Singapore Noir

by Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan

  The security guard did not notice her leaving the compound. Her only witnesses were the pair of green stone fish that spouted water even in the middle of the night. She walked along the gravel jogging path toward the reservoir, a street away, intending to make herself tired enough to sleep.

  A Bangladeshi worker was wedged on a bench, asleep, his light blue phone still pressed between his shoulder and ear. There were pink plastic bags and condom wrappers on the grass, and lamps blazed around the perimeter of the water. Too much light would draw complaints from the condo dwellers, so there were unlit patches, and Natalia liked to disappear into them.

  Soon enough she found a spot that would do, settling down on the grass a foot away from the water, staring into the blackness of the reservoir. This gleaming scentless lagoon with its circle of manicured greenery, hive-like concrete dwellings, and evenly spaced trees could not have been more different from the lake of her village. Yet it made her think of home, of her mother, her aunties, her friends, scrubbing their blouses in the water, swimming. Any moment out of her bosses’ apartment gave her joy, but it was these quiet ones stolen in the early hours of the day that she relished. There was hardly any breeze. She wanted to hear waves but the waters remained silent.

  Natalia felt herself falling asleep when she spotted a man in a cap about twenty feet away, approaching the water. Trees obscured him, but from the way he was hunched, he seemed to be carrying something. A fisherman trying to catch something early in the morning? She had seen those once or twice this early in the day, but it was rare. Then there was a splash, and for a moment she saw the surface of the water rippling in response.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw the man walking away. He was almost at his car, parked in a bus lane, when he abruptly turned and appeared to be looking at her. She ducked, hoping the foliage would hide her.

  The man was now walking toward her; she stood up. Surely she had done nothing wrong. The city’s many laws confused her. Perhaps she should not be so close to the water’s edge? But she was just taking a breather. She walked up the slope and onto the gravel path. Her movements woke the Bangladeshi worker; he sat up and scratched himself, his phone still stuck to his shoulder. He looked dazed and mumbled a few confused words. It sounded like he was calling for his parents.

  When Natalia glanced back at the man, he had turned around and was now jogging back to his car. He drove off without turning on his headlights. Ruffled, she hurried back to the condominium.

  After the security guard waved her into the compound, she said a prayer before stepping into the house. Back in her room, she found herself wishing that she had taken down the car’s license plate.

  Natalia tried to sleep but just lay in bed, dreading the day. The Chans usually woke up at about six thirty a.m. There was no predicting their moods, particularly Mrs. Chan. Ma’am was in her mid-thirties, successful, and wore sleek power jackets. They made quite a bit of money, but their condominium was small. Even so, Mrs. Chan seemed to think it was the size of a mansion and made Natalia clean every room, even the rarely used spare bedroom, every day except Sunday.

  When Natalia heard the alarm go off in their room, she got up and started brewing coffee and making scrambled eggs and toast.

  From the moment she stepped out of the master bedroom, Mrs. Chan started with her litany of complaints. Were the eggs fresh? Natalia had added too much milk to the coffee. Had she ironed the clothes? Did she manage to bring the clothes inside before it rained yesterday?

  Natalia tried not to shrug and simply nodded, knowing that Mrs. Chan hated her talking back. She apologized often, saying she would try better. When Mr. Chan emerged, he already had his company lanyard on even though he was still in his light blue pajamas. Natalia wondered if he had slept with it on. He propped his feet up on the coffee table and ate his toast, flipping between channels and letting his wife continue her nagging.

  Moving over to the balcony to do his morning stretches, he suddenly remarked, “Look. The police again.” The block in front of their apartment gave them only a partial view of the reservoir, but still, when Mrs. Chan and Natalia joined him in peering over the railing, they could see a crowd milling about by the water.

  “Another drowning?” Mrs. Chan surmised, craning her long neck for a better glimpse.

  “Looks like,” he said. “Suicides attract, like magnets. We should sell this place. So many deaths.”

  “Can’t get a good price now,” Mrs. Chan replied before turning back to Natalia and giving her a look that sent her scurrying back to work. “We’re leaving for Madrid tonight. I know you’re happy we’ll be gone. I want you to send me a photo every evening of the rooms.”

  Natalia nodded. Even though she was glad, she kept her face blank. What did it matter whether the rooms were clean when they were away? All they wanted was to get something out of her salary, even if they weren’t here to see it.

  “How long away, ma’am?”

  “Ten days. I’ll get my mother to come check on things some days. I should send you there to work for her but she doesn’t enjoy . . . never mind.” If Mrs. Chan was awful, her mother was a tyrant. Natalia knew enough Cantonese to know that her mother’s insults were racist and vulgar. A missed spot warranted a reprimand or even a slap. Mrs. Chan talked about how her mother had once scalded a maid for burning some chicken.

  Still, ten days was a boon. Even if Mrs. Chan’s mother turned up, she never stayed long. She hated the smallness of the place and nagged her daughter for buying it. It occurred to Natalia that her prayers had worked.

  Mrs. Chan was now chattering to her husband in Mandarin as they tried to gauge what was happening at the reservoir. Natalia waited until they left to change into their work clothes before cleaning up, making sure to pick up bits of toast from the couch.

  Once Natalia saw the Chans’ car leave, she headed to the reservoir, getting as close as she could to the heart of the crowd. There were a few policemen standing around, not far from where she had been earlier that morning. The locals were taking photos on their phones and posting them. The ambulance arrived a few minutes later; as they placed the body on a stretcher, she could see it was a Chinese woman in a red dress. Her hair was loose, her nails were pale pink, and her wrist had a red string looped around it. One of the medics threw a white towel over the woman’s face.

  Natalia knew the stories about how those seeking to be reborn as vengeful ghosts would drown themselves wearing red. She thought about the man in the cap that morning and the splash. Did he have something to do with the woman? What had he been carrying? It had been too dark to tell. No, she knew nothing. There was a house to clean, she told herself, hurrying away.

  Trying not to think about the dead woman, she focused on the list of chores Mrs. Chan had left. She packed their luggage, pretending that it was her going on a trip, started cooking dinner at six, and let the food simmer.

  The Chans came home late that night, spending just ten minutes in the apartment—enough time for Mrs. Chan to scold Natalia for cooking dinner and wasting food. Even as Mrs. Chan was dragging her luggage out the door, she was shouting instructions for more chores and insults in the same breath. Her husband, amused by the tirade, said nothing to stop her. His work lanyard was still on, until his wife turned her scolding on him for a moment, reminding him he did not have to use it at Immigration.

  Mrs. Chan only quieted down when the elevator doors finally closed. (Though Natalia then received two text messages from Mrs. Chan telling her to air out the mattress and wash the curtains.)

  Once their absence set in, Natalia sat on the couch, relieved but drained. That night, she slept with the door to her small room wide open. She had vivid dreams of water seeping all over the floor; the woman in red appeared next to her bed.

  When the newspapers arrived the next morning, she looked for a report. The article occupied half a page.

  The woman at the reservoir was named XueLing, a twenty-year-old Chinese girl who had arrived in Singapore two year
s earlier. She worked at a restaurant and had been missing for three days. There were few details about her—the press had not been able to find out the significance of her red dress, who she wanted revenge on. The rest of the article mentioned the other reservoir suicides, including one where only half the man’s body was found. Natalia had heard about the drownings before and the friends that she met on her day off enjoyed joking about it.

  But this one struck home; the girl had come here with hope. Like Natalia, she wanted a better life. It was true that sometimes Natalia also considered suicide, but she knew she had to press on. If she died, her debts would simply be passed on to her family.

  * * *

  Four days after the Chans left, Natalia was still mired in housework. Even so, she relished the freedom of knowing that her every move wasn’t being watched. The incident at the reservoir was no longer in her mind. The splash was probably just a catfish in the reservoir making a jump. The man was just on an early-morning stroll.

  When evening came, she decided to walk to the reservoir. The waters were once again peaceful. Gravel crunched under the feet of joggers. She walked down the slope near the water and sat down with a can of soya bean milk. It was warm, and the sky was thick with crayon-red bands. A crescent moon hung over the world.

  Just as she was about to leave, a young man began walking right toward her. He wore a black T-shirt with faded jeans and his slightly tinted glasses partially masked his pockmarked face. She wondered if he was one of the locals who liked to pick up foreign girls.

  “Hello,” he said, extending his hand even before he reached her. Though surprised, she took it. His handshake was practiced and firm. “Terrible thing that happened here, yah?”

  “The drowning? Yah.” She was cautious. It was hard to remember when she last had a conversation with a local, instead of just replying to orders.

  “So many . . . I think I’ve seen you here a few times before. Have you noticed anything strange?”

  “No. It’s very peaceful here. Maybe those people who come here to kill themselves just want some peace as well,” she said.

  “That’s a nice way to look at it. But not if you’re wearing red. She wanted revenge.”

  They talked a bit more—she told him she was a maid and that even though her employers were away for two weeks, she cleaned every inch of the house each day. He introduced himself as Simon, a manager in a logistics company.

  “I see. Hey, since you’re a maid, are you open to jobs outside of your place? How about you come clean my house for me? I had a cleaner but she hasn’t turned up and I’m bad with household tools. I destroyed a painting with a vacuum cleaner.”

  Natalia didn’t find the joke funny, but she sensed an opportunity and laughed.

  “I’ll pay well; maybe $500 for a day’s work? It’s embarrassingly dirty now. Those bloody midges on the windowsill . . . wipe them off once and they always come back.”

  Five hundred was a lot of money; more than a month’s pay. With that kind of cash, Natalia could pay her agent back and still have money left to send home. She remembered what a friend once said: in Singapore you have to find what other people need, and grab every opportunity that comes along.

  “Is the place big?”

  “No. It’s a condo—you know how they are. So small. Two bedrooms.”

  He sounded sincere so she agreed. She passed him her phone and he typed in his number and wrote his home address on the back of a business card.

  “It’s good fortune that we met,” he said, waving goodbye before disappearing down the trail.

  * * *

  The next morning, Natalia packed up some rags and detergent. Simon’s condo was only about five stops away—on the bus, she kept a careful count of every stop.

  His condominium building turned out to be flesh pink with green ionic pillars, reminding Natalia of a birthday cake melting in the sun. The Indian security guard eyed her suspiciously and told her to sign in, then didn’t let her up until Simon came to fetch her from the guard post.

  This time, Simon looked businesslike, wearing a yellow long-sleeved shirt with black pants. Natalia showed him the detergent she brought and asked if it smelled okay. He said it was fine but that he had his own supplies. “I’m not that incompetent, you know.”

  The apartment was oddly shaped, with triangular rooms. Porcelain statues of Chinese gods were the only decoration. Simon told her not to bother washing the large windows. “Don’t want an incident of you falling out,” he said, laughing as he brought out a green apron and latex gloves. “Don’t want you to get dirty.”

  Natalia heard a radio blaring in Hokkien from one of the rooms.

  “My father is inside,” Simon said, waving her over for a peek. An old man sat on a wheelchair facing the wall; heavy brown curtains covered two windows. “Don’t worry about him. He had a stroke so he doesn’t talk much. Don’t bother washing his room.” He closed the door, leaving it slightly ajar.

  Simon handed her $250 in neatly folded bills and told her he would give her the rest that evening. As he left for work, he asked her to call him if she had any problems. She carefully stuffed the money in her small handbag the moment he left.

  Natalia got to work right away, sweeping the floor. She thought she heard the old man grunt several times and rattle his wheelchair. Because his room door was ajar, she couldn’t help but feel as if she was being watched. This made her quicken her pace—perhaps his father was there to make sure she did a good job and didn’t run off with something valuable? She wanted the remaining $250 and wasn’t going to chance it. And so she scrubbed at the mold in the bathroom until her arms ached. When the lemony detergent started to make her gag, she tied a kerchief over her face. She heard the drone of Hokkien radio in the background wherever she went.

  Simon messaged her at two, asking how it was going. When she replied that all was fine, he told her to stay for dinner. She hesitated a little, wondering if this was odd. But then she thought that perhaps she could suggest cleaning for him one Sunday a month; it seemed like he needed it and was generous. More money was always helpful.

  By five she had finished with the master bedroom and kitchen. Outside, a storm had descended. It made the radio echo worse, and Natalia felt as if she were in a cave. She was taking a sip from the kitchen tap when she heard grunting from the old man’s room. She approached, gently knocking on the door. Simon’s father lifted his head to stare and grunt, then turned back to the radio.

  She had not touched his room. But now she wondered if she should clean it. Maybe that would persuade Simon to ask her back.

  So she put on her gloves and worked around him as best she could, opening the window slightly to air out the room’s staleness and the smell of urine coming from the bedsheets. Looking for fresh sheets in a drawer, she came across a crumpled green dress. She left it where it was; maybe Simon had a sister.

  On the dresser, there was a black-and-white photo of a family; a couple with a boy who could only be Simon right in front of them. From the way they each held one of his shoulders, she could tell he had been the main focus of the parents. So much hope placed in him—did he manage to satisfy them?

  Finally, she found a plain gray sheet and set to work on the bed. The old man’s wheelchair squeaked and his breathing became more pronounced.

  The room was relatively clean but she decided to sweep and mop anyway. The old man was more mobile than she thought; he moved the wheelchair away when she needed to mop beneath him. There was an odd expression in his eyes as she got close—though she did not dare look directly at him.

  When Simon returned, he was surprised she had cleaned his father’s room. “I thought I told you to leave him alone.”

  “It’s okay, sir. I had time.”

  She thought she detected a flash of anger in his face but his smile quickly returned. Why would he be angry? She regretted cleaning the room now. She thought he would be grateful, not mad.

  Simon set out Styrofoam cartons of food on the t
able and opened them, showing her the duck rice he’d bought. Then he ran his thumb along the table’s wooden surface and examined it.

  “Clean. Very clean,” he said. “I’ll give you the $250 after dinner.”

  She had been hoping to leave quickly and felt uneasy, but said nothing. The smell of hot salty duck was making her hungry—the old man as well, as she heard him coming out of his room for dinner, his wheelchair sounding like metal spoons rubbing against each other.

  Simon started to dish out the rice on plates that she had just washed. She took out spoons and forks and placed them on the table. She offered to help but he told her to sit down; there was an edge in his voice. He sat close to her and they faced his father, as if they were having a meeting.

  “Why are you here, Natalia?” Simon asked.

  “Here? In Singapore? To earn money,” she said, surprised at his question. She took a bite of the duck; the meat was soft and tender.

  “How long have you been in Singapore? Does your employer treat you well?”

  “Two years. They’re all right.” She didn’t want to say too much about them. She wanted to finish her food, get her $250, and leave. The rain was still coming down; it looked as if someone was pouring glue on the windows.

  “You are happy here?” he asked. He had not touched his food.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You need to know what you want in Singapore, Natalia. If you don’t, how will you know when you have it?” He turned to his father. “Right, Pa?” Then he looked back at her. “You like the reservoir?”

  “It is peaceful,” she said.

  “Were you there five days ago, in the morning?”

  She didn’t know where this questioning was going. “I can’t remember,” she said, starting to feel frightened.

  He turned toward his father.

  “Pa, what do you think of her? Do you like her? I’m going to marry her.”

  The old man stopped eating and looked up. “Would she please you better than Mei?”