Once We Were There

by Bernice Chauly

  She loved nights like this. The quiet streets gave her time to contemplate, think about things. She passed an alleyway and saw her friend Nita decked out in an all-black number.

  “Cantiknya baju.”

  Nita smiled and blew a kiss, pushing out her new breasts.

  “Tapi so slow tonight lah.”

  Marina waved back and walked on. Her long hair blew across her face as she stood on the traffic intersection. The shop across the road served the best nasi kandar in town—rice with a selection of meat curries, a speciality from northern Malaysia. Marina had to watch her weight, as did all the others. She often had fruit for dinner, two cups of instant coffee mix for breakfast, and takeaway noodles or a roti with some dhal and curry for lunch. So she felt that she deserved a full meal that night, a whole plate of rice with hearty beef in thick brown sauce, curried crab, dollops of cabbage in turmeric and mustard seed and a crunchy green chilli.

  Nasi Kandar Muhammad Yasin had been around for decades and was open 24 hours. People came from all over the city to eat there and people who sat at the tables were from all classes of KL society.

  There were three others in front of her. A lady with two children, one fussing while the other, a pudgy boy with round spectacles, kept adding dishes to his already heaped plate. The boy then carried the precious plate with two hands to the table where his sullen mother and fretting sister sat. As Marina took her plate into the air-conditioned section of the restaurant, she spotted two policemen seated in a corner. She didn’t like cops and she avoided their gaze. They were sipping tea and the one whose back faced her turned around and looked at her. Marina headed towards an empty table close to the washroom. She sat facing the wall and started tucking in.

  The beef was slightly chewy but tasty and she licked the dark sauce from her fingers. She picked up half a crab, put it in her mouth and lightly squeezed the shell and its contents with her teeth. The crab flesh spewed out. It was fresh, sweet and the spices were in perfect combination. She swallowed, almost wriggling with delight. With her hand she mixed rice with vegetables and curry into a little ball and scooped it into her mouth. She then cracked the crab legs with her teeth and slowly sucked the flesh out. Every bite was savoured and relished. When she had finally scooped up every grain of rice with the curry, the plate was spotless, save for the pile of crab shells. Marina got up and went to the sink to wash her hands and mouth. In the mirror, she could see that her mouth was stained red from the curry and she looked like she had just been kissed.

  Marina paid and left. It was a hefty RM22.90 for the meal. Half an hour’s work, she told herself, but it was worth every morsel. She decided to go for a walk to help digest her dinner.

  Round the corner, she saw a homeless woman stake her space in front of the Honda showroom. She knew that the elderly Chinese woman barely spoke and only grunted. She sat propped up by a pillow on layers of brown cardboard, and was buried in her dinner, a free meal handed out by charities every Saturday night. She looked up and smiled at Marina and nodded, her teeth covered in rice. Marina smiled and nodded back.

  Before her rose the Twin Towers, glittering in the night, looking to her like twin rockets about to take off. Marina leaned against a chain-link fence next to an empty parking lot, taking in the awesome view. Then she heard footsteps and in the next instant, felt the breath on the back of her neck. It reeked of tea and cigarettes. She turned abruptly. It was one of the policemen she had seen in the restaurant, so close to her that his thick polyester trousers rubbed against her thighs. From the corner of her eye, she spotted the other one, hanging back at a small distance.

  “Buat apa sini?” he snarled softly. “Pelacur pondan.”

  He grabbed her hand and pinned it against her back as his other hand slammed into her mouth. Then, pulling her by the hair, he dragged her to the car parked by a tree. There, he grabbed her breasts and squeezed them, hard. She winced in agony. The hormone pills had made her breasts sore and tender. She looked wildly round for the other policeman, caught his eye, and knew he would do nothing to stop his mate. A momentary relief as her assailant let go of her breasts to pull his pants down, but in the next instant, she found her face in front of his groin, her head caught in his vice-like grip. Resistance was impossible. She took his penis in her mouth and sucked him off, gagging when his come spurted into her throat.

  They left her there, vomiting out the nasi kandar that had given her so much pleasure just a few minutes ago. Marina stood up, wiped her mouth with her hand and leaned against the tree to steady herself. Only then did she become aware of the furious tears that salted her mouth.

  The new millennium was approaching. As the Y2K bug sparked a global panic, we were told to “party like it’s 1999” because the digital repercussions could spell the end of civilisation as we knew it. Banks would collapse, personal accounts would fade into oblivion, airports, airplanes, hospitals would simply stop functioning, all because computers would not be able to distinguish 2000 from 1900. People on life support would die. Planes would crash into each other. Refrigerators would stop working. Digital watches would stop. Purchases of upgrades went into overdrive, everyone was backing everything up and overnight computer techs were born. You had to have records for proof of everything. Proof of your bank balance, your dental records, your car loan. Your existence. Documents were printed and kept in safes. Supermarkets started running out of food, water, batteries; cars queued up for extra gallons of petrol, collected in containers and then stored in the corners of living rooms, kitchens.

  The seat of the Malaysian government had moved to Putrajaya—or “prince-city-success”—named after our first Prime Minister, Tunku Abdul Rahman Putra. A city erected on the swamps south of KL in Sepang and the tracts of land owned by the indigenous people called the Temuan. Mahathir had a vision of creating a Multimedia Super Corridor, or the MSC, linking Putrajaya, Cyberjaya and the gleaming new KLIA airport into a superhighway of information, high-speed Internet and a glowing version of a futuristic era.

  New companies scrambled for tax breaks. Getting MSC status meant that you had access to billions of ringgit of government funds; you could start a music studio, a production house, a film company, a radio station, a telecommunications network, a TV station. Punters were raking it in, there was money to be made, there were infinite possibilities. If it had to do with technology, anything was possible. The braver and bolder you were, the better. New universities sprouted on vast, tree-less campuses. There were degrees in gaming, special effects, morphing, animation, CGI. Overseas expertise was lured in to teach. There was talk of Hollywood sound stages. There was talk of George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, the Weinstein brothers. We were leap-frogging into the future.

  Putrajaya was built around an artificial lake, gargantuan buildings lined wide boulevards. Tens of thousands of civil servants and their multiple children poured into new apartment blocks. Government offices were divided into “presints” of brazen high-rises. The Ministry of this and that. At 5.15pm sharp, there would be a flood of veiled, chattering women and sullen-looking men going home in brand new Protons and Peroduas, settling after dinner in front of Astro, watching CNN or HBO. It was fabricated, glittering, garish. The Prime Minister’s office faced a boulevard, with gilded Mughal-inspired domes. We wanted to look classy, we wanted to create new architecture, each building had a different design. It ended up looking schizophrenic. Two hippos were shipped in from Africa for the brand new wetlands, along with other animals. There were flamingos, herons, otters, exotic ducks. There were artificial lakes for boats, wakeboarding. There were magnificent steel bridges, curly lamp posts studded the pavements every ten metres, there were parks, schools, hospitals. There were parts that looked sleek, others looked bleak. There were highways that curved over flowers and concrete, there was a souq, there was a mosque of pink Italian marble. It was the new capital.

  Fairman had decided to throw a New Year’s Eve party at his parents’ house, a 70s style bungalow at the foot of Kenny Hills.
It had verandas designed for languid afternoons, white walls, high ceilings, antique fans and old “Made in England” bathroom fixtures. Almost a hundred people had been invited, and cars wound gracefully all the way down the bottom of the hill. Tall meranti trees towered at the back, like guardians of a suburban forest. A symphony of cicadas conspired against the four-piece jazz quartet. Fairman’s parents stood at the entrance, greeting the guests as they arrived. It was a fairly mixed crowd, with a smattering of artists and activist types, high society folk who graced the pages on the Malaysian Tatler, and dozens of screaming children running away from long-suffering maids.

  I suddenly felt very shy, Omar and I had made an effort to dress up. After all it was the millennium, the dawning of a new age, a new century, a new time. I was wearing the only designer dress I had, a green silk halterneck from Donna Karan, which I had bought for Karin’s wedding.

  You look gorgeous, darling, very fuckable.

  I looked at him, feigning shock. He simply raised his eyebrow.

  You know you are.

  We headed towards Sumi, who looked foxy in a scarlet dress with a high slit, and Fairman, very formal in a crisp white shirt and dinner jacket.

  Quite a party here, Fairman!

  Let’s just hope the electricity doesn’t go out.

  We have another generator, just in case, my dad you know, doesn’t want to leave things to chance.

  And as if on cue, Mr Fairman walked over to us and said,

  Well, well, if it isn’t the fabulous four! Eat, drink. The night is ours!

  The fabulous four, indeed. We looked at each other and grinned. Omar grabbed my waist.

  Darling, I have never been this happy. I want you to know that. Here, now like this. I want you to know.

  I did know. How could I not? I looked at him, there, like that. His hair curling slightly in the humid night, his eyes brimming with love. I kissed him gently on the lips.

  Delonix Regia, will you marry me?

  I choked. Then gave my answer with a flurry of kisses on his face, and my cries of joy were drowned out by the clapping from the small crowd who had gathered around us.

  A toast! A toast!

  Yes, Omar. Yes!

  He twirled me around on the grass, then, the most tender of kisses. We laughed like silly children, delighting in newfound secrets. Everybody raised their glasses, and as I looked up to the sky, I saw a crescent moon with a sprinkling of stars. Midnight came and went and the world did not end.

  The night Marina told me she had been raped, we were in the mamak coffee shop, the one we first came to not so long ago. We had tried to make it a point to meet there from time to time as we not only enjoyed each other’s company, but I had begun to trust her more and more. It was an unusual friendship. I felt I could be so open with her, that she would not judge me and that she too would not be judged.

  Her long hair had been straightened and dyed a honey blonde with highlights. Her make-up was simple and elegant, and she wore a blue blouse with buttons and a short denim skirt. The waiters in the coffee shop straightened their backs a little when she sauntered in. A wolf whistle from one corner. Marina ordered a ginger tea and lit up a cigarette; she sat down with the cigarette poised in one hand. She looked absolutely gorgeous.

  I love your hair. It’s beautiful.

  Kan? I love it too. My new style. Simple and chic!

  Her hands were expressive, her nails sharp and manicured. She sucked hard on the cigarette.

  How are you? Work okay? I asked.

  Same regulars. Cukup. And you?

  I sighed and said, Omar is thinking of starting another business, and by the way…

  Marina nodded and lowered her head.

  I stopped mid-sentence, sensing that Marina had something to say.

  I must tell you something. That’s why I wanted to see you.

  Is something wrong? Are you sick? Hurt? What?

  A loud clang made us jump. One of the cooks had dropped a big pot and a loud stream of expletives in Tamil ensued. The coffee shop owner was livid but calmed down soon after. The guilty cook slunk into the back and disappeared. Marina took a deep breath and lit up another cigarette.

  So the other night I went out for dinner. After that I went for a walk, you know, down that nasi kandar place and I just walked for about five minutes. Then these two policemen came and started bothering me. One of them was asking me questions like buat apa sini? Called me names. The other one was quiet. Actually they were in the same restaurant and they followed me.

  She paused to take a sip of tea. I had a bad feeling about what she was about to say.

  So the one who was bothering me, you can imagine what happened next.

  Did he rape you? I whispered.

  She nodded.

  You know these fucking assholes, they do it all the time. Last week, someone else kena… And they arrest us and put us in jail! I am so tired of these bloody police. So tired of what they do to us! They treat us like animals. They think we’re stupid? That we’re not going to do anything?

  She stabbed her cigarette violently into the ashtray, and then looked straight into my eyes.

  My whole life I am dealing with men who rape me. I am fed up. Enough. Del, I want a lawyer. Can you help me? Do you know anyone?

  That night I wrote a letter to my dead child and burnt it. I watched the paper turn into black flakes which then fluttered and disappeared into the night.

  To my unborn child—

  from the golden light

  that you came

  to which you must now

  return

  until you and i

  seed of your seed

  fruit of my womb

  energy-egg into flesh

  our love union

  until then

  child of light

  you are free to roam

  the realms of nameless souls

  and child spirits

  until we meet again

  and part no more.

  Three

  Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon

  Omar rang the doorbell again. He glanced at his watch. It had been ten minutes since the first ring and he’d told himself he would wait fifteen minutes at the most. He had rung the doorbell at three-minute intervals and so, this was going to be the last effort. His neck was starting to itch and he was desperate for the bathroom. Seconds later he heard a shuffling and the door slowly opened. Del’s father emerged. His face brightened when he saw Omar.

  “Good morning, sir,” Omar said.

  “Ah, sorry, I was in the shower.”

  Del’s father unlocked the door. Omar slid his shoes off and stepped into the house. A whiff of aftershave lingered in the doorway like a second guest. It was Old Spice, the same aftershave his father used. Del’s father closed the door and turned the lock. Omar offered him the cardboard box in his hand.

  “Ah, and what’s this?”

  Omar cleared his throat quietly. “Del said you like egg custard tarts.”

  “I do indeed. The one near Tong Woh?”

  Omar nodded.

  “I shall enjoy this very much.” Del’s father chuckled in delight as he walked down the hallway. Omar followed him, inhaling the scent of the familiar aftershave, and was suddenly assailed by the image of his father, freshly showered and shaved, in a singlet and sarong too.

  The morning light streamed into the hallway from the open ventilation slats in the wall. Del’s father strode through the light and the dust particles. He started humming.

  The door to the study was slightly open and the sound of classical music greeted them. Violins, then the gentle seduction of a tinkling piano. The room was filled with sunlight from the open windows. It felt alive. The music came from a gramophone, on a small side table beside a pile of books. Del’s father bent over it and lifted the gramophone arm. The music stopped, the needle startled into a scratch and the room sank into silence.

  “Do sit, please.”

  “Thank you, sir.”r />
  Del’s father walked to the table, placed the box of egg tarts on the top of some books, settled into his chair and picked up his pipe.

  Omar sat down. He felt nervous, unsure of what exactly to say. He had rehearsed possibilities in his mind and on the drive over, had thought—“Keep it simple. Just keep it simple.” But now that he was facing Del’s father, the words he had so precisely rehearsed fled from him.

  Omar felt that he needed to focus on something, and so he stared at the now-familiar wedding portrait. He found a spot—Del’s father’s necktie—and fixed his eyes on the small black triangle. Del’s father had started puffing on his pipe and a cloud of vanilla-scented smoke descended slowly upon them. A soft breeze blew in through the windows. Outside, there was a rustle of leaves, and a bird chirped loudly.

  It would be the black bird, the one with the yellow beak. Like the ones that used to wake him up in the mornings. Omar remembered the tall palm tree that stood outside his bedroom window of his childhood home. When the tree had ripe red fruit, there would be scores of those birds pecking at the fruit. Chattering, yes. Endless chattering. The memory of the birds reassured him somehow.

  “Sir, I’ve asked Del to marry me,” he started, then slowed down to say, “and she has agreed.”

  Del’s father took another puff of his pipe and turned to look at the window.

  “Beautiful day. The rain helped.”

  “Yes, it’s not so humid…” Omar replied quickly.

  “How will you live?”

  “Sir?” The question rattled him.

  “How will you live?” Del’s father asked slowly. His voice was gentle but firm.

  “I plan to start a business, to go into partnership with Roslan Fairman. I believe you know his father, sir?” Omar asked.

  “Bill Fairman?” Del’s father asked, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Yes, sir,” Omar replied.

  “Bill’s a shark. You should know that. Not to say that his son is the same.” Del’s father leaned back into his leather chair. It squeaked.