The Scarlet Macaw

by S. P. Hozy

  She told Spirit about the time a wealthy Chinese woman had come into the shop. “She told Peter she wanted to see the ‘best piece in the gallery.’ Peter told her everything in the gallery was the best. Did that mean she wanted to buy everything he had?” Maris chuckled as she remembered the episode. “Needless to say, she was not amused by what she considered Peter’s mocking tone, and told him he would quickly go out of business if he wasn’t more respectful of his customers’ wishes. Peter knew exactly what he was dealing with — he’d seen every kind of customer in Singapore — and suggested that he visit the woman in her home so he could best advise her which pieces to buy. Well, to make a long story short, she agreed and he ended up selling her a lot of stuff over the years. She became one of his most loyal clients and sent all of her wealthy friends to him, too. He was amazing.”

  “Were you in love with him?” asked Spirit.

  “No,” said Maris. “It was nothing like that. But I loved him and respected him for who he was. And I trusted him, too, I guess, which is why when he told me I was a good painter, I became more confident and bolder in my work.” Maris wondered once again what she would do without Peter’s support and advice. “Peter always told the truth,” she said. “But he didn’t fling it at you like he was a know-it-all and you should listen to him. And truth can be relative, subjective, and situational, all at once. He had a way of somehow getting you to see for yourself that what he said made sense.” She laughed. “I’m making him sound like some kind of televangelist preacher, but he was definitely not a preacher. Maybe that was his secret. He never insisted or forced an issue; he just kind of gently led you in the right direction and let you see for yourself.”

  “He sounds like a rare individual,” said Spirit.

  “I think he was,” said Maris. “I think I’m a different person for having known him. I don’t think I would have found my own way without him.”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit,” said Spirit. “You were the one who got on that plane and went to Singapore. At the time I thought you were being a little impulsive, but it ended up being the best thing you could have done.”

  “Well, it was that proverbial fork-in-the-road thing for me.” Maris poured the rest of the Riesling into their glasses. She laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Spirit.

  “I just thought of that old joke. You know, ‘If you come to a fork in the road, take it.’ Well, I took it.”

  Spirit laughed. “Of course, that begs the question of the road not taken. Who knows what might have happened if you hadn’t gotten on that plane. Or if I hadn’t met your father and if he hadn’t left me. And on, and on.”

  Maris thought for a moment. “I think my world, my life, would have been smaller if I hadn’t gone to Singapore,” she said. “It got me out of myself, if you know what I mean.” Spirit nodded. “It kind of put my ideas on a spectrum, so that I could examine them in a larger context. Before, I would be kind of blinkered when I got an idea. I wouldn’t question myself or my thinking so much. I’d just say, ‘That’s an interesting idea.’ But now I say, ‘That’s an idea worth exploring.’” She sipped her wine and, when Spirit didn’t say anything, she continued. “Maybe I would have grown into that way of thinking in time, with experience, but I guess I accelerated the process in a way and made a giant leap. Am I sounding pretentious?”

  Spirit smiled. “No, not pretentious. Maybe just a little bit wise.” She raised her glass to Maris in a kind of salute. “I think it’s time to open another bottle, don’t you?”

  “I’m on it,” said Maris. “And maybe a little snack, too.” She returned in a few minutes with another bottle of Riesling and a tray with all the odds and ends from the weekend — a chunk of lasagna warmed up in the microwave, a couple of slices of salmon, some cheese, olives, and assorted crackers, and the last slice of peach pie.

  “I can’t believe I’m hungry again,” said Spirit, digging into the lasagna.

  “It happens,” said Maris, “like clockwork.” She slathered some creamy French brie onto a cracker.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Spirit mumbled through a mouthful of food, “about accelerating the process. I had a fork in the road, too. In fact I had a couple of them. One was when your father walked out on me, and the other was when all three of you were gone and I became an empty nester. Except, when I compare my life to yours, I can see that you were much more proactive in your choices. I was directed more by forces outside of myself. I had to make changes kind of against my will. I mean, I didn’t want things to change, but they did. And once Humpty Dumpty breaks into a thousand pieces, nothing can put him back together again. I had no choice but to move forward.”

  “Yes,” said Maris, “but we were both desperate in a way.”

  “What do you mean by desperate?”

  “Well, we were both caught in circumstances that we knew we had to get out of. I was trapped in a kind of stasis — kind of like I am now, if you think about it — and you were faced with situations maybe not of your making but that you found unbearable or, at least, not to your liking.”

  Spirit laughed. “Not to my liking. That’s good. I’ll have to remember that.”

  “Maybe it’s the wine talking,” said Maris.

  “Very smart and articulate wine, I must say.”

  “Anyway, I think it’s about survival. Call it survival of the soul, if I’m going to be high-minded. Somewhere we both had instincts that told us our very survival was at stake.”

  “That certainly sounds desperate. I don’t think I would have thought so at the time, but looking back, maybe it’s true. But it wasn’t just my survival or my soul I had to think about. I had responsibilities. At least, I did when your father left.”

  “Yes, and I can’t imagine what that’s like. I’ve never had any responsibilities other than to myself. It’s a kind of freedom, I guess, but — what was it you said about me? — that I was untethered?” Spirit nodded. “Well, I don’t think anyone really wants to be untethered. I think of it as an astronaut on a space walk coming unhooked from the mother ship and being sucked into the void or a black hole. Everybody needs to be connected to something.”

  “Or someone,” said Spirit.

  “Hmmm,” said Maris. “I’m not sure that’s possible. Those kinds of connections break all the time. You can’t count on someone else to keep you grounded.”

  “Maybe that’s where I went wrong,” said Spirit. “I attached myself to someone called Freedom Man and thought that was all I needed. I think if I hadn’t had you three children when he left, I might have become seriously untethered.”

  “Now you’re underestimating yourself,” Maris said, sliding her fork under a piece of salmon. “You have a very powerful belief system that involves how people should treat one another, what constitutes art and beauty, a commitment to nature and the environment — except for that stupid car, of course — and a real set of priorities that are very clear to you and always have been.”

  “Yes, it’s true,” said Spirit. “And I’ve never lost sight of those things, no matter how bad things got. Although there’s always the argument that I held onto those things so fiercely just to spite your father and make him see himself as the narrow-minded weasel he really was. And is.”

  “That could very well be true,” said Maris, smiling. “And it’s probably why you hang onto that damned Taurus, too. Just to rub it in his face. I’m sure he loses sleep over it. Not.”

  Spirit laughed. “I know, I know,” she said. “But nobody’s perfect.”

  “No, but this peach pie sure is,” said Maris.

  “It took me years to perfect it.”

  “No, it didn’t. Your peach pie was always incredible.”

  “It helps to be so close to the Okanagan Valley, plus my mother made fabulous pies. Let me know if you’re ever interested, and I’ll pass on some secrets to you.”

  “Better write them down,” said Maris. “I can’t see myself bakin
g pies any time soon.”

  The next morning over granola, Maris told Spirit about her life in Singapore. Once you adjust to the extreme heat and humidity, she said, there’s lots to see and do.

  “A few of the traditions are being preserved, almost like tourist sites or museum pieces, but a lot of things are being sacrificed in the name of so-called progress, which means the pursuit of expensive stuff — cars, designer fashions, stainless steel appliances, whatever money can buy.” Maris got up to pour them some more coffee. “After World War II,” she continued, “Singapore was still part of Malaya and was very poor. Now it’s one of the richest countries in the world. In fifty years, it built itself up into a well-organized free-market economy, but it’s also a kind of authoritarian state. It’s a lot like Canada in the sense that the state provides a lot for its citizens, but in Singapore there are serious penalties for almost everything. Like spitting in the street and chewing gum, if you can believe it, and minor traffic violations. And they’re enforced. Do you remember reading about that American kid who got a caning for spray-painting graffiti on cars?” Spirit nodded. “Plus he was fined and sentenced to four months in jail. He denied he did it but that he’d confessed because he thought they’d go easier on him.

  “Singapore is a very organized place. Living there is like defragging your brain every day.”

  Spirit put up her hand to stop Maris. “Like what?” she said.

  Maris laughed. “Oh, I forgot. You’re still living in a pre-technology world.” She thought for a minute. “A computer stores data in a kind of grid. Think of it as a honeycomb. As the little wells randomly get filled up with honey, the bees have to search for empty ones here and there. When you defrag your computer, it takes all the filled pieces of the grid and lines them up in an orderly fashion, so that the empty ones are then joined up and easier for the computer to find. When you’re in Singapore, everything is so well-ordered that it feels like your brain cells are also realigned to work more efficiently. It’s only when you leave that you realize that chaos does not exist in Singapore. It’s not allowed.”

  “How can that be a good place for an artist to live and create?” Spirit asked. “I mean, it sounds a bit sterile.”

  “It is,” said Maris, “but it’s still Asia, which means there are lots of exciting and exotic things bubbling under the surface. It’s colourful. Never drab. Nature is all-consuming and relentless, as it can only be in a hot, tropical country. If you let your guard down for a minute, you will be overwhelmed by heat and bugs and vegetation. Orderliness is almost part of the culture now, but there are still enough rogue elements around — like superstition, outside influences, New Age religion — to threaten it. Think of the legs of a table. If one of them is hollow or warps, well, the table becomes unstable.” They both laughed.

  “Now that definitely is not the wine talking,” said Spirit. “And I did not put anything psychedelic into the granola.”

  “Stop,” said Maris, in a fit of giggles. “I feel a rhyming couplet coming on.”

  “Oh, no,” groaned Spirit. “You mean like, ‘There once was a lady from London …’”

  “Whose clothing was always coming undone …”

  “She went to a tailor, who she hoped wouldn’t fail her …”

  “And said, ‘Please fix this because it is no fun.’” Maris couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard. And over something so stupid.

  “I think,” said Spirit, after she’d stopped laughing, “if I’m not mistaken, that was a limerick.”

  “Indeed it was,” said Maris. “And a damn fine one, too.”

  “We’ve definitely had either too much granola or too much coffee.”

  “It’s the granola. Waaaay too healthy. And what are those little green crunchy things?”

  “That’s dry-roasted edamame. Soybeans. I’m surprised you haven’t had them before, living in Asia.”

  “So that’s what those things are. I always wondered but I never tried them. They sell them as snack food.”

  “Right. And you can buy them fresh and steam them, too. Loaded with protein. I’ve got some in the freezer. We can have them later. They’re great with a bottle of beer.”

  “Well, you sold me. And just when you had me believing you were stuck in the twentieth century.”

  “Hey,” said Spirit. “I do my best.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  * * *

  maris_cousins@yahoo.com

  To: dinahstone@hotmail.com

  Cc:

  Subject: Update from Canada

  Hi Dinah,

  Just thought I’d touch base. I’m still at my mother’s and we’ve just had a family weekend. It’s amazing how little has changed since I left. Most things are about the same, only a little more so, if you know what I mean. Which reminds me, I’ll have to talk to my mother about sending you some of her pottery. She’s doing some incredible stuff. I’d buy it!

  Still not painting, although I’m working in black and white, sketching mostly, and it might lead somewhere.

  I’ve been telling my mother about living in Singapore and now I miss the place. Especially the food! Remember all those wonderful lunches you and Peter and I used to have at Lau Pa Sat market? God, I love that place. Not just all the fantastic hawker food, but the beautiful structure itself, all that gorgeous Victorian filigree ironwork. They don’t build them like that anymore, unfortunately. Right now, I’d give anything for some wonton mee or some char kway teow. Mind you, we had some pretty good food here over the weekend, including a mess of hot dogs my brother and brother-in-law cooked up on the barbecue. You can’t beat a good hot dog with mustard and relish.

  All this talk of food just reminded me — we never cleaned out Peter’s fridge. Oh well, I guess someone else got to do it.

  Let me know how you’re doing. I miss you.

  Love,

  Maris

  * * *

  dinahstone@hotmail.com

  To: maris_cousins@yahoo.com

  Cc:

  Subject: Re: Update from Canada

  Hi, Maris,

  I cleaned out the fridge. I went over one day by myself because I knew you wouldn’t be able to handle looking at that fish. I have to admit, it was harder than I thought it would be. The last supper that never was.

  Angela is driving me crazy. She calls a minimum of twelve times a week. And she never even asks how I am. Just starts right in with her “requests,” which we both know are not requests but orders. Sometimes I have to bite my tongue because I want to just swear at her and call her names. One of these days I just might. And then you’ll be meeting me at Vancouver airport and putting me up in the spare room! I’m looking forward to meeting your mother and the rest of your family … just kidding (about swearing at Angela, not about your family).

  Business has actually been pretty good, al-though a lot of people have come by just to ask about Peter. Still no results from the investigation. I just can’t imagine who would have done this to Peter. He really didn’t have an enemy in the world. I miss him a lot. And I miss you, too, Maris. Any chance of your coming back to Singapore? I’ll buy the hawker food for a year — anything you want!

  Love,

  Dinah

  * * *

  maris_cousins@yahoo.com

  To: dinahstone@hotmail.com

  CC:

  Subject: Re: Update from Canada

  D.

  Ooooh, tempting. But you’ll have to give me a job. No tickee, no washee. Remember?

  M.

  * * *

  To: maris_cousins@yahoo.com

  CC:

  Subject: Re: Update from Canada

  M.

  You’re hired!

  D.

  :- )

  Chapter Seventeen

  Annabelle found rooms for them over a silk shop on Desker Road off Jalan Besar. It wasn’t much, but it would do. Two rooms: one for sleeping and the other for cooking and eating. The second room had a solid wooden table and chairs
that Francis could use for writing. And there were two wood and rattan chairs for sitting and reading or thinking. Annabelle was happy because it was theirs, hers and Francis’s. Their first home.

  Sutty helped them move the few things they had by rickshaw. Then Annabelle made tea and served cakes she had purchased from a little bakery two blocks over. She had discovered a shop that sold dry goods, and another that sold hardware items like brooms and buckets. In time she would find a morning market where she could get fresh vegetables and fruits in season and another where she could buy meat, although she made sure to get there early while it was at its freshest and before too many flies found it. As long as I cook it well, she thought, it will be fine. After all, the meat she got at the butcher’s in London wasn’t that much more appealing just because there was a roof on the shop and a door that was usually, but not always closed.

  Francis had been perfectly happy living at the Raffles, but he knew Annabelle was right, that it was too expensive and they could live much more cheaply in rooms of their own. And once they had moved, he could see that she was much happier in her own little nest, even though it was shabby and less than attractive on first sight. But she had scrubbed and rubbed and wiped away other people’s dirt and the marks on the walls, and it suddenly had appeared a lot brighter. “It won’t even need a coat of paint,” she said, admiring the results of her hard work. “A saving right there.”

  “You’re a gem,” said Francis, taking her in his arms. “I married the best wife a man could have.” He’d almost said “poor man” but caught himself in time. No point in shining a light on that. Annabelle was frugal enough for both of them, and if anybody could make their money last five years, she could. If she hadn’t come to Singapore and married him, Francis knew the money would have been gone much sooner. He would have stayed at the Raffles, eating and drinking there, no doubt, and squandering his savings on things a married man could do without.