‘It is a big country, you know. Boracay, Siquijor, Camiguin, Guiuan, Malapascua, Bacuit, there are so many places to see and visit. If you want to make the best, you will need weeks if not months to really enjoy yourself,’ she said, relaxed, in a manner when a common friend, even though absent, or in this case dead, eases the tensions that strangers feel as they size one another.
‘Yes I am planning a whole month and hope to have a good time for myself, around Christmas this year, which I understand may be the best time to visit,’ I wanted to prolong the conversation, as I imaged her creamy-milky body, the parts that may have been left supple, unlike the face, the grey hair and the hands which showed plainly the impact of time, even on Asians.
‘I shall be visiting home, too, during that period; we live near Cebu, in the quiet fishing villages. Well, they were quiet, but slowly the tourists are arriving with their money, and discovering the calm that the countryside of the sea offers,’ she said. ‘I can give you my number and you are free to call and visit us when you are there and if you make the time,’ she added.
‘That would be wonderful; I was hoping you would offer, because, I was hoping to have at least a few days of home-stay while I was there, and that is the point, moot, that I had been speaking to Mrs Kettlewood about,’ I replied, completely taken on by Mary and her presence, reeling in the years that had passed since I had had her, feeling unhindered about what or who I was, and where I was heading.
We spoke, a bit more, as tentative dates were set, numbers and email ids were exchanged before we parted, to meet later that year, a few months down the road, where I would finally become quiet and natural. I gave her a different email id, different from the list of ids that my landlord’s mother had used, to dispatch her overwritten, excessive, trashy journal, which had led me to Mary, setting in motion the final few events that led to quietude.
It was bustling, when I arrived at Cebu, with no hints of the promised paradise, only noisy jeepneys and a lurking suspicion that the city was out to cheat the tourists who had just landed. Being robbed in a new city remained a mindless suspicion, because in reality, Mary had arranged for my pick up with trust and care. I was placed in a car and driven to the ferry terminal, where a lunch of fertilized eggs helped with my diet plan, and its demands of a frugal calorie count. On the ferry, things became languid, with most passengers abandoning their seats and spreading out on the deck above, soaking in the promise held by the sun and the sea-air. I, too, bikinied and lay on a deck chair, looking at the coastline, served up by the islands as we motored past, thick with trees, except for a few clearings created for the spread of resorts, which were sprouting on each island. The surf was frothy as it neared the beaches, landing in a whimper of waves, creating an ideal playground for swimmers and beach-goers, leaving the surfers forlorn as they eyed the horizon with hopes of waves, big ones. In the sky, a few people soared on parasails, tethered to motorboats in the water below, which pulled them through the air, like wingless birds, in fancies of actual flight.
A young couple asked me to photograph them, keeping the sea and the islands in their backdrop, which I did to the best of my abilities, hoping that their expensive camera made up for my ignorance as regards capture of images is concerned, because to me, a photograph is a symbol of the past, a past from which I needed desperate escape.
Alongside the yacht, every now and then, schools of small fish jumped out of the water, breaking though the surface in large groups, flying away from the yacht, disturbed by its presence—a massive presence as regards fish went.
I smiled as an old question surfaced in my mind, one I had heard on an audio CD many years ago, posed by a disciple to an eclectic preacher. The question was, ‘Every now and then, why do fish jump out of the water?’
He thought it was a strange question, but proceeded to provide an answer, which outdid the strangeness of the question. It was something about wanting to simply jump out of the water, and in this case, hoping to see the giant thing on the surface, the yacht, that disturbed the routine of whatever it is that fish do under the surface of the water, when they don’t feel the need to jump and peep outside their watery world.
In about half an hour, apart from the beer drinkers who had appeared from the bar below, most of the travellers had transcended into a sleepy stupor. The beer drinkers chatted, in a manner that was not incommodious, in the least.
The yacht, anchored itself every hour or so, with long wooden water taxis pulling alongside it, as parcels of fresh produce were lowered for them to carry back to the resorts and the hotels, which may have remained otherwise cut off, on the islands around us. The men, sea gypsies, conducted their business with smiles in Cebuano, the local dialect which sounded sweet and welcoming, with no harsh edges or sharp retorts.
On my phone, I slid to my latest download, playing it at a soft tone and a comfortable volume. Rock music, came belting through—Walt Grace, desperately hating his whole place. Dreamed to discover a new space, and buried himself alive…
By late afternoon, the crowd of travellers on the yacht thinned, and my phone battery ran low, as they left for their time out on the resorts that they had chosen on the Internet, before carefully reading reviews from across the globe . . . unlike me who had local inside help.
When it was my turn to disembark, I was informed, well in advance, giving me enough time to visit the ladies’ room and gather my belongings, which were soon lowered, along with me, onto the water taxi that had pulled alongside with a sea gypsy, who confirmed the authenticity of his passenger by repeating the words ‘Eve? Eve Costello, Eve?’ often enough for me to clearly register that he was my man, arranged by Mary for me to be brought to her.
The water taxi offered a new dimension of travel, with its noisy engine and its dubious un-burnt fuel, emitted unfiltered through the exhaust, sometimes directly into my nostrils, depending on the whims and the twirls that the sea wind dealt. Mixed with the smoke, the fuel rose foul as it entered me. I moved to the bow, away from the stern where the rickety engine sputtered angrily, belching its poisonous exhaust. I sat there on the nose of the boat, dangling my legs seawards, enjoying my titanic moment.
Above the noise, conversation was futile, and I simply hoped that I got to Mary’s place, before it grew dark. I peered into the waters, which were shallow at times, teeming with reef and its denizens, soothing and sufficient for now.
Towards evening, the sea flared, taking on the colour of the sky, which lit in a complex orange of the setting sun. The water took on a molten, thick- still-viscous texture, seeming to slow the boat with its evening density, when all it was, was the de- throttling of the engine that the boatman had executed, pointing us shore-wards as we slowed and drifted towards our destination, finally, a relief in the subsidy of noise and air pollution. A boy’s silhouette broke through the surface of the watery canvas, coming up for air, before running inland, beach-wards, his arm raised and pointing to us, seawards, announcing my arrival in Cebuano, while his litheness ran away, shouting loudly.
It was him, Rafael. Who else could it be, young and fleet, quick with youth on the sand that slows us, the middle-yeared ones.
The point of the day’s journey, and its narration was to remind myself that there can be days that are quiet, without the need of dwelling on myself and my sexuality, a subject that came flooding back, as soon as I saw Mary appear from the beach hut along the coastal treeline.
He helped me ashore, Rafael, my son, reaching out, almost lifting me in his arms and depositing me in the surf, from where I waded ashore, turning around to look at him only when I had reached dry sand. The lad was strong and burnt by the sun, shoulders and chest broadened by the demands that rowing and such may have put upon them each day. He pulled the water taxi ashore, a stout rope from the bow, running over his back and held firm in both his palms, as his feet dug into the sand for traction. The engine idled before the seaman killed it, jumping ashore with a few belongings, by which time Rafael had secured the boat to the ropes that had emer
ged from the sand.
His image was striking, and left me happy and captivated, enough for me not to notice Mary standing right behind me.
‘Welcome to our little home. Hope your journey was comfortable. That is my son. Rafael, come here and say hello to Aunty Evelyn,’ she said with a smile. The boy came towards us, his face illuminated by the last dying light of day, a likeness, unmistakable even in the dim fading light.
He said hello in Cebuano, adding ‘English very little,’ becoming a bit shy, in unknown foreign company.
‘Hello,’ I said, wanting to turn away and climb back onto the boat again, making my way back to where I had come from, even though it was almost completely dark by now. My loss, at being able to tackle what lay ahead, came to fore as soon as I exchanged those first few words with my son, that first evening. It was too late to turn back and run, also ill-advised from a standpoint of safety, given the dark and the sea gypsy’s plans of resting for the night at Mary’s place, before heading back out again in the morning to resume his maritime duties.
Mary’s house was one large indoor living space, mostly made out of wooden beams, bricks and cement holding up a slanting roof, which may have needed constant mending to keep it from leaking or flying away. In the singular, large living space, was a bed, on which lay an old man, being spoken to in a high pitch by Mary, like when one needs to penetrate the deafness that age brings on. By way of light, there were hurricane lamps, though I did notice a few dead dust-ridden electric bulbs hanging from the ceiling, used infrequently I presumed, depending on the availability of power from the bent poles outside, weighed sideways by over-wired loads on them.
A lot of the living actually happened outdoors, where there was almost infinite space. From a large pot on a fire outside, Mary asked Rafael to give me a bucket of hot water, which he kept obediently near a part of the yard that was relatively hidden behind wild bushes. There, I bathed—quickly since I was naked and surprised, as stars in the millions twinkled on, upon me.
My boatman had already settled outside, closer to the beach, lying on a sheet at the edge of the sand where Mary gave him a plate of rice with some fish on the side. He accepted it, smiling before tucking in.
I too ate, the rice and the fish, which was fresh and sumptuous, refreshing me instantly after an entire day of journey.
In these parts, living happens with the cycle of light, starting up at dawn and shutting down just after dark, when everyone rests.
I lay on the floor, on a thin mattress that Mary had unrolled indoors, right beside her’s, me, making plans for leaving on the following morning along with the rested sea-gypsy, worrying about tickets and hotels after I reached Cebu.
Why did I want to flee? Thing was, the insincerity of knowing all about Mary and Rafael, while exercising the choice of not revealing myself to them, it had started to gnaw at me from the very moment I had seen them together on the beach that evening, welcoming me with smiles, knowing not who they were welcoming in.
The price of bottling secrets up inside of me was probably not worth paying for, again. It was best to disappear quietly in the morning.
She lay beside me, right next to the open door of the single room, lulled by the gentle roar of the surf, in darkness, illuminated only by the moon and starlight. She was beautiful and I had to turn away, forcing myself away from thinking that way about her again, because the thought of having sex with her was leaving me nowhere, neither male—which may be the part that was fuelling my passion for her—nor female—which was making me feel like a loathsome lesbian, a dyke, something I had never set out to be.
In my new female life, I had crossed paths with my old female lovers a few times, but none had ignited me the way Mary did, because what I had with Mary was worth longing for, and the revisiting happened easily in my mind, without having to want to get aroused forcefully. To think of Mary as a first love was completely wrong, and misplaced, since she was the subject of my entire transition to adulthood, not like a first soft uncertain kiss that most of us are supposed to remember, but a redefinition from what I was, through what I experienced with her, to what I eventually became with others. She was the bridge between my lives, two separate lives, lived in one lifetime. It was a tantalizingly appealing thought, one of making her part of both those lives. Maybe that would complete the elusive, bothersome quest for naturalness. If I could have her now, I would love her in redemption, cleansing away all of the perversity that I had committed upon her in that year in Singapore. If I could do that, it may leave me redeemed and mended, before I headed back.
This new twist of redemption, why did it need the act of physical lovemaking? I could simply confess my identity to her, wait for her response, and if she accepted and understood me after I had apologized, then that same redemption could be played out in words before I left? Yes, it could, but only to the extent that an unrequited love is doused by the useless words of a targeted lover, with no avenue of physical union. My falling in love with Mary, for the first time in my life, became a strange yet clear acceptance of my new softness, keeping me awake well into the hour. I would hate myself if it happened, becoming a dyke with the mother of the son whom I had fathered. It wouldn’t happen because this time, I would exercise control, leaving fantasies as such, without trying or wanting to play them out, maybe savouring them secretly for a lifetime, rather than killing them by making them come true.
The bringing alive of this fantasy was a possibility because I knew that the object of my attention was given to a life of physical experiments.
Repression always surfaces; it is the unrepressed that is easy to make dormant and extinct.
That night I dreamt well, while the dream lasted, it becoming instantly disgusting and distasteful when I opened my eyes. I was alone in the one-room house, along with an old man who struggled with his cough, trying to get something unstuck and out of the way.
The sun had risen over the sea, and I could see no boats on the beach. I became alarmed.
‘Mary, where is the boatman? I was thinking of leaving this morning, since I don’t want to be a burden on you,’ I said, seeing her stoke the fire on which the large pot of water had reaffirmed its ground.
‘Why, what happened? I thought you wanted to stay for a couple of days, if not weeks. But I do understand it is very quiet and village-like here. I can get a boat ride for you, but it will be only the day after, not before that,’ she looked disappointed, and convinced that it was the minimalist living and its boredom that was driving me away.
Later, I settled on the beach in the sand, reading for a while, noticing tourists on the far end, who were emerging from a resort that I had not noticed in the dark, on the previous evening. After informing Mary, I walked up to the resort slowly, taking the better part of an hour before settling by the pool of the hotel, ordering drinks and charging my mobile phone and my tablet, while I sipped and grew lazy.
On the beach in front, children frolicked with their families, making plans for the day, with eager sea- gypsies, who bargained like sailors do, with smiles.
When I returned, Rafael was back from school, standing in slippers, uniformed raggedly in a stain- white shirt and navy blue shorts. He was restless, eating quick and leaving for an afternoon of fishing.
‘Rafael, why don’t you stay at home and study, while we still have daylight. I don’t want you to waste your time on the boats all the time,’ Mary advised our son, not forceful enough for the boy to listen. Force, in commands, is the forte of fathers.
He replied in Cebuano, went in and spoke to the old man before leaving. They must have spoken of the fishing and the tackles and the tricks that were taught by the old man to my son over the years.
Mary complained, redirecting her tirade, meaninglessly, at the old man, while Rafael answered in smiles and excuses, before leaving. The old man spoke to Mary, siding my son, I thought, since I had not yet picked up their tongue, but his tone was revealing, as regards siding with the young is concerned.
I followed him, watching him push his skiff into the waters with big sea arms, firing up, leaving before long, skimming over the azure blue waters.
‘Do you want to head out for dinner, maybe to the resort?’ I asked Mary, after I had seen him turn around the rocks, out of sight.
‘We never go there. It is for tourists. The staff will laugh at us if they see us there,’ she was laughing.
The radiance of happiness on any face makes it instantly attractive, and in this case, immeasurably desirable.
I smiled, too, ‘I just thought it might be a change, that is all,’ I said.
‘Let me do a grill for you tonight. You will like it, of course, depending on what Rafael brings in,’ she said.
Of course I knew I would like it; I had always liked her cooking, when she was with me, when I was a child.
‘That sounds perfect. I will go and get some beers from the resort,’ I said, becoming buoyant, with preparations of a party, which I had not had for many months now.
‘Don’t forget to carry some ice too, so the beer remains chilled,’ she said, happy with my exuberance on being here.
I set back out on the beach late in the afternoon, heading towards the resort, buying beer along with the ice, as I was advised, and then ambled back leisurely and unhurried, enjoying the breeze that had picked up by now.
Dinner was early, since the dark made any activity tiresome in the absence of electric lights.
Rafael had lit a pit fire in the sand, and Mary was carrying a large bowl of rice, out, onto the beach. I cracked beers, and settled by the fire.
The rice was spiced with garlic oil, a taste that sent me back years in time. It remained as tasty as it was then, in fact more, since time lends a variety of flavour to the things that we like, forget and then rediscover.
The grill consisted of fresh fish that Rafael had brought in; it was small fish, nothing grand, but supremely fresh, tasting of the sea from which they had been harvested only hours ago. There were some small shellfish, too, grilled for only a few seconds, just warmed through and drizzled with oil and lime juice, before we ate them. Washed down with the local brew, the grill was a spectacular success.
Maid In Singapore Page 11
