Once We Were There

by Bernice Chauly

  “Have you eaten anything today, Omar?” Nim asked firmly. “I think you’ve had more than enough to drink…”

  Omar sat down resigned and shook his head. “I can’t…can’t stop thinking about her…” He held his head in his arms and sighed.

  Nim got up. “Do you have eggs?” She walked towards the modern open-style kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. “Yup, you do…”

  Omar looked up and her and smiled weakly. “Do what you must,” he said.

  Nim took out four eggs, some butter and milk and placed it on the kitchen island. She rummaged in the cupboards below and stove and found a saucepan. She beat the eggs in a bowl, added some milk, salt and pepper, melted some butter in a pan and lightly scrambled the eggs on the expensive cast iron stove until they were partially cooked.

  The smell of food made Omar nauseous initially, but then the hunger pangs that he had subdued for days came back and he felt nauseous again, but now, from hunger. Nim slipped the eggs expertly onto a slim white plate and found some cutlery in another drawer. She carried the plate to Omar, who was already sitting up.

  “Here, eat,” Nim demanded with a smile.

  Omar took the plate gratefully and with his fork, pierced the soft mound of eggs and put it in his mouth. He nodded as he tasted the buttery, creamy goodness. Within seconds had eaten half the portion on the plate. Nim sat and watched him quietly, sipping her whisky.

  Omar took one final mouthful, chewed thoughtfully and set the plate down on the table. He took a deep sigh and said, “That was delicious, thank you.” He sat back in the couch and closed his eyes. His body felt more relaxed than it had in days, now nourished with something other than whisky. He suddenly felt exhausted. That all the nutrients in his belly demanded relief, and rest.

  “Listen,” he said, “I need to lie down,” and stood up slowly.

  “Sure, I’ll leave you to rest, Omar. Try to keep your strength up.” Nim walked towards the front door and slipped her heels back on.

  “Thanks, really. I…will speak to you soon.” Omar unlocked the heavy wooden door and a cool breeze blew in. He felt lightheaded but calm. Nim smiled and leaned over to peck him lightly on the cheek. Omar recoiled. Her touch unnerved him, but it did not feel like pity, it felt of genuine concern.

  “Sure. I’m in KL for a few more days, so let me know…” she smiled and walked away, her shapely calves sashaying steadily away from him, her hair blowing to the right from the breeze. As she stood at the lift lobby, she turned and smiled again. He heard the lift doors ding, stepped inside, closed the door firmly and locked it.

  You’re what? I exclaimed. The two well-dressed white women at the table next to ours turned and stared in annoyance.

  Del, keep it down please, Sumi whispered.

  Sumi and Fairman had been trying to have a baby, and after her first miscarriage, she had another one, which was equally devastating. She had become fat in her wealth, with the IVF treatments, and had become one of those “ladies-who-lunch”, one of the many social butterflies that flitted in and around KL’s many trendy cafés. I could see that boredom had set in. She was dressed in an all-black ensemble, matching shoes, a patent black leather handbag and large Jackie O-type sunglasses. She masked her extra weight well; she was taller than I and had sleeker limbs, so the extra padding around her waist was well camouflaged.

  Sumi had only seen me once after the suicide attempt and by all accounts, I was already a different person. But I had been nervous when I sat down to wait. It was a humid afternoon after the hot rains which had left the roads steaming. Tendrils of warm vapour eased upwards, disappearing into the underbellies of cars, briefly entwining with the feet and calves of pedestrians before evaporating. We had arranged to meet in a new patisserie, which had a selection of French breads, cakes and pastries, and I was nursing my second café latte when she swung into the booth with a flourish.

  Sorry I’m late. Terrible parking today, and it’s so bloody humid! Whooh!

  Kiss kiss, twice on the cheek. The glasses came off, and then a perfectly made-up face gleamed back at me. How she had changed. How she had changed from the sweaty, drenched, despairing person on the street, dodging tear gas and police batons, clad in cheap jeans and faded sneakers. How we had both changed.

  So, how are you? Feeling better? You look better! Tell me all.

  And where was I supposed to start? The pills, the vodka, the bags of cocaine, the club, Shah, the hospital, Inspector Awang? Omar?

  I shrugged. I don’t know where to start, Sumi, it’s been, just… hard. You know, just trying to live every day without going crazy…

  She patted my hand, waved to a waiter, pointed to my latte and said, Okay… I know this might be hard for you…Oh well, I’ll just come out and say it. She took a breath and continued. We have decided to try and adopt. I can’t have a baby, that’s clear and the IVF has made me so fat. Look at me! I’m not even menopausal yet, these bloody hormones, they just make you so fat! So, yes, we’re going to adopt!

  I gulped my café latte and sputtered.

  Adopt? My hands started shaking and I felt a cold shiver on my neck. How?

  Sumi continued, unperturbed. Well, there are ways, you know. I know a couple of people who’ve recently just adopted baby girls, it’s all legit of course, paperwork and all, you pay for quick service but yes… we’ve been talking about it and so, what do you think? Her café latte appeared and she took a cultured sip.

  I said quietly, my eyes downcast. Good luck, I hope you find a child who… deserves a home like yours.

  It was as if she didn’t hear me. And then she told me about their recent holiday in Barcelona, where they ate non-stop oh my god, Iberico ham, the tapas! So fresh, ahh the wine, the shopping, the leather shoes, the hand stitching! Fairman went crazy, this villa, oh my god the view of the vineyards, olive oil from the trees! The scent of lemons in the morning… A run-down of what they saw and a slew of haphazardly-linked vignettes about her life since being Mrs Fairman. And such. Then it was onto the baby. The monologue continued. I wanted to leave, just run out the door, but I forced myself to stay, to listen to her drone on and on. I was feeling unhinged, the conversation drifting precariously into territory I really did not want to venture into.

  You’re not really a woman until you have a child and I feel so inadequate, but Fairman is okay with it, he just thinks that we can have more freedom without lugging a baby around whenever we feel like taking off, but then I ask myself, how long can I do this for? This kind of jet-setting will wear off after a while and then what? I don’t need to work so what the hell was I supposed to do? Socialise? Find a charity? Orphans? Shop? If I am going to do all that then I might as well have a child, right? After all there are so many kids who need loving homes and I think it would do me good, what do you think? I’m sorry for rambling on and on but you know sometimes I am by myself for days and days and all I do is just ramble on and on…

  What about the law? You wanted to get into law, remember? I broke my silence.

  I’m lonely, Del, she replied.

  And you think a child is going to make you feel less lonely? I snapped back.

  If only she knew what loneliness meant. If only she knew how selfish it all sounded. I wanted to walk away there and then and let her stew in her imagined misery. I wanted to slap her and say, you have a husband who loves you, you have a life that some women would kill for and now you want a child to complete it, like another handbag. But I didn’t.

  Once Fairman and I find a baby, our lives will be perfect. I know it.

  You know Fairman is married to the company, just like Omar. You know that right? You know that having a baby is the hardest, most difficult thing in the world, right? That you don’t sleep for weeks and months, that you’re tired all the time…and when they’re sick…

  She cut in. Del, I know. And I will be prepared. Her eyes suddenly looked hard. I am not an idiot. Her hand reaching out to grasp mine and as if to say… I will not do it the way you did. I
pulled away.

  Look, I’m sorry if I am being insensitive, but you’re my friend and friends talk to each other. Sorry for saying this, but I really want a child…It’s a simple as that. Surely you would understand…?

  I do, I replied sharply. It’s just hard okay. My life is fucked, really… I was trying to stay calm and not disintegrate into a sobbing mess. I took a large gulp to steady myself. So tell me about the baby then, how is this going to happen?

  You know Kim Harrison? She already has one kid and has been trying to have another for years, but it just never happened. She heard of a woman called Mary who runs an adoption agency or something like that. Mary put the word out and apparently in a couple of weeks there was already a child…

  How old? I asked.

  I think she was a newborn, or maybe a week old? Very cute, curly hair, high nose, beautiful child. Her name is Natasha.

  Natasha. I wondered if Natasha was someone else before she became Natasha.

  This woman, do you think she has older kids as well?

  I don’t know, but I was planning to call her next week, once Fairman gets back and we have a serious conversation about this… He’s been waffling, so I need to get a definite yes from him before I do this. But yes, it’s entirely possible! She clapped her hands in glee.

  Sounds like a plan. I said quietly.

  And how are you?

  As if she really wanted to know. As if she really cared.

  I don’t really know any more, you know. I need to find Alba.

  Sumi took a look around the room, pursed her lips and snapped back.

  You can’t find Alba, Del. The cops will find her.

  I was filled with a sense of violence, of wanting to smash the white ceramic cup which held the rest of my coffee, of wanting to punch Sumi and thrust her head onto the table again and again, of wanting to draw blood.

  Fuck you. I said. Fuck you, Sumi.

  I got up to leave and she pulled at my arm. I’m sorry… I’m such a fucking idiot, I know.

  I looked at her straight in the eye and said, Yes, you are.

  And walked right out of the café into the afternoon light.

  Six

  Year of the Monkey

  All cities run on sex, on what is penetrable and what is not. KL is no different. At night the city breathes into a different kind of life, conflagrations of the possible and impossible, inhabited by beings of light and darkness, elegant and decaying, who scour the streets for temporary emancipation, whose needs are alleviated by wild fumblings, alcohol and opiates. Bukit Bintang, Star Hill, is at the heart of KL’s vices and dens. This half-mile strip of shopping malls, hotels, brothels, restaurants and beggars where dreams are made and trampled upon.

  Every day millions of ringgit exchange hands: from exhausted Bangladeshi construction workers who fuck thin Indonesian prostitutes, to millionaires who have cocaine-fuelled orgies with Russian and East European models, to drug pushers and transsexuals who loiter in dark alleys, to fat, rich housewives who buy endless handbags, clothes two sizes smaller and pearls with their platinum cards, to nubile teenagers who score everything from cocaine to E to marijuana, to bankers who sign blank cheques, to politicians who deposit those cheques. Everybody comes into some kind of slaughter, people leave bits of themselves on the streets, and try to pick up the pieces the next time they return.

  But the city had not changed, the city had become bitter, bloated from greed, pestilence, rot. There was a poison, a vileness that had penetrated the skin of it. People no longer looked at each other on the streets, their eyes were sullen, jaded, there was unbridled anger, a hostility that was a contagion. There was cruelty, a disregard for manners, there was selfishness. People got into their cars and drove to work and back, single persons in luxury cars, clogging the roads. People honked to get past, flashed their lights to bully slower drivers, screamed and shouted at each other for parking spaces, dodged red lights, raced like madmen in the dead of night. Cut lines in queues, lied to their husbands and wives, all to get ahead, to feel happier, less lonely, less trapped, less afraid.

  Money was the new god, friends who were already shallow became even more shallow, some became gods, some monsters, blinded by power, wealth, false security. Everything was black or white, there was no grey, there was an arrogance, and piteousness that assailed people.

  “I don’t owe you shit, man!” screamed a teenage boy on a motorbike when he accidentally rammed into Omar’s car one night. “You’re fucking rich, you can afford it! Fuck off!” He was high.

  Perhaps it was better that Alba was gone. She could have turned out in terrible ways. She could have turned into a spoilt, rich brat, selfish and sullen, she could have become a burden to him and to Del. The city was already corrupt, and perhaps it was going to stay that way.

  Marina looked up from her manager’s table as her nine o’clock stumbled in through the heavy wooden doors. He was already drunk and was being held up by two giggling Chinese girls. Marina walked up to him, her long skirt swishing against her legs, “Good evening, Mr Chan, welcome back to Noble Inn. Always a pleasure to see you,” she chimed.

  “Gimme my regular room,” he growled, “And my bottle.”

  “Of course, follow me, please,” she replied. Marina led them through the long corridor to the private rooms. The two girls almost stumbled to the floor in their heels. The corridor was dark, lit only by low lamps on the walls, and all three almost tumbled to the floor until a pair of hands reached out to stop them, as if by magic.

  Marina whispered softly, “Thank goodness you’re here, Hassan. Mr Chan is drunker than usual tonight.”

  Hassan smiled back, “Yes, madam, all okay now,” and strode off, Mr Chan in tow.

  Hassan was a tall, strapping Bangladeshi, the club’s resident bouncer who was more accustomed to hauling sacks of rice on his shoulders than slovenly, overweight men. But it was the eve of Chinese New Year, so he was more than prepared to have a sore back the following day. Tips were good this time of the year, so he was grateful. The two giggling girls tottered off into the dark corridor into the comfortable air-conditioned room where Mr Chan would snore to the singing of Cantonese pop songs. Hassan came out and straightened his black suit.

  “All okay, madam, I give him water first, but you know he will drink again when he wakes up.”

  “Uh huh.” Marina smiled, and checked her bookings for the night again. It was going to get packed later on, and she had to make sure that there were rooms for walk-ins. As if on cue, the phone rang.

  “Hello, Noble Inn, Gong Xi Fa Cai! How can I help you?”

  Hassan disappeared into the corridor, headed for the kitchen. He had to make sure that the chefs had enough food prepared for the buffet, that ice was aplenty, and that the rooms were ready.

  “Yes, we are very full tonight, but we can accommodate five more people, no problem. What time can we expect you? In one hour? See you then, Mr. Ali.”

  She snapped her appointment book shut and decided to freshen up. She had been on her feet since seven o'clock and they were starting to hurt. There were three bookings at nine-thirty so she had enough time to have a cigarette, a lie down and a hot tea. She walked down the corridor, turned right, walked all the way down, past three rooms on the right and two on the left until she came to a small door. She unlocked it, walked in, peeled off her heels—a new pair of black leather Miu Mius—and heaved a swift sigh.

  Marina took out a cigarette from a gold case that Mr Ferrari had given her for her birthday and lit it. Smoke curled around her face and she shook her hair out. She sat down at a small dressing table and smiled at the reflection. Her coloured hair was blown into soft waves and the bronze highlights glinted under the yellow light. Her eyebrows were teased and filled into perfect arches. Her light blue contact lenses made her look like a screen siren and her low-cut scarlet dress clearly accentuated her breasts. She looked and felt wonderful.

  She was now the manager of the karaoke club, which also served as a high-c
lass brothel. During the day, the club’s office doubled as the headquarters of the Mak Nyah Association of Malaysia. She had five volunteers who staffed the office, processing cases of police abuse and harassment to high-powered human rights lawyers who did the work pro bono. She was becoming the voice of trans rights in Malaysia and she had a job she loved. Her sex change surgery had been a success and she was still getting used to the fact that she no longer had a penis. When she peed, she now sat on the toilet seat, and had already used more toilet paper than she ever imagined.

  Her handphone beeped. It was him, right on time. The SMS read.

  How are you, darling? See you soon, so we can yam seng later, okay?

  Marina chuckled. Mr Ferrari would have to do the rounds later that night and she would have to accompany him, carrying a bottle of cognac while he drank to each and every one of his clients.

  “Bottoms up! Yaaaaaaaaam seng! Yaaaaaaaaaam seng!”

  It was 2004 and the Year of the Monkey, a time for beginnings and endings.

  The Klang Valley is dotted by verdant areas where only the rich live. The first gentrified neighbourhood in KL was Kenny Hills, or now known as Bukit Tunku. This was where our first Prime Minister lived, in a beautiful colonial house with hardwood floors, high ceilings and majestic balustrades. Some of those houses still remain, but many had been torn down to make way for kitsch condominiums with million-dollar price tags. The ones that do remain are houses like the one Fairman’s parents own, and a few more that are scattered all over the hill. At night, the entire area is transformed and the trees take on a life of its own. Snakes and wild boar creep out, along with prowling civet cats and monitor lizards. Monkeys whoop and whistle from treetops, frogs and cicadas provide a veritable orchestra. You can’t take the rainforest out of the city—no matter how hard you try.

  Mother had a friend who lived in a colonial bungalow on Jalan Syers. She was the wife of an ambassador from an undetermined European country. I was eight. Perhaps it was Belgium or Holland? Or was it Germany? Aunty Katherine, mother’s schoolmate from Ipoh was a flamboyant character, who walked around the house as if she were a memsahib from the pages of Somerset Maugham. She wore loose-fitting flowery dresses, wide hats and talked with a poncy English accent, as she had been sent to boarding school when she was very young. Once we went there for tea and I was transported onto the set of an English summer, with tables on the lawn, white lace doilies, silverware, pink roses in vases, tea in delicate china cups with flowers, fresh scones made by the Indian housekeeper, clotted cream, homemade strawberry and rhubarb jam, and the thinnest cucumber sandwiches imaginable. Aunty Katherine never had any children but she owned at least twenty cats. Keeps the snakes away! she used to say.