by Tiffany Tsao
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Tiffany Tsao
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503952621
ISBN-10: 1503952622
Cover design by David Drummond
for Justin and Zephyr
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
SINGAPORE 2004
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
When Yusuf bin Hassim disappeared from Singapore in 1939, it baffled everyone. The slim, bright-eyed lad of nineteen had just started what looked to be a promising life. He had procured a job as an ice cream vendor with Magnolia, Singapore’s very first ice cream company. His parents were in the process of finding him a suitable wife from the daughters of families they knew. He had great hair—full, lustrous, glossy, as if his head were crowned with a dollop of jet-black whipped cream. Everything seemed to be falling into place. And then he had vanished.
He had left a note for his mother and father, his brothers and sisters, his grandmother and grandfather, his uncles and aunts, and all his cousins, addressing each by name and explaining the situation. The note was immensely long—thirty-seven pages of letter paper, each page crammed full of handwriting so small that the only way to make out the words was to squint. The note was so long, in fact, that only his youngest sister Aminah had actually finished it; the rest having given up only part way through. But when the rest of the family asked Aminah for a summary, she couldn’t remember the contents. “Oh, same as the first few pages,” she told them. “How much he loves us, memories of this good thing or that good time, something about a Quest he must go on. Not very coherent. I’ve forgotten most of it, actually. Sorry.”
In response, they nodded sadly. They had loved Yusuf dearly, but the letter was just so . . . long. And they took some comfort in knowing that at least something terrible hadn’t befallen him. Still, his cousins and younger siblings did miss the prestige of having an ice cream man in the family—the occasional free treats and getting to try on the smart white pith helmet he’d worn as part of his uniform just couldn’t be beat. In the turbulent years that followed, his family would reflect on how perhaps Yusuf had left at a good time. He had missed the Japanese invasion, the terrible war years, the riots and political chaos of the independence and post-independence period. They hoped that wherever he was in the world, he was doing all right, insha’Allah.
So when Yusuf bin Hassim reappeared in Singapore in 1985, it baffled everyone. Well, everyone who was left to be baffled. All those in the generations above him, including his parents, had died. Two cousins had been killed in the 1964 race riots, and most of the other cousins and all his siblings save one had emigrated to Malaysia, Australia, or the UK. In the end, Yusuf’s sudden return only had an audience of four: three cousins and Aminah—not counting the families they’d gone on to have after Yusuf had vanished. Though to these two wives, two husbands, fifteen fully grown children, and twelve grandchildren, Yusuf was only a name they seldom heard, and it was difficult for them to understand the magnitude of his homecoming and the excitement it generated.
“It’s like having someone come back from the grave,” Cousin Fatimah explained to one of her granddaughters.
“Yuck,” the granddaughter replied.
Aminah, who had received Yusuf’s telephone call and spread the news of his return, arranged for a celebratory dinner to be held that very Saturday, hosted by her and her husband Hassan at their new government-built Housing and Development Board flat in Tampines. Hassan borrowed woven straw mats from various neighbours to provide extra sitting space. Aminah’s children, under their mother’s supervision, helped prepare enormous pots of beef rendang, vegetable curry, and rice. One of the cousins brought soft drinks, another sweet kuih-kuih, and another fried corn fritters. Crammed in Aminah’s tiny living room, elbow to elbow and ear to ear, they ate, chatted, and celebrated the return of one of their own. Everyone, of course, was genuinely happy that Yusuf had come back, and they genuinely tried to keep the happiness running at full speed throughout the evening. But there remained the undeniable fact that they didn’t really know him anymore, and that he didn’t really know them. Try as they might, they couldn’t help feeling that the wizened, frail wisp of a man sitting among them was a complete stranger.
After the family had eaten their fill, chorused their disbelief and joy at his return multiple times, and eaten still more, the atmosphere of collective jubilation began to deflate ever so slightly, like a day-old balloon. It didn’t help that the children had left and taken with them their shrieks of merriment. After receiving permission from the adults to leave, they had scrambled over each other into the open-air corridor and down four flights of stairs to play imaginative variations of hide-and-seek and tag among the open grassy spaces and sheltered void decks of the HDB blocks. In the children’s absence, the lively chatter was exhibiting signs of audible strain. The spirit of the evening was on the verge of collapsing entirely when Cousin Khalid, realizing that Yusuf had been relatively quiet all evening and that they all still had no idea where he had been those forty-six years, thought it a good idea to ask. With the same unassuming smile that he had worn all evening while peacefully basking in the boisterousness of a family gathering for the first time in a long time, Yusuf told them.
It was almost midnight by the time Yusuf finished and everyone left to go home. Bundling groggy babies and toddlers into strollers and over shoulders, and conducting several head counts to make sure that all the children were present and accounted for, the cousins and their families departed into the cool darkness of a night on the cusp of turning into morning. Before they went their separate ways, they tried briefly to speak together of the fantastic things that the long-lost Yusuf had just told them about. However, try as they might, they couldn’t. All that remained in their memories were the fierce, bright, flashing black eyes of Yusuf as he had recounted to them the frightening, dazzling, and extraordinary events of his forty-six-year-long absence. But even that impression was beginning to fade, like a water stain on fabric, drying imperceptibly into invisibility.
Back at the flat, Aminah and Yusuf, at his own insistence, worked alongside each other in the kitchen, washing and drying the dishes. Even she, with her brother standing right next to her, was beginning to forget what he had recounted that enthralled them all so. What exactly had he been through all those years that had whitened and thinned his hair? What had wrinkled his skin and deepened its colour? And what had put that black fire in his eyes? He had just told them, hadn’t he? But the knowledge was dwindling with every passing second, even as she looked s
idelong at him from the sink. The magnificent richness of his eyes was fading too, and by the time the last dish had been put away, there was nothing special left in them—just the washed-out, watery colour of all old eyes. Her husband came in after seeing the last of their children and grandchildren off, and insisted that Yusuf stay the night. It was far too late for him to go home and it would be no trouble at all. Yusuf, however, was determined to leave. Embracing his newly discovered brother-in-law and his dear sister, and accepting three containers of leftover food neatly stacked and tied up in a blue plastic bundle, he said goodbye and promised that he would call soon.
This dinner was the last time Yusuf saw any of his extended family. The morning after, everyone woke with no memory of where Yusuf had been and what Yusuf had done. They only recalled the unfamiliarity of that stranger, surprisingly ancient-looking and withered for a man of sixty-five. Not only that, but a bad, bloated feeling had settled around the memory of him and the prospect of having anything to do with him. They politely stayed away. Aminah’s reaction wasn’t so severe, but her head did ache a bit the day after. She was diligent in keeping up communications with him, though, for he was her brother, and she loved him. Or at least, she felt that she wanted to get close with him, but couldn’t quite. She made sure that they met up at least once every few weeks, and she felt guilty that they didn’t meet up more. Always, Aminah’s head felt a bit achy afterwards. Who knew why?
So in the end, Yusuf returned to his former life, only to find it a solitary one—a room that he had left behind filled with beloved and familiar objects. He had returned after a lifetime to find it waiting for him still, but empty. He accepted this placidly and without surprise, as if he’d been expecting it all along. He made no attempt to contact his cousins, and only spoke to Aminah occasionally. He seemed to have money enough, and upon his sudden reappearance, he had managed to procure a small one-bedroom flat, very similar in design to that of his sister’s, in Ang Mo Kio. He cooked all his own meals and did all his own housekeeping. Although he was always polite to the neighbours, he was too reserved to ever become familiar with them, and every other evening, he could be seen in the large community park nearby, ambling on the winding paths and steps around and up the hillock, always by himself.
In one respect, he did attempt to pick up his old life from where he had left off. He went into the ice cream business again, opening a small ice cream parlour in a row of rather dilapidated shophouses, a ten-minute walk from his flat. Except for the rental price, there had been little to recommend the space. All four of the existing businesses appeared to be on the verge of extinction—or had already expired without realizing it. When the Hoh Heng Coffee Powder Trading Company Pte. Ltd. stopped turning a profit, they had ceased turning the great roasting drums as well, and now their income appeared to be wholly derived from the occasional sale of plain cream crackers and brightly iced fancy gem biscuits, weighed by the gram on an old-fashioned brass scale. The contents of the ABC Typewriter and Stationery Shop were all coated in a fine layer of dust, including the proprietor—a spindly, hollow-eyed ancient who sat motionless behind the counter day after day. Double Swan Tailoring on the far end hadn’t been doing well since the resident seamstress went blind in one eye. And on the far end of the row, Fun-Fun’s House of Board Games seemed to have undergone an unofficial conversion into a Bible and Christian pamphlet storage facility.
Such neighbours would have depressed a lesser man, but Yusuf remained undeterred. Clearing his newly acquired space of the remains of paper lanterns (and illegal firecrackers) left over from the previous tenant, he set to work fixing the place up.
In three months, the Tutti-Frutti Ice Cream Shop was open for business. It was a humble affair, small but well lit and clean, with pastel orange walls and light-blue Formica tables and plastic stools. All the ice cream—well, all seven flavours—was made by Yusuf himself, though for some reason, he never really thought to advertise the fact. Gradually, he built up a small but loyal customer base from the local resident community. The ice cream was absolutely delicious, his admirers said—the richest, most flavourful, most wonderful that they’d ever had.
Unfortunately, his ice cream wasn’t to everyone’s taste. Some complained that it left a mild sour aftertaste at the back of their throats. Those who did like the ice cream, however, were passionate about it, and asked Yusuf why he didn’t expand—add new flavours, make the place bigger, more modern, do more advertising? Yusuf simply smiled and shrugged. He’d had his adventure and he was content, he would say.
“Uncle got no ambition, is it?” asked one customer who was particularly frustrated at Yusuf’s complacency. The man came in to the Tutti-Frutti at least twice a week, wore a big gold watch and a big ruby ring, and patent black leather shoes polished to a high shine. His hair was slicked back and he was always checking his pager. He came from a self-made merchant family—recent immigrants from China who worked hard and smart and made good for themselves. Entrepreneurship coursed red through his veins and he saw the world and its unfolding events as a collection of ever-changing, shimmering opportunities. He liked Yusuf and wanted to see the old Malay man make something of his life.
“Uncle may be old, but what for just wait around to die? What for, lah?”
Shocked at the rudeness of the words that had just tumbled from his mouth, the man was on the verge of uttering an apology, but decided instead to see what effect his question would have. Perhaps it would goad the old man into action.
Yusuf was immovable. He smiled that maddeningly contented smile of his. “No, boy. I’m waiting for other things, but if death comes first, then so be it.”
The man shook his head uncomprehendingly and proceeded to order his usual: two-scoop sundae, one scoop chocolate, one scoop red bean, extra whipped cream. Odd old man, he thought to himself. Very odd.
CHAPTER 2
Very odd. Those were the exact same words that Yusuf bin Hassim was to mutter to himself some years later, right after he had discovered the boy. The boy was, in fact, the very type of “other thing” that Yusuf had been waiting for since his return to Singapore. He hadn’t been certain that an “other thing” was going to show up, not by a long shot. In fact, he would have been almost as content if he had left this earth without encountering one of the “other things” he’d had a hunch would one day cross his life’s path. But it turned out that his hunch had been right, and now he was fully content. Very odd the boy was, and therefore, just right. Yet to Yusuf’s profound embarrassment, he hadn’t noticed what the boy truly was right away. In fact, the boy’s oddness, or rather, his oddfittingness, was only the third peculiarity Yusuf had noticed when the boy had wandered wide-eyed into the Tutti-Frutti Ice Cream Shop.
The very first peculiar thing Yusuf had noticed about the boy was, frankly speaking, the fact that he was as blonde-haired and blue-eyed as the weather in Singapore was hot and muggy. Almost all of the Tutti-Frutti clientele were Chinese, Malays, or Indians—identifiably local. The Tutti-Frutti wasn’t much to look at—hardly worth a mention in any of the tourist guidebooks, and too out of the way for anyone who didn’t live nearby. Certainly, no westerners ever came: not tourists, nor the well-paid foreign expatriates who had been sent to represent their companies’ interests in Singapore. Ang Mo Kio wasn’t that kind of neighbourhood.
It was far away from the major attractions, a little too modern to be quaint, and a little too authentic to be comfortable. Business was conducted gruffly and conversation loudly in Hokkien, Teochew, and Hakka. Cheap clothes and bed sheets adorned with Japanese cartoon characters and bad floral prints hung from bamboo poles outside HDB slab blocks. Multicoloured fairy lights were considered tasteful shop and restaurant decor. Here and there blew the ashen flakes of spirit money—burnt offerings for the ancestral dead—and the sickly strong odour of incense wafted around corners and through alleyways, emanating from tiny, garish Buddhist shrines that were tucked in enclaves underfoot and overhead. The bakeries sold pandan bread of
suspicious green hues; the “medicine” stores stocked dubious-looking dried herbs and animal parts; the jewellery stores displayed gaudy gold and jade wares against garish red cloth backing; and while the produce and meat sold in the wet markets were undeniably fresh, the floors were, well, suspiciously wet. No, westerners did not venture into these parts. And yet, one day, there came the boy, appearing suddenly and silently and pale as a ghost. Yusuf had been absentmindedly polishing ice cream spoons with a dishcloth, surveying the empty parlour. He had stooped down to put them away underneath the counter. And he had risen to find a boy pressing his little face against the glass of the ice cream case, staring with amazement at the seven different flavours on display.
“Hello, boy,” Yusuf had said by way of greeting. The boy looked up at him with the same wide-eyed gaze, as if Yusuf himself had been a variety of ice cream. Smiling a small, uncertain smile, the boy resumed staring at the tubs of ice cream, the blueness of his eyes intense with longing.
The second peculiar thing Yusuf noticed about the boy was that he was alone. In his experience, westerners living in Singapore tended to be notoriously protective of their offspring, sending them to private schools and keeping them within the confines of the exclusive clubs that defined themselves by country: one for the Americans, one for the British, one for the Germans, one for the Dutch . . . When the children did venture out into the “local” areas of Singapore, they were always accompanied by their mothers, or by diminutive dark-skinned maids, or both. And yet, here was this little chap, wandering in without any sign of a mother or father or a maid, or any guardian of any sort.
“Boy, are you lost?”
The boy shook his head, his eyes still riveted by the ice cream.
“Where are your parents?”
“At work,” the boy replied softly.
Very strange, Yusuf thought to himself. Leaning over the counter, he regarded the boy. And then he noticed the third peculiar thing.