The Rose of Singapore

by Peter Neville

  With his emotions in turmoil, and becoming more depressed and angry, Peter sat tense, clasping a glass in shaking hands, his brain whirling, his nerves near breaking point and his mind returning to and frantically churning over the events of the past few hours. What now? What should he do? Repeatedly he asked himself these same questions. The wonderful romance between him and his lovely Chinese girlfriend had come to an abrupt end. Yet, how could it end, just like that, after all the wonderful times they’d spent together? He realized that he still loved Rose and that he would always love her regardless of what she did for a living. And now, with the girl he loved living so very near him, just fifteen miles away, it would be impossible for him to remain in Singapore without wanting to see her. Not seeing her would drive him crazy. On the other hand, how could he love her as he had the past months knowing that she was having sex with other men, and God only knows how many? It would be impossible, unthinkable, to carry on a relationship as they had done so blissfully until now. Yet, he must have her. He could not lose her. He must think of something. Perhaps he should have waited and listened to her explanation. But listening to her, hearing the lurid details would surely have made matters worse.

  Damn her! Why did she have to be a prostitute, he angrily asked himself. Not bothering to pour coke into his glass, he gulped back neat rum, coughing as the fiery syrup slid down his throat. He looked with blurred eyes to where the Chinese dance hostess sat looking bored. The soldiers had gotten up from their table and left without giving her a second glance. Soon, though, she was giving the eye and showing off her shapely legs to a group of Chinese youths who had recently arrived and seated themselves at a table close to hers. They were ordering their first drink of the evening.

  Deciding that this was not the place in which to get drunk, Peter Saunders got to his feet then, swaying slightly, he walked out of the cabaret, mingled with the jostling crowd of night-time revellers for awhile, and eventually pushed his way through a turnstile at the New World’s exit.

  The Red Lantern Club situated on a corner a hundred yards further down Jalan Besar and not far from the junction of Rochor Canal Road, was his next stop. Having visited the place on a couple of occasions with Rick long before he met Rose, Peter knew that it was a vile den of iniquity frequented by low-class whores. But it had atmosphere, the chow served there had been good and the beer ice-cold.

  Brushing through the swinging red half-doors, he gazed about him to see what other customers the place had drawn. A US navy ship must have arrived in port because the place was crowded with American sailors dressed immaculately in white uniforms, their little round hats tucked neatly in the waistbands of their trousers. Ashore for the evening, they were expecting a good time. Some sat on high stools drinking at the bar, others stood about drinking in small groups, while yet more, who had been latched onto by the club’s girls, were openly necking. Quite a number were waiting their turn to enjoy a quickie, and others oral sex, from fast-working girls in curtained-off cubicles in the rear. The American sailors called these girls ‘ fucking machines’, which was a reasonable description seeing as how these girls could service an average of eight men an hour. It certainly is some club, thought Peter. The place hadn’t changed a bit since he was there last; the waitresses were the same girls, always smiling, always joking, and forever hopeful of getting big tips out of their customers, which they often did. The barmaids were the same three, all very efficient and quick at pouring drinks and mixing their customers’ cocktails. The band, such as it was, comprised the same three Chinese lads who played their instruments just as badly as when he had first heard them months ago. Peter, however, was not interested in the merits of the band. He needed a drink. He noticed that the same manager ruled the joint, a jolly-faced, grotesquely overweight Chinese man who smiled congenially at everyone while repeatedly checking the takings in the till.

  Peter sat down on a stool at a corner of the bar, the only stool vacant. Except for the numerous American sailors, the only other customers were young chaps in civvies, quite obviously British servicemen out for a good time getting boozed up, and perhaps hoping to shack up with one of the girls after the Yanks had left at midnight to return to their ship. The British servicemen could not compete financially with the American sailors’ wads of dollars.

  The waitresses were young, attractive girls, but the prostitute hostesses were not so young or as attractive. All had seen at least forty years, and most looked those forty years, like hens made up to look like spring chickens. But, oldish or not, these ladies of the night persisted in their quest, and often got their man, for a quickie in a cubicle, or for an all-night session at their home.

  “Rum and coke,” said Peter to the barmaid.

  The girl smiled at him in a friendly manner and reached behind her for a bottle of rum.

  Sick at heart, Peter could not get the happenings of a couple of hours ago out of his mind. He could clearly see the contraceptive lying limp and used in the toilet bowl, the empty beer bottle on the table and the cigarette ends in the ashtray. He could hear the heavy footsteps on the stairs and on the concrete floor leading to the back door. Very depressed, in despair, and lost in jealous anger, a black depression and agonizing thoughts, he was brought back to his surroundings by a feminine voice cooing in his ear, “Hello, darling.”

  “Hi,” replied Peter, swivelling around on his seat and expecting to see one of the club’s girls attempting to latch on to him. He would have bought her a drink, just to have someone to talk to. But it was not one of the club’s girls. Peter stared at the owner of the voice for some moments before suddenly realizing that the person was not a female, but a Chinese boy dressed in woman’s clothing. Disgusted, Peter snarled, “Scram! Sod off!” and turning his back on the uninvited transvestite, he picked up a newspaper lying on the bar hoping that it would occupy his mind and help rid him of the newcomer.

  “May I sit and talk with you?” the other asked in a sexually enticing voice.

  Peter angrily faced the Chinese boy. “No. Bugger off. I want to be alone,” he said. He had no time for queers, especially those who bothered him. However, Peter could not help but study the boy who appeared to be about the same age as he. I don’t believe it, he thought. This boy would do any girl proud the way he presents himself. A neat and well-pressed black skirt fitted snugly around a slim waist, and a frilly white bra peeped out from beneath a pink silk jacket with tiny red buttons. The boy’s legs were covered in sheer nylon stockings and on his feet he wore dainty high-heeled shoes, also pink. It was obvious to Peter that the boy wore a wig of wavy black curls that fell around narrow shoulders, and little bangs that almost reached his pencilled-in eyebrows. His skillful application of rouge and lipstick would put many women to shame. Nothing had been spared, it seemed, in the boy’s attempt to present himself as a woman. Even the perfume he used was delicate. It was lavender.

  The boy, ignoring Peter’s negative answer, sat down next to him on a recently vacated stool.

  “Many men prefer my company to that of one of those bitches,” he said, nodding towards the ten-dollars-a-quickie girls fluttering around the room. “Many welcome me into their company with rapture. Isn’t it strange that a few boys, boys just like you, young and handsome, just simply cannot welcome me. Why, I wonder?” He sighed, looking down over himself. “And I, so young and fresh,” and he began to feel sorry for himself, or so it seemed. Then he looked up and smiled and winked at Peter. “You’re camp,” he said, waving a hand effeminately in front of Peter’s face. “I think you’re gay, just waiting for the right boy to come your way. I’d like to be that boy.”

  “Please go away,” said Peter, more bewildered than disgusted by what he was seeing and hearing.

  Seeing the look on Peter’s face, the youth asked, “Do I look that bad that you cannot like me just a little?”

  “Please, go away,” answered Peter. “I’m in no mood for company.”

  “Oh, my dear boy, don’t be such a bore. We could be such
good friends.”

  Peter remained silent. A transvestite was something new to him. He had heard and read about them but this boy was the first he had come across in his travels. A few gays had crossed his path since his enlistment in the Royal Air Force but certainly not in drag.

  As for this boy perched on the high stool next to him, Peter decided to ignore him, so discreetly turned his attention to the paper he had picked up from off the bar. It was in Chinese. Disgusted, Peter returned it to the bar.

  “I’ll buy you a drink,” the young transvestite offered, smiling and beckoning the barmaid to him with an effeminate wave of his manicured hand.

  “I don’t want a drink from you. I’ve no wish to drink with you, so please go away. Leave me alone,” said Peter.

  “Oh, my dear boy, please be sociable. Yours is a whisky, isn’t it?”

  “It’s rum. But you’re not paying for anything that I drink.”

  “Oh! Excuse me! I’m sorry I asked,” and the other looked hurt and disappointed.

  The barmaid, placing the rum and coke on a paper napkin in front of Peter, looked at the two enquiringly as if asking, ‘Who’s paying for this?’

  Peter read her thoughts. “Please get him a glass of peppermint and ask him to leave me alone. The drinks are on me,” he said.

  “Oh! That is sweet of you,” suddenly smiled the young transvestite. “But please, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer a gin and orange. I have a real taste for gin. It really sends me.”

  “Give him a double shot of gin. Maybe it’ll send him over the hills and far away,” said Peter dryly to the barmaid.

  The barmaid smiled. She understood and was obviously amused at what she was seeing. “I’ll make a gin and orange,” she said, and turned to where several American sailors were demanding drinks. “OK guys. I come quick,” she sang out. For her, this would be a good night tip-wise. American sailors always tipped well, especially those who thought they stood a chance of getting a piece of her ass.

  “Now, please,” the young transvestite implored Peter. “Let’s not quarrel. I want boys to like me. Many do you know. Many simply adore me. It’s my good company, I suppose. My name is Ruby. May I ask yours?”

  “No, you may not,” answered Peter, still annoyed.

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve no wish to tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “Why don’t you find yourself a nice girlfriend and enjoy her company, instead of acting so daft?” said Peter.

  “A girlfriend! But I don’t want a woman,” blurted out the boy angrily. “I abhor women!” and spreading his hands out palms upward towards Peter as if in despair, he exclaimed. “Oh! Please! My dear boy, how can you speak of women to me? I like men! But women, never!”

  Peter sighed and downed half the rum and coke. On any other occasion he might have been more tolerant, and might have found some interest in this boy dressed in girl’s clothing seated next to him. But tonight he was in no mood for such unusual company. Standing up, he said, “Here, Ruby. Here’s two dollars. Pay for the drinks and look for someone else.” With these words spoken, Peter pushed his way through the crowd, through the swing doors, and strode out into the night, leaving the transvestite awaiting his gin and orange, and a boyfriend.

  Bugis Street was Peter’s next place of call. Bugis Street lit by the white glare of a hundred kerosene lamps swinging from the overhanging eaves of the many chow stalls criss-crossing the dusty square. Bugis Street was infamous, an ingress to hell, a paradise for pickpockets, prostitutes and the young thugs and hoodlums of the city. To the taxi drivers, trishaw wallahs, stall owners, the cheap musicians and the shoeshine boys, Bugis Street was a goldmine.

  As for the needs of society, Bugis Street, though an ugly place contaminated by the filth of the city, had its merits. Society often paid visits to the street, many to have a good time feasting on delicious meals from the chow stalls, drinking and making merry with friends, as well as with the many prostitutes sitting at the tables hoping to sell their wares. Yet, many such visitors would rue the day they paid that call on Bugis Street, as wallets departed from one’s person in less than a blink of the eye. There, many vicious fights broke out, injuring the innocent more often than the perpetrators. As for picking up a woman for a short time or for an all night’s entertainment, several of the prostitutes who plied their trade there did not report monthly at the Social Welfare Department for a check-up, or receive shots of penicillin if needed. Hence, quite a number of these women carried venereal diseases.

  Bugis Street, as far as Peter Saunders was concerned, was a lively, interesting place to visit, where the beer was cold, and a place that never closed. At night Bugis Street was packed, and even during the day the Chinese stall owners were kept busy stirring and tossing fried rice and other tasty foods in giant woks heated over open charcoal braziers. They were also kept busy warding off the many pariah dogs and numerous rats. The swarms of flies pitching on the food didn’t matter, they didn’t eat much. Peter had visited Bugis Street twice before, but again, that was before he met Lai Ming. On those two pleasurable occasions, he had found himself fascinated by the noisy, garish street, with its exotic smells filling the air and the blaring Chinese music, so vibrant and alive. But tonight, there was nothing that could fascinate him or cause him pleasure.

  Elbowing his way through the milling crowds and meandering between rickety tables, square-topped stools, the cheap-jack stalls and the chow stalls, Peter eventually found a vacant table at the far side of the street. He sat down on one of the four stools provided at each table and awaited service.

  “Shoeshine, Johnny? Very good shoeshine! Best shoeshine in Bugis Street, Johnny. Fifty cents, Johnny. For you very cheap.”

  Peter gazed down upon a shaven-headed, ragged urchin pawing at his shoes whilst grovelling on bare feet in the dirt. About eight years of age, covered in grime and festering sores, the skinny little boy looked up at him with pleading, big brown eyes, beseeching him in grim silence an opportunity to earn a few cents. He held the brush, polish and cloth in eager hands; a wooden shoe box and foot rest lay in the dust between his dirty feet.

  “Shoeshine, Johnny? Best in Singapore. Only fifty cents, Johnny,” the boy pleaded.

  “I don’t want a shoeshine,” said Peter, shaking his head.

  The boy’s eyes sparkled. He was not going to be outdone by mere words. Again he clutched at the foot nearest him, and dragging the filled shoe a few inches towards himself, attempted to slide the shoe box beneath it.

  Peter drew his foot away, the boy grimly hanging onto it. Just like the previous occasion when out with Rick, thought Peter. He had ignored the pleading, persistent shoeshine boy, and had turned his back on him and returned to his beer. He had felt hands pulling at his feet, supposedly towards the shoe box, but he had paid no heed. Then, when the boy departed, and when Peter went to pay for his beer, he couldn’t. His wallet was gone. The seam in his trouser pocket had been slit open by an expert hand, and his wallet had fallen into that hand. But, this being Bugis Street, what else could one expect, for no angels worked in Bugis Street, that was for sure. Peter knew all shoeshine boys were not pickpockets, perhaps far from it, but he had become extremely wary of them.

  “I don’t want a shoeshine,” he repeated firmly.

  “Thirty cents, Johnny. For you, only thirty cents. You, very good friend. Ding ho friend. Me very cheap. Thirty cents, Johnny.” Again the boy heaved and dragged at the shoe nearest him.

  “No,” hissed Peter, even angrier now than when he had first arrived. “Leave me alone. Go on! Scram! Get away from me! Beat it!”

  The boy, falling backwards, away from this sudden verbal attack, sat down in the dirt swearing in Chinese and making ugly faces at Peter. Soon, though, the boy turned his attention upon a young Chinese couple who had just sat down at the next table. At first, both ignored the shoeshine boy, and laughed and whispered to one another in soft talk. Finally, tired of being pestered further and angered at seeing his l
adyfriend’s ankles touched by such grimy hands, the young man clouted the boy about the head, sending him sprawling in the dirt. Whereupon the boy sprang lightly to his feet, grabbed a wok full of fried noodles from a nearby chow stall, and splattered the whole hot mess over the unfortunate couple. Screeching with laughter, he then ran as fast as his young legs would carry him away from the messy scene.

  “Hello, Peter.”

  The Chinese couple was forgotten as Peter heard his name spoken. He spun around on the stool to see who knew him. A tallish, ginger-haired girl stood smiling down at him. In every way she looked Chinese, but she may have been Eurasian. A ginger-haired Chinese girl, he knew, would be unique, but this girl had a brilliant shock of reddish hair. Peter was sure it was not dyed. How could it be dyed hair, especially after seeing this same girl nude, just last week on Changi Beach, flaunting her wares to a couple of British soldiers. Peter observed then that she also had red pubic hair, plus the tattoo of a naked woman standing astride that same area.

  “Oh! Hello, Molly! Fancy meeting you here. How are you? Please sit down,” Peter invited, waving the girl to the seat across from him.

  “I’m OK” the girl answered, sitting down “Going to buy me a beer?” she asked.

  “I thought nice Chinese girls didn’t drink beer,” he said. “Sure. Of course I’ll buy you a beer.”

  “You’re Rose’s boyfriend, aren’t you?”

  “I was,” Peter replied.

  A stallholder in a dirty vest and shorts took Peter’s order and returned minutes later carrying a tray on which were two bottles of Tiger beer and two glasses. Peter paid the man, then poured the beer.