The Oddfits (8 page)

CHAPTER 8

Against the advice of his best and only friend, against his own better judgement, against his own belief that calling people any time after ten p.m. (much less eleven thirty p.m.) was very inconsiderate, and inconsistent entirely with the timidity that came so naturally to him, Murgatroyd’s trembling fingers had dialled the number on the card. He had been so nervous that he’d kept getting the last digit wrong and dialled the wrong number twice. Finally, he had gotten it right, and a recorded message instructed him to meet with Quest Representative Ann at twelve thirty sharp on Sunday in the open grassy area behind the Orchard MRT subway station.

So that was how Murgatroyd found himself standing in a field of Filipinos at twelve noon on a Sunday. (He had arrived half an hour early, just in case.) Singapore, like most wealthy Asian countries, employed most of its menial labour from its poorer neighbours, and many of the domestic workers came from the Philippines. Although there were a few men here and there, the crowd was composed mostly of women—maids escaping from their demanding and miserly employers on their weekly day off. There were several reasons why this large patch of green was a favourite escape destination: it was easily accessible by public transportation and one street over from the lively Orchard Road shopping district; it was within walking distance of the money remittance offices and Filipino convenience stores of Lucky Plaza; it was a “natural” setting in its own way (though those who preferred nature with fewer of the comforts of civilization could head to the Botanical Gardens); and, importantly, it was free.

The women sat in groups of two or more upon sheets of newspaper, towels, or plastic mats spread beneath them to keep their clothing clean. Most of them were eating lunch—takeaway food they had bought nearby or dishes they had made at home or in their employers’ kitchens, with snacks and cakes laid out for all to partake in. Some were busy comparing newly purchased items with their friends—high heels and purses, blouses and jeans, nail polish and hair accessories. To Murgatroyd’s left, a group of six were busy concluding a Bible-study session with group prayer. To his right, three women sat together ignoring each other, chatting away on their mobile phones. Being obviously alone and not Filipino, Murgatroyd was already beginning to draw attention from the people surrounding him, who would glance at him from time to time, wondering who he was and what he was doing here. Maybe he was meeting his Filipina girlfriend? Maybe he was a white sleazebag looking to pick up a Filipina girlfriend? Maybe he was a foreign journalist here to do research?

“Who’s
that white guy over there?” a nearby woman asked her friend in Tagalog as they reclined on the grass, waiting for their newly applied toenail polish to dry.

“How should I know? He looks harmless, though. Scrawny.”

“At least he’s not fat. Sometimes white people can be really fat. It’s the food they eat. Mostly burgers. It’s disgusting.”

“Hah. The Chinese ones are just as bad. My boss, she’s huge even though she goes to the gym all the time. She eats lots of cakes and watches TV all day and wonders why she can’t lose weight.”

“Hey, this guy’s kind of weird. Look at him picking his ears!”

All this was in earshot of Murgatroyd, but although he had the feeling that his presence was generating some conversation, he couldn’t tell what kind of conversation he was generating since he didn’t understand Tagalog. With each passing minute, he felt himself reddening with embarrassment and overexposure to the sun. Beads of sweat were already running down his temples and accumulating on his nose. He wished that he hadn’t run out of deodorant that very morning because large, smelly wet patches were appearing on the armpits of his T-shirt. He also wished he had applied some sunscreen. All in all, he thought, this was not going to make a very good second impression. He scanned the field for the umpteenth time, wondering if he’d gotten the time or the place wrong.

“So. You’ve arrived early.”

Murgatroyd turned around to find Ann staring intimidatingly down her nose at him with her one good eye. She was still wearing the black patch over her eye and she was again dressed all in green; this time, in an ankle-length, fern-coloured cotton sundress and a floppy straw hat trimmed with a green polka-dotted ribbon. He didn’t remember her being so tall, but come to think of it, she had been sitting down when they met.

Then he looked down at her feet. Green shoes. With very high heels.

Ann looked down at her feet. “Yes. I don’t usually wear heels, but these were so comfortable, I thought I’d make an exception.”

“Erh. I see.”

Silence ensued. Murgatroyd attempted to make some small talk. “How come so dressed up?”

“I’m not.”

“Oh.”

More silence ensued. Murgatroyd was trying to figure out if he should wait for her to bring up the Quest, or whether he should broach the subject. Suddenly, Ann gestured across the Filipino-festooned field with a sweeping motion of her hand, nearly smacking him in the forehead.

“Behold!” she declared. “These are the hands which keep Singapore clean, fed, and pampered! The people who keep her windows gleaming, her children cared for, and her dogs walked! Who must leave their own families behind to care for other families! Who bear the brunt of their employers’ anger! Who keep this great nation sleek and content in exchange for pitiable wages!”

At the conclusion of this speech, which Ann delivered in stentorian fashion, everyone surrounding them stared silently in astonishment, except for one small group, who broke into a flurry of cheering and applause.

Murgatroyd felt himself redden even more. “Should we
. . .
should we sit down?”

“No. I prefer to stand.”

“Oh.”

They stood there for a little while, Ann persisting in staring down imperiously at him before breaking the silence.

“Well?” she asked in an expectant manner.

“Hah?”

“Well, Murgatroyd, why are we here?”

“Oh. Erh. Erh,” he felt flustered, embarrassed. “You know, what.”

“I know nothing. Why?”

“What?”

“What are we here for, Murgatroyd?”

Murgatroyd was bewildered. She was the one who started this whole thing! Was she joking? He decided, after studying the expression on her face, that she most certainly wasn’t joking. Where should he start?

“I th-thought,” he stammered. “I thought about—about what you said about me belonging here.”

“What about it?”

“I
. . .
I think maybe—I think maybe I don’t belong. At—at least sometimes I don’t feel like it.”

Ann arched one eyebrow. Or at least, that’s what Murgatroyd thought she did. With the sun shining in his eyes, and from his lesser height, it was difficult to see her eyebrows. “Let me get this straight. You
think
. . .
maybe
you
feel
you don’t belong
some
times?”

Murgatroyd was getting quite frustrated. “I don’t belong here,” he declared. “I DON’T belong.”

“Oh-ho! Now we’re getting somewhere!”

“Where?”

“Where what?”

“Where are we getting to?”

Ann sighed. “I was speaking metaphorically.”

Murgatroyd could only reply, “Oh,” and once again, they lapsed into silence. After a few seconds, Murgatroyd mustered up the courage to ask a question.

“Erh. I wanted to ask you something.”

“What?”

“Hah?”

“What did you want to ask me?”

“Oh. About the Quest.”

“What about the Quest?”

“What is it?”

“What, the Quest?”

“Yes, the Quest.”

“Ah yes. The Quest.” Her one green eye flashed and glistened with suppressed enthusiasm. “Murgatroyd,” she announced. “Let us sit down.”

“Can we go someplace more shaded? Like under a tree?” Murgatroyd examined his arms, which were looking ferociously pink.

“No. I prefer the sun.”

Promptly sitting down cross-legged on the ground, Ann immediately began uprooting blades of grass with her fingers and tearing them into tiny bits. Murgatroyd felt obliged to join her (in sitting, not in tearing).

Ann began with a question. Questions always made Murgatroyd rather nervous because most of the time when he answered questions, he answered them wrongly.

“Tell me, Murgatroyd,” asked Ann. “Would you say this field is crowded?”

Murgatroyd looked around. It certainly looked very crowded to him. So he nodded.

“What if I were to tell you it wasn’t?” Ann looked at him expectantly, waiting for a response.

“Erh. I guess some more could fit. But then it would be very cramped.”

“What if I were to tell you that this field was practically empty?”

Murgatroyd laughed uneasily.

Ann gave him a stern look. “It’s not a joke.”

He stopped laughing. Ann continued.

“There are currently four hundred people, perhaps a little more, occupying this field right now. What if I told you that four
million
people and their full-grown pet elephants could occupy this field comfortably with room to spare? What if I told you that it was the same way with all the space in all the world we know, or we
think
we know today?”

Murgatroyd shook his head. “Cannot be.”

“Ah, but it can!”

“Cannot!” He shook his head again. Murgatroyd rarely expressed open disagreement. He stared down at the ground and he lapsed into heavy Singlish, as he always did when he was nervous. “I know I not so smart one, but how to fit so many?”

Ann didn’t respond. He looked up to find her perfectly still and silent. With her legs crossed and her back so straight, she looked as if she were deep in meditation, except for the fact that her eyes weren’t closed. Or at least her visible eye wasn’t. It was wide open. And it seemed to Murgatroyd as if it were growing more blazingly brilliant and intensely green with each uneasy second that passed.

Then she began to speak. Her voice had changed in quality. It seemed almost as if a low growl was issuing forth from her lips, but it wasn’t husky or scratchy. On the contrary, her voice was devastatingly clear and her words perfectly articulated. And the words she spoke were a sharp knife slicing directly into his heart.

“Murgatroyd, do you remember your first day of school?”

She didn’t pause for an answer, but he found himself nodding anyway.

“You remember the day you went to Uncle Yusuf’s ice cream shop and found it empty?”

He started in amazement. “How did you—” he began, but she still didn’t pause. And her voice grew deeper and darker.

“Remember how you felt when you were running. Running to escape the pain and the humiliation. Running towards the one thing—the only thing—in the world that you knew to be good and true and safe and at home. Do you remember that moment? That moment when your legs felt sore and red and you felt as if you couldn’t breathe anymore and you finally spied Uncle Yusuf’s in the distance? It felt as if you were running home, didn’t it? And as you ran towards it, all the pain—the pain in your bleeding nose, in your aching chest, in the entirety of your puny little body—began to dissolve as it grew closer. All the taunts of those strange boys who hated you for no reason you knew, the sharp sting of your nose being bashed in, the smell of shoe leather and dirt, the metallic taste of your own blood running into your mouth, and more: the fear, the terror of being despised and alone. Utterly alone. All of that began to melt away as you got closer. Closer to Uncle Yusuf. Because in the back of your mind, you knew that he cared for you, and you loved him and you knew he loved you. And so you made your mad dash for the ice cream shop, crazed with pain and grief and misery. And you felt relief already—the foretaste of relief and rest and love washing over you. Sweet relief. And then it hit you. There was something wrong, wasn’t there? You could sense it even several metres away, before you peered into the darkened interior to find it empty. No Uncle Yusuf. No ice cream in the display case. No light. No music drifting from the radio, no glass bowls lined up on the shelves behind the counter, twinkling with cleanliness. Nothing except the unfamiliar packing cartons strewn around the empty floor, a stool in the corner overturned, piles of crumpled newspaper here and there, tools sitting ominously atop the ice cream display case, waiting to dismantle it forever. But most importantly of all, no Uncle Yusuf. He was gone. And you knew somehow, even then, that he was never coming back. Even though you would return periodically for years afterwards, harbouring the hollow hope that all would be restored, that Uncle Yusuf would be there behind the counter to greet you with a wide smile on his face, you knew that he was never coming back. And you felt pain, didn’t you? Pain and sorrow in your stomach, clawing at you from the inside out. You screamed and cried, but it wouldn’t go away. And when all the sound and motion you were capable of left you drained, you curled up into a ball, the shameful taste of tears and blood still under your tongue and in the crevices between your teeth. You knew how alone you were. How alone. You knew how alone
. . .
”

In the time Ann had been speaking, Murgatroyd had quietly clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, held powerless by his bewilderment at this insight into his innermost childhood thoughts and the soft, almost hypnotic voice in which it was delivered. His eyes flew open and he opened his mouth with the vague notion of pleading with her to stop. But they weren’t sitting in the field anymore, and Ann wasn’t sitting beside him.

Where was he? Gradually, his mind reoriented himself. They were still in the field, but someone had exploded it. No, not exploded
. . .
unfolded
it. There was no other way to describe it. It was as if someone had unfolded an origami crane, but instead of smoothing it out flat, had simply let it lie undone with all its intricate folds and creases bared. Great multifaceted structures of dirt and grass, almost crystalline in their angularity, protruded from the ground below. They seemed, inexplicably, to jut unmoored from the sides of the sky and from above. And on this massive three-dimensional structure, he himself was seated. There was nobody in sight. Most every facet of grassy field was bare, but every now and then he could make out a small speck on one of the facets. To his amazement, he realized that these specks were the Filipinas who had been sitting in the field all around him. Some were seated upside down or sideways, but if they were, they didn’t seem to notice. All the sound—the animated chatter and laughter surrounding them—hadn’t changed a bit. And if he concentrated hard enough, he could match the snatches and snippets of conversations to different individuals who were chatting to others over great distances as if only a few centimetres separated them from each other. On one facet, very far away, on the underside of a grassy trapezoidal arch, he could make out the miniscule figure of Ann. And from this miniscule figure came a surprisingly audible voice.