by May Seah
“I have a husband,” she sighed weakly, her manicured hands twisting the Ikea coverlet.
“You’re bored by him. Every moment you spend in his company, you spend wishing it was me there with you. You look across the dining table at him and you see me sitting there at dinnertime. You look at his face sleeping next to you at night and you see mine there on the pillow. He gives you money and clothes and bags and jewellery, but he doesn’t give you satisfaction or pleasure. And he doesn’t love durians.” Keh heard his voice rising in intensity. “How many times has he been unfaithful to you, Agnes?”
“I—How did you know…”
“Say the word and I’ll hack him to pieces with my cleaver.”
“No, Ah Keong! I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you—I mean—him!”
“You don’t love him. I’m your soulmate. What are you so afraid of?”
“No, you’re wrong,” she faltered.
“I know I’m right. Come away with me. We’ll start a new life far away from Bishan. Sengkang, maybe, or Punggol. I’ll set up another stall there. I’ll take care of you. I’ll be your happiness. Think of the possibilities.” His eyes bore into her troubled face as all the crew held their breath.
“No, no, you’re too young. I’m too old.”
“You are beautiful and I am in love with you.”
Then an unusual thing happened. Decibelle was the first to twitch her nose, unable to suppress her surprise in the middle of a take. Then the assistant producer nearest to the bed looked up from her clipboard with a slight frown, twisting her head around. Soon, the sound men, trying to hold their microphones steady, began to test the air with curiosity and bewilderment.
“Cut,” the director called. “Does anyone else smell that?”
It was the smell of durians, faint as a whisper but unmistakably present.
At first, they dismissed it as the power of suggestion. “There are no durians on this set,” the props in-charge assured the assistant producer in-charge, who repeated the message firmly to everyone. They tried to ignore the smell and go on with their work, but it didn’t go away. “Check the air ducts,” the director instructed; but after a thorough search, no fruits of any kind were found anywhere in the studio.
Several scenes later, the smell was stronger and more pervasive than ever, and it seemed to be radiating outwards from the very centre of the set.
“It’s Jon,” Decibelle declared at last, barely waiting until “cut” had been called on a take, her wide, kohl-lined eyes fixated on Keh’s face. “That smell is coming from Jon.”
Keh had been focusing so hard on playing his role that he hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary and, in fact, could barely smell anything at all. But now it was clear to everyone on set that the odour his body was giving off so strongly was distinctively that of durian.
The pungency was emanating from his bare chest and torso, rising from his glistening shoulders and filling the soundstage with fecund ripeness. The intensifying aroma seeped from the pores of his bare skin and overpowered the air, making it thicken with its warm and yellow acridity. Those standing nearest to him bore the brunt of the olfactory assault and reeled slightly. Keh himself, in the heart of the maelstrom, remained unaffected, but some of the crew had to start wearing kerchiefs tied around their faces because they found the odour so repugnant. Others, in whom desire was stirred, became so overwhelmed by cravings for the fruit that they rushed off to the nearest durian stall during the lunch break and returned late, languorous and sated.
As filming went on and the set continued to reek with the funk of ripe durian whenever and wherever Keh was present, the crew slowly began to grow inured to the scent, as one does when exposed to a certain smell for extended periods of time, and work could go on with minimal distractions.
And at the wrap party, held on the Bishanian Boudoirs sound stage with canapés and champagne to celebrate the end of production on the show, Keh found that he had stopped smelling of durians altogether: several of the hired wait staff confirmed independently that he smelt only of expensive cologne.
But the phenomenon did not end there.
Bishanian Boudoirs went on air a few months later. And every time Keh appeared in a scene, viewers at home would detect the overwhelming odour of ripe durians.
The smell seemed to be transmitting itself through their screens, invading their living rooms and wafting out through their windows. It lingered every evening for as long as the show aired. Whenever Keh’s image was on the screen, it radiated out from their televisions and scented their hair, their clothes and even the drapes and cushions with the pungency of soft, moist, yellow durian. The viewers inhaled with delight and gasped in horror and held their noses and giggled with pleasure and cried with desire. As they watched him juggling, tapping and slicing durians at his stall, the inexplicable but irresistibly heady smell lent a compelling sense of verisimilitude to each of his scenes. It lifted them up and wrapped them powerfully in its emotional embrace. And when there were moments of love, tenderness, passion and yearning between the young durian seller and his illicit lover, they smiled, cooed, sighed and wept along.
More months later, the industry’s brightest gathered in style at the annual Golden Television Awards show, where the nominations for Best Actor included Adjonis Keh for his work in Bishanian Boudoirs.
Keh’s fashion stylist had put him in a midnight tuxedo fitted to the exact measure of his classically sculpted body and the fans behind the security barricades that lined the red carpet were already screaming themselves hoarse as he stood ready for his cue to step out.
He had been assigned to walk the carpet with Decibelle, who was wearing a glittery black-and-pewter gown that only a drag queen would have described as understated. Its bodice was encrusted with crystals in a style that reminded him of barnacles clinging with rocky tenacity to the wooden posts at an East Coast Park pier; and it had a full skirt and train so voluminous that he would have believed her if she’d told him she had just casually parachuted out of a passing jet plane. This meant that it was Keh’s responsibility to make sure that she did not fall, should she trip in her teetering stilettos—and also to make sure that, first and foremost, he himself did not trip over her dress.
He hated crowds and over-the-top events, but as his stylist desperately sprayed one last blast of mist onto his coiffed hair, he reminded himself that he was, for the evening, an actor acting out the role of an actor.
“You always forget that I have to be on your right—that’s my good angle,” Decibelle tutted irritably, attaching herself to his right arm as they walked out into the glare of the cameras, smiling and waving to their left and right. He didn’t hold it against her. He knew she had spent the past few days hungry so as to fit into her dress.
Shutters snapped and video cameras rolled as he and Decibelle arrived at the photo wall and held a few practised poses for the media. A middle-aged cameraman, whose demeanour announced that he would much rather be having Teochew porridge at his local kopitiam, shoved a microphone into Decibelle’s hand.
“It was such a joy collaborating with Jonny, and we both put in our best efforts. I know that viewers enjoyed our chemistry as much as we did,” she trilled on cue, smiling so that all her teeth showed.
“Were there sparks between you in real life?” asked the reporter from No Star Too C-List Online, who always asked every on-screen pair that same question with a precise regularity that would shame a Swiss watch.
“Oh, honey, you can’t ask me that—my husband is watching the live telecast,” Decibelle said, giggling loudly.
“Durian sales have skyrocketed and their prices have soared along with demand. How do you feel about having started such a huge craze?” another reporter asked.
“Yes, wasn’t Jonny wonderful?” she cried. “I felt so safe and comfortable working with him. I think people have really responded to our chemistry. I love durians, too!”
“Your performance was so gripping in Bishanian
Boudoirs—what was your motivation?” a journalist from one of the dailies called out to Keh.
“Oh, thanks,” Keh said, but before he had the chance to continue, another reporter shouted, “Who are you wearing?” after which both actors knew the drill: they took turns to rattle off the list of designers and jewellers that their stylists had made them memorise while they were getting their hair and make-up done.
Once he had escorted his leading lady into the theatre and to her place, Keh took his assigned seat next to fellow actor Tungston Tong, who immediately said to him, “Hey, bro. You’re tipped as the hot favourite. How did you do that levelled-up trick? You know, the smell thing. I heard from some of the crew how foul it got on set. And you made it travel, too. I saw a few episodes. My mum had the TV on. We all smelt it. Did you find some online acting course to take? Share your tips, bro.”
Under Tungston’s intense gaze, Keh, like everybody else who came into close contact with the young actor, shrunk back internally. Tungston had initially been born with a face that looked like it had run a gauntlet of drastic plastic surgeries. God’s gifts had been taut, waxy-white skin, bee-stung lips, thick-cut eyelids, clothes-pegged nostrils and the Golden Gate of nasal bridges. It was an effect that made Tatler tai tais stare and small children cry. For the sake of his television career, Tungston had had to undergo multiple plastic surgeries that endeavoured to make his face look more natural.
He turned his huge eyes, which somehow still looked like baby-doll eyes that blinked mechanically in their silicone heads, onto Keh, waiting for an answer.
“I honestly don’t know how it happened,” Keh replied. “I wish I knew.”
Tungston snorted loudly. “Okay, it’s fine if you don’t want to tell me. Sooner or later, some blogger is going to put out a YouTube tutorial on it. Anyway, I thought your characterisation lacked depth.”
They exchanged no more words for the duration of the night and Keh let his mind go blank as the awards ceremony’s theme song blared, until it was time for the guest presenter to give out the trophies for the last award of the night, the accolade of Best Actor, and his manager prodded him sharply in the back. “You’d better have prepared your speech,” she hissed.
“And the award for Best Actor goes to Adjonis Keh for his remarkable work in Bishanian Boudoirs!”
As Keh made his way up onto the stage to receive yet another gilded trophy to add to his collection at home, it happened once again and for the final time.
The hall began to fill thickly with the familiar and cloying odour of ripe durian, this time resembling decomposing food waste on a hot monsoon night and burnt caramel with subtle hints of sharp cheese. And the fragrant stench was stronger than it had ever been, rolling in waves towards the furthest door and up into the rafters. The presenters on the stage smelt it first and their eyes began to water as Keh stood befuddled in front of the microphone. The smell was an assault, building in intensity and pungency. It was as if an avalanche of durians were rolling off the stage and choking the aisles. Audience members raised their voices in confusion and some bolted up from their chairs. Then one or two journalists near the stage fainted. Several ladies had to be supported as they were led out through the nearest exits.
The hall had to be fumigated and aired out for two whole weeks.
This was remembered as the height of Adjonis Keh’s acting prowess and the zenith of his career.
7
During a lull in the filming of The Second-to-Last Magistrate, he took on a short interim project, a six-part TV miniseries produced with public funding. It was a historical epic based on the life of wartime philanthropist Tan Kah Kee. Playing the hero and protagonist, Keh knew that his most challenging task was to portray the man in his later years, as the series placed emphasis on his emotional states towards the end of his life. He would spend two and a half episodes as a septuagenarian and then an octogenarian, mulling over his family, his work, the country and the meaning of it all.
Keh had never played a character of that age and during pre-production, was scheduled to spend an entire day with the art department starting bright and early in the morning, running special-effects make-up trials in order to get the look just right.
The large central make-up unit, located right next to Wardrobe, was a perpetually bustling place. On the production lot, the make-up unit was the equivalent of a medieval market square, where all and sundry gathered to exchange news, gossip and bobby pins. On top of the physical clutter and chaos, the room was always noisy with the sound of hair dryers blasting, radio blaring and voices raised in chatter, straining to be heard above the din. Rows of dressers and lighted mirrors lined the walls and bisected the room, all covered in bottles of hairspray and jars of cream and countless paper coffee cups. Polaroids and postcards were tacked onto the mirrors along-side official character image guides for the make-up artists and hair stylists to follow. Actors dashed in and out: big names in oversized sunglasses, familiar character actors and even the occasional extra or two. There were wires and electrical power plugs strewn all over the floors, so you had to be careful where you trod, especially if you were in period dress or eight-inch stilettos or didn’t have your contact lenses in. Make-up artists and hair stylists presided at their stations, bent over their charges’ faces in careful concentration, curling hair with heated tongs or standing with a hand on a hip as they picked over the day’s scandals with whoever happened to be in their chairs at the moment.
As Keh sat down in a squashy leather chair in front of the mirror, mulling over his new role, he wondered why he had not paid more attention during history classes in school—or, for that matter, classes in any academic subject. He could not recall what he had spent his mental efforts on during that time, either. His scholastic endeavours, or lack thereof, were now a blurred bokeh, if not a black hole in his memory, and his grasp on any details about the historical import of Tan Kah Kee’s actions was equally indistinct, much like the outline of his coffee cup on the dresser to his bleary eyes.
“I’ve just come off back-to-back filming days, and I only slept four hours last night. You won’t even have to draw in my eye-bags and crow’s feet,” he joked to Lena, the special effects make-up artist, after she greeted him good morning.
Lena was a matronly woman wearing sparkly pink lipstick and a fuzzy green sweater, her dark hair piled high on her head. “Aiyah, what nonsense,” she giggled loudly. “You always look so fresh and handsome. Every time you come in here, all the make-up girls start fainting. Then I have to put medicated oil on their pulse points to revive them, otherwise no one else will get their looks done, you know. Wah, look at your skin.” She peered into the mirror at his reflection and gave his cheek a series of brisk little pats. “So wasted on a man. If only I’d had skin like yours when I was a girl. Then the boys wouldn’t have called me Papadum Face. Don’t worry—by the time I get done with you, even your mother won’t recognise you.” She started slathering tan-coloured foundation onto his face, making his complexion sallow, and marking out the positions of wrinkles with darker shades.
As she was applying layers of liquid latex to his face to simulate the leathery skin of old age, Jerome Goh slouched into the chair next to Keh’s, his hair sticking straight up, his eyes hooded with sleep. He also only had one sock on. He took a huge slurp of his coffee before looking over and squinting. “Is that you, Jon?”
“Morning. You look terrible,” Keh said, from under the fast-drying latex.
“I still look better than you,” Jerome snorted, his barely-open eyes beginning to widen as he studied Keh’s face transforming under Lena’s hands. “Wow, Lena, I’m amazed every time I see you work. What’s this for, Jon?”
“Historical miniseries. I’m playing Tan Kah Kee. You?”
“I’m still working on Heists and Hatred in Hougang.” Jerome raised his voice so he could be heard over the sound of his hair being blow-dried into shape by the stylist. “That movie where I play the getaway driver in the fake Milo van. You kn
ow what’s the hardest part? I’m supposed to look suave and handsome while falling around all over the place. In a ridiculous leather jacket. At high noon. It’s not easy, bro.” He rubbed his shoulder ruefully, squinted into the lighted mirror and gestured to his make-up artist. “Can you put more concealer under my eyes? Else the director will say I don’t look handsome enough.” He rolled his eyes and puffed his cheeks out. “I think I need to make like Holliday and employ someone to carry a reflector around and hold it up next to my face, even when I’m not filming.”
“I heard she turned an entire wall of her house into a giant TV screen,” Keh said as Lena pencilled brown age spots onto his now creased and crinkled face.
“It’s three walls. I was at a house party she threw the other week. And she plays nothing but her own close-ups on repeat,” Jerome said. He took another large gulp of coffee. “By the way, have you met the new reporter from The Lion City Lance?”
Keh startled a little in his chair. “April Mehta?”
“Yeah! I think I’m going to look forward to press conferences a lot more now that she’s around. I hope she decides to do a set visit before I wrap this movie.” Jerome’s make-up artist put a final dab of balm onto his lips, and then he picked up his coffee and stood up. “See you later, bro.”
Lena was in the process of stretching a balding scalp, to which was attached sparse strands of white hair, onto Keh’s head. With that, his transformation was complete. They both stared into the lighted mirror.
Keh now had brittle, leathery skin; a mottled complexion; hooded, bagged eyes framed by tufty white eyebrows; a mouth that drooped at the corners; and a careful white comb-over. He looked like he had one foot in the grave and the other foot shuffling forward in the supermarket queue on Seniors’ Card Tuesday.
