The Brigadier's Daughter, page 4
She met his eyes. “Because I’m Malayan. Everyone can see I’m Eurasian but that doesn’t mean anything.”
“Is that why you said people always ask you where you come from?” He prayed desperately that he sounded more appeasing.
“Yes,” said Stephanie. Her lips curled into the suggestion of a smile and he saw that her manner had eased, her dark eyes seeming softer. Then she appeared to lose interest in the subject, and turned away.
“My ah mah used to be an artist,” said Jin hopelessly, attempting to regain her attention.
“Oh. Is she famous?”
“No.” He laughed nervously. He dreaded Stephanie leaving out of boredom and impatience. “She was just an amateur… She’s dead now.”
“Do you have any other grandparents?”
“They’re all dead.” He paused. In fact, Jin’s grandmother had passed away only a few months ago; it was his first brush with death. Always good-humoured and playful, with an enormous capacity for compassion, his ah mah was the one person in the world he’d felt comfortable with; she’d had an extraordinary ability to work out everything he was thinking. “Wait till you find a nice young girl. Then you’ll forget all about me and stop visiting,” she would chide him. Her wrinkled face would break into a huge grin when he’d reply, “Never.”
Determined not to disgrace himself by displaying the extent of his sadness, he stole a glance at Stephanie. “You?”
She smiled and said, “One gran is still alive. She lives in England. She’s such an elegant lady. Daddy says I take after her.”
“My ah mah used to spend most of her time drawing and painting.”
“Was she the person who encouraged you to draw?” she asked.
“I suppose so. I’m not sure. I just like doing it.” Desperate to seize this opening he said in a rush, “I’ve been doing lots of sketches all week.” He took in the perfect swell of her breasts, wanting to add “of you”, but didn’t have the nerve.
“I don’t think anyone in my family has a leaning towards art.”
He caught his breath, struggling to keep his exasperation under control, his thoughts all over the place. Maybe he should just come straight out with it, ask her up front: Will you sit for me?
“That’s a different book,” he heard her say, and his expectations soared. The drawing pad he was carrying was smaller, and every page contained a drawing of Stephanie naked. Surely this was the opportunity he had been waiting for?
“Are those new drawings… Can I see them?”
Anxiety surged within him and he nodded because his mouth was too dry for him to speak. He passed the book to her and began to explain that the pages were of naked women but stopped himself before he completed his sentence, watching instead as she carefully leafed through the pad.
She studiously inspected each of his sketches and he studied the glow of her complexion in return. At one point, when she looked up and her eyes fixed on him with an inscrutable expression, he wanted to explain that he never showed such pictures to anyone, he always destroyed them, that everything she was viewing now had been inspired by her, but the words would not come out.
“These are incredible… You’re very talented.”
“They’re not that good really. You remember the hornbill I showed you? When I redid that drawing it came alive on the page because I had captured it from life.” He pressed on: “I realised then that my best work is when I draw like that. What you’re looking at, they’re lifeless by comparison.”
She shook her head without speaking, and he found her peering at what he regarded as his best effort.
“That’s probably my favourite,” he said, an imploring look in his eyes trying to convey his longing. But she wasn’t looking at him. “It’s supposed to be you,” he forced out, lamely.
Stephanie closed the book and passed it back to him without speaking. Her expression was unreadable.
He hesitated, took a deep breath and began cautiously, struggling to stop his voice from exposing his eagerness in wanting to see her naked. “When you said you’d pose for me…”
Her eyes screwed up and she took a step back. “I never said that.”
He slumped his shoulders and said beseechingly, “But you did. You said—”
“I can’t stand in front of you naked.”
Her words cast a terrible cloud over Jin. He was drowning, in danger of sinking without a trace. If only he could make her understand what she meant to him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I mean, I didn’t want…”
He slid off the stile, downcast, and stood with his head turned away from her. The screaming and whooping from the jungle inhabitants rang in his ears like a chorus of derision. What had he been thinking? How had he ever had the nerve to think that a girl like this…
“It’s okay,” Stephanie said softly. He could feel her gaze upon him while he stood with his eyes averted.
Sick with shame, he said pitiably, “I…I have to get back. I have to meet my friend.”
They walked abreast along the track. Somewhere deep within the forest a gibbon answered its mate with a wild, frenzied caterwaul.
After a while Stephanie said, “You are definitely good at drawing.” She sounded slightly hesitant. “Tell you what, why don’t you come and see my new home? Maybe you could come tomorrow afternoon?”
She sounded so encouraging. Did she mean…
“Bring your sketchpad and I’ll pose for you,” she said, and the mischief in her grin lifted Jin’s spirits beyond the heavens.
5
Jin spent the night twisting and turning like a rusty old screw; first one way, then the other. The morning was still some way off when he woke and stood at his window, staring at the streets below. The dark clung to the top of the skyscrapers, the thousands of glass frames gazing sleepily at one another. It was as if, apart from the occasional pedestrian, the entire city was holding its breath. Above, crystalline stars were outshining the lemon vapour of the moon. His eyes glided across the skyline. If anyone could see him now, they might assume he spent his whole life simply watching Singapore grow, his adoptive city, the city he loved. Mesmerised by the sight of the massive cranes lit up with tiny aircraft-like lights climbing skywards, he felt loneliness once more encroach as his mind roamed free.
One of Jin’s recurring memories was that of Seng’s wife incessantly nagging her husband to wash his hands. Seng’s wife was a good cook with a vast repertoire of recipes, and Jin was the first visitor to the young couple’s home, just after their wedding. At every mealtime, she would instruct Seng to go and wash his hands. In later years Seng’s stock reply to her became, “Stop making so much noise,” but always said with a wry smile to acknowledge that her care for him did not go unnoticed.
From Seng, it was one step for Jin’s reflections to turn to Stephanie. Seng had known her well too. Misery and ancient remorse seized him. Stephanie’s doppelgänger had woken Jin’s old memories. And what was challenging him most was not the beauty of her naked form, which he could now picture easily after years of refusing to allow himself any recall, but her face. In his recollection it was filled with triumph and satisfaction, as if she had conquered the universe as she stood there with her clothes off. He remembered how often he used to get an erection just thinking about her, then sighed as he realised he had not woken with one in years.
Cold air blew over him as the air conditioning hummed quietly. In the early-morning stillness, he made his way into the kitchen and put the kettle on. As he waited for it to boil, his face stiffened and he felt tears threaten. He briskly rubbed them away, gathered himself, and set about making himself the first cup of coffee of the day.
Armed with his drink, and drawn back to the window, he reflected that if it were not for his insistence on routine, he might have gone to the wholesaler’s later yesterday, or even on another day altogether. He could have missed the girl entirely and escaped this torture. His current quiet existence had initially been forced upon him, but he had come to accept it until yesterday, when it had been struck with such force he’d been left reeling. He worried how he might react if the girl was there the next time he visited. The prospect sent tremors through him.
And yet he was compelled to return as soon as he could to look at her once more. She had said she would be helping her grandmother during the school holidays, so he still had several weeks left to seek her out again.
He drew away from the window and sucked in a deep, troubled breath. A fresh gnawing sorrow had taken over the void of loss within him.
Fearful of reopening old wounds any further, he decided to bathe, get dressed and take a walk. It was four thirty when he stepped out of his building, worked his way down the street in those measured footsteps of his and took a left onto South Bridge Road. The traffic was gathering momentum and more and more pedestrians started to emerge into the dawn. He felt his mind begin to settle after the sleepless night.
He stopped at a set of traffic lights and saw a young couple deep in conversation on the far pavement, their faces so close there was barely any space between them. He had no idea then why he wanted them to embrace, but it struck him that it was the right thing for them to do.
He strained his eyes watching them, trying to read their expressions and body language, and waited for the moment he was sure would come. When the woman buried her face in her companion’s neck and his lips moved towards her ear, he was certain he had read the signs correctly. He contemplated with wonder the happiness that lay ahead for them, and felt he had played some small part in it by willing them on.
All of a sudden, the woman stepped away from the man and stared at him defiantly before hurrying off. With a sense of deep despair Jin glimpsed the man’s stunned slack-jawed expression from across the gloomy street as he remained rooted to the spot for a few moments before finally walking stiffly away. Jin was crestfallen and fought to contain his sadness as the man gradually disappeared from view. He longed to take their burden on his own shoulders. He wanted to call out: “Don’t give up on yourself, go after her. It is not too late for you.” But he did not.
The brooding heat seemed to lift slightly as the wind blew harder. A storm was brewing. Jin was proud of his city, as was every Singaporean. Despite the sometimes enervating heat, he would never live anywhere else, not even his hometown of Kluang. Especially Kluang, despite the fact that his roots were there. As he walked Jin reflected on one of the few remaining pleasures left to him: meandering about his clean, modern city with the almost-arrogant knowledge that he was perfectly safe. Where else could he have claimed that? Women here were free to roam the streets in the dead of night without the risk of being molested. This city was so clean that even chewing gum was banned.
He was tempted to jump into a taxi and take a ride to Orchard Road, keeping the tyranny of memory in check by sauntering along the great shopping boulevard with its towering trees. But he had a business to run. A successful business. He had set it up when he was just twenty-two, though at the time it had been the least important thing to him. The five years before he became a hawker-vendor were a blank in his mind. He had passed them in a haze of depression, struggling to hold down a succession of menial jobs.
Torn between going back to the wholesaler’s or attending to his premises, Jin set off for Chinatown.
While he opened the stall, he worried once more about the implied threat to his business due to the complaint against it. He was mortified by the prospect of being shut down, even temporarily, while he underwent some form of retraining. What would his fellow hawkers say?
He was determined to maintain his “A” grading, no matter the cost or the hardship. At that moment he didn’t care what Seng or anyone else thought of his fastidiousness. He systematically removed every pot, every pan, every utensil from the shelves and set about cleaning them again.
As Jin busied his hands, his mind went back to the young man who had claimed Jin’s food had caused him food poisoning. Intuition told Jin that something was not right about him. For all the cut of his clothes—his smart suit and tie—something about him was at odds with what Jin thought of as the business type. He had a more robust presence. From the corner of his eye, Jin had watched him go from outlet to outlet with his companion, an older man, inspecting each stall and making a great show of befriending the owners. Seng had seen them too. “What do you think they’re up to?” he had asked.
Jin had offered no opinion. As soon as the two men left the concourse, however, Seng went and spoke to each stall-owner in turn to find out what he could.
“You won’t believe this,” Seng had said upon his return. “They were asking the others if you’d gotten many complaints about food poisoning.”
As Jin’s face puckered in horror, Seng had drawn his brows together in an angry scowl. “If I were a few years younger, I’d gladly have challenged them both. Who do they think they are?”
Jin could not remember having served the troublemaker. He had asked Seng, “Do you remember serving him?”
“Serving him? I can’t remember the last person I served, let alone that one.”
Not wanting to infect Seng with his own misgivings, Jin had asked warily, “And both of them got food poisoning?”
“That’s what the other hawkers said.” Seng paused, then added, “Those two are trying to cause trouble, if you ask me.”
Jin had not forgotten the final image he had had of the troublesome customer before the two had departed—that long, menacing stare.
Jin acknowledged that he could not keep an eye on everything Seng did; he simply had to trust his friend. All the same, he was struggling to contain his doubts. He pulled out one of the large pots from the bottom shelf and was startled to feel a crust of food residue at its top. Seng. He let out a long sigh of exasperation, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
With his thoughts all over the place, he reflected on the days when he and Seng were young men. “Seng really likes you,” Stephanie had said once. “You can tell. He looks up to you. I wish I had a friend like that.” With some shame, Jin remembered how this remark had caused an eruption of suspicion and jealousy. Seng was the better-looking of them two, something Jin had learned to accept and which even Stephanie acknowledged. “But I much prefer my men sensitive and caring,” she had assured him, snuggling up closer.
The fact that she then let out a laugh different from any he had heard from her before did not escape him, however. Hearing her words in his head again, after keeping them stored away for so long, sent a shudder through him. He allowed certain episodes resting in the darkest recesses of his brain to appear clear and unadorned before his mind’s eye now. That jungle clearing, and Seng…
Absorbed in what he was seeing, he actually sensed soft breathing somewhere close beside him. If this continues, he told himself, I will go mad.
Seated on a stool, surrounded by the gleaming pots, he questioned the wisdom of telling Seng anything about the girl at the shop. True, it might help to share the weight of his recollections, but did he really want to involve his friend in his secrets all over again?
“Now there’s a real cutie for you. Oh, if only I were younger…”
Jin turned around to find Seng standing by the entrance to the booth, following some woman with his eyes.
“Hello, Seng.”
“Cleaning again?”
“Just setting everything up.”
Seng shrugged. “I’ll get the coffee.” As Jin watched his friend make his way towards the drinks stall, he tried to imagine how Seng would react if he were to meet the warehouse girl. Would he leer at her like he did every woman he saw, or would he read into it some sort of portent? In any case, Jin knew that if he mentioned her, Seng would insist on going to see her right away. But Jin knew that he could not cope with raking up the past. It had taken him far too many years to deaden the pain; he could not handle reliving it all with Seng as a witness.
No, he decided, he would survive on the edge of his dreams alone.
“Drink that,” Seng said, returning with their coffee, and sat down at the vacant table nearby. “Relax and stop endlessly cleaning your stuff, lah. You’ll wear yourself out.”
They sat at the table sipping their drinks, each engrossed in their own little world. After a while, Seng said: “You know, I honestly don’t know how you’ve managed to do this all these years. You have to get up early every single day. I would have died by now.” He momentarily closed his eyes and blew out his cheeks, as if the very notion was exhausting him. “It’s not so easy running this business of yours, is it?”
Jin gave a wan smile.
Seng said quietly, “I hope you’re not still working yourself up over those two good-for-nothings we saw yesterday.”
Jin shook his head and lifted his cup to his lips to avoid having to reply.
“You know, I’ve been thinking… The next time they show up, I’ll have a quiet word in their ear,” Seng said, too loudly and with an extra edge to his voice.
Jin was appalled. He was all too familiar with Seng’s stormy moods. A threat from his friend was not something to be taken lightly.
6
In what Jin’s ah mah always referred to as “that quiet house”, Jin hurried into the dining room to grab some breakfast before setting off for school. In fact, it wasn’t a house at all but a two-storey flat with three bedrooms, above a shoplot of properties running the length of one side of the road. On the far side, beyond the railway track, was a cluster of simple wooden houses with attap roofs, many with bright clothes hanging out like nautical flags swaying easily in the wind.
“Morning, Jin,” his mother greeted him through a mouthful of noodles. Lee Siew Bee was a thin sparrow of a woman in her early forties, with precise features under tightly cropped black hair that accentuated her face. For all the delicacy of her appearance she had the determination of a tigress when it came to her family. Jin’s father, who sat chomping away quietly at his food, gave his customary morning nod.
