Handpicked

by Siew Siang Tay

  So, Viktor finally got married, huh? You didn’t say to whom, Krisno. Make sure you tell me in your next letter. Thank God I put my foot down and did not let Pak bully me into marrying him.

  And did you translate my last letter to Mak? Please do, and translate this one too. I’ll try to send photos of my new place in my next letter, okay?

  I have to go now but please tell Mak I love her very much. I am seriously considering saving enough money for either me to go back for a visit, or to send her a ticket for her to come visit Australia. But don’t tell her that yet as I need to save up first. All my best wishes. Miss you very much.

  Love,

  Laila

  PS: note my new address. Don’t send letters to my old address anymore.

  The coffee machine looks like a gadget lifted from a science-fiction movie. Its stainless steel gleams in the morning sun, streaming in through a large picture window. Eight buttons, a tray with space for four cups. Laila runs a finger over the streamlined surface, then casts her eyes over the other items on the benchtop—wooden knife block, white utensils jar, tall wooden salt and pepper shakers. She places her hands on the marble surface, the rich green sparkling, reminding her of jade. It feels cool and smooth.

  She makes a cup of tea, taking the tea bag and crockery out of the cupboards with care, returning the jars of tea and sugar to their original spots. While the kettle hisses, she takes in the view through the window. The open spaces, the sea, a pale silvery blue, make her think of birds in flight, free and uninhibited.

  Cup and saucer in hand, Laila returns to the bedroom. Sean said she could take her time to unpack, pointing at the empty space in the walk-in wardrobe. Laila has never seen a walk-in wardrobe. It is about a quarter of the entire living space of her family’s bilik in Sarawak.

  She checks out Sean’s neatly hung clothes, sorted by type—suits, shirts, trousers, polo tops, jeans and casual pants—and ordered by colour. Rows of shoes sit on a rack, polished and held in shape by curved gadgets made of wood and metal. Everything looks expensive. She runs her hands lightly over the shirts, crisp and perfectly ironed. She pulls out a sleeve and smells the freshly laundered scent.

  After hanging up her own clothes, which take up only a tenth of the space, she finds a huge storage cupboard for her unsightly cheap suitcase. Her personal things—make-up, costume jewellery and accessories—she puts either in the vanity cabinet in the ensuite bathroom or in her bedside cupboard.

  By late afternoon, she has had three cups of tea, a turkey sandwich for lunch, a peach and a nectarine, which she takes from the fruit bowl, and yoghurt. She relaxes with a Mango and Macadamia ice-cream bar in the family room, feet up on the coffee table, watching The Bold and the Beautiful.

  ‘What you’re trying to make me do goes completely against my conscience,’ Ridge says.

  ‘If you have any in the first instance,’ Brooke says.

  ‘You can insult me for all I care, but you know as sure as you are standing there that what happened all those years ago was totally out of my control.’

  Laila’s eyes are fixed on the life-size faces on the huge TV screen. The dialogue fascinates her. She loves the intrigue, the web of deceit, the way emotions bubble to the surface like suds in a bath, the conviction of their words.

  And the pain—how well she relates to it! The turmoil, the heartache, the anguish. It thrills her the way The Bold and the Beautiful takes viewers right into the core of the characters’ lives. She’s riding a journey with them, there and then in the comfort of her living room. She loses herself in the intensity.

  It’s behind her now. The pain of her own marriage. She’s careful to make the distinction clear: it’s the marriage she’s run away from, not her husband. Jim is not a bad person. He’s just not able to make her happy. Her marriage is a past chapter. She’s moved into a new phase, a new life. Like the storms in the characters’ lives in the show, the break-ups featured in Women’s Weekly, the trauma that Sidney Sheldon’s heroines experience, what she’s going through is part of the cycle of life. She’ll be the stronger for it.

  Sean. The perfect lover. His wealth is there for her to share. He implied that, when they discussed her moving in with him, that she could treat his house as if it were her own. His kindness touched her.

  Now she’s torn between picking up the latest issue of Vogue Living peeping at her from the magazine rack or going on to watch Wheel of Fortune on TV.

  She takes a sip of her tea. Outside, clouds are moving imperceptibly. The sun, starting to come down low, casts a silvery tinge on the water. Light blue deepens into aqua at the horizon. The curtain billows. She decides to just be for the rest of the afternoon, recalling the real estate ads in the liftout of the Saturday paper. Views, views, views, they screamed. She’d scrutinised the ads, mulled over the spectacular photos. The price tags had blown her away—$1.3 million, $900,000. Mansions with unimaginable views. She’s living in one now. Her fairytale is finally coming together.

  She slides her legs over the sofa, rolls her head back. The smell of leather envelops her.

  By the time Sean comes home in the evenings, Laila has dinner laid out. At around three in the afternoon, she sets the table, which is placed at a perfect angle to capture optimum views of the sea. She selects from a range of different settings kept in the sideboard, colour-matching the napkins with the placemats. Scented candles—strawberry, sandalwood, vanilla, honeysuckle—add the finishing touch.

  Sean likes steak, lamb and chicken, in that order, and he prefers steamed vegetables over salads. He has a martini first thing when he gets home, which Laila has learnt how to prepare, and a few glasses of wine with his meal. In her free time, she labours over his collection of recipe books and experiments with dishes. She has learnt to make pasta with carbonara sauce, Hungarian goulash, lamb korma, tabouleh, bacon the way he likes it, crisp at the edges but succulent in the middle, and scrambled eggs with the right amount of milk so it’s not too runny.

  She’s relieved she no longer needs to grill sausages. When she sees packets of them lining the shelves at Coles, she walks in the opposite direction. She now buys her meats from the butcher’s located five shops away from Coles. Much fresher, Sean says.

  The first time she saw the walk-in pantry, she nearly fell over. Half the size of the floor space Jeannie, Krisno and she slept in, it is stocked with a dizzying array of foods. Labels of cans, jars, bottles and packs dance like menfolk doing a ngajat during Gawai Dayak at the longhouse.

  Saturday evenings they go out to dinner, usually at the Square or Glenelg. Her favourite restaurant is the Promenade at the Stamford Grand, with its magnificent sea views. The restaurant makes her think of resort destinations on Getaway on TV. Sometimes they drive into the city to dine at the smart restaurants in Rundle Street or North Adelaide. Sean likes Greek food, Eros in Rundle Street being his favourite restaurant. When Laila thinks about Eros, she remembers the classical music that lends the place an expensive feel, the starched napkins slung over the waiters’ arms, breads that remind her of roti canai served with dhal curry from the mamak stalls in Kuching. At one of their dinners there, Sean told her she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. Laila still finds it hard to imagine that someone as good-looking and rich as him could think that about her, a mere peasant girl from a tribal village in Sarawak. Her skin tingles, remembering the look in his eyes.

  That night, she dreamt that Sean bought her a car, a silver-coloured one with a short back, the sort she’d seen young women drive. The back of the car opened out to the boot. In the dream, Sean taught her how to drive and she passed the test no problem. When the alarm rang next morning, she was hanging a ball of crystal on the rear-view mirror as decoration, the same crystal she’d seen in a gift shop at Glenelg.

  Sean lets her do the grocery shopping on her own. She takes a taxi to and from Coles and sticks to Sean’s shopping list religiously. It takes her two hours to complete her shopping. She moves from aisle to aisle, checking the labels
to make sure she picks the right items. The difference between Sanitarium Soya Bean Milk Regular and Sanitarium Soya Bean Milk Lite may not mean much to her but she wants to be sure she gets the right things.

  In the kitchen she discovers all kinds of electrical appliances. She knows their names—fruit juicer, mixer, rice cooker, coffee maker, sandwich toaster, blender, waffle maker, microwave oven—but she doesn’t use them. It takes her two weeks to figure out how the frontloader washing machine works, the different washing detergent it requires. The ones in the caravan park used to be so easy; insert some coins and off it goes. And even though Sean has shown her how the dishwasher works she still does the dishes by hand.

  When she irons Sean’s shirts, she brings the ironing board to the family room and places it in front of the TV. Compared to jamming it in the tiny space between the bed and the kitchen cupboards in the caravan, she now has space for the ironing board, the laundry basket and the clothes rack on wheels. She loves the feel of Sean’s expensive clothes, and watching bundles of wrinkled cloth transform into finely tailored garments slung over wooden hangers.

  Laila takes secret pleasure in playing wife. She can’t believe Sean is not married. Alone at home, she looks out for signs—photos, women’s clothing tucked in corners of drawers, jewellery, notes—but finds nothing. She floats around basking in her happiness and good fortune.

  26

  TWICE JIM GOES TO Peter and Marietta’s, approaches the caravan then ducks behind their car parked out the front. He tries to decipher from the shuffling sounds and noises the activities going on in the caravan, to see if there’s a second female voice. When Marietta speaks, he strains to listen, to detect if it could be Laila, but recognises immediately that it is Marietta.

  He can’t bring himself to knock at the door. What would they think of him?

  Once he was crouching behind a bush when a woman walked past. She looked like a carbon copy of Mildred from his caravan park. His first instinct was to make a quick exit but it was too late. She had slowed down and was glaring at him in that what-are-you-doing-there-creep kind of way. Jim fidgeted and tried to act normal but she kept staring. After a while, he stood up, lit a cigarette, blew smoke towards her face and asked, ‘What are you looking at?’ Mildred Look-Alike raised her eyebrows, huffed and walked on.

  In his caravan he rummages through everything, looking for her craft needles, balls of wool, women’s magazines, photos of her family in Kapit, stray lipstick or eyeshadow, anything she might come back for. But she has taken them all.

  Each evening, while the TV hisses (he keeps it permanently on mute), he imagines her turning up unannounced. They could talk then, get into how he could be a better husband, love her the way she needs to be loved. He would not tell her to quit bothering him about his money problems anymore, he promises himself. He replays the arguments in his head, edits them as one would a home video, minimising his nasty remarks or cutting them out altogether. Scenes rehashed, conversations filtered. He replaces ill will with largeheartedness, hidden agendas with openness.

  He’d get a second job, there are plenty advertised at the dole office. Or through Rodney. Rodney would know if vacancies came up. He would even consider letting her work at the blocks, or at least in the cutting sheds. He would not give in to his compulsion to hit the pub, his binge drinking, his nasty remarks when he got angry.

  But the realisation continues to plague him, gnawing into him over and over again. He takes in a deep breath to ease the tightness in his chest. It is too late.

  When he enters the caravan, darkness presses against him. He turns on the light, flooding the caravan with bluish fluorescence. The place is a mess. Empty beer bottles piled in a corner, dirty clothes strewn on the floor, ashtray spilling with butts, empty takeaway packs littering the table and benchtop. The stench of stale sweat and rot clings to everything.

  He goes to the wardrobe and opens it, as if expecting to find something different. The empty section where Laila’s clothes used to be stares back at him. When he opens the fridge, he finds some shrivelled-up carrots, mouldy cheese, a half-eaten pie that’s gone off, still in its paper bag, near-empty sauce bottles. The freezer door is jammed from clogged-up ice.

  He kicks off his shoes and gets into bed. The sheets reek. He hasn’t changed them since she left. He huddles under the covers, his back to the light, legs curled to his chest.

  One of their happy moments drifts into his mind. They’re coming out of Chapman Mall. It is a cold Sunday afternoon. They’re crossing the street to get to the fish-and-chip shop. He’s wrapped in his parka, collar pulled up to his chin. Her hand, icy-cold, is seeking his in the warmth of his pocket. He wraps her tiny fingers in his hand, lowers his head and kisses her.

  A sudden chill overcomes him. He pulls the covers up to his neck but within seconds he’s burning up, then he throws the covers off. He reaches for the bedside drawer, pulls out a photo of Laila. He runs his fingers over her mouth, her eyes, her hair. Her touch. He would give anything to feel her touch again.

  In his mind he sees the birthmark on her right buttock, the inoculation scar on her left shoulder, he smells her skin, a mix of talcum powder and traces of garlic. He closes his eyes and visualises her fingers bouncing over the taut sheets in the morning, tucking in the corners, plumping up the pillows, and her hands reaching up to pull back the curtains from the window.

  ‘Must wash these, Jim. Really dirty.’

  The rapid movement of her lips as she describes the possum she sees outside the bathroom, her accent thick and language unadorned.

  ‘It was just standing there, Jim. You should have seen it. Its eyes, looking at me. Soooo cute.’

  His wife is out there, somewhere in Adelaide. If he could just hear her voice. Just her voice. Just a few words. Then he’ll leave her alone.

  He buries the photo in his chest, stares ahead. He traces the outlines of water stains on the ceiling, the chipped louvre, the chair discoloured and cracked in the seat.

  Outside, a car pulls up. He hears the engine die, car door opening and shutting. There are murmurs, shuffles, the squeak of a fly screen being held ajar, followed by footsteps, and someone yelling, ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Then the door slamming shut. Then silence. Silence that swells into a solid block.

  There is a knock at the door. Jim opens his eyes. Light floods his view. He has gone to bed without turning off the lights. He looks at the time—ten-fifteen.

  Bang bang bang. The door rattles again. He throws off the covers, hobbles from the bed. His pulse races. He breathes in, breathes out, then takes slow measured steps towards the door. If it’s her, if it’s really her, what will he say—can we talk about how our marriage crumbled before my eyes? Will you give me another chance?

  A frail-looking woman with permed grey hair stands at the door. He recognises her immediately. Mildred.

  ‘Excuse me, sorry to bother you. Your car lights are on. You wouldn’t want a flat battery tomorrow morning, I was thinkin’.’ She gives him a broad smile, her eyes distorted through her glasses.

  Eight weeks pass. There is no sign of Laila.

  27

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON SHE’S sorting out the contents of her wallet: old receipts, discount vouchers, notes of interesting places to check out, good wines to buy. Her wallet fills up so much quicker these days. A sign that life is full. Finally, she’s living as she ought to as a migrant.

  When she contemplates her history, she divides it into three phases: Kapit, Renmark, Adelaide. She plots the improvement in her quality of life over the phases, allocating points for each. By far Adelaide scores the highest. Secretly she wonders if she could climb another step. But when she looks around, when her toes dig into the plush pile of the carpet, when she lowers her body into the bath, lavender scent embracing her, she thinks she doesn’t need anything else to make her happy.

  While throwing out unwanted receipts, she finds, sandwiched between her Medicare card (she applied for one in her own name) and the
business card of her hairdresser at Glenelg, a photo of Jim and her taken a few months before Christmas. Jim had his arm around her waist; their faces are close together, cheeks almost touching. From the left came sunlight. Their smiles matched the brightness. She’d kept the photo in her wallet, meaning to get a nice frame from Gabbie’s Gifts to put the photo in. Weeks went by and she’d forgotten about it. Then she met Sean.

  Laila takes the photo and walks to the bin. She’s about to drop it in but something makes her look at the photo again, at the way her body is angled towards Jim. She looks at his hand resting on her hip, and she remembers for an instant the precise shape and texture of each one of his fingers. She returns the photo to her wallet, focusing quickly on the water out the front, the stillness, the lack of current, the sea a sheet of palest blue.

  The doorbell rings. Her heart misses a beat. She did ask Jim not to look for her. She checks the peephole with care, and sees two men and one woman, all dressed in suits. She lets out a breath and opens the door.

  ‘Good afternoon, madam, we’re Jehovah’s Witnesses and were wondering if you could spare five minutes of your time. We’d like to share with you the good news of the kingdom.’

  Sean is seated on the sofa, filling his pipe with tobacco. It is Friday night, Blue Heelers is on TV and he’s unwinding after dinner. Laila had made Chicken Schnitzel from a recipe out of Woman’s Day. He ate without commenting on the meal. Laila wanted to say something but decided against it. She knows that Friday nights he wants to chill out after his long and stressful week.

  Laila doesn’t like the smell of burning tobacco. It reminds her of her father who used to sit on the verandah and smoke his rolled cigarettes. This too she doesn’t tell Sean. She knows that his smoky breath will be all over her when he makes love to her later.