Once We Were There

by Bernice Chauly

  Marina called him Mr Ferrari; he was undoubtedly unhappily married and very, very rich. He was her most regular client and had almost single-handedly sponsored her new breast enlargements, and she knew that he cared for her. It was almost like love, she thought. He cares for me, he looks after me, he SMS-es me to make sure I eat every day, he wants to know who I fuck and how much I make, and he is okay with all of that.

  Marina had come to taste the good life. She had a credit card, she had seen the insides of five-star hotels, she had come to like the taste of champagne, she had come to like fucking him and she had come to care for him. He was not the man of her dreams, by any means, but he was kind, considerate and generous to a fault. He had once offered to pay for an apartment, but Marina had said “No, I want to be able to afford my own place.” She had registered the Mak Nyah Association of Malaysia at the Registrar of Societies—“Leave it to me,” he said, and assured her that it would come to be.

  He had been vague about who he was; she knew that he was in some position of power in the government, he was secretive about his personal belongings, his whereabouts, his work, his wife and his three children, and he travelled a great deal. Where to? she would ask. He would answer by giving her gifts. Chocolates from Switzerland. A wool shawl from Russia. A rug from Afghanistan. Jewellery from Morocco and Istanbul. He has taste, she thought. Apart from the rather dubious fire-red Ferrari he drove whenever he came to meet her.

  A man of mystery. A man of some taste. A man of interminable lust.

  Whenever Marina met him, she would be summoned via SMS to a hotel and be greeted by a butler at the entrance of the hotel and taken to a room that smelled like a boudoir. There were always fresh flowers, lilies and orchids, and champagne in a bucket. If he was running late, Marina would surf through the channels on the television, drink, order room service and prepare herself for him. Her legs smooth, nipples darkened with rouge, her privates waxed completely, and her desire growing by the minute. And when he appeared, he would come to her, kiss her all over, tell her how beautiful she was. And his penis was always hard, always, timing those blue pills perfectly, so they would fuck again and again, eat, drink, and fuck again, until the sun rose and he would rise to leave after breakfast—a full English breakfast with real bacon—and she would lie in bed, have yet another shower, drink until the bottle was empty, nap under those Egyptian cotton sheets, order lunch, eat, watch silly sitcoms, and then finally, leave.

  And Mr Ferrari would SMS her or call, and say—Thanks for a lovely evening, I look forward to seeing you again, soon. X

  Always the same message. Such a creature of habit, she thought. But she liked it, she had come to treasure it. She needed consistency in her life, and now she had it. From a man who was greying, portly and squinty-eyed, but a man who obviously felt for her, and maybe even loved her, a man whose name she did not even know.

  It was this that kept Marina going, and when she was back in the back alleys of Chow Kit, giving a blow job to an Indonesian construction worker who smelled of concrete, cigarettes and sweat, she knew that Mr Ferrari would be there again next week, and the week after next, waiting for her.

  * * *

  Marina had been ill so I went to see her in Chow Kit. I brought her herbal chicken soup from a Chinese restaurant in PJ. It came in a clear plastic bag inside a larger pink plastic bag. Alba insisted on carrying it as we walked back to the car.

  I want carry, she said. I want.

  We had not seen each other in months and she whooped with joy when she saw Alba.

  Aduh, so besar. She’s growing up too fast!

  Alba started singing twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are, up above the sky to high, like a … like a…

  Diamond!

  …diamond…

  In the sky…twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are.

  We clapped along with her, her chubby arms and fingers waving in glee. She was dressed in a flowery dress from Bali, with alternate layers of blue and white, the kind that all parents bought from the street-side shops in Ubud or Kuta or Seminyak. It was a gift from Sumi and Fairman, who’d gone there for their honeymoon. Three sets in different colours and motifs. One formal, one for playing and another for a day out. This was the day-out dress, with multiple dolphins, frolicking in a cottony blue sea.

  I’d only been to Marina’s flat once before. It was a floor up in a shophouse, in between a brothel on the third floor and her friend Kak Min’s flat. She still shared it with her two trans housemates from Sabah, who were also from seaside villages. I spotted new curtains: they weren’t the same faded batik sarongs. The kitchen table was also new, with a pink table cloth and a vase of plastic flowers in the middle. The couch was the same, with the pronounced dip in the middle, but the television was a larger version of the previous one.

  Marina walked to the kitchen and I followed her. She unpacked the soup and slowly poured it into a bowl. She was sniffling and blew her nose loudly on a tissue. She turned to look at me. Her eyes were watery and her nose pink.

  I feel so teruk, she said. This flu is terrible.

  Yeah, sorry but I won’t stay long then, don’t want Alba to get sick.

  Thanks for the soup, darls… yummy!

  Marina took another sip from the bowl and cleared her throat. I need to get back to work, can’t take another day off. She held the bowl with both hands and drank all the soup in one long gulp. Aaah, I needed that. Thanks so much, darls.

  We heard Alba laughing from the living room. She imagined herself in a playground, finding joy in random objects—an open magazine, a make-up brush, a tube of pink lipstick. Look mama, she waved the brush around and brushed her cheek with it.

  Look at her, so cute! Marina exclaimed.

  I missed Marina. She said she was working non-stop. I found a sugar daddy who really, really likes me, and I think I have saved enough to afford the operation, I think it’s time to snip it off, what you think?

  Who is this guy? I asked. Is this the guy with the Ferrari?

  Yeah, she answered shyly. He’s really nice. He’s not really a sugar daddy because I don’t really want his money. He pays, but that’s it, I don’t want anything more from him.

  I was wary of course, a rich man professing undying love for a trans sex worker from Sabah seemed too good to be true, but perhaps it really was true love and Marina had finally struck gold. I was happy for her, but I told her: Go slow, don’t rush into anything and give it more time.

  More time? But it’s been more than a year! Come on, Del, be happy!

  I am! Really, I am, but can you trust this guy?

  Trust? Can you ever trust anyone one hundred per cent? Ala, don’t be like this…

  She started coughing furiously and I rushed to get her a glass of water.

  I am sorry, but I just don’t want him to hurt you. You know, I’m worried, as your friend.

  Del, I don’t want your worry, okay, you just worry about your daughter and husband, dah cukup, no need to worry about me!

  Then I knew that she was angry, I had said all the wrong things, I should have been happy for her, I should have celebrated the fact that Marina was going to finally be the woman she had only dreamed off. Loved, snipped and titted.

  I think you should go, let me rest, sayang, just let me rest okay?

  I sat in silence, twisting my hands, racking my head of what to say to make it all better. She was visibly upset and I chided myself again for being insensitive. I said that she of all people deserved love, that she had suffered enough and that if this man really loved her then she should accept all that he was willing to give her.

  She kept coughing and asked me to go. I don’t want Alba to get sick. I will call soon okay.

  I got up and said, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that…really. I’m happy for you.

  Then I grabbed Alba who screamed Mama, Mama, no, no! and ran down the stairs carrying her, almost tripping in my haste.

  Perhaps I was too tired t
o even realise that I didn’t need to go to the supermarket to get groceries. Or perhaps I did. I was in a daze, and drove the car as if on autopilot through the city, down the harangue of Jalan Tun Razak, past the roundabout, onto Jalan Semantan and up the hill into the parking lot of the shopping center in Bangsar. The guard waved at me familiarly and Alba waved back from her baby seat, chuckling while sucking on her thumb. I had managed to calm her down after Marina’s and we sang more nursery rhymes in the car.

  I kept telling myself that things would be better, that when Alba got older, when she started daycare or play school, I would have more time to myself. That I could drop her off, sleep and then feel more normal. I then thought that I would speak to Omar that night about looking at options for schools. Perhaps getting Alba out of the house for a few hours a day was the antidote to everything.

  I walked into a café, ordered a vanilla latte and let Alba run around. I got her a chocolate chip muffin and together we sat and ate it. I felt brittle, fragmented. Had I been too insensitive to Marina? And why did I doubt her lover? Was I secretly happy that Sumi had lost her child? Or was I relieved?

  I startled myself when I thought that. I had become a monster. Was this what happened to women when they were sleep deprived? The mind becomes full of trickery. The mind unravelling, halved, quartered. I did not like who I had become, and at that very moment, I was filled with revulsion at everything. A husband, a child.

  I looked at Alba and I saw a creature who had usurped my life, who now had control over everything. I had a life that was no longer mine. She took and only took from me. My sleep. My sanity. My youth. She, who drank from me like an endless ocean of milk. She, who rendered me like stone in a corner, watching her run towards the ornamental fountain, laughing to herself, speaking in her gibberish and the occasional word. In that moment, I wished I were a different person, somewhere else. In Barcelona, Paris, back in Montreal. I did not want to be in KL. I did not want anything. I just wanted to be alone. On a park bench somewhere.

  I wondered how days turned into nights, and how time was dictated by naps, the changing of diapers, snacks, meal times, sleep, and then it starting all over again. Two years had passed, how many diapers had I used? How much poo had I cleaned? How much milk had she drunk from me? How many times had she been bathed? How many nights had I not slept right through?

  I was being illogical, ridiculous, selfish, I had a child that I had given birth to, one who was healthy, perfect, I was perfectly able to care for her, I had a husband who loved us both, so why was I feeling the way I was? A fear washed over me, I suddenly felt incapable—that I had to see it all through—primary and secondary school, parent-teacher conferences, homework, swimming and piano classes, braces, pimples, crushes, teenage rebellion, tattoos, college, adulthood. Being a parent never stopped, there would be no breath in between, no time to recover, no time to salvage anything except sleep.

  Then Alba came running to me, she came up to my knee and she saw that I was upset.

  Mama. Mama. Mama!

  I’m sorry, darling, Mama’s very tired.

  I picked her up and hugged her tightly. The scent of her hair, her skin, it washed over me like a balm. This was motherhood. It rose and fell, leaving you empty, half empty and then full. I kissed her nose, forehead, cheeks, her chubby, chubby hands. I told myself, it will get better. It will all get better. And together we walked into the supermarket.

  I put her on the grocery cart, sitting upright facing me. She was used to it. I gave her a toy to chew on. I thought of baked salmon and asparagus for dinner, perhaps a sweet potato mash.

  Yes, Alba, baby girl, salmon and sweet potato mash for dinner? You think daddy would like that? Yes, baby girl…

  She smiled and said Papa, Papa… potato…

  Then I remembered that we needed ground coffee and milk. And diapers, wine. Eggs, onions, garlic. Olive oil. Balsamic vinegar. Whipping cream. Lemons. Those thin biscuits that he likes. I walked towards the biscuit aisle, looking for those slim chocolate mint slivers. They were out of stock the last time. I saw them and grabbed three packets. Then I saw that they had oatcakes as well. That would go nice with cheese. So I took one packet and then realised that the grocery cart was three aisles back. I walked towards it, feeling better with each step. I would feel better after a nap, yes. We would go home and curl into bed together. The world would be a better place after more sleep.

  I saw the grocery cart, I saw the things I had put in earlier. My handbag in the corner. But Alba, where was she? Could she have climbed down on her own? No, it was impossible.

  I put the things into the cart and started pushing it.

  Alba! Alba! Alba!

  I walked up to the nearest cashier.

  Have you seen my child? Little girl. Blue dress. Two years old.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  Concerned faces. The cashiers talking amongst themselves.

  Have you seen a little girl in a blue dress?

  Was she hiding in between aisles? I ran past row after row of canned food, noodles, flour, jams.

  Alba!

  Alba!

  Where are you?

  The security guards came.

  Alba! Alba!

  Madam, something wrong?

  Madam, all okay?

  Alba, where are you? Alba!!!

  Madam, what does your child look like?

  Madam, can you describe your daughter?

  The announcement over the loudspeaker. All over the shopping center.

  A two-year-old child is lost. She is wearing a blue and white dress. She has dark brown hair and her name is Alba. If anybody sees this child, please bring her to the information counter immediately.

  Then, a crowd. Women with their own children, hugging them tightly. Men in suits. All peering at me.

  Strangers. I wanted to throw up. A lady holding my shoulders, a glass of water pressed into my hand. The announcement again and again. The security guards on walkie-talkies.

  Madam, we have closed off all the entrances and exits. We will check everything. Don’t worry.

  Fifteen minutes. They say that if a child goes missing in public for more than that, it is too late.

  Was it too late? How long had it been?

  Where is she? Where is my baby?

  I started shaking. My voice, a blood curdling scream.

  Alba was gone. My child was gone.

  Five

  Survivor

  After 48 hours, there was no message for a ransom. No phone call, no letter, no fax, no email, no SMS. Nothing.

  Omar went through all the names on his handphone. He pored over their client lists, sat with the company accountant to figure if there were rogue debtors, people who had tried to undercut quotes, anyone who seemed doubtful or suspicious. Competitors? Yes, there were many. But they had heavy subsidies and he was used to playing the game on both sides. They received government concessions not just because the Minister of Transport was an old friend of his father’s, but between him and Fairman, there was more than enough to go around, more than enough favours to pull and more than enough resources to run an office of twenty staff.

  Over the past two years, TMF Sdn Bhd had done well. Over ten million in profit, continuing contracts in Vietnam, Nigeria and Sudan and the possibility of a new highway that would connect KL better than ever, a penthouse office at The Luxe in the heart of KL, a business partner he trusted. He had an apartment in Bangsar, a wife and child he loved dearly, more satiety than he’d ever experienced in his life.

  And then, a nightmare. Del was falling apart at the seams, she was unravelling by the hour. She had done nothing for two days, and stopped eating. She became a creature on the couch, unmoving.

  “Darling, please. You cannot be like this. Stay strong, Del. Please,” he had pleaded with her that morning. Next to her limp body, an empty vodka bottle on the carpet, an overturned glass. She had drunk herself into oblivion.

  “Darling, let’s get you to
the shower…come on.”

  She was a dead weight, she would not move. Her body fought him, her hands pushed against his gentle touch. Then she struck out at him and screamed, her face contorted into a grotesque mask of pain.

  “Leave me alone! Go away! Leave me alone!”

  He left her like that and drove the car out onto the street. The primary school down the road was in session. There were little boys on the field, kicking a football. At the traffic lights, in the corner of his rear mirror, he saw Alba’s car seat strapped in the back seat, and imagined her waving a toy, laughing, singing Papa… Papa. He gritted his teeth and felt a muscle pinch in his cheek. He slammed his foot on the accelerator and whispered.

  “I am going to find you. My baby girl. I am going to find you, no matter the cost, no matter what. That’s Papa’s promise.”

  And as he drove into the city, the tears that he had willed to be pent-up for the past two days, surged out of his chest, scorched his eyes and spilled onto his cheeks, while his hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice.

  * * *

  Inspector Awang put down the phone and stood by his desk, deliberating what he was going to say. It was a hot day and the air-conditioning inside the office was humming loudly. Omar noticed that small droplets of water were dripping onto the floor.

  Omar asked again, impatiently, “Sorry, could you explain that again?”

  Inspector Awang cleared his throat and spoke, firmly and quietly and pointed to a map behind him. “Encik Malik, the shopping centre is forty-five minutes away from Port Klang.” Inspector Awang traced his finger on the map and then stopped, “Another forty-five minutes and you’re in international waters. I am sorry, sir, but your child could be anywhere by now.”

  Omar stared at the Inspector in disbelief. Del sobbed loudly.

  “And, there’s nothing you can do?”

  Inspector Awang sat down and beckoned Omar to sit. Omar shook his head, raked his fingers through his hair. Del stood by a corner window, staring numbly into the street.