It is probably easier for men to seek male prostitutes than it is for a woman to seek a gigolo. It did not matter, not to me, because sex and such became unimportant.
Initially, Jay was the target of my preoccupation, fuelled by a zealous parent’s raising of a successful youth. He applied himself well, seeking out the right company and becoming industrious when it came to achieving his goal of getting a decent education. In his corner of the flat, he worked at his desk, and got what he had set out to get. Then he left, to make a life for himself in the world outside my flat.
I was right after all, not to delve into the details of his curious teenage exploits in Singapore. Look, he turned out just fine. I had a feeling, though, that David had broached the topic with Jay before he died. What they concluded I know not, but it was clear to me that the onset of his youth was not a wasted one. He was a good kid, with an interesting past. In the future, he was his own master. My duties had been dispensed, and in my mind, dispensed well.
Ten, or even twenty, may seem like a bagful of years, enough to drag one on, but to me they were a flash, illuminating my greying hair, leaving me at peace, at a slow pace all by myself in my little flat in London. My daily rhythm became languid as my period of senectitude began with arthritis, high powered glasses, urge to urinate often and light sleep each night, easily disturbed by the faintest of disturbances and lasting only for a few hours.
Some of the commuters had even started offering me their seats on crowded buses and commuter trains.
In the mornings, I headed to the community gymnasium, walking and exercising to whatever extent my body permitted. I returned home to a breakfast of oatmeal and fresh fruit, which I had to prepare myself, given the lack of domestic help. Through the mornings, I sat by the computer, surfing and penning this useless memoir, more for my pleasure than the goal of seeking readers.
Subconsciously though, I knew it was for Jay to discover after I had passed on, knowing the truth that his mother knew, respecting her for respecting his privacy through the living years and remembering her after she died.
One discerning reader is all that I write for.
By mid-morning on most days, I found myself in the library, reading the papers and magazines for a few hours before settling by the café near the supermarket where I buy groceries for the day. I buy only a small batch of supplies each day, enough to subsist yet inadequate, so I can plan a daily visit to the supermarket, another chore to fill up the vacant routine of an entire day.
I remain myself, private and happy in public places, exchanging pleasantries with the staff before returning home late in the afternoon each day for my nap. I visit the ISKCON temple in the evenings before settling down at night with soup and salad in front of the tele, writing this silly narrative till late, before catching the meagre sleep that my crumbling body allows. I am not happy or sad, simply story-less and old, friendless and alone, by choice.
Of the entire Hindu pantheon, I was drawn to Lord Krishna in my advancing years, a naughty God, with a clutch of girlfriends and the power to make brothers fight, a God of convenience, with the ability to sway, depending on what the situation demanded. I was drawn to his polarized philosophy, all encompassing with justification for any action.
Then again, the most explosive fights, the memorable ones are always between brothers or neighbours.
A good God is a god of action.
Jay called, not often but just enough to maintain a respectable contact. He visited for a few weeks as each year wound down towards Christmas, got bored with an old woman’s slow life and then left for more colourful days in the coming year ahead. He was faring well and was soon working on Wall Street, earning well, no longer dependent on the monthly stipend that I sent him. I was proud of him.
I did not seek her, leaving the past behind me. Even when I caught sight of her at the supermarket, I turned away in fright and horror. Her face was the same, other than the disfigurement that time hands out; it was unmistakably her, short, reaching for noodles in the Asian section of the store, on tiptoes. She still looked maid-ly, with her mum somewhere close by ticking a list of procurement with overflowing carts in tow. I moved away, checking out and walking home as fast as I could, with my little bag of leeks.
I didn’t visit the temple that evening, sitting instead by the window, looking at the evening traffic, struggling in the streets below.
What if I had come face to face with her? Would we greet before moving on, or would we just feign the failure of recognition? I was glad I had seen her the way I did, surreptitiously, leaving the choice of advancement or retreat in my hands. I had retreated, for now. If she had seen me and said hello, unprepared I would probably reciprocate with politeness, waiting there before something happened.
Did I not owe the courtesy of a warning to her new mum? I would inform her, ‘You have a diseased- prostituting-snake-bitch inside your home, who will consume your men with the poison of her lust, just like she has done with mine.’
Then again, Mary looked in advancing years, maybe lust-less like me, a simple maid running chores and sending money orders back home, to support the education of children.
The encounter did not disturb me, neither did it bother me; it simply provided an avenue of mental immersion, another mind-filler at lonely meals by the tele, or just before falling asleep. Unanswered questions resurfaced, with a much milder intensity, but intensity enough to awaken curiosity. After all, she was the only person who had all the answers to that year in Singapore. I still did not know the where- how-when of her affair with my son. As regards David, there was still one question, which she could probably fill me in on—the question of why.
There was also the question of her child—whose was it and where he or she was?
I did not lose sleep over such matters, but I did change the venue of my shopping in the week ahead, moving a few bus stops further before falling back into my daily routine.
If there was only one thing I could ask her, what would it be? I discarded many options, before settling on this one ‘If you had a choice, a choice of winding back in time, would you do it again, would you repeat your act?’
Yes or No. Either way, I would accept and understand her choice before walking away.
My days, too, were drawing to a close; I had withered, needing a not-so-strong wind to snuff me out. I could have carried these questions to my pyre, but decided not to, I wanted to know and close loops out, as the bankers put it, before I moved on.
Ironically, when I started looking for her I could not find her easily. Each trip to the supermarket, found me eyeing the Asian section from a distance, looking for Mary. On one occasion, I even walked up to the Asian section, looking around as if for her to find me, examining the packs of noodles; they weren’t like the ones she used to buy in Singapore but I took one in any case, wanting to try them. Would they emit the same foul odour that we had come to know in Singapore?
After a few months, looking for her became an obsession, it started to consume me, almost as if I had to find her and ask her that one question before I died, even if it meant heading to the Philippines on the pretext of seeking some tropical sun. I had her address in Manila and that would have been the last resort. I could not die, letting time carry questions away, away from me forever—because for one, Jay would certainly not chase or swim after them.
The noodles stank; yet I ate them, when they cooled.
On the Internet, I sought out the agency from where we had hired Mary and asked for Ms Goh. She had left and they did not have her contact details or any meaningful leads for me to follow through. There was only one person who could help me, Inspector Simon Tan.
He was much less trouble to locate.
When I called him, he recognized me easily, as soon as I mentioned my name. I mean, how could anyone forget?
‘Mrs Rashmi Kettlewood, it is nice to hear from you after so many years. Yes, I do remember you and your family, I hope things are well at your end,’ he seemed pleased to
hear from me. I, too, warmed with a smile, taking in his voice before filling him in at my end.
‘Yes, I saw her here in London recently and wanted to say hello, but I can’t seem to find her contact details anywhere. Can you help?’
‘Sure. I can see if I can dig up anything. It remains one of the strangest incidents that I have come across in all these years,’ he replied.
He took my details and promised to email or call if he found anything.
He did email, after a week or so, giving me her number in London. It was a terrestrial line, mostly of the residence she now served. It was frightening and exciting at the same time. I thought about it, staring at it, doing nothing for a few days, and then I called, opening the final chapter, coming to the point that I wanted my son to understand.
Mum’s Journal, Part Three:
Laughter
When I finally called Mary, it was past noon, when most households usually wind down before the kids come home, after school.
‘Hello, my name is Rashmi Kettlewood and I am looking for Mary. I believe she works in your household,’ I asked, assuming that the mistress of the manor had answered the phone.
‘Hello, yes, she is here. May I please know what this is regarding, since she usually receives calls on her cell phone,’ the lady’s hesitation was valid, no-calls-for-maids is a basic house rule across the globe.
What was I supposed to say—The police could only trace the number of her current employer?
‘Well, I am an old acquaintance from the past, trying to get back in touch with Mary. I don’t have her mobile number and was only able to get this number from my old agent. I am sorry to bother you,’ I almost hung up.
‘You mean you were her past employer?’ she cut me off.
‘Yes, I was, but it was many years back.’
‘I wish you had mentioned that. I will call her immediately, and it is no bother. Just very nice of you to try and get back in touch with her,’ she kept the headset down, with scratchy electronic rustling and a gentle thud. ‘Mary, Mary, there is a call for you,’ her voice faded, as she receded away from the telephone.
Stupid fool—she was judging us by the politeness of a phone call, and concluding decency of relationships, where only the fangs of strife existed.
‘Hello, I am Mary,’ it was a familiar drawl, laden with a Filipino twang, the one that we had desperately fought, before our son picked it up. Other than that, the voice was respectful. She did not know who was on the other end of the line. It was my last chance at aborting this whim of senility; I missed my opportunity and went headlong into conversation.
‘Hello, Mary. It’s me, Mrs Rashmi Kettlewood,’ I simply announced myself; there was a pause on the phone line.
‘Hello, mum. How are you, mum? It had been so much time, mum,’ she was still polite, which was a relief.
‘I am fine, how are you?’ I, too, was courteous. Politeness is disarming, is it not?
‘I am fine, mum. Been here in London for one year, mum. Are you also in London?’ she asked.
‘Yes I am, and I want to meet you, if that is okay. I have something of yours that I want to return,’ best to draw her closer, before delving into questions that had festered for so many years.
‘Mum, I can meet only on Sunday, after church if you are free, maybe near St Paul’s,’ her tone was balanced, and she was ready to meet.
We set a time for our rendezvous, and exchanged a few more words; I took her mobile number but did not give her mine, hanging up politely before moving away from the payphone back to the flat for some more traffic gazing by my window.
On Sunday, I waited for her at the café near St Paul’s. When she arrived, we moved away, towards the neighbourhood park. We spoke as we walked.
She already knew about David. ‘I was sorry to hear about sir. My friends told me, and I did not think it was appropriate for me to call,’ she said. A sound judgment, I thought, by any measure, at least as regards where time stood then. Now, it seemed okay, her feelings and best wishes.
She did not ask about Jay, I mean how could she enquire of a child’s well-being, one on whom she had committed crimes of underage sex, pleasurable no doubt, but crimes all the same.
It was an awkward rambling, pointless as we strolled; I searched but found no cues to cut in and start my interrogation, seeking answers that could finally put my curiosity at bay.
We sat on a bench, eating our sandwiches, sipping water from our bottles. A group of boys were playing cricket on the lawn in front of us, completely immersed in their game, as if life depended on its outcome.
‘Mum, is there anything that you wanted to see me for?’ she finally asked me.
‘Not really, Mary, so many things have changed, I just wanted to say hello,’ I lied, getting caught in my lies.
‘But, mum, you said you wanted to give me something, something that was mine,’ she looked at me.
‘Oh yes, I completely forgot. Here you go,’ I fished out the bag of nails and hair from my pocket and gave it to her. The nails had curled and browned with years, only the acrylic enamel was more or less unchanged, being plastic.
Her expression fell. Hate and anger, that is what I wanted to return, and I had delivered it. She took the bag, knowing well that whatever had happened to David was not the result of the voodoo that she may have planned upon him.
Nails and hair, aren’t they the dead expendable parts of our body? The rest we cherish, unlike nails and hair, which we expend on fashion.
‘Mum, I am really sorry for any pain that I may have caused to you, but Jesus knows I am also not guilty. I should have trusted you more and come to you earlier, but I couldn’t, and it all just happened,’ she kept the bag of death away in her handbag, offering me the avenue of questioning that I had prepared for all week.
‘If you could go back to that year in Singapore, would you still do what you did, or would you choose another path?’ I simply asked.
‘I would do as I have done, because it has left me with what I cherish the most in this world, it has made my life worth living,’ she spoke firmly, not defiantly.
I sank, right there by at least an inch into the bench.
‘And what is that?’ I asked, my voice falling, knowing well what women cherish the most in their lives.
‘My son, Rafael,’ she spoke softly, opening her tacky bag, pulling out an envelope and handing it to me.
In the envelope was Rafael, on a four by six inch colour print, bare except for the shorts, well illuminated, revealing his Caucasian descent. He was our likeness, the Kettlewood likeness, no question about it.
In the background of the photograph was the sea with some birds in the distance. The boy had a happy smile on his face, and his body was firm with the onset of youth.
My stomach turned as the answers came rushing from the colour print, catching me unprepared, like a blow on a distracted fighter.
As regards multiple sexual partners, the Bongla boys are smarter than the Kettlewood men; they know how to conduct themselves without getting into a jam.
‘He is a good boy, mum; if I can, I want to send him to study at the Manila University,’ she took the photograph back from my hand, looking at it dotingly.
‘What about your husband?’ I asked.
‘He left me soon after Rafael was born,’ she answered, unremorsefully. ‘I survived thanks to the money that you gave me,’ she added.
So our money had gone towards looking after our child, a small-big justice.
‘We went to Cebu and lived with my uncle, a kind man, a fisherman who accepted us and let us be with him in the fishing villages. Rafael goes out to sea, now that Uncle has become old, but I don’t want him to waste his life fishing, I want him to go to the university’.
Rafael Kettlewood, gliding in his skiff on the South China Sea, casting his net and bringing in a living for his family; while Jay Kettlewood enjoyed a lawyer’s life on Wall Street, it was a new mental image, with two boys instead of one, with sea adde
d to an urban skyscraper landscape. They did not mix and remained separate in my mind.
On the lawn in front, a fight broke out over a contentious stumping, two boys rolled on the makeshift pitch, lashing out at each other.
‘I know I will fail, but I will try till I fail,’ she whispered, wistfully.
‘Fail?’ I simply asked.
‘Yes, fail. There is no way of plucking Rafael from the fishing village and planting him in the university. Even if I could make that much money, it would be tough. No one from the village thinks anything beyond the sea. It’s either fishing or entertaining the tourists that have appeared in the recent years. There is no life beyond that,’ she explained.
‘A life on the sea is not a bad life, it is clean and can be happy,’ I said.
‘You are right, and he will take care of me when I am old, our home is enough for us, but I want him to break out so that his children have a better chance at making an education.’
Jay would not care for me; I would die alone here in the flat, my body waiting for his arrival, to hurriedly conclude my rites before the final passage. It did not really bother me.
‘What does he usually catch,’ I asked with a smile. I don’t know why that thought popped up, type of fish my son harvested. Son or grandson?
‘Spanish Mackerel, Ski-Jack, Grouper, Snapper- fish, Blue Marlin, Mahi-Mahi, Silver-fish and so many others,’ she replied, almost in a litany, with a smile.
I gathered courage before asking her ‘Who is Rafael’s father?’
I had spoken the boy’s name, uttered it from my mouth, and imbibed him by mere utterance. Sight acquaints, but does not internalize subjects the way speech does, like just now, when the tip of my tongue had touched the roof of my mouth, before carrying the sound, ‘Rafael’, through my breath, accepting him, leaving him internalized.
Maid In Singapore Page 6
