Tales From A Broad (2 page)

This is the single best airport in the world, bar none. I smile at Frank and he knows what I am thinking: We've really landed.

He smiles back: Baby needed a break? Baby got one. Just wait till I show you around.

My eyes flash trouble: Where is Sadie?

His mouth droops: I don't know.

My brows arch: What do you mean, you don't know?

His chin dips menacingly: Why is this my fault?

My neck goes forward: So you think you did your bit, huh, delivering me here, saving my soul, and now you're off duty so our kids can get stolen in this place crawling with heathens.

His body lurches. He catches Sadie, who was enjoying a bit of treadmill exercise on the luggage conveyer.

‘Cute,
lah
,' says an airport worker, patting her head.

My smile at Frank: What softies these people are. Nice.

His smile: That's just one thing I'm gonna show you, baby.

Mere seconds later, we are in a pristine taxi, having waited in a line that was quiet, orderly and odour-free. I can tell you now, the line was purposely placed inside the airport building. Had we been waiting outside, as you do in most other places in the world, folks would have likely turned quite caustic, aggressive and rather smelly. Because in the true environment – the
outside
of Singapore – a freckle feels like an extra layer, the wind is an oven blast in a sauna. Tempers, certainly mine, tend to flare extravagantly in half a second over who knows what, something like having to tie the kids' shoes.

The taxi driver takes us on a road called the ECP. The sun is just coming up and I can make out the sea on one side between massive mango trees with twisted branches and roots that creep in and out of the earth like sea dragons. There are palm trees and colourful lilac bushes, paths along the shore and inviting huts scattered here and there. The median strip contains carefully cultivated fronds and flower patches. We are home in five minutes.

Sadie has lost none of her energy. Huxley is choking on a candy. We haul our heavy bags into the lift lobby of block five, Fortune Gardens. It isn't yet 7 am. My clothes are damp; sweat slithers down my neck. Frank's hair is dripping and a dark blue stain is growing on the back of his shirt. We go into our apartment. I only notice the saturating starkness, the endless beige-ness of it all. I guess I was expecting something closer to a Hyatt than a Holiday Inn.

I close my eyes and ardently wish I could offload the kids and take a two-day nap. That might bring colour to my world. I hear a plop on the floor. It is the sound my sweat makes when it finishes hanging around my jaw. My thoughts move to the impossible heat. Through the haze and the beige, I spy lizards scrambling up the wall. Hey, I think, somewhat deliriously, they add a nice swatch of green. I look at the kitchen – no oven, only a stovetop and for that there is only a wok. I'm hearing myself thinking, ‘Yeah, the glass is half full, but I ordered a double.'

Frank is beside himself with bust-a-gut joy. ‘Hey, look at this! Ever eat off a wok?' He grabs Sadie to show her. ‘Look on the ceiling. That's a gecko, honey, isn't it cool?' He takes the kids out on the balcony. ‘See this view! Incredible!'

I take a shower but turn shy when I see a lizard sharing it with me. I try to ignore the dirt on the windowsill, the slick, black scum all over the tiles and the brownish water that never turns hot. By the time I get out, the aircon has kicked in. I let it chill me, get dressed and wander over to the family. I am shaved and clean and human. I have on a fresh pair of undies, a starchy T-shirt and shorts. I go out on the balcony, from where I see the gentle, rippling expanse of pale blue sea, the ships sitting in the near distance, waiting for their next command. I see the swimming pools, the playgrounds, the plaza of useful shops, the putting green. I see four pristine tennis courts equipped for night play. I see my happy husband and lovely children.

The pool at Fortune Gardens is as big as a reservoir. It's kidney-shaped and the water splashes over a sunken edge. There are six lap lanes that will take you 50 metres in one direction and another 50 to get back. The landscaping is glorious, with palm trees, hyacinths, blooming flowerbeds and well-tended bushes. Along the shores are enough tables and chairs and chaises and umbrellas to render it undeniably resort living. The kiddy pool is a replica of the adult pool. Several barbecue pits dot the perimeter, stopping at a turtle and fishpond. You only need to walk up a few steps to get to Fattys, the restaurant that overlooks the pool.

The pool calls out to me. It is to be our baptism, path, religion.

‘We must go swimming!' I cheer.

I even know exactly where to find the swimsuits. Towels? Sunscreen? Who cares! I rally together the family, suit up the kids, down we go and over we trot, jolly as can be at the thought of swimming in March.

Three guards in uniform, who were just a second ago sound asleep with thoughts of betel-nut juice in their heads, sit bolt upright. A fat lady in the booking office – it looks like a movie theatre ticket booth – calls through her little cut-out hole, ‘Where
caahd?
'

Frank, who has travelled all over the world and has spent a great deal of time right here in Singapore, uses his over-the-top-as-if-talking-to-a-hearing-impaired-retarded-person voice: ‘WEEE JUSTTT ARRIIIIIIVED HEEEERE. THE OFFICE, YOURRRRR PEEEEEOPLE, ARRRRRRE NOTTT OPENNN YETTT.' He adds pantomime just in case.

The lady of a thousand chins says, ‘Cannot, cannot go into pool,
lah
, without caaahddd.'

We leave unbaptised. We head to the office, which is now just opening. Apparently we need all sorts of verification of our names, our lease, our entitlement to be here, pictures of just a certain size, laminated cards bearing these pictures and basically our raison d'être to get access to the goddamned pool. Frank gets on the phone to the real estate agent to get a copy of our lease. He then calls his office, the embassy, the ministry of this and department of that and scurries about getting the documentation. I stay in this little prefab, monochrome, overly airconditioned office with the kids. They have their swimsuits on. They expect to be in that pool. We're being denied something inalienable.

‘Um, excuse me,' I say politely but sharply, ‘do you think we came all the way from America just to swim in your pool?'

They look down at what they are doing, which appears to me to be making a paperclip chain. They turn inward at my formidable tone.

I speak up again: ‘Look, we've come a long, long way. Can't you let us in for now and we'll settle up with you on all this paperwork really soon?' They open drawers to find more clips to organise. Sadie starts jumping on the furniture and Huxley starts wailing in his stroller. I mix up some formula for him and am careful to make a perfectly sizeable mess of powder on the rug. I tell Sadie that her jumping is really coming along nicely. I eyeball the crew of paperclip handlers. They are not derailed from their task; they do not speak.

I ask Sadie if she'd like to go out and feed the koi fish … some of these cough drops I found in my pocket. Huxley is wailing for his milk. I tell him, ‘Don't worry, honey, we'll be in that pool in a few hours. Until then, you just cry your little heart out.' These people must have been trained by, I don't know, G. Gordon Liddy, or maybe they aren't even people. They simply will not be moved to pity or anger or intolerance, or even a mild dose of discombobulation.

Finally, Frank sweeps through the doors, waving damp papers and jingling keys. He walks to the desk. One person looks up. ‘But you don't have the caaaahd,' she says.

He says, ‘THESE ARE THE MAHTEEERIAHLS YOU REQUIRE FOR THE CARD. CAN WE GET INTO THE POOL NOW, PLEASE? WEEE ARE SORRRRY FOR ASKING YOU TO BEND THE ROOOOLSS.'

The supervisor rests her clip art and makes a call. She hangs up the phone and tells us that we can go to the pool now. Frank hasn't even shown her the papers he is clutching. She has randomly determined that she will let us have what we want. Much like the Wizard of Oz – a good man but a terrible wizard – it has always been in her powers, but that is beside the point.

It is the first day that Frank has to leave us and go into work. The kids are still not settled into the time zone and, therefore, no one is. Huxley's doing a lot of screaming –
a lot of screaming
. Therefore, we all are, though some of us put it to words. I guess we're just a family sharing a wavelength.

I have to get the kids back into a nap routine. If I can't, I don't know how I'm going to get any work done. Emails from clients have already averaged about 30 a day. And, to make matters worse, there's construction going on above us. The jackhammering begins the minute we get in the door, stops long enough for us to think it's safe to sleep, and starts the minute a head – any head – touches a pillow. It stops at 9 pm and then you're left with the ghost sounds buzzing in your brain.

On Sunday, yes, Sunday-gawd-gonna-smite-you-if-you-work-day, they were still at it. I went upstairs, found the apartment that was being renovated and stormed in. They were on a break. Huh? I just heard them … Oh, I get it, they stopped because I left the house. It's like when you're a kid and the minute you leave your room all your stuffed animals start dancing.

The workers were sitting on the floor eating saucy rice with pincer fingers when I burst through the doors screaming, ‘Can you possibly stop?' They stared. I felt stupid. I mean, I guess the answer was ‘Yes, madam, we can stop. In fact, we have. Why don't you go back down to wherever it is that you came from and let us enjoy our tasty lunch. Say, have yourself some, too.'

Now it is Monday. And I am Frank-less. And I am in Singapore. By 10 am I have the kids bathed and fed and in their respective containers. Huxley is velcroed in his bouncy seat with a bottle and Sadie is in a high chair. She's a little old to be in one, but she likes it … I tell myself. A large component of my particular type of parenting has been finding a harness for all occasions. There's the car seat, the high chair, the double stroller, the bike cart, the bike seat, the backpack, the umbrella stroller, the snuggly playpen, crib and walker, and a host of floaty things that do require some adult supervision – or so the label would have you believe.

We managed to bring just about all of it. God forbid I'd be in a place where I can't have Huxley and Sadie hooked to a table, strapped to my back, hemmed in with some soft toys, clamped down for a walk to the store, roped in so I can ride my bike and get the extra cardio from lugging 15 kilos of baby behind me, or just plain kept safe from disasters while I take a shower.

What we
didn't
bring was a crib, because the realtor said she had a spare. She did. It looked like a bundle of firewood. When we cut the twine, we were left with a jumble of giant toothpicks and tongue depressors that we were supposed to hitch up log-cabin style without the necessity of a single nail, nut or screw. Our befuddled, jet-lagged minds couldn't figure out how to assemble it. After a few days, we came to the conclusion that there once
were
nails, nuts and screws and it wasn't us being daft. I mean, Frank can put together – after a night out drinking – an Ikea Igor Super Deluxe entertainment unit without ever referring to the instructions, ie, two line drawings: (a) how it looks now and (b) how it'll look later. As if to say, ‘We won't insult your intelligence by walking you through the other 8,000 steps.' Perhaps it's just the Swedes being Swedish and not wanting to clutter the clean, white page.

Anyway, we washed our hands of the whole thing and Huxley has been sleeping on the floor surrounded by sofa cushions. Today I'll find something more suitable for him, which will make us all happier at night.

The phone rings. It's Frank.

‘Hey, how's it going over there?' he asks, in such a sexy, deep Frank voice I suddenly feel needy and adrift, homesick. I want him with me.

‘Great!' I decide to say, instead of, ‘The minute you marched out the door on your way to a busy, eventful day, I looked around the room and saw a lot of dried-up egg yolk and cried inside the vacuum you left behind.'

I even go so far as to add a casually placed mundanity: ‘That jelly you got, it's weird. It won't spread. Can you ask Serene if I'm supposed to nuke it or something?' I'm not getting into the role that well yet but it seems like a normal thing to say, a sign of domesticity, an indication that I am embracing the slower pace, appreciating this time spent away from the pecking of clients, instead focusing on small miracles, like jelly.

‘Okay, hang on.' I figure that his interest in this is just as bogus as mine and he's rehearsing his role, too. The manly man bestowing upon me the leisure to ponder something we otherwise would ignore because it is dull – that is, unless we could find a way to get into a big fight about it. In the old days, it would have gone like this:

ME: Why did you buy this disgusting jelly?