by Mimi Kwa
Three guitarists in oversized sombreros begin singing a happy tune I can’t make out. It floats and fades. Something about a señorita – it’s all in Tagalog. I mustn’t look at David, in case we burst out laughing. It’s as though Aunty is being serenaded on her last voyage out to sea by three lovers.
As if the scene isn’t bizarre enough, Dad stands up and starts swaying, his swagger growing into all-out dancing as he moves to the rhythm as though he’s in a trance. He sweeps his arms over his sister’s coffin and, like a man possessed, lifts his hands to the sky. The musicians up the tempo and – in what I believe may go down in history as an unprecedented creative collaboration – Dad concocts original lyrics in English, while the three accompanists do their very best to harmonise in Tagalog.
Dad waves his arms in the air as if we should all join in, and some do. He’s suddenly a rock star clapping and geeing-up the crowd.
Before I have a chance to process all of this, he is dragging Clara from her seat.
‘Ooooooh, okay,’ she says, nodding enthusiastically as though she’s been chosen to dance with a prince at a ball, elated to have been selected out of the crowd. She claps wildly, and brother and sister waltz beside their sister’s corpse against a backdrop of obligatory grief-stricken wailing from Brigit’s distant relatives – and from the wife of a masseuse Aunty once employed, and her family who never met Aunty.
The elderly siblings go for a dip, and I wince and peek through my fingers, imagining two more funerals if such behaviour continues. Even for these seasoned mourners, Dad and Clara are a spectacle. They manage to stabilise after the dip and steal their own show, spinning and dipping again. I’m grateful they haven’t attempted a lift, and I’m completely unsure whether to be appalled or touched by the sentimentality of the moment. Tears well in my eyes.
It’s time to carry the casket to the cremation chapel. David and I exchange disbelieving looks as we stifle uncomfortable giggles over our parents’ behaviour, regaining composure only once we step away from each other while everyone files out of the mourning room.
Having David here is a great comfort to me, and I wonder if we may be the only sane people at the service. He moves closer to me again, looks down at me and whispers, ‘Nothing matters much. Much matters little. In the end, nothing matters at all.’ It’s a saying he first told me in Hong Kong over a beer and champagne cocktail, one of his favourites. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says and nudges me. He and I have always enjoyed drinking while comparing notes on our eccentric, narcissistic, entertaining parents. But now these two are the last survivors of their unique strand of Kwa, and I wonder if this will be the last memorable story about them we will have to tell.
In a haze of aftershave and perfume, David and I wait for the funeral procession to wend its way to the chapel. We’re wedged between audacious hats and suits – and even tracksuits – in the sultry Manila heat, none of the dress choices making much sense to me.
I’m thinking about how our parallel childhoods revolved around beach walks and meals with Aunty, long yum chas and warm early evenings in her study, when the pallbearers appear. As Kwas and Bryans, we occupy the whole front row; we watch the coffin lowered before us and then chapel staff step forward to prop open the casket of a woman who has already lain in state for five days – she has to put up one last appearance. I give Aunty a nod of respect, followed by a quick apologetic glance because she has had to go through all this. All she wanted was a simple service and for her ashes to be scattered in the ocean.
Over Brigit’s sobs and occasional wails, I read Aunty’s eulogy. I talk about Aunty’s work as an air hostess, then her gift shop, tucked in near reception at Hong Kong’s most famous hotel. When Aunty appeared at the grand red carpet reopening of the Mandarin Oriental, David was on her arm as her date. Barry Humphries greeted them at the door, and the hotel manager made a beeline for Aunty. ‘Miss Kwa, I am so pleased you could make it.’ Now in charge of the entire building, this man had been a bellhop back in the day, and when others looked down their noses at him, Theresa was always kind. He never forgot that.
As I take my seat, I can see that David is trying not to cry.
Brigit rushes forward to drape herself across the coffin. She clings to it, moaning, and my heart goes out to her. ‘Miss Kwa,’ she wails, ‘Miss Kwa.’ She collapses to the floor. Three of her relatives lift her to her seat where she continues to sob, so loudly she almost drowns out David as he reads from the Woman’s Weekly article featuring Aunty.
Now comes another custom, unfamiliar to me. Well-rehearsed assistants standing behind the casket swiftly cover it with a white bespoke coffin-shaped cardboard box and hand out permanent markers. The pens pass from one person to the next so that each of us can write a parting message or tribute, or, in some cases, just a name. It’s like signing the cast of a school friend who has broken an arm, but this time the cast is for Theresa’s irreparably broken life.
The coffin is jostled about and almost topples over as Dad pushes to the front, shoving a pen in Karen’s hand and ordering her to write a prayer, after which he writes, You always said I am ‘the star’ in my own movie, and draws a star.
Immediate family members – blood relatives, Dad, Aunty Clara, David and me – are directed to an annex off the main room. Dad drags Karen in with us despite my protests. ‘Theresa said all the time, “Karen is family.” So she is family. She comes in.’
I end up squashed next to David, then I’m taken by surprise when I realise we’re all crammed into a space the size of a small elevator, with a glass window on one side. It’s a viewing room, just like in a maternity ward, only, eerily, at the other end of life. Huddled together, we watch the cremation team reveal the coffin, which is covered in hurried last words. Aunty is lying on top. Staff remove her jewellery and shroud her in a white sheet. A young man holds her pearl earrings up to the glass, slides them into a velvet pouch, and places it on a tray with her watch and necklace.
A woman points to a black button on our side of the glass. We are meant to press it and send Aunty into the fire.
The furnace door opens, and the woman gestures to the button again, more vigorously this time as she grows impatient, but none of us wants to do the deed. David suggests that ‘it might be most fitting for brother and sister, Francis and Clara, to press it together’. I am so relieved it’s not me; I couldn’t agree more. They count to three and press it, springing the conveyor belt to life, sending their sister and mother figure into the inferno.
‘You won’t be able to wear those earrings,’ Dad instructs me a moment later, referring to Aunty’s pearls. ‘It’s bad luck to wear what she wore dead.’
Apparently, though, it’s not such bad luck to wear the dead person themselves. I am horrified to learn that Aunty’s ashes are being sold off – in quarter-teaspoon portions placed in glass vials shaped like crystal pendants – for anyone to keep. When all the mourners congregate in another building for tea and biscuits, I’m stunned to see so many strangers eagerly lining up to wear Aunty around their necks. I selected the urn for her ashes when we went through the ‘extras’ package options, but I certainly did not approve of this.
‘It is tradition, Mimi,’ Tessie says. ‘You, no need to pay. Non-family must pay, but you can have for free, Mimi. Isn’t that wonderful?’ When it comes to religion and tradition, I see an unexpected side of this executor.
Cash flies from purses held high as mourners vie to be served, reminding me of the betting ring at the horseraces.
‘That’s not the point,’ I say. ‘She wants to be scattered in the ocean. It has to be all of her, not just what’s left.’
Tessie appears not to compute.
‘I am so sorry. So sorry.’ I push through the crowd. ‘I’m sooooo sorry,’ I say to the strangers who want to carry Aunty around with them. ‘No, no, no.’ I take a fistful of money from the attendant selling Aunty off and return it to the lady at the front of the queue. ‘We cannot separate the ashes today.’ I bow repeatedly, b
egging forgiveness from the disappointed strangers, my hands together in an attempt to appear respectful, having used this tactic successfully on a number of less critical occasions. They look at me as though I’ve lost my marbles, but they put their money away.
Except Dad, who proceeds to the front, asks for five necklaces and instructs the attendant to ‘put it on the bill’. I am dismayed, but he just shakes his head and frowns at me, scooping the ashes into the little vials: one for him, one for Clara, one for Karen, and two spares – because, according to Dad, keeping spares of anything is a good idea.
BLOOD AND LOCK
THE DAYS AFTER THE FUNERAL ARE SPENT ON THE administration of the will and sorting through belongings. Dad visits the condo often taking whatever he fancies and putting it into his large suitcase ‘hidden’ on the small balcony outside Aunty’s guestroom. When he’s sure no one’s looking, I watch Dad take items from shelves and cupboards, his expression inscrutable, his selection between priceless figurines and worthless plastic indiscriminate. I don’t mind him taking things, not at all. It’s his sister and his grief, and hoarding as many of Aunty’s things as possible is his way of trying to fill a hole. I totally get it, but his indifference to due process makes Letty’s and Tessie’s jobs hard.
‘Today we’ve received disappointing information from friends in high places,’ Letty says. ‘Before Theresa’s death, your father Francis was already visiting with lawyers to contest the will, and he instructed the legal firms to send bills for services to us!’ Both executors are incensed. ‘Your aunty would not want to pay her brother’s legal fees to contest her own will.’ They’re so exasperated that their tolerance for Francis’s squirrelling away of items evaporates instantly. Tessie and Letty put the apartment and its contents into ‘total lockdown’ and appoint me the sole person responsible to sort through Aunty’s things. ‘Mimi, you are the one Aunty told us we should trust and depend on.’
Letty draws the short straw to inform Francis he can no longer visit the apartment without her prior consent.
Francis is furious. ‘You are the daughter. I am the king.’ His dragon blood boils. ‘YOU women will NOT tell ME what to do. Karen and I are VERY disappointed in you.’
I put down the phone.
Jay parks across from Dad’s hotel. ‘Will you be okay, ma’am?’ His eyes brim with concern.
‘Thank you, Jay. Of course I will.’ I have a paper bag full of things I hope might help Dad feel better, and I ask the front desk to call him. He appears alone, and I can see his scales are still up, the tendons on his throat taut with rage.
We walk down a passage into the hotel’s indoor pool area.
‘You are the daughter and you DO AS TOLD.’ He shakes a taloned wing. ‘You let me INTO the apartment NOW to take what I want or you will PAY.’
‘Dad,’ I say, trying to shift the subject, ‘I have brought the necklace for Karen. I know Aunty would have liked Karen to have it. Could you call Karen down please, Dad? I’d like to smooth things over with her.’
‘Give me that!’ He seizes the pouch, pulls out the necklace, examines it and squints at me. ‘Theresa said to me on her deathbed she wanted Karen to have ALL her jewellery.’
‘Dad, we can only go by what Aunty’s will stipulates. We can’t just make it up.’
‘You will DO. AS. TOLD.’ He breathes fire and shouts.
I am a tiger crouched on the tiles, waiting for the flames to die down. Through tears, I offer, ‘Please, Dad, just give Karen the necklace. I’m sorry for any confusion.’
‘You WILL be sorry. You do NOT tell me what to do. I tell YOU what to do. You will arrange a meeting with the executors, and you will make them let me into the apartment. That is an ORDER!’
A security guard walks in to see if I’m okay. ‘I’m fine,’ I say. I try to breathe and calm myself. ‘There are some photo albums I thought you might like to look through, Dad, to reminisce. Some albums Aunty put together are dedicated to you.’
He snorts. ‘They are ALL mine anyway. I will show you.’ He waves a clenched fist at me, and it would almost be comical if I didn’t feel so sad that it has come to this.
I leave the hotel, dazed, my eyes red from crying. Then Jay says he has bad news: Brigit can’t locate the spare keys to Aunty’s apartment, and Dad is the most likely person to have them.
I arrange for an emergency locksmith to come over, and the building’s security guards pin up photos of Dad in their patrol booths.
DIAMONDS AND DRUNKS
AUNTY CLARA HAS BEEN OBLIVIOUS TO THE COMMOTION going on behind the scenes and is quite uninterested in the will or her dead sister’s valuables. But when Francis invites her to be his ally in claiming the jewellery Theresa has left to me and my cousin Josephine, he awakens a dormant Kwa spirit in Clara. She decides she suddenly cares very much about the jewels after all.
Unaware of our parents’ plan, David and I meet in the executive lounge on the thirty-sixth floor of the Shangri-La Hotel. He and his boyfriend, Sam, are staying here. David and I air-kiss before he guides me to an armchair in the corner and orders drinks. I welcome the chair’s embrace after a long day with Tessie and Letty; we were visiting safety deposit boxes to collect Aunty’s precious gems, which involved a lot of security checks and paperwork. When we returned to the condo, Brigit was not back from market, so I carefully stashed the jewels high up in Aunty’s study.
‘Mimi,’ David says, ‘what do you intend to do with the jewels?’
‘The executors just said I could deal with the distribution.’
He sits upright and orders more drinks. ‘Mimi, you cannot keep the jewellery to yourself. There is no inventory, and you can’t find the photos or Aunty’s letter of wishes.’
I nod in agreement.
‘Your father and my mother are going to want to take control of the situation, and that could mean a big mess.’
‘Yes, it could.’
‘So, we need a plan, and we need to make it happen as quickly as possible.’
First we call Josephine in London. David and his sister talk for a while, then Jo tells me, ‘Mimi, I’m very happy for David to represent me and for you both to decide what we each should have. Aunty did always say she wanted me to have the Russian emeralds, which she said once belonged to the Tzar. I hope that will be okay?’ I remember that Aunty had always said that, and she’d promised me her eternity rings, so we agree and hang up.
David and I decide to go through the jewellery piece by piece. Apart from the emeralds and eternity rings, we’ll take turns choosing from remaining items. Simple.
‘We trust you implicitly, Brigit,’ I assure her as she sobs on the other end of the phone line. ‘You can do this. It’s okay.’ She reluctantly agrees to bring the jewels to the hotel right away.
Half an hour later, she calls me from the foyer to announce her arrival.
Brigit puts down the concierge phone, sweating. She is carrying hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of irreplaceable, highly sentimental jewellery. The pressure is so intense, she is close to fainting and cannot wait to hand the bags over to me.
Then something very unexpected happens, beyond any of the catastrophic scenarios Brigit thought of on her way here. The enormous foyer appeared almost empty when she arrived, with just doormen, receptionists and a couple over there on the lounge – Francis!
He strides over, quicker than she can find an escape route. ‘Brigit, what are you doing here?’
She looks around desperately, clasping the bags so tightly to her sides she might seriously have a heart attack. ‘Oh, Mr Kwa, I just came to see your daughter, Mimi. She will be down in a minute.’ He squints and eyes the bags in her white-knuckled grip. Her heart pounds, and sweat pours from her forehead despite the air conditioning.
Francis takes Brigit’s shaking arm with a firm grip and guides her to the seat where Karen is waiting. ‘Look who’s here, Karen. It’s Brigit. And what have we got here?’ He gestures to the bags Brigit is clinging to for dear life.
Brigit is sitting on a striped satin settee with my father and Karen; two bags are on the chair between them. She looks tense. They all do.
They haven’t seen me. My heart bursting out of my chest, I use the cashier’s phone to call up to David, who soon appears beside me with his game face on.
As I walk with my cousin under a dozen chandeliers towards the settee, Dad sees us and stands up, a grim look on his face.
‘Uncle Francis,’ David says, ‘what a wonderful surprise to see you. Why don’t you join us in the executive lounge for a drink? First we’ll go upstairs to invite my mother, of course. You must have come to see her. Yes?’
Francis straightens up to a stature befitting an ‘executive’.
Brigit steps towards me and thrusts both bags into my arms – live bombs. She is still trembling.
‘And, Karen,’ says David, ‘of course you must join us too.’ His tall, imposing figure stoops to coral the elders. He gives me a nod as they walk off to the lifts.
‘I’m so sorry, Brigit.’ I hug her. ‘I had no idea Dad would be here.’
Brigit sobs uncontrollably; how she has any tears left, I don’t know. ‘I was so frightened, Mimi. I was really so frightened.’
While David walks ahead and gives Francis and Karen a personal tour of the hotel – recounting facts about artworks, the building and Manila in general – I say goodbye to Brigit and head to a different lift well in order to beat the others to the executive lounge.
At a table near the corner, Sam is the only guest there, tapping away on his laptop. As I approach, he looks up and smiles a broad, charismatic smile. I slide two bags under his table, where they’re concealed by a floor-length white cloth, and he grins and nods knowingly, a Cheshire cat. Like most people, he finds the Kwa family both perplexing and entertaining.
