Red Dot Irreal

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© Jason Erik Lundberg 2011, 2012
cover © Keith Brooke

ISBN: 9781301992423

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The moral right of Jason Erik Lundberg to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

First published in print by Math Paper Press in October 2011. Extra stories “Big Chief”, “Occupy: An Exhibition” and “Bachy Soletanche” have been added for this electronic edition.

Electronic Version by Baen Books

Preface

“Irrealism” and “fantastika” are just two faces on the multi-sided die of Non-Realist Literature. This type of literature combines the tropes of fiction that imitates reality (mimetic) with that which explores the magical and unexplainable (fantastic); other labels that have been used at one point or another to describe this kind of cross-genre writing include, among others, magic realism, fabulism, interstitial fiction, and (my personal favorite) slipstream. Teasing out the nuances between these labels, including geospecific applications (magic realism hails from South America, while fantastika originated in Eastern Europe), goes beyond the scope of an author’s preface, and can be accomplished with a cursory Wikipedia search. All of which is to say that however you label it, this is fiction in which the strange is made normal and the normal is made strange.

Which is, perhaps not coincidentally, how I feel about living and working in Singapore.

As of this writing, I have now lived in the equatorial island republic for just over four years, and I am still occasionally taken aback by cultural assumptions that do not match my own. Corporate workers or civil servants are expected to devote their entire lives to their jobs, staying sometimes past seven o’clock in the evening (or later), to the point that the government had to declare “Eat With Your Family Day” so that parents could see their children during dinner time at least once during the year. This mindset (of workaholism, not eating with one’s family) rankles against anyone who values their personal and family time. What good is working 60 hours a week to scrabble after promotions if you can’t take the time to enjoy the fruits of your labors?

I live in Geylang East, a neighborhood only about 20 minutes’ walk from the legal red-light district, an area that hosts as many temples, mosques, and churches as it does brothels, and which gathers some of the best food in the entire country; my Western friends who know of Geylang only connect it with the sex trade, but my Singaporean colleagues and the taxi drivers who may ferry me home don’t bat an eye. That such an area is left to flourish under governmental regulation still feels odd in a place that prides itself on moralistic conservatism.

Artistic endeavors are highly touted for their cultural importance and prestige, but whenever an art exhibit or theatrical run or dance event is covered in the newspapers, they are primarily assessed for their supposed monetary worth and/or the attention garnered for the country’s tourism (which further translates into dollar value). For a nation that yearns to be a centre of arts and culture in Southeast Asia, like Renaissance Venice, it is dispiriting to see so much focus on these more vulgar concerns rather than on aesthetic appreciation.

But, as readers of speculative fiction are probably already aware, the world can always be made stranger, and that’s what I’ve attempted to do with this humble collection of stories. Bookended by longer fictions, with various shorter pieces inbetween,
Red Dot Irreal
is a palindrome in terms of story lengths, and an outsider’s exploration of what it means to live in this part of the world. Four years is still too few to get a handle on one’s destination of migration, but it is enough to reveal how I have been changed by the experience.

Thanks go to Karen Wai and Kenny Leck for having faith in my writing and agreeing to originally publish this volume in dead tree format, and for running the best independent literary bookshop in Singapore; to Toh Hsien Min and Yeow Kai Chai for publishing several of these pieces in
Quarterly Literary Review Singapore
, and for making me feel like a legitimate member of Singapore’s literary community; to Bill Schafer and Daren Shiau & Lee Wei Fen for separately buying two of these stories and allowing them to be published here first; to Rudi Dornemann for establishing the long-running website
The Daily Cabal
and inviting me to submit my flash fiction as a contribution. But most importantly, I must thank my wife, Janet Jia-Ee Chui, for introducing me to her homeland eight years ago, and our daughter Anya, for showing it to me through new eyes every single day; I am ever-inspired by their love and their ways of looking at the world.

Jason Erik Lundberg

June 2011, Singapore

Bogeymen

Pain, sharp. A pull, a tugging sensation, as if my soul has been spun thin, to be siphoned through the chamber of the barrel. I am being drained. I am drowning.

~

My eighteenth birthday. Father sits in his favorite high-backed chair by the fireplace, stolid, unmoving, hostage to his back injuries, quietly sipping sherry. Mother weeps into her handkerchief; a blue M.D. is embroidered in its corner. The white linen soon grows grey from her tears. I guide her to the other chair before she falls down from grief; her body is so frail these days.

“I’ll return soon,” I say, and her sobs grow louder. I feel racked with guilt; I’ve only just returned from my schooling in London the week before, and now I must leave again. “The East Indies are not so far away.”

“My baby boy, my baby boy,” is all that she can gasp between breaths.

“I must do this, Mother, to prove to myself that I am now a man.”

Father grunts and says, “What’s the name of this ship of yours?”

“
The Swift
,” I say. I want to correct him—it is not my ship, I’ll only be working as captain’s scrivener—but I dare not. Father’s temper is short these days.

“Good name,” he says.

“Mister Brooke chose me himself,” I tell Mother. It is a point of pride, that out of seven applicants, I was picked by the ship’s patron for such a noteworthy position. It is clear that the headmaster’s recommendation was a boon, but I am confident that it was my skills and experience that won over my new employer. “I’ll be recording Captain Kennedy’s log entries. It is a very important post.”

Mother looks up at me, eyes shining. “You were always good at your letters.”

Father lumbers out of his chair with help from his cane, and shuffles across the Oriental rug, his steps slow and deliberate; the pain must be particularly bad today. Were it not for my mother, his wishes would not even be made known to the servants, as they fear his wrath in the midst of such agony, and hide from his threats and insults in the far corners of the house. His hand is heavy on my shoulder.

“I’ve just one piece of advice for you, my boy,” he says. “Be wary of the Bugis.”

I cannot help but smile. “Father, the Bogeyman is a story told to make children behave. I am no longer a child.”

“Where you’re going, boy, the Bugis are no children’s story. A very real danger, Henry, and you’d best not forget it.”

“Yes, sir,” I say and Father pulls me into a quick unexpected embrace. He pats me on the back, then returns to his chair. Mother stands and grips me tightly. I kiss her on the cheek and whisper reassurances, but she can say no more.

“Have Charles drive you down to the wharf,” Father says. “Experience a last indulgence before plunging into honest work.”

“Thank you, sir, but no. It’s too much trouble to prepare the horses at this hour, and I prefer to walk. Two miles is not too far.”

He grunts, says, “Suit yourself,” and lifts his hand in a small wave. I heft my rucksack before Mother can detain me further, and depart, closing the front door behind me. I hear her sobs outside, down the path to the main road, over the cobbled streets, echoing throughout the Brighton docks, all the way to my destination.

~

I cannot stop heaving. It is incomprehensible to me that the crew can keep their feet in such turbulent waters. They laugh at me behind my back, then assure me I’ll soon gain my sea legs. I do not know whether to believe them.

The smell is at times overpowering. Wet hemp, pitch, sea salt, fish oil, and the increased odor of unwashed bodies. I myself have not yet become accustomed to the nigh-constant sweating, the oily dirty sensation of life at sea. Several of the men display the signs of scurvy, irregular spots that decorate the skin; I hoard the several clementines that Mother packed in my rucksack, rationing them by wedges until I can find more.

I ponder the possibility that I have made a horrible mistake in accepting this post.

Still, Captain Kennedy is an extraordinary man. He commands the crew with confidence and foresight, although quick to temper. Insubordination results in time spent in the brig and wages docked; a second offense sends one overboard to the depths and Devil Jonah. As such, he keeps a tight ship and an obedient crew.

My scrivening duties are not yet begun, as I am still incapable of concentrating on pen and paper in my current nauseated state.

The captain’s cabin, being in the exact center of the ship, is the most stable spot, and Captain Kennedy has set up a corner of the room with hammock and shelves as my living quarters, so that I will be easily accessible to log entries at a moment’s notice. Other crew members have given me the evil eye, and make remarks behind my back loud enough that there can be no doubt were meant to be heard, accusing me of becoming the captain’s new pet, his toady, or his whore. However these words may impugn my good name, I dare not retaliate; I am still the newest member of the crew, and the youngest, and it would be no bother for these work-hardened men to see me disappeared over the side. As of now, having not yet made visible contribution, I would not be missed.

I must soon conquer this queasy stomach and prove myself to the captain. It is the only way to begin earning my keep and gain the respect of the crew.

~

Time has ceased to be measured. How long has it been since we set sail from Brighton? Weeks? Months? Each day bleeds into the next. My sea legs have thankfully extended themselves, and I have dutifully recorded the captain’s daily dictations in the days since. Captain Kennedy still writes the date at the top of each entry, a marking of the time for himself. It is an odd sensation, that I can read the date but still not believe it.

The crew pass the time with games of dice or tales of bawdy encounters in ports the world over. I remain belowdecks, poring over the captain’s atlases. He has spent considerable time in the East Indies, and has acquired a voracious appetite for knowledge of the various peoples there. Maps of Malacca, Penang, and the various other sultanates of Malaya occupy an entire shelf.

The captain has also begun to instruct me in the craft of navigation, so that I may chart our progress. I rarely see the rest of the crew now, and it is as I prefer. A solitary being I have always been, and I create fantasies of the lands we are soon to visit whilst swinging in my hammock. I no longer care that the crew sees me in a position of privilege. I am content surrounded by worlds of imagination.

The call comes from above. Tomorrow we round the Cape of Good Hope. Several sailors remark on the possibility of viewing
The Flying Dutchman
, the ghost ship that is condemned to haunt these waters. A foolish bedtime story, but the men are the most superstitious lot I have yet seen.

~

Tempests plague our journey, as if following us from the cape. Our entry into the Indian Ocean has brought a constant rain, and if the retching sounds above are any indication, it seems I am not the only man suffering from increased nausea. The sea and wind toss
The Swift
about as if we were the prey of a particularly sadistic feline. I can only remain supine in my hammock.

Captain Kennedy enters the cabin, sodden, out of sorts. “Boy, log,” he says.

I stagger out of the hammock and drag myself to the large wooden desk covered with the maps and navigating tools, open the logbook, dip my quill in the inkwell, and press nib to paper.

“We make good time to Ceylon,” he says, “though my crew grow restless. The continual storms dampen their spirits and their health. I have now lost three men to dysentery, good men, strong in the rigging, and they were given burials at sea. Our stores have dwindled to half-capacity. At Ceylon we shall resupply and take on fresh crew. Then, into the straits. Lord help us if we encounter the Sea Dayaks or the Bugis.”

The latter name induces a powerful tremor, but if the captain notices, he makes no mention of it. We may soon face pirates, and what shall I do then? Face them with my pen?

~

Relief. I needn’t have worried. We passed successfully and uneventfully, if rain-soaked, through the Strait of Malacca, and have at long last dropped anchor in the port of Singapura. An incredibly efficient harbor, in constant motion as cargo is loaded, unloaded, marked in ledgers, inventoried, inspected. Much clanging and sawing in the wharf. Fishing boats, junks, and small canvas-covered boats from the Chinese, Dutch, and Portuguese queue in the port waters. Above us fly a welter of colorful tropical birds, the like I’ve never before seen, sporting rashes of blues, reds, and greens. Our benefactor, Mister James Brooke, greets us at the quay, bounding down the dock in silks and finery I have only dreamt of, sporting a waistcoat the hue of freshly spilt blood.

He greets the captain as if an old friend, although I have been privy to Captain Kennedy’s none-too-subtle grumblings concerning our employer. The captain performs the necessary social niceties, a false front under which can be detected annoyance and impatience. He does, however, provide the ship’s owner with a detailed report of our travel from England, and assures him that the delivered consignment is undamaged and all accounted for.

“And this must be the young scrivener I hired,” Mister Brooke says and takes my hand in both of his. His palms are large and muscular, engulfing my own.

“Henry Davenport, sir,” I say.

“Yes,” Captain Kennedy says, “the boy has been most helpful.”

“Wonderful, wonderful!” Mister Brooke says. “I’ve recently acquired something that will revolutionize your profession, my boy. Come. Words cannot describe it. Action, action!”

He steps lively away from the ship, the captain and I pulled in his wake. We are led through the warehouse district, where native coolies carry goods on their backs and their British and Chinese masters loudly instruct their directions, an area occupied by nets and wooden casks and retired fishing boats now used for storage, into the merchant quarter, full of exotic produce and the sharp smells of spices in the air, and through a small village of stilt-raised huts with simple thatched roofs and men and women in varying stages of poverty, up a dusty thoroughfare to an immense timber dwelling under construction, surrounded by bamboo scaffolding upon which hundreds of workers dance or hang paper lanterns in Moorish windows, topped with a dome of gold. My breath escapes me; it is simply the most beautiful structure I have ever seen.

“My home away from home,” Mister Brooke says, and winks. “Well, one of them anyway.”

Inside, on the walls, scrolls of exquisite Asian beauty, punctuated by those odd Chinese vertical pictographs. At intervals along the floor stand a variety of stone statues, no more than waist-high, of figures both ordinary and demonic. And sitting grandly within an intricate shrine decorated in gold and precious jewels is a jolly bald fat man with a large sack, holding in one hand a coin with a square hole in it. Underneath him is a great flower, petals splayed outward.

“The Buddha,” Mister Brooke says, and bows to the fat man, hands pressed in prayer to his forehead. Captain Kennedy sniggers, and Mister Brooke turns to him, eyes wild. “You may not believe in him, Captain, but if you please, in my own house, do me the courtesy of not disparaging him.”

“I mean no offense, sir,” the captain says. “I only wish to point out that this is not the Buddha.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A common mistake. This is Hotei, a buddha of prosperity and wealth, as indicated by his sack that never goes empty. The image of this deity has become conflated with the actual Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama, and often local merchants either don’t know the difference, or choose not tell the entire truth during transactions. But I assure you, sir, this is not him.”

“Enough,” Mister Brooke says. “I did not hire you to tutor me on culture, seadog. Return to the ship and await further orders from me.”

For once, the captain has nary a word to say, but rage at this casual dismissal seethes beneath the surface. I have grown to realize that the best course of action when Captain Kennedy is in such a mood is to simply stay out of the man’s way. As he stomps from the room and out of the front entrance, I in no way envy the other crew members of
The Swift
who will have to endure his wrath.

Mister Brooke turns to me, and smiles. I am pinned under his expression of triumph, of confidence, of power.

“So,” he says, “now that he’s gone, shall we continue?”

Mister Brooke leads me through a passage to a locked door. On its surface are written words in an unknown language, possibly that of the native workers outside, as well as a skull and crossbones painted in white. The intent is clear: no trespassing. He produces a key, unlocks the door, and ushers me inside. A single candle resting on a table in the center of the small room is the only illumination, and the details of what is located at the room’s perimeter are obscured by the darkness. I briefly wonder if he lit the candle before meeting us at the docks, and why he would do such a wasteful thing as to expend tallow and wax. Two chairs are stationed at the low table; he is seated in one, and motions me to do the same in the other.

Also on the table is a small wooden chest, inscribed with sigils and pictorial symbols. From the same iron key ring he unlocks the chest and opens the lid. Within lies an odd-looking pistol, constructed completely of metal, its barrel flared out into a bell, along with seven small cylindrical amber glass bottles.

“What do you think, lad?”

“Very impressive, sir.”

“You have no idea what this is, do you?”

“It isn’t a gun?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “The Illanun traders called it
senapang kenangan
. It translates to something like ‘memory gun.’ Come, I saw it demonstrated but need to know myself if it works.”

Mister Brooke removes his wig. His natural hair color is a rich chestnut brown; it suits him far more than the powdered wigs in current fashion. He extracts the gun and one of the glass bottles from the chest, then slides the bottle into a hollow in the side of the gun’s handle. He places it in my hands; the metal is cool and light.

“Make sure that lever there is set in the backward position,” he says, “so that it points toward you.”