by O Thiam Chin
Here, take this, drink up, a voice whispered. He opened his mouth, a bitterness dissolving on his tongue. Now lie back, sleep. He resisted, but the effort sapped him completely. Sleep now.
He felt a tug on his other hand, and something slipped out of his grip, soft and smooth like a ribbon. He opened his eyes; the image of his father shimmered in the vision, holding a piece of—
Tien Chen suddenly groped the air and the sodden bedsheet around him. Yifan’s T-shirt, her belongings, everything was gone. A dark thought sliced into his head: had he burnt them too?
He attempted to sit upright; a pair of hands pushed him back down. I need to—he spat out.
I have them, go to sleep. Rest now. A flutter of tremors echoed through his body, the flight of blind ravens. Tien Chen closed his eyes; darkness clamoured around him, beating weak, frantic wings. He could not sleep, he had to be awake, it was not over. The crunch of footsteps in the forest, the glint of a beast’s eye, the hot, dying breaths—he slipped back into his fevered dream, trailing long shadows.
The next time he woke, everything was brighter, clearer. His head seemed wiped out, a blank slate. His right palm was swathed in gauze, a penumbra of blood peeking through the surface. Tien Chen glanced at his father’s face, and looked away. Something in his father’s expression hounded him for an answer, an explanation. I don’t understand why you’ve done this, his father said, his brow creased. Why?
A sudden rage opened up inside Tien Chen, baring its teeth. I’m sorry, he said, finally, it’s nothing.
For how long? A pained look claimed his father’s features.
Don’t ask, Tien Chen said. I don’t know, it doesn’t matter, just forget it.
His father continued to press for answers, but Tien Chen had fallen into an unbridgeable sullenness, pulling away. I don’t know what you want me to say, there’s nothing to say. Just leave me alone, please, just forget everything.
His father shook his head—in disgust? shame?—and left the room. In his absence, Tien Chen felt only the sting of his own anger, and a regret that had gouged a deep hole inside him.
The same afternoon, Yifan appeared in his room. He heard a knock on the bedroom door, and there she was, in a white chiffon blouse and capris, her face scrubbed of any expression or emotion. For a moment, she stood near his bed, undecided. Then she lowered herself and sat next to him. Your father told me about you, she said. I just want to make sure you’re okay.
Tien Chen reached for her hand in her lap; she let him. I miss you, he said.
Yifan smiled, averting her gaze. Then she said: He’s a friend, a close friend. He’s not well, and he needs me.
Then glancing over at his desk, she saw the scattered pieces of paper: the fox story. She took up a page, her eyes darting over the words, and put it down. She turned to look at Tien Chen, a ripple of disquiet sweeping across her features. You read it then, you know the story, she said. But it’s not real, not a single word, it’s all make-believe, mere fiction. He wrote it to make some sense of a story I told him once, but he didn’t understand anything at all. He thinks it’s about my life, but it’s not. He thinks he knows who I am, but he doesn’t, not a single thing.
Yifan lay down beside Tien Chen, and pushed her back against him. They stayed like this for a long time. Her words, when she spoke, came to him as if from a deep well, from a different time. She told him a story.
The boy she loved when she was 15 was a classmate, someone whom she had known since she was a child. They were neighbours from the same kampung, and his parents had worked with hers in a fruit plantation. She and the boy had played in the rivers and fields of their kampung for as long as she could remember. To her, he was like one of her brothers—she had six of them—and she liked having him around as they climbed up the rambutan trees and fished in the shallow eddies of the river. He was a dark, lanky boy with long limbs and reminded her of an oversized monkey. She insisted on calling him Monkey Boy, a term of endearment that never failed to bring a grin to his face.
In retaliation, he had called her Wily Fox, for they and some friends had once spotted a large cat stalking among the pomelo trees at the fringe of the plantation and chased after it, scaring it into the thick underbrush. The last thing they had seen was a flick of its bushy tail as it slipped into the shrubs. In its wake, they saw a dead squirrel, a row of bite marks along its back, its neck snapped. They had not known then what the cat was—the only wild animals they had seen so far were small tribes of boars and monitor lizards— but the boy claimed it was a fox. He had seen a picture of one in an animal book, and was pretty sure every feature was exactly how he remembered it: light-brown pelt, pointy ears, triangular face. It could have been a wild dog, she said, but by then, most of them had agreed with the boy: it was a fox, it’s definitely a fox.
So when the boy called her a fox, all Yifan could think of was the thick luxurious coat of the fox, the glimpses she had caught as the animal fled from them, darting between the trees. She remembered the tight graceful spring in its legs as it stretched out the length of its body, leaping away in fright. She had not minded being called a fox: a nimble, refined, beautiful creature, in her eyes. The name was stuck to her and became a pet name, even after they outgrew their childhood and stumbled headlong into adolescence.
It was during this hazy period of studies and hormones and monthly periods that Yifan became aware of her feelings for the boy, who was transforming in slow, fixed stages before her eyes: the jump in height, the shadow of a stubble above his lips and chin, the sprouting of hair on his thin arms and legs. He remained tall and lanky, and when he turned 15, he was already a head taller than Yifan. They had always got along well; he had an even temperament, gentle and good-natured, which, along with his odd sense of humour, was what had drawn Yifan to him.
Yet, despite his warm, genial front, Yifan also noticed a dark, moody streak that ran alongside his more personable self, occasionally rearing its head in a sudden gesture of annoyance, a turn of phrase or a long bout of silence. She was quick to notice his change of moods, able to read them well, and because of this, he often turned to her for advice and companionship. Yifan was naturally happy with the attention Monkey Boy was giving her, though she was hesitant about making her affection known. For one thing, he was reticent about sharing his feelings with her, and over the years they had known each other she had never once heard him talk about his liking for anyone. She knew he was innately shy—never one to make the first move—but she had seen him with the other girls in the class, and it was evident that he was well-liked by a few of them.
Because of their close friendship, many thought they were a couple, an assumption Yifan gave in to willingly, even secretly encouraged. But of course, the reality was far from the truth: Monkey Boy had never treated her as anything more than a confidante and considered their friendship as purely platonic, nothing more. Still, Yifan clung to the possibility of his returning her love one day, once she broke through his reticence.
After school, they would walk home together and often stop at the provision shop outside their kampung for Orange Fanta or Coke. There, he would chat with the shop owner, while Yifan stood beside him, her hand near to the boy’s, pretending to study the packaging of sweets and peanut snacks on display. Sometimes, he would talk to the shop helper, a husky boy of 17, an ex-schoolmate who had dropped out to help out at his father’s shop. Yifan joined in when they chatted, mostly about other schoolmates and teachers they knew and the movies they had caught in town over the weekend. Because the two boys used to play football in school, they shared a close bond of camaraderie, which left Yifan out in the cold. But she was fine with it, since she could tell that Monkey Boy clearly enjoyed his interactions with this other boy, from how his face would light up with undiminished delight, and she enjoyed looking at him in this unfiltered state. When they left the shop, Monkey Boy would occasionally slip into a dreamy, distant mood, his thoughts far away. They would walk in companionable silence till they arrived at
Yifan’s house and he would wave and smile and walk away.
Some days, when Yifan felt a certain compulsion, she would secretly trail Monkey Boy. She knew he liked to take long walks on the fringe of the plantation, to a small clearing beside the silty river, and sensing his need for solitude, she never made her presence known to him. He often fell into long naps while lying on the riverbank, his arm flung across his eyes, and Yifan would dare herself to venture as close as she could without rousing him. She loved to watch him in repose, his vulnerability exposed, fragile and defenceless like a child; how she would like to reach out and touch him, on his forehead or chest, how her heart ached with a bewildering, terrifying longing. But instead she waited till he woke up, and fled the scene like a thief caught red-handed.
And then one day, she saw Monkey Boy with the provision shop helper at the clearing. They were talking, shoulders pressed together, and then Monkey Boy was touching the other’s hands and face. Yifan’s mind immediately went blank, cut off from her surroundings. The boys kissed and broke away from each other, their eyes alive with an incredulous fire. How was this possible? How had she not known? Yifan was furious, stricken by a sense of forlornness and helplessness. She felt foolish and cheated and out of her depth.
She avoided Monkey Boy for a week—floating through the days like a headless being, drained of any thought—and then she wrote a short note to the other boy. She dropped it in his hand and left the provision shop before he could say anything. She heard nothing back from him. She observed Monkey Boy in class, wondering whether he knew about the note, but he revealed not a stitch of emotion.
Then at the start of the following week, he did not appear in school, and nobody knew why. After school, she was at his doorstep, and found out from his mother that he was “unwell”. She asked for permission to see him, and upon entering his bedroom, she saw the bandage on his wrist. The sight of it hit her right in the gut, and knocked the air out of her. She’d done this to him, the boy she loved. She was devastated. She had not imagined this outcome when she wrote the note; she had only wanted to warn the other boy, to shake them out of their stupor.
Sitting by the bedside beside his sleeping form, Yifan broke down. For days, she visited Monkey Boy after school, but he had not wanted to see her after her first visit. In desperation, she went to the other boy, who spoke curtly and firmly to her, telling her to stay away.
It was another week later when she heard the news: Monkey Boy had died. Slit his wrist again. Yifan wept.
That was when she started cutting herself, to feel the pain of what she had done. And when she finally had the chance, she decided to leave the kampung and head down to Singapore. She could not find a way to live there anymore. The blood of the boy was on her hands, and she had to live with it no matter what.
When she finished telling the story, Yifan rose from the bed and straightened her clothes. She turned to Tien Chen and smiled. She glanced at his bandaged hand, her expression wistful. Now you know, she said. Please get well soon.
She picked up the loose pages of the fox story and arranged them into a neat stack on the table. She put a hand on Tien Chen’s forehead and heaved a sigh. Then she left the room, and disappeared from his life.
After his recovery, Tien Chen tried to look for Yifan, but she could not be found. At the kopitiam, he discovered that she had not turned up for work for several days. Her roommate told him that she had left after paying her share of the rent that month, and she didn’t know where Yifan had gone. She left behind a cupboard full of clothes and belongings, only taking the small suitcase under the bed. Tien Chen brought everything back to his place, packed them into two medium-sized carton boxes he kept beside his wardrobe. For a long time, he did not touch the things in the boxes, or anything he had pilfered earlier. Yet he could not avoid the presence of these boxes in his bedroom; they spoke to him in their silence, wielding an immense weight within his mind.
Then one afternoon, unable to suppress his urges, he opened the boxes and disgorged their contents onto the floor. He arranged each piece of Yifan’s belongings neatly, in piles and clusters, letting his hands linger on pieces he associated with a specific memory in his head. The memories came to him in short bursts: vivid at times, vague at others, pregnant with slippery, elusive meanings. What could he possibly do with these memories? They plagued him like a sickness he could not shake off, a fever that refused to break: the intimate smells of her body, the hair that fell across his chest like spools of dark threads, her cries during climax. Every fragment of Yifan continued to cling stubbornly to his mind, like shards of glass embedded in his skin; everything felt immeasurably stilted, ponderous.
When he was done sorting, Tien Chen gathered the piles and took them down to the burner-bin. He threw in her clothes first, which were quickly reduced to strips of fire before dying out. He kept feeding the fire, his mind focused solely on the task. The flames whipped and teased him unreservedly, but Tien Chen held back. The scab on his palm softened in the heat and started to itch. How long could he resist this time? He stood at the edge of the fire, hesitant, willing himself to stay still just for another moment. Soon, his hands were empty, and there was nothing left to burn. His mind had turned into a cell, bare and vacant.
The same night, he put the pages of the fox story into an envelope, and left for the man’s flat. He went in the middle of the night; the air was cool and everything was quiet.
When he arrived at the man’s doorstep, he noticed that the lights in the flat were still on, dim through the closed frosted windows. Tien Chen pressed his ear to the door, listening. He hoped to hear some sounds, perhaps Yifan’s voice, but there was only silence. He had of course staked out the man’s flat right after Yifan’s disappearance, but she never appeared there. Did the man know he had been abandoned as well? Did he care? The thought of Yifan drew the breath out of him. Tien Chen slotted the envelope through the bottom slit of the door, and stood up. He could see the shadows trembling under the door.
Go, he told himself, go now.
But Tien Chen waited. He stood and waited, for a sign, for something to make him feel alive again.
A VOICE CALLED out to her, soft and indistinct. Yifan had fallen asleep on the wicker chair, which she had dragged out of the living room and placed on the back porch of the family house. Upon opening her eyes, she gazed into the parade of trees bordering the old house. Was the voice from the dream, or did it come from somewhere in the forest? She listened, but heard nothing.
The evening light was subdued and amber around her, the air permeated with the raw resin smell of burnt wood. Yifan tried to trace the source of the burning, the wispy spirals of smoke rising in the distance. The familiar smell was a small, soothing comfort to her, a thing she remembered from the time she spent in the kampung a long time ago. A light breeze brought some relief, cooling her sweaty skin spotted with mosquito bites. She adjusted her damp T-shirt and glanced back into the kitchen, where she could see her mother busy at the stove, her figure bent to the task. How long had she slept? She put aside the old Chinese newspaper she had been reading and stood to stretch herself, her back and joints aching. The strain of the nine-hour bus journey had got to her.
Her mother had looked surprised when Yifan arrived at the doorstep early in the morning with a small suitcase, the same one she had used when she left Ipoh eight years ago. Yifan had not called to tell her mother that she was coming back; she had not expected to be leaving Singapore at such short notice. Three days before she decided to come back she had still been weighing her options; two nights before, restless in bed and unable to sleep, she had almost backed out of her decision. But still she had done it. And now she was here.
The family house was more run-down than she remembered. The zinc-panelled roof had corroded into a copper-red rust, and where there were holes, small attempts had been made to mend them with smears of plaster, resulting in unsightly patches of yellow and brown. The rafters were choked with thick threads of spiderwebs, lumpy wi
th insect carcasses. Deep rot had settled into the wooden posts and beams of the house, darkening them with age spots and streaks. A thin fur of dust grew over every exposed surface, sometimes coalescing into small grey-skinned moulds and tails.
Yet everything else was almost how Yifan remembered it—the layout of the wooden furniture in the living room; the row of nail pegs beside the front door on which hung an assortment of discoloured plastic shopping bags; the soot-thickened, wood-fired stove. Even her old bedroom was left mostly intact: the chipped-at-theedges vanity table, the peeling green linoleum floor, the grime-covered sparrow wind chime. Only her mother lived here now; Yifan’s father had passed away years ago, and all her siblings had moved out to different states: to Kuala Lumpur, Penang and Johor Bahru, where they had found jobs or gotten married. If Yifan had wanted to, she would have felt each of their absences sharply, but she remained wary of such feelings of nostalgia and sentimentality. People moved on, and people coped—just as she and her mother had. Nothing stayed the same for long, not even family.
Yifan discovered small traces of her old life in odd and unexpected spaces in the bedroom. She found the torn satchel bag she had used in secondary school, still pinned with a fading Snoopy button, buried behind a carton box of used textbooks and Chinese romance novels. Inside she found a journal that contained a ragged pencil drawing. The fox-girl. A memory came immediately to her, along with a name: Peng Soon. Yifan held the image of his face— sketchy, with dissolving features—briefly in her mind, before she slotted the drawing back into the journal.
In a photo album filled with old school photographs, Yifan saw her almost unrecognisable younger self, her straight black hair clipped just above her shoulders, her skin deeply tanned. She was 15 then, beaming with her classmates, holding up a Happy Teachers’ Day banner. Her eyes sought out the familiar faces, and immediately she spotted Peng Soon—his narrow face, side-parted hair, and lanky frame. For a moment, she wondered where he was now—still living in Ipoh perhaps?