To Tunku Malik & Fairman. TMF Sdn. Bhd.
Two motherfuckers, he started.
Fuck you too, wanker! Fairman retorted.
We were all drunk, but there we were. The Review had become Saksi and now it was MalaysiaTimes. I looked around and saw Riz and Jin who raised their glasses—To MalaysiaTimes and TMF! Cheers!
Imran had asked Riz and Jin to work with him. After The Review closed, they had gotten jobs elsewhere, but Imran managed to convince them to be part of his team. It felt like a reunion of sorts, but it also marked the beginnings of new things. Of good things. We had to evolve. We just had to.
Sumi and Fairman were definitely a couple and it was a matter of time before he, too, popped the question. Imran was on his way to charting new ground in Malaysian journalism, and Omar and I were going to be married.
Omar had his arm around me. I was protected, I was safe. He loved me. He was doing everything right. Fairman and Sumi were locked in an embrace, their foreheads touching, their eyes full of love. She was all smiles. Imran swaggered and swore, his belly full of red wine and single malt. Riz and Jin were flushed with drink.
I had every reason to be happy, deliriously happy, even. But in that moment, in that living room where so much had happened, where so much had been said and done, where gallons of alcohol had been consumed and stories told by some of the best journos in the world, I felt the cold hands of melancholy on my neck.
The next evening, Imran decided to hold another party for his investors and his new staff at a newly opened Spanish tapas bar in Bangsar. We were all there, still hung over from the night before, there was a sense of revelry—we had to imbibe, eat, be happy, get drunk. The outward expression of happiness was necessary.
The bar was full of boisterous chatter but once again, I felt afraid. Apart. From everyone there. Things were too good. I didn’t trust it. At the end of the night, I was huddled in a corner, my worry like a shroud. I sat and drank quietly watching the crowd.
Sumi had to drag Fairman home. He was loud and drunk. Imran was still holding court with a nubile Chinese intern in a black dress who had attached herself to him, taking in his every word. She had just graduated from NYU and was apparently “a writing wunderkind”, as Imran put it. When Omar came to get me, I had had five glasses of wine and was ready to pass out. Darling, let’s go. He held his hand towards me, and pulled me up from the cubicle. We walked out into the street. The night was just beginning for many, and I felt those cold hands on my neck once again. I put my head on Omar’s shoulder and whispered, I love you, I love only you.
The next day on 29 April, the High Court upheld the corruption charges against Anwar Ibrahim. The appeal had gone to waste.
I knew it. Our celebrations had been premature. Foolish. We had been partying for two nights in a row and to wake up to this on the third day was a slap in the face. It was a top story and of course, it made the news internationally. Which boded well for Imran and his staff who went to work hungover the next day.
And what was I to do? I was no longer needed as a journalist. I had no need to rush after deadlines anymore, no need to run around KL chasing interviews with my camera and my recorder. Imran had far better writers now. I needed to have a sense of purpose, my work at the drop-in centre was important, but was it real work? What was I contributing to the struggle? There were days when idealism trumped and the simple act of doing laundry seemed delinquent and a complete waste of time. There were days when I struggled to find meaning in anything. There were days when all I had beside me was despair. That was one of those days.
Omar and Fairman were looking at potential office spaces. Sumi was at the Legal Aid Centre volunteering. I read the news on Yahoo and I felt a surge of anger. I felt alone in our apartment, I felt reckless. And I did a terrible thing. I called Karin.
Marina was ready for work. She was planning to walk down Bukit Bintang and maybe head towards Bukit Ceylon. Star Hill and Ceylon Hill. What odd names, she thought. There were no visible hills, and she suddenly groaned. My heels! Damn, what if there really are hills, will I have to take my shoes off and walk barefoot?
“Aduh,” she sighed.
She made an effort to dress well, she didn’t want to look like a drag queen, so she made sure to play down her make-up, keep it subtle and au naturel. She used nude, warm colours, no blazing lips or eyes. Her hair was washed, blow-dried and curled. She wore a tight sleeveless black top with sequined tassels and a short denim skirt. She looked like a woman; the only giveaway was her Adam’s apple. The hormone pills were already pushing her breasts out and making her voice higher. Her legs and armpits were freshly shaved, her legs and calves gleaming with body oil. She was almost a woman. Almost.
She knew she was taking a risk. Transsexuals didn’t really work so visibly in those parts, so she was a little worried, but she needed to know. Know if she would get arrested, and if she did, how things would unravel. The night was full of endless possibilities. That was one thing Marina knew she always had—balls. She had learnt to deal with fear a long time ago. She had thought long and hard about what Sumi had said.
“There is no case. If you make a police report you will be marked. They will make your life hell…”
She started getting catcalls. It was a Friday night and in the few Middle Eastern restaurants on the strip, there were only men sitting at the tables. Lecherous eyes followed her. Someone called out.
“Eh pondan, where are you going?”
Pondan—she laughed at the word. It’s supposed to mean “effeminate man”, but “pon” and “dan”—what did they stand for? Nothing! Mak Nyah—that’s another word they used. “Mak” for mother and “Nyah” for transition. Probably the most accurate. “Bapok”, another word, old school. Was it meant for the ones out of work, with saggy breasts and rotting teeth? Or the ones who put on too much make-up? Who knows? She had been called all of the above. So many Malay words for someone like me, she thought. Must be confusing for some.
“Pergi jalan-jalan, nak ikut?” she replied cheekily, flashing a smile. Then remembering they were probably foreigners, she said, in English, “Am going for a walk, wanna follow?”
She kept walking and almost bumped into a woman in full hijab, gripping two small children with both hands. The woman’s husband had stopped to look at a menu on a stand and as Marina walked past them, she saw the woman’s kohled eyes look her up and down. Marina thought, what a life. She was better off being a pondan than having to cover herself up completely.
She walked on, crossed Jalan Sultan Ismail and took a short cut to Ceylon Hill. She was headed for a gay club that only opened on Friday nights. She wasn’t sure where it was but she was certain she would know it when she saw it. There were only a few establishments on the main road, the Cuban bar on the corner and a couple of French and Italian restaurants. Couples walked on the pavement holding hands, anticipating romantic dinners by candlelight, fine wines and quiet conversation. So romantic, she thought.
There weren’t many cars on the road, so when the red sports car pulled up right beside her, she knew that she was being solicited. The window whirred down and she saw an older man in a red T-shirt with grey hair beaming at her.
“How much?” he asked. His voice was warm, his eyes twinkly.
“A hundred—just for you.”
Marina opened the door and got in. She was immediately assailed by a musky cologne and the chill of the efficient air-conditioning. The man wore sharp-angled glasses and had a slight moustache. The car purred like a metal beast and she felt as if she were floating on the road.
“You like it?” the man asked, gesturing to the steering wheel, “It’s a Ferrari.”
“Wow,” exclaimed Marina, putting her hand to her mouth.
They both laughed. Marina turned to him.
“So, you nak apa? Blowjob? Hand job? You want to fuck?”
The man turned to Marina, shrugged and smiled. “Anything,” he said.
By this time they had driven up Ceylon
Hill and they could see KL Tower in the distance. He had parked the car under a tree, next to a massive water tower, which looked like a giant mushroom. There were a few stately bungalows around them, flanked by tall trees. The night was still.
“Blowjob is fine,” he finally decided.
He has kind eyes, Marina thought as she leaned over. The man leaned back and sighed as he lowered his seat and wriggled to help Marina unbutton his trousers and slide off his pants.
He had a portly tummy—obviously rich and well-fed—and as his limp penis slipped out from under the zipper, Marina got to work.
She licked her tongue up and down the shaft and then sucked it into her mouth. The penis sprang to life and Marina started playing with it, using her tongue. The man started moaning, grabbing Marina’s hair and pulling her head towards his groin.
“Don’t pull,” Marina whispered. “It hurts.”
“Oh, sorry,” the man replied, a look of concern flitting over his eyes.
Marina took the penis, now fully erect, into her mouth and down her throat. The man groaned. Marina could take deep thrusts and as she slowly pulled the penis out, she tickled it lightly with her tongue. Her hands grasped its base, filling the penis with blood, and she continued licking.
“Yes, ohhh,” he moaned.
She then let go of it and she continued thrusting her mouth in and out, up and down, she licked his balls and his anus, she continued pleasuring him until she knew he was about to come. She thrust her mouth into it and as she drew out, his sperm spewed out over her lips. She used her hand to jerk him off completely. He lay there, silent, mouth wide open, until his orgasm came to an end with a deep shudder. Marina took a small packet of tissues from her handbag and slowly wiped up the rest of it, dabbed her mouth and then smiled at him.
“Good?” she asked.
“Yes, very good.” The man was lying down, his body still limp. Marina scrunched up the tissues and put them into her handbag. The man smiled at her and slowly put the seat up. He pulled his trousers over the tops of his thighs and Marina helped him with the zip. She started applying lipstick whilst looking at the rear-view mirror. The man reached into his wallet and pulled out two hundred ringgit notes.
“Here,” he smiled. “Plus a tip.”
“Oh, thank you!”
“Can I see you again?” he asked quietly.
“Hmmm, I guess,” Marina said coyly.
They drove slowly down the hill, passing several 50s style apartments on the left. In one of them a party looked like it was in full swing. People drinking, smoking and talking on a large balcony. The man dropped her off at the bottom of the hill, and before he drove off, Marina shoved her card into the pocket of his trousers.
“Make sure your wife doesn’t find that,” she whispered.
The man didn’t answer but grinned widely and as he drove off into the night, Marina thought of her mother and what she used to ask after a good home-cooked meal.
Puas tak?
“Ya, puas.”
Yes, she was content.
Some of us are cursed. It’s a thought that has never quite left me.
Poor little rich girl.
Everything comes at a price I suppose. I mean, everybody has problems but mine just seemed to be compounded by a kind of lethargy that had become familiar. I never really talked about my mother, I never talked about the rape in college, I never even told my father that I had a miscarriage. And I never told anyone about being molested by Girly. What would be the point?
Some of us are cursed. We just are.
Doomed to live lives of desperation, never to be fulfilled, simply because we are incapable of it. To have happiness be that elusive thing, unreachable, unattainable. Impossible.
I had everything I needed to make me happy. Yet. Anwar Ibrahim was in jail, his broken body forced to lie on concrete floors. His soul was unwavering, his spirit on guard. His was a battle, a war that was going to continue for a while. His enemy was clear. But who was my enemy? Who was I fighting? Was I going to be strong enough? Was I capable of being a wife? A mother? What was I really capable of? Was I good for anything at all?
Karin picked up.
Hey, babes… She sounded sleepy. I heard a yawn.
How are you? Late night?
Not really. Just a friend’s birthday. Too much blow, though. Karin’s voice sounded scrunched up, as if she was settling into a pillow. I got straight to the point.
Got any E?
I heard Karin take a deep breath. She sounded cold.
Thought you weren’t gonna do it anymore.
Yeah, well, you know what it’s like sometimes.
You wanna hang out or go somewhere? I heard a lighter clicking in the background, a clearing of the throat, the swift intake of a cigarette. Karin was up. The prospect of another drug-fuelled evening had charged her. She was up.
I don’t care, really.
Okay, babes. Come over in an hour.
I hung up and looked at my watch. It was almost four o'clock. I walked to the new indie bookstore in Bangsar and browsed for almost an hour. Picked up books and looked at them. The young boy at the cashier had long hair and a goatee. He smiled at me and asked if I was looking for anything in particular. I shook my head.
I sat in a corner with Lawrence Durrell’s The Alexandria Quartet. It had been one of my favourite books in college. I opened a section on Justine and started reading. It brought back memories of cold winter nights, huddling for warmth in bed, staying up to finish a book. I kept glancing at my watch. I could feel the trepidation in the tips of my toes. My hands felt clammy.
What the fuck am I doing? I hissed through my teeth.
Omar would be furious. I had promised him that my days of doing drugs were over. Sure, we smoked pot from time to time, but Class A drugs were definitely off the list. I wondered if this was what my mother felt. The only sense of purpose being to wield a crystal snifter of vodka every day. Mother had her vodka. Del and her drugs. There it was. Cursed to end up like my mother. I didn’t care. Maybe it was because I cared too much.
At 5pm, I hailed a taxi and got in. I didn’t want to get stuck in rush hour traffic. I was in a daze, with the singular aim of getting high. The kind of daze addicts get into when they know that the next high is minutes away. That lull, the blood in the veins slowing down, as if to anticipate the next jolt. The heart sinking into a short stupor; a cat napping, before the starving dog is unleashed. The nostrils flaring, the tongue licking the lips in anticipation, the stretching of the gums, cheeks, the mouth going aaaah, aaaah, aaaah. There was no logic to it, there was no sense in thinking it through. In mentally going through the motions of what the next few hours would bring.
I got to Karin’s flat and she let me in. She had just showered and the apartment was full of light from the open windows. Her hair was longer than ever and she looked skinny. She kissed me lightly on the cheeks.
Long time no see, huh.
Shit, you lost a ton of weight. I blurted. She had. Cheekbones tight, her shoulder blades sharper than ever.
Kai left. She pursed her lips and plopped herself on the blue leather couch. Her apartment was done up in blues and whites. A little too minimalist for me, but it was very soothing.
Jesus. When? I sat next to her.
On the table were stacks of women’s magazines. The Cleo mag on top had Karin on the cover. The make-up was vivid, the eyebrows arched. The eyeshadow a shimmery turquoise. The lips, glossy pink.
Nice pic. I said.
It’s work, babes. Work. Pays for everything you know. She lit a cigarette.
So, what happened?
You know Kai’s bi—right? She took a puff and looked at me.
No…?
Well, he left me for some guy in Jakarta. Some other model.
Fuck!
Yeah, fuck them both.
She got up and walked towards the kitchen. It was a studio apartment and the kitchen was right next to the living room. I eased myself onto the blue lea
ther, propped a pillow between my thighs and looked out the windows, wide open, overlooking the tops of houses, trees.
White wine? Or champagne? She asked, opening the fridge.
Whatever, I don’t care.
What’s up with you?
Nothing.
Hmmph. Yeah right.
She brought over a bottle of white wine and two glasses.
Wanna talk about it? She asked as she twisted the corkscrew until it popped.
No.
She handed me a glass of wine. The sight of the clear yellow liquid invigorated me. We clinked our glasses.
What shall we toast to? Karin took another puff and her eyes lit up.
And at that moment a thought came to me—a terrible thing really.
What if my mother had taken her life? What if she had crashed her car deliberately?
To be honest, I didn’t really know the intricate details of the crash. Papa always said, “The car hit a lamp pole and it killed her instantly.” But was it because she swerved to avoid something? Did she run a red light? Did she do it intentionally?
I downed the glass of wine and as I poured myself some more, I asked.
So, what drugs you got?
Marina had just walked past the Cuban bar when she saw a group of well-muscled men dressed in tight T-shirts and jeans. We must all be going to the same place, she thought.
The road was bustling, there were people milling about on the streets, stylish men and women who were out to party. She looked up and saw a group of men sitting on two adjacent balconies, sipping cocktails, smoking, laughing. One man started kissing another passionately on the lips, oblivious to the others.
She followed the group of men into the white colonial-style bungalow, which had a blossoming frangipani tree by the entrance. The sweet scent of the white flowers hovered over the entrance as the door was opened by a man in a black suit.
As soon as she entered, the sound of thumping music swirled down the circular staircase. There was a cover charge of twenty ringgit and as Marina opened her purse to pay, one of the guys in front of her turned and said, “It’s okay, she’s with me.”
Once We Were There Page 12