I decide it is safe to forget her.
But Renee still looks shaken. “What she said just now—for a moment I almost seem to remember—” It is as though some bitter echo remains in her. “I don’t want to end up like her,” she says a second time.
When my Renee first said that a year ago she was referring to our uninvited visitor’s hard, calculating eyes and the harsh lines etched around a discontented mouth stained with cheap lipstick. That was when I decided to save her from her life. I called her “Renee,” meaning “reborn.” Because I rescued her, I will protect her.
“I love you,” I remind my Renee. “Nothing else matters. I will always keep you safe.”
My words protect and bind her securely to me again. Renee’s lovely face clears and she smiles and turns and goes into our home. I will follow.
But first I heal the shattered vase and its contents. I bless the shimmering koi in their new unbreakable tank. I adjust the sand, the salt, and the watching seeds that shield our entrance. The smooth, hard, shiny golden-brown shells of flax seeds in their box with two whole dried chilies will protect us from forces stronger than a desperate human, but I know better than to take them for granted. As I stir my energy into the seeds, I feel subtle barriers of protection rise and hear Renee laugh. These items are more for show than anything else, of course.
The most powerful magic still lies in words—
Not in words spoken but in directions heard.
SAIFUL AND THE PINK EDWARD VII
BY DAMON CHUA
Woodlands
It is past two a.m. and Saiful stands outside the Church of St. Anthony on Woodlands Avenue 1, smoking one kretek after another as he nervously tugs on his long, greasy hair. He has been waiting for the better part of an hour and is ready to bolt. But he can’t. It is ridiculous to think that all this trouble has been the result of a stupid postage stamp. But the stamp—a rare Straits Settlement misprint from 1902 featuring a pink-colored King Edward VII—is all that Saiful has. On her deathbed, Saiful’s mom, dying prematurely of liver disease, told him to hang onto the family heirloom at any cost. At any cost—that was what she had said, and he had promised her that he would. Now, he is beginning to understand the gravity of his commitment.
Saiful was once considered a mat rocker, a somewhat derogatory term referring to a young Malay who is into heavy metal. With his tight leather jacket, gold-rimmed Ray-Bans, and long sun-bleached hair, he used to be a fixture at Studebaker’s disco in Pacific Plaza. But now that he is reaching the ripe old age of thirty-five, other priorities have surfaced. For one, he has begun to think seriously about getting married and starting a family. After all, his childhood friends Ismail and Khamsani are both hitched and have seven children between them. Plus, the government is extending all sorts of monetary incentives to increase the fertility rate of Singaporeans; though, of course, the unspoken truth is that the bureaucrats are hoping to have more Chinese babies, not Malay ones.
Still, the thought of getting married gives him a headache. He knows only too well that the lovely Aishah, his longtime girlfriend, is averse to the idea. It is not about money—Aishah has said as much; but Saiful feels ashamed that he is unable to afford a condo, car, or country club membership. Sure, it is always possible to sell the stamp and potentially net a six-figure sum, but that would expressly go against his mother’s dying wish. At any cost—the words continue to ring in Saiful’s mind. The truth is, Aishah has other priorities. As much as she appears to love him, her career as a stewardess with Singapore Airlines currently takes center stage.
Saiful takes another drag of the kretek and glances at his watch. At that moment, a creaky, badly scratched Mitsubishi Lancer appears around the bend. The car stops, the door opens and dislodges a petite Indian woman wearing a sari and sporting a pair of sparkly gypsy-style earrings.
Before Saiful can say anything, Leela, for that is the woman’s name, comes right up to him and jabs her index finger at his nonexistent pecs.
“First of all, shut the fuck up. If you want your fucking stamp back, do as I say. And no fucking comments on my brother’s pimp mobile.”
Saiful takes a closer look at the Lancer and decides to keep his opinion to himself. He sees that the driver is Indian too, and correctly assumes that this must be the brother, whom Leela refers to as Babu. Saiful and Leela hop into the vehicle and it trundles off.
Almost immediately, Saiful senses there is something wrong with the baby-faced Babu, but cannot put a finger on it. When he sees the siblings communicating animatedly in sign language, his discomfort builds.
“Doesn’t he speak?”
“What do you think?” Leela retorts.
Then it occurs to Saiful—Babu is a deaf-mute. He isn’t allowed to drive, of course; but Saiful can see that Babu is the perfect chauffeur and getaway driver—his heightened visual sense makes navigating the confusing Woodlands thoroughfares a cakewalk.
“Should he be driving?” Saiful tries again.
“Just keep your fucking mouth shut till we get to the temple.”
As the Lancer chugs along, Saiful peers out onto the empty streets. All he is concerned with right now is getting his stamp back. And whatever he needs to do to make Mr. Rao happy. He has no choice.
Illuminated by the mercury flare of the endless rows of streetlamps, Woodlands looks nondescript and anonymous. Yet this is where Saiful feels most at home. Cars and trucks zoom past this forsaken bit of Singapore toward the checkpoint and onward to Malaysia via the causeway. No one stops here, not unless they have to fill up their gas tanks. And those that do make sure they don’t stay too long.
Saiful knows Woodlands well, having grown up in nearby Mandai village. He knows, for example, that it has a higher proportion of unsolved murders than anywhere else in Singapore. A few years ago, a schoolgirl from Si Ling Primary School was found near the train tracks, raped and strangled. The perpetrator was never caught. Several months later, the body of an Indonesian maid was discovered decomposing in a water tank atop one of the HDB apartment blocks along Woodlands Street 73. Even though a Bangladeshi worker was quickly arrested, Saiful heard rumors that the murderer was in fact some rich Singaporean who paid the worker off to take the rap. And what about the famous case of the char kway teow hawker who was found dead in a pool of blood at Old Woodlands Town Centre?
In all fairness, it isn’t surprising that there is a preponderance of unsavory activities here. After all, this is as far away from downtown Singapore as one can get, and here at the fringe, marginal characters find a home. A quick escape to Malaysia is always an option. And if you cannot take the causeway for whatever reason, a brisk swim across the Johor Strait is not impossible.
Saiful’s troubles started when he accepted an offer to work for Madame Zhang, who runs a small fruit stall midway between Marsiling and Kranji. Madame Zhang likes to hire Malays, for she knows they hardly ever complain, work hard, and pretty much keep to themselves. And even though she can only muster a few words of bahasa (her English is equally deficient), she quickly developed a liking for the quiet and dependable Saiful, and groomed him to be one of her top runners.
Apart from selling pineapples and papayas, Madame Zhang makes much of her income peddling forged passports and visas. And with Saiful’s help, she has been making a killing distributing traditional medicines to her wide network of mostly mainland Chinese customers. Be they tiger penises from Burma or human placentas from Vietnam, she has a steady stream of cash buyers for her smuggled goods. Her specialty is rhino horn from South Africa, which, because it is banned, can often fetch up to two thousand dollars per ounce. As the horn is widely considered an aphrodisiac, it is not unheard of for a syndicate of buyers to make an order in the tens of thousands of dollars. Once bought, the prized item is shaved into delicate ribbons of cartilage, boiled in water, and presto, the result is liquid Viagra.
But Saiful is far from thinking about aphrodisiacs. Babu has stopped his car in front of an ugly 1970s-style warehouse some
where in the concrete maze of Woodlands Industrial Park. Leela signals Saiful to get out and leads him over to a bolted steel door. Babu waits in the Lancer, playing to the hilt the role he knows like the back of his hand.
In the dim moonlight, Saiful can just make out the words: Sri Vinayagar Temple. It certainly doesn’t look like a temple to him, but what does he know?
“First, you have to agree to everything Mr. Rao says,” Leela pipes up. “That being understood, you have to kiss his elephant.”
“Elephant?”
“Just fucking do it, all right?” Without waiting for an answer, Leela rings the doorbell. After several seconds, the door cranks open and a temple guard who is no more than four feet tall shows them in. The midget bows and quickly disappears.
The interior of the warehouse is unexpectedly opulent. Saiful feels like he has stepped into a mini–Taj Mahal, with incense and patchouli candles burning at various corners. Rich silken fabric adorns all four walls, and the dropped ceiling is covered with hammered gold leaves. Everything is cast in a soft, deceptively reassuring glow.
Then Saiful notices the elephant. Almost as big as a real specimen, this is the Hindu god Ganesh, carved out of a single block of blue-green granite and inlaid with bands of moonstone and red garnet. It stands toward the rear of the room, glittering surreptitiously. The animal’s scowl tells all worshippers it is something not to be trifled with.
“Kiss it,” a high-pitched male voice rings out, and from the shadows Mr. Rao appears, looking like a cross between Fat Albert and Salman Rushdie. Mr. Rao is a fleshy, effeminate man. Once he sees Saiful, he begins to examine the thin ex-rocker with undisguised sexual interest.
Mr. Rao appears to be carrying a white mink stole in his left arm, until it opens its eyes and purrs.
“Fernando, say hello to our guests,” Mr. Rao prompts his snowy Persian cat. The animal stares around the room lethargically with its blue crystalline eyes. All at once Saiful feels much more at ease, for cats are by far his favorite animal. As a child, he collected feral tomcats and mated them with the village tabbies in Mandai, and then sold the kittens as purebreds to rich townsfolk. To him, the cat is the ultimate symbol of resourcefulness.
“You may be wondering why you’re here, and who I am,” chirps Mr. Rao, “but none of that is important right now. What is important is that we do what we must do. But first, the elephant.”
Saiful, who has been staring at Fernando to calm his nerves, almost opens his mouth to ask where he should kiss the beast. But he seems to have lost his voice. Moving close to the bejeweled mammoth, he gently places a little peck on the trunk. Saiful feels like he is performing a perverse sexual act.
Leela, who has not said another word, suddenly snaps to. Her face contorted in fury, she approaches Saiful and slaps him across the face.
“When you kiss Ganesh, you kiss his feet, asshole.”
Somehow, this amuses Mr. Rao greatly and he is sent into a paroxysm of giggles. Even Fernando the cat seems to find levity in the situation, and relaxes his formidably impassive face for a moment.
Saiful does what he is told, his nose registering the fact that the elephant feet are scented with sandalwood oil. Then, as he looks to Mr. Rao, the wide smile on the Indian’s face vanishes. With a theatrical flourish worthy of Houdini, Mr. Rao whips out a leather-bound stamp album. Fernando hisses at the abrupt movement and jumps out of its master’s arm.
“You want this, don’t you?” Mr. Rao opens the album and shows Saiful the pink-colored stamp. “Such a beautiful thing. Do you know that Edward the Seventh was a notorious womanizer and loved visiting high-end brothels whenever he was in Paris? His dick was quite famous.”
Saiful stares at the album and can only dumbly nod his head. He has no idea where any of this is going.
“This is what we must do.” Mr. Rao begins to describe a complicated scheme involving the removal of Madame Zhang and his takeover of her smuggling racket, including the inception of a new side business dealing with the importation of yaba, among other things. Mixed in with that, there is also what Mr. Rao refers to as “the pleasure industry.” He speaks continuously for more than ten minutes, but Saiful quickly loses the thread of the narrative and his mind starts to wander.
“So, how would you get rid of Madame Zhang?”
Saiful snaps out of his stupor. “What?” he says, his eyes beginning to tear from the thickening incense vapors.
“The ball is in your court, as the saying goes. Do it . . . if you want your stamp back.” Mr. Rao shuts the stamp album, nods almost militaristically, and sashays off into the gloomy recesses of the temple.
“I hope you value your life,” Leela whispers ominously into Saiful’s ears. With that, she too disappears. He is left alone in the candlelit temple. He looks again at the elephant, and wonders how and when he fell down this rabbit hole.
* * *
That night when he gets home—after walking for almost an hour—Saiful has a dream. In it, he is with the lovely Aishah, who is all dressed up in a form-fitting sarong kebaya that shows off her ample curves. One minute they are frolicking on a white sand beach, the next they are kissing passionately in the shower. He wakes up in the middle of the night with a raging hard-on, and proceeds to touch himself. But it is just not the same without his girl, who is on a plane to Frankfurt.
Saiful begins to reconstruct the events that led to his meeting with Mr. Rao. The problem is, he has no idea how he could have lost the stamp. He had always kept it in a safe in his HDB apartment, under lock and key; no one had access to it—at least, no one other than he and Aishah.
Is it possible that Aishah . . .
No, he tells himself. There is no reason she would do a thing like this. After all, hasn’t Aishah always insisted that she has no desire for money, and in any case, didn’t she just sell her one-bedroom walk-up in Kolam Ayer? The woman should be flush with cash.
But wait, why did she sell her apartment? It had surprised Saiful then but he didn’t think it proper to pry. With his heart thumping, he suddenly realizes there are too many unanswered questions. He has to get ahold of Aishah immediately.
When he finally reaches her, the entire airline crew has just checked into an airport hotel in Frankfurt. Saiful never calls when she is traveling, not because he doesn’t want to, but because of the expensive phone charges. But this time when Aishah picks up the call, it is clear she isn’t surprised to hear from him.
“What happened?” she asks quietly.
For a few long seconds, Saiful cannot get the words out.
“I had no choice,” she starts again.
An ache spreads from his chest and envelops his body. He doesn’t need to hear any more; her explanations are like distant thunder in a tropical downpour. The thing is, Saiful has always been mistrustful of people, and Aishah is one of the very few who penetrated his shell.
For a long time after, Saiful sits on his bed trying to calm himself. The stamp has been passed down through four generations and he is determined to keep it. It doesn’t matter if no one else cares; it is about legacy and family history. Saiful looks out the window and sees that the sun is rising. A new day, and hopefully a better one. He changes into a fresh set of clothes and sets out to find Mr. Rao.
The temple looks very different in daylight, and except for a few colorfully dressed Indian devotees deep in prayer, it is bereft of activity.
“Mr. Rao!” Saiful shouts at no one in particular. The words bounce around the room and merely attract stares from the devotees. There is no sign of the man. Saiful shouts again and this time the midget appears.
“Leave now or else I call the police,” says the man in a surprisingly deep voice.
Saiful cannot help but laugh at the comical sight. But then the midget pulls out an impressive-looking machete. One of the devotees starts to scream and in the blink of an eye all of them have vanished. The midget stands in front of Ganesh with his weapon, looking like a figure from a Disney cartoon.
“As
I said, leave now or else I call the police.”
Saiful assesses the situation calmly and decides to retreat. He will come back later that night and take Mr. Rao by surprise. He will have the last laugh.
On his way to the nearest bus stop, he walks past a long row of parked cars. In the middle is a beat-up Mitsubishi Lancer. Saiful does a double take—the color, the condition, and especially the deep scratches are all unmistakable—this is Babu’s car. Saiful does a quick 360-degree scan and immediately spots Babu sitting at a nearby sarabat stall, drinking tea. This is his chance.
Approaching from behind, he swiftly puts the unsuspecting boy in a headlock. Babu starts to struggle; but the more he does, the harder Saiful applies the pressure. After a while, when it is clear that resistance is not getting him anywhere, Babu simmers down.
“I can break your neck, but I’m not going to do so. When I release you, you’re going to cooperate and write down Mr. Rao’s home address for me. Is that understood?”
When there is no response, Saiful realizes that Babu has not heard a word. He has to spell it out. Motioning to the sarabat stall owner, who is cowering behind the service counter, Saiful gets ahold of a piece of paper and a pen. As he releases Babu to start writing down the instructions, the boy picks up his cup of tea and flings the remaining hot liquid into Saiful’s face.
Saiful grabs his head and screams in pain. By the time he recovers, Babu is gone. Left on the table is a written note.
Fucking loser, it says. Saiful grabs the paper and crumples it. He can only curse at his bad luck, yet again.
* * *
Later that evening, recharged and with a renewed sense of purpose, Saiful makes his way back to the temple. The moonless sky is full of stars, so quiet that they seem to be part of a larger conspiracy. He tries the door up front, but finds it locked. After a quick search, he locates a side entrance with a wooden door. That door is also locked, and as he tries to figure out what to do next, a shadow appears behind him. Saiful quickly turns around, and finds himself face to face with Madame Zhang.
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