| |
For lunch, they chose a place called Lau Pa Sat. It was a big hawker center tucked away in a crease in time, between Chinatown and the Central Business District, the glorious past and the rewarding present.
The place was teeming with people and suffused with food odors and a haze miasma. But in a way, it was real, a reprieve from the government buildings they’d bustled in the whole day. Their fellow lunchers weren’t super-friendly, over-the-top, smarmy as most officials were. Nor were they bitter like Mrs Chu, or unreasonably aggressive like Mr Li—the driver—and whatever-his-name, the concierge at the res. In this very human place, people were spontaneous. Which was all Hector needed.
Hector noticed a long queue before one of the stalls. He piloted his group there and asked one of the men what this stall sold. The man shrugged and said, “I don’t know. It’s busy so I wait here.” Another man, who had his entire family lined up in front of him, said he didn’t know either: He’d been ordering food at another stall when he’d seen this long queue.
“We’ll join the bandwagon, then,” Hector declared.
Paul nudged at his scapula.
“What?”
“I’ll go reserve the seats,” Paul said.
“You’re our guide, for Christ’s sake. Stay with us. No one can read a word of this Mozambican.” Hector referred to the glowing overhead menu, all of which was in Chinese.
“They speak Portuguese in Mozambique, sir,” the Christian spy corrected him politely.
“Aren’t you a straightforward fellow.”
But after they’d gotten their orders, Hector felt he owed Paul an apology. It was impossible to find a vacant table.
People had used all sorts of stuff—menus, empty bottles, chopsticks, masks, shoes even—to reserve the entirety of the ironing-board-like wooden benches spread under the cast-iron dome. So Hector and his group had to wait out a septet of suited salarymen, seated at the distant end of the court, before they got to taste their choices of the exotic food.
“In Pulau,” Paul explained, hunched over his pork ribs soup—which made Zainab wrinkle her nose with disgust—“we have a culture known as kiasu. We’re not as proud of it now as we once were. But anyway, sorry for the hassle.”
Fifi, radiant, her hair collected in a loose ponytail, her hip glued to Kero’s, said, “Yeah, I think I know what you’re talking about. You compete over every little thing. Daddy likes it. He says Arabs need just this kiasu to prosper.”
“We’re not Arabs,” Kero objected, fishing for the beef pieces in his Shanghai noodles with a pair of defiant chopsticks.
This remark gave Zainab an excuse to dislodge her eyes from Saint Paul’s baleful pork. “Maybe you aren’t. But we all alhamdulillah are.”
“Does ‘all’ include Baxter and Yubi?” Kero returned combatively.
There, her overzealous hubby stepped in. “Egypt is an Arab country. If you don’t like Arabs, leave!”
“What do you think I’m doing here?” Kero muttered, shaking his head.
Hector busied himself admiring the beauty of the overhead gazebo. A great Chinese lantern dangled from the center. Around it, five long-armed steel fans spun to the aesthetic standard of slow motion.
It was hypnotic.
He heard Saint Paul steer the argument away.
“Your father is mistaken, Miss Noman,” Paul said. “Kiasu isn’t about competing over trifles. It literally means ‘fear of losing out.’ It runs the gamut from food stalls to test scores to marriages. It’s been a driving force for excellence in Pulau for decades. It makes sense. Pulau, after all, has no assets but its citizens. We aren’t like you. Nile and Pyramids and old temples. We are only us.”
“You have King George Port,” Fifi proposed.
“You mean the Bay? We seldom call it ‘Port.’ Yes, that’s our lucky charm, passed down from the British.” (A distant tower clock chimed once.) “There would be no Pulau without the Bay. And yet, we are not the Bay. It doesn’t even turn in enough revenues anymore.”
“Why not?” Yubi asked.
“Asia is teeming with big ports. Two in Malaysia, and not a bad one in Thailand. There’s also Saigon. And Manila, too. We’re lucky if we get five million containers a year now. That’s not much, but we need that to keep the Bay open. Our main revenues now come from services industries. Mainly banks and tourism.”
Hector scanned his table. Zainab was struggling not to hate her black chicken soup, whereas her husband took conservative bites of his vegan noodles. Kero was still trying to tame his chopsticks. Fifi had chosen Pulau’s trademark, the Hainanese chicken rice. But she expressed her distaste for the ginger-garlic-chili spicing by fishing for the poached chicken chops inside.
Paul noticed this and said, “That’s called grave-digging. It brings bad luck.”
“What?” Fifi almost laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Paul, tell me,” Hector interceded, “what’s the problem with kiasu? It seems like a very positive idea.”
“You see, professor, kiasu was based on meritocracy. It’s an ideology, perhaps a good one. Not without blemishes, but it’s done us more good than harm. It was necessary when our people were poor and struggling. But now we’re well-off. We need no kiasu anymore. Can you imagine? Some of our schools require IQ tests for parents before admitting their kids! That’s not how things should be at all.”
Baxter said, “Guess your flunkers can teach at our MIT,” and snickered merrily.
Yubi said, “But that’s crazy.”
And Saint Paul concurred. “We know it is crazy, ma’am. Or, at least, we once knew.” And the apostle raised his eyes to the haze and declaimed: “May your soul rest in heaven, Fei Guo. Craziness all started after you were gone.”
And he crossed himself and slurped his pork.
* * *
Zainab asked Fifi if there were any black chicken shreds stuck in her teeth.
Yubi, having deserted her shrimp soup, leaned against her husband. Her warmth, mixed with the Boss fragrance Hector had bought her at la place Vendôme during the Paris trip, the shrewish hiss of her voice on his eardrum—not to forget the tramadol in his blood—aroused him.
He contracted his traps to distance himself, however a silly inch, from her presence.
“Baby, you okay?”
“I’m good.”
“You don’t look good.”
“I think I’m fine.”
“What’s the matter? You’re so—”
“What?”
“Distracted,” she said.
He swiveled and stared at her. She bit her lower lip—it dimly glossed, a soft hue of pink—and blinked multiple times. This was her method of telling him she was both empathetic and embarrassed. She reached her arm behind his back.
But thank goodness his phone buzzed right then.
* * *
By which time, all of them—except Fifi—had finished or given up on their dishes.
“Sorry, babe, I need to take this.” Hector hurried off to answer the call.
He’d half-expected Jeff, or the dean. But this call was local. He obscured himself behind a garishly tarped scaffolding near the exit and touched the green accept icon.
“Hello?”
“How’s the food?” It was the Cardinal’s voice.
Hector fought the shakiness in his voice. “Sir.”
“We’re moving in right now. You know the drill.”
A masked young girl, who looked too proud of her red-tied hair, frolicked past him, followed by a couple of jolly middle-aged parents. A coffee aroma rose in the air from the nearby stall, heavy, heady.
“What I remember is that I shouldn’t react,” Hector said. “That’s my part.”
“That’s the plan. Your appointment as deputy chief has been approved, by the way. Congratulations, Hector. The paperwork is gonna take a week or two. But you can tell your wife now, if you want to.”
“But, sir—triple-eye. I’m supposed to—”
“Don’t worry about that now. Let your colleagues do their job. You’ve pretty much done yours.”
Hector peeked at the table. Paul was discoursing closely with Yubi. Baxter was quieter than usual: shooting regular glances in his direction. Fifi was laughing with Kero. Ahmed and his wife were clearing up the dishes.
“Hector, are you still there?”
“Yessir,” Hector said. “I am here.”
* * *
When he returned to the table, Hector found his wife in an almost drunken state. Yubi was ebullient, her cheeks and neck the color of ripe apricot. She cackled. “Hey, baby, what did you tell Ambassador Lee about me? Hah? Did you say you had ‘a hot Asian piece back in the room waiting?’ Hah. Hah. Hah. Hector, honey, what’s happened to you! You’re silly, but more charming. Hah. Hah. Hah. Hah. Hah. I love this island and you. Come sit beside me, baby. This guy”—she pointed both her manicured forefingers at a grinning Paul—“is trying to steal your hot piece away from you. He’s a doll, though. Come here, baby. What’s wrong?”
“We’re behind schedule,” Hector said. “We need to go. Now.”
“But I haven’t finished my rice yet,” Fifi complained.
“You’re gravedigging, not eating,” Kero said.
“It’s too spicy.”
Hector clapped his hands. “Come on, guys. What’s our next destination? Chinatown? We can get there on foot, I think. Let’s get out of here.”
“Why the rush, boss?” Baxter gave him a sharp look.
Hector ignored him. “Come on. Where are Zainab and Ahmed?”
“They’re throwing out the empties,” Yubi said. “Anyway, Chinatown isn’t our next destination. It’s the National University.”
“Can someone go find Ahmed and Zainab to—”
A siren, mingled with a distant, protesting shriek, froze him. Hector tossed his eyes toward the entrance. The crowds didn’t allow him to see the emergency. But Fifi climbed onto the bench, followed by Kero, then Yubi, who revealed: “It’s like a CDC bust or something.”
Hector glared at Saint Paul—the Shrugger.
Zainab and her husband came back running. “Vomit! Vomit!” Zainab exhorted them. “I vomited in the garbage. Vomit now. Everybody vomit!”
Two phantoms in white positive-pressure suits approached. Hector recognized the sleepy-looking visa clerk from the Embassy and Fabio, itchy mustache wiped off but smugger than ever.
Visa Clerk collected the leftovers from Fifi’s dish, while Fabio headed to the next table.
“Don’t panic,” Visa Clerk reassured the students. “My name is Dr Joseph Street, from the World Health Organization. We’re here to make sure everyone is safe. Please, if you have purchased any food items from the first four stalls in the market, proceed to our booth outside and get vaccinated against H7N9, commonly known as ‘bird flu.’ Please, everyone, do not get scared. Early immunization should lower your chances of infection up to forty percent. Please, walk out slowly. And, again, do not panic.”
Fifi’s face was the color of ash, Kero’s a shade of blue. Yubi squeezed Hector’s arm in fright.
“Out, please,” Visa Clerk said. “Do not touch anything on your way.” He turned to Fabio. “Dr Santiago.”
Fabio was trying to reassure a quartet of backpacked Swedish tourists at the next table, all of whom looked like copies of the same person in various stages of shock.
“Dr Santiago!” Visa Clerk called louder.
Fabio turned.
“Please take these good people outta here. I’ll collect and seal everything.”
* * *
Panic had verily overtaken the market. Everyone was filing out in jittery queues. Most stalls were either gaping or wax-sealed. The owners of the first four stalls were shouting at the white-suited helmeted aliens as the latter dumped the precious birds into man-sized CO2 boxes. Hector couldn’t but secretly admire the Company’s plan. It was simple, but legit.
And in a few minutes, the daughter of the most vehement antivaxxer in Egypt would be inoculated with the perfect pathogen, a cadeau from Central Intelligence.
Fifi was sobbing. “I’ll die, I just know it.”
Mini hugged Fifi’s shoulders. “Don’t say that, sweetie. I promise you, we’re all gonna be okay.”
“You should have vomited,” Zainab reproached them, walking behind with her silent hubby.
“Nobody is going to die,” Hector said. “Kero, you’re the physician. Has anybody died of bird flu at all?”
Hector was counting on Kero’s flimsy knowledge of his deserted profession. Yet Kero didn’t seem to have heard him: He followed behind Fabio, his head slouched and swinging on his chest like a slaughtered bird.
The jumble of shouts, the babel of tongues, the shuffling of feet, the noise of storefronts coming down—all this created the atmosphere of a concentration camp, the stinky haze outside like the fumes of Auschwitz.
“Our booth is right there.” Fabio pointed at a parked ambulance with a green-gloved pinkie, beside which stood a blue awning carrying the Red Cross logo.
Fifi was still weeping. “Thank you, you’re a godsend,” she said.
The retiring Cairo deputy nodded gloomily. He retraced his steps, brushing his successor’s shoulder on the way.
Saint Paul rubbed his hands, as if he were on the verge of a repast. “I’ll get you through in a jiffy. I know someone.”
Hector tapped on Fifi’s shoulder. “Your aunt called,” he whispered. “I think your daddy’s sick.”