by Tiffany Tsao
Once inside, Murgatroyd surveyed the flat he had lived in for all his life. It was clean and tastefully furnished, but now he knew what home truly felt like and this wasn’t it. Sighing deeply, he headed to the kitchen to make himself his usual consolatory cup of salty Milo. But as he reached for the Milo powder, his arm stopped. Something in him felt like having something else. He wasn’t sure why. He almost never drank anything else, especially when he was agitated, or melancholy, or just plain upset. Salty Milo had the inexplicable power to soothe him, blunting the sharp corners and prickles of any anxieties that were niggling at him. In the warm drowsiness that would spread out from his stomach to the very tips of his toes and fingers and ears, all his worries and doubts would simply melt away.
Today, the very thought of salty Milo, and even its aftereffects, was unappealing. Instead, he poured himself a glass of apple juice, seated himself at the empty dining table, and began to think on the events of the past few days, letting them tumble out of his memory in a confused, colourful heap. Onto this heap, he added the childhood memories he had so long packed away and forgotten about: his first visit to the Tutti-Frutti Ice Cream Shop, the kindness of Uncle Yusuf, his first ice cream sundae, the Freezer in all its frozen splendour, his taste of the ice cream that had set his breath afire and made him feel so warm and alive. These memories were a little faded, a little creased, but as he brought them out of the dark recesses of his mind and into the light, they regained some of their original colour and glow.
Here they were: all the memories—from so many years ago, from a few days ago, and from only a few hours ago. They lay spread out before him in a splendid, multicoloured mess. But now what? Since he wasn’t going on the Quest, were the events of the past few days destined to eventually be put away and forgotten too?
Of course, he could always change his mind about not going on the Quest, couldn’t he? Ann had said she would still be there. Tomorrow at seven p.m. at Bedok Jetty in East Coast Park. Bring a toothbrush and a change of underwear, nothing else. Kay Huat had offered to give him a ride and see him off. He could call him now. It would be as easy as that. Nothing simpler.
What did he have left here? What could he look forward to? He felt like a castaway stranded on a deserted island, watching helplessly as a ship appeared on the horizon, chugged its way tantalizingly close to the island’s shores, and continued on and away, leaving him still alone, still unrescued, looking after it in desperate longing. Now what?
“Now, I have my parents. And I have my best friend,” he told himself out loud. The sound of his own voice startled him. It continued speaking. “What is wrong with you, Murgatroyd? You do remember that your father has cancer, don’t you? You do remember that they love you, and that they bought you that wonderful bed in your room, and they fixed your hot water, and they make dinner for you every night, don’t you? You do remember that you’re staying because you’re going to help them through this and return their love?
“And you do remember, Murgatroyd, that you have a best friend who understands you and loves you like a brother and looks out for you, don’t you? Where would you find a better friend than Kay Huat?
“You do remember how fortunate you are, Murgatroyd? Don’t you?”
Murgatroyd clapped his hands over his mouth in surprise. But now that he had said it all out loud, he felt somewhat reassured. Yes, he thought (silently this time). Eventually, he would get over the disappointment about the Quest and move on. Hadn’t Ann herself told him that he would eventually adjust to the Known World and become a Sumfit like everyone else? Then the Known World would become his home.
Murgatroyd realized that he was sitting in the dark. Afternoon had slipped into evening and the sun had gone down. He glanced at his wristwatch: it was already half past seven. If he hadn’t lost his job, he would be waiting tables at L’Abattoir. But not tonight. He wondered when his parents would be coming home. Surely they must have left work by now.
He stood up, turned on the lights, and used the phone in the kitchen to dial his mother’s mobile number.
“Hello?” his mother’s voice answered. He could hear a lot of voices in the background.
“Erh. Hallo? Mum?”
“Oh it’s you, Murgatroyd. What is it?”
“Just wondering if you and Dad are coming home for dinner. I . . .” he gulped. “I got fired today, so I can cook something.”
“What did you say?” his mother asked. “You got fired?”
“Erh. Yes.”
“Hold on for just a second.” Murgatroyd heard something that sounded disconcertingly like muffled laughter. “Sorry, I’m back. Oh dear. That’s terrible news. Would you mind repeating it again?”
“Huh?”
“Your news about getting fired. Could you repeat it again? It’s a bit loud here in the . . . office. I just want to make sure I heard it properly.”
Murgatroyd sighed and repeated the bad news: “I got fired today.” Saying it a second time felt a little more painful.
“Oh dear. Yes, I did hear it properly,” Olivia said. “You really liked that job, didn’t you?”
“Yeah . . .” Murgatroyd sighed again. “Yeah, I did.”
“And you were actually good at it, weren’t you?”
“Yeah . . . yeah, I was.”
“Come to think of it, that was the only job you’ve ever been good at.”
Murgatroyd winced. “Yeah . . . yeah, it was.”
“Yes, that is a real shame.” Olivia was silent, but only for a few seconds. “Are you sad?”
“Erh. Yeah, of course. How come you’re asking?”
“No reason. Just wondering. But just one more question, dear boy. If you had to rate your sadness on a scale of one to ten, one being ‘slightly sad’ and ten being ‘extremely sad,’ how would you rate it?”
Murgatroyd was beginning to feel that this was getting downright strange. Still, he tried to answer truthfully. “Erh. A nine, maybe?”
“A nine, you say? Not a ten, then?”
“Well . . . I was feeling really, really sad just now. But I tried to think of how lucky I still am to have you and Dad and Kay Huat.”
“I see,” Olivia said. “Yes, I suppose so.” For some reason, she sounded slightly disappointed.
Murgatroyd tried to change the subject. “So, are you and Dad coming home for dinner?”
“Actually, no. I have to work late in the office tonight. And your father told me he has to work late in his office as well.”
“Are lots of people working late in your office? It sounds very busy,” Murgatroyd said.
“Yes, yes. Lots of people working late. We’re working on a big project. Yes, the sushi platter is for me.”
“Sushi platter?”
“Sorry about that, Murgatroyd. Just talking to a coworker. She just brought back Japanese takeout for the office. For all of us here in the office working on the big project.”
“Oh right. I’ll give Dad a call then and tell him the news.”
“The bad news, you mean? About you getting fired?”
Murgatroyd winced again. “Yes. About me getting fired.”
“Ah, yes. Don’t worry about that. I’ve told him. I mean, I’ll tell him. I’ll call his office and tell him. About the firing. You just get some rest. You must feel absolutely terrible. We’ll see you when we get back from dinner . . . and from the office. Because we’re both working late and have to eat dinner in the office. Our respective offices, that is.”
“Okay. How late will you be getting back?”
“How very sweet of you to ask, dear boy.”
She hung up.
Murgatroyd too hung up the phone, and resumed sitting alone at the dining table. Perhaps it was just as well they were both working late. To be honest, he didn’t really feel like cooking or eating. Perhaps he would just take a shower and go to bed early. But first, he would think a little more about things.
Sitting alone at the dining table, continuing to mull over his thoughts, his lif
e, the Quest, Murgatroyd hadn’t the faintest idea that his own little insignificant self was occupying many other people’s thoughts as well.
As he sat alone at the dining table, his mother and father were sitting across from each other at their favourite Japanese restaurant—the one they used to frequent all the time, back when it had just been the two of them. James and Olivia Floyd hadn’t eaten at that restaurant for years, but they were there tonight to celebrate their success at foiling their son’s pursuit of genuine happiness.
Olivia snickered to her husband as she pressed the “end” button on her mobile phone. “He thinks we’re both working late. I told him you were still in your office too.”
James laughed and took a sip of sake. “So, he got fired today too, eh? Perfect.”
“When it rains, it pours,” Olivia said. And they both laughed.
“We haven’t had this much fun in years,” James said. It was true. This last concerted effort to prevent their son from escaping, from leaving them stranded in their otherwise joyless marriage, had enabled them to regain some semblance of the passion they had once felt for each other. Tonight, in the pleasant glow of romantic lighting, amidst the hustle and bustle and clatter of the restaurant, it felt almost as if they were in love again.
James raised his cup of sake. “To Murgatroyd!”
“To Murgatroyd!” Olivia repeated.
And together they drank in honour of their dear boy.
Elsewhere on the island of Singapore, a little over six kilometres away, Murgatroyd was on someone else’s mind. Seng Kay Huat was in his flat, eating dinner with his father. This was unusual, as Hong Low never took a break from running his char kway teow stall. Never. Ever since he had opened it, he had been there every day without fail. Until today. His son had insisted so strongly, ferociously even, that they should—must—have dinner together, that he had consented to close the stall and come home early. In fact, Hong Low had never seen Kay Huat act the way he had acted yesterday when he had asked his father to take the following night off. The boy had first pleaded, then began shouting, and finally burst into tears. His son had never been so hysterical before. All for an impromptu dinner? He wasn’t sure what to make of it. Reluctantly, he had consented. Something was wrong.
Even now, as he sat across from Kay Huat, picking at the pasta dish his son had made (Hong Low had never really liked the taste of western food) he wondered and waited for his son to tell him what all the fuss was about. But Kay Huat too was picking listlessly at his own food, absorbed in thought.
Hong Low cleared his throat. “Ah-Boy. Is there anything wrong?”
Kay Huat looked up, his face the very picture of innocent confusion. “Hah? Why would there be anything wrong, Ba?”
“Well, you know. You telling me to take the night off. This dinner. Just thought I’d ask, lah.”
“No, no. Nothing wrong. Just wanted to spend some time with you.”
“How come? Are you going somewhere?”
“No, no,” Kay Huat lied. “I . . . I feel like I’ve been taking you for granted. That’s all.”
Hong Low narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Are you sure?”
Kay Huat nodded.
“Ah-Boy, you don’t lie to me. You’re sure nothing is wrong?”
Kay Huat shook his head.
“You sick or something? No bad news?”
Kay Huat shook his head.
“You’re sure, hah?”
Kay Huat nodded. “Yes, yes, I’m sure, Ba. I just wanted to tell you . . .” Kay Huat reached over and touched his father lightly on the arm. “That I love you very much. You’re the best father anyone could hope for.”
Hong Low grunted shyly and feigned renewed interest in his pasta. Kay Huat smiled because he knew that he had gotten the message across, and that had been the purpose of this entire dinner.
Tomorrow evening he would be off—setting out to accomplish whatever the Quest required him to do, and at long last, achieving the greatness that he had always been destined for. (His father didn’t know the details, of course. Explaining would have been far too complicated, and it would be easier for both of them this way.) Kay Huat had always wondered exactly how he would become great. All the activities he had engaged in, hobbies he had taken up, knowledge he had acquired, had all been efforts to prepare for this point in his life. His academic excellence, his musical proficiency, his literary talents, his athletic abilities, and even his abstention from any bothersome romantic relationships: it had all been for the sake of this predestined greatness. The certainty that he was meant to achieve it had ripened in his mind over the past several years into a sweet, juicy peach hanging pendulously from its bough. And finally, the opportunity had arrived. His patience was now going to be rewarded.
Yet, lurking in the background of Kay Huat’s meditations on his future greatness was a small, skinny, scraggly silhouette. It was Shwet Foo. The unobtrusive, unremarkable, unassuming, and ever-trusting Shwet Foo. Kay Huat tried to tell himself that he wasn’t doing Shwet Foo any wrong. After all, now that his father had breast cancer, Shwet Foo had decided himself not to go on the Quest. He was simply supporting his friend’s decision not to go. And didn’t somebody have to take his place?
Do you honestly believe that Mr. Floyd has cancer?
Well, no, he admitted to himself. But just as it had never been any of his business to interfere with the Floyds’ dislike of their son, neither was it his business to interfere with what they chose to tell their son. Besides, even if Shwet Foo knew the truth about his parents, then what? He’d go on the Quest? Puny little Shwet Foo? It was too dangerous for him. Even if Shwet Foo had intended to go, it would have been Kay Huat’s duty to prevent him from doing so, to keep him safe and sound in Singapore.
As much as Kay Huat told himself that he was doing nothing wrong—told himself again and again in every way imaginable—the silhouette still haunted him, attending his every thought. For despite himself, Kay Huat really did love Shwet Foo like a brother, almost as much as he loved his father.
Sacrifices had to be made for greatness. There was no alternative.
Kay Huat and his father finished their dinner without another word. Gently nudging his father in the direction of the television, Kay Huat cleared the table, stored the leftovers in the refrigerator, and washed the dishes. Then he retired to his bedroom to make sure all the preparations were in place. Laid out on his bed were two envelopes. One contained a letter for his father, bidding him goodbye and explaining the arrangements he had made regarding finances. Effective two days from now, all of Kay Huat’s assets and investments would be transferred to his father’s name. The other envelope was addressed to Shwet Foo: a letter of apology and farewell.
Tomorrow would be his last day at work, Kay Huat reflected. He would leave the office a little early. He would drive to East Coast Park and park his car. Then he would depart forever.
I’ve done nothing wrong, Kay Huat repeated to himself. Still, he couldn’t help but murmur out loud, “Shwet Foo, I’m sorry.”
“Murgatroyd, I’m sorry.”
In a faraway Territory of the More Known World, Ann was sitting on her dock, bathing her legs in the water. Something had compelled her to say that, although she wasn’t sure what. She felt that she had failed Murgatroyd somehow. She should have pleaded his case more convincingly to the One and the Other. She should have figured out what was going on earlier. It was ironic that despite her remorse for what she had failed to do, she remained ignorant of the adverse effects that Murgatroyd’s third visit to the More Known World was having on his continued safety in the Known World. Aware that Murgatroyd’s wellbeing was under threat, yet utterly unaware that Murgatroyd’s life was now in danger, Ann hoped fervently that Murgatroyd would show up tomorrow. What she didn’t know was that now his very life depended on it.
Back in the Singapore of the Known World, eleven storeys below Murgatroyd’s lighted bedroom window, stood a young man who was also contemplating Murgatroyd’
s life—contemplating how he would end it. It was the Duck Assassin, crouching in the shadows of the building, seething quietly with rage. He had failed twice. The next time, he wouldn’t fail again.
Craning his neck upwards, the Duck Assassin never let his gaze shift from Murgatroyd’s bedroom window. Not when the lights were turned off at nine thirty. Not when they were turned back on for a few minutes. And not when they were turned off again for the rest of the night. The little ang moh was sleeping, but he had to leave the flat at some point. And when he did, the Duck Assassin would be ready for him.
The Duck Assassin had seen Murgatroyd’s bedroom light turn on and off, and he had wondered, briefly, why. Probably a trip to the toilet, he had thought. Actually, Murgatroyd had gotten out of bed not to empty his bladder, but to make a phone call. Just as he had lain his head down on his pillow with the intent of going to sleep, he remembered what Ann had asked him during their last phone conversation.
Do you believe everything your parents tell you?
He had turned on the lights and gotten out of bed to look up a number in the address book his parents kept in the kitchen. He had called the number and left a message. And then, he had gotten back into bed, switched off the lights, and tried to lose himself in the world of dreams.
CHAPTER 20
“Twelfth floor,” announced the automated female voice. The silver lift doors parted, revealing what they did every time Dr. Loy alighted on the twelfth floor: a very large pleasant painting of a lake, done in watercolour, framed in burnished bronze. Occasionally, Dr. Loy would have the satisfaction of having the lift doors open to reveal someone looking at the painting—usually a patient of his, or one of the other medical practitioners whose offices were housed in the same building. Sometimes, he thought he saw admiration and appreciation in their faces as they looked at it.