The Rose of Singapore (24 page)

“Tell me, Rose. How many men do you take to your bed and ask for no payment? Is it a game with you? Do you fuck for the fun of it?” He knew those words hurt; he saw her wince, but he meant to hurt her. He wanted to hurt her as much as she was hurting him.

“I have no boyfriend other than you, Peter. You must know that. You must believe me.”

“Why should I?”

“Peter, I wanted you, and I still want you. You, with the love and affection that you have always given me. You are kind and good, and I need you. Never have I asked you for money. I want you! You! You! Don't you understand, Peter? Yes, I admit I'm a prostitute. But you are my boyfriend. I need you. Other men mean nothing to me.”

“Is that what you tell all of them?” asked Peter cruelly.

“Please, don't talk like that, Peter. I kept my secret from you believing that it would be for the best, for both our sakes. But now that you know my lifestyle, you are hurt and angry with me. Give us both a chance, Peter.” Lai Ming's face suddenly brightened. “You sit where you are, Peter. Don't think on bad thoughts but think of all the happy times we have enjoyed together, and think of the happy times ahead of us. I shall pour you more brandy. You drink it, and while you drink I shall take my
sarong
off, and you must watch me take it off. I want you to look at my body, everything of my body, all of me, and think of what you want and need of me. But don't think of my body only. Think of my companionship, my friendship, my love for you. Always there is a home here for you,” Lai Ming cried. “You can still be happy if you don't think too much. Always you think too much. You need me, Peter, as I need you, so I shall pour you a drink, and then I shall undress.”

“You can pour me a drink, but I don't want you to take your
sarong
off, Rose. I don't want what thousands of other men use.” Peter, completely stunned by events and in an ever growing black depression, didn't seem to know what he was saying or doing. Pushing Lai Ming from him, he stood up, only to find the room swirling round and round, and his vision blurred. Even Lai Ming, standing so close to him, was just a blur. Feeling as if he were about to faint and fall, he steadied himself by holding on to the edge of the bed. There was no reason to remain longer, he decided. “I must go, Rose,” he said. “I don't want to see you again. You have your life to live, and I have mine. We are from two different worlds. Goodbye, Rose,” and he turned to leave.

“Wait, Peter, wait!” Lai Ming screamed, springing after him. “You cannot go. You must not go. You haven't given me a chance,” she pleaded.

“A chance! What do you mean? A prostitute won't give up her way of life. You won't.”

“I cannot give it up. I need the money. But you must give me a chance even if I must explain everything to you.”

“If you tried to explain, you'd only hurt me more,” said Peter. “No, Rose, our love cannot be. Everything is finished between us. I cannot love a whore. I'm going.”

“You have not loved a whore, Peter. You have loved a prostitute. I love you, Peter. You know that. Now you want to hurt me.”

“Is that possible?”

“I have a heart. I am the same as any other woman. I have the same feelings. Peter, you must not go,” she implored, going to him and clinging to his legs. “Don't go. Say you won't go. Sleep here with me tonight. Tomorrow we will talk and decide. But please! Please don't leave me! You must not leave me!”

Peter felt as if his whole world had been shattered. His life had revolved around Lai Ming, and now there was nothing. Ripping her clenched hands from his legs, he pushed her savagely from him so that she fell sobbing bitterly against the headboard of the bed. Feeling sorry for her, he desperately wanted to go to her, lift her up in his arms and kiss and caress her. But he was too hurt, and his pride would not allow him to do so. He felt very small and silly. He must not look at her more or he would go to her. He must do something. He must leave her be, and be gone.

“Goodbye, Rose. I wish you all the best,” he said, his voice choking with emotion. “I'm going now. It's better this way.” He so badly wanted to stay with her but he could not.

Turning his back on her, he pulled the curtain aside and left the room, leaving the woman he loved sobbing where she had fallen. He could still hear her crying as he descended the stairs. As if in a trance, he passed the old
amah
cowering in a corner of the kitchen. He did not speak to her, nor she to him. Opening the door, he stepped out into the alleyway and walked towards the moonlit street. So this was the end of his beautiful friendship with the girl he loved, he thought bitterly. Everything was finished. He didn't want it to end, but he didn't know what to think or do. With his mind in turmoil, he decided there was only the one thing to do, get drunk, as drunk as could be. He was angry with himself and angry with her. But what was the use? His whole world had collapsed. The woman he loved, trusted and idolized was nothing more than a common prostitute.

He stopped a passing taxi and got in.

“The New World,” he snapped.

“OK Johnny,” acknowledged the driver.

“And hurry!
Fai di, fai di!
”

“OK Johnny. I go quick quick.”

Two hours and several rum and cokes later, Peter Saunders still sat at the same little table in the dance cabaret of the New World Amusement Park. No matter what, he could not have been more emotionally distraught. The cabaret had not yet livened up. The twenty-cents-a-dance girls, the New World's hostesses, were still arriving, some alone, some in twos and threes, and some accompanied by talkative
amah
scurrying along behind their mistresses on tiny feet, like faithful dogs.

A sexy-looking Chinese dance hostess sitting alone at a table near Peter's made come-hither eyes at him, and turning her body in his direction, crossed her slender legs, hooked her skirt up a few inches and showed all she dared in public view. Angry and depressed and already semi-intoxicated, and with his mind furiously revolving around Rose, Peter ignored her obvious advances. Through his torment, however, he could at least see that the woman was not nearly as young as she would undoubtably like to appear. Wrinkles showed in a face almost hidden beneath a thick coating of creams and rouge, and she wore a dark vermilion coloured lipstick, which did not help her looks. She must be at least forty, Peter decided. He looked away from the woman and took another drink, and she, realizing there would be no business with him, turned her attention towards a couple of jungle-green uniform-clad British soldiers sitting at a nearby table contentedly consuming bottle after bottle of Tiger beer.

With his emotions in turmoil, and becoming more depressed and angry, Peter sat tense, clasping a glass in shaking hands, his brain whirling, his nerves near breaking point and his mind returning to and frantically churning over the events of the past few hours. What now? What should he do? Repeatedly he asked himself these same questions. The wonderful romance between him and his lovely Chinese girlfriend had come to an abrupt end. Yet, how could it end, just like that, after all the wonderful times they'd spent together? He realized that he still loved Rose and that he would always love her regardless of what she did for a living. And now, with the girl he loved living so very near him, just fifteen miles away, it would be impossible for him to remain in Singapore without wanting to see her. Not seeing her would drive him crazy. On the other hand, how could he love her as he had the past months knowing that she was having sex with other men, and God only knows how many? It would be impossible, unthinkable, to carry on a relationship as they had done so blissfully until now. Yet, he must have her. He could not lose her. He must think of something. Perhaps he should have waited and listened to her explanation. But listening to her, hearing the lurid details would surely have made matters worse.

Damn her! Why did she have to be a prostitute, he angrily asked himself. Not bothering to pour coke into his glass, he gulped back neat rum, coughing as the fiery syrup slid down his throat. He looked with blurred eyes to where the Chinese dance hostess sat looking bored. The soldiers had gotten up from their table and left without giving her a second glance. Soon, though, she was giving the eye and showing off her shapely legs to a group of Chinese youths who had recently arrived and seated themselves at a table close to hers. They were ordering their first drink of the evening.

Deciding that this was not the place in which to get drunk, Peter Saunders got to his feet then, swaying slightly, he walked out of the cabaret, mingled with the jostling crowd of night-time revellers for awhile, and eventually pushed his way through a turnstile at the New World's exit.

The Red Lantern Club situated on a corner a hundred yards further down Jalan Besar and not far from the junction of Rochor Canal Road, was his next stop. Having visited the place on a couple of occasions with Rick long before he met Rose, Peter knew that it was a vile den of iniquity frequented by low-class whores. But it had atmosphere, the chow served there had been good and the beer ice-cold.

Brushing through the swinging red half-doors, he gazed about him to see what other customers the place had drawn. A US navy ship must have arrived in port because the place was crowded with American sailors dressed immaculately in white uniforms, their little round hats tucked neatly in the waistbands of their trousers. Ashore for the evening, they were expecting a good time. Some sat on high stools drinking at the bar, others stood about drinking in small groups, while yet more, who had been latched onto by the club's girls, were openly necking. Quite a number were waiting their turn to enjoy a quickie, and others oral sex, from fast-working girls in curtained-off cubicles in the rear. The American sailors called these girls ‘ fucking machines', which was a reasonable description seeing as how these girls could service an average of eight men an hour. It certainly is some club, thought Peter. The place hadn't changed a bit since he was there last; the waitresses were the same girls, always smiling, always joking, and forever hopeful of getting big tips out of their customers, which they often did. The barmaids were the same three, all very efficient and quick at pouring drinks and mixing their customers' cocktails. The band, such as it was, comprised the same three Chinese lads who played their instruments just as badly as when he had first heard them months ago. Peter, however, was not interested in the merits of the band. He needed a drink. He noticed that the same manager ruled the joint, a jolly-faced, grotesquely overweight Chinese man who smiled congenially at everyone while repeatedly checking the takings in the till.

Peter sat down on a stool at a corner of the bar, the only stool vacant. Except for the numerous American sailors, the only other customers were young chaps in civvies, quite obviously British servicemen out for a good time getting boozed up, and perhaps hoping to shack up with one of the girls after the Yanks had left at midnight to return to their ship. The British servicemen could not compete financially with the American sailors' wads of dollars.

The waitresses were young, attractive girls, but the prostitute hostesses were not so young or as attractive. All had seen at least forty years, and most looked those forty years, like hens made up to look like spring chickens. But, oldish or not, these ladies of the night persisted in their quest, and often got their man, for a quickie in a cubicle, or for an all-night session at their home.

“Rum and coke,” said Peter to the barmaid.

The girl smiled at him in a friendly manner and reached behind her for a bottle of rum.

Sick at heart, Peter could not get the happenings of a couple of hours ago out of his mind. He could clearly see the contraceptive lying limp and used in the toilet bowl, the empty beer bottle on the table and the cigarette ends in the ashtray. He could hear the heavy footsteps on the stairs and on the concrete floor leading to the back door. Very depressed, in despair, and lost in jealous anger, a black depression and agonizing thoughts, he was brought back to his surroundings by a feminine voice cooing in his ear, “Hello, darling.”

“Hi,” replied Peter, swivelling around on his seat and expecting to see one of the club's girls attempting to latch on to him. He would have bought her a drink, just to have someone to talk to. But it was not one of the club's girls. Peter stared at the owner of the voice for some moments before suddenly realizing that the person was not a female, but a Chinese boy dressed in woman's clothing. Disgusted, Peter snarled, “Scram! Sod off!” and turning his back on the uninvited transvestite, he picked up a newspaper lying on the bar hoping that it would occupy his mind and help rid him of the newcomer.

“May I sit and talk with you?” the other asked in a sexually enticing voice.

Peter angrily faced the Chinese boy. “No. Bugger off. I want to be alone,” he said. He had no time for queers, especially those who bothered him. However, Peter could not help but study the boy who appeared to be about the same age as he. I don't believe it, he thought. This boy would do any girl proud the way he presents himself. A neat and well-pressed black skirt fitted snugly around a slim waist, and a frilly white bra peeped out from beneath a pink silk jacket with tiny red buttons. The boy's legs were covered in sheer nylon stockings and on his feet he wore dainty high-heeled shoes, also pink. It was obvious to Peter that the boy wore a wig of wavy black curls that fell around narrow shoulders, and little bangs that almost reached his pencilled-in eyebrows. His skillful application of rouge and lipstick would put many women to shame. Nothing had been spared, it seemed, in the boy's attempt to present himself as a woman. Even the perfume he used was delicate. It was lavender.

The boy, ignoring Peter's negative answer, sat down next to him on a recently vacated stool.

“Many men prefer my company to that of one of those bitches,” he said, nodding towards the ten-dollars-a-quickie girls fluttering around the room. “Many welcome me into their company with rapture. Isn't it strange that a few boys, boys just like you, young and handsome, just simply cannot welcome me. Why, I wonder?” He sighed, looking down over himself. “And I, so young and fresh,” and he began to feel sorry for himself, or so it seemed. Then he looked up and smiled and winked at Peter. “You're camp,” he said, waving a hand effeminately in front of Peter's face. “I think you're gay, just waiting for the right boy to come your way. I'd like to be that boy.”