by Tiffany Tsao
However, if interviewed about their mother, they might not have been so inclined towards gracious exoneration. In fact, if interviewed, they might have called their mother several things considered quite unpublishable. Which was a shame. Shakti did have the best of intentions.
As if to compensate for her husband’s obliviousness with regard to their children, Shakti had almost smothered her son and daughter to death—quite literally one time when they had gone on a ski trip to New Zealand. Piling blanket upon pillow upon blanket upon pillow over them, Shakti wanted to be sure they would be warm enough as they slept. Luckily, the eldest, though weak from lack of oxygen, managed to pull himself and his unconscious sister out from under the suffocating heap of linens and goose down before it was lights out for good. At home, Shakti had gone out of her way to see to every possible need that didn’t need seeing to, and demanded, in return for her unwanted efforts, their boundless love, gratitude, amicability, and deference. She would ask them if they felt like having chocolate cake from the famous Death by Chocolate bakery on the other side of the island. They would say, “No.” She would promptly get in her car and drive the entire length of the island (about forty minutes) to buy them chocolate cake, return home, and serve them each a thick slice with ice cream on the side. They would refuse it. She would call them ungrateful, and tearfully retire to the adjoining room where she would lament loudly in a voice that carried through the whole house about how she was being punished for simply loving her two children and how she just wanted to make them happy.
When the time had come for each of them to go off to university, she had taken great pains to secure each of them admission at various overseas institutions through months and months of shameless networking, calling in favours, and monetary donations. They each, in turn, declined to go to the universities Shakti had picked for them, and instead attended universities of their own choosing—ones they’d been admitted to on their own merits. Both times, Shakti had spent a month in a prolonged fit of fury and tears at the child’s wilful refusal of her “gift” and the child’s supposed “hostility” towards her.
Life with their father and mother meant a constant alternation between two extremes. With their father, they were nonexistent. With their mother, they were subjected to an exhausting amount of unnecessary melodrama. Given the schizophrenic environment, it was perhaps inevitable that they would either run amok or run away, which is exactly what they did, respectively. The Vithani son dutifully returned to work in Singapore and live with his parents after attending university in Melbourne. One morning, two and a half months after his return, he calmly entered his office, calmly sat down at his desk, calmly pulled out a stainless-steel letter opener from a drawer, and then calmly flew into a frenzy, stabbing one coworker three times in the belly and his boss four times in the arm before he hurled himself through the window and onto the street four storeys below. Miraculously, he survived, as did his victims, and he was now in a mental institution.
It was in all the papers.
The younger Vithani child, who studied at a university in the United States, chose stealth over attempted murder-suicide. She disappeared immediately after her graduation ceremony, leaving behind a dormitory room full of possessions and a confused mother alone at the graduation reception. (Mr. Vithani had accompanied his wife to the States, supposedly to attend the graduation as well, but by the time they had checked in, he had forgotten all about it. Early the next morning, he had embarked on a sightseeing tour of the area, and by the time his wife called to remind him that first, he had a daughter, and that second, she was graduating at that very moment, where in bloody hell was he, it was too late for him to make it now, never mind.) Shakti never saw or heard from her youngest again. It was rumoured that a friend of a friend of a second cousin of Shakti’s husband had thought he had caught a glimpse of an Indian woman who looked a great deal like Shakti’s youngest daughter while he was passing through a small town in the Ozark Mountains. She was working at a hunting equipment store.
The maternal affection Shakti lavished on Murgatroyd was not quite the sort she had lavished on her flesh and blood. She was utterly unconcerned about the affairs of Murgatroyd’s private life, past, present, and future. Nor did she concern herself with his welfare, as evinced by the fact that, despite his being perhaps the finest waiter at L’Abattoir, she had no qualms about paying him significantly less than the most novice waiters in her employ. Towards him, maternal affection took the form of fierce pride in what he had become—what she had made him—and fierce possessiveness, the kind a spoilt little girl might exhibit for her favourite rhinestone tiara. Shakti was immensely eager to show off her protégé to anyone in the restaurant with whom she had managed to strike up a conversation.
“Shwet Foo! Come here,” Shakti would beckon, standing near, say, a table of four boisterous Australians on vacation who, though they had just started on their appetizers, had already had a good deal too much to drink.
Murgatroyd would dutifully comply.
“Shwet Foo, these are the Pursers, and these are the Sedleys. They’re all newlyweds! They’re on a joint honeymoon!”
Murgatroyd would bow slightly and ask them if they were enjoying their dinner.
“Cawr!” Mr. Purser would say, spewing little crumbs of Roquefort cheese all over the table. “How’d you get him to talk like that? He’s got an accent, doesn’t he? He talks like one of them!”
“Where’s he from, then? He looks like one of us!”
Shakti would beam and tell them of the day when Shwet Foo appeared at her office for an interview: her initial surprise at his whiteness, her greater surprise at his accent, the pitiful way in which he conducted himself, plus a few embellishments of her own, such as how he had been able to take only a few steps at a time because he had been incapable of breathing and walking simultaneously.
“Darlings, you should have seen him. Completely hopeless! Unkempt, uncultured, and with a hunch in his back that could rival Quasimodo’s.” (Shakti would refrain from mentioning how her Shwet Foo remained thoroughly unkempt, uncultured, and hunchbacked when he wasn’t at work.) “It took months and months of training to get him how you see him now. He’s the best damn waiter here! If there were a contest, I’d bet he’d win for being the best damn waiter in Singapore! Months and months it took!” Here, she would point at her own person with an immaculately manicured fingernail. “I trained him personally!”
At this point, the diners might exchange some harmless banter with him, inquire about his origins and education, ask if he was a football fan, and so on—just to make certain that the local accent combined with the ultradignified mien were “the real thing.” Murgatroyd would reply respectfully and concisely. At this point, Shakti’s face would be glowing like a newly changed light bulb.
“Brilliant!” the diners would exclaim.
“Now, now. It took a lot of training to whip this one into shape,” Shakti would say modestly. “Well, my dear. You’d better get back to work.” She would pat him on the head or the shoulder as one might a well-trained dog, but with his bearing, it was as if Shakti had dared to coochie-coo Sir Laurence Olivier on the chin. The company would gasp. There would be a moment of suspense. Then Murgatroyd would smile and they would give a sigh of relief. He would bow again to the company. He would glide away to attend to one of his tables. It was a familiar routine.
Tonight, however, it would be Murgatroyd who would seek Shakti out, albeit with much apprehension. As he did up his bow tie, he realized that he still hadn’t quite figured out how he would deliver the news of his resignation and was quite frightened of what her reaction might be. Actually, he knew what her reaction would be. She would be angry—angry at the prospect of losing her best waiter at less than two weeks’ notice. Angry at his inadequate explanation—how do you tell someone you’re quitting your job to embark on a quest to explore unknown territories at the invitation of a strange one-eyed woman? And, most likely, she would be angry at his ingratitud
e. Shakti had given him not only a job, but also months of personal training. He would have to be careful, he thought, as he took the black jacket off its coat hanger and brushed the lint off its lapels.
As Murgatroyd slipped on the jacket, he felt the familiar surge of authority and confidence filling his veins. His spine straightened, his shoulders squared, his motions became surer, and he felt certain that he could effectively communicate to Shakti what he wanted to say in a precise yet respectful manner. Airily dismissing the exceptional clumsiness of last night from his mind, he glided into the dining area where they would all be briefed about the special dishes of the evening and the guests who would be dining that night—the regulars who were coming, which tables they would be seated at, food allergies and preferences, and so on. The restaurant officially opened for dinner at five thirty, but the waitstaff and kitchen had to be ready and standing by at five fifteen, just in case a guest showed up early, which rarely happened. However, today was exceptional, and at 5:15 p.m. sharp, they admitted a very nervous young woman who (she told the waitress pouring water into her glass) was meeting someone for a first date, and hadn’t wanted to risk being late. She occupied her time by humming, darting her eyes towards the entrance every now and then, and drumming her fingers on the table.
Closer to five thirty, more guests began to trickle in, including a nervous young man who turned out to be the nervous young woman’s dinner companion. By six, the dining room was half full, with the area immediately surrounding the arena completely filled by glamorous-looking types who preferred to eat dinner at the fashionably later time of eight or nine, but had made the requisite sacrifice in order to dine in the restaurant at all.
As Murgatroyd seated his first table of the evening, he glimpsed Shakti entering the restaurant out of the corner of his eye. As usual, she seated herself, ordered her glass of Coca-Cola Light, and called the headwaiter over for an update on how matters stood for the evening. Tonight’s the night, Murgatroyd thought to himself, handing a menu to each of his guests. And yet, for some reason, he felt no inclination to do anything, to change anything. No inclination to break the news to Shakti, to quit his job, to go on the Quest.
“May I inform you of some of the specials the chef has prepared this evening?” That was his own voice he was hearing, addressing the guests seated at the table before him. As he did so, he found his eyes wandering, surveying the world around him—a world created by a team of expensive interior designers and bathed in a soft orange glow that had taken a lighting specialist three weeks to get right. The recitation issuing forth from his own mouth—a cloying monologue of culinary delight—seemed to cast a spell over his own person, and without a single pause, stammer, or slip in his speech, he reflected on the wonder of it all. He, of all people—Murgatroyd Floyd Shwet Foo—was privileged enough to inhabit this magical world of porcelain dishware and silver cutlery and spotless white table linen, of pink peonies blossoming in vases, of long-stemmed glasses filled with wines red and white, of men in beautifully cut suits done up in silk neckties, of women with berry-tinted lips and glittering jewels draped about their earlobes, throats, and wrists.
He knew every intimate detail about this world. Over there, to Mrs. Woo’s right, was the salad fork with a prong slightly askew, used by Ahmad to fix one of the dishwashers. That fifth pane of glass walling the execution arena had had to be replaced when an unwieldy young calf, crazed with pain and terror, had slammed into it with surprising force. Here, on this tablecloth, just where he was lightly placing his forefinger, was the faint shadow of a stubborn spot of oyster gravy, barely noticeable, left over from Mr. Harold Wong’s twenty-seventh birthday dinner.
His own voice wafted back into his ears. “. . . poached pears infused with brandy, drizzled with a dark chocolate sauce, and served with a dollop of hazelnut ice cream on the side. Now, may I answer any questions about the specialties of the evening?”
As Murgatroyd glided away to submit their orders to the kitchen, he reflected on how leaving the restaurant seemed an option far less attractive than it had been earlier that day. Why would he want to leave all this? Here, he was truly in his element—the first time he had ever been so in the entirety of his lonely and awkward life. The evening passed as usual, with Shakti calling him over to a table periodically to parade him in front of various diners. That night, he was marvelled at by a group of ten Japanese tourists, the Hwee family (who was celebrating a sixtieth wedding anniversary), and an attractive middle-aged Lebanese man whom Shakti thoughtfully decided to keep company for the rest of his meal. Murgatroyd and Shakti had their routine down pat—her declarations of his complete transformation from caterpillar into butterfly, his modest but elegant responses to any questions asked of him: their timing, their rapport, was impeccable. It was an act refined over years of practice, and Murgatroyd took a certain pride in performing it. He refrained from bringing up the subject of his resignation, not out of fear (resting his hands confidently on his black silk lapels, he felt no fear); rather, he refrained because he found himself incapable of disturbing a dynamic so exquisite—something that worked as well as the inner machinery of a delicate and finely tuned timepiece.
Here at the restaurant were tranquillity and security and familiarity and even a fair amount of prestige. Here, he thought as he swept a tablecloth clean with his silver table crumber, was where he belonged. He caught himself. No, it wasn’t. He was an Oddfit. He remembered Ann.
Tell me something, Murgatroyd. Do you belong here?
He remembered Ann’s question and the perturbation it had caused him. True, this world wasn’t exactly everything he’d wished for, to be sure. But it came close. And it was comforting.
Just past midnight, the last two guests—the nervous young man and woman, now no longer nervous and a tad tipsy—departed from L’Abattoir in a taxi, and the waitstaff could finally clear the last table and begin closing the restaurant. The evening was over, and at long last, they could go home. In the back room, Murgatroyd changed into his casual clothes, and as he did, he underwent his customary transformation into his own self. Little by little, his chest collapsed inward and his spine curved into a hunch. His jaw went slack, the expression in his eyes clouded over into dullness, his fingers fumbled with his buttons and zippers and shoelaces, and he felt himself once again yearning for true happiness and thinking of the Quest. But now, in place of excitement, was profound confusion. How could he have so easily dismissed the Quest from his mind when now it seemed as if he had never longed for anything more desperately in his entire life? Abruptly, he thought of his parents. Couldn’t do without you, dear boy. Was it true? He was, after all, their only child. Was he being selfish? Was his personal happiness everything? When he was at work, he may not have been happy, but he was comfortable and at peace. Wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t that all one should expect from life? To be almost content some of the time?
There was a pounding on the door. “Eh, Shwet Foo! Can hurry up or not? Got other people also need to change!”
Murgatroyd gave up trying to tie his shoes and hurriedly emerged from the room, bumping into a grumpy-looking Ahmad holding a bundle of clothes.
“Sorry, lah. Sorry.” Murgatroyd apologized before tripping on his shoelace and landing flat on his face at the expensively shod feet of Shakti Vithani.
“Ah, Shwet Foo! Splendid job this evening. The Hwee family in particular was very impressed.”
He squinted up at her from the floor. “Thank you.”
“Not at all. Well, then,” she said, yawning and turning away. “Goodnight. See you tomorrow.”
“No, wait!” Murgatroyd called after her.
Shakti turned around. “Wait? What for?”
“I mean, can I talk to you about something?”
“About what?”
“Erh . . .”
Shakti squatted down and looked Murgatroyd squarely in the face, and her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “Is it about a raise? Because you do know I pay you extraordinar
ily well.”
“No, no. Not about pay, lah,” Murgatroyd said frantically, getting to his knees. “About something else.”
“About what?” she repeated, patiently.
“About maybe leaving the restaurant!” Murgatroyd blurted out. He held his breath.
“What, ‘leaving’ as in going home right now like everyone else is doing or ‘leaving’ as in quitting?”
“Quitting.”
Shakti’s brow furrowed, and she looked at the other staff scurrying around the kitchen finishing their final chores. “Perhaps we should talk about this outside.”
They entered the deserted dining area and sat down at a table. Shakti folded her hands in front of her, her face fixed in a surprisingly neutral, businesslike expression.
“So, Shwet Foo. When you say, ‘leaving the restaurant,’ you really do mean to say that you wish to quit your job?”
He felt rather taken aback. He hadn’t expected Shakti to react so calmly about the matter. “Erh. Maybe. Yes. Maybe?”
“Which is it? ‘Maybe’ or ‘Yes’?”
Murgatroyd clenched his teeth. “Yes.”
“For what reason would you wish to quit? Is it an offer from another restaurant?”
He shook his head vigorously.
“And it’s not because you’re dissatisfied with your pay?”
He shook his head again.
“Do you not like working here?”
He shook his head.
“Well, then,” she said, drumming her fingers on the table. “I’m a bit confused. Why on earth would you want to leave?”
Murgatroyd said nothing. Saying that he needed to go on a Quest seemed ridiculous in the extreme.
“As your employer, don’t I at least deserve an explanation?”
Murgatroyd nodded.
“Or . . . perhaps, you’re not sure whether you want to leave?”