Carpe Diem (9 page)

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Authors: Autumn Cornwell

BOOK: Carpe Diem
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I bid him good morning with a perky
“Selamat pagi!”
“Malaysian good, very good!”
 
Look at how with just a little effort on my part, I can bond effortlessly with the locals, Sarah thought.
 
“Everyone here speaks some English,” said the backpacker in a seen-it-all-done-it-all voice.
I ignored him.
“Welcome! Welcome to Mr. Tee-Tee's Villa! I am Mr. Tee-Tee! Please enter my home!” he croaked at us. What few teeth he had were gold. His brown slacks and brown button-down shirt with button-down pockets gave the impression he was on safari.
“Behold my humble home, which I have opened up for
the enlightenment of our most welcome foreign guests. Please remove all shoes. I thank you.” His head barely came up to my shoulder.
The backpacker slipped off his sandals in seconds, leaving me struggling to untie my Spring-Zs. Each room opened off an open-air central patio. The floors were teak (surprise), and the decor was a hodgepodge of traditional Malay and 1920s furniture.
A sign read: PHOTOGRAPHY DISALLOWED.
As the backpacker examined the black-and-white vintage photos on the wall, Mr. Tee-Tee nudged me and hissed, “You stay after he go. I give you present.”
A present? I was intrigued. Mr. Tee-Tee was a bit strange—but a gift from another land? What a nice souvenir that would make.
Mr. Tee-Tee gave us a detailed tour of his abode. The master bedroom was elaborately decked out in emerald green, camellia pink, and royal blue silks interwoven with gold thread. An enormous carved wooden bed with a canopy took up almost the entire room. Two ornate Malaysian gowns were spread across it, complete with gold slippers and ornate headdresses. Mr. Tee-Tee heard my soft intake of breath. He whispered, “Want to wear? You pretty-pretty in traditional Malaysian wedding gown. After he go, you wear gown, sit on bed, take photo!”
I backed away. “No, thank you.”
Mr. Tee-Tee looked hurt. “Many lady wear gown, sit on bed, take photo … . So sad, so sad. Where you from?”
“Seattle.”
“Ah, American. ‘Raindrops Keep Following on My Head'!” he crooned, his gold teeth glinting at me. His breath smelled like limes.
The backpacker elbowed in front of me and addressed Mr. Tee-Tee. “I'm from Toronto, where a friend recommended your place to—”
Mr. Tee-Tee took the backpacker by the elbow and steered him smoothly out the front door, giving him just enough time to grab his sandals. “Bye-bye! Come again!”
“But—”
“Bye-bye! Come again!” The screen door closed firmly behind him. Without missing a beat, Mr. Tee-Tee took my elbow and steered me through a doorway.
“And now—bumpety, bumpety, bump!—the moment you waiting for! Present!” We entered a 1950s-era kitchen that seemed frozen in time. The baby blue linoleum was worn and the yellow countertop was peeling, but the effect was still the same. He gallantly waved me into one of the modern white plastic chairs wedged around a Formica table.
“Mango juice, yes?”
“Uh, no ice, please.”
“Mr. Tee-Tee's ice very okay.” He handed me a striped plastic Tupperware cup filled with a bright pink beverage. I sipped it gingerly. “Sugarcane make sweet,” he said.
Mr. Tee-Tee hummed merrily as he puttered around his kitchen. Soon the smell of toast filled the room.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“Present!” He placed a red plastic plate on the table in front of me. It was a grilled cheese sandwich with a heart shape cut out of it—which the red of the plate turned into a perfect valentine. “For you steal Mr. Tee-Tee's heart!”
I was flattered. How cute was he? And now that I thought about it, I
was
hungry. I took a bite. Cheddar cheese and white bread. The familiar taste was comforting. What a sweet old gentleman with a romantic streak—I stiffened, mid-chew. Mr. Tee-Tee was
nibbling my ear!
My right ear! Ineptly, of course, because of his lack of teeth, but nibbling nonetheless! Was
this
the real present? Or was he mistaking me for a piece of toast? With a little shriek, I leaped to my feet and clamped a hand over my moist ear and shouted (a touch garbled by the bread and cheese):
“Berhenti!”
Mr. Tee-Tee seemed genuinely startled as I backed through the kitchen door into the foyer, where I snatched up my Spring-Zs. He followed me, his expression crestfallen like a toddler deprived of his toy.
“So fast? But first wear gown, sit on bed, take photo—”
“No! I will not wear gown, sit on bed, take photo! I'm leaving.”
“Maybe you have sister who wear gown, sit on bed—”
“No!”
“But you did not finish your present!”
I didn't even stop to put on my Spring-Zs as I escaped through the front screen door and into the street.
Sarah's mind whirled: Is this what's in store for me!? Gummy old men seducing me with cheese sandwiches, then drooling all over my ears? Wanting to segue into impromptu and inappropriate photo sessions? After this, I'm definitely sticking to my guidebooks!
 
I ran down the dirt road in my socks, sidestepping chickens and leaping over potholes, until I came to a busy street. Just as I started to cross—something whizzed over my head, pinned my arms to my body, and pulled me out of the line of a speeding taxi.
Roped!
“No need to thank me, little lady,” came the carefully manufactured drawl of Hanks. “All in a day's work.”
There he was—sideburns, cowboy hat, boots, and all.
I was so furious at being treated like a heifer, I couldn't even speak. Through clenched teeth, I finally managed, “Let. Me. Go.”
“Pretty darn good aim, don't you think? Especially since I was standin' way over yonder by the laundry—”
“Let me go!”
I did not relish providing amusement for the passing Malaysians and tourists.
“Whoa, there. Simmer down,” Hanks said as he loosened his lasso. I quickly pulled the rope over my head, whipped it out of his hand, and threw it into the brown river in one smooth move.
“Hey!”
Without speaking, I turned and strode down the road, searching desperately for an available trishaw. Where were they now that I needed one?
“Now that wasn't very nice,” came his voice behind me.
“Lassoing someone isn't very nice.”
“All righty. Next time I won't save your life.”
I ignored him and just walked faster. But I could hear the
click-click
of his boots right behind me.
“That was my favorite lasso.”
“I'm sooo sorry.”
“Don't sound like it.”
I waved my arms wildly at a passing trishaw. Occupied.
“What are those?” Hanks pointed at the Spring-Zs I was carrying. “Are they for real?”
“They're extremely comfortable walking shoes.”
“I think they'd work better on your feet.” He grabbed my arm. “Whoa. You better put them on or someone's gonna need a tetanus shot.”
That got me. I leaned against a
kedai
wall to put them on.
“Next time you wanna visit Mr. Tee-Tee the Ear Nibbler, let me know,” he said. “I'll escort you.”
“What? You mean he's done that to other girls? That's disgusting. In America, he'd be arrested.”
“He's just senile. And has a thing for a pretty gal's ears—especially if she's Thai or Dutch. He probably thought you were college age. You know, your height adds a few years.”
“Uh-huh.” I finished tying my Spring-Zs, then pressed
record on my PTP: “June 4th, 2:15 p.m. Note to self: Report one Mr. Tee-Tee of Mr. Tee-Tee's Villa to the local auth—”
“Cheer up. The old geezer thinks you're a looker—”
“Excuse me!?” I clicked the off button.
“I said
looker
—”
The Muslim call to prayer sounded. I turned to see we were standing right in front of a mosque. But Hanks didn't seem to notice.
“Aren't you going to …” I gestured toward the mosque.
“Uh, I'm Chinese. As in Buddhist. Not that I'm practicin'.”
“Oh. Right. Chinese Malay.”
“Yep. Then we got the Indian Malay who are Hindu—”
“And the Malay Malay. The real Malaysians.”
“You could say that. Got many Asians in Seattle?” Was he trying to hide a smile?
“I live in Port Ann, across the Puget Sound from Seattle, and take the ferry to the Seattle Academy of Academic Excellence.” Then: “Did I say something funny?”
“Nope. Any Asians in Port Ann?”
“Why wouldn't there be?”
I tried to hail a second trishaw. Occupied.
“Do you know any?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“What?” I said, stalling for time. Who did I know?
“Who do you know?”
“Mrs. Kawasaki!” I said triumphantly. “Laurel's piano teacher.”
“That's one.”
“I'm sorry, there just aren't that many different ethnicities in Port Ann.”
“Uh-huh …” Again, he tried to hide a smile but failed. What did he find so funny? Was he mocking me?
I rummaged around in my briefcase for a Handi Wipe and thoroughly cleaned my right ear.
“What are you doin'?” he asked, this time not hiding his laugh.
“I'm not taking any chances.”
He shook his head and unwrapped a sucker. “Chupa?”
“No, thanks.” Then: “Are you following me?”
He rubbed his pointed sideburns and squinted into the distance, his eyes becoming crescents. On his right hand he wore a silver horseshoe ring. The muscles of his upper body rippled under his blue cowboy shirt with white piping.
He ever so slightly gestured with his fingers, palm side down. Within seconds a trishaw a block away pulled up in front of us. After helping me onto the red vinyl seat and handing me my briefcase, he spoke to the driver. Then he turned to me, shifting the sucker to the side of his mouth, the white stick sticking out like a cigarette.
“He's takin' you to MCT, little lady.”
“How did you know—” But the trishaw already pulled away.
The “Artist” at Work
M
odern component technologies was located on the edge of town in a white modern building flanked by two ornate colonial-era hotels. The trishaw deposited me at the front entrance. Now why did Grandma Gerd want me to meet her here, of all places?
Sanitizing my ear with a second Handi Wipe, I rushed through the glass doors into a giant lobby with black-and-beige modular furniture, potted palms, chrome wall sconces, and an oversize stone-slab coffee table. There across the room in front of a huge bare wall was Grandma Gerd standing with her hands on her hips, head tilted to the side, watching three men in white smocks brush a clear, gooey substance on the concrete.
A tall, forty-something Japanese man with grey-streaked hair and a 1960s-style suit watched Grandma Gerd as he smoked. There was evidence he'd worn a tie earlier in the day, but it had since disappeared. His face was worn and thin, with a dark smudge under each eye.
“Hey, kiddo,” said Grandma Gerd. “Just in time to see us prep the wall—”
“We need to call the police!”
“Police? What are you talking about?”
“First I need to use the restroom. Urgently.” I threw the Handi Wipe into a nearby pedestal ashtray.
“Breakfast disagreeing with you?”
“No, I need to wash my ear with soap and hot water.
Really
hot water.”
She and the Japanese man exchanged looks, laughed, and said in unison, “The Ear Nibbler.”
I stared at them. “How did you know?”
“Everyone in Melaka knows Mr. Tee-Tee,” said Grandma Gerd. “He's an institution around here. Gives female tourists something to write home about.”
“It's not funny.
Anything
could have happened—”
“In Melaka? The only place safer would be the Vatican.”
Let her get accosted by a dental-challenged reprobate and see how it feels!
She smiled. “Believe me, you wouldn't be telling the police anything they don't already know.”
“Why don't I show her where the restroom is,” said the Japanese man. His voice was languid and mellow, like an overnight DJ's.
Grandma Gerd said to me: “This is Renjiro Sato, a Tokyo transplant. Co-owns Modern Component Technology with Zaki Biki, a local. He's the one commissioning this collage.”
Renjiro meticulously extinguished his cigarette in a small silver box, slid it closed, slipped it into his front breast
pocket, then shook my hand. His bony fingers were lightly yellowed with nicotine.
“Pleased to meet you …?”
“Vassar.”
“Vassar.” Then: “So, Gertrude, is this your—”
“Granddaughter,” Grandma Gerd said. “Sure is. She just flew in yesterday.” She gestured toward the wall. “I wanted her to be able to visualize where the found art, photos, and stuff would be going. Fifty feet by twenty feet is a whole lotta space to fill, eh, kiddo?”
She was right about that. It would take quite a few strips of linoleum.
So this was her big art commission. And he was the sucker paying for it.
As Renjiro led me to the restroom, he pointed to a row of artwork on the wall at the opposite end of the lobby, each piece made out of hundreds of tiny silver and copper pieces.
“What do you think of those?”
“Close up, they seem haphazard. But from a distance, a picture appears. This one's a jungle scene, right?”
“Gertrude will be pleased.”
“You mean …?”
“These are the first pieces I commissioned from her.”
I was surprised. Little of Grandma Gerd's art appealed to me. I couldn't get past the raw materials of the collages (bottle caps, twigs, shoe insoles) to see the creation.
“These are nothing like her normal work. I've never seen metal in her collages before,” I said.
“Those are test chips that we would normally melt down for scrap. They're semiconductors, which are—”
“Oh, I know all about semiconductors,” I said.
“How refreshing to find someone your age so informed. In any case, it was her idea to recycle them.” He smiled at me, his eyes crinkling. “Your grandmother is an extremely talented woman. She has her own original take on things. Not to say I like everything she has done. The five throat lozenges glued to five slices of stale white bread entitled
Bread Coughs
was not to my taste.”
I gazed at him. Maybe he wasn't a sucker after all.
“If Gertrude's collage turns out as good as we hope, I know two other businessmen interested in designs for their corporate headquarters.”
So Grandma Gerd's art career wasn't just in her head.
I followed Renjiro through the side door, down a gleaming grey hallway.
“How did you meet my grandma?”
“In one of her ESL classes. It took months to unlearn what she taught me.”
We passed a conference room—and there was Hanks, balancing on a stool, hanging a banner that read: MODERN COMPONENT TECHNOLOGIES WELCOMES YOU! He was sans cowboy hat and wearing a white smock with a blue MCT logo. But he still wore his boots. I could now see that his black hair was cut in a pompadour: short on the sides, full in the front.
What was he doing here? How did he get here so fast? Why was he everywhere I was?
Renjiro paused. “Hello, Hanks. I see your father has you busy preparing for the conference.”
Hanks pivoted around on the stool. “Yes, sir.” Then to me: “Hello, Spore. You made it. No more ear run-ins?”
“Mr. Sato, Miss Spore.” The flat tones were unmistakable. Hanks visibly tensed as Henry Lee, Sr. walked in wearing a white smock and carrying a rolled-up plastic banner. He nodded at me, his wire-rimmed spectacles glinting. “Are you enjoying your visit?”
“Yes, thank—”
“Junior! The right side is higher than the left.” The lines on either side of his nose deepened. “You must make an effort.”
“Yes, sir,” said Hanks in a flat tone that mirrored his dad's.
Mr. Lee watched him straighten the banner, his lips pursed. Then he unrolled his banner: THANK YOU, MR. FIELD REPS! OVER MILLION MACHINE SOLD!
“Hurry!”
He muttered under his breath and rapidly rolled it back up.
“Junior, return this. Tell them they have two hours to correct it before the opening night party or Mr. Sato will not pay for it.”
“Yes, sir.” Hanks climbed down off the stool, took the banner, but avoided eye contact with his dad. He nodded at us as he walked out the door.
“Poor Hanks,” said Renjiro in an undertone as we
continued toward the restrooms. “If only his father weren't so set on him becoming an engineer.”
“Isn't he too young?”
“This is just an internship for the summer. However, it is the last place Hanks would like to be. I attempted to convince his father that he is not the type to—” He broke off and sighed. “But it is futile to disagree with determined parents.” He pointed. “The restrooms.”
After scouring my ear with hot water, I sat in the MCT lobby typing up my day's experiences before they could fade in intensity. I had ample time while I waited for Grandma Gerd to finish her “prepping.” Just wait till Denise, Amber, and Laurel read the chapter about the Ear Nibbler! But if Mom ever found out: Breakdown #2.
 
While I got ready for bed that night, I decided to be straightforward with Grandma Gerd. “I'm sixteen. I don't need a babysitter.”
“What's the matter? You don't like Hanks?”
“It's not a matter of whether I like him or not. This is about the fact you think I need watching.”
She was scribbling in her Everything Book while I washed my face—once again giving special attention to my right ear.
“Hey, I promised your parents I'd keep an eye on you at all times.” Then she laughed and held up her Everything Book: a detailed sketch of me with a shocked look on my face and a perfect caricature of Mr. Tee-Tee daintily nibbling my ear—complete with glinting gold teeth.
“Very funny.” I dried my face. “Anyway, I think Hanks is strange—not to mention annoying.”
I drank the rest of my Pepsi before I brushed my teeth. Weird aftertaste. I'd heard that soda manufacturers often changed their recipes for different regions of the world. Well, I sure didn't like the Malaysian Pepsi version.
Grandma Gerd examined my face. “I think it's time for you to hit the hay. We're leaving for Cambodia first thing tomorrow.”
“What? Tomorrow? I just got here. When am I supposed to explore Malaysia?”
“On the backend—after Cambodia and Laos. Take it from me, you'll appreciate the rest after Laos.”
“What do you mean?”
“All in good time,” she intoned mysteriously.
If Grandma Gerd's purpose was to pique my interest, it wasn't working. It succeeded only in irritating.
“Well, a little advance warning would have been nice! I have tons of packing to do! And which bags will I—”
“You'll have time in the morning.”
“But—”
“Tomorrow.” Her voice was firm.
Well, I
was
getting sleepy. Really sleepy. The day's adventures had obviously depleted me.
I brushed my teeth, flossed, and climbed into bed.
“Sweet dreams,” she said.

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