Seeker

by Rita Pomade

  I managed to find a room with a Hokkian Chinese family in their sparsely furnished, tiny wooden house. My rent included delicious curry dishes every evening, cooked on an open fire set between stones on a dirt floor in the kitchen area. I learned that curry was the best preservative for meat when you don’t have refrigeration, something I planned to remember when the refrigerator unit on the yacht broke down — as all technical things do at one time or another on a boat. The room was temporary because the house was to be torn down at the end of the year to make space for more family-owned apartments. Still, it gave me time to network for sharing possibilities with my fellow teachers.

  As luck would have it, an opening came up in an apartment within weeks of my having to leave the Hokkian family — a room in a threebedroom apartment, vacated by a teacher returning to England. I now found myself sharing with Penny, a delightfully engaging free spirit, whose grandfather Clement Attlee had been Prime Minister of Great Britain, and Gill, a dour born- again Christian who insisted I was going to hell for dabbling in palm reading.

  “The devil will get you,” she admonished each time a colleague came over and asked for a reading.

  I suspect she already felt the devil had gotten Bernard, who came over regularly to visit. His physicality and strong sexual presence disconcerted her. “Don’t leave me alone with him,” she whispered to me one day. “He scares me.”

  Penny, on the other hand, enjoyed Bernard’s wicked humour and flirtatious posturing. “I like visiting you girls,” he’d say, teasing, “because I don’t get to see many beautiful and sexy women in the harbour.” Penny would laugh in appreciation. She loved theatre and saw Bernard as an actor on his own stage. Years later she told me how touched she was when she had cut her hand badly with a kitchen knife, and he cleaned and dressed the wound with tender concern. She saw an inherent kindness behind his brazen façade.

  I now lived a triple life — in the classroom, with my young roommates, and on the Santa Rita where I managed to do the housekeeping and some sailing with Bernard and Stefan on weekends. Elspeth, one of the women I worked with, but didn’t know well, saw Bernard and Stefan pick me up at the Council one afternoon. “You have it made,” she said, “living on a luxury yacht with an older man and a younger lover.”

  I smiled. It would have been too complicated to explain, and this story was so much better than the real one.

  I felt good in Singapore, unshackled for the first time since the start of the adventure. It’s an illusion to think of a sailboat as a symbol of freedom, though easy to do when a yacht in full sail enters a harbour. In truth, it’s the wind that’s free. A yacht needs constant funds to stay afloat, as well as constant vigilance for fear of robbery or accident. Yachties walk on eggshells as tension builds when people are crammed into a small space for long periods of time. I loved the Santa Rita, but I loved her more now that I came to her by choice and not because I had nowhere else to go.

  Away from the Santa Rita made me think about that luxury. Poverty, religious views, social mores and lack of education trap people in situations that limit their choices. In my case, I trapped myself. I let Bernard make most of the major decisions, including the ownership of the yacht. I had vowed I’d be an independent woman and not be like my mother. I remember as a teenager watching television with her when my father called her to the kitchen to peel him an apple. Why couldn’t he peel his own? Why did she acquiesce all the time? It made me angry, but now I found myself doing the same.

  In Singapore, women were allowed access to the same higher education as men, and many were taking advantage of that possibility. Not wanting to live the lives of their mothers, a good number had decided not to marry because the men hadn’t moved in step with them. The birth rate for the Chinese population fell and the government worried that the delicate balance of its many ethnic groups would be upset.

  The country initiated a program called “Love Boat,” that offered cruises to Hong Kong. Women didn’t pay, but men did. It was hoped the young adults would connect with one another and marry. The women took advantage of the free holidays, but they still didn’t marry. They could now make choices, and they did. It brought home to me that I was in some respects less liberated than these women, and that my culture still had challenges to overcome.

  At the British Council I earned a good salary. I could put money aside to send Stefan back to Montreal and still have enough for our adventure. I told Stefan he could quit his job on the neighbouring motorboat, his small salary not worth the depressing atmosphere of two drunken people squabbling all the time. I felt empowered having this control over my life, and it energized me.

  At first, Stefan and Bernard did well without me. Every morning they’d take the dinghy for their daily roti prata at the little stand near shore. They shared an appreciation for Singaporean cuisine. But the idleness of port-side living, combined with the endless rounds of alcohol consumed by yachties on their social visits, started to break down their alliance. Bernard complained endlessly about Stefan’s laziness and inability to understand anything about sailing. Stefan in his usual stoic manner didn’t respond, but his body language was clear. He stopped listening to Bernard’s commands, wouldn’t face him when he spoke, and spent more time in his cabin reading.

  Every Friday afternoon after work, Bernard met me at the British Council, and we’d return to the yacht together. On one of those Fridays, he told me he had moved the Santa Rita to another harbour to the north of the island for a change of scenery. When we arrived at the new destination, we found the yacht missing. At first, we couldn’t comprehend how something that large disappeared without a trace. And then panic set in.

  Was the yacht stolen? Was Stefan kidnapped?

  A week earlier, we had heard over our VHF radio that an American war ship was attacked by pirates not far off the coast of Singapore. The pirates came aboard using grappling hooks and the ship was calling for help. We didn’t hear the end of the story, just the SOS. Was there a connection?

  Stefan’s disappearance took my breath away. I was trembling inside. For a moment, I couldn’t move. Bernard looked drained of colour. We grabbed a taxi and urged the driver to go full speed to our old anchoring spot in Jurong. We hoped that by some miracle the yacht with Stefan aboard would mysteriously appear there. I couldn’t think beyond that, nor could I really believe it.

  As we entered the harbour, we saw the Santa Rita arrive with Stefan at the helm. He had single-handedly taken the yacht into Malaysian water and brought her back to Jurong Harbour. Bernard was stunned. It was the last time he goaded Stefan about his lack of seamanship. For Stefan, it was another milestone in self-sufficiency. There was a change in his walk after that incident. He seemed more confident and self-assured.

  Aboard the dinghy on the way to the yacht, Stefan related the story of his adventure.

  “The Coast Guard came by,” he said. “They told me the Santa Rita was illegal where she was and that she would have to be moved. I told them the captain wasn’t on board, but they insisted I take her out of the harbour. So I brought her out to sea and back to Jurong Harbour.”

  I marvelled at how matter-of-fact he was in telling us the story. He had taken charge — no panic, no grandiosity — just common sense and a sure hand at the helm. I had been concerned about sending him back to Montreal. I worried about how he would re-adjust after living a lifestyle so different from his peers. And I worried about how he’d feel registering as a mature student at university when the other students were now all younger than him. His handling of this unexpected event reassured me that he had the inner resources and strength of character to do just fine.

  I felt both relief and sadness when I said goodbye to Stefan at Singapore’s Changi airport. He had joined us on this voyage as a somewhat confused adolescent, not too sure of himself. He left as a man focused on moving ahead with his life. For me he would always be my child, and I was happy that he was going to a safer place. That summer he picked grapes in the south of France to
earn some cash. And before leaving Europe, he visited Jonah in England, who was about to start his junior year at Oxford.

  He made it back to Montreal in time to enter Concordia University for the fall semester. In his senior year at Concordia, he received a scholarship to U.C.L.A. to pursue a master’s degree and doctorate in biomedical physics. His grit and determination, enhanced by the years aboard the Santa Rita, served him well.

  After Stefan left, Bernard withdrew further into himself. His drink of choice was now Mao Tai, a strong alcoholic beverage favoured by the yachties anchored round us. Each weekend that I returned to the yacht, he was more difficult to reach. I cooked and cleaned up the mess he had made during the week. He worked on repairs. There was silence. He livened up only when his drinking buddies came aboard.

  One evening, a colleague from the British Council and her husband visited us. They were so drunk by the time they left that they destabilized our dinghy, and it capsized. The woman swam to shore losing her skirt in the process and had to go home bare-assed. Her husband couldn’t swim. Bernard saved him from drowning by swimming with him in tow to a rubber dinghy tied to a neighbouring yacht. I watched from a porthole horrified by the scene and impressed by Bernard’s lightning response. I wondered how he could be so competent and present to the moment, but couldn’t take better control of his life. It was a long while before I understood the influence of alcohol on the brain.

  Yachties could buy cartons of duty-free Johnny Walker at a local warehouse because they were all in the process of sailing out. Bernard had his stash and had sold the couple a carton to take home with them. The box of alcohol sank to the bottom of the sea along with the dinghy. In the mornings, Bernard went out with scuba diving equipment and tried to find our dinghy and maybe salvage some of the alcohol. He also hoped to find the pipe that the man lost when he went overboard. A group of fishermen came daily to watch Bernard’s efforts from the shore. They finally saw him pull on something.

  “Did you find the body?” one of the men shouted. They were sure the focused intensity of his search had to be for something more serious than a dinghy and a few bottles of Johnny Walker.

  We now had the dinghy, sodden but none the worse for having been submerged for several days. The alcohol and pipe remained at the bottom of the China Sea.

  I was frustrated with Bernard’s indifference to our financial situation. It was as though the boat was some kind of hole he’d crawled into and shut himself off from the world. In the evening he’d come out to drink and joke with fellow travellers and then crawl back in with no awareness of the passing of time.

  “You spoke about chartering. Why don’t you do it?” I was relentless in my effort to mobilize him to earn some money for our adventure.

  He was equally relentless in his refusal to hear me. He wouldn’t answer, but the resentment on his face said it all. My presence irritated him. I had become an annoyance and suspect in my motives to suggest ways for him to earn cash.

  One morning, at the roti prata stand, two men approached us and asked to charter the yacht for the weekend. Bernard agreed. I was ecstatic. I thought if he did it once, it would break his resistance.

  The two men had an agenda. They didn’t want to go anywhere in particular, other than to sail around the island. Instead, they spent the weekend trying to persuade us to work for the CIA.

  “It’s easy money,” the older one said. “Yachties always need cash. We’ll give you a postal box to leave information and send your cheques there. You don’t have to do much — just a few lines about the feel of the place in the countries you sail to.”

  The older man was persistent. We were just as persistent in our refusal. The younger man never said anything. I was relieved to see them go.

  After they left, Bernard discovered some damage on a cushion and was furious. “One of those bastards burned a cigarette hole in the settee, the son of a bitch.”

  “It’s not a big deal,” I said. “It can be fixed. You’ve got to expect some wear if you charter.”

  Bernard couldn’t be consoled. His identity with the yacht was so extreme that any mark to its body was a wound to him. It was our first and last attempt at chartering.

  But he loved taking out my teaching colleagues for day sails. These were party days with food and alcohol and lively conversation and laughter. It was on one of these trips that Lola came into our lives.

  One Sunday afternoon, a bunch of us were out on the China Sea, sprawled on the deck of the Santa Rita chugging down Ching Tao beer and gorging on shrimp chips. It was a typical scorcher of a day. A slight breeze offered some relief, but not enough to offset the numbing humidity that glued our limbs. Bernard rigged a bosom chair under the boom that he extended out from the yacht. We took turns sitting out on the slab of wood with the wind on our backs, letting our toes be sprayed by the seawater as we skimmed over the waves. The ride refreshed us just enough to keep from falling asleep.

  We’d settled into a comfortable stupor when Bernard called out that he’d spotted an octopus about ten yards off the stern on the leeward side. Scepticism and the weight of our perspiration kept us glued to our seats. We were more interested in our next turn to swing over the cool sea on the bosom chair than his discovery.

  Bernard jumped into the dingy, primed its engine, and set off for a closer look at his discovery. He was back in less than five minutes with a repulsive thing slung over the crook of his arm. My first impression was that I was looking at a huge rat; a water-logged creature a step away from death.

  Ahmad, a Malay fisherman that Bernard had invited to sail with us was on board. “It’s a monkey,” he said, “maybe drowned.”

  He walked over to Bernard, took the limp creature from him, and laid it on the deck seat. He breathed into its mouth and pumped its little arms. The matted ball of fur gurgled deep in its throat, spit up some water like a little fountain, and stared with unfocused eyes at the cheering crowd gathered round it.

  Ahmad looked up. “It’s a baby, a female,” he said, “about six months old.”

  We moved away to give it space. “I didn’t know monkeys swam,” I said.

  “She’s a Crab Eating Macaque,” he said. “They swim.” He took a penknife from his pocket and cut through the cord tied around her neck. “Contraband,” he said. “Monkeys aren’t allowed in Singapore without papers. Rich people pay a lot to eat their brains. It’s not legal, but people still want them. They get smuggled in from Indonesia. The smugglers must have seen a customs boat and threw her overboard.” He turned to Bernard. “She’s been swimming a long time. Probably wouldn’t have made it if you hadn’t seen her.”

  The monkey appeared to be listening to every word the fisherman said. She didn’t take her eyes off him, and as he talked, you could feel her growing stronger. To our surprise, she jumped off the seat where he had laid her and onto the deck, still looking fragile, but determined. She seemed desperate to tell us her story. As she moved from person to person, she chattered non-stop. It was clear she had no fear of us and felt compelled to reach out.

  It was love at first sight between Bernard and the macaque. He scooped her up and sat her on his palm. “I’m going to name her Lola,” he told us. He looked Lola straight in the eyes. “Welcome aboard, mate.”

  The saviour and agitated fur ball stared each other down. Neither one blinked. Bernard grinned idiotically. It was evident that he was a proud father. It was hard to know what Lola was thinking.

  She cried the first night we had her, so Bernard wrapped her in a blanket and put her in the berth with us. I understood in the morning that toilet training would be an issue. We couldn’t walk her like a dog, and she didn’t have the fastidious habits of a cat.

  We discussed what to do about it. I told Bernard that Lola was his monkey, and he’d have to find a solution. He went out that morning in search of a box of Pampers. On his return, he carefully cut a hole for her tail and changing her diapers became his responsibility.

  Lola grew more beautiful
each day. Her dull coat took on a shine under Bernard’s diligent grooming. Then one day she groomed herself. From that moment on, gratitude was dead. She forgot she owed us anything. Her appealing, almost self-effacing nature morphed into that of a little tyrant. Lola emerged from her pitiful shell to become a spoiled and unmanageable child, given to sneaky thefts and pouting when reprimanded. Worse, Bernard became head honcho, and I the lowest person on our totem of three.

  When Bernard yelled at her, she’d either spend hours complaining to me or slap me hard on my leg. Lola spent hours grooming Bernard. She inspected every hair on his legs and arms. From time to time she’d stop, inspect her fingers, and appear to slip a speck of something into her mouth. For the life of me, I could see nothing and couldn’t imagine what she was harvesting.

  He in turn spent hours grooming her in the same manner, pretending to pick something off her coat and putting it into his mouth. It was a ritual that gave her great pleasure and kept her out of trouble for the moment.

  On her more expansive days she groomed me. Every inch of my scalp was inspected under her nimble fingers. And as she’d do with Bernard, she’d stop from time to time as though she’d found some questionable living thing on my head that she had to dispense with. I used to look forward to those rare moments of intimate pleasure when she would groom me. After my grooming, she’d sit on my shoulder and stare at my hand, watching it create odd symbols on blank sheets of paper. Writing both fascinated and perplexed her. She felt I was most in need of an inspection when I was hunched over the little table in the aft cabin writing in my journal.

  She followed Bernard everywhere and became agitated if he left for any length of time. She could distinguish the sound of our dinghy from all the others in the harbour and, when she heard him returning from shore, she’d dance in excitement and dash up the galley stairs to greet him.

  An issue we had to deal with was cigarettes. Bernard rolled his own. Lola decided to roll her own also. She became pretty good at it. I was constantly picking up bits of tobacco and paper and at first thought it was very funny. When she started handling the matches, the scene lost its humour. Tobacco, paper, and matches had to be locked away. And that wasn’t easy, as Lola could open anything and inspected the contents of the lockers daily.