‘And beauty,’ says Nick. ‘You get Hollywood movies with an implied ideal of beauty and you fall for it.’
I don’t like the direction the conversation is taking so I steer it back to safe ground.
‘What about China? She’s also successful.’ I say, clearing my throat.
‘China is on the up, yes. It evokes positive images for consumers regarding family, children, homeland.’
‘And Japan?’ I ask mischievously.
‘Never really took off. The Japanese are not so popular in Singapore,’ Chang replies matter-of-factly which for him is as curt as he can be.
‘You should know that,’ says Nick. ‘You slept with Dan.’
I wish the earth could open up and swallow me. How did Nick know that?
I put two and two together. ‘You knew him already –’
‘… and I pointed you out,’ says Nick. ‘He asked about you and I said I knew you.’
‘Someone I met in Taboo,’ I explain to Chang whose face betrays no emotion. ‘I didn’t sleep with him.’ I stumble. ‘I mean, yes, I did but that’s the only thing I did. I took him back to the hotel, but we were too tired and we fell asleep. Or rather he did and I didn’t.’
Hell, I’m off to Sydney in two days.
‘Dan kept him awake,’ says Nick lowering my discomfort level to Torture Level Nine.
I do not comment and neither does Chang who senses my annoyance. If we only kept quiet for longer Nick might just go away. But then, the bastard tells me this.
‘Poor guy,’ says Nick. ‘He’s been very ill, you know.’
I look at him, the obvious question forming in my eyes.
‘No, not that. Cancer.’
But can no’ stand in sun. Danger.
I shiver underneath the air con. Some dissidents in Singapore have complained of police abuse claiming that they’ve been forced to sit underneath the full blast of the air con. So that’s normal treatment, then.
‘So far he’s in remission,’ says Nick. ‘But –’
We lean at the bar, sipping our drinks. I feel guilty for Dan; I really liked the guy and I don’t even have his phone number. Happy is proving very sad, indeed. Maybe it is the company, or maybe it was the knowledge I have acquired. Ignorance is bliss while it remains ignorance.
‘What happened to you anyway,’ asks Nick eventually, pointing at my arm. ‘Car accident?’
I shake my head. ‘No.’
‘Fell down the stairs?’
I take a deep breath. What did I know of Dan? What did I know about Singapore? Or, for that matter, what did they know of me?
‘If you want to know, it was self-inflicted,’ I say. ‘The most stupid thing I’ve ever done.’
Stupid or not it has diminished in importance which makes it tolerable.
‘Well, it had been painful already and I thought it was, well, muscle tension, so I exercised it by swimming. But it was still painful, so I went to a sport injuries masseur. No improvement. Then I went to this club. I was – you know how it is – I was dancing and shaking my arms around. And after that I went to another club. I was so out-of-my-face, I didn’t feel anything. I remember feeling some stiffness, going back home and using half a tube of Deep Heat on my shoulder.’
I can tell Nick is enjoying this.
‘When I woke up, I couldn’t lift it.’
By now, I am cycling downhill with no brakes.
‘I had an MR scan. Two rotator tendons had snapped. It was tendonitis I suffered from, not muscle spasm. Tendonitis requires cold compresses, I was putting on Deep Heat. It requires immobility,’ – I point at the sling – ‘and I was going swimming. Movement repetition makes it worse. And I went clubbing.’
‘So?’
‘I’m taking some non-steroidal anti-inflammatory pills. They are so strong, I have to take more pills to protect my stomach or else I’ll end up with an ulcer.’
‘You’re still taking them?’
‘Yes. And putting on cold compresses. For another two weeks.’
‘And you’re drinking?’
‘I can drink moderate amounts of alcohol. It’s not as if I do so every night.’
Nick sniggers, but Chang looks concerned. ‘So what happens now?’ he asks.
‘If it doesn’t heal within a month, I will need surgery.’
‘Will it be OK, then?’
This is the moment of truth.
‘It might leave me crippled.’
The three of us stop for minute, overwhelmed by the weight of so many revelations.
‘What are your chances?’ whispers Chang.
‘The doctor said fifty–fifty.’
Chang squeezes my hand.
‘Bloody stupid,’ interjects Nick.
‘I know.’
I feel my sling. I put my other hand in my pocket, partly out of habit and partly to hide my discomfiture. There is a piece of paper inside. I take it out. It is yellow and thin.
Oh that.
I had walked out of the Leong San – as Chinese as dim sum and as traditional as chopsticks – to confront the sight of the Burmese-Thai Temple of 1,000 Lights, as low-key and unobtrusive as Siamese Buddhism itself. It looked rough-hewn compared with the exuberance of the Leong San, and inside the austere decoration won no prizes: a 50-foot high, 300-ton statue of Buddha dominated the chamber, its garish colours emphasising its artificial look. I should have guessed: having been born in Rangoon, the Haw-Par brothers were prime donors, so any statues would have been built to their taste.
A sign above the entrance proclaimed confusingly that the temple was built in the Chinese year 2470, but it made more sense in the Thai calendar that translates as 1927 CE. Light bulbs were arranged in a circle around the Buddha but, although I didn’t count them, I estimated that ‘1,000’ must be a relative superlative rather than a numerical exactitude. Somehow it didn’t feel like a temple: the prevailing silence was more akin to the impatience of a bank queue rather than the meditative calm of the Leong San. There was no one praying, there were no monks, and the few faithful were involved in commercial transactions in this world and the other: a couple were burning paper money in the kiln outside; custom has it that mock paper money burnt as offering becomes real money in the domain of the souls. The practice is Chinese, not Thai, but no belief can remain pure in this syncretic mixture that is Singapore, as a statue of Ganesh, the Hindu elephant-headed God, demonstrated further in.
Ganesh faced a basement chapel where I entered, curious to witness the sacred relic: Buddha’s own footprint. I expected some vague indentation set on clay like those dinosaur tracks in Utah, but I should have known better. At the end of the statue of a reclining Buddha dressed in an orange robe, the print was an abstract foot carved out in ebony with inlaid mother-of-pearl. If it matched the Buddha’s, then the Enlightened One wore sandals size 30 which may explain why He preferred to walk barefoot.
There were similarities with Leong San: Guan Yin sitting on a lotus, the arhats praying around the Buddha, the four-faced statue of Brahma, the stone tiger of the west. But there were some extra touches: a diorama depicting the life of Prince Siddharta, and a Wheel of Fortune shaped like a windmill and divided into 12 sectors, each one with a loose flap that was caught by a nail sticking out as it rotated, so that it eventually stopped.
I approached the caretaker who was manning the contraption and paid him 50 cents. He asked me to give the wheel a roll– clockwise, because I was male. When it stopped, he took the sector number down and asked my date of birth. He then checked today’s date and, after some calculations, he opened a shelf and chose a yellow divination sheet.
‘Very good,’ he said in English and, pointing at my sling, he repeated: ‘Very good’.
Back in Happy, I read the prediction aloud.
‘The Wheel of Fortune says your fate is bright as a starlit night. You will be free from care, money you will have and if you seek a suitor you are sure to win her or him soon. The object you lost will be found. Lawsuit you have no
reason to fear, all will come right in the end. In illness you will recover. Your family will enjoy happiness. In all you do, you will not be without luck all your life.’
‘This looks optimistic,’ says Nick.
‘I don’t believe in Wheels of Fortune,’ I say.
‘Why did you try then?’
‘For fun. Something to do.’
‘Would you rather it said you’ll be extremely unlucky all your life?’
‘No, but –’
‘There you are then.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ says Chang reassuringly.
I don’t know…
‘So what if the wheel proves correct?’ asks Nick.
Chang straightens his back and thinks for a few minutes.
‘If your arm heals properly, you must return,’ he says.
I am typing on a keyboard on a free Internet link at Changi, trying to kill time before my flight to Australia, but I might as well be in Plaza Singapura again. The shiny, glitzy airport is as huge, as busy and as dirt-free as any mall on Orchard Road– rendering every public space into a retail cash machine is this city’s unique touch. I am supposed to be here for only 15 minutes, but I have surreptitiously logged half an hour, because surfing helps me overcome my boredom. Robert Louis Stevenson famously said that one should travel for travel’s sake and that the point is to move, but he had no experience of waiting at airports, one of those Sisyphean punishments of modern life like peak-time commuting or Saturday afternoon queuing at a Tesco checkout.
It’s when I log on guiltily for a third time that it hits me: why have I been looking back rather than forward? I’ve spent all my time visiting Singapore websites. Shouldn’t I google something about Sydney, my next destination? Yet curiosity gets the better of me and I return to Singapore’s cyberspace even as I am about to leave it in real life. For I have found so much to savour: apart from the ever-entertaining Singapore Paranormal Investigators’ pages – which alone can keep me wired in a permanent cyberpunk state like one of Bruce Sterling’s characters – I have been sniggering at sammyboy.com, a sex-advice website for South Asian males in need of female company. At the other end of the spectrum, there is fridae.com, an all-Asian equivalent to UK’s gaydar, where male posters from Japan to Jakarta communicate in broken English and, oh how sweet, send hearts to each other. Incredibly, both sites are hosted in Singapore. Since the Internet is the bread and butter of the global city, the ever-pragmatic authorities must have decided that, if you can’t beat them, get their tax money at least.
I have also discovered Yawning Bread, a Singaporean blogger and relentless opponent of censorship, religious dogma or bureaucratic pettiness. His witty and incisive criticism of the city’s high and mighty turns him into an instant hero to my eyes. I skim over his topics and nearly fall off my seat: there are some truly courageous men in Singapore, indeed.
You see what I mean about looking back, not forward? I kind of know what awaits me in Sydney, whereas unearthing Singapore’s uncensored forums is a revelation.
The computer clock flashes – I have three minutes left. I send the web links to my e-mail account and log out.
If your arm heals properly, you must return.
Maybe I should. I’m leaving with so many open questions about this city, after all.
Like, how did Raffles’ exotic siren turn into the hospital matron everyone keeps dissing?
PART TWO:
… AND WITHOUT
CHAPTER SEVEN
GHOST FOR SALE
Ding Bo led a dangerous existence. No, he wasn’t a pearl diver in the seas of Nanyang, nor a bandit in the mountains of Hunan, but still his wife kept nagging him to be more circumspect. He simply wouldn’t observe the taboos of the seventh month when all the Hungry Ghosts, the yau gui, are released from heaven and from hell. What concerned her the most is that he wouldn’t change his routine during that dreaded month. He wouldn’t retire home before nightfall but insisted on walking all alone from the tavern to their house through the winding narrow alleys. Unsurprisingly, the more she harried and harassed Ding Bo, the more he seemed to ignore her and want to straddle the village at closing time which sometimes– Guan Yin give me strength – was well after midnight.
No wonder then he eventually bumped into a ghost.
‘Oi!’ said the ghost. ‘Who are you and what are you doing out on such a night?’
Ding Bo had had a few drinks and returned the question with Dutch courage. ‘And I don’t recognise you. Who are you?’
‘I,’ said the ghost, ‘am a ghost. G-H-O-S-T. No wonder you don’t recognise me; I have been dead for seventy-nine years. Even if you knew me, my hair has been in such a mess for the last decade that my mother, bless her, sometimes has problems identifying me in the netherworld. But then again she always was short-sighted. But even if she weren’t short-sighted –’ the ghost stopped as if remembering something. ‘Anyway, who are you?’
Ding Bo had sobered up quickly and tried to appear unperturbed. ‘I am Ding Bo. I only died last week so I’m a bit new to this.’
‘A virgin!’ cried the ghost excitedly. ‘Let me come to your aid; I have always wanted to meet someone right after they snuffed it! Oops, sorry, I hope that wasn’t too crude for you. Remember I’ve been dead for seventy-nine years and I’m quite blasé about it.’
‘No problem,’ said Ding Bo.
‘There are of course those who have been dead much longer than me, but they are of no use. They get confused with modern life. Whereas I died at sixteen and I’m still interested in all the latest inventions. Seventy-nine years is short enough for me not to lose the plot but long enough to know the ropes. You are so lucky to have met me! Where are you heading to?’
‘To the capital,’ Ding Bo said with only a split-second pause. He needed to get away from this built-up area in case someone turned up.
‘So am I,’ said the ghost and followed him into the forest. ‘There is always someone new there to spook out of their skull. Watch me and you will learn a lot.’
He suddenly turned into a nine-feet tall monster with sharp claws and pointed teeth. He roared and spat fire for several seconds like a dragon before he became himself again.
‘Well? What did you think?’ he asked his arms akimbo.
‘Excellent! Bravo!’ Ding Bo replied.
‘You can do that with practice. Unless a human spits on you, of course.’
‘Why, what happens then?’
‘Wa lao, you know nothing,’ the ghost said. ‘We lose all our power with man’s spittle. We can’t change our shape any more and remain with the last form we have assumed. Yeuch! Horrible!’
‘Will you teach me how to change shape?’ asked Ding Bo.
‘Sure. Where shall we start? How about… a tiger? Yes! Yes! A tiger!’
The ghost was ready to metamorphose, but Ding Bo held it by the sleeve.
‘Let’s go easy first. How about a little lamb for starters?’
The ghost’s eyes rolled upwards and forced a yawn out of his jaws. ‘A little lamb? Dull City, mister. What were you when you were alive? A mandarin?’
‘C’mon, I’m a complete beginner. You have to take me gently through my paces.’
‘Oh, alright. But I don’t like that “little lamb” bit. I will become a proper, adult-sized sheep. Anyway, there’s nothing to it, you’ll see. You just have to think hard “I am now a sheep” and, hey presto, you are it.’
At once the ghost shrunk to a sheep in front of Ding Bo’s eyes. Without hesitation he spat on it and picked it up by one of its hind legs, while the animal baa-baa-ed helplessly. He waited for a while to see if the ghost would change back, but no, it was well and truly stuck to its form.
Ding Bo threw the ghost over his shoulder and retraced his steps to his home. His wife was awake and in a heated mood. ‘DING BO! What are you doing staying out so late at night during the seventh month? And what is this? A sheep? Did you steal it?’
‘I won it in a game of mah-jong. I’m go
ing to the capital to sell it tomorrow.’
Ding Bo’s wife temper mellowed. ‘Alright. You go tomorrow. But come back before sunset, ah?’ She said this on auto pilot not expecting an answer from her husband.
So it was to her amazement and delight that she heard Ding Bo agree: ‘No more staying after dark. I promise.’
- 16 -
I use my chopsticks to pick up the finely cut cabbage from the common platter. It is translucent and crisp, like sauerkraut that has been pickled to perfection.
‘This is delicious,’ I tell Uranium.
‘Yes,’ he agrees. ‘I like jellyfish, too.’
Jellyfish?
Despite my unease I go through with the chewing. ‘I thought it was cabbage.’ I say.
Uranium chuckles. ‘First time you try jellyfish, is it?’
‘It is,’ I concede.
‘And?’
I give up. ‘I have to admit it is delicious.’
‘Yes. Food for wedding feast, like shark fin soup,’ he adds.
My fellow diners agree. On my left is Uranium, a big, solid, twenty-something bloke with a baby face and a number two haircut. In front of me sits the only female, Sunkist, a shy, diminutive, dainty figure with beautiful black eyes that stare intelligently behind a pair of modish spectacles. MJ, a good two decades older than his friends and very recognisably the leader of the group, is speaking slowly, confidently and clearly on my right. Guess what? I dared contact them, so I’m having dinner with some of the elite of the Singapore Paranormal Investigators: office workers by day, ghostbusters with peculiar noms de guerre by night.
I am a little tetchy but not because of them; I have refused their offer to take me to Swensen’s, a restaurant with Western cuisine, so we’re having supper at Mouth, Singapore’s oldest teahouse. Now, I like Chinese food, but when I read the house signature dishes (pig’s knuckle in black vinegar, goat stomach with dried vegetable and sea cucumber with mushroom and abalone) I became a little jumpy.
‘So, your society is like an after hours social club?’ I ask.
Singapore Swing Page 12