I was assigned to one of the ‘immune’ platoons. As were you.
By the time we met, two weeks into training, I had already lost all the weight I was to lose, and my skin was as tanned as it was going to get. The shape of my head was oddly angular, and my shorn hair only served to accentuate how strange it was, at least to me.
So I wore my camouflage cap whenever I could. And I would dream of clocking out over the weekend, returning home to feast on chicken curry, otak-otak fish cake, vegetarian jap-chye, and all my childhood favourites prepared with the usual veracity by Grandma.
It wasn’t meant to be. As the number of infected soldiers crept closer and closer to a hundred, normal training ceased and the immune platoons were banded together for ‘camp duties’. This was nothing more than grunt work designed to keep the able-bodied occupied, while the medics scrambled to treat the sick.
Our so-called duties were calibrated to be mindless and backbreaking, and, if one chose to believe our self-satisfied Commanding Officer, whom we called CO, they would ‘make real soldiers out of each and every one of you.’
We were divided into pairs and my partner was scrawny and diminutive, with huge black glasses that obscured the top half of his face. We were tasked to move a long wooden table. I could immediately see this was going to be an impossible task.
At a height of five-foot flat, he wasn’t tall enough to cleanly lift the table legs off the ground. We struggled for several long seconds. It would have been comical if there hadn’t been so many serious faces around us. I felt it was wrong to laugh out loud.
But you had no such reservations. I saw you stifling a chuckle. Our eyes met and you came over and offered to trade places with him.
Normally, this would immediately have incurred CO’s wrath. But that day, the overall mood was listless and dull. No one really cared and so no one said anything. You transitioned to becoming my partner and we hoisted and carried the table in silent, uncanny synchrony.
I took a better look at you. There was no doubt I had never seen you before. Your face. Your eyes. The curve of your back as your shoulders narrowed down to your waist.
‘This way,’ you said. My mind was somewhere else. I had almost walked into an uncovered drain.
We carried the table for what seemed like hours. In truth, it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes. We found ourselves in a large, tin-roofed warehouse with other recruits. All of us set down our loads, not knowing what to do next.
Even CO looked a little confused. He left without saying a word. The Sergeant who remained asked us to keep quiet. We chanted ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ but there was little conviction in our voices.
When the minutes lengthened, the silence was broken. Not by a human being, but by a little grey monkey up in the rafters.
Pointing at the animal, someone said: ‘CO is back,’ unleashing a volley of laughs. Sergeant laughed too, and we took it as permission to talk. Quickly, the babble of our chatter began to swell.
You looked at me and asked: ‘What platoon?’ I said: ‘Platoon 25, Golf Company,’ and you said: ‘I’m Charlie.’
No, that wasn’t your name. It took me a couple of seconds to realise that. You were referring to your squad – Charlie Company.
I wanted to engage you in conversation; I wanted to know more about you. But I didn’t know what to say.
‘Monkey see, monkey do,’ you said, pointing upwards. I followed your gaze, and saw that the little monkey had somehow found itself a twig, and was carrying it like a rifle.
Others noticed it too. Suddenly, there was a game afoot. It was to persuade the monkey to perform other feats of human mimicry. Even Sergeant got caught up in it.
Of course, the little critter did nothing of the sort. It bounced around the rafters, seemingly enjoying its sudden moment of fame.
Then one of the recruits picked up a stone and threw it at the monkey, missing it by inches. This immediately changed the game. Other stones were found, and before long, a hailstorm of projectiles was bombarding the poor creature.
You weren’t happy about the turn of events. I could see it in your arched brows.
Very quickly, one of the missiles found its target. The monkey, who had been dodging left and right, let out a desperate shriek as it lost its grip and fell to the ground. The impact killed it instantly.
A movie-like scenario began to unfold before my eyes. You ran to the creature and immediately started to administer CPR. Everyone gathered around you, looking on with bated breath, marvelling at your skill. Soon, the animal would be alive again. And you would be crowned hero.
In reality, no one moved. You remained silent. When I turned to look at you, all I could see was the afternoon sun glinting off your thick eyelashes.
‘Terrible,’ I said. I didn’t know what else to say.
CO returned and we were all assigned a new task, which was to carry the furniture to another location.
You and I picked up the same long table and started moving it. We didn’t talk. When I tried to make eye contact, you either didn’t notice, or were avoiding my gaze. Soon, the strain of the activity took over, and my focus turned inward.
Then it was tea-break time. After a quick debriefing by CO and Sergeant, you turned your back and disappeared into the crowds. You didn’t say anything as you took leave, and I thought, that’s that.
We were given time off for the rest of the afternoon. I repaired to my barrack and began to polish my boots. Rumours swirled that there were more measles cases, that the quarantine would last indefinitely. I shrugged and concentrated on making my boot caps shine.
Dinner was served early. Apparently an emergency meeting had to be convened that night, disrupting the officers’ schedules. It seemed the authorities were taking extra steps to help us.
It was only later that I found out the truth. There was a VIP who had a son serving in Tekong. He – the VIP – was unhappy about how events had unfolded and had complained to a minister.
But I knew none of this as I ate my dinner – a meal that was hastily assembled because of the complaint. Looking at the mystery meat with brown sauce accompanied by half-cooked potatoes, I quickly lost my appetite. I could only dream of grandma’s extra-spicy sambal fish.
Out of nowhere, you sat down next to me and proceeded to reveal the trick you had just employed to get the cook to give you extra food. I said something innocuous in reply.
As you ate, and it seemed like you were partaking in a lavish banquet, you told me about your brother.
He was always sickly when growing up, you said. He would stay at home when other members of the family went to the beach. He would pass on downtown trips. And he would say no to outdoor sports. But when he reached the age of fourteen, he suddenly shot up. He started exercising and regularly jogged around the housing estate. He took up dancing and became very good at it.
‘Mother didn’t approve,’ you said, ‘but he didn’t care. He loved to dance.’
I wasn’t sure about the point you were trying to make. Still, I listened with interest and didn’t interject.
When you finished, you asked: ‘Do you have any siblings?’
‘No,’ I said. I explained that mother would have had more, but father passed away in an industrial accident when I was two. She never remarried.
‘Why?’ you asked.
I was formulating a reply when Jack Kong joined us. Or rather, he sat down next to you and started talking to you. Even though he knew me – we went to the same secondary school – Jack didn’t address or acknowledge me. The topic of your conversation veered from army vehicles to pop music to a celebrity you were both into. I kept quiet and stared at my uneaten food.
Just when I thought I would leave the table, you turned to me and asked: ‘What do you think?’
The topic of conversation was soccer. Jack was insisting Manchester United was the best team in the world, and you had countered you supported Liverpool.
I had no opinion. I knew next to nothing about footbal
l – I had perhaps watched it once on TV at a classmate’s birthday party. Nonetheless, I felt the need to contribute.
‘I like Chelsea,’ I said. I didn’t know where it came from. Maybe I had read somewhere that it was a good team.
‘Why?’ Jack Kong asked. He looked at me with questioning eyes.
A panic rose within me. I knew I couldn’t bluff my way through. But I didn’t want to look like a fool, especially in your presence.
So I said: ‘Why not?’
Jack smirked. He turned to you and continued talking as if I wasn’t there. I quickly excused myself. I could sense that Jack was feeling very good about himself.
I returned to my barrack and continued to polish my boots. I felt like crying. But my platoon mates were all around me. I maintained a stoic face, and whenever someone tried engaging me in conversation, I pointed to my throat, pretending I had somehow lost my voice.
Maybe because of that, one of my platoon mates accused me of having the measles and told me I should report to the infirmary immediately. In fact, if I didn’t go, he would tell on me. He would get me in trouble.
I soon had enough and went for a walk. Usually, a recruit wasn’t allowed to roam the base at will. Due to the outbreak, however, the rule had been relaxed. I ambled around without a destination and somehow found myself in the vicinity of Charlie Company. I thought perhaps I would pay you a visit.
Except I didn’t know which platoon you were in. I wasn’t even sure what your name was.
As I passed the communal showers, you walked out, hair wet, a slim towel tied around your waist. You didn’t see me.
My heart skipped a beat. I followed you – tailed you – to your barrack, just a few steps away. As you disappeared inside, I waited outside. I wasn’t sure what I was doing. If I had been bolder, I would have followed you in. I might even have said something.
Just when I thought I would leave, you came out, still wet, still with a towel wrapped around you.
For a moment you didn’t recognise me. It was already dark, and my cap was low on my forehead. Then our eyes met, and I could tell you were surprised to see me.
‘My soap,’ you said. You had left it in the showers.
Even without saying another word, I felt you had given me permission to go with you, and I did. You retrieved your soap and soap tray, and headed back to your barrack.
You stopped momentarily at the barrack’s entrance, and I saw a bead of water snake its way down your torso. You asked, not in an unfriendly way: ‘You need something?’
There was a pause, and I said: ‘No.’
Then I added: ‘Do you want to go for a walk?’ It was the boldest question I had ever asked.
You looked at me, as you contemplated the question. After a few long seconds, you said: ‘Why don’t you wait here.’
The walk took us towards the southern end of the island. It was a cool, breezy evening. The winds ruffled the dense foliage around us. A flock of bats flew past so quickly they looked like tiny little rockets shooting across the indigo sky.
A gibbous moon was visible above the trees, as were stars, too numerous to count.
I wanted to tell you about myself, about my life, about what I thought. But I couldn’t. I waited for you to open your mouth.
‘I caught measles from my girlfriend,’ you started. ‘From a kiss.’
We were approaching the tip of the island. The ground rose to a high point that ended abruptly at a cliff edge. The land fell away from there, down to a narrow spit of a beach that fringed the deathly-calm Singapore Straits.
You continued: ‘She had a pigtail that she always tied with a ribbon. Sometimes it was red, sometimes yellow. Once, she came in with a golden ribbon, which she proudly showed off to everyone. I asked her why it was different that day. She was coy, and didn’t answer me. Later, I found out it was her birthday. So I went up to her and told her I was going to give her a kiss. She said no, but she said she would kiss me instead. And so she did.’
I smiled. I could picture the scene, not exactly the way you described it: you and your boisterous high-school mates teasing the shy girl with the golden ribbon, so much that she had no choice but to give in to kissing you. As you received the peck, she was the one who blushed, having to put her lips against your comely, tanned cheeks. She, of course, ended up as one of your many conquests.
‘What no one knew,’ you said, ‘was that she was having a fever. I got infected. No one else did.’
Then the punch line: ‘This was during kindergarten,’ you said.
I almost gasped. I had got it all wrong. I couldn’t picture you as a five-year-old. To me, you were born a man, red-blooded and fully-fledged.
‘Maybe that’s why,’ you continued, ‘I haven’t had a girlfriend since.’
Then silence – a silence that expanded and stretched itself like a vacuum across the moonlit scene before us.
I had questions. Many questions. But only one found its way beyond the tip of my tongue.
‘But you want to have a girlfriend, right?’
For a while, there was no response. My heart was beating faster and faster as the tension built. I thought that by saying nothing you were saying no. But in fact, you had started to cry. You didn’t make a sound, but I could see tears welling out of your eyes.
I put a hand on your shoulder, tentatively, and when you didn’t react, I just left it there, on top of your right trapezius muscle.
Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, you said, ‘Yes.’
I nodded, even though I suspected you couldn’t see me nodding. All I knew was – I didn’t want to make a sound. It felt wrong.
‘I thought I had done something bad,’ you said. ‘That kissing was bad.’
I nodded again. One of the brighter stars, one that was straight ahead of us, disappeared behind a moving cloud.
We were standing a few feet from the cliff, and I could make out the dim outline of the Indonesian islands beyond. As your tears ceased, a stillness descended upon us.
Wordlessly, we saw a small-tug boat leave Pulau Ubin, the adjacent smaller island, slowly make its way across our field of vision, possibly headed for Keppel Harbour or some point further west.
Something unspoken hung in the air between us, like a secret teetering between half-whispered and half-acknowledged; like a mantra that would become a curse if repeated.
Somehow I knew, we would never speak again.
Later that night, after I returned to my barrack, a platoon mate asked me what I was doing standing next to you on that cliff. Apparently people had seen us. I detected the barest trace of a leer on his face.
I took in a breath, and told him we were stargazing. In a sense, we were.
The quarantine was lifted ten days later and normal training schedule resumed. I ran into you at the mess hall, like I knew I would. But you didn’t see me – you were carrying your dinner tray and talking to someone next to you. I quickly walked in the opposite direction.
It was the first time my heart felt strangely depleted, like the time my grandmother made butter cookies and I ate too quickly, only to realise belatedly there were none left.
But an immunity had kicked in. I steeled myself, brought my meal to a nearby table and started to eat.
Beached
Angela Barry
Bermuda
The wave comes out of nowhere, hitting Patrick, cold and shocking, smack between his legs. A late-night stroll along the beach, a wade in the water – that’s all it was meant to be. But the threatening night tide has crept up on him. He doesn’t move fast enough and the next rising wave slaps him down. Hard. For what feels like an interminable few moments, he thrashes and rolls at the whim of the water. Now, lying panting and spread-eagled beyond the surf, his mind is clear although his body is sore from the excoriating sand. How unlike him all this is! Risky. Undisciplined. In the ocean. In the dark. All this despite a night drinking only straight ginger ale. He shrugs, shuts his eyes and replays his derailed Friday
night.
Before him stands Taj from the old neighbourhood, astride a motorbike with fishing tackle strapped to it. Patrick had been on his way to Larry’s Bar but, before joining the noisy happy-hour, wind-down, hook-up crowd, he’d hesitated then called out. Back-in-de-day talk had flowed between them. They’d even exchanged numbers. And then ... a sudden silence which Taj had filled by arranging his dreadlocks underneath his helmet. Their final words:
‘Going out to Sally Tuckers with some of my bredren tomorrow. Wanna come?’
‘Sally Tuckers? Oh yeah. We went there on your grandfather’s boat once, didn’t we?’
‘Years ago! Full moon tomorrow so – a whole mess of fish out there.’
‘We saw some whales that day! Yes … we did. But, no. Not possible ... Work, you know. Another time maybe ... Not tomorrow.’
‘I hear you, Patrick. Another time.’
‘No, really. Another time. Maybe you’ll catch something big.’
‘Maybe. Because, like I say, one good size grouper ...’
‘ ... Equals one month’s rent!’
‘Yes, I. That’s my life right there.’
Hours later, lying wet with the moon insistent overhead, Patrick still cannot fathom the disturbance that meeting has created. Rastaspeak always grated on his nerves. Then – Sally Tuckers! He hadn’t thought about that place – or that day – for over twenty years. The translucent sea around the barrier reef, the frenzy of the leaping fry, the shimmer of the parrot fish, the menace of the sharks. The sheer abundance of life on the reef was exhilarating, even to the grumpy old grandpa. When the pod of whales cruised by, acrobatic, curious, majestic, Taj had stood on the deck so transfigured that Papa Dickey had grabbed and shaken him, told him to stop his fullishness.
This should be a good memory, but somehow it isn’t. And neither is Taj’s reminder of the scramble of his everyday world: That’s my life right there. In stark contrast is Patrick’s office overlooking the marina, so cold he needs a sweater in August, and his life teeming with offshore conglomerates, iPhones, back-lit screens, relentless personal trainers and brief transactions with beautiful, ambitious women. That’s my life right there.
So Many Islands Page 7
