by Tiffany Tsao
Left to its own devices, Ann’s mind had begun meandering more and more in these nonsensical mazes. Ann hadn’t told the One about these thoughts. She knew the One would be furious, and perhaps devastated, for she looked upon Ann almost as her own child (though she would never admit it). Ann also had thought it prudent to keep to herself the fact that, before meeting Murgatroyd, she had wandered into a church partway through a sermon and sat there for a little while; not to listen, just to contemplate. She’d done it enough lately that one might even have called it a habit—popping into old church buildings for a few minutes whenever she had to make a visit to the Known World. It was the stained glass that drew her, she was sure.
The third matter drifting through Ann’s mind had to do with the exceptional nature of Murgatroyd’s oddfittingness—how much of it he must have possessed at birth and how it had managed to endure for so long. Then she thought back to the many strange things about Murgatroyd’s life she had learned from reading his file. Odd even for an Oddfit. Before she dozed off, Ann made a mental note to check up on Murgatroyd sometime in the next few days.
CHAPTER 11
At seven on Monday morning, when Murgatroyd’s eyes flew open at the sound of his alarm clock, he felt an unusual sensation. He wasn’t quite sure how to describe it. It was a little fluttering sensation against the walls of his stomach, like when he was nervous. But it wasn’t nervousness at all. It was much more pleasant. As he stretched out one arm to shut off the alarm clock and tucked the other arm behind his head, he tried to pinpoint exactly what it felt like.
It felt . . . it felt like whenever he had gone to the Tutti-Frutti Ice Cream Shop and Uncle Yusuf had stuck an extra paper parasol in his ice cream. From his recumbent position, he gazed with satisfaction at the long, colourful string of paper parasols that hung like Christmas tree trimming from his walls. He had kept every one of them. He felt another little flutter inside him. What else did it feel like? It felt like whenever he took the first bite of something his mother had made and found that it didn’t taste funny. He could still remember how much he enjoyed the vanilla sponge cake she had made him for his thirteenth birthday, and how surprised he was that it had turned out delicious, even though he had accidentally mislabelled the salt and sugar containers when helping her reorganize the kitchen the day before.
It felt like all that, but magnified twenty times. In fact, he even felt like doing a little dance. And so he did: jumping up from his customary sleeping place on the wooden floor, he indulged himself in a short little jig.
After he had folded his blanket, which functioned also as a sleeping pad and pillow, depending on which one he felt like having on any given night, he put his hands on his hips and surveyed his bedroom. His mother had done the décor, and in keeping with the minimalist design she thought would best become the room, it was bare of furniture. And in keeping with the functionality she also wanted for the room, it doubled as storage space for four lightly used suitcases, a heap of empty mango crates, twelve cans of expired baked beans that his father was, for reasons unexplained, “saving for later,” and three rusty umbrellas.
It was true that entire effect was somewhat marred by the many personal items belonging to Murgatroyd, which gave the space a cluttered feel: Murgatroyd’s “bed,” alarm clock, and blanket (aforementioned) took up two square metres of space in one corner; a stack of neatly folded clothes next to a little cardboard carton storing his socks and underwear took up another corner; and the paper parasol decorations (also aforementioned) took up space on the wall facing the window. It was also true that some features of the room could, perhaps, have used some improvement—the walls were a garish yellow-green hue, which Kay Huat, the one time he had visited, had termed “vomit,” and the glass of the window, which otherwise would have looked out onto the picturesque trees of the nearby nature reserve, was always covered with a petroleum-jelly-like goop that reappeared each time Murgatroyd cleaned it off. But Murgatroyd was too accustomed to the colour of his walls to find them anything but charming, and his father said that the goop was most likely floating tree sap from the park, and that there was nothing to be done about it (though, mysteriously, his parents’ bedroom windowpanes remained unsullied).
How many mornings had he surveyed his bedroom in exactly the same way he was doing now? And yet, how exceedingly happy he felt on this particular morning, more than any other morning he could remember! He felt again the irresistible urge to dance. He stooped down to glance at the clock again. It would have to be a short one; he had to make breakfast for his parents before they left for work.
Preparing breakfast was Murgatroyd’s daily gift to his parents—his small way of saying, “Thank you” and “I love you” for all that they had done for him. The many, many, many loving and kind things they had done for him—so many of them that sometimes it was hard to remember any of them. But he was sure that there were many of them, and did his utmost to never forget their numerousness. Making breakfast was the very least he could do in return. Usually, it was nothing very elaborate. Some days it was only toast, butter, and jam; some days it was fried egg and sausage; and on days when he got up earlier than usual, he might take the bus to a nearby hawker centre and purchase a local-style breakfast for them from there—steamed buns, fried dough sticks, or perhaps chicken congee. But today was a special day. In five days, he was going to set off on an important adventure to explore parts unknown! This called for a celebration! He would make his parents banana crepes with powdered sugar. From scratch.
Murgatroyd trotted happily through the living room, past the dining area, and into the kitchen, humming as he went. After he had sliced the bananas and prepared the batter, he set them aside and sat down at the kitchen table to write a to-do list for the week:
Things To Do Before Friday 7 p.m.
1. Tell Mum and Dad about Quest.
2. Tell Kay Huat about Quest.
3. Report for work. Quit job for Quest.
4. Buy new toothbrush for Quest.
He tried very hard to think of any other things he needed to do. There wasn’t anyone else that he needed to notify. He didn’t need to close his bank account—his parents kept his earnings safe on his behalf. There was nothing else he needed to buy. That would have to do for now, he thought to himself as he heard the shower running in his parents’ bathroom. Folding the list and putting it away in his pocket, Murgatroyd turned on the stove and began cooking.
Olivia Floyd stood in front of the closet mirror in her bedroom, assessing her appearance. She was wearing a red silk blouse she had bought a few days ago.
“James,” she called to her husband, who was shaving in the bathroom.
“I can’t hear you,” he yelled back. “The electric razor’s too loud.”
“JAMES!” she repeated again.
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU,” he yelled again.
“TURN THE BLOODY ELECTRIC RAZOR OFF!”
The razor stopped buzzing, and a half-shaven James stuck his head out from the bathroom door, looking peeved. “What is it?”
“Do you think this blouse looks good on me?”
James glared at her.
“What?” Olivia asked innocently.
“It makes you look your age.” He disappeared back into the bathroom and the razor began buzzing again.
Olivia smiled. He had told a lie. Even though both of them were now in their early fifties, except for a little greyness in the hair and an extra wrinkle or two, they looked very much as they had when they were in their twenties. But then again, she had deserved the slight, since she had asked the question for the sole purpose of irritating him. And she had succeeded. There had been a time, of course, when it would have never occurred to her to intentionally irritate him at all—a time when they had adored each other without question or irony. A time when . . . oh, but it was so long ago now. Smoothing out the blouse, she put it out of her mind, and was adjusting her earrings when she caught a whiff of something unfamiliar in the air.
&nb
sp; “James,” she called to her husband.
“WHAT?!” he roared.
“Do you smell that?”
James and Olivia Floyd emerged from their room and entered the kitchen, dressed for work, but with a little sleepiness still lingering about their eyes. They were greeted by the warm, sweet smell of fresh crepes and the sight of their son slouching over the stove, cheerfully swivelling the skillet with his right hand and picking his ear with his left.
“Good morning!” he chirruped.
James and Olivia were confounded at their son’s excessive and evident happiness.
“Oh! Well now,” his father said, slowly regaining his composure. “Good morning, my boy! Smells good! What is it?”
“Banana crepes!” With a flourish worthy of any great chef, Murgatroyd dusted the crepes with powdered sugar and skipped past his parents to set them in the centre of the dining table.
He regarded them with satisfaction. “Eh! Not bad, what? Look like restaurant quality one!” Suddenly remembering how irritating his parents found the occasional heavy Singlish he used and tried to tone down whenever he was around them, he quickly shut his mouth. Casting his eyes downwards, he pulled his cup of Milo close to his chest and sat down.
James joined his son immediately and without a word began helping himself to three at once. Olivia, however, eyed her son with suspicion as she lowered herself into her chair. “Banana crepes! My, how special! What’s the occasion?”
This was the moment that Murgatroyd had been waiting for. With every flip of every crepe, he had thought of exactly how he would tell them of his imminent departure. Would he be playfully evasive about it? Would he tell them outright, point-blank? How do you inform someone that on Friday you will be setting off on the most wonderful adventure of your entire life?
The moment had come! And yet, Murgatroyd found himself hesitant to let loose the announcement that was incubating in his consciousness, on the verge of being hatched into the great, wide world: On Friday, I will be setting off on the most wonderful adventure of my entire life!
Instead, he said, “Oh. Erh. Nothing. Nothing special. Just, erh, felt like it. Something different, lah.”
He saw them grimace at the inadvertent “lah” and winced.
James and Olivia shook out the newspaper and divided the sections between them. Picking up their forks and knives, they began eating the crepes in silence. Silently was the manner in which his parents usually ate their breakfast. Murgatroyd thought about this as he reached for the saltshaker. His parents were not really “morning people,” nor were they lively conversationalists. The love they displayed towards him and each other, he continued reflecting, was not a chatty sort of love. It was a quieter, deeper sort of love. A love that manifested itself in other ways, like the dinners they left out for him at night. And their concern about his posture, which prevented them from buying him a mattress, no matter how much he had pleaded with them as a child. And the way they were always trying to fix the broken water heater in his bathroom. (“I’m terribly sorry, my boy,” his father would say whenever Murgatroyd brought the subject up. “We’re really trying to get it fixed, we are. You’ll have hot water someday!”)
Murgatroyd was quite accustomed to the silence in which the three of them often passed the time. Yet today, for some reason, he felt uncomfortable with it. It felt unnatural. It felt strange. It even felt slightly hostile. He tried to make conversation.
“Erh. How do you like it?”
“Like what?” Olivia answered, dully.
“The crepes?”
“Oh. Oh yes. Very good,” she mumbled, turning her attention once again to the business section of The Straits Times.
“Yes, very good,” James echoed, brushing some sugar off an article he was trying to read about the health benefits of gingko nuts.
Murgatroyd basked in the warmth of this high praise and commenced tucking into his own portion with renewed energy, all the while thinking furiously about how best to break the news to them. Perhaps slowly and gently would be a better approach.
“Mum? Dad? May I ask you a question?”
His parents looked at each other with an unreadable expression on their faces. Then they looked at him.
“Yes?” Olivia asked.
“You don’t mind, do you?” he said quickly, feeling foolish. “Erh. Am I bothering you?”
“What’s the question?” James asked.
Murgatroyd felt nervous. “It’s not that important. Only a little one.”
“What’s the question?” Olivia asked.
“Erh. Erh. Erh . . .”
“Murgatroyd!” James roared suddenly, slamming down his fork. “What in bloody hell is the bloody question?!”
In the silence that followed, they could hear the faint sound of Mandarin pop music wafting in through the wall from their neighbours’ flat.
James burst into a loud, boisterous laugh. “Ha ha! Just joking, son! Just pulling your leg a little!”
Olivia joined in with a high-pitched giggle. “Oh, James! Ha ha! What a good joke! I really did think you were angry for a minute.”
“Ha ha! Imagine me angry at Murgatroyd! Our one and only beloved son!”
“Who could imagine?”
“Our dear, sweet Murgatroyd!”
Feeling a little uneasy, Murgatroyd too joined in the laughter, which bordered almost on the hysterical. As it died down, Olivia leaned back in her chair and fanned herself with her napkin.
“Oh my. Oh my,” she panted, catching her breath and dabbing the merry tears from the corners of her eyes. “Now, Murgatroyd. What was it that you wanted to ask?”
“Nothing. I mean, well . . . I was just wondering . . . what would you and Dad do if I left?”
At this, Olivia’s back straightened, and James’s fork stopped in midair en route to his mouth.
“Left?” James asked. “Where on earth for?”
“Erh. Nowhere. Just asking what if.”
Olivia’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you leave at all?”
“Erh. Erh. No reason. Just asking, lor. I mean, erh, just asking.”
Olivia leaned forward. “So you’re asking what your father and I would do if, one day, hypothetically, you were to decide to leave us for no reason?” She looked deep into her son’s eyes. “Is that what you’re asking, Murgatroyd?”
Murgatroyd rubbed the nape of his neck and looked down at his plate. He’d never noticed before how loudly the neighbours played their music.
“Erh. Yes?”
“Oh.” Olivia suddenly and calmly resumed eating. “Is that all? Well, dear boy, let me tell you what we’d do.” She wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “We wouldn’t.”
Murgatroyd tried to understand. “Hah?”
“We simply wouldn’t do—couldn’t do—without you, dear boy.”
“Couldn’t do without you,” James echoed, finishing the last of his breakfast.
“Not our own dear boy.”
“Our own Murgatroyd.”
“We’d be devastated if you left.”
“Simply heartbroken.”
“Couldn’t go on.”
“No, indeed.”
“But,” Olivia looked anxiously at Murgatroyd and placed her hand upon his. “You wouldn’t ever leave us, would you now?”
Murgatroyd couldn’t bring himself to lie. He remained silent. Luckily, the question was apparently a rhetorical one, for Olivia gave her son’s hand a light but surprisingly painful squeeze.
“There’s a good boy. Oh my! Look at the time! We’d better be getting to work.” She wiped her hand with her napkin, rose from her chair, and quickly downed the remainder of her tea.
“Thanks again for the superb breakfast, dear boy,” his father said, patting him on the cheek so vigorously, it almost felt like a series of small slaps. “Dear, dear boy.”
The next thing Murgatroyd knew, the front door had slammed shut, and he was alone in the flat, still trying to take in everything that had jus
t happened. He never suspected that his departure would upset them that much. How awfully inconsiderate of him. How could he not have thought of his parents, he wondered, racked with guilt. Maybe he would tell them tomorrow. He began clearing the dishes away. At least they would have one more day of blissful ignorance, until their thoughtless son broke their hearts. Simply heartbroken, they had said!
Then a new thought wriggled its way into his head. It went like this: What if you didn’t go on the Quest?
Not go on the Quest? Wasn’t it everything he’d ever hoped and dreamed for? Not necessarily. What if Kay Huat was right? You know he always is. What if it is a scam? What if you’ve just been carried away by excitement?
Applying the sponge to the dishes, Murgatroyd contemplated this horrible possibility for a while. All of it a lie? Everything that Ann said about the Quest, the Known and More Known Worlds, meeting at Bedok Jetty on Friday, even herself? And yet . . .
And yet he knew, somehow, in the very marrow of his soul, that it was all true. Try as he may to let his characteristic apprehensive and uncertain nature take over, he simply couldn’t. He had to go on the Quest, he thought in desperation. He had to go. He would tell his parents tomorrow morning, he resolved. Tomorrow.
Murgatroyd tried to put the matter of his parents’ grief and distress out of his head, at least for the meantime, and continued washing up. He was blissfully ignorant of the exchange his mother and father were having in the lift as they descended from the heights of the eleventh floor of their apartment building to the underground car park.
Facing forward and keeping his eyes fixed on the lighted numbers displayed above the lift doors, James addressed his wife. “Olivia.”