Tales From A Broad (8 page)

We trudge off to our locker rooms, shower and change. I'm beat. I just can't get up. The locker-room lady comes in and starts the whole deep-throat hocking cleansing ritual that so many people here seem to think is just so damned appropriate to do any time, anywhere. She motivates me to get out.

Frank has been waiting for me for quite some time. He's whistling the sixth song in the Beatles
White Album
. He whistles an album in the correct order.

‘Sorry. Where to?' I ask.

‘Let me show you Boat Quay.'

We get a table right on the riverbank. Postcard romantic. People stroll, look at menus offered from the village of restaurants and pubs. The weather has cooled off enough to make sitting outside peaceful and comfortable. It's a put-your-feet-up, the-day-is-over, take-stock night. A bumboat passes by, an ancient fisherman steering her quietly through the water, pensively. Heading where? How much has he seen of the world? What can you make doing that sort of thing? Ah, who cares. Where the fuck is the waitress, is what I want to know. I start flapping my arms. She comes over and we order a jug of Tiger and a vodka grapefruit.

‘Grapefruit, is it?' asks the waitress.

‘Yeah, grapefruit juice.'

‘Uh, yeah, let me check for you.'

A while later, she returns.

‘We don't have that juice.'

‘Okay, I'll have cranberry.'

‘Cranberry, is it?'

‘Yeah, cranberry juice.'

‘Okay, let me see.'

A while later she returns.

‘We don't have cranberry.'

‘I guess you didn't look at what else you have in the way of mixers on either of those trips –' I begin.

‘I go check for you.'

‘–
Because then we might actually get down to having a drink!
' I finish, shouting after her. People are staring. I can't help it, I'm getting hypoglycaemic because this idiot is standing between me and my cocktail.

‘Let's go,' I say to Frank.

‘We can't,' he says. ‘My jug's here.' He sits back with extreme satisfaction. His jug, his Singapore, his new role as a world-famous spy chaser and copyright superhero, and his girl (in that order?).

The manager comes out and asks me if he can help. I glare at him, menacingly, challengingly, and tell him that if he can get me a large vodka tonic in ten seconds flat, then, yes, he can help me.

Once we – including
me
– are all settled in, Frank leans forward. I figure he's going to whisper something about you-know-who.

‘Do you like Singapore?' he asks.

‘Yeah, it's wonderful, isn't it? I'm really happy we came.'

And because he's my husband, he knows it's true.

‘Here's to three more years, then.' He raises his mug.

‘You mean months,' I say, holding my glass (drained already) aloft.

‘Years.' He stretches over, taps my tumbler and says, ‘I hired the only man I can trust.' A beat. ‘Me.' Clink.

He smiles.

My head is playing scenes from last night. It was filmed like the De Beers commercial – Ring silver bells, da da da da, calling away, for Christmas Day … da dada daaa da da da da da da … merry merry merry Christmas … merry merry merry Christmas … but targeted to the more diamond-chip-buying types.

Here we are popping the champagne at Boat Quay; here we are toasting each other with glasses the size of Huxley's head at the Marina Mandarin; here we are sucking on straws out of a ceramic alien skull at … at … some place where they have this sort of thing. Here's Frank on his cell phone. Huh? Here I am doing a mazurka on the table at Esmirada's, throwing dishes on the floor. Oh, look at us dancing … no, that's not us … okay, there we are … I'm on the bar and Frank is chatting up a 14-year-old China Girl. Wow, look at how I land like a cat from that bar … Oops, steady on those heels, kitty. There he is again on his cell phone … Ah, I remember this one, kissing naked on our balcony, knocking over a litre of Tiger Beer.

The first scene is at Boat Quay as Frank tells me the news about his job. He had negotiated an arrangement. There is a scrap of trouble when ‘had' sinks in. It is past tense.

‘So, Ken
had
me make out a budget and I
recommended
…'

‘Frank, you're talking past tense.'

‘Huh? Yeah, so anyway, I
sent
a memo to the Board of Directors …'

Past tense. It means that I
had
better be delighted for Frank to
have had already
accepted the position he
had generously offered
himself while my back was turned.

‘So you've sent it?' I double check.

‘Yes, and it was approved.'

‘Already, huh? What about checking with me?' I start in on a ‘How dare you?' harangue but, frankly, even with all the good ammo in my bunker, my heart isn't into it like my head is. I am much too enchanted by the evening to let a colossal little shift of events ruin it. I vaguely remember praying for such a colossal shift. The drinks are good and they keep me busy, what with the stirring and the reordering and the cigarettes and the peanuts. Frank is looking awfully handsome here in the dark. And he's doing a manly job convincing me he knows me better than I know myself. It is high time I lightened my load. Let him carry the weight of the world. Hallelujah, praise be. Except this means I'll have to leave my job.

‘Aw, that? You don't want it,' Frank responds.

‘But I like it.'

‘Oh, right? Nah, you don't. Take my word for it. You complain all the time. You could probably find a way to do a little here and there if you get bored. There's always work at the American Club or The American Women's Association.'

‘Come to Singapore and hang out with Americans,' I answer dryly.

‘I don't know, talk to some of your friends. What do they do?'

‘I don't have any friends. Maybe I won't do anything,' I moan, but it doesn't seem to touch Frank's teflon of good cheer.

‘Sure, sure, that'd be great. Can't imagine it, but I'd love it if you stayed home and took care of us. You can enjoy the kids, plan trips. Slow down for once.'

‘Oh, back to you again, is it? What you'd love!' I turn up the burner. ‘This is
your
thing. Not
my
thing. I don't want to do
some
thing. I had a
thing
. It was a
good
thing. I always had
lots
of
things
. I can find
new
things but … see … oh, what's my point, Frank? I lost the thread. Oh lookee here, my drink's empty. Can you order me something,
anything
, I got to go pee.'

Clearly, the sober moment, suitable for discussing and making life-changing decisions, has already passed. But that's never been the moment when we make them, only the moment when we regret them. I look at myself in the mirror of the ladies room and I like what I see. I like the shorts and tank top. I like my well-rested face. My hair is a little too responsive to the humidity, but it'll calm down. Mostly, I just feel alive and excited by life. This is a good thing, yeah? Right, back inside, let's party like it's … what is it, anyway? March? April? All the damn months are the same here, same sunrise, same sunset, same temperature. Damn, I look good!

After Boat Quay, we wander to Chinatown and into a karaoke club. The place is pretty deserted except for one other couple and a man by himself. There are tiers of booths done in plush black leather, black marble floors and tables, dim lighting. We are given a great big bowl of party mix – dried peas, chilli crackers, palm-oil-glazed nuts, toasted broad beans – and a loose-leaf binder.

‘Look, Frank,' I say, ‘homework!' I take out my pen and draw a heart on the front of the binder. ‘Frank loves Poon Tang.' Ha ha ha.

‘Fran, jeez, what are you doing? You don't write on other people's property, especially in Singapore. This is the songbook, see it's got about 12,000 tunes.'

‘Well, you're a real model citizen now, aren't you, Mr Flank. You'd have laughed yester –'

All of a sudden, a lonely man a few levels behind us starts singing a song in Chinese. I don't know what the words are but pain is in the room. The tune alone would make anyone jump on his sword.

I wished he had a good song. I wished he had a style. But I had to see him and listen for a while. And there he was this fat guy, a strange look in his eye. Singing his song in a loud voice, full of whiskey and beer. Killing my straight face with his song, killing it softly with his
… belting it out, sweat pouring down his sideburns, thin hair matting down, he croons out the final chorus with a Go-tell-it-on-the-mountain self-righteousness that absolutely sends me over the edge into hysterics.

‘Tell her, baby! Sing them blues away … go tell it to the mountain …'

Frank yanks me up and out the door.

‘You do not laugh at karaoke,' he says firmly.

‘Aw, why you so like that. Why you never laugh no more?'

‘Fran, they take it very seriously.'

‘Now maybe someone knows he shouldn't,' I toss. ‘Where to next?'

As we wander around, I see ornate red and gold little cabinets, like birdhouses, tucked here and there on a front porch or a vendor's countertop. On them joss sticks burn alongside oranges and little mounds of rice. Every now and then, I see piles of charred paper. These are all offerings for dead relatives. The paper is supposed to be money for the ghosts, and the rice and oranges are provided just in case the deceased would rather dine there.

We come to Duxton Hill, a curvy side street that stands out from the old neighbourhood, shouting, ‘They took centuries off my life! I have been revitalised! It's a miracle!' The signage is doing its best to say, ‘This ain't your uncle's old Chinatown.' We go into The Elvis Lounge first. There is a guy by himself at the bar and a couple behind us. The waitress gives us peanuts in the shell. A picture of Elvis hangs over the register and an Elvis lamp stands behind the whiskey bottles. We order from the bartender. Someone turns on a Chinese heartbreak song. A few minutes later, a girl approaches Frank and asks him if he needs anything else. He says he's okay for now.

‘I could use another one of these,' I tell her loudly, pointing to my glass.

But her back is already to me and she's walking away.

Frank whispers, ‘She's not a waitress.'

‘Ohhh,' I say, all wide-eyed. My first encounter with a China Girl.

We go on to the next place, Bongo Surf Bar. There's a couple at the bar and a man by himself at the other end. The bartender smiles, happy to see us, and we order. We get a bowl of chilli crackers with our drinks. The room is painted brown and decorated with business cards and a poster of a koi fish. I yell over the music, which is a Chinese heartbreak song, ‘See, it's a fish. That's where we get the surf theme, Frank.'

Next door is Brew Ha Ha. We go in and the bartender tells us about the wine promotion. We leave because they don't have any beer at Brew Ha Ha and we don't like the look of the toasted broad bean snack. The other three people in the pub seem to be enjoying themselves, though.

From Wild Pat's Party Pad to The Dixie Chicken Bar, it is as if this street was built the second before we got there. The ‘boy are you gonna wish you weren't hurting so bad tomorrow after all the fun you had last night in crazy, wild Chinatown' pub names were likely picked out of a hat by the town fathers. The patrons are the same three people, out-of-work actors I presume, who just go round the back to the next bar and settle in before we get there.

That's the way things are done in Singapore. Come up with the slogan and then go out to lunch. Folks just don't notice or care that they are living in a façade. Take the national emblem, the Merlion, a half fish, half lion mythical mascot, for example. Merlions can be seen all over the place here, on T-shirts, paperweights, cookies, shiny new statues situated in key tourist spots. But buying a Merlion souvenir isn't like taking home an Empire State Building thermostat or a ceramic moo cow that squirts milk, or a hat with Mickey Mouse ears. The Merlion merchandise isn't a response to years of public enthusiasm. The Merlion didn't bubble up from history; it didn't prove itself over the decades to be a defining element of culture. The Singapore Tourist Promotions Board was given the mandate to come up with an icon whose unique and attractive design would become the nucleus of a successful souvenir industry. Basically, a ‘Grandma went to Singapore and all I got was this Merlion'. The Merlion is nothing more than a concept, like a pet rock or a smiley face. Maybe there was a contest on the back of instant noodle packets: Draw something we can make into T-shirts and key chains, mould into cookies, make into chess-pieces, and the one who comes up with the best design gets a free buffet at the Goodwood Park Hotel. The Merlion is not unattractive, it's just missing any possible shred of real meaning.