Relative Danger

by Charles Benoit

  But they didn’t have this back at home, and he noticed he wasn’t the only slack-jawed shopper in the place, either. Two hundred feet overhead the bright lights hanging from the glass ceiling obscured the late afternoon sky but illuminated a space big enough to taxi a couple of 747s. Chrome and smoked glass elevators raced up and down and escalators, suspended like spiderwebs, crisscrossed in open space. They had malls, and huge K-Marts, in central Pennsylvania, but this, this was different. It had everything every mall had—the food court, the Gap, the Hallmark card store—but it was the scale of these standard fixtures that shocked Doug and he tried to put it in perspective. There was a CD store the size of the Frackville K-Mart, a shoe store the size of the Centralia K-Mart, an arcade the size of the Pottsville K-Mart and a K-Mart-like department store twice the size of the K-Mart at the Schuylkill County Mall. Doug realized two things: that there were many different chain stores out there, and that he shopped at K-Mart a lot.

  The illuminated, 3-D map, with a blinking You Are Here red dot, indicated his insignificant position and hinted at the real size of the place. The map showed how this massive structure was but one of six mega-sized malls, all connected by canyon-like corridors, moving walkways, skyways and trams, with the subway providing three stops. It wasn’t like the souks of Casablanca or Cairo, but it wasn’t like home, either. Home wasn’t this good.

  Doug didn’t like shopping. Most of his clothes were Christmas presents or things old girlfriends had picked up for him. But he loved going to the mall for the action he always found there. He liked seeing all the people rushing and he liked that no matter how lousy it was outside, inside it was always sunny and pleasant. He seldom had a good reason for going to the mall, he didn’t get much out of it and wasted a whole lot of time doing nothing there, but for years that’s where everybody else was so he went, too. It was a lot like high school.

  Since he had turned twenty-one, Doug didn’t need to hang out at the mall all that much. Now he could do the same thing at a bar. But here in Singapore, he remembered the number one reason he had spent years hanging out at the mall: women. Well, it was girls back then, but it was women now. Having been raised on a steady diet of the blonde, blue-eyed variety, he tried not to stare as each beautiful woman walked by, her long, black hair—and they all seemed to have long, black hair—looking blue when the light hit it just right. Along with the uniform black hair went the uniform LBD—the Little Black Dress that he didn’t even know existed before he met Aisha. He tried to picture Aisha in each dress that went by but decided it was more enjoyable picturing her out of each dress that went by.

  The food court was cavernous, but it seemed to offer only two hundred different types of Chinese foods, all listed by numbers. “What’s Number 47 like?” he had asked.

  “Ever have Number 18? Taste like Number 18.”

  “What’s Number 18 like?”

  “Taste same as Number 47.”

  After the best Number 47 he ever had, and two hours of blissful wandering, Doug found the subway to take him back to the Geylang area where his hotel/warehouse was located. On the subway he noticed an advertisement for The Historic Raffles Hotel and remembered Aisha’s note that Abe had given him in Sharm el-Shiek. The poster showed an antique photograph of the hotel with the edges blurred so that it was less a building and more a dream. The Truth Must Be Told! the banner on the poster shouted and below what appeared to be an enlarged column from an old newspaper, “Providence led me to a place called RAFFLES HOTEL, where the food is excellent as the rooms are good. Let the traveler note: Eat at Raffles and Sleep at Raffles.” It was signed Rudyard Kipling in a firm, manly hand. Raffles Place was the next stop on the subway and the small type at the bottom of the poster whispered that a “10% discount” could be had at the Long Bar if this ad was mentioned.

  Raffles Hotel was everything Casablanca was supposed to be. The architecture was the same ornate, late Victorian/Neo-Classical excess, but where in Casablanca everything had a worn, crumbling look, Raffles appeared as if it had just opened that weekend. The building filled a full city block with snow-white walls and darkly stained wood trim that glistened with fresh oil. The floodlights, perfectly placed in the surrounding gardens, shot up through the plants making the building look much taller than its three stories. But it wasn’t size that made the hotel a landmark, it was the strange sensation, and Doug felt it as he stood in front of the main entrance, that you were looking back in time.

  There was a small army of doormen and porters, each division wearing distinct and elaborate uniforms, what used to be called livery, and there were men whose only job seemed to be to stand around in military poses, wearing jackets even whiter than the hotel, held taut with brass buttons and black leather belts. Tourists and locals hurried to have their pictures taken standing next to the Depression-era Rolls Royce that had just pulled up, discharging an elegantly dressed couple and their trunk-load of luggage. Small swarms of lightning bugs—purchased each month from a distributor in Malaysia—flashed among the football-sized flowers and, floating out of dozens of hidden and acoustically perfect speakers, soft jazz glazed over any of the inappropriate street sounds but somehow enhanced the clinking of champagne flutes and the high-pitched laughter of women who knew which fork to use with the fish course. Now and then a camera flash tried to compete with the light that sparkled off every polished surface, but all the prints would later show would be an overdeveloped glare associated with angelic visitations. Even the full moon and star-filled, cloudless sky disappeared in Raffles’ presence.

  Inside the lobby—the lobby that was open to the general public, not the one that real guests were privileged to use—the theme of colonial superiority continued, with the perfect combination of roll top writing desks, splayed-out plants with leaves the size of an elephant’s ear, brass spittoons which never saw as much as a candy wrapper, brown leather chairs that could seat a family of four, and more uniformed lackeys—these wearing turbans—holding open doors or balancing silver trays full of martini glasses on fingertips as they navigated the veranda.

  Everything seemed designed to elicit a feeling of nostalgia for the days of British Raj and even though Doug didn’t know what that meant, he felt it too.

  ***

  Andrew Chan tapped the stack of blank forms against the marble countertop, perfectly aligning the already perfectly aligned papers for the tenth time that evening. He positioned the stack tight along the return key box, just left of the Long-Term Luggage Storage labels and the Tiffin Room Table Reservation book. He made a mental note to restock all the blank forms. This was Andrew’s fourth full day as an Outer-Lobby Desk Assistant and he wanted to be noticed. He glanced down the sharp crease of his uniform trousers to see if his shoes had retained their shine since he last buffed them, ten minutes ago, then checked to ensure that his tie just touched the top of his belt buckle, even though it was hidden under his navy blue Raffles sport coat. “Always remember,” Mr. Fung Kee Fung had said when he personally notified Andrew of his promotion, “Raffles is the greatest hotel in the world. One piece of lint, one hair out of place, detracts from this standard. If you don’t think the guests will notice, you don’t belong at this hotel.” Andrew knew his uniform was impeccable so he worked on the friendly smile that had more to do with his promotion than his work as a back office clerk.

  Andrew beamed his smile into the cavernous outer lobby. There was the usual assortment of tourists and locals, all trying not to look like tourists or locals, trying to look as if they were guests here at the hotel and not mere gawkers, imagining they were part of the international jet-set crowd that calls Raffles home when they swing by this part of the world. Another thing Mr. Fung Kee Fung had told him to “always remember” was that there were two types of people in the world, guests and everyone else. “We don’t treat them with any sort of disrespect, Andrew,” he had said, “but they are not really our type of people. Be courteous, be efficient, be a Raffles employee, but be sure that when you deal wi
th a guest of the hotel—if you deal with a guest of the hotel, and you really shouldn’t until you have finished your training—that you are at your very best.” Even Mr. Fung Kee Fung couldn’t define it any better than that, but every employee knew just what he meant.

  Andrew watched the tourists as they roamed about conspicuously in the lobby. They photographed the floral arrangements. They photographed the dual staircases that led to the real lobby. They photographed the carpets. They photographed each other and they photographed the smiling Andrew Chan. He could keep the same infectious smile on his face for hours and it always looked fresh and sincere. So when the American tourist in the wrinkled khakis and the black and yellow striped rugby shirt approached the desk, Andrew knew he would feel welcome.

  “Good evening, sir. Welcome to Raffles. How may I be of assistance?”

  “Yeah, I’m looking for a friend of mine. She said she’d be staying at the hotel. Her name’s Aisha Al-Kady.” Doug found that he couldn’t help but smile back at the man behind the desk.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Andrew said, his smile switching slightly to indicate that he was, truly, very sorry. “I am not allowed to give out the names of our guests.”

  “No, I know her name, I just want to see if she’s here or not.”

  “Again, I’m sorry, sir, but I am not allowed to give any information about our guests. I’m sure you understand,” Andrew said, as if Doug was the kind of worldly gentleman who was accustomed to this level of guest anonymity.

  “Well can I leave her a note?” Doug asked.

  “Unless you can provide me with a room number, sir, I’m afraid I will not be able to have it delivered. However, you can contact the guest information center,” he said, pointing to a house phone at a small, round table that was being photographed by an Australian tourist. “I’m sure they can be of assistance.”

  Andrew watched the American walk across the lobby to the round table before he reached under the marble counter top for the phone. “Good evening Mr. Fung Kee Fung,” he said, switching to a more subservient smile. “This is Andrew Chan at the Outer-Lobby Desk…. Fine, thank you sir…. No sir, there’s no problem.” His hand instinctively reached up to check the knot of his tie. “I wanted to inform you that the gentleman in the photograph is here…. Yes he did, sir…. No, sir, I don’t think so…. He’s on the house phone now, sir…. Very good, sir.”

  Andrew hung up the phone and immediately adjusted the phone’s base so that it was parallel to the back of the counter. He watched as the American tourist left a message with the information center operator then, after checking the discreet brass signs, walked out along the south veranda, heading, like all tourists, to the Long Bar. For precisely ten seconds Andrew thought about the American, the photograph, the guest, and Mr. Fung Kee Fung’s instructions, and then removed the entire incident from his mind. “Always remember,” Mr. Fung Kee Fung had said, “a good employee—a Raffles employee—is attentive to the needs of our guests but never curious. Curiosity is not in your job description.”

  Andrew was smiling his real smile, which looked no different from his work smile. There were many things to remember about this job, he thought as he watched a group of Korean tourists take turns photographing each other as they stood by the main entrance. But most important, Andrew said to himself, always remember to look good in front of the boss.

  Chapter 26

  “Something wrong with your drink, sir?” The bartender had noticed Doug probing the bottom of the glass with his straw, shoving chips of ice out of the way. It was a Singapore Sling, the signature drink of Raffles Hotel and, according to the bar menu and the brass plaque by the door, invented here at the Long Bar.

  Doug wrinkled his nose and smacked his lips. “It tastes like there’s something missing,” he said even though these were the first two Singapore Slings he had ever had.

  “It’s the alcohol,” the bartender said, smiling. “There’s virtually none of it. It’s a tourist drink, really. You’ll get a sugar high before you start feeling any effects of the gin. Let me take care of that.”

  The bartender whisked away the glass and, nearly as fast, set down a round coaster, a napkin and a neon blue drink. A gold and black nametag said he was Yeo Cheow Tong.

  “It’s called a Hurricane. I think you’ll like it.”

  Doug took a sip and agreed that it was a lot better than the Singapore Sling.

  “Did they invent this one here as well.” Doug asked.

  “It’s not even on the menu. I learned to make it from my girlfriend. She grew up outside of New Orleans and tended bar for a bit when she was at LSU. It’s a good drink but not what people are looking for here. Here they want a Singha beer, sometimes a Murree’s. If they’re American they want a Bud. Gin and tonics are popular. But everybody starts off with a Sling.

  “Ngiam Tong Boon,” the bartender said suddenly.

  “Uh, good, thanks,” Doug said.

  “What’s good?” Cheow asked.

  “The drink?”

  “Oh, thanks. Anyway,” he continued, “Ngiam Tong Boon.”

  “Boom?”

  “Boon. Ngiam Tong Boon.”

  “Okay,” Doug said, “I’ll try one.”

  “Try what?” Cheow asked.

  “Ngiam Tong Boon.”

  “You know Ngiam Tong Boon?”

  “No, but if it’s as good as this here Hurricane, I’ll try one.”

  “Ngiam Tong Boon,” the bartender said one more time, the patience of a saint in his voice. “He’s the one who invented the Singapore Sling. Everyone always asks.”

  “Oh,” Doug said. He wasn’t going to ask but now he knew.

  “And, no, it wasn’t even in this room,” Cheow said, anticipating questions Doug would never pose. “The original Long Bar was over in the first part of the building, but it’s all gone. This,” he waved to take in the belt-driven ceiling fans, the rattan chairs, the open stairway to the second floor, the dark woods and the polished brass fixtures, “this was all recreated when they redid the whole place back in the Eighties. Even she’s a repro,” Cheow said, pointing out the painting of a reclining nude redhead behind the bar. “Peanuts?”

  “Sure, why not,” Doug said, sipping the much stronger drink.

  “Ngiam Tong Boon,” Cheow said as he set down a basket of nuts.

  “We’re going to do this again?”

  “Ngiam Tong Boon. The guy who invented the Sling. He’s dead now, but they still keep his original recipe book in a safe over at the hotel’s museum. Everybody usually asks.”

  “The hotel has a museum?” Doug asked, trying to remember if Pottsville had a museum.

  “Sure, you should see it. It’s really nice. It’s got lots of old photos and things from the hotel. Lots of famous people stayed here—Charlie Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks, Michael Jackson….”

  “Not at the same time, I bet.”

  “And the hotel itself has an interesting history. Once a tiger wandered into the lobby and they shot it under the pool table. Really,” Cheow said, noticing Doug’s expression. “They’ve got a newspaper clipping all about it over at the museum. Sure, you can read all about when the Japanese were here in the war and the story about the diamonds, and the time, back in the Fifties….”

  “Diamonds?” Doug asked, the Hurricane in a holding pattern, two inches off the bar.

  “Sure. Hang on a second. What can I get you?” Cheow said as a couple of smartly dressed retirees sat down at the bar. Doug watched as Cheow prepared two Singapore Slings. Uncle Russ was killed in Singapore. He might have even been killed at this hotel, Doug didn’t know. But he was killed and it was probably over a diamond. Doug noticed that he was leaning so far forward it looked as if he was about to spring over the bar and make himself a Ngiam Tong Boon, so he leaned back until he felt the bar stool start to topple. He settled for a slouch-like lean that he felt looked natural. It didn’t.

  “Sure, the diamonds,” Cheow picked up the story as he returned. Doug slouch
ed in even farther. “This goes back about, oh, what, forty, fifty years or so. There was this Italian manager of the hotel, I think his name was Guido….”

  “Guido? Come on, you have to be kidding.”

  Yeo Cheow Tong didn’t know enough Italians to understand, so he continued with his story. “Well during the war, the Japanese sent Guido to some POW camp….”

  “The Japanese? Wasn’t Italy on the same side as Japan?”

  “I guess,” Cheow said. “Anyway, they sent him to Australia.”

  “Wasn’t Australia fighting against Japan?” Doug was trying hard to recall that mini-series that covered all of this.

  “You’re right, they did fight Japan, so it must have been someone else who sent Guido.”

  “Okay, so somebody sends Guido to Australia….”

  “Sure, and before he goes he asks a British guy named Smith….”

  “Smith? An Italian guy named Guido and a British guy named Smith?”

  “Yeah, why not?” asked Cheow. “So he asks Smith to hold on to these jewels that have been in his family for years because he doesn’t want the Japanese soldiers to get them.”

  “Wait a second,” Doug said, holding up his hand. He drew in a breath to speak, held it a second or two, and finally settled on “never mind, go ahead.”

  “So Smith has to hide the jewels because the Japanese are looking everywhere for them, so he makes a false bottom in a milk can, the big kind that they used to deliver milk in, you know what I mean? He makes this false bottom and puts the jewels in and to cover up for the weight he keeps the milk can half filled with water all the time so the Japanese soldiers won’t be suspicious.”

  “Wouldn’t they think it was strange that this Smith guy kept a big milk can half filled with water?”

  “Sure. You know, I think Smith thought of that because he hollowed out the heels of his wooden clogs and hid jewels in there, too.”

  “Wooden clogs? Wouldn’t they have to be pretty big if you were going to hide jewels inside of them?”