Singapore Swing (9 page)

She shifted position in her low rattan chair and put her glass down, exhausted by her long diatribe. ‘

You are not English,' she said, focusing her eyes intently on me with a squint. ‘There is Italian in you, I dare say.' ‘

Greek,' I corrected her. ‘I was born in Athens.'

She lay back. ‘Athens.
Athens
. The owners of the hotel used to be Armenian – would you believe it? They sold it after the crash – that's when my family lost everything. The rubber prices tumbled,' she made a gesture with her hand as if to pick up something from the floor, ‘and that was it. Might as well have set the farm on fire ourselves. Have you been to the Black and White Houses? In Alexandra? No? You should go – they are still
the
address in town – every living room had a grand piano, maybe two. It was a struggle to keep them in tune, you know: the damp, the heat – but mostly the damp. Even when in tune, they didn't sound like the pianos in Europe. When I first played on a piano back in England, I jumped – the clarity, the crispness – it was like a church bell ringing at night. Here the keys sound like gongs – there is a resonance, a density, something that rebounds off the wall – like an echo – until it is consumed by the damp. Like all of us, I dare say.'

She sucked on the flesh of the orange slice.

‘Don't knock the damp – the heat and the damp do wonders for my arthritis – but once you've heard the sound of a piano in England, you don't want to hear one here. You know, there are many people in the Black and White Houses – and not all Europeans – who'd willingly pay double and triple for a piano that would make that crisp sound you take as granted in England – or Greece, I suppose.'

She took another sip from the cocktail glass and picked up the thread again.

‘Double and triple, I say. In Singapore, you learn to appreciate the good things in life – especially my generation who saw war. Have you been to Kranji? No? You should go. I will never talk to the Japanese. You see them everywhere some even stay here, at the Raffles. The only ones who take to the rickshaws nowadays – Europeans never would. We are too conscious of our past – afraid to be perceived as colonial. The Chinese never hated us, the English – but three years of the Japanese – they rounded them up and killed them, you know. They took them away to the beaches and shot them – and waited for the tides to carry them away.'

She looked me straight in the eye.

‘They have a long memory the Chinese – those ancestors of theirs – they speak to every generation. Have you been to the National Museum? No? You should go. You will then see: Singapore was as English as Essex. Still is – don't be fooled.'

‘You were here during the war?' I asked.

She half-ignored my question.

‘When the Royal Navy arrived – during the Liberation the Japanese let us go from the camp. But go where? We had nothing – we had to beg for food from our servants. They took good care of us then – like we took good care of them before. But you can imagine – the indignity. On the morning the Japs surrendered there was bread for all of us baked by the Royal Navy. Oh, the taste of that bread! Now you've never tasted such bread in England – or in Greece, I dare say.'

She sighed.

‘It's here in Singapore you discover the simplest of pleasures – like well-baked bread or the proper sound of a baby grand.'

And with a tiny lowering of the jaw and a faint gesture, she dismissed me. ‘Time for tiffin,' she declaimed.

I am halfway through my second cocktail when I ask the barman to take a picture of me. ‘I'm in Singapore, with a sling, having a Singapore Sling. Couldn't make it up if I wanted to,' I tell him.

This is it! I can laugh about it.

The joke sweeps the bar like a Mexican wave. Two German girls chuckle; they have ordered one Sling between them and make it last for an hour, whereas the giggling English girl opposite has downed one by herself. Next to me, the backpacker couple laugh in that loud manner only Australians have perfected.

‘There is another famous Raffles cocktail, Sir,' says the barman. ‘Invented by Ngiam Tong Boon, himself: the Million Dollar Cocktail.'

‘Does it cost as much?' I ask in jest.

The barman grins with the familiar condescension of someone who has heard the same witticism one million times. ‘For you, $16 only – but that's before tax,' he says. ‘It appears in a book by Maugham,' he adds as a further incentive.

He's right, it does. The Million Dollar Cocktail crops up in
The Letter
, one of Maugham's short stories made famous in the 1940 film of the same name starring Bette Davis. I'm getting nicely sloshed, I have travelled far, and I am not going to miss out on such a literary encounter. Especially if it is freshly made.

‘Let us all know how it tastes,' say the Australians, probably hoping I'll offer them a sip. Well, no, we haven't been
that
friendly.

I try the brown concoction placed in front of me, sweet-and-sour, like, like…

‘It tastes like fruity real ale,' is my verdict.

The Australians laugh loudly again. I wonder if sometimes they unconsciously expect that empty gullies and baking deserts will swallow the sounds of their mirth, bless them. They certainly scared off the mynahs and that's no mean feat. The barman on the other hand appears shocked – whether it was my opinion or the racket of the Australians, I can not tell. Without saying a further word, he shows me a mat with a recipe which, of course, contains no traces of beer.

‘It's probably the sweetness of the Sling lingering on,' I say trying to make excuses, but they're all in vain: from that point on, I am ostracised by the bar staff, who never speak to me again.

Only when I leave them a tolerable tip, does the barman manage a dutiful, ‘Thank you, Sir'.

F
u
means Luck;
Fu
means Favour;
Fu
means Goodwill.
Fu
is what Mi-zi Xia got in abundance when, as a beautiful slim, smooth youth, he appeared in front of the King of Wei. The passion of the King for him knew no bounds; in the courtier's lashing tongue, ‘he was as affectionate and familiar with Mi-zi as a man would be with his wife'. Sometimes it seemed that Mizi's pleasure and wellbeing were more important than matters of state and this troubled greatly the King of Wei's mandarins. But while other sages whisperingly denounced the King's all-consuming passion, the Chief Mandarin smiled cryptically and said: ‘Wait.'

One day, when the Chief Mandarin was accompanying the King and Mi-zi on a stroll in the Forbidden Orchard, the youth picked up a ripe peach from a tree. Impetuously, he bit into the orange-pink flesh without offering it first to the King. The Chief Mandarin seized the opportunity and cleared his throat with an eloquent cough. Mi-zi understood the implication at once and turned around, offering half of the peach to the King. He, in turn, beamed and accepted the fruit with a celestial smile. ‘Oh, Mi-zi,' he said, ‘in truth you do love me sincerely. You have forgotten your craving and your hunger in order to please me. Blessed shall be our days together.'

The King's entourage looked warily at the Chief Mandarin who whispered: ‘Wait.'

The days passed and the youth's radiance turned into a man's athletic blossom. The King was still taken in by Mi-zi and everyone lived happily – until, that is, Mi-zi's mother fell ill. In his rush to be at her bedside unhindered by sentries and unmolested by highwaymen, Mi-zi secretly used the King's carriage. Word got to the Chief Mandarin who leapt at the news: unauthorised use of the royal carriage was punishable by amputation of both legs. But when the King of Wei heard of the deed, he murmured approvingly: ‘What a son to his mother! In order to be at her deathbed he didn't care about the sanctions. By heavens, this is true filial piety! Blessed shall be our days together.'

The King's courtiers were assembled excitedly outside the Great Reception Hall. When the Chief Mandarin told the congregation of the ruler's reaction, their looks hung dispiritedly in the air. ‘Wait,' said the Chief Mandarin exuding confidence and detached wisdom.

The years passed and the good life took its toll on Mi-zi. He turned portly; his hairline receded; his face turned red from the over consumption of rice wine. While he steadily lost his looks, his
Fu
with the King diminished until there was none left. One spring morning when the snows from the mountains had melted, Mi-zi decided to go fishing, as he normally did that time of year, and made his way to the King's private pond. The warden routinely informed the Chief Mandarin that Mi-zi had caught three of the Emperor's own plump carp. But this time the Chief Mandarin was quick to denounce Mi-zi's misdemeanour; using the King's private pond was punishable by banishment – never mind that Mi-zi had fished there every spring for years.

The ruler's reaction was swift: ‘I believe anything you say against that scoundrel,' he cried. ‘Once he offered me a half-eaten peach! Remember? Another time he tried to steal my carriage! Remember? Ungrateful knave – to hell with him.'

The Chief Mandarin left the Great Reception Hall beaming. He conveyed the long-awaited news to a relieved assembly of courtiers: ‘It is my duty to announce to you that henceforth Mizi shall be banished from the Kingdom,' he said and, shaking his head, he added: ‘The scales on the dragon's back are smooth downwards, but they are sharp upwards: when you ride the dragon, you can only fall.'

- 9 -

The most unlikely place for a gay bar in Singapore must be on the first floor of a corner building overlooking a busy Chinatown junction, but that's where you'll find Backstage. In the most crowded pedestrian part of a city where sexual coyness reigns supreme, a huge rainbow flag is flying brazenly over the evening crowd. I swallow hard. It's taken me ages, but I'm out on a Friday night.

A small sign leads me up a stairway adorned with old movie and theatre posters all individually framed. Some of them are familiar: Jack Lemmon in drag in
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
, the lithography of the little girl's face in
Les Miserables
, the intertwined arms in
Blood Brothers
; and some are lost in thespian mist: The Andrews Sisters in
Over There
,
Copacabana
starring Gary Wilmott,
Company
by Stephen Sondheim. In the bar itself, the air con is set on max as if coolness could be measured by degrees Fahrenheit. The young barman is the first peroxide-blonde Chinese I've ever met; in the bar's dim darkness his hair is as strong a light source as the individual table lamps – perhaps more so. It's 10 p.m. and Backstage is at its fullest. This must be the place to come before hitting the Singapore clubs, and I must confess that I am secretly curious about the nightlife of a city with the rip-roaring reputation of a sleepy Siberian settlement.

‘Go to Club Taboo,' says the peroxide blonde whose name is David (‘like Beckham', he informs me). ‘Most popular.'

I am concerned it might be too late. ‘Should I leave soon?'

‘Still early. Normally go there after midnight.'

Wow, an all-nighter, I tell myself as I open the balcony door. The hot, humid air hits me straight away. Singapore is a sauna in reverse with the sweat-inducing chamber on the outside and the cool relief to be found in the air-conditioned rooms inside. I sip my vodka and tonic next to the rainbow flag while observing the multitudes below. The male-only crowd around me is composed equally of gregarious Westerners and giggling Asians. The Westerners are mostly old, English, and uninterested in me. The Asians are much, much younger and they are staring at me unabashed, their pert eyes examining my face and the direction of my gaze. I daren't look at any of them directly for longer than a nanosecond because I fear I will embolden them too much. I'm also feeling uncomfortable, because I've left my sling behind and I am keeping my left arm stuck lifelessly in my jeans pocket.
Will they notice?
I keep wondering. I gulp my drink quickly, overwhelmed by my new surroundings and self-conscious in an environment that should be familiar but turns out to be mildly oppressive.

As soon as I put my empty glass down, David is there immediately to take an order. I look out for the CCTV.

‘Another one?' he asks me.

I point at an advertisement for the Chingay Parade. Is that Gay Pride?

He shakes his head. ‘No, Chinese festival. The “gay” bit accident. Pride different. We celebrate Pride. Out there.'

Out there
is a scene so colourful it belongs to a Gilbert and Sullivan production. The low-rise terraced shophouses are bedaubed with deep, vivid pigments: paprika red, mustard yellow, sage green, date brown, berry blue. They stand on five-foot covered walkways, as decreed by Raffles himself, very practical in those frequent downpours. The fascias are a mixture of the colonial and oriental: there are pilasters and there are louvres, but they are painted in contrasting colour combinations that would have made even a Victoriana collector faint. The combined decorative effect is mildly psychedelic; there are good reasons for the ban on psychotropic substances in Singapore, and one of them is for your own protection against chromatic overkill.

I turn my gaze to the diner opposite which is closing. The lone waitress picks up the plastic chairs and stacks them by the kitchen. She lifts every round table with an audible grumph and walks awkwardly. Her centre of gravity is highly precarious as her arms form a twenty-past-eight arrangement on the round table boards. I grab sight of a middle-aged Chinese couple looking up and I detect some curiosity in their glances. They catch my eye and instantly look away, as if they had peeped through a keyhole and come up against a depravity.

David interrupts my reverie.

‘Pride not advertised. We must be discreet.'

I point at the big rainbow flag hanging over the Chinatown masses. ‘You call that discreet?'

David shrugs his shoulders. ‘A rainbow? Why no rainbow? Even children love rainbow. Nobody say “rainbow flag minus one colour, gay”. I did no' say that. You did no' say that.'

I kind of see the mindset behind relaxation of the Confucian leash; no persecution in turn for invisibility. It's like being in an eternal Clintonian limbo: don't ask, don't tell. Toleration rather than tolerance is always the first step out of the shadows.

‘And you are happy with that?' I ask.

‘Yes. We have club, sauna, bar and they leave us alone. And every year we have biggest gay party in Asia: Nation, on Sentosa Island.' And picking up my empty glass, he repeats: ‘Another one?'

Yes, I do need another vodka and tonic. I need to get to terms with the imponderable. A thriving gay scene in Singapore? This is a country that still uses flogging for petty offences like scrawling graffiti on walls. This is a country with more mundane rules and regulations than the army and navy manuals combined. More to the point, it is a country that explicitly criminalises sex between males.

The heat outside is getting oppressive so I follow David to the bar and I pick up a gay map of ultra-conservative, Muslim Malaysia – plus one of Singapore. I look in and find Backstage, the bar I'm in. What is this mark on the map opposite us? An escort? A
male
escort?

David hands me a glossy magazine along with my vodka. ‘This is
Manazine
. It is gay,' David explains matter-of-factly. ‘Before you buy it like a newspaper. But now MDA say: subscription only or free in gay bar.'

MDA stands for the Media Development Authority, a powerful organisation that can close magazines and fine editors.

Its Censorship Review Committee was last convened in April 2002 and its report was typically vague. Publications and society's values should walk hand in hand and the press should be a follower, not a leader. Free speech depended on the cultural, economic and political set-up of a society and the parameters of expression regarding race, religion, violence, sexual content, nudity, homosexuality and coarse language had to be set considering Singaporean community values. (And who sets a marker for those values? No prizes for guessing.) So, although the ‘promotion of homosexuality' – such Thatcherite wording– was to be prohibited, a more flexible approach would be put in place when dealing with homosexual themes and greater leeway would be allowed for adults to access non-exploitative content. In short, a discreet gay scene was to be allowed.

‘My friend there likes you.'

I crash down back to the present
.
David is pointing mischievously at a guy leaning against the bar. He is more Malay-looking than the rest of the patrons and his string vest loosely covers a well-defined torso. As I turn, he looks towards us, sees me staring, sees David giggling and makes a shooting sign with his finger. Then he points at his mouth and blows to cool down the imaginary barrel.

I laugh, give him the thumbs up and make a mental note to exchange phone numbers when I leave. Tonight I really want to check out those clubs.

- 10 -

I leave Backstage at midnight and follow the South Bridge Road down to the end. It's a Saturday night and yet all is quiet. The damp air should magnify the flip and flop of every sandal's footstep; yet, in a city where open footwear is de rigeur, I hear none: I am the only one walking the street. This is a major road but there are few cars and they are gliding around mutely like dolphins in the deep. I long for the drivers to rev the engines up and accelerate until the traffic lights where they can drop two gears in succession to make some ear-splitting noise. Are orientals as in love with the motor car as Westerners? Maybe yes, maybe not; maybe this is the love that dares not count its cost: import prices on this congested island can be triple those in the United States or Europe. But even so, those who have cars don't seem to enjoy them.
Give it some gas
,
remind me I'm in a city that's alive
.

Yet the street is stirring in a different way: it is hypervisual. The light-polluted sky appears verdigris like an ancient Greek discoloured bronze. Flashing neon signs make up for what the night lacks in sound and the occasional strobe illuminates a laminated glass door from the inside. So, there
are
people within those soundproofed clubs. But the whirr of the air conditioning units is more boisterous than the timid hum emanating from Tantric Bar – another rainbow flag poised over a main traffic artery – and it doesn't even have a door to shut. This area was a nutmeg plantation until the 1850s; I bet it was more noisy then. Is anyone out now or shall I go back to my hotel?

I suddenly notice the silent line of clubbers a few minutes ahead and pinch myself. A
queue
? And by the rate this one is moving, it looks like twenty minutes or so to the scary bouncer with the pencil 'tache.