The Rose of Singapore (19 page)

“Speak for yourself. My man has money and a good business,” said Betty.

“So what are you doing here?” asked Lai Ming coldly. “I thought your pimp is your boyfriend. It is because of you that he has money. My boyfriend is not a pimp.”

“And he does not know that you are a whore, I suppose,” smirked Betty.

Before Lai Ming could answer, a fat man with a codfish-like face, thinning grey hair, perhaps in his late sixties, and dressed in a white tropical business suit and a gaudy red tie, waddled from the crowded bar and flowed his flabby body onto the small circular dance floor. As if surveying cattle at an auction, his leering eyes quickly scanned the ring of about thirty girls seated at little tables surrounding the dance floor of the Butterfly Club. Spotting Betty, he lurched over to where she sat and said in a drunken voice, “Hi, baby. How's my little girl tonight?”

“Walter!” shrieked a suddenly very much alive Betty. “Where the fuck have you been?” she shouted in English. “I didn't know you were in town. Come and sit down. Buy me a drink. Have one yourself,” and she reached up and grabbed the fat man by the arm and pulled him down into the vacant seat between her and Lai Ming. For the clients' benefit, the girls were not allowed to sit next to each other. They had to leave every other seat vacant for the guests. That was the club policy.

A dainty Chinese waitress immediately swooped down on the trio with a tray at the ready.

“Canadian Club and ginger for me, and a drink each for these two girls,” the fat man wheezed.

“Thanks, Walter. Two champagnes,” ordered Betty.

The waitress smiled, sashayed back to the bar, and within minutes returned with the Canadian Club and ginger, and two glasses of very weak carbonated tea.

Walter, an import-export agent, whether drunk or sober, was always generous to the ladies. “Put it on my tab, Lilly, and the usual twenty percent for you, honey,” he said, making an unsuccessful grab at Lilly's firm little ass.

Slipping away from his groping hand, the waitress gave him an even bigger smile as she lilted in pidgin English, “Tank you. You make velly good time at Butterfly Cub.”

“I always have a good time at the Butterfly Club,” said Walter, and raising his glass, he sang out, “All the breast. Hey! Talking about breasts, Betty, I'd like to go suck on yours. How about you and me shacking up tonight?”

“Whenever you're ready,” replied Betty. In Chinese she said to Lai Ming, “I told you it's the ones who have money that count. Not a penniless boy with a hard-on.”

Lai Ming ignored her remarks.

Walter downed his Canadian Club and ginger in a couple of gulps, then turning to Lai Ming, he said, “Please excuse us, lady. Betty's the best piece of ass between here and Houston. So I'm gonna enjoy another piece of it. Always do when I'm in town.”

Lai Ming smiled but made no reply. Her thoughts and her eyes were on a blond-haired, bean-pole of a man who had at that moment entered the club entrance. She recognized him immediately as one of her frequent and better-paying clients. She got up from her seat, nodded a goodbye to Walter and Betty who were about to leave, left her drink on the table, and hurried over to where Maxwell, an American sailor, stood eyeing the girls.

“Hello, Maxel,” she said in a demure voice. She could never pronounce Maxwell. It never came out right.

“Rose! How are you? Christ! Was I hoping to see you here. I lost your home address. How's my lovely little Butterfly girl?”

“I am well, Maxel,” Lai Ming replied, a radiant smile on her face. “And now I am happy because I see you again. Please, come, sit down with me.” She led the man to a vacant table that was furthest away from the now crowded dance floor.

The same waitress as before pounced on them. “You like drinky?” she asked.

“I'll have a Ding, Ding and Dong,” laughed Maxwell. “What's your poison, Rose? Your usual watered down tea?”

“No Ding, Ding and Dong,” the waitress apologized. “Ding, Ding and Dong Hong Kong beer. No Three Bells beer in Singapore. Here, Tiger beer.”

“Oh, shucks, I forgot. Yeah, I'll have a Tiger beer. And get a drink for the lady. God, it's good to see you again, Rose,” said Maxwell, catching hold her hands, looking longingly into her eyes and laughing. “You're as beautiful as ever.”

“Thank you,” said Lai Ming. She liked Maxwell. He was a bit loud but he was a kind and generous man. He had often talked to her about a wife and two children somewhere miles away in America. But he was a sailor, often far from home and needing female companionship. “When did your ship arrive in Singapore?” Lai Ming asked.

“Yesterday morning. I looked for you last night but couldn't find you. I thought I'd find you here. God, it sure is great to see you again, Rose.”

“Thank you,” said Lai Ming. “I am happy to see you, too, Maxel.”

Maxwell Clinton, the radio officer aboard the general cargo carrier, the MV Southern Star, flying the flag of Panama, but owned by an American company, had been to sea almost all his adult life. When ashore he appreciated the niceties taken for granted by landlubbers; for example, a good woman. He knew a good woman when he found one, and Rose happened to be one of them. During the past two years he had paid several visits to her home, generally for a two- or three-day period. He was never drunk, always a gentleman and also very generous with his money. Lai Ming wished all the men she took to her home were like Maxwell.

She smiled. “How much time will your ship stay in Singapore?” she asked.

“She's out of the water. We're having a paint job done on her from stem to stern. Yesterday they hauled her, scraped her bottom and cleaned all the rust and barnacles off her. Today they'll finish cleaning her, then they'll be painting her with antifouling paint. The job won't be finished for at least another three days, so how about I stay with you until she's ready to be put back into the water? I could stay until Monday evening, or perhaps even until Tuesday morning.”

The waitress brought their drinks. Maxwell paid for them while Lai Ming gave thought to his suggestion. Two weeks had passed since Peter had been so ill. Since then she had enjoyed his almost daily visits and his passionate, insatiable lovemaking. She delighted in every minute he spent with her and she begrudged him nothing, but because of his frequent visits she was losing a considerable amount of business, and that meant loss of money. It was now eleven in the evening; Peter had returned to camp at midday. She had told him she would be entertaining her son for a few days, Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights being her busiest times of the week. Monday was her slowest, therefore she had asked him not to visit her until Monday afternoon. Peter, however, had told her that he was on late shift on Monday, so would not be able to visit her until Tuesday afternoon. It would work out perfectly, she decided. Maxwell could stay with her until Monday, or even until Tuesday morning if he so wished, and the money he paid her would make up for much that she had failed to earn because of Peter's visits.

“You stay at my home how much time you like. We go when you ready, Maxel,” she said. “I want make you happy when you come Singapore.”

“Attagirl,” said Maxwell, getting to his feet and towering over her. Stretching forth his big hands, he took her dainty hands in his and pulled her to her feet. “Screw the beer,” he said. “Come on doll-baby. Let's go.” And hand in hand they walked out of the Butterfly Club and climbed into a waiting taxi.

Later, up in Lai Ming's room, Maxwell kicked off his shoes. “That's better,” he said, smiling to Lai Ming. “It's great to be back.”

Lai Ming acknowledged his remarks with smiles and an approving nod of her head. And when Maxwell removed his jacket, she took it from him and hung it on a hanger in the wardrobe. He then took off his perspiration soaked shirt, which she took and draped over the back of a chair. The
amah
would wash the shirt and his socks and underwear in the morning.

Although Maxwell had not visited Lai Ming in almost six months, he felt quite at home in her little apartment. Everything looked the same, just as he remembered it, even the pillows with ‘Good Morning' embroidered on the snow-white cloth, and the dressing table, with the family photograph of Lai Ming, her late husband and the sleeping baby, as well as others of shots of Lai Ming, under the glass top. All appeared to be the same as before. No, there was a difference, an addition. Another photograph had been slipped under the glass and was now the centrepiece, a photograph of a smiling young white youth with a protective arm lovingly around the waist of a happily smiling Lai Ming. Maxwell studied the photo for some moments. Obviously the pair knew each other intimately, as both appeared to be so blissfully happy.

Reaching even lower than Maxwell's navel now that she had taken off her high-heeled shoes, Lai Ming looked up and into the other's face with inquiring interest.

“Your boyfriend?” he asked, tapping on the glass top above the photograph.

“Yes,” Lai Ming replied.

“Gee! He sure is a lucky guy,” said Maxwell. He then said, “He looks very young.”

“He's almost twenty.”

“A British serviceman?”

“Yes. He is in the RAF.”

“The Royal Air Force, eh. A pilot?”

“No. A cook.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Maxwell, as if surprised. “I've never thought of cooks in the Royal Air Force. Pilots come to my mind, and navigators and gunners, but not cooks.”

“Someone has to cook,” smiled Lai Ming patiently.

“Sure. Of course. I hope he treats you right.”

“He does.”

“Rose, I'm just curious, so don't get mad at me. Does he pay you? Or is he happy to have a business woman like yourself as his girlfriend?”

“He does not know of my business,” said Lai Ming flatly.

“He doesn't. He sure must be goddamned naive, Rose.”

“He is, Maxel. That is just one of the many reasons why I like him.”

“He's gonna be in for a helluva shock when he eventually finds out. And he will. He can't be that dumb.”

“I know,” replied Lai Ming sadly. Then she brightened. “But, please, no more talk.
Amah
bring you beer. Then we make something.”

“OK, honey. But I'd hate to see you get hurt in any way.”

Lai Ming shrugged. “I'm sorry, because I think he will get hurt the most,” she said. “Ah! Here is my
amah
with your beer.” Taking the bottle, she thanked the old
amah
who, nodding a reply, clip-clopped back down the stairs on wooden-soled shoes. Lai Ming took an opener from the drawer, flipped the cap of the bottle off, and handed Maxwell the bottle and a glass. “Now I go wash,” she said, and she disappeared into the bathroom.

Maxwell poured himself a glass of beer, murmuring, “Christ, it's warm. Won't they ever learn?” He stripped off the remainder of his clothes and stretched himself out upon the hard bed. His head touched the headboard and his feet overhung the rail at the bottom. Why did the Chinese always make beds that were too short for his lanky six-foot, six-inch frame, he wondered. Surely there must be some tall Chinese people. He sat up and took a drink of warm beer, grimaced, then reached for his trousers which lay on the floor. Rummaging through the pockets, he pulled out a pack of Chesterfield cigarettes and a silver lighter. He flipped a cigarette from the pack, lit it, then lay back on the bed and blew smoke rings towards the ceiling.

A few minutes later Lai Ming emerged from the bathroom wearing a
sarong.
She smiled at Maxwell. He was a good customer, very easy to please and always one of her best payers. She had learned long ago never to even think of quoting him a price, because at the end of his stay he always paid her much more than the amount she normally charged her clients.

Reaching between her dresses, and to the rear of the tall wardrobe, Lai Ming's hand contacted what she sought, a box of Durex contraceptives. Always she bought a gross at a time and hid them away at the rear of the wardrobe so that Peter wouldn't find them. Peter never used contraceptives. Both he and she preferred it that way. But with Maxwell, he was different. From the time of his first visit to her home he had insisted on using a contraceptive.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, grasped Maxwell's penis and gently squeezed it towards its tip. She performed this simple task on every man she took to her bed, every man that is except Peter. She had to be so careful; she dreaded even the thought of giving Peter any form of venereal disease. Satisfied that no creamy coloured pus appeared at the opening of Maxwell's penis, she broke open the contraceptive packet and skillfully rolled the rubber down over it.

“You, OK Maxel?” she asked.

“Fine,” Maxwell answered, blowing yet another smoke ring towards the ceiling. Sitting up, he stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray provided on the little table next to the bed. He then reached out, slipped the
sarong
from Lai Ming so that it fell to the floor, and pulled her onto the bed so that she lay flat on her back.

13

The long, curving strip of brownish sand at Changi Beach lay shimmering in the sunlight of mid-morning. The beach was strangely quiet. Gone was Sunday's ringing laughter, the shouts from splashing swimmers, the shrieks of children and the babble of voices in many tongues from the hundreds of sunbathers.

On this Monday morning Changi Beach was deserted. Well, almost. Three Chinese fishermen could be seen repairing a nearby bamboo and chicken-wire
kelong,
a fish trap, which had suffered some damage during a recent storm. Primitive yet effective, the
kelong
comprised a line of bamboo poles pushed into the seabed, with wire netting interwoven between the poles. Radiating from the coastline at ninety degrees and stretching from the low-water mark of the beach to more than a hundred yards out into the tidal strait, the
kelong,
from the air, looked somewhat like a long arrow, the arrowhead being the actual trap. On reaching the impenetrable bamboo poles and wire mesh, fish swimming parallel with the beach were forced to swerve seaward where they were funnelled into the arrowhead of the trap. There, a huge net of forty feet or more across sagged a few inches off the bottom. And there the fish remained, alive and swimming freely above the net but unable to escape, awaiting the fishermen to haul up the net and empty the trap of its sea-harvest. Usually, the larger fish were immediately taken to markets, whereas the smaller fish were soused in brine, sun-dried and eventually sold as
ikan bilis,
a very popular snack and flavouring ingredient in local dishes. The three fishermen were repairing a crude thatched hut built above the arrowhead, the only shelter that protected them from the elements.