by O Thiam Chin
What Cody remembers from his nine years with Chee Seng: late-morning breakfasts, ten-kilometre runs around Bishan Park, Chee Seng’s failed attempts at baking raisin scones, visits to the rental shop to get DVDs for their Saturday movie marathons, three-hour games of badminton with friends on Sundays, and the urgent lovemaking of their early years. They did almost everything together, because they wanted to be with each other all the time—and never stopped to consider where they were going, and soon became forgetful, careless, complacent.
First year: they watched movies, ran, cooked meals, made love everywhere, travelled, pooled circles of friends together for gatherings, read the same books.
Second year: they opened a joint savings account and split the bills equally. They travelled to places they had always wanted to visit: Krabi, Hanoi, Shanghai.
Third year: they took up volunteering and different activities, to “broaden their lives”: aikido for Chee Seng, rock-climbing for Cody. They became more visible to their respective families and attended family gatherings together—weddings, funerals, baby showers. More places: Taipei, Tokyo, Sydney.
Fourth year: Chee Seng was promoted to subject head in school, and Cody quit for a new job as an editor in a trade magazine that specialised in aviation news. For travel, they decided to visit Paris, Madrid and Barcelona, and used up two eight-gigabyte memory cards for photos. They had a huge fight that year, and did not talk for a week, but things got back to normal in the end; the cause: money.
Fifth year: they went to numerous property launches to see whether they could find a place to buy, but could not reach a mutual agreement; with Chee Seng it was always money and whether they could afford it in the long run, while with Cody, it was convenience and accessibility and privacy. They adopted a dog from the animal shelter, a black Labrador they named Ninja, and took turns to pay for its upkeep: veterinarian visits, food, grooming. From the start, the dog liked Chee Seng more than Cody. They limited their travel to only Bangkok that year, and only for three days, because of the dog.
Sixth year: a quiet year of domesticity. They both changed mobile phones and upgraded their data plans. They babysat for Cody’s three nephews and niece. They went for walks in Bishan Park with Ninja; he had grown bigger and friendlier, and less demanding, and was greatly loved by the children of Cody’s sisters. They signed up for a marathon at the end of the year; Cody finished an hour faster than Chee Seng. They explored eastern Malaysia, Sabah and Sarawak, its quiet beaches and lazy, rustic towns.
Seventh year: they finally found a flat that they both liked, within their budget; after a longer than expected renovation, caused by unnecessary delays and several arguments with the contractor over material defects and poor workmanship, they moved in. The flat wiped out almost all their savings, but they finally had their own place, and they hoped things would get better; they had been fighting more and more, and over increasingly trivial things. Travels: again Barcelona, and five months later, Taiwan. There, they had a threesome with a twenty-eight-year-old Taiwanese man who worked as a software engineer in an online-gaming company. Cody chatted up the guy at Funky, a dance club, and he took a liking to both of them. Chee Seng was apprehensive at first, but Cody convinced him that it was just a one-off thing, nothing more, and he gave in eventually. They brought the guy back to their hotel, and took turns to fuck him. The guy left after they were done, but expressed interest in meeting up again, no strings attached. They did not pursue this, in any case. Chee Seng and Cody talked about what happened after they came back, and because they were both averse to the idea of an open relationship, they left things as they were. Ninja had missed them while they were away, and so they bought him a chew toy shaped like a bone.
Eighth year: Cody was promoted to senior editor, and started sending out résumés for other better-paying jobs. Less than two months later, he received an offer to work in a company that handled custom publishing for government-linked agencies. Job scope was not much different, but he did get a twenty per cent pay raise. Chee Seng was promoted again, to head of department, and complained incessantly about the increase in workload. They still fought, naturally, and when it got worse, Cody would sleep on the sofa in the living room, or go back to his father’s flat for a few days. Reasons: money and housework and Ninja. They took longer to reach a truce, and when they could not find common ground for a ceasefire, they turned the other way and pretended otherwise. The days passed, and they would still have meals together, and from time to time they would still make love, quickly and efficiently. Sometimes, to avoid the trouble or inconvenience, Cody would masturbate in the shower. Always, there were things to do, to make do, to follow up: the leaking air-con, the weekly groceries, Ninja’s vaccinations. And then Ninja died that year of heatstroke, which was primarily Cody’s fault. He brought the dog out for a run around the neighbourhood, forgetting that Ninja had grown both old and overweight. After less than a kilometre, the dog collapsed to the ground, whining in agony, his mouth lined with froth. He shat all the way to the animal hospital, and the vet kept him under tight watch for twenty-four hours, but Ninja did not respond to any treatment, so they had to put him down. Chee Seng and Cody were inconsolable, grieving for Ninja as though they had lost a son. They cremated him and brought his ashes back in a porcelain urn, keeping it at the back of the wardrobe. They threw away all of his stuff, but Cody secretly kept his leash. Chee Seng did not blame him for what happened, but Cody had already assumed the guilt. That year, they took separate trips overseas: Chee Seng to Phnom Penh, and Cody to Bangkok.
Ninth year: they went to work every day and ate out most evenings. They still talked, but about things that were of little consequence. They ran, and occasionally caught a movie at the cineplex. They went to bed at the same time, and paid the bills through the joint savings account on time. They planned to get another flat, but this time for rental income. They kept themselves busy the whole year, and tried to stay sane and healthy. They were close to the ten-year mark, an achievement, something to be proud of. Then Cody’s ex-boyfriend Terry called one day to invite him out for dinner; he was going to be posted to Shanghai for a six-month job assignment and wanted to celebrate it with Cody, for old times’ sake. Things fell into place swiftly afterwards: a few drinks after dinner, a long, nostalgic talk about their shared past, an innocent enough kiss, then the familiar touches of an ex-lover. Everything that was bound to happen happened, and that was that, the oldest act of betrayal in the history of love.
So when Ai Ling suggested the trip to Phuket at the end of December, Cody was more than willing to take it up. He needed some more time to carefully think through what he wanted out of his relationship with Chee Seng, and was hoping things would take a turn for the better.
Somewhere in the dark room, the ringtone of a mobile phone sounds: the opening chords of the Coldplay song “Clocks”. Chee Seng’s phone. The song plays for a minute or so, before it stops, and then resumes again a moment later. This happens another three times. You creep over to the pile of clothes strewn on the floor beside the cupboard, pick through the clothes—the song’s getting louder—and find the phone in the pocket of Chee Seng’s Bermuda shorts. The song cuts off just as you’re fumbling to see who the caller is. Seven missed calls from Chee Seng’s mother.
You grip the phone and sink back to the floor. After accidentally touching a button, the main screen comes on with a photograph: you and Chee Seng, taken at the beach on your first day in Phuket, the sunset draining away behind you, the sky a dark blue. Chee Seng’s arm is around your shoulder, holding you close so that you could both fit into the frame. You had tried a few times, adjusting postures and smiles, before Chee Seng was finally satisfied.
You click on his message inbox and scroll through the messages. Most of them are from you, several from his mother, and others from mutual friends. All the messages are either very recent or very old; Chee Seng has a habit of clearing his inbox regularly. He once told you that it’s because of the lack of memory on his mobi
le phone, but you know it’s just another expression of how he has always lived his life, his singular way of managing things; the fewer things one has, the lesser hold and influence these things have on you, he told you once.
Towards the bottom of the inbox, you see that he has saved all the messages that have come from you. You click on a message, one dated back to when you two first started dating:
Do you wanna come over to my place later? We can order in and watch a movie. Any movie, your choice. I’m fine with anything. Let me know. Miss you.
And further down, as if backtracking in time, another message:
I had a great time this evening. Hope you have enjoyed it too. Can’t wait for the next time we meet. When can I see you again? Haha. Good night, dear.
You continue to scroll through the messages. In the earliest ones you glimpse forgotten past events, words of love, the first flushes of emotions. You can’t remember most of the messages that you sent to him, yet they clearly mean something to Chee Seng, important enough to keep.
And the more you read, the weaker the grip of your understanding of this person who has sent these messages; it’s nearly impossible to comprehend this strange construct of a person that is the younger you, so far removed from who you are now. You hit the Sent box and read the messages that Chee Seng has sent in response. When you’re done, you close your weary eyes, your mind strangely empty of thoughts, suspended in a limbo.
And you stay there, in this state, for a long time, willing yourself to feel nothing, to be nothing.
11
WEI XIANG
By the time he has run down five flights of stairs to the second floor of the hotel—the lift has stopped working—Wei Xiang is completely out of breath, his heart slamming in his chest. There is already a commotion at the makeshift front desk that has been relocated from the lobby to the second floor foyer: a stocky, dark-skinned woman in a sundress is gesturing wildly and yelling at the hotel manager, while the latter is trying and failing to mollify her. Wei Xiang can hear the woman from where he’s standing, an intense volley of angry words, and though he does not understand a single word—Spanish? Portuguese?—he can guess at the gist of what she wants, or what anyone in the current situation wants. He, too, is about to do the same thing, if not for the motley group of hotel guests queuing at the desk, staring openly at the one-sided altercation, waiting their turns. Behind the manager, two female receptionists are cradling phones to their ears, talking rapidly and glancing furtively at the guests.
Wei Xiang walks down the final flight of stairs and stops two steps above the standing water that has flooded the hotel reception and lobby. The velvety sofas have toppled, their wooden legs sticking above the water like limbs of dead, stiffened animals; the large glass-paned table in the waiting area has shattered into webbed pieces, and the side tables have floated to the other end of the lobby, jumbled in a tight configuration. Torn magazines, books, newspapers, Lonely Planet guidebooks and travel pamphlets, warped and water-bloated, drift on the surface of the mud-grey water, banging listlessly against one another. A few landscape paintings have fallen off their hooks and bob in the water, the paint dissolving into smudgy blots and splotches of colour, their wooden frames broken. Two Caucasian children, oblivious to the danger around them, are playing in the stagnant water that comes up to mid-thigh, throwing handfuls of dirty water at each other. The wall lighting fixtures and decorative standing lamps have either been short-circuited or switched off; the lobby is shrouded in a palpable gloom.
Five men, hotel staff, are rummaging through the mess, salvaging what they can: shoes and sandals, small pots of fake geraniums and daisies, brochure holders, clothes hangers, rugs, umbrellas. Two of them are carrying black trash bags, into which they throw everything that is broken, tattered, or in an irreparable state. The men go about their task in an orderly manner, as if this were a regular part of their daily work routine. A few female staff, dressed in their black-and-white hotel uniforms, appear with large plastic buckets and metal pails, forming a line that snakes from the lobby into a room at the back of the hotel. They begin to fill these containers with the dirty water, and pass them up the line. Looking at them, Wei Xiang can’t help but wonder how long it will take them to clear away all the water. To Wei Xiang, their feeble attempt to relieve the situation seems futile, pointless even, akin to emptying the sea with spoons and ladles. From outside the hotel, overlapping yells and cries can be heard.
Wei Xiang hesitates where he stands, holding the handrail, his feet just above the surface of the lightly rippling water. He watches the commotion around him with detachment, as if what is happening before him is removed entirely from reality, a scene from a dream perhaps, and that if he closes his eyes and opens them again, all this will disappear and everything will return to normal. But the urgency of the harried voices around him is too loud to ignore, coming through the fog that has veiled his mind. There’s no time to wait. Wei Xiang cautiously slips into the cold water, which comes up to his calves, darkening the hem of his Bermuda shorts. A porter, wearing a short-sleeved shirt and rolled-up pants, turns to look at Wei Xiang as he wades towards the flooded reception area. Holding the black trash bag, the man throws in a soggy travel magazine that has come apart in his hands, and regards Wei Xiang with a solicitous look.
“Good morning, sir. How can I help you?” the porter says, straightening his body, giving Wei Xiang a wan smile.
“What happened?” Wei Xiang can’t help asking this question, though he has already seen the aftermath of the waves, the destruction that has wrecked the town, from the balcony of his hotel room.
“We hit by big waves, sir. Very big waves. Happened in morning, very early.”
“Did you see the waves?”
“No, sir. Happened too fast, very sudden, they said. I sleeping.” He points to somewhere behind Wei Xiang, beyond the restaurant, towards the back of the hotel; the staff dormitory. Wei Xiang caught a glimpse of it the day before, a nondescript, three-storey concrete building situated beside a small mango and rambutan garden and a stone-paved footpath, with flapping uniforms, shorts, towels, and undergarments pegged on clotheslines hanging across the balcony. Most of the hotel staff, who come from villages from the northern part of the country, or from the other islands near Phuket, stay there.
Wei Xiang sees a family coming down the stairs, the father putting up his hand to stop his wife and children from stepping into the water, his three young children gasping with delight at the sight of the water-logged lobby. The man speaks to his wife in Thai, who immediately shepherds the excited children up the stairs, while he rolls up his pants and makes his way across the lobby, his arms moving in wide, exaggerated arcs around his chest, as if he were trotting through the water with great effort.
“Have you seen a Chinese woman with long hair, about this height, this morning?” Wei Xiang says, lifting his hand to a height just below his chin. “I think she might be wearing running attire.” The porter stares at him, his forehead furrowed. “Have you seen a woman like that?” he asks again.
The porter lowers his eyes, shakes his head. “No sir, I no see this woman,” he says.
Wei Xiang feels a passing moment of relief until it strikes him that Ai Ling might have left the hotel before the man came on duty, and his mind begins to crowd with other thoughts. Yes, Ai Ling is still out there, somewhere; perhaps she has found some sort of refuge before the waves came in, and is waiting for someone to find her. Maybe she’s waiting for him to get her now. Wei Xiang turns to leave.
“Sir, can’t go out, very dangerous,” the porter says, a look of concern flashing across his face. “Later waves come back. Stay in hotel, better, safe. Don’t go out.”
“I need to find my wife. She went out this morning, and I think she is missing. Do you understand? I need to find her,” Wei Xiang says, his voice cracking. He looks away, out of the dirt-smeared hotel windows, at the street and the soot-hued sky.
“Sir, messy outside. Water everywhere, h
ard to walk. No safe.”
“It’s okay. I can manage,” Wei Xiang says, tearing himself away from the porter, and trudges towards the open doors of the hotel. He can hear mutters of “Sir, sir” behind him, but ignores it. Moving through the sluggish water is much harder than he thought. He steps on something soft and squishy, and quickly brushes it aside with his feet. The muddy water is thicker and more viscous at the entrance of the hotel; the glass doors have shattered, leaving behind a skeletal metal frame with a barbed perimeter of glass shards. Crossing the threshold, Wei Xiang looks out into the street. The commotion behind him in the hotel fades into the background as the bustling din of the street assaults him.
The cries of children rise above the clamour of the other noises; they have taken to wandering the street, looking lost and confused, their faces mottled with dried-up mud, tears and mucus. A few kids are crying at the top of their voices, perched on piles of rubble, their clothes wet. In the street, the water comes up to Wei Xiang’s hips. Small groups of locals navigate the water with caution; some are staggering in the direction of the beach—Wei Xiang has a hard time telling which direction the sea is—while others head inland towards higher ground.
Wei Xiang sees a young woman moving frantically through the water, peering into narrow alleys, shouting something with every step: “Yari!” A name perhaps. A lean, bare-chested man is pushing a rickety bicycle missing a seat through the water, a large basket of chickens tied with ropes around its frame. The metal-grille gates of the row of shops opposite the hotel are shut tight, their faded signboards askew. Two cats patrol the zinc rooftops of the shops, surveying the sight before them with lazy contempt.