The Feng Shui Detective Goes South

by Nury Vittachi

  Yet here he was, on the very same afternoon, seriously considering doing something that would go directly against all the rules with which he had grown up. In the days when he had been a clerk at the Opera House after leaving school, he was told to take a certain route to and from the mailroom every day—and he had abided by it rigidly every working day for the entire six months he had been there. Yet five years later, he was thinking about entering one of the private areas, smashing a window, and climbing out on to the roof. Or using his climbing gear to mount the roof from below. It was ludicrous. He couldn’t do it. He would be locked up for sure. What would mum say? The image of Officer Gallaher loomed over him like a storm cloud.

  ‘Oh pigs! I’m sorry,’ he said to Joyce. ‘I can’t bloody do this. I can’t break rules. When I was small I wanted to be a cop.’

  The young woman looked at him with her head on one side. ‘I’ve sussed you out,’ she said. ‘Never mind the muscles.

  You’re a wuss.’

  ‘I am bloody well not. I just don’t like breaking rules, that’s all. I’m a Catholic. It’s just me. I’m like that. But I’ll help you do it if you want to go ahead.’

  ‘No way. I’m not going up there.’

  The feng shui master, now he had managed to remain within the shadow of the broken rice bowls building for several minutes without having been struck dead, had decided that the fates were safeguarding him for the moment. He was going to be all right. He should act. This was his moment.

  ‘I am,’ said Wong. ‘Going up there. Ms Tsai is in danger.

  No one is helping. I must help her. Here, please do this.’

  Joyce blinked down at a small yellow box he had handed her. It was a disposable camera. ‘What’s this for?’ she said.

  ‘Take picture of me, please. One here. Then take picture of me up on roof, when I rescue her. Or when I try to rescue her.’

  ‘So you can send these to her dad, get a big reward?’

  ‘Must have evidence.’

  ‘You are so mercenary.’

  ‘Mersal—?’

  ‘Mercenary. It means, er, like obsessed with money.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you. Come.’

  This last word was aimed at Brett, who had brought his box of climbing gear from the car and was clutching it in his arms as if it was a baby.

  Wong raced off. Brett followed behind, the equipment in the box rattling.

  ‘Oh pants,’ cursed Joyce, and set off after them, camera in hand.

  Amran Ismail was simultaneously utterly exhausted and filled with the greatest elation he had ever known. It was a curious compound of feelings, and it left him unsteady and almost delirious.

  Madeleine Tsai clung to his arm, shivering with fear. ‘I want to go back. I want to go back,’ she said.

  He lazily turned his head to look at her. ‘Later we will. Later.’

  ‘I want to go back now. I don’t know why we are here. This is so dangerous. Please, Amran, I’m scared. Take me back.’

  ‘Takboleh. Cannot. Very soon it will be over. I promise you,’ he said. ‘Wait a while only.’

  She looked at the terrifyingly steep slope at their feet. A sob came from her throat.

  ‘Aiyoh! Don’t look if it upset you to look,’ Ismail snapped.

  Madeleine closed her eyes and pressed her wet face against his shoulder.

  He gently pushed her head away. ‘Careful. Don’t push me. Balancing very difficult. Better just sit still and wait only.’

  They sat there together, not saying a word. The high winds were whipping her hair around, flicking it into her face. Occasionally there would be a sudden strong gust, which would flatten their clothes against their bodies.

  ‘What time is it?’ Maddy asked.

  ‘Alamak, you keep asking already. Less than twenty minutes to go only. It’ll go quickly. Should have bought something for you to do, distract you. Why not you just sing a song or something? Tell me a story. Or you like I tell you one? I can tell you about my children. The children in my home. I am going to do such wonderful things for them. And for Zahra. Ah, all my little ones. So cute. So choon.

  ’ She shook her head. ‘You keep talking about them. I don’t want to talk about them.’

  ‘Sleep then.’

  She dropped her head on to her knees but kept a tight hold on his arm. She began weeping more loudly. ‘You shouldn’t have made me do this. I’m scared. I hate you.’

  ‘Afterwards you realise. All the fortune-tellers said the same thing. Those bomohs in K L , the Great Bomoh in Melaka, that fortune-teller woman in Singapore, that old Indian guy, whatever his name was. They all said very bad luck coming.

  Must go through this. Everybody confirmed. But Allah is so kind. He sent me to help you. You already dead for sure if you stay in Malaysia and Jackie find you. Allah is great.

  He sent me to you. Now if can just stay here until end of tenth hour of daylight, then inshallah, all finished. Done.

  Move on.’

  He looked at her. She didn’t move her head. Without looking up, she said: ‘When can we go back?’

  ‘A little while more only-lah.’

  They sat in silence again. After a while, he peeled her fingers off his arm—not without difficulty.

  ‘What are you doing? I want to hold onto you.’

  ‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ he said in a reassuring tone. ‘Maybe I just hold you more tighter.’

  She was sitting on his left. His long, thick left arm snaked around her shoulders. His other arm held her right upper arm tightly. She was entirely in his grip.

  The wind rose higher, making conversation difficult. She wept quietly as they waited.

  ‘Mr Ismail. Mr Amran Ismail!’

  The bomoh spun around. There was a voice in the wind. Someone calling his name? How could that be?

  ‘Ismail-saang.

  ’ He arched his head further back and was astonished to find the head of the old Chinese man—one of Maddy’s friends— emerging from over the slope.

  ‘Die already! Get away,’ the angry bomoh spat. ‘What you want?’

  Maddy squealed. ‘It’s Jackie.’

  Ismail held her shoulders tightly. ‘Don’t scared. Is not Jackie. Just one of his men.’

  Wong carefully climbed the slope until he was about six metres from them. ‘You’re in danger,’ the feng shui master called. ‘Come down. Not allowed to be here. Very against the rules.’

  ‘Go away,’ Ismail snapped. ‘Don’t come.’

  ‘Only want to help. Young lady she is scared, I think. I help her come back to window. You, me, together. Then she will be safe. All safe.’

  ‘Go die.’

  Wong moved another metre closer to the couple.

  Madeleine shrieked. ‘Stay away from me,’ she shouted.

  ‘Only try to help,’ Wong said.

  The bomoh growled. ‘Don’t scared. I warn you . . . Koyaklah! Go now!’

  Wong sat on the same ridge. But slowly he shuffled along on his bottom, getting closer to them, centimetre by centimetre.

  ‘Ms Tsai. I come to help. Mr Ismail, he does not really want to help you. He want you to die. This very bad place. Very dangerous. Not good to be here. Very bad feng shui. Also, for you especially, very bad time. You must be extra careful at this time. Not go into extra-dangerous place like this. Must come down off roof with me, come inside.’

  ‘Finish! He’s lying,’ Ismail said. ‘Shut up already-lah.’

  ‘Come inside,’ said Wong.

  ‘Don’t come near me,’ the terrified young woman squealed. She tried to move away from Wong, and temporarily lost her balance—and screamed again.

  Ismail grabbed her shoulders. ‘Aiyoh! Go back, old man. You making her nervous. You making this situation dangerous, not me.’

  Wong stopped moving. He appeared to be thinking about what Ismail had said. Then he nodded. ‘I think you are right. I do not want to cause harm to the girl, scare her, make her fall off. That would be very bad. I go back.’r />
  He started shuffling the other way. Then he flipped over on his hands and knees and gingerly clambered, spider-like, out of sight.

  ‘Thank God he’s gone,’ Madeleine said. ‘Maybe that was it. Maybe he was the danger.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe he was the danger that I was to face at this hour.

  Now that he’s gone, maybe it’s all over. Can we go down now?’

  ‘Just wait. Little more time only,’ said Ismail.

  They waited in painful silence. He looked at his watch. ‘Not long now. A few minutes and it will all be over.’

  Five minutes passed as slowly as hours. Ismail murmured: ‘Nearly finish—oh no!’ This last comment was elicited by the sight of another head appearing over the curve of the roof. ‘Alamok,’ cursed the bomoh.

  ‘Go away,’ said Maddy.

  Then she gasped as she saw Joyce. The teenager was trembling from head to toe. Behind her, Wong was trying to pull her back. He was holding her arm so tightly that the skin of her forearm was white. ‘Come back. Must come back. You fall off, I will be in big trouble with Mr Pun. Please,’ the geomancer said.

  ‘Omigod-omigod-omigod-omigod,’ Joyce was chanting like a mantra. ‘Dear Jesus. Dear dear dear dear Jesus.’

  ‘Joyce?’

  ‘Maddy! Come in. You can’t sit out here. It’s like sooo dangerous. Come in now. Pleeeease.’

  ‘Amran says I have to—’ ‘Don’t listen,’ ordered Ismail. ‘Don’t talk.’

  ‘You come back,’ Wong ordered Joyce. ‘Crazy girl. Go down.’

  ‘Never mind what any of those stupid guys say,’ the young woman shouted. ‘Use your brain, Maddy. Is it dangerous to sit out here or what? Come on.

  ’ ‘Something terrible will happen to me right now unless I’m really careful. It’s in my stars. I know it sounds crazy but I believe it,’ said Maddy.

  ‘I believe it too,’ said Joyce.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I do. And I can tell you exactly what the bad thing is. The bad thing is that you have ended up in this incredibly dangerous place with a dangerous guy. Talk sense, Maddy. Come on.’

  ‘Don’t listen,’ Ismail repeated, tightening his grip on her.

  ‘He’s the dangerous one,’ said Joyce. ‘Not me. You know that’s true. Deep down, you know that’s true, don’t you? Don’t you? Answer me. I’m going to stay out until you come back.’

  ‘No,’ said Ismail.

  ‘No,’ agreed Wong. ‘You come inside now. I am your boss.

  I order you. Come down now. Otherwise I sack you.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ snapped Joyce, turning to him. ‘You sacked me already, remember? Down there.’

  ‘Oh. Okay, I give you your job back. Then I sack you.’

  ‘It’s too late.’

  ‘Please. Must come in.’

  There was silence. Wong and McQuinnie turned to stare at each other. Both were dimly aware of shifting dynamics.

  ‘I’ll come in but I want promotion. I want the title of Personal Assistant. Intern sucks.’

  ‘Okay. You are Personal Assistant Intern Sucks. Now come inside.’ Wong was angrily hissing his words from between clenched teeth. ‘I am in big trouble with Mr Pun if you fall off.’

  ‘I want my own name cards.’

  ‘Okay, okay, own name cards, anything.’

  ‘I want a desk by the window.’

  ‘Okay, can do, no problem. Now come in.’

  ‘I want my own mobile phone.’

  ‘Aiyeeaah—too expensive. No.’ He flung her arm down in disgust. ‘Maybe better you fall off.’

  Glad to be out of his grip, she shuffled closer to where Ismail and Madeleine were perched.

  Alarmed, Wong lunged forwards and grabbed her arm again.

  ‘CF?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I really, really want to stay out here and wait for Maddy to come in. Please?’

  Wong was exasperated. ‘She will not come in. Already I tried.’

  ‘Well, I wanna try.’

  ‘Waste of—’ He was interrupted by Madeleine’s voice. ‘Joyce? You’re not with Jackie, are you?’

  ‘Of course I’m not.’

  ‘Did you find that girl you were looking for?’

  ‘Dani? Yeah. We rescued her. It was in the Straits Times on Thursday. They didn’t print my name. Her mum took all the credit, but—’

  Now it was Amran Ismail’s turn to lose his temper.

  ‘You girls stop talking now,’ he shrieked. ‘Talk, talk, talk only. This is not the right time. Please go away you people. We don’t want you here. GO NOW.’ The last words were bellowed in apoplectic fury, his eyes bulging at Joyce.

  The young woman folded her arms. ‘Whatever. I’ll stop talking,’ she said quietly. ‘But I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to wait for my friend. If she stays, I stay.’

  Madeleine looked over to Joyce—and flashed a smile. She mouthed two words at her: Thank you.

  CF Wong didn’t know what to do next. So he waited.

  The four of them sat on the roof of the Opera House, an odd quartet with nothing to say to each other.

  Just hanging on took considerable effort. The wind buffeted them in short, unpredictable bursts with the force of flying fists. The gusts carried odd bursts of sound with them—people talking at ground level, the sound of police cars, the chug of passing boats, the yells of children and barking of dogs.

  ‘Aiyeeaah.’ The feng shui master made the mistake of looking down at the ground, a dizzying distance below. He was tingling from head to toe. His limbs appeared to have turned to stone yet at the same time his muscles were tensed, ready to spring to safety. There was a whiteness creeping through his mind as he looked down. His thoughts moved in slow motion. He was breathing in short, shallow gasps like a dog.

  But as the minutes passed, he realised that the fear that was gripping him was gradually being shot through with strands of a completely different feeling—something akin to triumph. As he scanned his immediate environment, he slowly shook his head with amazement: he was astonished at what he had achieved in the pursuit of doing a favour for Old Man Tsai. Not only had he approached the monster broken rice bowls building but he had clambered on top of it. What more graphic example could be imagined of a feng shui master conquering his most nightmarish fears?

  He wished Dilip Sinha and Madame Xu and Superintendent Gilbert Tan could see him now. He thought for a moment of asking someone to take a photograph of him—he still had the disposable camera in his pocket. But one hand tightly gripped a ridge on the roof and the other was holding Joyce’s forearm. He daren’t let go of either.

  The geomancer carefully turned his head to sneak a sidelong glance at his intern, who was staring at the boats in the harbour. He was equally stunned by her behavior. He had tried hard to persuade Madeleine Tsai to come in off the roof and had been abruptly rebuffed. Yet Joyce, acting against his express orders, had stupidly climbed out on the roof to try the same thing—and appeared to be making headway. At least the Chinese girl had listened to her and responded in a trusting way.

  Joyce McQuinnie was still a totally unknown quantity, he decided. How could this mat salleh child who couldn’t even speak intelligibly, manage to connect with this Cantonese young woman, when he, who was a member of the same sub-group of the same race, had so miserably failed to do so? It was remarkable. He shook his head. Truly strange things exist between heaven and earth.

  The uncomfortable notion floated into his mind that Joyce could have been meant by the gods to be his assistant. Together they might just be able to achieve things that he could not do by himself. It was not impossible that her very differentness could even be a direct advantage to his operations. To distract himself from this horrific thought, he quickly cast his eyes over the broad horizon that stretched terrifyingly before him.

  This morning, he had been unable to locate the mountains that usually cluster around a prosperous city. These were important—centuri
es before Western scientists had started to think about dinosaurs, the philosophers of China had dug up their swirling bones and had named them mountain dragons. But now, from this high vantage point, he could at last see Sydney’s missing dragons. There was a huge rolling ridge of mountains in the distance, slightly shrouded in mist.

  He saw how the urban settlements had spread in the shadow of the distantly undulating landscape. Closer at hand, it was clear that the city’s immediate ch’i came from waterways. The Water Dragon Classic, written by Chiang Ping-chieh in the Ming Dynasty, identified the ways the water dragon carries ch’i through natural conduits. Wong noticed the series of bays cutting steeply into the Sydney waterfront, two of which surrounded the spot where he sat.

  He was confused by the defensiveness that Brett Kilington had shown for the broken rice bowls building, an obviously ugly monstrosity. But it was possible that the Opera House in context, at the heart of the sprawling city, might have a charm that he could not see. Gingerly looking downwards, he saw streams of visitors approaching the building on foot and in tour buses. Dozens of people were taking photographs. Some had spotted them sitting on the roof and were taking pictures of them.

  Could he arrange to get one to send to Old Man Tsai? Probably not. How to contact the people down there? Not possible.

  Brett had a point. The building appeared to be greatly admired, beloved even. Perhaps something had evaporated the bad ch’i its evil form produced? Perhaps Wong had failed to understand something.

  The thought further humbled the feng shui master. Here he was, fifty-six years old; yet what a lot he had still to learn.

  Madeleine Tsai turned to Ismail. ‘I want to go with her.’