Misdirection

by Ning Cai

  We exchange salutes and after Uncle Kayne mimes a mic drop, the call ends.

  Looking up from my phone, I’m greeted by the brightly painted, decorative Peranakan-style pintu pagar half-doors of the restored conservation shophouse in front of me, proud remains of a bygone era, and I smile at their familiarity. I push open the swinging doors of the restaurant, and am surprised to find the usually packed establishment strangely empty except for Aunt Theresa, Jon and a gorgeous stranger taking a wefie of herself feeding my gleeful cousin a spoonful of something that obviously pleases him very much. They share a special laugh only the way new lovers do, then the girl sees me and accidentally smears dark sauce on his chin.

  “Hey, everyone, so sorry I’m late,” I say with an apologetic wave as I walk over.

  My aunt smiles. “You better tuck in, Chilli Padi. Food’s getting cold.” She notices my concerned gaze at the empty tables around us and shrugs. “Apparently I offended an important media mogul when I threw that self-indulgent, egotistical, pretentious baby boomer out the other day. This petty man decided to get all his food critics to make up rubbish reviews about our restaurant. But don’t worry, it will pass. People will come back.”

  Remembering what CK shared with me yesterday, I grimace. “Sorry to hear about that.”

  I join them at the round marble table laden with a mouthwatering assortment of my favourite Nonya dishes. Jon, with a proud grin on his face, slings an arm around the smiling young woman next to him, her beautifully coiffed hair falling in perfect soft curls around her small shoulders, framing her sweet angelic features. “Chilli Padi, this is my girlfriend. Gigi, this is my cousin Maxine.”

  “Max,” I say and shake Gigi’s dainty little hand, admiring the pretty nail art on her manicured nails before dragging out the heavy Chinese rosewood barrel stool across from her. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” She smiles, looking into my eyes before her gaze flicks up to my scar. “Your cousin’s told me so much about you and your family, Max. It’s not easy, what you’ve been through. I think you’re exceptionally brave. You should consider writing a book about it.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble, not realising how hungry I actually am until I start shoving food into my mouth. I savour the smoky, complex flavours of Aunt Theresa’s ayam buah keluak, made from a precious family recipe handed down from my great grandmother. Gigi laughs at my clumsiness when I spill some gravy in my haste, and pushes a paper napkin towards me.

  “I’m serious, Max, have you ever thought of sharing your story?” She looks very much like a younger version of Constance Wu from Fresh Off the Boat as she bats her long eyelashes.

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  “Think about it, Max. It would be a bestseller, and your story could really inspire a lot of people. I’d be more than happy to help you, if you like.”

  I chew a spoonful of robust chap chye, paired beautifully with the sambal belacan and gravy. “Thanks much, but I’m really not interested right now.”

  Aunt Theresa fills everyone’s teacups with more pu’er tea.

  “Gigi’s studying mass communications. She’s a fantastic writer,” Jon says, helping himself to more of his mother’s spicy assam pedas curry. “You should think about it, Chilli Padi. Maybe you girls can be the next GK Rowing with a bestseller under your belt.”

  “JK Rowling,” Gigi says. “But thank you, bae.” Her peachy lipstick accentuates her amused giggle as her doe eyes settle on me. “I mean it, Max. It’s a lot of work, but I’d be more than happy to work with you on this book project. Everybody would love to find out more about—”

  “So you’ve actually read what your girlfriend writes then?” Aunt Theresa interrupts, scooping more bakwan kepiting into my cousin’s brimming soup bowl. “And here I always thought that my son hates to read. What does Gigi write about?”

  Jon’s smiling dimples slowly disappear.

  “Oh.” Aunt Theresa smiles sweetly at Gigi. “You haven’t shared how you two met?”

  “Mak, I told you,” Jon says, forcing a smile. “We’re both in the school’s adventure club.”

  “Interesting.” My aunt takes a sip of her tea, appearing to contemplate Gigi’s fair skin, pretty eyelash extensions and perfectly manicured nails. “You don’t quite look like the kind who’s into trekking, camping or canoeing. What exactly do students at the adventure club do these days?”

  The soothing Corrinne May CD playing in the background chooses to end right at this moment. The restaurant gets uncomfortably quiet. Tension starts to fill the room with every second of silence. Jon and I stop eating and delicately lay down our chopsticks.

  Unexpectedly, Gigi suddenly laughs, shattering the awkward uneasiness.

  “You caught me there, Mrs Lee. But you can’t fault a girl for trying to make a good first impression with the mother of the most eligible bachelor in school. All the other girls say Jon looks like Choi Siwon from Super Junior, the K-pop group.” Gigi pauses. “Oh wait. I’m sorry, but is it Missus or Madam? Jon did tell me you make him use your surname and not his father’s.”

  Aunt Theresa breaks into terse laughter, trying to hide the surprise at her son’s unexpected betrayal. The atmosphere inside the restaurant starts to sizzle dangerously. I glance at Jon, who sits there with a vexed look on his face. Still chuckling, my aunt reaches over and pinches her son on the cheek.

  “Ah, my wonderful son,” she says, before releasing her firm grip. It leaves a mark but he makes no move to rub the soreness away.

  Dead air fills My Sayang and the humming of the air-conditioning feels loud in my ears.

  “Oh, look at the time. Thank you for the lovely meal, Mrs Lee. I do hope you get more customers soon.” Gigi gives a saccharine-sweet smile before running her fingers through Jon’s short hair. “Bae, I’ll make a move now, you know I promised to help Ma at the stall today. And Max, it’s great to finally meet you. You’re cool and I really do think you have an awesome story to tell. I’ll be in touch. Do you Snapchat?”

  “Snapchat? What’s that?”

  “I’ll text you Max’s number,” Jon says as his girlfriend rises and gives him a soft kiss on the same cheek his mother just pinched.

  “Bye,” Gigi says and waves.

  Once she pushes past the restaurant’s swinging doors, Jon turns and stares daggers at his mother. “Do you want to tell me what that was about?”

  Aunt Theresa runs a finger around the rim of her small teacup.

  “That girl is obviously prying into your cousin’s private life and you’re enabling her, an outsider. We’re supposed to protect each other, Jon. That’s what family’s supposed to do.”

  Jon slams his fist down on the table, sending his chopsticks flying. The thick veins at his temples are throbbing. I have never seen my cousin look so upset before.

  “Gigi is my girlfriend, not an outsider, Mak,” Jon says, seething. “She’s only trying to help and what she says is true. I’ll be off to NS soon and still don’t even know who my father is. You’ve never told me anything else beyond how you met him in Amsterdam during your gap year, and that he’s an artist.”

  Aunt Theresa looks away.

  Throwing his hands in the air, my cousin announces that he is heading to the gym. And then he is gone, the creaky wooden doors swinging in his wake. In desperation, I try to rack my brain for something nice to say to break the silence.

  “Are these all your grandmother’s original recipes, Aunt Theresa?” I finally say. “It’s amazeballs. Seriously, you need to invite food bloggers over. They will love it. Plus everything is so Instagram-worthy, people will fall in love with My Sayang all over again.”

  “You think so?” She smiles valiantly but sadness still glimmers in her eyes.

  I pour my aunt some tea and offer her the cup. “Thank you,” I say. She raises her eyebrows in question, but accepts the full cup anyway. “Thank you, for protecting me. For watching over me.”

  Aunt Theresa is just about to say something when loud du
b-step music suddenly starts playing from my bum. She gestures for me to go ahead and pick up the call, as she busies herself with someone just entering the restaurant; it’s the same cardboard-collecting karung guni man from earlier. She seems to know him fairly well and they start chatting about the weather, with my kind-hearted aunt offering him a drink. I swipe to answer the unfamiliar number. “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” a quiet voice says after a brief, awkward silence.

  We only just met, but I recognise his endearing Singlish accent immediately: Charlie, the goth magician.

  “Are you trying to do an Adele duet?” I smirk. “How did you get my number?”

  “Sorry hor, I’m afraid that is a secret.” Charlie laughs and I hear the relief in his voice. “If I tell you, I’d have to kill you.”

  “Magicians.” I roll my eyes, feeling a smile start to rise on my face.

  “Okay,” he finally relents. “A beautiful ang moh girl with pretty blue eyes wrote it down for me at the shop today. Along with her name. So I thought I should ring her up to say sorry for my bad behaviour just now. Sorry.”

  Is Charlie flirting with me? OMG. How do I flirt back with this super cute guy without seeming like a total dork?

  “Mm,” I say, trying to play it cool as I watch my aunt and the man with the missing finger settle in the booth near the door, engaged in lively conversation. “My dad’s ang moh but my mom’s Chinese, so it says Eurasian on my birth certificate, FYI.”

  “That’s cool. Oei, ask you, are you free right now?”

  “Huh?” I blink. “Now, now?”

  “Yah, I want to make it up to you…there’s a very special place I want to show you. Do you trust me, Maxine?”

  He is flirting with me!

  Is it a good idea to trust a magician? A total stranger you just met?

  I suddenly recall Uncle Kayne’s parting words. YOLO. You only live once. So, before logic and reason prevail, and before I chicken out, I tell Charlie yes.

  And it is a date.

  *

  The sharp smell of diesel from the bumboat assaults my nose, but the beautiful sky above us is a perfect shade of blue, with a particularly large cloud that looks like a massive ship with billowing sails against the blue. Danny would have loved this one. I think it would have driven him mad with excitement.

  An eagle circles overhead and I close my eyes, enjoying the warm breeze as our little bumboat chugs slowly along, making its journey towards the small green island in front of us. I can’t believe it: I’m on a ferry visiting Pulau Ubin for the very first time.

  Charlie is engaging in friendly, animated banter in Hokkien with our boat operator. The man hands us each a bottle of water, flatly refusing to take any money from us. The bumboat docks and after waving our thanks and goodbyes to the native islander, we totter off the rickety wooden plank and step onto the sandy shores of the sleepy island.

  “What were you guys talking about?” I ask Charlie, letting him lead the way. “My Mandarin totally sucks and I don’t really know any Chinese dialect.”

  “Aiyah, it’s okay, you have an excuse. You’re ang moh!” he says, laughing. “Okay, okay, half ang moh. But you really have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. No Chinese girl I know has blue eyes, except you.”

  Walking behind him, I say nothing but feel my cheeks flushing.

  “Just now, Uncle Choon Chye was sharing with me how he really hates going to the mainland,” Charlie explains. “He finds the concrete sidewalks very hard, so it always hurts his feet when he walks in Singapore, even in his sandals. It’s very different here on Ubin. We hardly have much concrete here, so the ground is soft and natural.”

  Pulau Ubin looks like it has been left untouched by time. Looking around, I am glad I came. It is a great feeling to be soaking up the sun here. This is the first time I have truly felt like I am outdoors, after my long stay in hospital. A soft breeze kisses my cheek and I smile.

  Navigating the place like a local, Charlie brings us to a bicycle rental shop where the friendly lady boss, cooling herself with a fan made of woven dried leaves, takes our small deposit for standard bikes but surprises us by wheeling out her newest rides instead. The generous Ubin native even lends us bicycle helmets for free, urging us to enjoy ourselves on the scenic island.

  Taking the lead on his shiny yellow bicycle, Charlie turns his head around and smiles, checking to see if I am following. His spirits seem a lot higher and I think I actually understand why. Taking money out of the equation, no native islander would want to leave this lush paradise for the concrete jungle across the water. We cycle past peaceful plantations and abandoned granite quarries filled with fish, ringing our bicycle bells to inform the roaming longtailed macaques of our presence, so wary adults and their curious infants on the uneven paths can move away from our approaching wheels.

  Charlie signals that he is coming to a stop, so I slow down. Brushing away specks of brown spores from wild ferns caught on his socks, he points out a mossy sign that I would have otherwise missed. “This is Bukit Puaka Hill. We are now at the tallest point on the island.”

  Unstrapping my helmet as I climb off my bike, I shake out my hair as I check out the incredible panoramic view near the unbarricaded edge. It is a clear day and the quiet granite quarry can be easily seen from where we are, along with some iconic buildings in Singapore’s central business district in the distance, and parts of Malaysia on the opposite side. I whip out my phone but just before I snap a picture, the battery icon flashes red and my screen goes black. A hand clamps down on my shoulder and pulls me back slowly.

  “Oei, careful! Don’t stand too near the edge. Loose soil can make you slip.” Charlie leads me with a protective hand on the small of my back towards the safety of the old stone bench near our bikes instead. “Here’s a good spot.”

  We brush away the small scattering of twigs and flowers from the bottle brush tree next to the bench, and sit in comfortable silence, contemplating the lofty view. Cicadas sing in concert around us and I am lost in the moment, admiring the picturesque scenery, when a loud click interrupts my reverie. The sneaky magician grins, holding his phone in his hands, studying the photo he just took of me.

  “An unguarded moment,” Charlie says simply.

  Before I can tell him off for being rude, he turns his phone around and shows me the picture. The light has caught me at a good angle; my eyes are expressive indigo, gazing out pensively into the distance, with a soft breeze tousling my hair. I turn away, sipping my water, overcome by a weird clash of feelings. The young woman in the picture is beautiful. And she looks a lot like Mom.

  “I love photography. Maybe even more than I love magic. But that’s a…what do you call it ah…a paradox isn’t it? Magic is all about deception. Photography reveals the truth.”

  Charlie yanks off the badass ear stud he is wearing and pockets it carefully. I realise it’s actually magnetic and not a piercing. It is now his turn to be pensive.

  “The spirit of the island is slowly fading away, vanishing for real. It’s not a magic trick by an actor playing the role of the conjuror. The people who grew up here were forced to leave when the quarries closed and jobs turned scarce, forcing everyone to eke out a livelihood on mainland Singapore. The camera is my magic wand. It helps me keep precious memories of Ubin alive, so I’ll never ever forget.”

  I can’t even stay mad at him any more. Charlie’s maturity and sensitivity stun me. His bad boy persona is all an illusion. I realise Dad was right; sometimes the ones who try their hardest to look tough are most often the ones who need more affection.

  “Do you have a professional camera?” I ask.

  “You mean like one of those sibei expensive DSLRs?” I nod and he squints as the sun shines from behind me. “I used to, but I sold it. These days, phone cameras are just as good.”

  We stretch our limbs and climb back onto our rides, retracing the winding paths. Noticing a portable toilet up ahead, I ring my bell at Charlie and he stops. Hoppi
ng off my bike, I pull an apologetic face as I jog past him. “Sorry, but I really need to pee!”

  I pull on the doorknob but it does not budge. Knocking on the plastic door, it seems to be unoccupied. I try again but the latch must have slipped, locking the door from within. I rattle the handle, desperately wishing for a miracle because there is no other loo in sight.

  “Come, xiam a bit. Let me help.” Charlie steps forward, removing something shiny from his well-seasoned wallet. Moving out of his way so he can get into a comfortable squat right in front of the door, I watch as the magician slips two oddly-shaped metal pieces into the keyhole, a look of intense concentration on his face as he works the lock.

  “Charlie, are you actually picking the lock?” I cross my legs as I study his impressively deft fingers at work. “That’s so cool!”

  “Not picking, raking,” my Ah Beng in shining armour gently corrects me just before a satisfying click is heard and the light plastic door wobbles open. He pulls it open for me, laughing good-naturedly, as I immediately dash into the cubicle, shouting my gratitude from the inside.

  Nature’s call all sorted, we hop back on our bikes and continue the journey. Along the way, we spot a hornbill, some herons and a few red jungle fowls. My ears pick up the bubbling, melodious call of a wild island songbird that Charlie identifies as the local straw-headed bulbul. I notice that I’m getting a light suntan from our exploration of the island, something much needed since I don’t like my skin pale.

  Back at the rental shop, we return our helmets and bicycles, and stop for refreshments at the drink stall near the jetty: fresh, young coconuts. The sweet coconut water is a lovely respite from the hot, humid weather. Charlie decides to teach me the fine art of card throwing, so we gather some empty coconut shells left by other patrons of the stall and step a few metres away. Lining them up on the table farthest away, Charlie splits his deck of precision-tested plastic throwing cards (called Banshees) into two equal piles and hands one half to me.