I took a quick look around and went into the toilet. Someone was throwing up. There was a girl sitting against the wall, head lolling to the side. Karin was not answering her phone. The air smelled of dank sweat and vomit. I ran.
I rushed out of the front door and gasped. I realised that I had been holding my breath after I ran out of the toilet. The light hit me, my eyes hurt. I blinked them open. I took a final gulp of water and threw away the bottle. Swallowed. Took a deep breath. Above, the sky was pretty, like pink and orange cotton candy.
The road was deserted, silent. I walked up the road, my heels click-clacking on the road.
Fuck Karin. Fuck. Fuck. This is the last time I’m doing this with you.
I was mad as hell. Karin had a terrible habit of disappearing with people, especially ones she’d just met. If they had drugs, she was gone in a heartbeat. She had the constitution of an elephant, which I could only attribute to her genes. Once she told me she had popped five E’s in one night.
You’re going to OD one of these days.
She laughed, of course. Not a chance in hell.
I walked on, furious at her, at myself, my heart flapping in my chest. I just needed to get home, shower and sleep.
Miss, are you all right?
I kept walking.
Miss!
I turned and I saw him.
Miss, your skirt is torn, are you all right?
I looked down and grimaced. My skirt was ripped on the side, exposing my thigh. Shit. Fuck. How the…?
I was quite a sight, apparently. This he told me later, over and over again.
You, standing there in the morning light. Torn skirt, red shirt unbuttoned, standing like a five-year-old tottering in her mother’s heels for the first time. Your hair glowing around your shoulders. You were shivering, your eyes wild. And I, like a fool, fell in love.
That’s how I met him. The man who would one day become my husband and transform my life forever.
Two
Reformasi!
He was up.
Jet lag permeated his body and he had tossed and turned around for hours. He’d taken a pill on the thirteen-hour flight and still, he could not sleep. He leaned over to the side table, reached for the tall glass, drank all the water in it and stretched his stiff body.
“Damn these flights,” he muttered.
The air conditioning in his room hummed. It was too cold. He got out of bed and pulled the curtains open. Light flooded into the room and he covered his eyes. He’d told his parents over and over again that the only good thing about the apartment was that it was in the heart of the city, but it offered no views. Only the tops of other buildings, endless traffic and the relentless party-goers who straggled in and out of the clubs on weekends.
His stomach growled. He thought of a hot, flaky roti canai with lashings of chicken curry, dhall and a hot cup of tea. He wondered if the old Indian lady with the stall down the road would be open. A quick shower eased his nerves and he picked a fresh T-shirt and shorts from his open suitcase. Fifteen hours ago, he had been in freezing London and now he was home. The last conversation he’d had with Jessica had been unpleasant.
“You fucking bastard, leave again, like you do. Fuck you!”
He’d hung up and deleted her number.
It was over, and she no longer had a hold on his life. It was time for new beginnings, newer and better things.
He had taken the lift down, waved at the Security Guard as the thick glass doors slid open.
“Hello, Sir, nice to see you again. Have a good day, Sir,” the guard said in a Nepali accent.
The heat hit him in the face. Immediate beads of sweat converged on his nose and forehead. The morning air held the promise it would be cool later, with some rain.
Then he saw her, a young woman stumbling down the street. Her long hair and clothes were dishevelled. She walked past him, her hands reaching out to keep herself from falling.
He walked quietly behind her and kept his gaze down. There was no need for unnecessary conversation this early in the morning. But her gait was uncertain, her feet unsteady.
A simple question would do, he thought.
“Miss?”
She turned and glared at him and he felt a quick shiver on his neck. Her eyes were bright and slightly glazed. A line of mascara smudged on one side of her nose. Cheeks slightly flushed.
“Miss, your skirt is torn, are you all right?”
She reached up to brush her long hair back from her face and then looked down to smooth her skirt. She looked up and smiled.
I remember the first time an incubus came to me in my sleep. I was 12 and that morning, Sister Martha had given me a telling off in Catechism class.
Girls! The road to hell is paved with stones, sharp thorns and demons. Waiting for you by the side of the road, she tittered, her spindly arms waving about. But the road to heaven is paved with roses and angels singing in a chorus, welcoming you to join Our Lord Jesus. She smiled and crossed herself, her eyes gazing upwards.
Our Standard Six Catechism class of twenty girls clad in navy-blue pinafores suddenly grew hushed. Susan Tan, who was seated next to me, looked like she was going to cry. Undeterred, I stuck my hand up and stood up to ask.
Sister Martha, how do you know that the road to hell is paved with stones and demons?
There was a loud giggle from the back, and someone went Shhhh! Sister Martha glared out of her thick, black spectacles and her beady eyes squinting in anger.
Well, Delonix, it says in the Bible that when you die, you will be presented with a choice. If you have been good, then you will go to heaven, but if you have been bad…
I interrupted her. All eyes were on me now.
What do you mean by bad?
Sister Martha now stood in front of me. I could see tufts of nostril hairs and the cheap plastic from her badly-fitted dentures.
Dear girl, if you lie and cheat and steal, then you know where you are going!
Susan Tan was in tears now and looked at me in terror. She grabbed my hand and shook her head.
But, what if you’re just a little bad?
More giggles. Another loud Shhhh!
Sister Martha smoothed down her starched cream habit, glared at me and screeched, much like a witch, I thought. She even had a hooked nose.
Even if you are just a little bad, you will still go to hell!
The entire class turned to look at me and they all started giggling. Even Susan Tan was trying to smile, but not smile at the same time.
That night, I dreamt of demons and angels, and a paved road with thick, gnarled thorns, strewn with blood-red roses that led into an eternal fire. I heard mortal screams, and the raucous shrieks and snarls of lurking demons.
An incubus then came to me, sliding into my bed from the right. I felt his cold fingers creep over my shoulder and onto my budding breasts, and my body tingled with pleasure and paralysis. My limbs, mouth, frozen. Eyes glued shut. Heart thumping, I forced myself to pray—Hail Mary, Full of Grace, the Lord is with thee, Blessed art Thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus, Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
I could still feel it, a weight upon me, clutching my hands, gripping them like a vice. It was on me. I could not breathe.
Help, help me, Jesus.
With all the strength I could muster, I forced it off, bucking my knees and almost kicking the blanket off.
Hail Mary, Full of Grace, the Lord is with thee, Hail Mary, Full of Grace, the Lord is with thee, Hail Mary, Full of Grace, the Lord is with thee.
It was gone, and my bedroom smelled foul.
Mummy! Mummy! I screamed. She never came.
I was a sinner, I had sinned and I had paid for it. I had questioned Sister Martha and I had paid for it. A demon had visited me in the night and I felt the pleasure of his visit. It would be the first of many. I turned over and the clock displayed a gleaming 3.03am. I had sinned, and I had eternal
damnation to pay.
He walked me to his car, guiding me gently by the elbow, and he opened the car door for me. The seat felt cool, the insides smelt of pine. KL was rousing to life. Traffic was sparse, and the air outside was balmy. He played U2 on the stereo.
We spoke a little, but my tongue felt knotted, dry. My jaw ached from the hours of needless chatter at the club. I was spent, dried out, my voice hoarse.
His name was Omar. Half Malay, half English. He was back from London where he worked and lived. His family had an apartment in the Pan Global building, which overlooked the club, and he had been walking to get breakfast when he saw me.
I was afraid to look at him. His nearness was disconcerting. I was coming down and I felt vulnerable, like the insides of a young coconut being scraped slowly by a child with a broken spoon, but it didn’t stop me from stealing glances at him when his eyes were on the road.
Sharp jaw, curly dark brown hair. Light eyes with flecks, skin that was darker than Fairman’s. A distinct mole on the left cheek. Black glasses. Expensive. An old Rolex on the left wrist. Golden hairs on his arm. Scholarly. Lean. Either the well-read type or the financial type. I leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes, letting the low purring of his car lull my mind into quietude.
Traffic was building up. It was a long way to PJ, but we drove in silence. I dozed off and he shook my arm gently as we passed the yellow arch separating KL from Petaling Jaya.
I directed him to my apartment, a rented floor of a 70s semi-detached house close to my childhood home, but in the poorer part of Section 5. When I walked up the stairs, I felt self-conscious and as I pulled my torn skirt around, I felt his eyes on me.
As I opened the front door, the words tumbled out of my mouth.
Don’t leave, please stay. I don’t want to be alone right now.
I felt foolish, like a damsel in distress, something I never ever thought of becoming.
He smiled and shrugged. Sure.
I had no valium and it felt like the world was colliding into me. He picked up a chair, sat down by the balcony and stared out. I offered him a glass of cold water from the fridge, which he accepted gracefully. The balcony overlooked a playground, empty this time of the morning, but he seemed happy to sit and stare, content in his thoughts.
I like your balcony, he said when I came out wrapped in a towel. It reminds me of my grandmother’s house on the east coast.
He got up and walked towards me. I held my breath. He grabbed both my shoulders and turned me towards the bedroom.
You need to sleep, he said firmly and pushed me towards my bed. I felt embarrassed, my bed unmade, my flat a mess. He seemed so cultured, sophisticated. I turned to say something, but I decided not to.
I lowered myself slowly onto the bed, needing to be horizontal. I didn’t expect him to, but he sat down next to me.
There, there. Sleep now, little lost girl.
His hand fluttered over my hair, and with the first stroke I suppressed a moan. He stroked my hair, my face, my arm. It was exquisite. Gentle. When I woke up, the windows streamed with a humid, yellow light. My body was sticky with sweat. He was gone. I got into a panic.
Who is this man?
And why had I asked a stranger to take me home? Invite him in? Have him sit on my bed? The universe had aligned its forces for our paths to cross in the most unholy of ways.
I gulped down a glass of cold water greedily. It was still Saturday morning. The weekend loomed. I opened the fridge and a dried-up apple stared back at me. I sat numbly on my bed. I drank more water. I curled up on the sofa and turned on the TV. I needed chatter in the room. I surfed the few channels I had, and decided to check my handphone for messages. The boxy black words peered out of the square screen.
Sorry sorry sorry I felt so out of it that stuff was so strong. You were sitting with some guy so I left. You okay?
Babes, are you OK??
Can you PLEASE answer
Freaking out now
Babes please CALL ME
I was never doing it again. Never doing E again. Never going out with Karin again. Ever.
I walked around the apartment, pacing up and down.
Omar. Omar. Who the hell are you?
Then I saw a pink post-it on my door.
Call me: 012 323 0929
I dialled the number. Each button a nervous, loud bleep. Three rings.
Hi, it’s me. From this morning.
His voice, soft, a slight pleasing pause.
Hello…how you feeling? Sleep well?
I took a deep breath and tried to speak unhurriedly, but.
I’d like to see you, if that’s okay. Sorry, I don’t mean to be pushy or anything, I just don’t really want to be alone right now.
A slow breath.
Yes, I understand.
An hour later, he was downstairs. I got into his car, and as I sank into the cool leather seat, I felt like weeping—I don’t know why. We went to Raju’s and found a quiet spot under a tree. He had a roti, I had teh tarik and thosai. He ate hungrily, with his fingers. Our eyes met and parted several times. I was overcome by shyness, but each time he caught me looking at him, he smiled as if he understood. In the light, his eyes were almost green.
The waiters hovered around with buckets of white rice and stainless steel containers of curries. Entire families seated around us. Children refusing to eat, sullen fathers slurping tea and shoving huge morsels of vegetables, mutton, fish into cavernous mouths. Mothers in saris, silent, brooding. Bursts of loud chatter.
He asked for the bill in Malay, paid and thanked the waiter. When we got into the car he turned to me and said, I don’t know what’s going on, but this seems like the most natural thing in the world to me. Right now. He put his hand gently on mine.
All I could do was nod. There was nothing to say.
We went back to my place. We undressed hurriedly and flung ourselves on my springy bed. In moments, he was inside me. He felt like home. It felt careless, devilish but so, so good. We made love three times and by the time we were done, we were hungry again.
I felt like a truck had hit me and burrowed itself into my belly. It sat there, like a stone, unmoving. Him, lying there, like that.
Omar. Omar.
It was reckless, unbridled.
It was an instantaneous love.
So. Omar Tunku Malik.
This was unlike anything I had known. It felt dangerous.
The only man I had ever truly loved was my father, but that was the love of a child for her father. This was different. This was a woman’s love, for a man. Grief had consumed my father, killed whatever life he had left. My mother’s death had devastated him. I wondered if this man would consume me the same way. I wondered if I too would become a shell of a person. I wondered if this kind of love would destroy me.
He was two years older than me. Studied engineering at Cambridge—the kind of privilege only boys like him had. The kind that was a birthright. His mother, English, from Norfolk, and apparently descended from the earliest Normans who plundered and conquered those lands. His father, Dutch, Javanese, with some claim to Malay royalty. The embittered fucked each other to get ahead—but in actual fact, it was to make sure that bloodlines never ended.
Jangan Melayu hilang di dunia.
The Malays felt that their land had been taken from them, and that they now had every right to reclaim it. May the Malay race never cease from the earth. A union of paradoxes.
I had never been with a Malay man before. I was throwing myself into treacherous territory. I think I was afraid of the fact that he was Malay, that my preconceptions of who and what he was would spell a difficult and uncertain future. Something I wasn’t entirely sure I even wanted.
But one night, after the lovemaking and the wine, I told him about the tear gas, about running the streets, Saksi, my friends, writing and recording the Reformasi, my anger at Mahathir, at the police, the courts, the injustice of it all, my sympathies for Wan Azizah and Anwar’s young
children, I poured out my heart and mind, I ranted and raved, I wept from frustration and more anger, and Omar, he listened and said nothing until I was done.
So…do you think I’m mad?
No. Why would I think that?
You’re really quiet.
I was listening.
Oh. And…
I think it’s time, this is the time. Let’s do this.
This?
Fight. We need to fight back.
Yes, we do. We must!
Yes?
Together?
A firm nod, a kiss sealed it.
And there it was. This was the man I would fight with, for a country that we both loved. For justice. For freedom. For Malaysia.
Jessica had called him again. He had finally managed to recover from the jetlag, but her habit of calling in the early hours before dawn to hurl expletives at him was becoming too predictable and intrusive. Getting involved with Jess was a mistake, one he hoped he was not making with Del.
He had vowed to not get involved for a while but he found women a necessary distraction. He wanted to come back to Malaysia to feel the fervor of Reformasi. Reading about the street protests ignited latent fires in his heart. He had been away for too long, transplanted in a land that he had no desire to grow up in. England was home, but Malaysia was where he belonged.
The young woman he met had a passion, the kind that he himself lacked. He never had to fight for anything. Privilege and wealth had made him soft; he was ambivalent about the world. But now, the country was at a crossroads, and he wanted to be part of the new wave of change. He felt that he had become too English, his Malay rusty, sad. His grandmother had taught him songs, graceful Malay pantuns that he had so loved as a child.
“More, Tok, the one about the cempedak and the banana!”
His grandmother would laugh, pinch his cheeks and sit him on her thigh and together they would sing the Rasa Sayang, the folk song all Malaysian children grew up singing:
Once We Were There Page 5
