by O Thiam Chin
At the end of their second month of courtship, Tien Chen finally asked Yifan whether she was seeing anyone else. Why? she asked.
I’m curious, that’s all, Tien Chen said. And also I want to know whether I’ve any competition.
Yifan laughed, and put a hand on Tien Chen’s. Her eyes shone with a mirthful yet impenetrable gleam, and she said nothing. With the question out in the open, a burden finally lifted from Tien Chen’s chest, to be instantaneously replaced by a new unexpected one. Would you be my—
Before he could finish his request, Yifan started laughing again, breaking his confidence. Let me think about it, she said.
For days, Tien Chen moved like a man suspended in a trance, unable to get a bearing on the life around him. In order to feel something tangible, he burnt himself twice, thrice a day, on his palms and inner thighs. The pain is real, he reasoned, you feel it, it’s there. Looking around his room after each session, as the pain melted into the dark recesses of his body, Tien Chen acutely felt the limits of his life; how threadbare it seemed. He had steeped his whole life in loneliness—how little he had cared for anything or anyone until now. The feeling was a terrifying crush against his heart that he couldn’t do anything about.
One night, he approached Yifan after she knocked off from work and made his confession of love. She listened quietly as he forced the words out of his mouth, stammering and tripping over them. He felt his face contorting into strange expressions to convey what he was saying, and he saw how Yifan’s face, too, went through a different sort of transition, from disbelief to understanding. Her eyes were a shade darker than usual. When he finally came to the end of his confession, there was a heavy pause, and then Yifan leant into him. Tien Chen took her into his embrace, hanging onto her like a lifeline.
• • •
In the early stages of their courtship, Tien Chen was extremely attentive to Yifan’s needs. He left messages on her phone in the morning, and called her every afternoon during his lunch break to check on her. Their phone chats were filled with trivial and mundane matters that were rendered fresh and unique to Tien Chen. Every aspect of Yifan was new and thrillingly special; every question he asked provoked a steady stream of enthusiastic answers that opened up to more questions from him. Where does the mystery of a person begin, Tien Chen thought to himself more than once, and will it ever cease? The more he knew about Yifan, the more he realised how little he knew her, as if every door of knowledge he opened led into a new corridor of closed doors, stretching into an infinite distance. Yet this awareness did not daunt him in any way. He loved her, and wanted to be with her. He would take his time to know her; he would pare the layers till he reached her core. When he’d made that decision, Tien Chen was able to quell his fear and settle into the relationship.
Tien Chen invited Yifan back to his place on a Tuesday, her day off. When she entered the flat, she expressed surprise at its bareness and cleanliness. She padded around daintily in her socks, as if she were afraid of leaving any marks or stains.
Don’t worry, you don’t have to be so self-conscious lah, Tien Chen said.
Can’t tell you’re such a neat freak, she said.
When they finished their dinner of chicken burgers, fries and milk shakes, Tien Chen cleared away the wrappers and emptied packs of chilli sauce. Coming out of the kitchen, he saw Yifan standing beside the altar, looking at the framed portrait of his mother. Yifan smiled at him when she sensed his presence, softening her expression. The portrait was an old photograph, a studio shot, and in it, Tien Chen’s mother was glancing away at an angle, her gaze shy and cryptic. He had seen this photograph all his life, and there was nothing in it that he had not filed away in his mind: puffy bangs, thick dark lips, and the gentle resoluteness in his mother’s eyes. Tien Chen knew he had inherited some of his mother’s features, something his father alluded to when he was younger. When he was 13, he had taken the portrait down from the altar and set it in front of a mirror, searching for some kind of resemblance in the reflected images. He studied every detail of his mother’s face, as if willing for something to click into place, to make some sense.
You’ve got her eyes, Yifan said. Tien Chen quickly glanced at the photo; he could not see any similarity whatsoever, then or now.
When they were seated on the sofa, Yifan said, I lost my father several years ago. Lung cancer. My mother was devastated, I think, but she didn’t say anything to any of us.
As Tien Chen listened to Yifan’s story, his mind went down a tunnel of buried memories. Long-dormant images awakened: his mother, his father, the years of their relationship, the march of time—death connects everyone, the one unshakeable certainty. He knew almost nothing about his mother, and next to nothing about his father, though he was still alive, and they had stayed in the same flat for over 30 years. Yet now, listening to Yifan—her voice, the words coming from her mouth, braided with meaning and hidden significance—he felt a sudden sense of loss for something that had eluded him over the years. Who was his father? Who was he to him? Tien Chen was grateful for the fact that his father had fed him, taken care of him, and provided for him, and that they had made up their lives as they went along. But was it enough? Tien Chen wasn’t sure now. He knew he had allowed things to slip, to fall into the cracks, and the awareness of that loss struck him anew.
He did not know how lost he was in his own thoughts, but when he felt a pressure on his arm, he blinked and stared once again into Yifan’s eyes.
Where did you go? she asked.
I’m here, he said, I’m listening.
The first four months of the relationship were as smooth-sailing as Tien Chen had hoped. Though they had different work schedules— Tien Chen worked a nine-to-six job as a junior draughtsman in an architecture firm, while Yifan knocked off around ten-thirty at night—they managed to meet at least five times a week. Tien Chen had his dinner every weekday night at the kopitiam without fail. By that time, his father was aware of their relationship, although he kept out of their hair and did not pry. As far as Tien Chen could tell, his father had already liked Yifan even before they were a couple. Yifan, on her part, reinforced the good impression she had made by seeking Tien Chen’s father out for conversations during lulls at the kopitiam, and giving him a hand in clearing empty glasses and beer bottles from the tables whenever she could.
Though Tien Chen would have liked to spend all his time with Yifan, the latter was adamant on having some time alone, for ‘personal space’.
Why? Tien Chen asked.
So you won’t get sick of me lah, seeing me all the time, she replied.
For one thing, she never allowed him to send her home after work every night. There’s no need, she told him, it’ll be very late by the time you get home, so save yourself the trouble since you have to work early the next day. Seeing the logic in her explanation, Tien Chen never offered again.
Still, he would send her a text every night to check on her whereabouts after work, and would wait till she replied before he slept. Some nights there would be no reply, and he would get so worried that he would start calling her repeatedly. The first few times she did not reply or pick up the calls, Tien Chen got into such a fix that he could not stay still or sleep the whole night. When he brought it up later, Yifan was quick to appease him by claiming that her mobile phone was on silent mode, or that she had fallen asleep right after she came home.
After these early episodes, Yifan became more prompt in her replies, though they never went beyond anything perfunctory: I’m home, I’m fine, okay, good night. Some nights, her replies would come two or three hours later, and Tien Chen would wonder where she was or what she was doing during those hours. It was unimaginable to him that Yifan would have anything else to do after work; he knew she had few interests apart from watching TVB and Korean dramas and playing Candy Crush on her phone. She had little patience for shopping or sports, and given half a chance, would prefer to spend her free time at home, catching up on sleep in the three-room flat s
he shared with five other Malaysians who worked office jobs.
Tien Chen had his concerns. But when he tried to stay as late as he could at the kopitiam, she would nudge him to go home, telling him not to wait for her to knock off. When he refused, Yifan became more insistent, a look of annoyance flitting across her features, and he had to back off immediately. Knowing his tendency to over think, Tien Chen chose to play down his overt curiosity and assure himself that there was really nothing to worry about, that he trusted her.
Yet even at the peak of his happiness with Yifan, Tien Chen still kept up his habit of burning himself. While the frequency dwindled during the intense early months of courtship, it was still something he gave himself to almost unthinkingly. To keep Yifan from finding out about his habit, Tien Chen took extra precautions. He restricted himself to areas that could easily be covered up—the inner thighs and pelvis, the heels and soles. No more burning on his arms or palms. And he was diligent in making sure the wounds were properly attended to with gels and plasters and dressings; he did not want them to fester and worsen. It had happened once in polytechnic, while he had been preparing for his final-year exams. He was burning himself three, four times a day then; the urgency was unstoppable, almost physical in its appetite, and he yielded to it all the time. He had neglected the treatment of his wounds and they had suppurated, oozing thick, putrid pus. It had taken almost three weeks for the wounds to heal, during which he had to avoid his father’s glances, locking himself up in his room and pleading the need to mug for the exams. After that incident Tien Chen learnt to rotate the spots on his body where he burnt himself, and allow existing injuries to heal.
Some of the wounds had hardened into a series of discoloured scars and keloids, which Tien Chen tried to lighten with anti-scarring creams. He reminded himself not to appear too self-conscious when he first held Yifan’s hand after their fourth date. Later, when she asked about the star-shaped scars on his palms, he had lied, claiming that they were from injuries he had got from his army days as a weapons specialist in the infantry.
You know lah, trying to be garang, to impress my men, he said.
You have plenty of scars, she said, your arms and legs too, you must have a very tough army life. To which Tien Chen responded with a nonplussed shrug. He had not expected Yifan to pay enough attention to his body to notice the scars. After that incident he made a great deal of effort to dress more appropriately when he met her, keeping to long-sleeved shirts and pants or jeans. Though he worried sometimes whether or not Yifan would ever find out about his habit, he knew there was nothing to stop him from doing it till then. And if his secret ever came to light, Tien Chen wondered whether he would have the wherewithal to put a stop to the habit that had sustained and comforted him for so many years.
The first time Tien Chen decided to trail Yifan was a Friday, after she had texted him to cancel their after-work supper. She was tired and wanted to rest early, she said. From a hidden corner of the void deck in a nearby block Tien Chen watched her leave the kopitiam, carrying a bag of food. She boarded a feeder bus, and Tien Chen quickly hailed a taxi to follow it. She alighted several stops later, beside a neighbourhood park on the edge of Ang Mo Kio. She did not notice Tien Chen watching her from across the street.
What was she doing here at this hour, Tien Chen wondered, his mind forging ahead for plausible reasons. She did not have any relatives or friends—at least none she had told him about—living in Singapore, in this estate. He watched as she straightened out her hair with a few brusque strokes and walked to the block beside the bus stop. By the time he reached the lift lobby, he had lost her, though he saw that the lift had stopped on the ninth floor. He took the lift up and, stepping out gingerly, looked down the dark stretch of corridor. Who was she visiting? Was she seeing someone else? Tien Chen’s thoughts tore in different directions, and he broke out in cold sweat, his breaths becoming short and laboured.
He padded softly down the corridor, and stopped outside a flat when he saw her sandals. Through the frosted-glass windows, he saw the dim light from the living room. Standing very still, he strained to hear the sounds coming from within: low muffled voices, an occasional burst of laughter—Yifan’s. A man’s gruff voice; Tien Chen could barely catch what the man was saying. Who was he? Who was he to Yifan? A hard lump grew in his throat and he felt a narrow band tightening around his head, signaling the onset of a pounding headache. Tien Chen did not know how long he stood outside the flat that first time, but when he saw someone coming down the corridor in his direction, he fled the scene as if he had been caught trying to break in. He escaped down the stairwell, and walked the long way home, his mind held in an unbreakable spell. Back home, he took out the lighter and held the flame against an old, scabby wound on his inner thigh, burning his flesh to an inflamed, weeping ring.
He did not bring up this matter with Yifan when they met the next day for dinner and a movie. He observed Yifan from a great detached distance, analysing her every move, every word, in detail— what did she mean, what was she saying, why was she feeling or acting in a particular manner? In all ways, she was the same—genial, amenable, attentive—and yet in Tien Chen’s eyes, she could not be more different, an apparition of a woman emerging from some unknown depth. She had chosen to keep parts of her life hidden from him, for reasons he could not fathom. Who was the man—an ex-lover, or a current one? Tien Chen felt pained at the thought that Yifan was seeing someone else, that she was two-timing him. He knew he had to speak up—why was he still keeping mum?—but something held him back. He needed to figure out the missing fragments of the puzzle. To come out directly with his fear would have been unimaginable; he knew he would put a vast strain on their still-young relationship if he were to confront her at this stage. He needed time to find out more.
And so he kept up the surveillance. Yifan rarely changed her nightly ritual—leaving the kopitiam at ten-thirty, a bag of food in her hand, then taking the bus to the flat where the man lived. Some nights, she stayed for an hour or so, often taking the last bus to the interchange where she would transfer to another feeder service that would take her home. On other nights, when she had a day off from work the next day, she lingered till the early hours—once, she had left the man’s place at four am—before taking a taxi home. Never once did she spend a full night at his place, Tien Chen observed. As usual, every night, Yifan would send him a text to assure him that she was back home, and it pained Tien Chen to read these messages as he loitered along the corridor or at the void deck, waiting for Yifan to emerge from the flat. The wait each time felt endless, excruciating. After the fourth night, he brought along the lighter and took it out periodically to burn himself whenever he felt his mind slipping into a deepening, despairing state.
He was into his third week of spying when he almost blew his cover. He was sitting on a stone bench beside a children’s playground facing the block when Yifan walked out of the lift landing, heading for a path that cut through the field. He had barely enough time to hide himself behind the wall of the concrete slide, his heart thumping madly in his chest. When he sensed the coast was clear, he came out of hiding. He wasn’t sure why, but an instinct bit him then, and he looked up and saw a dark figure—a man?—leaning against the parapet, smoking. From where Tien Chen was standing, he knew the man could not see him. He slipped back into the shadows and watched the man; while there was no way to discern any of the man’s features, Tien Chen did not look away, drawn in fully by his presence. He left only when the man stubbed out the cigarette and threw it over the parapet. Pall Mall. Tien Chen picked up the half-burnt butt and stuffed it into his jeans.
The Sunday of the week Tien Chen found out about the other man, he brought Yifan home and made love to her. They went slowly at first, then all at once they tipped into the lovemaking, each surprised by the other’s passion. He felt a lightness in his head as he cupped Yifan’s breasts together and took the hard, raisin-sized nipples into his mouth, nibbling them. The nipples strained agains
t the rough teasing of his tongue, wet with his saliva. When he moved his fingers lightly across the warm folds of her vulva and rubbed the nub of her clitoris, Yifan cried out as if he had scorched her. For a moment, he imagined the edge of a flame brushing against her vagina, touching her, and this image alone caused him to tremble violently, uncontrollably. He wanted to taste every inch, every hidden, secret part of her: the salty undersides of her breasts, the nooks of her armpits, the slick of skin that slid into her tight ass-bud; he wanted her whole, in all her different states: sad, ecstatic, unbridled, lost, hungry. Putting his tongue into her thick fleshy folds, he coaxed and licked every drop of juice that flowed out of her, and holding the briny taste on his tongue, he was reminded of the sea, of the secret depth it held, and the invisible lives that came and went in the dark, sunless world. He was a part of that world, in and through Yifan, and for as long as he held onto her, that world was his. From somewhere far away, he thought he heard his name, a name that did not mean anything to him. It was Yifan calling out to him, calling him to her. Tien Chen opened his eyes; the sight of Yifan filled his vision. He took a deep breath and kissed her. He had her; it was enough. When she came, she shuddered for a few unbroken seconds, before collapsing into him.
Yet even after that, and other sessions of lovemaking, Tien Chen did not feel he had Yifan completely. She still eluded him when she was with him, even when he was inside her. And the secrecy of his sleuthing did little to lessen the love he had for her; in fact, it did the opposite. It deepened the mystery of Yifan held in his mind, which compounded his own sense of bewilderment and longing. He had never wanted her more than in those weeks that he knew she was seeing the other man; he needed to possess her—to make a claim on her—even the parts that were inaccessible to him. He kissed her more fervently and gripped her hand at every chance, as if she would slip away if he did not hold on tightly to her. She gave in to him, at first in bemused surprise, and later, with greater abandonment.