Mr Tik was a moderately successful broker with a medium-sized penthouse apartment in the Fort Canning area. Wong had been to the flat several times and each time almost nothing needed to be done. The businessman was highly conservative, and rarely altered anything. It was not impossible that he may have bought a new painting or a new bed. But even that was unlikely. The only changes between Wong’s previous visits were alterations in the number of fish he kept and the precise spot in which he kept them. Mr Tik last time had had eight rare giant carp in a pond with a fountain on his terrace and twelve rare angelfish in a water feature in the southwest corner of his living room.
There was only one problem: the smell. The apartment stank of fish. Mr Tik stank of fish. Any unfortunate feng shui reader who had to spend more than an hour in the flat stank of fish. After Wong’s previous visit, he had carried the odour around with him for three days. Even the local durian seller had complained, and had banned him from the store.
Wong, a life-long durian addict, had mentally sworn never to do Mr Tik’s flat again.
The second cross was also supplied by the man who paid his retainer, property developer Mr Pun Chi-kin, chairman of East Trade Industries.
Pun had forcibly added Joyce McQuinnie, a student of British and Australian parentage, to the one-man-and-a-secretary feng shui agency operating on Telok Ayer Street, just off the business district in Singapore. The daughter of one of Mr Pun’s property development associates, the young woman had initially been placed with CF Wong & Associates because she was writing a 10,000-word mini-thesis titled Feng Shui: Art or Science? But she had found her first few weeks so enjoyable (to her temporary employer’s amazement) that she had announced that she was going to spend her entire ‘gap year’— whatever that was—in the feng shui master’s office.
In theory, having a free assistant (a nominal salary payment for her had been added to Wong’s monthly retainer) should have lightened his load. But she was too strange, too unpredictable, too gwaai to be of any use at all. Her thought processes worked in ways that baffled him, her manner was clumsy and insensitive, she knew nothing of the culture in which she worked, and to cap it all, she didn’t speak English— at least, no form of English he had ever encountered.
The previous morning, she had burst into the office in a state of excitement at an article she had found in a glossy magazine. ‘Cheese!’ she had exclaimed.
She showed him a photograph, not of a stinky yellow Western foodstuff, but of a group of drunken young people. ‘P Diddy’s skanky ex is going full-on with Justin from The Dopes,’ she explained. ‘Unreal, totally.’
Wong nodded as if he had been about to say exactly the same thing. Yet there was not a single element of the sentence that had meant anything to him.
‘What could a major slice see in such a pit?’ the eighteen-year-old continued. ‘I mean.’
Wong had no idea how to respond, but it didn’t matter because she quickly supplied her own answer: ‘Duckets, that’s what, lucky bloody totty.’
The geomancer considered reaching for his Dictionary of Contemporary English Idioms, but decided against it. The book, although purchased only last year, had proved infuriatingly useless in analysing Joyce’s speech. According to the text, she should be saying things like ‘It is raining cats and dogs’, ‘Goodness, what a palaver’, and ‘The proof is in the pudding’.
When he was completely honest with himself (a rare event), he became dimly aware that there actually were some tiny-but-perceptible benefits of having her in the company. For a start, clients often reacted better to a gregarious young woman than a taciturn old man. But he refused to let such dangerous thoughts take root. For on those rare occasions when she appeared to be contributing something useful, she would inevitably say or do something that would irritate him to such a degree that their relationship would be back at square one.
This week had been particularly hard work, and her impenetrable attempt at conversation the previous morning summed up why. Communication was impossible. It was undeniable: The gulf was too wide to be bridged. A feng shui master’s entire skill was creating zones of harmony—and until he was rid of this noisy and pestilent gwaimooi, he would have to endure the embarrassing fact that his own working life was stuck in a permanently unsettled, inharmonious state.
So what had happened on that fateful sunny Tuesday to bring such a heartfelt smile to his lips? He had suddenly remembered that Joyce McQuinnie hated fish. She loathed the thought of them. At restaurants, she pushed away seafood dishes with a look of horror. She steered a wide berth around aquariums they encountered during assignments. She held her nose when walking past a fish stall at the market.
Wong conceived a plan. He was going to make his two crosses cancel each other out.
As soon as Joyce arrived at the office that morning, he would assign the reading of Mr Tik’s flat to her, to cover entirely by herself. If she had a miserable time of it and resigned, he would be rid of her at last, and Mr Pun could not hold him responsible. If she did all right—well, he might as well give her all of his really difficult or unpleasant clients until she did quit. Either way, he would win.
He bravely dared to imagine that this could be the beginning of a golden period. At best, he could be entirely free of her within a day. At worst, he could eventually train her to do ten, twenty, thirty per cent of his work for him. His workload would be significantly cut and, as a huge bonus, he would get her out of his office for most of each day. His two biggest problems would be solved at once.
And Mr Pun would be paying for it all. Now this was how capitalism should work!
A thud reverberated through the office as the door was kicked open. The insistent shh-chka-shh-chka-shh noise of personal stereo headphones became audible.
Joyce McQuinnie, a lanky teenager whose streaked hair varied between blonde and dark brown, ambled into the room, her face buried in a magazine. It was 10:10 am: more than two-and-a-half hours after Wong had started work. She gave him a brief, nervous smile. ‘Hey, CF!’
‘Come. Job for you today.’ He pointed to the paperwork in front of him.
The shh-chka-shh-chka sound grew in volume as she took off the headphones and stared at the plans and charts laid out on his table.
‘You go see Mr Tik. Very nice man, quite old. Easy job. I give you records from last time. You check to see if any changes. Calendar changes I already calculate. I think no problem.’
She turned to him, her eyes widening. ‘Cool. You mean I get to do this by myself?’
He bowed his head.
‘Awesome, like totally!’
‘Remember to count fish.’
‘Fish? Yeeucch.’ She wrinkled her nose.
‘He has two fish pond. But no problem. Very easy.’ He tried to recall a suitable phrase from his book of English idioms. ‘This job is really bowl of roses.’ Or was it cherries? Or apple pie?
She smiled and looked at the floor plan and pile of records from previous visits to the same premises. ‘Neat,’ she said. A cakewalk.’
‘No cakewalk. Apartment. Two bedroom.’
‘No, I meant it’ll be a piece of cake.’
‘You want a piece of cake?’
‘I meant—never mind.’
Wong had the usual grim feeling that he was losing control of the conversation. ‘Here is the address. From now on, I want you to do more job by yourself.’
‘Cool.’ Joyce wanted to set off straight away, but Wong was still a little anxious about letting her have full responsibility for handling a board member.
He sat her down and went through the actions that she would have to perform, making sure that she wrote it all down.
‘Fish. You will check fish.’
‘Ewww. Do I have to? I don’t like fish. Except sometimes for ikura sushi with wasabi on the side if it’s a really nice restaurant.’
Wong’s face darkened. ‘You must not eat Mr Tik’s fish.’
‘I was joking. Cheese.’
He explained that the fish were
not merely ornamental devices to attract good fortune. Fish of this sort cost hundreds or even thousands of American dollars each, and were regularly auctioned at high prices. Good breeding fish were sometimes fish-napped. Advising on fish security had become a distressingly common part of Wong’s business in the past few months. In the past year, thieves had regularly broken into homes and stolen fish while leaving money and jewellery behind.
‘Fish very important. Importance of fish in feng shui of Mr Tik’s apartment cannot be exaggerated.’ Wong touched his fingertips together as he spoke. Ever since he had seen a picture of Confucius in such a pose, he had copied it whenever he had to deliver statements that needed gravitas.
She scribbled down his instructions in a notebook.
In a follow-up case such as this, a feng shui reader’s task would be straightforward, he explained. First, ask if there had been any changes in the furniture, fittings, design or usage patterns for the various rooms. Second, check for changes in the number and type of fish. Third, check the birth dates of the home and the homeowner against the current feng shui calendar. Fourth, check the view for changes in external influences. Fifth, write lengthy comments on all the above.
‘Most important is number six. But you don’t have to do it.’
‘What?’
‘Write big invoice and wait for cheque. But this time, Mr Pun will pay direct. Special deal for members of his board.’
He made her get out her feng shui compass and tested her on lo pan readings.
The results, he admitted to himself reluctantly, were impressive. She had clearly learned a great deal over the first half of the year. Not that he had actively taught her anything. She had simply read through every feng shui book written in English she could find. And then she had watched him carefully on every assignment. By this time, he was satisfied that her technical know-how was not a problem, and she had the fundamentals down pat—the eight trigrams, the circles of destruction and creation, the yin-yang principles, and the interpretation of the flying star calendar.
But he had two further concerns. One was whether she had a feeling for the symbolism that was a key to Chinese mysticism. That sort of thing you couldn’t get out of books. ‘This shape bad, because looks like a Chinese grave,’ he said, showing her a diagram which looked to Joyce like a ram’s head. ‘So anything this shape is bad.’
He pointed to the corner of the office where the kitchen items were. ‘Knifes, waste bin, toilets, these things very negative. Things which look like those things, or which remind you of those things, also very bad. Understand? Never associate Mr Tik or his career or home with any of those things, understand or not?’
‘Yeah-yeah. Peasy.’
There was one other thing he was nervous about: her use of English. ‘Also, please try to talk so Mr Tik understand what you say.’
‘He speaks English?’
‘Yes, he speaks English.’
‘So . . . ?’
The feng shui master took a moment to consider how to explain. He picked up his Dictionary of Contemporary English Idioms and tapped it. ‘Mr Tik, he does not speak your English. He speak this English: It is raining cats and dogs. The proof is in the pudding. Goodness what a palaver.’
‘Say what?’
‘Speak in simple way to him, please.’
‘No worries. I’m cool. This is so like groady to the max.’
He closed his eyes. A man could only pray.
Joyce gathered together all the papers, squashed them into her bag, and set off for the block on Fort Canning Road. The door slammed shut, the shh-chka-shh-chka-shh-chka noise vanished into the distance, and silence fell like a curtain.
Suddenly he was free of fishy Mr Tik, free of Joyce, and free of pressure. His secretary–administrator Winnie Lim had not turned up for work, so the stillness in the office was complete. It felt weird. It felt unfamiliar. It felt wonderful. He determined to attempt to arrange external assignments for Joyce on a daily basis, even if they were pro bono assignments.
Once more Wong started thinking of ways to celebrate. Singing and dancing were definitely out, he decided, but the second-breakfast idea was a winner. He picked up the phone and ordered a special delivery of dim sum.
Fu, the septuagenarian deliveryman, turned up twenty minutes later with three steaming bags. In traditional Shanghainese street-food style, the restaurant hadn’t bothered with polystyrene boxes. Staff had simply thrown the dim sum into translucent plastic bags and sprinkled them with soy sauce and chilli oil.
While waiting, Wong had made a pot of green tea. The deliveryman let himself in and carelessly dropped the bags on the table. One tipped over. A yellow pork siu mai rolled across the table, leaving a trail of oil across the papers.
‘Aiyeeah!’ shouted the feng shui master. ‘You nearly spoil cheque!’ He grabbed an envelope containing payment from a customer, kissed the oil off it, and tucked it into his inside pocket.
Excitedly, he opened one of the bags and the cloying aroma of sweet glutinous sauces filled his wide nostrils. ‘You have one,’ he said generously, holding the bag out to the old man.
‘Already got,’ Fu replied, pointing to his stuffed left cheek.
Wong counted the dumplings in his bag and realised that the deliveryman had helped himself to a significant proportion of the meal as commission for bringing it. This was outrageous, but the geomancer couldn’t bring himself to be in a bad mood today. He wiped up the oily residue from his desk with some tissues from a toilet roll in his bottom drawer and picked up a toothpick with which to stab the dumplings.
‘Mmm, ho mei,’ he mumbled to Fu’s retreating back as he placed a whole har gow between his yellowing teeth and an explosion of grease filled his mouth. Life was improving and could conceivably get better.
Which was the moment Winnie Lim arrived.
She pushed the door open with such force that it bounced off the wall.
He was about to scold her for being late, but she was faster off the mark. ‘Mean one you. Why you not share? Also I want,’ she said, staring at his steaming collection of plastic bags.
The secretary scraped her chair over to his desk and started transferring the dumplings to her mouth at a steady, machinelike pace. Wong lifted his own game to match. For several minutes, the only sounds in the office were sloppy, competitive chompings from Wong and Lim.
Then the geomancer looked up at his secretary, putting on his sternest I-am-big-boss voice. ‘Joyce this morning go to do Mr Tik. If no problem, then we give her plenty more assignment.’ He spoke with his mouth full, oil dribbling down his chin. ‘After a while, I do no work. Just count money. Ha ha.’
Winnie gave him a disapproving look and shook her head disdainfully.
He noticed her reaction with irritation and stopped chewing. ‘So? What?’
‘No good,’ the secretary mumbled, also speaking with her mouth full. ‘Joyce cannot do-ah. Bad idea.’
‘Can.’
‘Cannot. She mess up-lah. Joyce is foreigner. Everything also she do wrong.’
‘Easy job I give her. Apartment of Mr Tik very easy.’
Winnie added a third dumpling to the two already in her mouth and spoke indistinctly, spraying grey goo over the desk. ‘Not easy. She mess up. You see.’
He was angry. ‘So many times already I do it, this apartment! Four-five over times. Only need to count fish. What can she do wrong?’ He blinked crossly at her.
She shook her head and stabbed a toothpick violently into a chicken foot from another bag. ‘Sometimes you are a bit stupid boss. Mr Tik move house already. Las’ month. New house, very big. You don’t know?’
CF Wong’s mouth dropped open and a har gow dumpling rolled out, landing squarely in his bo’lei tea with a splash.
Joyce pressed the bell for a third time, and sighed. She told herself that she would patiently count to twenty and if there was still no reply, she would accept that no one was home. One, two, three, four . . . ‘Bugger,’ she said. Losing patience, she
depressed the bell a fourth time, her fingertip turning white with angry pressure.
She was standing on the front step of an old, slightly crumbly block of pale green apartments on the southern side of a gently sloping road in Fort Canning. The address that Wong had given her indicated that Mr Tik lived in the penthouse flat on the fifteenth floor. But there was no answer. Either he was out, he was deaf, or the buzzer didn’t work.
As she stood in a state of confusion on the front step, one of the other residents arrived, input a four-digit code to unlock the door, and strolled in. In typical self-absorbed Singaporean fashion, the man who had arrived gave no indication that he had even seen Joyce. She grabbed the door before it swung back into locked position and followed him in.
The block was old, and there was no guard on the ground floor. Joyce summoned the elevator and was carried slowly and creakily up to the top floor.
Arriving outside an apartment gated with a padlocked heavy steel shutter, she found herself stumped again. She rang the doorbell several times, but there was no response.
The bloody man must have dropped dead, she thought with sudden bitterness. How inconsiderate. This was a rare example of her having been given an entire solo assignment, and it seemed cruel of fate to conspire to make her fail. But what could she do? If he wasn’t in, he wasn’t in. She thought about waiting, but there was no air in the corridor, the space was humid, and she was sweating. Worst of all, there was a nasty odour of fish. She turned away and started to walk back to the elevator.
Then she stopped. Hang on! This was the penthouse. She knew that whoever rented the top flat in this sort of apartment block nearly always got the roof as well. And space being at such a premium in the city-state, residents inevitably made use of the extra space, turning it into a picnic area or roof garden or something. There must be stairs from the apartment level to the roof—and possibly internal access, perhaps a spiral staircase or terrace or something.
‘I’m gonna to do it,’ she said out loud, her hands clenching into determined fists. ‘I’m gonna bloody well get in and bloody well feng shui the place.’
The Feng Shui Detective's Casebook Page 3
