by S. P. Hozy
C.K. returned to Singapore four times over the next ten years. Each time he searched for Sophie, hoping against hope he would find her. The first time, he could find no trace of her. He asked shopkeepers and people passing by on the street, showing a small photograph of her that had belonged to Alec. After a few months, he gave up, leaving money with the manager of the Raffles Hotel, a friend of his, with the instruction to give it to her if she should return. And to tell her that her son was safe and well in England with his godfather.
The second trip, he scoured the streets of Chinatown because he heard that an Englishwoman had been seen from time to time among the Chinese prostitutes. No one knew her name, only that she was small and thin, and sometimes drew pictures of the prostitutes. But still he could not find her.
On the third trip, he went back to Chinatown and searched again. He heard further reports of the Englishwoman who painted pictures of the Chinese prostitutes, but none of the women he talked to could tell him anything. Or wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure. They seemed reticent, as if they were protecting something, or someone. Because he wanted to believe she was alive, he convinced himself that this, indeed, must be Sophie.
Finally, on his fourth trip to Singapore, he found one of the paintings. It was in a small gallery and had been purchased by the gallery owner from a young Chinese woman, the subject of the painting. He told C.K. he thought she was a drug addict and needed the money. The picture was a portrait of despondency, the young woman’s eyes cast down and to the side. It moved him to tears. He bought the painting after seeing the initials S.C. in the corner. Sophie Crawford.
He then went to every bordello and cathouse he could find, showing the picture to everyone and asking if any of them had one like it. He offered a lot of money and managed to buy eight more paintings, all with the initials S.C. in the corner.
But of the phantom Sophie he never found a trace.
Chapter Eighteen
Maris closed the book of stories and put it on the bedside table. She thought of the woman, Sophie, in the story she had just read, and how the circumstances of her life had apparently driven her mad. She wondered if such a woman had really existed, and, if so, what had really happened to her. Surely Moresby had based his stories on things he had heard or seen in his travels. The story was written eighty years ago and Maris wondered if the same thing could happen today. Although the physical hardship was no longer there, the emotional devastation of a woman losing her husband and then her child, and in a foreign country at that, would still be almost unbearable: enough to drive one over the edge into madness.
Maris got out of bed and pulled the trunk Peter had left her out of the cupboard. The story had reminded her of something and now she knew what it was. The paintings. The series of small paintings of Chinese women that she hadn’t given much thought to, except to wonder why Peter had kept them and then left them to her. She picked up one of the pictures and looked at the face of the young Chinese woman, no more than a girl really. Her eyes were cast down to one side, a gesture that conveyed sadness, shame, and defeat. Her skin was as pale as her hair was dark, and her full, sensuous lips were painted as red as blood. Was she a prostitute like in the story?
Why hadn’t Peter left her a letter or something explaining what this strange collection of artifacts meant? Was she meant to figure it out for herself, or had he intended to do it but died before he could? Maddening, she thought. He’s left me a mystery. Two mysteries, she reminded herself. There’s still the one about who killed him. And according to Dinah, the police were no nearer to a solution than when she’d left Singapore.
The following morning, Maris hiked up one of the nearby hills to do some sketching. After a couple of hours, she looked at what she had done. Then she looked around at the glorious landscape surrounding her, not even two kilometres from her mother’s house. Somehow she had rendered its magnificence in charcoal but without the colour that truly defined it. Doesn’t say a thing, she thought, except that whoever’s drawn it lacks imagination and passion. Maybe I should try portraits, like AS. Maybe that’s the way out of this hole I’ve fallen into. But no, faces weren’t her language; she knew that much. She had to find her way back into the world of colour, to the language she knew so well and spoke so fluently. Or, at least, had at one time. Without that vocabulary, she was no artist; she was mute. And if she couldn’t find it in the splendour of British Columbia, where could she find it?
Inside myself, she realized, not in what I’m looking at. I have to fix whatever’s broken inside myself.
“Maybe this would be a good time to think about having a baby,” said Spirit.
Maris stared at her mother. “Do you have any idea how unrealistic that is?” she said.
“No more unrealistic than packing up a few things and heading to Singapore without knowing what you’d find there.”
“A slight difference,” said Maris. “I only had to worry about myself. I didn’t have another human being depending on me for its very life, which is what a child would be.”
“That’s not the way to look at it,” said Spirit. “If you think about it in those terms, you’ll scare yourself away from the idea every time.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying this. A child is a living, breathing human being that would die without constant care. How am I supposed to do that when I can barely take care of myself?”
“Maybe that’s why you need to have something or someone needier than yourself to think about. Maybe you’re too hung up on yourself, too self-absorbed, and that’s part of the problem.”
“Oh, yeah, what a great idea. Bring a child into the world and see if it will jolt me out of my self-absorption.” Maris shook her head. “And what if it doesn’t? What happens to the child? Are you going to take it off my hands?”
“Maris,” sighed her mother, “you think too much. Having a child is natural and fulfilling. You’ll find dimensions to yourself you never knew existed. Yes, a child complicates your life, and maybe that’s too overwhelming to contemplate right now. But I want you to listen to your heart and not dismiss the idea because it looks too difficult. A child is more than difficulty and complications. A child is joy and renewal and hope: all things that are lacking in your life.”
“I’m not ready,” said Maris.
“Okay,” said Spirit. “I just had to say it.”
* * *
[email protected]
To: [email protected]
CC:
Subject: The you-know-what conversation
Hey Ray,
Well, we finally had it — the baby conversation. Spirit thinks it’s the answer to all my problems. As if. I told her I wasn’t ready, and besides, it would be just my luck that it would look like you. She understood.
Thought you’d like to know. You could be next.
Love,
m.
* * *
[email protected]
To: [email protected]
CC:
Subject: Re: The you-know-what conversation
hey little mama,
you know me, always agree with big mama. it’s better that way. besides, I think this family could use another Me.
lol
r
* * *
[email protected]
To: [email protected]
CC:
Subject: Update from Canada
Hi Dinah,
Been in a bit of a funk lately and can’t seem to shake it. I’ve been doing some sketching but nothing I’m proud of. My mother, in her wisdom, thinks I should have a baby. Now, there’s a solution! If you can’t create a painting, create a human being instead. Why didn’t I think of that??
How are things at your end? Still getting beaten up by Angela on a regular basis? I know — why don’t you have a baby?! That’s sure to throw her off.
Sorry, I just needed to vent. I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry, actually. Give me something else to think about.…
Love,<
br />
Maris
* * *
[email protected]
To: [email protected]
CC:
Subject: Re: Update from Canada
Hey!
You’re kidding, right? She didn’t really suggest having a baby — did she? Well … it could be fun … NOT. Any mention of a father for this baby? Just asking.…
As for here … no fun at all. Angela was here for a few days and by the time she left I felt like a pile of ripped-up rags. I mean, she didn’t leave me alone for a minute. Why was I doing this? Why wasn’t I doing that? Where was this? Where was that? She really tore me into strips. Not once did she say anything nice like, “You’re doing a great job holding things together, Dinah, since your brother died and the police haven’t been able to come up with any answers. I know it’s been hard for you, and I appreciate everything you’re doing, and you can count on me for support. Anything. Just ask.”
There. I can vent, too.
Actually, to be fair, I have been making a few small changes, and maybe that threw her off. Not deliberately, you understand, but nobody can do things the way Peter did, so things are bound to be a little different, right? I actually enjoy setting up the displays. It’s the most fun I have these days. Peter and I used to do it together — he decided and I did the grunt work, but I learned a lot from him. It’s been a challenge, but we still have customers — and not all of them are ghouls coming in to see how things have changed. After all, we have great stuff, and I have to give Angela credit for collecting some fabulous pieces. She really has the touch. No wonder she and Peter were such great business partners; they had similar instincts about what would sell.
Anyway, she keeps sending it, and I keep setting it up and selling it. So what’s her problem?
In a word, CONTROL. She’s a control freak and she can’t stand anyone else making decisions. That’s why their marriage didn’t work. I’m sure of it. She’s a bully. Really. And he got tired of her constantly demanding to be on top (excuse the expression). I don’t know how they got together in the first place. I was too young to notice.
Hmmmm … I just had a thought. Maybe Angela needs to have a baby. Do you think you could get your mother to talk to her?
I’m SERIOUS!
Love,
Dinah
* * *
[email protected]
To: [email protected]
CC:
Subject: You’re seriously damaged
Hi, Dinah:
You need therapy.
Love you, miss you.
M (is NOT for Mother).
General Secretariat
Interpol
Lyon, France
——————
Chapter Nineteen
Axel Thorssen skimmed the file on illegal trade in wildlife and animal parts for the third time. For two years he had been part of a team that had been trying to unravel the complicated smuggling operation that moved some of the most sought-after animal parts used in Chinese medicines sold around the world. Operation Oracle was an international effort conducted with the co-operation of the U.S. Customs Agency, the U.S. Food and Wildlife Service, the German Attorney General’s office, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the Singapore Police, and Interpol.
Thorssen had been seconded to Interpol as a liaison officer from Sweden’s National Criminal Investigation Department (NCID). Because he had an advanced degree in biology from Lund University, he had been chosen to gather and coordinate criminal intelligence in the area of environmental crimes, especially those involving the smuggling of endangered animal parts. Axel Thorssen’s character consisted of a dogged sense of purpose combined with inspired, outside-the-box thinking. His research methods were meticulous. All the while he was compiling information, however, a part of his brain was looking for connections that to some might seem unorthodox or even preposterous. He was the one who saw a possible link with Singapore while everyone else was concentrating on the North American connection. Even though it made more sense to route contraband through Canada and Europe to China, Thorssen could see the logic in diverting shipments through Singapore, even though it had extremely stringent customs regulations and searches. If a way could be found to traffic animal parts through Singapore, he reasoned, a smuggling operation could be extremely successful because an international agency like Interpol would discount it as being non-viable. Everyone knew that the Singapore government had a tight rein on anything coming into or going out of the country. That’s what made it so perfect. And that was why Axel Thorssen had decided to go to Singapore himself and see what he could find out.
What he already knew was that the trade was controlled by organized crime. They could seize $200,000 worth of bear paws, tiger bones, and rhino horns, and it would be a drop in the bucket. It was like the drug trade; the hierarchy of crime organizations meant that it was very hard to get to the kingpin. There was always another “newbie” who wanted in and who was willing to step up when a grunt got taken down.
What he also knew was that the trade was driven by demand for live exotic animals — snakes, monkeys, Chinese crocodile lizards, Bengal monitor lizards, and Komodo dragons from Indonesia — or animal parts used in traditional Asian medicine, especially bear gallbladders and tiger bones. But to undo the intricate chain that linked the many bottom feeders to the few at the top was a gargantuan task, one that had yet to be accomplished. But Axel Thorssen thought he might be able to take out a big chunk of the middle of the trade and cripple a good part of it, at least for a short time. If he could do that, then maybe, just maybe, some of the big players would be more vulnerable.
Axel had never been farther south than Genoa or farther east than Athens, and he was looking forward to his visit to Singapore. He had had to write a lengthy researched report to get permission to mount an operation there, but he had managed to convince his superiors that he knew what he was doing, and they had agreed to let him go ahead. He would be there with the knowledge of the Singapore police, who were to avail him of their services when needed. But mainly he was on a fact-finding mission, not a catch-and-kill-the-bad-guys mission. That was for others to do. He would merely pass on the information he had gathered and the local police would follow through.
He knew that smuggling operations usually went through local pet sellers, the ones who set up stalls in the markets that could easily be dismantled before the police arrived. Like the woman in Ho Chi Minh City who smuggled tens of thousands of dollars worth of animal parts before police caught her. According to the report, the haul included eight dead lorises, two kilos of tiger skins, twenty-five tiger claws, eight tiger fangs, sixty panther claws, a kilo of panther skins, a kilo of panther bones, twenty kilos of elephant tusks, nearly three kilos of rhinoceros horn, and parts of several other wild animals. She reportedly sold her rhinoceros horn for more than fifteen hundred dollars per hundred grams.
Axel had a feeling the smuggling ring Operation Oracle was trying to crack was a much larger, more sophisticated, and more lucrative production than Mrs. Hu’s in Vietnam. But being a systematic, careful operator, he would begin his search at the bottom, visiting pet stores and markets and asking discreet questions and following up every lead. And while he was at it, he’d check out restaurants and hawker stalls for some of the best food in the world. He would also stay at Raffles, he decided, because it had an intriguing history and he wanted to soak up the atmosphere of Singapore from days gone by.
Axel flew into Singapore a week later, business class with an open return. His first impression, as the plane descended toward Changi International Airport, was of a set of dominoes because that’s what the rows and rows of seemingly identical high-rise apartments reminded him of; dominoes set up in perfect sequence, ready to topple in a perfect wave once the first one was tipped into motion. The modern city state of Singapore was situated on a densely packed island where one of the few available directions was up. As well, a number of land reclamation project
s had expanded the original boundaries of the main island. Singaporeans were nothing if not resourceful, making the most of the island’s seven hundred square kilometres.
Raffles Hotel, located on Beach Road, was no longer facing the sea as it had when it originally opened in 1887 in a bungalow known as the Beach House. It was now located in the heart of the business district, minutes from upscale shopping centres, city hall, and the airport. It had been beautifully restored a few years earlier and still retained most of its colonial charm. Axel was not disappointed when he saw it. It was, in fact, much larger than he had expected. But he reminded himself that the Raffles Hotel in his imagination had taken shape through the stories of a British writer, E. Sutcliffe Moresby, which Axel had read in English many years ago.
The Long Bar no longer pulsated with the boisterous chatter of planters and plantation managers come in from the jungles of Malaya for a break from the unrelenting heat and drudgery of their lives. Not that Singapore wasn’t hot, but the hotel provided cool showers and clean sheets, and fans that beat the steamy air twenty-four hours a day. It provided roast beef dinners and steak and kidney pie, mashed potatoes and carrots, steamed pudding with sticky sweet sauce, and rich coffee with real cream. And there was more than one kind of ale, more than one kind of whisky. And more important than all that, it provided the company of other lonely, overworked men who were far from home and family, and who wanted nothing more than a chance to blow off steam.
The Long Bar Axel walked into after unpacking his bags was much the same in its leather and bamboo decor, but the people chugging down beer and Singapore Slings were mainly tourists from Europe and America who would go home after their holiday and tell their friends, “We stayed at Raffles Hotel and had drinks in the Long Bar every afternoon.” When he saw how crowded it was, Axel opted for a drink in the quiet luxury of the Writer’s Bar in a corner of the main lobby. There was something very conducive to contemplation in the dark rattan-backed armchairs and the polished mahogany tables and cabinets. Axel thought he might be spending a lot of time there at day’s end.