcony and a view of the blue, blue sea. Even the very air smelt different from the air in his crowded, noisy Housing Board estate in Bukit Ho Swee. How tiny the cars looked on the road below. He marvelled at the view of distant islands and the tiny ships anchored in the bay. When would he pluck up enough courage to book a passage on one of the cargo ships and go sailing round the world? He would be sixty-two in a month’s time. Would anyone say he was too old to work as a cargo hand? He used to think a long time ago that fifty was ancient, but at sixty-one going on sixty-two, there was still so much for him to learn in this world. An expansiveness in the air filled his lungs. He let out a happy sigh as he gazed at her body, such fullness of form. He could see her lines and curves. S
trange that he should love wood when he used to repair trucks and tractors, and all he saw from morn till night were the undercarriages of vehicles. He didn’t mind the smell of metal and steel, but he was obsessed with the smell of wood. He put his nose close to her and inhaled. Ah, the fragrance of angsana wood.
He picked up the watering can and went into the kitchen to fill it up. Then he went out onto the balcony again and started to water the plants. The ferns looked neglected and thirsty. He had read somewhere that the squishy brown centre of the bird’s nest fern had to be kept moist. He gave it a few more drops. Then he sprinkled water all over the potted plants so that they would think it was raining. He watched the water drops gather, join and roll off the leaves, washing off the dust. When he had watered all the plants, he stood back and surveyed the results. Large diamond drops glistened on the leaves of the money plant and maidenhair ferns. The plants seemed happy, and a deep pleasure warmed and flowed through his veins. He felt energised. He had never noticed these plants when the women were around. But whenever he was alone he could pay attention to their presence as though they were silent, comforting companions. Palpable life forms that grew and died, they kept him in touch with the process of growing and dying that was going on inside him. Not that he wanted to talk about this to anyone, much less with his wife and two daughters. Jan was a stockbroker and had no time for him. He felt there was a hard practical edge in Singapore’s young women these days; a certain hard logic that sees a leaf as a leaf and refuses to see that a rock is more than a rock and a leaf is not just a leaf. Ah, blessed are the literal minded in Singapore! For they are the makers of money, not art and beauty.
He put away the watering can. He could feel her waiting for him as he ran his hands lovingly across her rough surface. Pat wasn’t going to like this one bit, but at least she wouldn’t throw his things away. Unlike Jan. The men in the coffee shop would guffaw, and his wife and daughters would think he was going soft if they only knew what he was about to do. He touched the angsana log lovingly, like a man stroking his beloved cat or his mistress. If there was anybody he could talk to about this wood business, it was Maria. The girl had grown up on a farm. She knew about plants and trees. He imagined how she might cock her head and listen without interrupting him, how she might just nod; and that was all that he required of anyone, really.
The Man Who Wore His Wife's Sarong Page 15