You Might Want to Marry My Husband

by Yap Swi Neo

  The exchange of notes continues. With each note, Kam is assured Melissa is his soulmate.

  Follow your heart.

  Kam

  Brain is xxxxxx!

  Since I met you, you’ve never left.

  Kam

  I need the $$$ xxxxxx

  We don’t meet people by accident, they are meant to cross our paths for a reason.

  Kam

  What’s your reason? What’s your reason for all this xxxxxx exchange? Can’t just TALK???? xxxxxx

  Kam, much smitten with the boisterous Melissa, is happy to obey. He keeps all eleven notes in a pink gift box trimmed with purple lace. He sprays a mist of his cologne on each. Then he decides to talk to her.

  The next morning, catching sight of Melissa and Charles, he calls out, ‘Good morning, Melissa.’ His heart pounds like a roti prata[2] chef punching his dough as he approaches her; it seems his little heart is about to break through the dough and flee. Melissa smiles ever so sweetly, ‘Kam, darling, good morning.’ He feels trapped, no turning back. She is tickled to see him now a beetroot. Finally he spurts, ‘Melissa, what breakfast do you like?’

  She is amused, such a mundane conversation starter. ‘Oh, Charles enjoys local breakfasts.’ The next morning he brings her a packet of mee goreng[3] in a plastic container. ‘Shall we breakfast together? In the pantry. I hope you like this fried noodles. We have coffee 3-in-1. It’s free.’

  ‘Oh, Kam darling, how sweet.’ She takes the noodles and turns to leave. ‘Tata, going to class now.’

  Kam has hopes of enjoying breakfast together but it does not happen. By the end of the week, mee goreng, chee cheong fun[4], chwee kueh[5], nasi lemak[6], and yam cake have been handed over.

  ‘Kam darling, you spoil me, there’s enough for two. We enjoy them.’ But there is not a hint of who the ‘we’ are, no suggestion of ‘Kam darling, let’s breakfast together’. Yet the breakfast deliveries continue, this being Kam’s ‘talk’ as he believes actions speak louder than words.

  One morning she whispers, ‘Kam darling, you don’t want me to be round and an impossible hug, do you? No more breakfasts, ok?’ The sweet melody of ‘Kam darling’ satiates him, ‘an impossible hug’ creates many amorous, sleepless nights. He drinks in her words like strong wine and enjoys feeling tipsy. He feels so much loved. And he loves from a distance. He seeks out Mrs Ng for love poems; Professor William Mason of the Music Department for romantic music. Bloom is un-Bloom-ed

  At the University Day staff lunch, the dean decides it is befitting for staff to share ‘something they had experienced during their university days, if they wish’. Melissa is delighted to share her first experience at a Maori party. ‘Charles Apera and I were classmates. I spent warm summer evenings by the lake with Charles and his family. Mikaere, his father, prepared a traditional Maori delicacy of freshly roasted huhu grub. The grubs are the larvae of huhu beetles and live in dead wood in native forests. They are harvested and cooked for their protein and nutty flavour. Other traditional foods include whitebait, the seaweed karengo, pikopiko fern shoots, karaka berries and toroi which is a dish of fresh mussels and mud snails and downed with pūhā, a sow thistle juice. Oh, how romantic and serene to gather in the open, round the hangi, watching the little orange tongues of fire licking the open oven. The elders tell stories of how the gods create the earth, the trees, the lakes. We share the food, then we sing and dance. Charles gave me a Maori name, Whetu, meaning “star”, because Charles says I am a star in his life. We slept in the fields, the stars and moon twinkling and smiling, giving us their blessings. I just love the Maoris. Mikaere blesses us, “‘ka hoki mai I’, aku tamariki’”. We promise Mikaere, we will, Charles and I will.’

  Kam immediately shares his first Christmas party at university. ‘Professor Martin reminded all his tutorial students to “bring a plate and a bottle”. I thought, of course Prof won’t have so many pieces of cutlery, so I brought a disposable plate, fork and spoon and my Tupperware tumbler filled with Ribena. I noticed everyone else brought food and beer and wine. That was a culture shock. Guests had to bring their own food and drinks? I taught Prof and my classmates Asian dinner invitation culture. Nonetheless I had plenty to eat and drink and we danced the twist. Several were drunk! I had a wonderful Christmas.’ And he croons, ‘It was so romantic’, as he gazes at Melissa who is intensely engaged in communication with Dr Charles Apera Kingston, the only person who understands the implications of ‘ka hoki mai I’ aku tamariki’.

  Kam is determined to ask Melissa her choice of a partner. In his bedroom he studies himself in the mirror, from the waist up, practices his kisses, vocalizes several versions of his discourse, revises his body language, smoothens the white shirt and blue trousers. He has armed himself with a proposal she could not possibly refuse. He throws himself on his single bed and ‘pillow talks’ with Melissa but his bed is small for his vast expectations. He dreams of Melissa hunching over the hangi with that … that person … eating mud snails and ferns … sharing folklore, cuddling so unashamedly… too much to continue to dream on. It pains him that love brings such agony.

  Yet, face to face with her along the corridor, breathing in ‘Kam darling, good morning’ he blushes furiously. He wants to wrap her in his arms and never let go. But first things first, he wants a serious chat with her on their relationship, yet his nerves are so fraught he shakes at the thought.

  During the term break, Charles and Melissa are not seen in the office for ten days. Kam is disappointed, bewildered, distressed. He turns himself into a somnambulist with ‘eyes wide shut’ thinking on how to bag this woman. He goes about mechanically, his pain shovelling alongside him. Mrs Ng fears for his wellbeing, unsuccessfully tries to convince him Melissa is not worthy of his affection, a more romantic connotation in the realm of Jane Austen than love. Several colleagues believe he must have been an emotionally deprived child, not being called ‘darling’, thus his giddy obsession being addressed ‘Kam darling’.

  It is the end of the academic year again. The dean invites staff to a Staff Tea and Bonding. Wow! Kam is elated, perhaps that would be the right time to superglue himself to Melissa. The dean has a few announcements. Dr Charles Apera Kingston has accepted Chair of Dean, Cross Cultural Communication, Auckland University, and one colleague has resigned. Melissa waves her hand indicating her desire to speak, and sixty-five pairs of eyes pin on her, on what she will announce and to feast on the choice of words she would lavish upon Charles.

  ‘My dear, dear Apera,’ she begins. Kam’s eyes open wide, his ears prick up. Has he heard right? ‘Dear Apera, not Apera darling’? ‘It’s so wonderful you chose to join me here for a year. In university we were soulmates. With your family I was a sister, then a daughter. Your wonderful family taught me the simple happiness of family togetherness around the hangi, the flames never tired of dancing around it, warming our hearts. You taught me to dance in the rain, to love freely, to cry like a baby when my heart was broken. Last semester break we had the haka dance celebrations, uniting us, and with family and friends. Thank you Apera, for loving me so, so much. We love working here, but when it is time to go, we go. Charles and I, with your permission Dean, wish to sing a Maori love song, love for each other, love for family, love for community, love for country. Pōkarekare ana is a familiar song and please sing along. The lyrics are here.’

  Charles turns on the DVD. Everyone knows the melody and sings along, several times over. Charles in his baritone voice is in perfect pitch. Even Kam sings along, his heart lifted, repeating one line ‘Oh girl return to me, I could die of love for you’, not unnoticed by everyone.

  Kam sheepishly observes Charles and Melissa hug and let go of each other. He feels liberated, ecstatic that there is nothing between them after all, it is a brother-sister relationship. The great sorrow he has inflicted on himself evaporates.

  When tea is over, he voices, ‘Melissa dar … dar … darling, dinner tonight, your place or mine?’

  ‘Kam darling, let’s g
o to Kopitiam across the road. Fish head asam pedas.[7] Charles enjoys fish head dishes, so much like home. We may not have such a dish again for a very long time. Our treat.’ Kam holds out his hand, Melissa clings on to Charles’s arm. He does not notice the ring on her finger.

  * * *

  Smorgasbord of Indonesian dishes. ↵

  Indian flat bread, a breakfast favourite. ↵

  Fried noodles. ↵

  Steamed rice noodle rolls. ↵

  Steamed rice cakes with preserved radish. ↵

  Coconut rice, served with sambal, fried anchovies, toasted peanuts and cucumber. ↵

  A piquant spicy fish head dish. ↵

  Angel Cake

  A young girl is caught in a complex family life. Parents aspire for their children to do better than themselves, to improve their lives. This is education. This girl has promised her parents she will continue school, despite having to help with chores. Her yearning for a cake was finally revealed and rewarded. The narrator is my friend.

  Every morning I watch her step off Mosheng Bus number 329, walk along the row of eighteen shophouses, turn the corner to Convent Primary School. She starts with a lively step, swinging her satchel. Her steps slow at the eleventh shop, 73 Jonker Street. She pulls her leg one after the other, hand and face press on the glass panel, as she watches Hanny of Hanny Cake Shop arranging her freshly baked cakes on the stainless-steel shelves.

  The glass panel reflects wide hungry eyes, fingers gingerly picking an imaginary slice of cake, tongue sweeping lips. She picks a different cake each day: a square chocolate, a green triangular pandan,[1] a vanilla round, an orange rectangle from the four large shelves that stretch across the shop. Three large ten-tier stainless steel trays of cakes await their turn to pleasure the palate. It is cakes, cakes everywhere. She enviously spies parents buying breakfast cakes for their children, at times teary. She waits for a customer to push the door open, then inhales the intense giddy orange, vanilla, chocolate, banana and pandan aromas, and she feels satiated. She caresses the cream cakes gently, afraid of disfiguring the curls and twirls of the different coloured cream, but never picks any of those. When Hanny catches her eye, she does her twister disappearance. At other times, she pulls her legs to school. She is there again after school. This time she points at the cakes, counting those left on the shelves, mimicking an accountant tallying the numbers. It appears that all she can afford is to look at the cakes. She is a such fixture over the two years Hanny has operated her shop that Hanny no longer notices the pre-teen schoolgirl at her window.

  One day I decide to offer her a chocolate slice for breakfast. ‘Good morning, have a cake.’ She does her hurricane run through the crowd. I understand. Young girls are taught never to talk to or to accept any food from strangers, ‘bad things will happen to you’ if they do. But she intrigues me. Like clockwork precision, every school day she is there. I do it again the following week, the following and the following, enticing her with different flavours. No thank you, a voiceless decline then the twister run.

  I have been friends with Hanny, lovely woman, almost all my adult life. She is my cousin’s widow. We are partners in the cake business, but a stroke has stopped me from physical work. I do the accounts at the end of the day. I conspire with Hanny. When a customer pulls the door, and the girl’s eyes close to pump her lungs with the aroma of freshly baked cakes, Hanny will

  offer her a slice.

  ‘Hello, a nice slice of vanilla cake for a pretty, pretty girl.’ She is so surprised she does her twister run but turns round once to eye Hanny. Perhaps Hanny is a motherly figure, and she feels less threatened. Perhaps she has never had such an offer. Hanny offers a slice of a different flavour each time; no words are needed. Finally, one day she whispers, ‘No, thank you.’ Her eyes say, ‘Thank you, yes, I like that.’

  ‘What’s your name? How old are you?’

  She turns and walks away, swinging her satchel, no twister run. A good sign. Now Hanny is curious too. Who is she? She has not given a thought to the girl who has peered through the glass panel to spy on her and the cakes. She has her own thoughts.

  It is a ritual over the school term. She has noticed me sitting on the bench at the park across the road under the splendid Rose of India, boasting its canopy of lilac flowers during the hot season. It is a small park. Once she smiled, or I want to believe she smiled at me.

  On the last week of the school term, she shyly stands at Hanny’s window, wanting to catch Hanny’s eye, hoping, I believe, Hanny’s offer of a slice of cake still stands. She turns to look at me, perhaps appealing to me to get her a slice. Hanny smiles and beckons her inside. She accepts a cake. ‘Can I take it home, please, aunty, please?’[2] eyes pleading, afraid of rejection and the cake lost.

  Hanny offers, ‘Which flavour do you like most?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Hanny packs a vanilla slice, and carefully places it in a plastic carrier bag.

  ‘Thank you, aunty, thank you.’ The same exchange over the next days.

  ‘Which flavour today?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have no money.’ We ignore that confession.

  ‘Banana slice?’ Her eyes glisten, wetting the corners. She nods, to take home. It is the last day of the school year. Hanny gives her three slices, a speckled banana, a green pandan, and a rainbow vanilla.

  I know I will miss her during the six-week end-of-school-year holiday. Hanny will too. We have grown accustomed to her face, seldom smiling, eyes, mouth and fingers caressing the cakes from a distance, ever so gently, fearful they might disintegrate and disappear. We name her Little Angel. She is pretty in a sad sort of way, a child carrying a weight, a cross.

  I check the route of Mosheng Bus number 329. The bus starts at Jurong Bus Station and ends at Par Road Bus Station, a long route, 29 stops. Where are the stops? I do the route, note the stops. Jonker Street is the eighteenth. Of interest are ‘LOVE Home’, Stop 9, and ‘Suchi Children’s Home’, Stop 11. No, I can’t visit either, not being able to name the person I wish to visit.

  Little Angel has grown taller when she turns up for the new school year. She looks more matured. She walks past Hanny Cake Shop. One afternoon after school, I wait for her at cake shop. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello,’ and she walks away.

  ‘Hanny misses you,’ I call after her.

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Would you like a slice of cake to take home?’

  ‘I can’t. I just can’t.’ She does her twister run. The next day Hanny packs a chocolate, an orange and a walnut slice for her. She takes them without a word.

  One afternoon, I am at the bus stop outside Suchi Children’s Home, Stop 11. Sneaky, I confess. No, Little Angel does not alight there. The next day I am at LOVE Home, Stop 9. Little Angel alights with Hanny’s cakes. She notices me, nonchalantly walks in. Who is there? Mother? Father? Sibling? I take the bus home.

  Hanny and I have immersed ourselves with Little Angel. How can we impress upon her we want to be part of her life at LOVE Home, Stop 9?

  Love is gentle, love is kind, love judges not, the bible teaches us. Over the month-long June holidays, Hanny invites Little Angel to help out at the cake shop. ‘What do you want to know about LOVE Home, Stop 9?’ she asks, quietly defiant. She is not a naïve child; she is a child woman.

  That is when the dam shatters and floods her face. Her tears are from the storms inside her. Hanny’s long arms are made to hug, to embrace, to love, besides kneading dough, beating eggs and arranging cakes on shelves.

  ‘What’s your name? How old are you?’

  ‘My name is Lin San. 12 years. I’m in Primary 6. Next year I’ll be in secondary school.’

  ‘Would you like to talk about LOVE Home?’ I ask.

  ‘You were there, you spied on me. You were also at Suchi Children’s Home. If you were James Bond you would have been dead.’ And as an afterthought, adds, ‘On your first mission!’ The arrow hits the bull’s eye of my core. I feel shame. How do I
begin to tell her I am sorry? That I have violated her space? That Hanny and I only want to help? Who are we to want to help? Will she believe us?

  Lin San’s mother is in LOVE Home. She has been sick for a long time. A kind of flu, she does not know what. She can’t stand, has poor appetite. Lin San and her father can’t take care of her at home. Her nine-year-old sister lives with Nai-Nai, her paternal grandmother. Her father works two jobs, washing cars at the petrol station in the mornings, earning $3 for every car. Most days he washes three cars; automatic car washers have won over the business. From midnight to six he is a security guard at a condominium. He needs the money to pay for Mother’s stay, and the school fees. They have no time to take care of Mother and sister at home.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘With Mother. I sleep on the floor. The Home allows me, and I clean the Home every weekend. Mother eats very little, so I eat her share. I promise Mother I will never stop school. Father and sister sleep at Nai-Nai’s house.’

  ‘The cakes, what about the cakes?’ Hanny asks gently.

  ‘Mother worked at a bakery until she fell ill. She always brought the leftovers for us. She loves cakes.’ Now we understand Little Angel’s request to take home the cakes. Mother has told her she should not accept cakes or anything without paying for them. Everyone has bills to pay.

  What is Mother’s favourite cake? ‘Angel Cake with a little sprinkle of sugar dust. She’s the specialist of angel cake. That’s all Mother wishes for. A slice of angel cake, only one slice on Monday night when I can spend time with her. Weekends I’m very busy cleaning. Other days I study schoolwork. Aunty, you don’t bake angel cake. Even if you do I don’t have money to buy one. I can only look at the cakes and in them I see Mother.’