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  The Man Who Wore His Wife's Sarong

  Stories of the Unsung, Unsaid and Uncelebrated in Singapore

  Suchen Christine Lim

  Monsoon Books

  Burrough on the Hill

  Published in 2017

  by Monsoon Books Ltd

  www.monsoonbooks.co.uk

  No.1 Duke of Windsor Suite, Burrough Court,

  Burrough on the Hill, Leics. LE14 2QS, UK

  ISBN (paperback): 9781912049080

  ISBN (ebook): 9781912049097

  Copyright©Suchen Christine Lim, 2017

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover design by Cover Kitchen.

  Contents

  Introduction

  1. Mei Kwei, I Love You

  2. Ah Nah: an Interpretation

  3. The Morning After

  4. The Man Who Wore His Wife’s Sarong

  5. My Two Mothers

  6. The Cleaner's Son

  7. Gloria

  8. Retired Rebel

  9. Usha and My Third Child

  10. Big Wall Newspaper

  11. The Tragedy of My Third Eye

  12. Christmas Memories of a Chinese Stepfather

  13. Christmas at Singapore Casket

  14. The Lies That Build a Marriage

  About the Author

  Individual story publication history

  Introduction

  by Rev Dr Yap Kim Hao

  The first elected Asian Bishop of the Methodist Church in Malaysia and Singapore

  Pastoral Advisor, Free Community Church

  In October 2005, I asked Suchen Christine Lim to write a story for the Christmas Day service of the Free Community Church. I wanted a story to serve the LGBT community and to help grow a more inclusive church for both gays and straights in Singapore. I did not foresee the impact that her story would make on Christmas Day. After Suchen had read out The Morning After to a packed congregation in the auditorium of the Arts House, there was absolute silence. Seconds later, thunderous applause broke out. The congregation rose to its feet and gave her a standing ovation. Men cried and hugged each other. The applause went on and on. This was the first time that such a story about a young man coming out to his mother and family was read out in a church service in place of the usual sermon. Suchen’s story of a young man’s courage and honesty, and a mother’s love and confusion touched our hearts that Christmas Day.

  Later, the lesbian community in the church asked her to write a story for them to celebrate International Women’s Day. Suchen wrote and read to them, My Two Mothers – a beautiful story of the love and affection that two lesbian Chinese amah jieh or maids have for each other and their adopted daughter. Then Rev Kang Ho Soon, pastor of the Kampong Kapor Methodist Church asked Suchen to write a story for Mothers’ Day. Again she obliged. The result was Usha & My Third Child, a story that touched on abortion and what motherhood means for an unmarried girl and her counsellor, an unhappily married woman.

  Since then these stories have snowballed into a collection of stories of ‘the unsaid, unsung and uncelebrated’ that tackle difficult themes that discomfit a mainstream congregation or audience, and highlight difficult subjects that families would rather not talk about if they could help it such as my son is publicly caned in school or my son is HIV infected or my father is having an affair with my mother’s tenant. The stories speak to those who know what it is like to live at the margins of society dealing with issues we do not discuss with our family members. Read the stories and talk about them.

  1

  Mei Kwei, I Love You

  Potong Pasir

  1

  Two hours past midnight, Cha-li was sitting inside her grey Toyota, watching the corner house in Sennett Estate. There were nights when she wanted to call it quits, but she didn’t because she’d given her word. Keeping her word was essential in her business. It was what drew women to her. The scarred, the abused, the cheated, the exploited, the rejects and the victims. Single or married, they came to her at the temple. They knew by word of mouth that her speciality was adultery and infidelity. Not for her—the commercial investigations or surveillance of employees or insurance fraud or missing persons. A specialist in unfaithfulness, that’s what you are, a client had told her. Cha-li liked the phrase. It made her feel she was more than a private eye. She was the PI who peered into hearts seething with dark secrets and contradictions. But she was cautious about making any claims. A private investigator deals with hard facts—the what, the when and the where—not the speculative whys and wherefores. That was what she told Robina Lee, who’d come to see her two weeks ago.

  Where is Charlie Wong? Robina had asked in a peremptory voice.

  I am Cha-li Wong, she answered as confusion clouded the young woman’s eyes. Cha-li was used to such reactions. Before meeting her in person, many people thought her Mandarin name, Cha-li (Beautiful Guard), was Charlie, because they’d expected the investigator to be a guy. Just like they’d expected a guy to take over as the medium of Lord Sun Wukong’s temple. Ah well, such things no longer bothered her.

  Robina Lee, the woman introduced herself. Not my married name, she added, and sat down across from Cha-li, who reckoned her age to be thirty or so. Robina was tanned, slim and looked tense. Her lips were rouged a deep pink, and her eyes had dark rings around them. Cha-li noted the smart black stilettos and expensive black leather purse, and wondered if Robina was one of those high-flying execs from the towering offices in Shenton Way. The look that Robina gave her seemed haughty at first. Seated with legs crossed and hands clenched tightly around the arms of the chair, she said in pitch-perfect Mandarin, My husband is seeing another woman. I would like to engage your services to find out who the woman is. What hold she has on him. What black magic, and here Robina switched to the Hokkien dialect and said emphatically, what kong tau the vixen used to ensnare him. I need a private investigator and a medium. I’m told you’re both. I will pay you well above market rates if you agree to handle the case.

  Taken aback, Cha-li muttered that she’d stopped conducting séances. She was more of a caretaker than a medium of the temple these days. No matter, Robina Lee said, and would not take no for an answer. She desperately needed a private investigator with knowledge of the black arts and kong tau. But what proof did she have that her husband had eaten kong tau? Cha-li asked. Robina stared at her hands, still clenched. Her husband was always distracted at home after dinner each night. At times he was glassy-eyed, distant and vague. He shot out of the house the moment his mobile rang. The family’s business and reputation were suffering. But that did not necessarily prove he was bewitched, Cha-li pointed out. Robina’s voice rose. Proof? You want proof? Then you tell me. Why else would a young man desert his young wife for a woman old enough to be his mother? Look at me. I am not yet thirty!

  Cha-li calmed her down, agreed that it was an uncommon case. Far more common for a man to leave his old wife for a young mistress. But as a private investigator, she had to suspend judgement. Observe, listen, gather and assemble the facts, objects, people and events without adding or subtracting, explaining or interpreting. That should be the PI’s objective, she explained to Robina. The temple medium, on the other hand, could go beyond the realm of fact and information to things hovering in the shadows, at the corner of one’s eye.r />
  Look, I don’t care what you do. Just be discreet. I will pay you well. Those were Robina Lee’s parting words.

  A black cat jumped onto the bonnet of Robert Lee’s white Mercedes and disappeared down the other side. Cha-li glanced at her watch. 2:38 a.m. Was he spending the night in the corner house? Could he be so bold as to leave his car parked in front of the house till morning? Cha-li rolled down her window and settled in to wait the whole night.

  Butterfly Avenue was hushed, and the air was cool under the thick canopy of trees and bush. All the houses down the road had switched off their lights except the corner house at the end of the row of two-story terraces, each with a fenced-in garden, driveway and a car under the porch, the symbols that spelled middle class and private property ownership. Cha-li doubted she’d ever be able to own one of these prim-looking terraces. She was familiar with this private housing estate known as Sennett Estate in Potong Pasir, which had made history when it voted in Singapore’s sole opposition MP in 1984. A teenager then, she saw how Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew tore into and shredded the academic record of the opposition candidate, Chiam See Tong, and that had so roused the residents of Potong Pasir that they voted for the underdog. That year her heart had swelled with pride as she watched Kai-yeh, her adoptive father and medium of the Lord Sun Wukong’s temple, rally the villagers to vote for Mr. Chiam. 1984 was also the year she crossed Upper Serangoon, the busy main road that separated her village from wealthy Sennett Estate, to attend Cedar Girls’ School, not far from Butterfly Avenue.

  Cha-li reached for the night-vision binoculars in her glove box and trained them on the house at the corner. The front door had opened and two figures had emerged. Robert Lee was with a woman silhouetted against the light from the living room. The woman was laughing and pushing him towards the gate. Cha-li’s heart stopped. She couldn’t breathe. Is that Rose? But Rose was dead. Died in Macau. That was what her sources had told her years ago. Were they wrong? Cha-li watched the woman in the red housecoat open the gate, push Mr. Lee out and shut it. Her eyes following the woman’s retreating figure, she failed to catch the sound of a car engine starting. She didn’t even see the white Mercedes drive away. Something was unravelling inside her head.

  Mei kwei, Mei kwei, wo ai ni.

  Rose, Rose, I love you.

  A song she hadn’t heard for years.

  They had grown up together, she and Rose, in Lord Sun Wukong’s temple in Potong Pasir village. She was the medium’s adopted daughter while Rose was the unwanted mewling waif fished out of the temple’s bucket latrine. Throughout their childhood, Rose was caned often, while she, Cha-li, was spoiled rotten by Kai-ma, her adoptive mother, and Kai-yeh, her adoptive father who channelled the spirit of Lord Sun Wukong, the Monkey King.

  In those days, Potong Pasir was a stinking labyrinth of filthy lanes, muddy ponds, duck and vegetable farms, attap huts and outhouses with bucket latrines. The latrine is in your flesh! Kai-ma railed at Rose. Go and bathe, you filthy rag! But no matter how often Rose took a bath, she could never shake off the stench that seemed to seep into her clothes, her hair and under her skin. Rose cursed the mother who gave birth to her and dumped her in the temple’s outhouse. The children teased her. Sai! Sai! they yelled in Hokkien. Even the adults called her AhSai—lump of shit. The village boys would kick open the door of the outhouse whenever Rose was crouched inside. One day, Cha-li heard a loud quacking and flapping of wings. The bullies had jumped into the duck pond splashing and yelling as they frantically washed themselves—evidently, Rose had suddenly opened the outhouse door and hurled several brown lumps at them. You are the sai! Not me! I am Rose the beautiful! she screeched. Cha-li laughed.

  Rose ran away from the temple several times, away from the stink and choke of joss and other incense. Away from Kai-ma’s caning and the boys’ taunting. But the trail of rot pursued her wherever she went. The faster she ran, darting this way and that among the huts, the more lost she felt. Sometimes Cha-li found her crying in Yee Soh’s outhouse with the mangy bitch snarling outside. Sometimes Rose hid under the bushes after Kai-ma had caned her. Once Cha-li found her on Upper Serangoon Road, a wiry urchin gulping exhaust fumes from the city’s buses as though they were fresh air. The fumes overwhelmed the stench in her flesh, Rose said, her eyes bright as stars. The world outside Potong Pasir was a heady mix of new smells, speed and ceaseless motion to her. She gripped Cha-li’s arm. Run! she yelled, and pulled Cha-li along. Cars honked as they dashed across the busy road, dodging bicycles, motorcycles, hawkers’ carts and trishaws ferrying women and children.

  Once across, Rose demanded: How much you have in your pocket? Show me. Come on, you monkey. She twisted Cha-li’s arm. I know you’ve got money in your pocket. Her nails dug into Cha-li’s flesh until she cried out. Then all of a sudden she felt Rose’s hand stroking her face. Don’t cry, little monkey, please don’t cry. A thrill shot through Cha-li’s heart. It was pounding so hard against her rib cage she had to shut her eyes to stop the dizziness coursing through her, the better to savour the sensuous feel of Rose’s hand on her cheek. She took out all the coins in her pocket and dropped them into Rose’s hand.

  I knew it! You little monkey! Forty cents! Let’s go and buy tau huey!

  Sweet bean curd was Rose’s favourite dessert. She ate tubs of it in those half-forgotten days, which was why her skin was so smooth and fair, and smelled so sweet that Cha-li almost swooned when Rose held her in the kitchen the night they both turned fifteen. Prostitute! Kai-ma’s broom hit them on their heads. Rose sprinted out of the kitchen, and didn’t return for three days and three nights.

  Cha-li sighed, and returned the binoculars to her glove box feeling as if she had crawled out of a black hole where time had warped like a rattan mat left in the sun too long. How long had she been sitting in the car lost in her own thoughts? She was ashamed. This was uncharacteristic. And worse, she’d lost her quarry. Robert Lee’s white Mercedes was gone. The gate of the corner house was shut, and the woman who looked like Rose had disappeared back inside. The house stood in darkness. Butterfly Avenue was wrapped in silence at three a.m. The night air was soft and sweet, as though this avenue was not part of such a densely populated city, as though it belonged to a time when there were few cars, and migrant workers from China, India or Bangladesh hadn’t yet squeezed Singaporeans out of the crowded buses and trains.

  Cha-li took out her black notebook, wrote down the time, date and her observations, and then shut it. It pained her to think of what she’d tell Robina Lee the next day. The woman had phoned earlier to say that she was coming to the temple tomorrow. Cha-li had no wish to see her yet, but an operative must maintain close contact with her client just as a medium must maintain close psychic contact with the spirit she is channelling.

  She got out of the car. She had to clear her head. She walked past the corner house and followed the road beyond the silent gated bungalows, their orange roofs gleaming in the ghostly night sky. There was no moon. Just banks of ominous grey clouds. Her mind returned to the woman who looked like Rose. If it was Rose, what was she doing back here? Had she moved up in the world through Robert Lee, son of a hotel chain tycoon? Was he her young lover? Was he bankrolling her?

  Information was scarce at this point. Robina Lee was reluctant to tell her more. You are the investigator. You find out, she’d said at their last meeting. And let me remind you of your high fee plus expenses. In return, I expect the strictest confidence.

  Cha-li grimaced at the memory of that voice. No, she didn’t want to see Robina Lee tomorrow, and looked up, surprised that her feet had led her to the gate of Cedar Girls’ School. She must have turned onto Cedar Avenue without thinking. This was their secondary school before Rose was expelled for what the school called ‘unhealthy relationships’.

  Monkey! Rose had yelled on the first day. Did you see the school toilet? No shit! No flies! No smell! So clean! You just pull the metal chain. And whooooosh! The water flushes away everything! Rose’s face was glowing. Th
e toilets aren’t like those in Potong Pasir village. When I grow up I want to live in a beautiful house with a clean toilet just like this. And me? What about me? Cha-li asked. Oh, you? You will live in the temple, lor! You will be Lord Sun Wukong’s medium. No, Cha-li protested. But it was not a very strong protest.

  She turned away from the school and returned to Butterfly Avenue. A dog barked at her, strident and querulous. Cha-li crossed over to the other side of the road just so the stupid Alsatian wouldn’t wake up the neighbourhood. The avenue was U-shaped, and where it curved, there was a small playground with a slide and a swing under the trees. Their shadows fell across the park where a girl’s soft giggles broke the night’s calm. She saw a young Rose and herself on the swing. Rose was pushing her higher and higher, and she was laughing and screaming, Stop! Stop!

  What must you say? What must you say?

  Mei kwei, Mei kwei, wo ai ni.

  Rose, Rose, I love you.

  The Alsatian’s barking grew louder, joined now by the yelpings of other dogs. She quickened her pace. Just as she was about to reach her grey Toyota, a glimpse of black hair caught her attention. Near the red car. No, the black one. No. It’s a mirage. An optical illusion. She must be hallucinating. Go home, Cha-li. Get some sleep!

  She parked her Toyota in the wasteland next to the canal, formerly known as the Kallang River, that meandered through Potong Pasir village. Wild grass, bush and creepers grew around the old temple. The wasteland became a fairground every August during the feast of the Monkey King when an open-air stage was erected and a street opera was performed for the gods and devotees. When Kai-yeh was the medium, the entire village of Potong Pasir would gather at the temple to pray, eat and watch street opera for three days and three nights. These days, however, like the slow-flowing Kallang River that had given way to the rapid Kallang Canal, the street operas had given way to getai in which scantily clad women sang and danced, not for the gods but for the younger devotees who loved MTV. The wasteland had also shrunk, and the concrete blocks of housing board flats had moved closer to the temple each year.