We, the Survivors

by Tash Aw

  She raises her voice. Hey, listen to me! You’re so rude. She’s almost shouting.

  Sorry, miss, rules are rules. He smiles and starts to flick through a newspaper.

  You people are hopeless. How do you expect this country to progress if you behave like this?

  Her voice is so loud that people at the other end of the room turn and stare at her. I’m afraid of what might happen next, even if she is not. One of the other men – they are all men in that office – stands up and says, What’s that stupid girl shouting about?

  Stupid girl? she shouts. Who are you calling a stupid girl? You want to come out and say that to my face?

  Hey hey hey OK OK. I come and stand next to her at the counter. No problem here, I say. We just want the car back.

  You know something? the man who has just stood up says. Your fine is now one thousand ringgit. Ya, it’s gone up, because yours is a special case.

  What? You can’t do that, she shouts.

  Hey, Ah Moy. Rules are rules.

  You know what? she says. Keep the damn car.

  She turns and walks quickly out of the office. There’s air-con in the room, but it still feels very hot. The men are looking at their phones or flicking through magazines. It’s as if we’d never entered the office, never even existed.

  I find her outside, sitting in the shade of a tree on a low concrete wall. Behind her are the remains of some small plants that are slowly dying in the heat. The bare earth is dry.

  I really need a cigarette, she says.

  I hold out my hand and open my palm.

  What the hell? she says, staring at the car keys. How did you get it back?

  I shrug.

  You paid a bribe?

  How else?

  How much did you pay? Oh God, you shouldn’t have done that. You’re just perpetuating the system. You’re encouraging those guys.

  From the time I give her the keys until we find the car and get into it, she doesn’t stop lecturing me.

  It’s because of people like you that they dare to ask for bribes. Corruption is a two-way thing. The victim doesn’t even know they’re a victim. In fact, you could say that the victim becomes not only the enabler of corruption, but the perpetrator.

  Aiya, enough already. I’m sorry, OK? I just wanted to get the car back.

  We drive out of the parking lot and into the traffic. Neither of us says anything. Finally, when we reach the Meru road, she says, How much did you pay?

  Six hundred.

  Ha, they gave you a discount.

  It was all I had with me.

  She doesn’t answer, and I think maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it any more. But after a while she says, That’s a lot of money. I’m sorry.

  It’s fine, forget it.

  We drive on in silence, and it isn’t until we’re almost back at my house that she speaks again. Thank you, she says. I appreciate it. I’m sorry I yelled.

  That night I open the biscuit tin. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it completely empty, so I take one of the four ten-ringgit notes that are still in my wallet and put it in the tin. I know it’s a meaningless thing to do, but it makes me feel I still have some money to spare. I make a quick mental note of how much food I have, how many days I can live before I get some money. As I fall asleep I tell myself, It’ll be fine.

  December 20th

  ‘Have you taken up smoking again?’ Jenny asked. We’d only just got into the car and she was doing up her seatbelt. ‘Stinks in here.’

  ‘No,’ I replied. It was the truth. But the smell of Keong’s cigarettes was everywhere, hanging in the air even when I flicked the air-con to max and lowered the windows.

  ‘It’s really horrible.’ She put her forearm to her nose and sniffed it. ‘It’s even getting into my clothes.’

  Still, after a few minutes she was forced to raise the window on her side of the car. The wind was blowing dust into her eyes, and her hair was starting to look dishevelled. She’d spent a long time getting ready for the conference that morning, and we hadn’t spoken much from the moment we woke up. Sometimes, when she had something important going on with her work, I’d feel that anything I said would break the spell of her concentration – the sound of my voice felt rough and inappropriate, especially when I was not long out of bed and my throat was still a bit dry from sleep. That morning she was preparing for a gathering of all the people who sold Skin-Glo, which was being held at a convention centre on Leboh Gopeng. She’d got out of bed a little before me, and as I prepared breakfast I could hear her typing quickly on her laptop. She’d been one of the few people selected to give a speech at the conference. This involved her putting together a presentation filled with colourful interlocking circles and wavy graphs, which she’d spliced together with photographs of happy people who used Skin-Glo. I brought her tea and eggs – she liked them boiled for two minutes and broken into a shallow saucer, the way you get in old Hainanese kopitiam – and set the tray down quietly next to her. I looked at the screen – she was flicking through the pages of her presentation, her lips moving as she silently rehearsed her speech – and saw that she’d added a few photographs I hadn’t seen in a long time, and hadn’t noticed in the jumble of material she’d accumulated on her desk. I’d been so distracted by events at work that I hadn’t asked her how her work was going.

  There were five or six photos, of Jenny or the two of us. The first was of her standing in front of the Merlion in Singapore, on a trip we’d taken not long after we got married. We were going to save up for a proper honeymoon – a week or two abroad, somewhere nice like Taiwan, where we’d put on smart clothes and pose for portraits in Alishan or Sun Moon Lake: pictures we could then frame and use as decorations in our living room the way other people did. We’d talked about Phuket, too – we had visions of ourselves dressed in flowing white outfits that blended into the perfect sand on the beach, snaps of ourselves doing star jumps against the backdrop of a sea so brilliantly blue and green that no one would believe it was real. Like the colours of a peacock, Jenny had said.

  But all that lay in the future, when we had a bit more time and money, so in the meantime we thought we’d spend a long weekend in Singapore. Four days, nothing fancy, just looking at the shop windows on Orchard Road and seeing the orchids in the botanical gardens. We stayed with relatives of Jenny’s in their apartment in Toa Payoh, with a view looking over the rest of the estate, rows and rows of identical apartment blocks – white and rectangular, with strips of darkened windows on each floor, lined up like soldiers on parade. Between them, neat squares of concrete or patches of grass. The sound of people singing to a karaoke set in the distance. Our room was so small that there was barely space to walk around the bed, and as we sat on the mattress listening to the conversations of the people going past on the walkway just outside – what they were planning to eat at the food court, what bus they were going to take to get into town – we joked that it was just like being in a luxury hotel. Outside, in the living room, the TV was on, the volume turned up loud because Jenny’s aunt was getting older and starting to lose her hearing. A Korean drama, dubbed into Mandarin. Big brother! Big brother! a woman’s voice screamed over and over again. Jenny and I laughed. ‘We need to get the fuck out of here,’ I said.

  We spent the whole of the next two days out, only returning to the apartment late in the evening, when Jenny’s relatives had gone to bed and the TV was finally off. We walked in the sun, got sweaty, went into air-conditioned malls to cool down. We strolled around the marina, posing for photos in front of the Merlion and the carpeted steps of the Fullerton Hotel, as if we were staying there. Other guests – real ones – came up the stairs and nodded at us as if in acknowledgement, and we nodded back. Later, we couldn’t stop laughing at the idea that they’d thought we were just like them. ‘We should go to Raffles tomorrow,’ Jenny said. ‘Pretend we’re staying there too.’ We went to the cinema and saw Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. It was nearly the end of the mov
ie’s run, and the cinema was half-empty. We sat near the front because we wanted the screen to feel as huge and all-engulfing as possible; the sound drummed in our ribcages and we felt its vibrations even after we’d left and were having mee pok and barbecued wings at a late-night hawker centre in Balestier.

  On the second day I caught a chill from the air-con in the bus on the way home, and came down with a cold. On the third day Jenny fell sick too, and we spent the afternoon in bed. It was so hot and sticky that we had to keep the windows open. We lay there for hours, listening to Jenny’s relatives preparing dinner, talking loudly over the noise of the TV. We wanted to hold each other but we both had a mild fever, we were too hot and sweaty, so we lay side by side, her hand on mine. Why are you doing this to me? a man screamed on TV – one of those stilted dubbed voices. We began to giggle.

  ‘Promise me our real honeymoon won’t be like this,’ I said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Jenny replied. ‘This is all the honeymoon you’re going to get!’

  She was joking, of course, and so was I. But as the months dragged on and it became clear that we weren’t going to go away on a honeymoon anytime soon – because of work, because we didn’t have enough money just yet – the talking about possible honeymoon destinations became just that: talk. We’d see adverts for cruises to Benoa, or tours to see the cherry blossom in Kyoto, and we’d discuss how much we’d have to save up for the trip, how we’d tell our respective bosses that we’d like to take ten whole days off work. ‘Mr Lai will kill you before he lets you take ten days off to look at cherry blossom!’ Jenny joked. She mimicked his voice: ‘You turned into a woman, meh? Take holiday go see flower?’

  At some point we stopped using the word ‘honeymoon’ when we discussed these fantasy trips abroad. I guess we’d stopped thinking of our marriage as something that needed to be celebrated, or cemented, by something as sentimental as a honeymoon. We’d missed the chance to do something only available to newlyweds. I’m sure Jenny felt the same way I did. We were both old enough then to know that in life, these lost opportunities never come round again.

  And yet. Looking over Jenny’s shoulder that morning, and seeing those photos that she’d included in her presentation, I wondered if our trip to Singapore all those years ago had been more than just a long weekend. I looked at the photo of Jenny in a hawker centre, holding an ang ku kuih to her lips as if it was an oversized clown’s mouth, bright red and fleshy. Another of me in bed the day I came down with the cold, my hair roughed up and even spikier than usual. In the photo I am pulling a sad face which somehow manages to look comical and happy – so ridiculous that it made me smile all those years later. I remembered handing the camera to an old man who was walking by in the botanical gardens, and asking him to take a photo of Jenny and me. He had difficulty framing us, and backed away. Jenny started to get nervous – she was worried that he was going to run off with our camera – but I said, ‘Don’t worry, this is Singapore. No one steals anything.’ In the photo we are striking a pose around a tree fern, in the style of Bollywood actors – hands clasped, arms forming a neat circle. Our smiles are exaggerated, but they were real.

  Above the photos, Jenny had written the words ‘My Life’, followed by ‘Happiness’ and ‘Skin-Glo’. She continued looking at the computer screen, but her lips had stopped moving. I went back to the kitchen and made myself a cup of Nescafé. I was still thinking of those four days in Singapore, which I’d almost forgotten. And I experienced a sense of loss, though I couldn’t discern what it was that I’d lost. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Sometimes, we don’t realise something’s happening until it’s over, and then it’s too late to celebrate it – you can only regret its passing.

  ‘I hope your presentation goes well,’ I said as we drove slowly through traffic. Jenny was leaning forward, sniffing the air-con vents for traces of cigarette smoke. ‘I’m sure you’ll be great.’

  ‘If people like my presentation, I might get a lot more customers.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll get loads. You deserve it.’

  ‘I’ve heard that someone’s going to make a video of the presentations and send it to head office in America. People in Colorado are going to be watching me!’

  ‘That’s amazing.’

  ‘I had a dream a few nights ago that when I finished my presentation, the whole auditorium gave me a standing ovation. People were chanting my name. By the time I got back to my seat, the head of operations in Hong Kong had already offered me a job in KL. She wanted me to move there immediately. Then all the salespeople from other parts of the country came up to congratulate me. Actually, I wasn’t asleep when I dreamed that, so it wasn’t a true dream. More like a vision of what could happen. Why shouldn’t it? One special moment is all it takes to change your life. Imagine. This time next month, maybe even next week, we could be looking at houses in Damansara Heights or Kenny Hills. Choosing furniture.’

  ‘I don’t really know KL that well. Anyway, our house is nice, isn’t it?’

  She fell silent, and when I glanced at her I saw her lips moving silently, rehearsing her speech again. Her eyes were trained straight ahead, and I knew that she was looking not at the smoky exhaust pipe of the van in front of us, but at an auditorium full of attentive salespeople.

  ‘How’s your work, by the way?’ she asked after a while. ‘Did you sort out that manpower problem?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I did. Well, almost. Everything will be finalised soon. Things will be even better than before. You know, sometimes you have to face serious problems at work before you can move to the next level. That’s something I’ve heard you say in the past, and it’s true. I’m only learning that now.’

  She turned to me and smiled. ‘I feel very optimistic about the future.’

  ‘Me too.’ We were nearing the convention centre, and the traffic was flowing more freely than before.

  ‘Mr Lai will finally give you the huge bonus you deserve for saving his farm, and we’ll use that as the down-payment for our new house in KL.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You have to stay positive,’ she said brightly. ‘Be like me. Have faith in yourself!’

  ‘You’re going to be late.’

  ‘You’ll see,’ she said, reaching for her briefcase. ‘Everything will turn out great.’

  Looking at her then, I truly believed her.

  ‘Wish me luck,’ she said as she stepped out of the car.

  You’ve been smoking.

  Huh? She looks up at me briefly, but quickly returns to her notes, as though she hasn’t really heard me. She coughs. A rich, wet cough.

  I said, you’ve been smoking. Haven’t you?

  So what? You smoked for years.

  It’s bad for your health.

  Look who’s talking. You were smoking at fifteen.

  But I stopped, didn’t I? You look very tired.

  I’m OK.

  She starts to cough again and tries to stifle it, but she can’t. The cough is stronger than she is – the more she tries to suppress it, the worse it gets. She bends over, covering her face with her hands. Her back is heaving, as though the cough has taken over her whole body. Finally she stands up and goes to the bathroom, and I can hear more coughing. When she comes back I give her a cup of hot water and some cough sweets.

  I don’t need sweets, I need a cigarette.

  You joking? You’re an amateur. You don’t even know how to smoke. Drink some water, it’ll make you feel better.

  She takes a sip of water and slumps in her chair.

  I don’t feel so good, she says. Her voice is hoarse.

  You don’t look well. Do you have a fever?

  She touches her brow. No, I don’t think so. I’m not ill. Maybe I am. But it’s not a physical sickness.

  I see. A love problem, huh. With your partner? You’ve never told me her name.

  My ex-partner.

  Sorry?

  We broke up at the weekend. I mean, I broke up with her.

&
nbsp; You’re joking, right? It was going so well, you were so happy.

  She shrugs. I just realised I couldn’t actually live with her. We’re too different. Of course we knew that before we got together, but we thought we could overcome our differences. We thought love could conquer all, blah blah. But you know what? It can’t. So I thought, better to end it quickly than endure a long, angry decline.

  You sure? I mean, you’ve only just moved in together. Maybe it’s because you’re not used to each other yet. When Jenny and I got married and started living together we fought over everything. I didn’t wash up my cup, fight. She didn’t close the door properly, fight. We didn’t know how to share a house. Then, after a while, it all disappeared, and I even got anxious when she wasn’t at home. What I’m saying is, maybe you should give it more time. Learn to live with her.

  It’s not that. The apartment is huge, we have tons of space. We don’t get in each other’s way. Our differences are … let’s say, too deep to be bridged.

  Why? You love her, don’t you?

  I just can’t stand her principles. Her politics. She’s so … so fucking conservative. Such a reactionary. Thinks everything is fine, and that the only thing wrong is that poor people don’t work hard enough. You know what she said the other day? Our friend Shafik got mugged. Some guy on a scooter went by and grabbed his phone. My partner said, It’s all these migrant workers we let in. They’re the ones who commit all the crimes. Obviously I went ballistic. I told her that statistically, foreign workers commit only 10 per cent of all crimes in the country. You know what she said? Huh, why don’t you tell that to the old woman who’s just been beaten and robbed, or the seventeen-year-old girl who got raped in Setapak last week. We should just deport them. She’s an educated person, she’s rich, she should know better than to peddle such nonsense! I tried to convince her otherwise, but she just shrugged. Whatever, she said. The facts speak for themselves.

  Maybe she’s right.