Author: Mondo (Page 2 of 2)

The color of the leaves was brighter. The green intensified by the previous night’s rain. Strangers walked nonchalantly over the damp painted concrete floor.

I adjusted my wool scarf as wind blew through the train station. My fingers were numb despite the gloves. I perused the railway timetable, conscious that missing the Shinkansen meant a two hour wait for the next train. The timetable was clear. 8.27 am, train leaves for Osaka.

I glanced around the train station and wondered where Sarah was. She wanted to grab a few souvenirs and asked that I head first to the train platform. That was fifteen minutes ago.

I watched a cleaning crew enter an awaiting train and proceed to work with military precision. The Japanese crew finished their work within minutes and the train accelerated out the station seconds later.

Sarah appeared up the stairs lugging a new shopping bag and a cup of coffee. She almost stumbled at the top of the stairs. I was glad she did not fall. I found her awkward physicality strangely charming.

I had first met Sarah a month ago. She was nursing an Old Fashioned. Hurt by my ex, I had asked Sarah to join me on a holiday to Japan. I was surprised that she agreed. I was careful to book separate rooms. I now wondered why I did so.

“What did you buy?”

“Tokyo Banana. Want one?”

“No. It’s okay.”

Sarah passed me the coffee cup.

“For you.”

I took a grateful sip of the steaming coffee.

I turned around and Sarah was gone. Again. I surveyed the train platform and spotted her wandering about twenty meters away exploring a novelty shop. She was like a child at times. Ever curious. I struggled towards her, dragging luggage by my side. One medium sized backpack mine, two large trolley bags hers.

“Train almost leaving.”

I rested the trolley bags and tapped Sarah incessantly on her shoulder. She turned around holding a purple feather boa. Without warning, she wrapped the boa around us and took out her iPhone for a photo. I was trapped.

“Train leaving!”

Sarah was oblivious. She busied herself deciding which camera mode to use, urging me to look at the iPhone screen. l was definitely looking. I saw the cleaning crew emerge from the train we were meant to take. I saw them take a disciplined bow in front of their supervisor as Sarah pondered which Instagram photo filter to use. I saw the train doors close. I held my hand out helplessly as the train dashed out the iPhone screen.

“Done and uploaded! Let’s get on the train! I’m cold!”

My hand hung in the air.

“Let’s go! I’m cold!”

I let out a short chortle, startling Sarah.

I brushed back my hair with my hand, wondering what I would do with this girl. I took off my gloves and offered them to her. She refused the gloves, indicating that I would then be cold. I looked at the train station clock. It would be quite a wait before the next train. I asked if she would like some hot chocolate.  She nodded. Her enthusiasm unaffected.

I pointed in the general direction of the coffee shop. I took her hand in mine. The first time I felt her skin.

Eve and I were busy unpacking. It was the first night we were spending in our new home. The place still smelt of fresh paint. Large cardboard boxes were littered haphazardly across the floor alongside torn up packing material. That was when we heard David scream. We rushed to his room and were glad to find him unhurt.

“Come, Ma! Come, Pa! Look! Look!” David yelled at us excitedly. He was perched precariously on a stool. His hands clung tightly onto the window frame. Eve and I walked up behind David and peered out the window to see what had made him so excited. I placed my hand against David’s back to make sure he would not fall off the stool. That was when I noticed the sound for the first time. The deep metal chugging of a train engine as it ploughed the last few meters of rail into the railway station. David started to count out the number of carriages towed by the train engine. Hugging our son, Eve counted along with David.

I ruffled the hair on my son’s sweaty head. David was oblivious to my touch in his excitement. I kissed my wife on the cheek and pulled her close. I savoured the light lavender nodes of her perfume. Eve hugged me back and rested her head against my chest. I felt her breath on my skin and the warmth of her body. In that moment, I knew that everything would be all right.

The plane lifts off. Its engines thrust me high into the sky. Tiny vibrations stimulate the tap tap tap of a swing dance beat. In that moment, I saw her face again. My hand on her waist. The dance crowd melts away as Frank urged us onto a flight of fancy.

To the moon, to the moon.

1996.

Huey lamented the rain. Bad for business. On days with really heavy rain, the food center was likely to flood too. The drains were shallow and often clogged with rubbish. The customers seated at the open air tables dashed frantically for shelter. Plates of half eaten food were left abandoned on wet tables.

Huey rushed to help out with the extension of the rain rafters. Operated manually by a pulley system, the heavy canvas rafters inched unsteadily out into the rainfall. Huey pulled grimly at the rope to extend the rafters. More covered tables meant more customers.

Siew continued to cook amidst the gloom of the falling rain. The cling clang of her spatulas in odd rhythm with the sound of splashing raindrops. A queue of five customers waited patiently in single file for their takeaway packets of oyster omelette. There were another four orders to be prepared for customers scattered around the food center by the rain. People walked slowly along the narrow sheltered corridor in front of her stall. Desperate to avoid the rain. Careful due to the wet floor.

Hock at the stall to her right greeted customers old and new lustily. A queue of about ten customers waited patiently for him to cut up generous portions of roasted meat, char siew or duck. There always seemed to be a queue at Hock’s stall.

Siew passed a three dollar portion of oyster omelette to Huey. Taking the dish and a sauce plate of chili sauce, Huey set off in search of the customer who ordered it. She limped slightly as she walked and placed more weight on her right leg. When the pain in Huey’s left leg acted up, they switched roles and Huey would take over the cooking.

“Can have two packets of chili?”

Siew looked up and saw a plump young boy in t-shirt and shorts accompanied by his mother. Siew saw that the boy’s order was only for three dollars. She packed the order in a styrofoam box and placed it in a plastic bag with one packet of chili sauce.

The boy checked the plastic bag carefully as his mother paid for the order.

“Only one packet of chili. Can have another packet?”

Siew looked at the boy. She exchanged looks with Huey who had returned to the stall. Grudgingly, Siew handed over another packet of chili sauce. Huey was not as subtle.

“Chili not free, you know. Three dollars next time cannot take two packets.”

The boy kept quiet at the accusation. Gripping his order, he retreated slightly behind his mother. His mother apologized and promised that they would order a larger portion next time. The boy and his mother turned towards the sugarcane juice stall and made their retreat.

“These people. Order three dollar, want two packet chili. Chili free ah.”

Siew smiled. She could always depend on Huey to speak up for her. She took a new order and added another pencil stroke to her jotter book. She smiled again as she looked at the tally for oyster omelette sales for the day.

The boy’s eraser was well used. Its once pristine edges made blunt by friction. The Turkish flag on top smudged with pencil lead.

The boy readied himself. He only had this one eraser. With a delicate flick, he sent the eraser airborne. The eraser did an awkward somersault before landing triumphantly on Ah Seng’s Singapore flag eraser. The boy raised his hands in triumph as Ah Seng groaned at his loss.

A few tables away, the girl observed the commotion. She had a box of flag erasers in front of her. Her mother had bought her an entire box at her request. There was an empty space which the Singapore eraser once occupied. She had wagered that eraser in a duel with Ah Seng a week ago. She had lost.

The boy took the Singapore eraser. He ran to the girl. Extending his hand, he offered her the eraser.

“For you.”

The girl looked up. She smiled at the boy.

“Don’t you want to keep it for yourself?”

“It’s okay. I won it for you.”

The girl accepted the eraser. The boy smiled a silly smile. He scratched carelessly at his head before he headed back to join the other boys.

Ah Seng was unhappy. He challenged the boy to another match. The boy hesitated. He had already achieved his goal and won the Singapore eraser back for the girl. He took a look at his old eraser. It was barely two thirds its original size and the school term was not even three weeks old. He did need a new eraser. He accepted Ah Seng’s challenge.

Rummaging through his collection, Ah Seng selected his favourite eraser. His champion. The Saudi Arabia eraser. He had won seven eraser duels in a row with this treasured piece.

Ah Seng got the first move since he lost the last match. The Saudi Arabia eraser encroached aggressively on the Turkey eraser. The Turkey eraser moved defensively backwards and to the side. The Saudi Arabia eraser moved forward still. Undaunted. The Turkey eraser flipped forward, but failed to land on top of the Saudi Arabia eraser. It was now too close to the Saudi Arabia eraser. With a forward flip, the Saudi Arabia eraser came to an easy rest on the Turkey eraser. The battle was over.

Ah Seng took the Turkey eraser gleefully away from the boy. He looked at how dirty the Turkey eraser was and decided that he would throw it away on his way home. He had lost three erasers to the Turkey eraser, but it did not matter. His mother could always buy him more. He had disarmed his enemy. The losses were worth it.

The boy sat alone at the table. Ah Seng had left with his friends. They had cheered loudly as Ah Seng proudly held the dirty Turkey eraser aloft and saundered away.

The boy took out his Math homework for the day. He just had to be careful and not make mistakes. He had no eraser for rubbing away mistakes.

A delicate hand placed a Singapore eraser on top of the boy’s Math homework. The boy looked up to see the girl standing in front of him.

“For you.”

“But I won it for you.”

The girl sat down in front of the boy.

“But how do we duel if you do not even have an eraser?”

The boy smiled. He accepted the eraser.

The girl placed a Japan eraser on the table and moved it forward.

“We are not playing for keeps!”

The boy laughed and nodded. With the gentlest of touches, he moved the Singapore eraser towards the Japan eraser.

Sweat beads and trickles down the wrinkled tattoos on his torso. The late afternoon sun simmers a murky heat, tanning his wrinkled skin ever darker. Images flicker in and out of his imagination, never lingering long enough for him to capture.

There is desperation to his etchings. A fervor for detail he cannot render. He squeezes his eyelids close. Hoping to see what he wants to draw more clearly. He grabs at his close shorn hair. Tears almost well in his eyes.

Defeated, he collapses from his half-squat onto the floor. A half-empty mug of coffee rests amidst cigarette butts. Islands of wet cigarette ashes float precariously on cold coffee. He takes a sip of the coffee. He gags. He curses. He takes another sip. His eyes never leave the wall.

Charcoal streaks mark the white wall in front of him. Sketchings of a human face. He drops the charcoal piece in his hand. He claws at the wall. His dirty fingers smudging its once pristine surface. That face. Just behind the wall. Trapped in the concrete. His fingernails start to chip. He does not stop. His yelps of desperation draw looks of alarm from passing strangers. They pause. They keep their distance. They move on.

The kopitiam auntie hears the yelps. She runs over. She pulls him back. Holds him down. Seconds pass. He calms down. The kopitiam auntie replaces the dirty coffee mug. Places a new pack of cigarettes next to him. A fresh box of matches. He does not notice her.

He digs into the pack for another cigarette. Fumbles the matches with his charcoal stained fingers. He seeks answers between cigarette puffs. He tips pregnant cigarette ashes into the fresh mug of coffee.

The sunlight takes an orange amber hue. He traces the charcoal lines on the wall. He watches as elongated shadows trail the movement of his fingers. He looks for a break between movement and silhouette. A gap in reality.

He grimaces as pain sears up his head. He hits his head gently with a clenched fist. The throbbing does not stop. He feels the faint contours of a scar on his scalp. He wonders how he got the scar. The ambient noise threatens to overwhelm. Words he does not understand. The laughter of strangers. The clatter of metal cutlery on plastic bowls and plates. He fights to keep nausea at bay as his world starts to spin.

The nausea passes. He feels the residual heat of day escape from the floor. He smells the stale odour of his own sweat. He paws helplessly at the wall. Tears escape him.

The middle aged man looks at the collapsed figure of the sobbing old man. He asks the kopitiam auntie what he owes her for the day. Two packets of cigarettes. Three cups of coffee. He is concerned that the old man has not had any food. But he does not press the point. He pays the kopitiam auntie for what the old man consumed and for a couple of char siew buns. He tries to ignore her look of disapproval.

The middle aged man walks over to the old man. He settles down next to the old man and waits for his presence to be noticed. He takes one of the buns and bites into it. He offers the other bun to the old man. The old man wolfs down the offered bun.

The middle aged man removes a crumbled photograph from his wallet. He shows it to the old man. The photograph shows a man with tattoos with his arm around a woman. The old man grabs at the photo. It is the woman behind the wall. It is her. The middle aged man holds the old man gently by the arm.

“Time to go home, Pa.”

I remember it like it was yesterday, dear Debra. As I close my eyes, I see you in your youth. As I hold your hands in mine. As I kiss your lips.

Your hair smells delightful. As always. The coconut shampoo detracts from your natural scent. Black roots push up against dyed brown hair. The odd strands of grey betray the years that passed. We have grown old.

The blue of your eyes is lighter than I remember. Perhaps it is just harsh lighting. I can still see the flash in them, whenever you got pissed. The sparkle when you laughed. Venuous shades of perfect hues.

The angles of your cheekbone. The softness of your cheek. The plums that are your lips. I would kiss them. Desperately. Starting rituals to a good fuck. We were such desperate youths.

Your slight shoulders. The excuses I would make up to give you a massage. All for the chance of touching. When I was still wooing you. The friction of your skin on my fingers. The warmth of your body.

A desecration. I have to look away.

Why?

I compose myself. I look back. I take notes.

A moment.

Hands. The untanned skin beneath your wedding ring. The coarseness of your once delicate skin. What caused this? Dishwashing liquids? Marriage does become a chore, doesn’t it? The many hours I could have held your hand. Enjoyed your company. Just holding your hand. I didn’t.

Stomach. The stretch marks on your belly. Beautiful. The birth of a child leaving its marks. I’ve seen your child. I wish she was mine too. She’s beautiful. Like you.

Thighs. I touch them. I stop myself. I examine them professionally. Nothing wrong with the thighs.

Feet. No obvious bruising. Week old nail polish. The toe tag dangles.

“Tan Hui Ling, Debra.” I read off the toe tag. “Date of birth: 25 August 1976. Time of death: 11.23pm, 22 August 2013.” The cause of death remained empty. I look at the self-inflicted slits on your wrists. It was obvious, but I had my job to do.

I pause. I start up the bone saw. I whisper sorry as I put steel to flesh.

I never thought I would see you last this way.

The last time I held your hand was unremarkable
The stars did not shine brighter
The streets were damp

The last time I held your hand
It was unremarkable
I would hold your hand again on Saturday
On a Monday

You laughed at my jokes
Or was it me

I did not know
Perhaps neither did you

That the last time I held your hand
was the last time

And I only knew after