The Catherine Lim Collection

by Catherine Lim

  On the first day, the young man, folding his arms across his chest, and looking straight at the Wise Man, asked in a clear loud voice, “What do Singapore men and women want of each other as marriage partners?”

  The Wise Man lifted his hooded eyes very slowly in response to the insultingly simple question, then launched into an extended discourse on the qualities and attributes that Singapore men and women looked for in each other, quoting in detail from the Marriage Manual that had been published by Lady Matchmaker’s matchmaking organisation (which, indeed, he had had a hand in preparing). He paused, and the young man said, “Incorrect! The correct answer is this: Singapore men like their women to be all dollared up and the women like all the men to be Cashanovas, for the sake of marital har-money.”

  The crowds roared their agreement, and the Wise Man was about to make a protest but changed his mind and subsided into quiet muttering.

  The next day, the young man, again looking intently at the Wise Man, said, “Singaporean Chinese have very short ones, whereas Singaporean Indians have much longer ones. What are these?”

  “Easy,” thought the Wise Man, but in deference to the ladies present in the crowd, he merely whispered the answer in the young man’s ear, cupping a hand over the ear to make doubly sure that the ladies would not hear.

  “Wrong!” shouted the young man triumphantly. “The answer is ‘Surnames’!” The crowds rocked in merriment.

  On the third day, the young man, with a stern look on his princely brow, asked, “What evidence is there that the population control policy of Singapore had applied to and continues to apply to animals as well?”

  The Wise Man had a quizzical frown on his face; the crowds looked at him in increasing excitement. The Wise Man tried to think of all the animals in the Chinese zodiac on which the question might have some bearing, but he was able to mentally reach only the eighth in the list of twelve animals before his time was up, and the young man proclaimed with gusto, “The answer is: All the signs in Singapore that say ‘No Littering, Please’!”

  The crowds were so impressed by the young man’s cleverness that it was some time before they recovered from their amazement and began to cheer him loudly.

  On the fourth day, the young man (who by now was exuding the total confidence of the victor) looked straight at the Wise Man (who by now was showing the nervousness of the loser) and asked, “Which Shakespearean play is the favourite of Singapore’s ‘hum-subs’?”

  Now the Wise Man had detailed knowledge of all of Singapore’s ‘hum-subs’; he knew exactly how many there were, and he knew how their propensity for lechery was manifested by great physiological diversity, such as clusterings of moles on the ears, a bulbous nose or a rotund belly, and he knew precisely the kinds of Chinese comics that they devoured in secret, but he had no idea of the Shakespearean plays that they read. Soon his time was up, and the young man said with much aplomb, “The answer is ‘King Leer’!”

  The crowds were thrilled by such a display of brilliance. The ‘hum-subs’ among the crowds took mental note of the title of the play for their future reading.

  On the fifth day, the young man, with a great deal of flourish (for he had a tendency to be a little theatrical) asked, “What advice from Confucius is posted up for the benefit of lovers in the Chinese Garden and other courting haunts in Singapore?”

  The question caused much excitement in the crowds, and everybody turned to look at the Wise Man. There was an air of great suspense. Now the Wise Man knew the exact number of lovers who had gone to the Chinese Garden and the other courting haunts in Singapore, from the very day that these were thrown open to the public for the purpose, and he remembered a sign near a pond in the Chinese Garden that said ‘No Fishing’, not because lovers had shown any interest in that activity but because a couple, on one occasion, had parked themselves too close to the pond, and had rolled into it, being deep in mud and lotus leaves before they were aware of what had happened.

  The Wise Man therefore said, “No Fishing” but his answer was drowned out by a jubilant roar from the young man, “No! The correct answer is: “Love woman under tree, because willow talk less dangerous than pillow talk!”

  The crowd cheered wildly; they thought it was excellent advice, and many made a mental note of it, intending to profit by it the next time they went to the Chinese Garden. On the sixth day, the young man, his eyes two glittering orbs of fire, asked in a thunderous voice, “What evidence is there that polygamy is encouraged in Singapore?”

  The Wise Man was momentarily thrown off balance by this question and was about to protest that polygamy was not encouraged in Singapore when the young man cried out loudly, “The answer is the slogan that all of you are familiar with: ‘Have three or more – if you can afford’!”

  The crowd was wild with jubilation; an elderly gentleman with a bald head was heard to chuckle in glee, “Good! Now I can bring all four out of hiding and make respectable women out of them! I can afford them!”

  On the seventh and last day, the crowds were so large that it was almost impossible to control them. They gathered round with mounting eagerness, looking expectantly at the young man as he stood up to his

  full height and surveyed all of them with princely hauteur before he addressed the final question to the Wise Man. And the question was this: “What local food in Singapore presents a biological puzzle to tourists?”

  Now the Wise Man’s knowledge of biology, like his knowledge of history and folklore was extensive, but somehow he had never connected it with food or tourists. By this time, however, he had more or less lost confidence in himself, so he merely shrugged his shoulders in defeat, at which the young man shouted above the heads of the crowds: “Fish ball soup!”

  Everyone applauded enthusiastically. The applause went on and on, and everyone wanted to congratulate the young man, both for his brilliance of mind and for winning Singapore Princess as his bride. The Wise Man slunk away, looking subdued and humbled and promising to be less complacent in future and to gain more knowledge of Singaporeans.

  Lady Matchmaker, although somewhat disappointed that she had lost the opportunity of disposing of Maiden Big Mole (who was likely, following the destruction of her most cherished dream, to be more difficult than ever), was, on the whole, pleased that the contest had resulted in her successfully getting husbands for the rest of the maidens. The only person she felt sorry for, apart from Maiden Big Mole, was the Wise Man of Singapore, but with a certain plan that she intended to carry out very soon, she was confident that he too would reap the benefits of the contest. The plan was this: She would seek him out in the place where he had gone into hiding, declare her love and admiration for him and propose that they get married, thereby fulfilling her ambition to enlarge the circle of beneficiaries of her matchmaking prowess to include herself. As for the young man and Singapore Princess, there was not a happier couple in the land. They got married soon afterwards, and lived happily ever after.

  The Concatenation

  Twice the concatenation of favourable events had almost taken place, and twice, exactly at the moment of my being poised for flight from the cosmic void to the fecund womb of Mrs Esther Wong, the events which had been gathering with such promise, suddenly dispersed, and I was left once more to groan in the drear prospect of a long, long wait.

  Let me describe the first Concatenation that almost was.

  “I want another child,” says Mr Wong Cheer Kia, and “Yes, I too want another child,” says Mrs Esther Wong.

  “We must have the child soon,” says Mr Wong Cheer Kia, and his wife says fervently, “Yes, soon.”

  Now the impelling power behind this remarkable conjugal mutuality is Tradition.

  Tradition has put into the bloodstreams of men and women the desire for male children, so that at the moment of a baby’s birth, parents and grandparents peer between the baby’s legs and say: “Ugh!” and turn away in disgust if it is a girl-child. Six fine healthy daughters are as nothing compared to the
one puny boy who comes after them. All the parental energies and resources will henceforth be diverted to the protection of the infant from the evil spirits, and it will not matter if the daughters are fed rice gruel, as long as the best parts of meat and herbs are reserved for the son.

  Mrs Esther Wong’s mother who came from a village in northern China tells of the infant girl found half-buried in mud in a rice field near the village, the umbilical cord still attached to its little body, and of another allowed to live, but sold off as a slave girl at the age of five.

  “Ugh!” says Mrs Wong and her sensibilities recoil in disgust at the barbarity of a tradition that she is glad has long been left behind in the ancestral land and has no place in modern Singapore. And she looks fondly at her baby daughter, asleep in a pink beribboned bassinet, the combined gift of her colleagues at the office.

  But Tradition cannot be repudiated long: the desire in the bloodstream asserts itself when Mrs Wong goes into hospital a second time to have a baby, and Mr Wong openly expresses his wish for a son, and Mrs Wong’s mother-in-law-goes to the temple to make offerings to the temple gods for a grandson.

  It is a girl-child again. Thwarted desire expresses itself fearsomely: Mr Wong, suddenly confronted by the prospect of never having any heirs to carry on his name, takes off his glasses to wipe the tears off his eyes in full view of the hospital staff, and the mother-in-law who regularly makes a gift of a solid gold anklet to every newborn grandson and only a little washed gold bracelet to every newborn granddaughter, decides that even this small favour should be withdrawn, and therefore sends no present.

  Mrs Esther Wong weeps in anger, and in anger decides to have another baby, indeed to go on having babies till the longed-for male child arrives.

  “It’s not the stupid gold anklet; who cares for that ugly thing which I shall never let my baby wear anyway?” she cries. “It’s something else. I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s not going to let me rest till I turn to the old one and say, “See, here’s your grandson! Now are you satisfied?”

  And that is why, when Mr Wong almost tearfully says, “I want another child,” Mrs Wong replies with grim determination, “Yes, I too want another child.”

  The Concatenation has come, I think joyfully – at last! And then what do I see? Mrs Esther Wong, in her cotton pyjamas and freshly talcum for bed, takes out the prophylactics – hated things! – from the bedside table drawer, and gives them to Mr Wong.

  Tradition has been routed by Economics. If Tradition is in the bloodstream of the Wings, Economics has entered the very marrow of their bones.

  For Mrs Wong’s calculator tells her that if she dares to oppose the new population policy to ‘Stop at Two’, she stands to lose thousands and thousands of dollars: she will have to pay higher accouchement fees in hospital for the Third Child, she can claim no income tax relief, she is not entitled to paid maternity leave. Mrs Wong’s fingers work furiously at the calculator.

  “So much money lost!” she gasps.

  The Third Child is the national arch-villain: in all the posters sprouting everywhere in the shopping centres, in government buildings, at bus-stops, at the hawker centres – the Third Child is depicted as the subverted of national progress and prosperity. He/She is sternly excluded from the happy family pictures which show two children laughing on the swing in the garden or paddling in the baby pool, watched by contented parents. If the Third Child is included, it is only in the capacity of trouble maker and cause of all the parental anxiety and domestic chaos. The Third Child is the ultimate outcast: The stork cheerfully makes two trips but folds up its wings and shakes its head in vigorous refusal of the third bundle.

  “Such an expensive thing having a Third Child,” cries Mrs Wong, “and what if it is a girl again?” She receives a book from her sister who is living in the United States, a bestseller called Choosing the Sex of Your Child – the Sure-fire Wads low Method, written by a Dr Charles Wads low who claims 97 per cent success. My hopes hold: Suppose Science comes to the help of Tradition to rout Economics and so save the Concatenation?

  “What’s this?” exclaims Mrs Wong, reading the newspaper. ‘More Disincentives to Curb Population Growth: Third Child Unlikely to have Choice of More Popular Schools’, and she goes on to read about the latest in a spate of frenetic attempts to get women to stop having more than two babies. When the Third Child reaches school-going age, and is ready to be registered in a school, he/she is automatically put in a category that allows for admission to only those schools rejected by First and Second Children.

  This is the unkindest cut of all, for parents will do anything – scheme, plot, bribe, go to incredible personal sacrifices – to get their children into the best schools and so ensure academic success.

  When Mrs Wong cries out, “My God, this means extra money spent in private tuition for the poor child trapped in a lousy school with lousy teachers,” I know that Economics has won.

  The years go by, Mrs Esther Wong and her husband have put on weight, but have otherwise retained their youthful good looks, and the two daughters are growing up into very pretty teenagers. And then just as I am giving up hope of ever leaving the cosmic bleakness, the second Concatenation of which I spoke earlier, begins to shape.

  “You know,” says Mrs Wong to her husband, “If we have a Third Child now, we will save about $4,000 in income tax.” She is referring to the New Population Policy which wants women to have three – or more, if they can afford. The old population policy has succeeded so well that women are not only stopping at two, but refusing to marry and have any children at all. The government studies the direful statistics, and frets fearfully: If the trend continues, the pool of human resources will diminish to a point when the wheels of industry could actually grind to a halt. The government is galvanised into action.

  Now it is the turn for the two-child family to be cast into oblivion, and for the Third Child to take national centre stage. The Third Child, a plump smiling baby, sits on the mother’s knee, surrounded by the admiring looks of grandparents, parents and siblings. The Third Child means money saved in income tax, the Third Child entitles the mother to long-term paid maternity leave, the Third Child has first choice of the more popular schools.

  Mrs Wong’s calculator comes out again, and she corrects her earlier estimate: it is a saving of not four but five thousand a year in income tax.

  “We’ll have the Third Child,” she says to her husband. The lustre of the prospect of a male child has been somewhat dimmed for him over the years as he watches his daughters grow up and excel in school; otherwise, he is as enthusiastic as his wife about the Third Child.

  “If I conceive now,” says Mrs Wong, and she does a quick mental calculation, “our baby will be born in the Year of the Dragon.”

  Now no parental statement can be so charged with emotion or hope, for the Dragon is the most illustrious and awesome of the Twelve Animals of the Chinese almanac. Summoned to life by the gongs and drums of the Lunar New Year, it comes streaming across the heavens, breathing fire, its enormous splendid eyes ever alert, its body coil upon iridescent coil of red and gold. A baby born during the twelve months of the Dragon’s reign will partake of its virtues and be assured of prosperity throughout life. The Dragon having a partiality for male children, all baby boys will be filled to overflowing with its virtues and goodness’s. Their parents will invariably call them ‘Leng’ or ‘Leong’ or ‘Loong’: dialectal variations do not matter and make no difference to the Dragon’s bestowing of largesse.

  “‘Kim Long’, that will be our baby son’s name,” says Mrs Esther Wong enthusiastically. ‘Kim Long’ or ‘Golden Dragon’ is the ultimate in Chinese male nomenclature. Mrs Wong is sure it will be a boy because not one, but two temple mediums whom her mother consulted, have told her so.

  “‘Bogart Wong Kim Long’,” murmurs Mrs Wong, for Humphrey Bogart is her favourite actor; she makes sure she does not miss the reruns of his films on late-night TV.

  The Concatenat
ion is here at last, and this time Economics, far from being opposed to Tradition, is working hand in hand with it. Glorious moment of advent! Here I come! And then –

  “It could be the black chicken soup that your mother has been making me take,” says Mr Wong with a little nervous laugh.

  “Nonsense, that’s supposed to make you strong,” says Mrs Esther Wong rather sharply.

  “Could it be the herbs she put in the black chicken soup? I noticed she put a lot of herbs,” he says.

  “Oh, don’t talk nonsense,” says Mrs Wong impatiently, “Herbs never have that effect.” She sits up, suddenly recollecting something: “Pork. You’ve been eating too much pork. I read an article in a magazine that advised men to refrain from pork. It has this effect. Oh dear.”

  She lies back and sighs.

  “Maybe it’s just age,” says Mr Wong, a little sheepishly, “I’m already 46, you know.”

  “It must be the pork,” says Mrs Wong. “Yes, now I remember clearly. The article was in a respectable medical magazine. I will tell Mother not to buy any more pork when she goes to market.”

  Mr Wong has fallen asleep, and is snoring gently. Mrs Wong sighs again, turns over, and is soon asleep herself.

  And I am infuriated.

  The best combination ever to achieve the Concatenation – Economics and Tradition – and who would think it could be fouled up by Physiology?

  ‘Write, Right, Rite’; Or ‘How Catherine Lim Tries to Offer only the Best on the altar of Good Singapore Writing’

  “It is the acme of my career as a writer in Singapore,” says Catherine Lim with profound gratitude, “to be chosen to represent Singapore at the International Writers’ Conference in Oslo. Far more important than the joy of meeting fellow writers from as far away as Peru, Paraguay, Paris and Papua New Guinea, is the opportunity to project the image of Singapore as a country with a distinct cultural identity of which it is so justifiably proud. I shall therefore try my very utmost to do my country proud by presenting a story that will enhance the very ... ” and here the writer casts about in her mind for an original turn of phrase, “positive image that the world already has of us.”