The Scarlet Macaw

by S. P. Hozy

  Reminded of the last time he had spent the day searching for Annabelle (that time with the baby Frankie in his arms), Sutty told the cabbie to drive around slowly so he could look on both sides of the street and into the open-fronted restaurants and bars. Surely he would spot one of them, either Annabelle or Dicky. But they were nowhere to be found and this presented Sutty with a conundrum. The ship was departing at 6:00 p.m. Should he be on it or should he stay behind and try and get some of his money back from P&O? What if Annabelle were ill or hurt? He couldn’t just abandon her.

  Sutty retraced his steps and checked the flat again. Maybe she had forgotten that he was leaving today. But Annabelle was not at the flat. He went back to the cemetery to Francis’s grave hoping to find her waiting there for him. But she wasn’t there either. As a last resort, he told the driver to take him to the pier. Maybe she had gone there directly, knowing she had missed their meeting at the cemetery. He told the cab driver to wait with his bags while he checked passenger waiting rooms and the ticket office. Then, finally, he boarded the ship and found the purser, who told him the lady had not come aboard the ship. He was positive.

  By this time it was after four o’clock and Sutty had to make a decision: stay in Singapore or go. He decided to stay. There would not be another ship for three weeks, but that couldn’t be helped. He had to find out if Annabelle was all right. He took the cab back to the Raffles and checked in again. The desk clerk was puzzled; he had known Mr. Sutcliffe Moresby for many years as a regular guest at the hotel and he had never done such a thing before. But Sutty did not explain; he merely went to his room and lay down on the bed to rest and to think. A little later he heard the ship’s horn as it pulled away from the dock.

  Sutty slept for a few hours, then decided to look for Annabelle again. Maybe she would show up at one of her haunts later that night. And surely he would find Dicky hanging around, cadging drinks from someone. Dicky would know where Annabelle was; he was never far away from her. Annabelle had never explained her relationship to Dicky and Sutty had been reluctant to ask. Annabelle didn’t seem to have any real friends in Singapore, just people she met up with at various cafés. Not friends by any stretch of the imagination. Dicky was the closest thing, and he wasn’t someone you would rely on if you were in a situation. Maybe they were lovers, but Sutty found that hard to fathom given Annabelle’s continuing obsession with her dead husband.

  Sutty set out at midnight on foot and walked to Chinatown. Most of the bars and restaurants were still going strong. Food was still being cooked in cast iron woks over hot fires — noodles, rice, prawns, pork, cuttlefish — because Singaporeans seemed to eat round the clock. It was a national pastime, and one Sutty didn’t really understand; he preferred to eat his meals at regular times — breakfast in the morning, luncheon at midday, then tea, followed by supper later in the day. That made sense to him. But who was he to criticize? Every country was entitled to its culture. This was a different climate, a different race of people. The Chinese had been cooking and eating like this for centuries. Maybe Annabelle had gone native and that’s why she preferred to go out late at night. But he knew that wasn’t true as soon as he thought it. Annabelle had not gone native; she had gone a little mad. She had never recovered from the shock of Francis’s illness and death. She had never really recovered from the shock of arriving in Singapore, marrying shortly after, becoming pregnant, and losing her husband, all within a matter of months. Sutty understood that it had all been too much, which was why he had stuck by her and tried to help her. But now he feared she was truly lost, possibly beyond redemption.

  As he prowled around looking for Annabelle, Sutty recognized and was recognized by some of the people he had encountered while he’d been out with her. None of them had seen her that night and none of them seemed concerned that they hadn’t seen her.

  “She’ll show up,” one of them said. “She’s gone missing before and she always turns up eventually. Don’t worry.”

  But Sutty was worried. She had never failed to show up for an arranged meeting with him. This was not like the Annabelle he knew, no matter what her local acquaintances said. Annabelle would not do this to him.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  For their fourth date, Maris invited Axel to the Jurong Bird Park. It was one of her favourite places in Singapore and she wanted to share it with him. They had been out to dinner a couple of more times and each time had been better than the last. Something had clicked between them and they were both being cautious, as if whatever this thing was, it was fragile and they didn’t want to drop it.

  “This bird park,” she told him, “is truly one of the wonders of the world. You can’t spend time in Singapore and not go see it.”

  “Okay,” he agreed. “I can’t argue with that kind of logic.”

  “This isn’t logic,” she said, “it’s passion, pure and simple. I love this place.”

  “If you love it, then I’ll love it,” he said.

  That’s what she liked about him. Axel was always willing to go along. And his enthusiasm wasn’t faked. He was genuinely interested in what she said, what she liked, and what she wanted to do. How often did a man like that come along? Even Dinah agreed: you didn’t meet a man who shared your interests every day.

  And Axel was encouraging her to paint again. He suggested she bring her sketchbook along to the bird park. Maybe she’d be inspired by all the magnificent plumage to express herself with colour again.

  The day started out bright and sunny but by midday the whole of Singapore was under heavy cloud. The threatened rain arrived a few hours later with a familiar force. There was nothing to do but run for cover. Even the birds headed for shelter. But at least Maris and Axel had seen the best the park had to offer: almost a hundred species of the gregarious parrot, including colourful parakeets, macaws, and cockatoos, exotic birds of paradise, elegant (and screeching) peacocks, playful hornbills and toucans, odd-looking pelicans and penguins, and even the graceful black and white swans.

  And she had been inspired. One bird had caught her eye — a scarlet macaw — and it was as if a light had gone on. He was magnificent; his plumage was blazing at her in red and yellow and blue. She did several sketches of the bird and couldn’t wait to paint him in oils where the true intensity of his colours could come through. It was the first time since Peter’s death that she’d felt this kind of excitement. It was as if some dormant part of her had been wakened. She had forgotten what it was like to feel this urge — no, it was more than an urge, it was a surge — and she sparkled. Axel was moved to comment on the sudden change.

  “My God,” he said. “I didn’t realize that you were operating on such a low battery all this time. I thought you were luminous before, but now you’re positively incandescent.”

  Maris laughed. She felt incandescent. She had been switched on after months of living in a gloomy half-light of depression and loss. That’s what she had been experiencing, she realized, a huge sense of loss that nothing could replace. Peter had been irreplaceable in her life. And now Axel was here … and the magnificent scarlet macaw to re-inspire her. Life was good again.

  That night she and Axel had made love for the first time. Even though they had talked about it on their first date, it was spontaneous, the two of them going to his room at Raffles for a drink after a day of bird-watching, drenching rain, the excitement of Maris’s new-found creative vision, and plates of hawker noodles. As Maris later told Dinah, it just happened, even though it had been all around them for weeks, the anticipation of it, the knowing it would happen.

  For Maris, that day had been like the end of one road and the beginning of another. Her direction had changed in a matter of hours and it felt right. Everything about it felt meant to be. She wouldn’t have used the word destiny, but what Maris felt that day amounted to a sense of destiny — that somehow this was fated. She was meant to go back to Singapore, to meet Axel, to go to the bird park on that day and see the macaw. It wasn’t something she would say
to just anyone, but Peter would have understood. He believed she had a destiny; it was why he had never given up on her, why he had encouraged her to work and grow and find herself artistically.

  She spent the night with Axel, and even though he got one of his awkward business calls and went out into the corridor to take it so as not to disturb her, her happiness was uninterrupted. She would always think of this as her “night of nights.” Corny, she knew, but Maris believed you did not get many days and nights like this in one lifetime.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  On the morning of the third day, Sutty came down to breakfast and saw Dicky sitting in the hotel lobby. He looked haggard; his skin was grey and he had dark pouches under his eyes. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. When he saw Sutty, he stood immediately and rushed toward him.

  “What’s happened?” said Sutty, fearing the worst. “Where is she?”

  “She’s in hospital,” said Dicky. “She’s all right but it’s been touch and go. She tried to drown herself.”

  Sutty felt his knees go weak and put his hand on Dicky’s shoulder. It felt hard and bulbous, like a doorknob. Dicky was like a skeleton and he reeked of alcohol. He told Sutty he had barely slept the past two nights. Annabelle had been unconscious when they found her and had remained in a coma. Luckily someone had seen her go into the river, but it had taken the boat some time to get to her. She had been drunk and very, very upset, Dicky said.

  “But she didn’t say a word,” he told Sutty. “I had no idea she was going to do such a thing. I swear. No idea.” He seemed bewildered and kept looking at his hands, as if the explanation had just slipped through his fingers.

  “I was terrified,” he said, suddenly burying his face in his hands and weeping. “I thought she was going to die,” he sobbed.

  Sutty continued to hold on to Dicky’s shoulder while the man shuddered and tried to compose himself. He felt sick at the thought of Annabelle lying in a hospital while he had searched for her and cursed her for hiding from him. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of the worst and now he realized he should have. Why hadn’t he checked the hospitals?

  “Why didn’t you come sooner?” he asked Dicky. “Why did you wait so long?”

  “I thought you had left,” said Dicky. “You were leaving on the P&O. You said so.” He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his red-rimmed eyes. “Then someone told me you’d been around asking for Annabelle, and I decided to come here and see if you had stayed behind.”

  “Come on,” said Sutty, pushing Dicky toward to door. “Take me to her.”

  She was in the women’s ward of the General Hospital. Her skin was the colour of the bed sheet, a grey-tinged white. She looked small and fragile, as limp as a rag doll. Sutty was suddenly so angry with her that he shocked himself. She was helpless, unconscious, and he wanted to shake her and scream at her to wake up and listen to him. She should have been on the ship with him, sailing for England and her son. Not lying in a hospital bed after trying to kill herself. How could she do this to him? To Frankie? What right had she to give up on her own son? Years of outrage came to the surface and Sutty had to back away from the sight of her before he lost control of himself. He knew this was the wrong reaction, but there it was. He would have to pull himself together and figure out what to do next. Annabelle must have been at the end of her rope to do such a thing, and so, he realized, was he. After all he had tried to do to bring her and Frankie back together, to give them a life together, and this was what it had come to.

  He left Dicky to stay by Annabelle’s bedside and went outside for a walk to calm himself. What now? he wondered. If she lived, could he somehow force her to come back to England with him? If she died … but he didn’t want to think about that. She would live.

  Annabelle regained consciousness sometime during the night. Dicky had fallen asleep on the floor beside her bed and Sutty was sitting in a chair, awake but exhausted. The doctor had said it could go either way; there was no telling with cases like this. A lot depended on the patient and whether there was the will to live. Annabelle would probably need treatment, a long rest with fresh air and good food. She would be depressed and might even attempt suicide again, so she would have to be watched. Best to put her in a sanatorium where she would be supervised.

  Sutty was composing a letter in his mind to his mother when Annabelle opened her eyes. “Sutty?” she whispered. “Is that you?”

  “Yes,” he said, moving to sit on the bed so she could see him better.

  “Where’s Dicky?” she said.

  “He’s sleeping,” said Sutty, “under the bed.”

  “Oh,” she said, and closed her eyes. “That’s good.”

  In a minute, she opened her eyes again and said, “What happened?”

  “You tried to drown yourself,” said Sutty. “Do you remember?”

  She looked puzzled. Then she turned her head away. “Yes,” she said, in a voice that was barely audible.

  Sutty took her hand. It was small and cold and he shivered because it felt like the hand of a dead person.

  “I was very angry at you earlier,” he said, “but I’m not anymore. Now I’m just very sad.”

  “I don’t blame you for being angry,” she said. “You’ve been so kind to me and to little Frankie. What would I have done without you?”

  “I keep feeling I should have done more.”

  “No,” she said. “You couldn’t have done more. No one could have done more than you, Sutty.” She turned to face him. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Can you forgive me?”

  He looked at her for a long moment. “I’ll try,” he said.

  “Don’t say that, Sutty. Say you’ll forgive me.”

  “All right,” he said, patting her hand. “I’ll forgive you. But please don’t ever do it again.”

  “I won’t,” she said.

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Maris had set up an easel in the utility room of Dinah’s apartment. It was supposed to be used for drying laundry, but Dinah preferred to hang the clothes on the balcony where the sun shone in the morning. The utility room had a good light for painting and there was just enough room between the washing machine and the storage shelves for Maris to work.

  Axel had surprised her one day by dropping by when she was working on a painting. It was a Monday and the gallery was closed, but Dinah had decided to go in and do some paperwork.

  “How did you know I was here?” she asked him.

  “I called the gallery and a little bird called Dinah told me.”

  “And you were just in the neighbourhood.…”

  “Well, not exactly,” he said. “Let’s just say I was out exploring Singapore.”

  Maris started to clean her brush but Axel stopped her. “No,” he said. “Don’t stop working. Can I watch for a while?”

  Maris wasn’t sure she could work with someone watching, but she said, “Okay. I’ll try to pretend you’re not here.”

  “I’ll sit in the kitchen and be quiet as a mouse.”

  She was painting the scarlet macaw, or at least her version of the bird, which was more about colour than replicating the detail of every feather. She was immersed in the red part, her favourite colour, and felt confident for the first time in months that she knew what she was doing.

  Axel watched her, fascinated by her intense concentration, and also by the way her shoulder and back muscles moved as she applied the paint. Her movements were sure and fluid, without hesitation. She was working with an electrifying red colour and applied the paint thickly in short, broad strokes. He recognized the macaw they had seen at the bird park and realized that she was turning it into something else. It was the bird but it was much more than the bird. Then he remembered that she had told him that art was about ideas, not just lines and colours. Good art conveyed much more. As she worked, he understood that she was painting the idea of
a bird, and that he, the onlooker, could take this idea from the painting and see anything he wanted. He could make it his, absorb it into himself, and not just admire it from afar.

  I think I’m falling in love with this woman, he realized. I love her passion, her intensity, her intelligence, and the way she puts them all together and creates something original, startling, and beautiful. I’ve never known anyone like her. What am I going to do?

  Maris worked for another half-hour, then wiped her hands and announced, “Time for coffee.”

  Axel exhaled and realized that he had been on the edge of his chair, barely breathing, and totally focused on Maris and the painting. “Good idea,” he said. “I’m exhausted.”

  She laughed. “Well, I can understand that,” she said. “You’ve been working hard.”

  “No,” he said, “I’ve been watching you work hard. I can’t believe how brilliant your work is. I mean, it’s stunning. And you’re amazing.”

  She kissed the end of his nose and then he pulled her close and kissed her on the mouth. “I mean it,” he said. “You’re wonderful.”

  Her breath caught in her throat and she couldn’t speak for a minute. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she said, kissing him again.

  “Do you really want coffee this minute?” he asked.

  “Well …” she said. “Maybe later.”

  Two hours later, Maris went back into the kitchen and made coffee and a couple of sandwiches. They ate sitting on the bed and talked about many things. They spoke about their childhoods, how different and how similar they had been. They touched briefly on past relationships, boyfriends and girlfriends, and why they hadn’t lasted: “We were too different.” “The sex was great but.…” “He played around.” “She wanted to get married and have kids right away. I wasn’t ready. We weren’t ready.” “I wanted to travel. He didn’t.” “I wanted to travel but she didn’t.”