Singapore Noir

by Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan

  But you’re different, I added quickly. You have real talent. Most Singaporeans would consider it an honor if you became a citizen.

  “Most?” she laughed, looking right into me. As she moved away from the window, she reached back to unclasp her diamond necklace. “A gift from the Comrade,” she said. As was almost everything else she was wearing.

  He must be very grateful to have you, I said.

  “More grateful that I’ve denied our relationship to the press, the Party, everyone.” She sat down at the dresser and laid the necklace in a velvet-lined metal box. “But most especially his wife.” She let out a small girlish giggle.

  You could have anyone, I blurted. What do you see in him?

  Instantly, I wished I could have withdrawn my question. I’m sorry, I stammered. I had no right to ask.

  She removed her watch, the gems encrusting its face sparkling at me, and placed it in the box along with the other baubles. “He needs me,” she said. “And I need him.”

  I nodded, kicking myself. How could I think our encounters over the past year—on trips to attend to her lover, at that—had somehow earned me any degree of intimacy? I wondered if she would tell the Comrade. I could lose my job.

  You should rest before your interview tomorrow, I said, backing toward the door. I’ll be here at eight to take you to the TV station.

  “Before you go,” she said, “please help me put this in the safe.” She held out the box of jewelry.

  I moved toward her to take it, and she grabbed my wrist.

  “Are you disappointed?” she asked.

  I have no right, I replied, blood roaring in my ears.

  “That’s the second time you’ve brought up ‘rights.’ Rights have nothing to do with anything. Is that the lawyer in you talking? Or the Singaporean?” She pulled me down and whispered in my ear, “Sometimes we do things out of need, and sometimes just because we want to.”

  As she placed her lips on mine, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made love. There were adolescent fumblings, but love . . . This. This might have been the first time.

  * * *

  The last time I’d seen a dead body was a drowning as well.

  I was on holiday in Port Dickson with my family, and I’d scurried to the front of a crowd gathered at the beach, thinking they’d landed some fish, or maybe a turtle. Instead there was a drowned boy, his body sallow and stiff as a candle, save for his wrinkled hands and feet. It was the first thing that came to my mind when I saw the Comrade’s pallid, distended corpse on the mortuary gurney.

  She identified him to the police investigator with a single, solemn nod. There were no tears.

  Outside in the hall, Mr. Chong told us he was confident the coroner would rule the death an accident. In the harsh fluorescent light, she shook her head and said, “No, he died of a broken heart.” I put an arm around her shoulder, and told her she was very kind.

  In the morning, I would brief her public relations firm to tell the press that she was “shocked and dismayed by the tragedy,” but would not be canceling the upcoming dates of her Southeast Asian tour. In fact, she would dedicate a song to her “childhood friend.”

  I would go on to share with them only the facts: the Comrade’s body was found floating on a stretch of the Singapore River not far from the bars on Boat Quay, where he had been witnessed drinking heavily. He had been under a lot of stress since the Commercial Affairs Department had begun investigating him for possible money-laundering offenses, allegations which he had strenuously denied.

  I would not share with them, or her, or Mr. Chong, just how the CAD had come to build their case.

  * * *

  The last time I saw her perform in China, it was a multimedia extravaganza involving giant props, a multitude of costume changes, and an army of backup singers, dancers, and engineers.

  Her premiere in Singapore was a pared-down affair, just a chamber orchestra and her voice—a velvety, almost husky instrument that occasionally swelled into a melismatic yodel to devastating effect. On that first night, I felt as if my senses had been fully activated for the first time. I started becoming aware of the smallest details.

  The dust motes dancing in the spotlight above her.

  The way her upper lip arched when she reached for the high notes.

  The box that the Comrade bore away from her dressing room after the concert, and how it looked exactly like the one in which she had stashed his gifts of jewelry.

  The fact that I never saw her wear a gift from him more than once.

  * * *

  The first time I’d actually taken a proper look at the paperwork was in the wee hours of the morning after her opening night.

  As a lowly first-year associate, the main job Mr. Chong had given me was to ensure that the Comrade signed the correct documents in the correct places, the correct way, and by the correct time, and in a manner that caused him the least annoyance. It was more than a full-time occupation, but it involved relatively little legal analysis on my part, which was, frankly, fine by me. All along, I’d assumed the documents contained standard boilerplate culled from hoary precedents anyway. And they did.

  But even after over a year of flying to and from Beijing, I didn’t really know the extent or substance of the Comrade’s business. There were various corporations with bizarre relationships, some of which had been in operation for years without any record of financial transactions. There were also multiple wire transfers between multiple accounts in multiple names in multiple countries, and subsidiaries purchasing everything from real estate to antiques to art to yachts to jewelry.

  I’d just presumed it was all the usual rich-guy stuff. You know. Like keeping a mistress.

  A mistress who could fly out of countries wearing expensive trinkets without attracting scrutiny from customs officials.

  Trinkets that could then be resold or exchanged for amounts that might not reflect their true market value.

  * * *

  “Last time, money-laundering laws here covered just drugs,” said Inspector Chia, almost apologetically. “Now we’re more neow.” I forced a smile at his use of the almost onomatopoeic Hokkien term for finicky.

  The Comrade hadn’t been seen for three days, since his outburst at the theater, and a warrant had been issued for his arrest.

  I wasn’t sure whether the authorities had been motivated by public relations considerations in calling her in for questioning only after her final performance in Singapore, but it was a lucky thing. Her voice was hoarse from continually breaking down in shocked response to revelation after revelation about the Comrade’s true objectives.

  Thinking back on it, it was probably her finest performance. The naïve waif, the convenient pawn of a savvy and callous mobster, the fairy gulled by a troll. A tale whose eternality could still resonate within the heart of the most hardened investigator.

  Never mind a foolhardy young lawyer.

  * * *

  Tonight was the last time I would ever see her.

  I thought that ratting out the Comrade would clear my path to her, but instead, my professional excuse for being with her had expired along with him. In fact, having to clear up the mess he’d left behind and the firm’s possible abetment in his affairs necessitated my staying behind while she departed for the next stop on her tour. The CAD wouldn’t let me leave with her even if I’d wanted to.

  But I did.

  But I also wanted to hear her say she’d like me to.

  But she remained silent as we stood side by side, gazing at the computerized sculpture at Changi Airport.

  I meant well, I said eventually.

  “I know,” she replied, her eyes hidden from me behind a large pair of sunglasses.

  He was using you.

  She said nothing, only turning to touch me on the cheek one final time.

  And then she was gone, hustled off by her minders through to immigration and beyond.

  Behind me, the sculpture’s 1,216 silver raindrops
flowed, languidly taking the shape of airplanes, kites, a flock of birds, a rondeau in mercury.

  But all I could see were tears.

  * * *

  I wished I’d made the time last longer, especially since everything was now speeding by me in a blur.

  But with the velocity came clarity.

  Mr. Chong had entered my office brandishing a bottle. “It’s been a rough few weeks,” he said, closing the door, which should have struck me as odd, since we were the only two people working late.

  “I thought you were from NUS Law?” he said, tipping his chin toward the photo of me in my wig and gown as he handed me a glass.

  After the burn of the first sip had subsided, I repeated the same story I’d told her. I also pointed out the frame’s Made in China label.

  “They make everything now,” he sighed as he poured me a refill. “Have you heard from her at all?”

  I shook my head. He perched himself on the edge of my desk and told me he appreciated all my hard work. Then he raised a toast.

  This time, I felt its sting between my eyes.

  “I thought all that time in China would have trained you better!” he laughed.

  I tried to give a thumbs-up, but felt a gurgle rise from my stomach to my throat. I lurched for the wastepaper basket, and emptied my guts into it.

  Mr. Chong patted me on the back as I heaved. “Some fresh air will do you good.” He opened a window, then led me toward it.

  The warm night air blew in from across the marina. I could see the casino lights winking at me. For some reason, I felt compelled to ask aloud: What’s Stonehenge in Chinese?

  Mr. Chong gave me a puzzled look. Then he pushed my head further out the window. “Breathe deeper.”

  I closed my eyes and inhaled. There was an acrid mix of oil and something fermented in my nostrils. I could also feel Mr. Chong place one hand on my back, and another on my leg.

  And then heave me up and push me out into the empty air.

  As the wind rushed through me, my head began to clear. Narratives coalesced, and my fall became a journey of wonder.

  I wondered what Mr. Chong would be doing now. Would he be placing the vodka bottle strategically on my desk? Perhaps nestled amongst some incriminating documents? Would he be telling the cops he had no idea that all this time I was in China, I was doing all this other secret stuff for the Comrade? Would he have drafted a suicide note saying I’d jumped for fear of the disgrace that would come with prosecution and disbarment? Or because of a broken heart?

  Of course, I also began to wonder about the Comrade’s accidental end. And whether she’d been his pawn, or he’d been hers. And who Mr. Chong’s true client was.

  I wondered what made me fall for her in the first place. I wondered about the cliché of the Singaporean beguiled by the China girl. I wondered if the fascination stemmed from blood, some dimly remembered or imagined bond. I wondered what my parents would think of their dutiful Chinese son who could never be Chinese enough.

  I wondered if it really mattered in the end.

  I wondered if I’d really mattered in the end.

  I fought to keep my eyes open in those final moments, to catch the glass and steel, the glittering lights, the dolmen in the distance, the history and future, all whirring by like the reels on a slot machine.

  One last time.

  DETECTIVE IN A CITY WITH NO CRIME

  BY SIMON TAY WRITING AS DONALD TEE QUEE HO

  Tanglin

  1. DOISNEAU NOIR

  This afternoon, I ride up the elevator of one of the most expensive and desired apartments in the country, a man in office clothes, my sharp jaw, the blue tie with brown stripes that you gave me hanging from my throat with my prominent Adam’s apple. When the door opens, you are there in your work clothes—a severe gray suit with a white frilled blouse. Just back, taking off your black Ferragamo stilettos in the alcove before going into the living room, one stockinged leg off the ground, one slim arm pressed to the doorframe to steady yourself. You are surprised.

  I reach for you, and you struggle to keep balance. I push you to your knees. I unzip. You peer up at me, wordless, your eyes large and bright.

  There, at the alcove outside your apartment, one thin door—not fully shut—separates us from the corridor and the people walking past. When you hesitate, I put my hands at the back of your head and push your face forward. Your lips part.

  We are lovers. We have done this before. But in bed, close and intimate as a kiss. Now you are on your knees, and I stand above you, commanding. Both of us fully clothed, just back from a world of mundane meetings and To-Do lists. And I am forcing myself into your mouth, deep, and thrusting, so my dangling belt jangles, slapping the side of your fine brow.

  A couple kissing, for a moment lost to all but this passion even as passersby are rushing to and fro, are framed in Doisneau’s famous photograph in the streets of Paris.

  I look at your large clear eyes, your beautiful face, supplicant to this unseemly act, in this barely concealed space. I will remember this image as clearly as any photograph. I think this. Then I come.

  In spurts. Into your mouth, across your open lips and your fair cheeks, on your fine nose, and into the deep valley of your eyes that blink instinctively.

  You smile and you put me back into your mouth, cleansing me completely with your tongue. I tremble and you smile again. Then you tilt your head back and swallow. Your hand comes up as if to ask a question in a seminar, and your elegant fingers trace and gather the sticky ribbons from your face and, like a sweet child messy with chocolate, you lick each finger.

  I sigh, exhaling all the air of too many air-conditioned meeting rooms where nothing is really discussed or decided, of all the hours between the time we were last together and now. I reach into my pocket for my iPhone and snap a shot of you. Then I offer you a handkerchief with my embroidered initials to clean the remnants of the mess.

  “Hullo, darling,” you say, and smile pleasantly as if seeing me for the first time. “How was your day?”

  2. GUILTY WITHOUT CRIME

  I am a detective in a city that, they say, has no crime. I am a lover in a city that—let’s not pretend—has no art. I am cleaning my gun. I can do this blindfolded while listening to Fauré but not Stravinsky. I find the latter too unsettling, jumpy.

  I lay the gun parts on a white cloth, clean each bit, and then put them back together with maximum speed and care, whir the chamber, squeeze back the trigger on the empty chamber: I need to be sure the weapon will work when I need it.

  Then I do push-ups. Three batches of thirty, thirty and then a long forty. I take my time, and do them until my arms burn and tremble. Then I go to the bar installed in the doorway and do pull-ups until I can do no more, until my hands cannot even hold onto the bar. This is my routine.

  I am forty-one now. I was strong when I was young and used to assume that I would always be fit. Now I make no assumptions.

  After I cool down, I shower and eat dinner. A meal of rice, tauhu for protein, and vegetables. A bit of soya sauce and chili on the side, and a touch of garlic on the veg but otherwise plain, and clean. Eating alone, food is fuel to keep me going. I eat it slowly, munching deliberately, not to savor the taste but for better digestion; spoon after spoon, like other people swallow vitamin supplements.

  I think back about what I have seen during the day. I let my mind still and find its focus, until I see the events so clearly that I can hear all of what anyone said, even the low growl of that Maserati leaving the gates of the condo and then that man in austere black and gray walking in leather soles, click-clack, in the corridor. And then I can smell the curbside grass, newly cut by the two Bangladeshi workers in orange overalls, and the whirling grass trimmers, and the scent of frying oil from the kitchen of the café near the entrance to the Botanic Gardens. Then I jot notes down in my black journal, with my Namiki fountain pen.

  I have done this every evening since before I can remember—albeit until recently with a
humbler pen and journal.

  I do this because, even if others do not realize it as they go about their business, rushing, waiting, doing everyday things, these are stories of the many people in this city that, they say, has no crime and really is without art. There are tales of crime, of sex, and even—most disturbing—of a kind of love.

  Mine—ours—is one such story.

  Let me relieve us from the very start of a popular misconception about this city: it is not illegal here to think of sex, nor to have sex, or indeed to pay for it.

  True, the state is a nanny and the bureaucracy does not know how to let a person live without rules, and so they reduce life to a schedule of permits and licenses to be applied and paid for. They have allowed the seediness and confined it to certain quarters. The upper class are garrisoned with their respectability in other areas, all with rising real estate values. The government assumes the soul is a street that can be swept clean, a garden where order can be established—especially here in the suburbs of the wealthy, next to the Botanic Gardens.

  To the contrary.

  Now we read the headline allegations and charges involving associations between high officials and people who are trying to sell things to their departments, and of so many men caught with girls who are legally too young to sell themselves. Now we recognize the by-the-hour hotels ensconced among the middle-class neighborhoods, and the young girls from all over the world offering themselves online. Some are shocked. I am not.

  There is sin in Singapore, in the very word of it. And one of our sins is sex. Not lovemaking between couples—the government will quickly point to the lack of procreation, an aging population, and an inverted pyramid that spells a demographic half-life. I am talking about in brothels, in short-time hotels at a littered street corner nearby, in massage parlors with flimsy plywood walls separating one customer from another, in karaoke rooms where the lights are dimmed so you do not see the stains on the furniture or notice how ugly the girls are, in toilets at the end of a fluorescent-lit corridor. I am talking about fucking.