A Chinese Affair

by Isabelle Li

  I turned on the computer. Luke’s email: ‘Dinner at 7pm at Grape Garden.’ I clasped my hands and closed my eyes. I often studied Luke’s face when he was not looking, from different angles, under different lights. His nose, prominent and right on the equator of his face, afforded him a youthful appearance. His large eyes and thick spectacles added to his air of intelligence. Overall he gave the impression of a genius. I read the email again.

  I tiptoed on the tiled floor through the living room. My landlords were sleeping. Last night I heard them fighting again and her pleading when she was pressed against the wall between us. The other tenants, who were very quiet and hardly visible, had gone to work. There was an air-conditioner in their room, so the door was always closed. I crossed the kitchen, which was devoid of cooking utensils, and opened the aluminium door to the bathroom.

  When I first arrived in Singapore with a friend, we stayed with one of our bosses. Mr Teo either worked late, or went to the pub with his army friends. Mrs Teo spent her evenings training Patsy in their bedroom: ‘Sit,’ ‘Shake hands,’ ‘Kiss Mummy.’ Her brother, unmarried, had rented out his own unit and lived with the Teos. He was soft-hearted and liked to sing old melancholy songs: ‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do … I’m half crazy, all for the love of you …’ His prosthetic eye stayed half open when he dozed off in front of the television.

  We soon moved to a three-bedroom unit. The landlady’s sister, unmarried, had rented out her own unit and lived with this family. When we moved in, she moved to the children’s room. The boy liked to shower after us and report to his mother if there was hair on the bathroom floor, or monitor the water temperature: ‘Mummy, they used boiling water! I got burnt when I turned the tap on.’ His little sister would promptly disappear into her parents’ room whenever there were phone calls for us, and we could hear her repressed breathing through the receiver. Six months later they rented out the children’s room to three Shanghainese women. The children and their aunt moved out to the living room. When I worked late, I would come back to see the three of them huddling on the mattress, watching animation movies; or, if later into the night, three bundles lying on the living room floor.

  I left and found a room here. My landlords provided a bed, a wardrobe with a full-length mirror, a desk and a chair. I installed my own telephone and Luke helped me buy a computer.

  I tied my hair into a ponytail and applied layers of foundation and powder. Then I put on my new locust-green jacket and skirt. I skipped breakfast, so I could start work early and finish in time to go for dinner.

  I walked out quietly, carrying my black leather audit trunk. When the lift doors were closing, I read a new sign: ‘Do not urinate in the lift.’ Behind the building, nine cats and a couple of empty plates were scattered on the stained concrete floor next to the gutters. I walked out of the shadow into the dazzling morning sun, streams of sweat trickling down my spine and thighs.

  At my first job, the bosses had withheld my passport, ‘for my own good.’ They requested that I sign a contract to work for them for three years, and if I were to leave early, I was obliged to pay back three months’ salary. I resigned and paid my way out after the first year.

  I dated my supervisor, who liked to mix different perfumes and apply them liberally. He had encouraged me to surrender my passport and sign the contract. I thought he must have wanted to take over the business one day, but he soon left for a better offer. One day, when we were comparing the law and order of Singapore and China, he concluded that China needed draconian laws because the people there were ‘bad, although not all bad.’ He looked at me adoringly. I thought he was either blind or stupid, and broke up with him.

  My second job was with another small firm in Chinatown. On the ground floor was a stall selling durian. The smell travelled up in the lift and spread through the air-conditioning. The audit manager was bald and pink, with a watery nose. He spat freely when he spoke, accumulating saliva at one corner of his mouth. He would exhibit a childish admiration for the boss whenever they talked, but he cursed Mr Yuan behind his back, as if to make up for the shame.

  To make friends with the locals, I adopted the habit of shopping. I would meet with friends at shopping centres, look in the shiny windows and display cabinets, walk through aisles crowded with clothing, and have a meal in the food court afterwards. I spoke like a local, simplifying sentence structures, avoiding idioms, and substituting specific verbs with general ones. I added ‘lah’ and ‘ma’ at the end of each sentence. But the shop assistants still spotted me, and treated me as if I came from a village.

  Two years later I joined one of the ‘Big Five’. I went for training in the US and started wearing suits, mostly black. Although my peers were younger, they seemed to have clearer ideas about their career progression, marriage and housing. ‘If I’m not married by twenty-five, I’ll kill myself,’ one said.

  I managed to get on the bus and put down my audit trunk.

  Singapore seemed to me a city of lines: highways, train tracks, light rails, pedestrian crossings. All lines moved efficiently and crisscrossed to form a web. I felt like an ant, crawling in circles, unable to escape, until I met Luke.

  Luke had lived in the US. He had taught in Nanyang Technological University and now worked for a government-funded research institute, specialising in nanotechnology. He liked photography. When I looked through his eyes, the world was full of hidden beauty and small delights: the spiralling external stairs with the shadows of the balustrades, the patterns of leaves against the sunlight, a tree growing out of the window of a deserted terrace.

  I loved our evening walks in Marina Bay, with the causeway flying overhead to Malaysia, a portal to the rest of the world unknown to me. Luke liked to collect images following a particular theme. One was Chinese associations. We walked along Singapore River and the back streets of Chinatown, checking out the associations named after obscure places in China, marvelling at the early generations’ effort in clinging to their humble origins. Another theme was tropical plants, so we visited the botanic gardens, where Luke once put his head on my lap while we sat on a bench, the most intimate we had ever been.

  He often set his camera on a tripod and used a timer to control the shutter, in order to reduce vibration and sharpen the image. When he finished setting up, he would raise his hands in midair, while we waited for three seconds in silence and stillness, until the shutter clicked. His hands then returned to the camera, and we continued with the sentence half said and the steps half taken.

  When the darkness set in, Luke often became agitated. He would call a halt to the excursion, and we walked to the nearest bus stop. I waited for my bus, but he might get on one that was not even going towards his apartment. I could never figure out what had gone wrong. I thought maybe he missed his five-year-old daughter living in the US. So I avoided asking any probing questions.

  On 31 August 1997, Luke and I agreed to meet at Golden Village to see Men in Black. I took the bus, sitting on the upper deck, watching the dense foliage of the rain trees. The bus stopped and started, and some passengers came upstairs. Someone tapped my head with a rolled-up newspaper. I hunched my shoulders and looked up. It was Luke! He sat down next to me, unaware of how much space he was taking up.

  ‘Princess Diana died in a car crash.’

  ‘Is this a joke?’

  ‘Not according to the paparazzi.’ He opened the newspaper for me.

  Since then, every time I heard someone talking about Princess Diana, I would recall that moment on the bus.

  Once, while taking photographs of the oil tankers anchored beyond the shoreline of the East Coast, Luke said to me, ‘I really like you. But I need more time.’ I wanted to ask how much time, but he straightened up, and we had to have a three-second pause to wait for the shutter. Then it started to rain and we ran to the thatched shelter. I did not ask him the question. Love was for a lifetime, and I was happy to wait.

  At a precise point, I alighted from the bus to catch a train. Goi
ng down the escalator, crossing another escalator, I saw an Indian man hunching over the handrail, resting on the ascent.

  It was crowded inside the carriage. A young man with a short chin and pimpled cheeks was sleeping, or pretending to be, his feet slipping out of his sandals. Above him was a sign that read: ‘Please offer this seat to someone who needs it more than you.’ There were other signs, written in English, Chinese, Malay and Tamil: having food or drinks on the train, fine $500; smoking, $1,000; carrying explosives, $5,000; pressing the emergency button without a valid reason, $5,000. I hung on to a rope to stay poised, trying to fit in with the law-abiding society.

  At the elaborate fountain in front of our office building I took a few deep breaths. Streams of water flew in the air, free from any controlling forces yet thoroughly submitting to gravity. Colourful fish swam at the bottom of the granite pond, without a worry in the world. I indulged in a few moments of listening to the sound of water splashing and feeling the tingling sensation of droplets on my skin. Then I got in the lift to the seventeenth floor.

  Around the floor were managers’ rooms, with windows, light and views. The workstations for the staff were clustered in the centre of the floor. My desk was next to the aisle, under constant surveillance by the managing partner. Mr Tan walked the floor and prided himself on knowing everyone’s name, including the freshly graduated audit assistants who blushed at his jokes. I often heard a whisper in my ear in the middle of writing a personal email: ‘What are you up to, China girl?’ I would turn around, using my shoulders to block the screen.

  I took from the audit trunk the files that I had brought home the previous night and added them to the shelf above my head. I started working, automatically moving from one activity to another. I skipped lunch, to fast-forward the day. The emptiness of my stomach seemed to clear my head, and I began to experience a lightness and euphoria.

  In the midafternoon, the senior manager in charge of the initial public offering we were working on called me into her room. Evelyn had translucent skin, the postpartum freckles carefully concealed under expensive make-up. Her voluptuous lips were slightly parted but hardly opened into a smile. Her thin eyebrows were permanently tied into a knot on her forehead.

  ‘How’s the review of the proforma?’ she asked, while continuing to write without looking up, her shoulders raised to her ears and her back hunched.

  ‘Still working on it.’ I tried to guess her mood.

  ‘I really don’t know what you are doing. Can you work in my room?’

  My heart sank. I carried the clients’ documents and my own working paper into her room, and sat at the round table in front of her, keeping as much distance as possible. Yet I could still hear her breathe, a wheezing sound as though the window was not sealed properly.

  At six o’clock, I noticed an error in the debtors’ ledger. The foreign exchange revaluation differences had not been expensed off after the debts had been collected. It was a significant amount. I remembered I had seen it before but neglected to investigate further. The proforma accounts had been through a few rounds of review, and if the numbers were to change now, many sets of accounts would have to be restated, and potentially some positive years would turn negative. My insides felt funny.

  A knock on the door. It was Mr Tan in his usual good humour. ‘Seeing the light at the end of the tunnel?’

  Evelyn looked up with a girlish smile. ‘Another three weeks to go. So tired.’

  ‘Don’t work so late lah. Go home and catch up on your beauty sleep.’ Mr Tan addressed me as well.

  ‘Where got time? Can I take a week off after this?’ Evelyn said.

  ‘Of course. You both deserve it.’ Mr Tan walked out.

  I felt sick. ‘Evelyn, I’m really sorry but I’ve found an error.’ I explained.

  ‘How can anyone be so careless?’ She was almost laughing, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘I’m not gonna ring up the clients. You tell me what you want to do. We’ll stay here until you figure it out.’

  The light was fading outside the window and the sky had started to turn pink. The tropical dusk was a fleeting moment of tenderness.

  I was going to be late or not able to make it to dinner at all. But I did not have the courage to ask for a break to ring Luke. Should I have just kept quiet, not bringing it up, since there were bound to be other mistakes?

  Other mistakes. If there was an account for revaluation for the debtors, there should be one for the creditors. I started searching in the creditors’ ledger and indeed there was.

  ‘The net impact is an understatement of the assets. We can reclassify the balance as a general provision for doubtful debts, which makes the accounts more prudent.’

  Evelyn stared at me for a few seconds. ‘Okay, you work out the impact on the balance sheet and do the adjustments. I’ll ring the clients and also let Mr Tan know about it. Please make sure this doesn’t happen again.’ Before she picked up the phone, she added, ‘Things like this really damage the team’s credibility, and your own reputation. Everyone who knows about it won’t trust you again.’

  It was ten past seven when the taxi arrived at the restaurant. I bounded up the stairs.

  The air-conditioning was strong inside, blocking out the traffic noise and the damp air. I caught my breath. ‘A table for two booked under Luke Liu,’ I said to the golden jacket standing behind the lectern. The phrase ‘table for two’ sounded so sweet.

  ‘Sorry, bookings are taken for a minimum of four. Smaller tables are on a first come, first served basis.’ He was apparently proud of this policy; the corners of his mouth stretched towards his ears. He flipped through the logbook again. ‘But there’s a table for six, booked by a Mr Liu.’

  The lavishly furnished dining room was lit by chandeliers, and half full with diners. Many white uniforms and some golden jackets floated around. I sat down at the empty table, feeling alone. I busied myself chewing the roasted peanuts.

  Two hands came from behind and blocked my eyes. The size and softness told me it was not Luke. ‘Happy Birthday!’ Fanny’s dimpled face was inches from mine, porcelain complexion, long hair. Her short and fleshy body in a miniskirt undulated into the seat next to me. One of her slippers fell off her bare foot, and Luke, who had been keeping a distance behind her, bent down to pick it up. The men from the neighbouring tables watched the scene, glancing at Fanny’s full cleavage.

  Fanny was from China too. She worked for a fashion magazine as the chief editor. The name on the cover was different from hers, but she said she had to use a pseudonym to fit in with the local culture.

  A few days ago, she had rung me. ‘I’m getting married,’ she said casually, ‘sometime next year.’

  ‘To whom?’ I forgot to say ‘congratulations’.

  ‘He’s very possessive. When a French colleague bought me sunflowers, he pushed me down onto the pavement and threw the flowers in a bin.’

  ‘Who is he? Do I know him?’

  ‘Maybe you do. Maybe you don’t. He likes to listen to music when we’re in bed. I have to turn it off to concentrate. But I enjoy it afterwards, lying between his thighs, resting my legs on his shoulders ...’

  I shook my head to get rid of the image.

  Now Fanny sat innocently, her dimpled hands one over the other on the table in front of her chest. ‘You’re so thin. Are you eating well?’ She smiled maternally. ‘Come over this weekend, and I’ll cook you pork stew.’

  ‘Little Brother!’ A hearty cry from the doorway. Poet dashed in and shook hands with Luke, his face glowing. He was a published poet, a repentant ex-communist, a political prisoner on parole, and now the owner of an antique shop selling Chinese trash and treasure. He called Luke ‘Little Brother’ and let him use his car.

  Poet and I once had dinner at a coffee shop. Halfway through, he suddenly jumped up, waved his hand, and then froze and fell back into his chair. He pointed to a man on the sidewalk and said, ‘Doesn’t he look like Little Brother? The same broad shoulders, the same boyish h
air, and the same carefree T-shirt. I thought it was him.’ There was such pain and longing on his face that I felt pity.

  Qing appeared, tilting his neck, scanning the dining hall curiously. When he was a baby, he had fallen off a bed, resulting in a permanently crooked neck. His head was tilted to one side when he spoke, which gave him an inquisitive look. The more suspicious he was, the more tilted was his head.

  Qing’s wife worked in the police force in China. Her father held a high position in the national security organisation. Qing had left his wife, and he was certain that his father-in-law would extend his power to force him back. He did not tell anyone his phone number or address. He had applied for independent migration to Canada. He told me that he wanted to live in Manitoba, where the snow was so heavy that his footprints would be covered without a trace.

  The last person to arrive was Yun. She had once worked for a Chinese petroleum company and been involved in a corruption scandal, then moved to Singapore to lie low under the guise of studying for an MBA. She had triangular eyes and large teeth, as if she was born to eat seafood, sucking shellfish and spitting fishbones. She often told us of her epicurean experiences in the finest restaurants, and of her adventures in remote places, watching sea turtles lay eggs, or dancing with natives in grass skirts.

  Luke was reticent, as usual, his beautiful eyes resting on the menu, reading the blurb about the restaurant’s founding history and food philosophy. He tended to avoid eye contact, though this created the opportunity for others to observe him, which was what we were all doing. His extreme focus on some things and general lack of interest in others seemed to elevate him above the crowd and spare him from the trivia of life. After a while, he said nonchalantly, ‘Shall we order?’ I sighed. It was going to be one of those evenings when everyone fought for his attention, and he thought we all had a good time.