Meeting Hans over lunch to discuss the affairs of their respective students’ Christian movements was one thing. Going to a party at night with Hans was another. Marie was very clear on this point and firmly refused his invitation to a dance on Saturday night at Raffles Hostel. But Hans was not a Catholic priest who had taken the vow of celibacy. Neither was he your regular conservative pastor’s assistant who would meet the female parishioners only on Sundays after the Church service. He was different. Athletically handsome, blue-eyed and blond, he believed that the workers of God need not behave like retarded eunuchs. They were no different from other men, he had said; they had the same capacity to enjoy a woman’s company.
On this Saturday night, Han’s companion was Ser Mei. Her fashionable attire and quiet deportment fitted into his conception of the modern Oriental Chinese girl. He had noticed, too, that Ser Mei had stuck close to Marie during all their meetings and took this to mean that Mei was Marie’s protégée.
“Wo! Wo! Weeeee!” the guys at the party hooted and whistled as Hans and Ser Mei, complete with crash helmets, zoomed up the driveway on a bright red motor bike.
“Hey, Hans, good show!” they shouted and raised their hands in the Hans, his face creased in smiles, helped Ser Mei take off her helmet, and led her up the steps of Raffles Hostel. The students applauded. Ser Mei looked gorgeous in flowing pale green silk pants, trimmed with tiny blossoms and flaring at the ankles. Her pale green silk and straight dark hair made her stand out in the ballroom like a delicate Chinese blossom among the hot tropical colours of reds, golds and sophisticated blacks. The other girls in their showy sequinned long gowns looked ordinary beside her. Hans, the small-town American, felt proud.
“Shall we dance first and have a drink with Peter and Yean later?” he asked.
Ser Mei nodded, as she tried hard to swallow once again the lump of fear and repulsion which had become inexplicably stuck in her throat. No, this was different. Hans belonged to the Church. The others were crude sailors and soldiers with tattoos. Hans wore a cross. She smiled at him and allowed herself to be led into the dance hall, dimly lit by myriads of coloured bulbs strung across the room like Christmas night.
The band made the dancers thump their feet, beat their hands, sway and jerk their bodies. They were all doing the Shake, the Jerk and A-gogo Twist. As if one of her selves had stood apart, she watched herself stepping to the music with Hans, tapping feet and clapping hands, letting the music take over their bodies as they twisted and turned in rhythmic jerks and shakes forming beautiful jagged designs with their bodies. The crowd applauded and made room for them as they danced beautifully just as in a well executed jazz ballet number. They were like parts of a whole as they separated and came together again and again, their bodies instinctively responding like close friends. Again and again the crowd applauded as they twisted and turned through three numbers before thirst and exhaustion pushed them out of the dance hall.
From the verandah, Ken called over the heads of the crowd. “Hi! Hans, we’re over here.”
“Hey, didn’t you two dance?” Hans asked.
“We did, but you two distracted us,” Yean complained. “How can you take over the dance floor like this? It’s undemocratic, you know.”
“I don’t know,” Mei replied demurely, “but Sis did say that superiority comes from authority and skill. Do you think ours fall into the latter category?” asked Mei with a rare twinkle flickering in her eyes.
“Gang way, gang way!” shouted Peter bringing four drinks and a Sikh with him. “Hans, this is Santok Singh.”
“Just call me Tok,” he said. “And how long have you been here?” he asked as he pulled up a chair to join them.
He was one of the newly elected Students’ Union councillors, and wasted no time in trying to find out more about this foreigner. He sat down beside Hans.
“Have you been here long?” he asked again, eyes alight, and his angular nose twitching with interest.
“Oh, about a year or so,” shrugged Hans who felt a streak of dislike brush past him at the thought of being interrogated by this self-important student official.
“How do you find our clean and green city?” Tok asked, still trying to be friendly.
“Impressive and disturbing.” The party lights caught just the faint trace of a smile on Hans’s lips.
“Eh? What do you mean?” Hans’s comments arrested Tok’s attention at once.
“Look at these trees,” said Hans as he pointed to the rows of naked angsana trees down the road, standing like embarrassed sentinels in the orange glow of the street lamps, their sawn-off branches pointing skywards bearing thin strands of sprouting green leaves.
“Instant trees, you call them. They disturb me. Aren’t they a symbol of the new Singapore which advertises itself as ‘Instant Asia’ in tourist brochures? Your clean and honest government said, Let there be trees, and overnight there are trees. And then, let there be a hardworking and efficient work force. Overnight, there are your P and E councils in each factory. Instant productivity and efficiency! Your modern Singapore is a hothouse where things are doctored to grow faster and faster all the time.”
“But we have no choice. We have to; we have no natural resources. Don’t forget, we’ve just been kicked out of Malaysia. From now on, we have no hinterland to depend on, and the world does not owe us a living. We have to look out for ourselves now with subversive enemies on all fronts,” said Tok, breathless with the rapid recital of an argument learnt by heart.
“No, no, no,” protested Hans, waving his hands to stop Tok’s recital. “I have nothing against your attempts to survive, improve and progress. I only hope you’re not ditching something invaluable. Your pressure cooker country is the epitome of godlessness.” Hans allowed a slight dramatic pause for the last word to sink in before he continued. “Structures, systems and networks are established for the sake of doing things faster and more efficiently. Man has to adapt to this pace of an impersonal system all the time. What do you, the citizen of a country which prides itself as multi-religious, value?” Hans paused again to look at Tok, pleased with the silence he had created, while Yean shifted uncomfortably feeling this was too much like a Bible lesson. Hans continued, “What should we value? The creation of God or the creations of man? Eh?” In this audience of four Christians and a Sikh he had, he felt, clinched the argument.
Ken got up. “I need a drink, anyone for another drink?” No one answered. So Ken turned to Yean. “C’mon, Yean, let’s dance.” He pulled Yean up while Hans smiled at them, a little puzzled. The expected applause had not come. He looked at Ser Mei but her head was bent, deep in thought. She had not heard a word of what was going on. Yet for Hans as he looked at her, she was the only one who had understood and he leaned back in his chair, satisfied.
“You always angry with me and ang mo. But you now go and dance with this ang mo. Got meaning or not? Where got meaning I ask you? I cheap, you say. I say you the cheap one! I go out I get paid. You go out, you got nothing. You give him free service. I go to bring back money for you!” Ser Mei cringed at the memory of her mother flinging this at her when Hans rode up to the gate on his motorbike. “Ser Mei!” She shook off her guilt, looked up and smiled into the blue eyes of Hans who was extending a hand to her. She took it and he led her back into the dance hall. The band was playing a slow sentimental number.
Only the shadows moved. Slowly. Very slowly. Swaying a little to the music. Shadows huddling close, so very close together. Hans was taking her in his arms, encircling her tiny shape. His hands gliding down her back, smooth and silky. He liked the feel and coolness of silk as he bent his head, enjoying the fragrance of her Chinese hair while his other hand fingered the nape of her neck, cool and smooth as down. Hugging her closer and closer, he pressed against her small full breasts. Abruptly she pulled away in the middle of the dance floor.
“I’m not well. Please take me home,” she whispered, and Hans led her out.
Deck the halls with boughs of holly
Tra la la la la la la la la
‘Tis the season to be jolly
Tra la la la la la la la la
Their voices rang out from the sitting room of the manse glowing with the light from tall red candles and the tungsten lamps hanging down from the ceiling. Marie beamed as she looked round at all the students sitting on the floor, holding hands and singing in this new spirit of faith and love. She had broken new ground in this joint service with Hans and Rev James. A few months ago such a service bringing Catholics and Christians together would have been unthinkable.
When the singing stopped Hans began, “December is the season of vulnerability, not the month of good cheer as the commercials would have us believe. It is a month of pretence and defence. Sorry to disappoint you, lah!” He imitated the students who looked at him uncomfortably.
Yean knew that Sis wanted this to be a Christmas service with a difference. She waited to see how different it would be. The twenty students gathered here liked Hans. His height and blue eyes which seemed to look straight into you had scored high points with the girls.
“Your campus is alive with societies organising functions—that’s the official name for such activities, I hear,” Hans continued, enjoying the students’ surprise, for they had expected him to say something traditional for the occasion.
“Your Students’ Union has proudly proclaimed its presentation of a masked ball at the Malaysia Hotel. Let me read this to you: Going cheap! Cheap? $95 per couple. Hurry, hurry! Limited places. Prizes galore! The hostels offer humbler fare—for $20, I’m told, you get beer, chips and chicks.”
Yean saw too that Ser Mei winced at the mention of “chicks” and carefully kept her eyes on the floor. Much too sensitive, Mei, for the others just laughed and relaxed. They did not mind his attack on campus activities. Like Yean herself, they agreed with him.
“This is the season of planned pretence. Union committees plan these functions as if they’re serious affairs. Strangers attend these functions and pretend to enjoy themselves. This is canned fun, packaged tours for foreigners.”
The third foreigner in the group, Dr Jones, roared with laughter at this while the students smiled at the truth of it, and Yean half-wished that such comments had come from themselves instead of from a Westerner.
Hans continued, “Jim and I didn’t spend very much on this meal for you and we both welcome you to share a moment in our lives as we break bread together. The pampered bourgeoisie need money for fun, we don’t.”
They applauded enthusiastically for although it was not what Yean would call a sermon it had given them some food for thought. Then Rev James rose to continue the service, “Lord, we are gathered here tonight to celebrate …”
“Wait,” Mak Sean Loong interrupted, breaking the gathering solemnity, “I’d like to read something here.” He did not pause for permission to go on and they were startled at the vehemence in his tone. “Christianity has been practically identified with certain systems and has become an ideology, a cultural captive and apologist of either feudalism, colonialism or capitalism. As a reaction to such political absolutism, many Christians have opted out, refusing to judge any socio-political system, pleading incompetence and worrying mainly about private wealth and morality when privileges are threatened.”
Mak stopped and looked at his audience, expecting some challenge, but none came. They did not understand what he had read. It seemed so out of place and unconnected with what was going on. Only the three foreigners looked unperturbed. Even Sis frowned although she must have known that it came from one of her favourite authors, de la Torre. Fortunately, Hans came to the rescue.
“The main point here is that though we are concerned with our private morality we are de-personalising many of our human activities. But the significance of Christmas is that Christ, our personal Saviour, should remind us that we are the children of God created with free will and are therefore responsible for our lives.”
With this reassurance, they all felt better. Hans had placed the speech in a religious context which they could understand.
“Let us join hands now and pray that we may have the courage and conviction to live our lives responsibly,” Hans began.
“And the strength to live as free men and not slaves,” Sis concluded.
“Amen.”
As if awakened and released, the circle of bowed heads broke up and strolled into the dining room in twos and threes, eager for Campbell’s soup and garlic bread. The aroma of crisp French loaves and bowls of steaming chicken soup filled the cosy dining room. Two red candles surrounded by green leaves and brown casuarina cones at either end of the white table gave it an air of festive cheer. They gathered together passing food to one another.
“Was it alright for Mr Mak to interrupt the service and read that quotation?” Aileen asked Rev James. She had meant it as a private question but it was heard by all around the table. Tall and forthright, Aileen was merely reflecting the feelings of those Catholics who regarded such interruptions and readings from secular literature during a service as almost sacrilegious.
“Yes, do you have any objections?” Mak intervened from across the room, smacking his lips for he had been waiting for just such a question.
Hans joined him in saying, “The church is still part of the establishment here and as long as it doesn’t identify with the Asian masses, it’s doomed to failure. It has no future.”
Both Marie and Yean looked at him, with Marie nodding in agreement. She saw a courageous Christian speaking out frankly, unfettered by blind loyalty to his organization.
Yean with the rest of the students did not know how to react to these new but exciting views.
“Yes, at the moment it is an arrogant church,” Hans continued, “which sees itself as the genuine and true religion above all other misguided faiths in the East. It is so filled with its own brand of the truth that it has failed to dialogue with the Asians for the past five hundred years, listening only to its own establishment—particularly its middle class parishioners, its financiers who sponsor her rallies and her crusades. So busy with planning mission strategy and collecting statistics on the number of souls saved, it has no time to listen to the people. They become merely the objects of evangelism to be gathered into a building every Sunday to proclaim to the world—we’re saved! We’re saved! And all those folks out there must be brought into the fold!”
The students clapped heartily at one of the best sermons they had ever heard. This was the first time they had heard someone not considered as a pagan or Satan’s tool attacking the church.
Ser Mei stopped clapping and looked at Marie, hoping to catch her eye, but Marie’s eye was busy elsewhere.
“Now that we’re not at a religious service anymore,” Rev James winked teasingly at Aileen, “may I read this to all of you? It’s part of Rev Fukuda’s sermon before he left Singapore last week,” and like Mak, he did not wait for an answer. “I dislike this word, crusading, as much as I dislike the serpent. I don’t think that crusading has a place in the house of God. It has a self-righteous, Pharisaic, military tone. It does not belong to the followers of the Prince of Peace who died on the Cross. I refuse to sing ‘We are soldiers in Christ’s army marching’ against the foe. It does not express the centre of the Gospels—God so loved us He sent His Only Son who died for us. This hymn is cheap and ugly to sing. There should be a difference between Jesus Christ and General Westmoreland.”
Here Rev James stopped and looked at his audience. Ser Mei saw that the Christians in the group looked a trifle embarrassed for clearly he was directing this message at them. The Catholics in the group smiled with just a touch of complacency at one another for they had not been urged to crusade at all. Neither Catholic nor Christian, and faced with more basic issues, Ser Mei took no part in the exchange, but concentrated on trying to catch Marie’s attention. She must talk to Sis tonight.
“When did Christianity become a cheap military campaign?” Rev James continued. “I contend that a good hundred million American dollars, one hundred years of Christianity and high-powered salesmanship with one hundred thousand Billy Grahams will not make Asia Christian!” His audience applauded enthusiastically.
“Rev Fukuda is right. Christianity is becoming like the military campaign in Vietnam,” added Hans, and Marie, catching the mood of the moment, raised her fist in mock salute and shouted, “American salesmanship! Religion packaged as an army marching to a glorious victory, Hail General Westmoreland!”
When Hans smiled at her, she felt rewarded, and as if to share this unlooked-for bounty Marie turned and smiled at Ser Mei sitting at the far end of the table.
Ser Mei gave a start. She had almost given up hope of Sis noticing her. She returned Sis’s smile but too late, she had turned back to the general discussion of the war in Vietnam.
Everyone round the table was agreeing that:
the war was immoral,
the peasants were suffering most,
the Buddhists were burning themselves in vain, that the Communists were only trying to unite the land, and the Americans were interfering.
Hans finished by declaring that faith and love had to have the courage to oppose all oppressors, that the Church must not be afraid and that she must fight on the side of the poor and the oppressed, and Marie followed his fingers as they moved in mid-air, emphasising a point here and elaborating an idea there. Such square masculine fingers. Such big generous hands. With his arms pressed against his sides, only his hands moving, coming together and moving apart, coming together and moving apart. She was fascinated. His hands had a rhythm of their own. She liked his views and found the evening a most pleasant occasion. Besides, the students had decided that they didn’t know much about Vietnam and would like to discuss it further. Mak had promptly agreed to provide the reading materials. Now things were moving according to his wish too, and Marie was happy for her group who had shown an interest beyond their usual concerns. Yean was deep in conversation with Dr Jones. Ken and Aileen were still arguing with Mak about the Church. Even Mei, despite her reticence, was following the discussion with interest. Yes, tonight she was proud of her group. The leaven of the loaf was not too far-fetched an ideal. She was certain her vision of things would prevail.
Glancing at her, Yean knew that Sis was proud of them all tonight although this both pleased and disturbed her. Sis’s ardent feelings and buoyancy were carrying them on the crest of a wave and nobody bothered to find out what was beneath. All night Yean had been noticing Ser Mei’s quiet desperation at each failure of her attempts to get Sis’s attention, not that Mei had tried very hard, her attempts were obvious only to those who observed her. Ser Mei had been quiet all evening, speaking only when she was spoken to but mostly following the talk and the laughter like one suspended. That puzzled Yean. At times Mei had seemed so strong, needing no one, utterly self-sufficient. But tonight her eyes betrayed a painful dependency, a hunger and a need for Sis’s attention. Having experienced the same thing, Yean could sympathise with her but she couldn’t help feeling that Mei was being foolish if she thought Sis could satisfy this hunger.
Ser Mei’s eyes followed Marie across the room, lighting up when Marie caught them and held them for a moment in a smile. A public smile. The benevolent smile of a kindly pope as he blessed millions of the faithful in St Peter’s Square. A smile that was food to those who hunger, those who thirst and those who were poor in spirit. But tonight, Ser Mei behind her dark liquid eyes set beneath that straight fringe of hair needed more than a public smile. Marie tried to rope Ser Mei into the discussion rising round the dining table. But Ser Mei’s heart was not in the state of the Asian Church nor the Vietnam War. She had hoped that Marie would listen to her.
Yean saw this demand in Ser Mei’s eyes and shook her head. Mei must learn not to demand so much from others, least of all from Sis. After all this was Christmas Eve. Sis had many obligations to fulfil and Mei should not expect Sis to tear herself away from the discussion now.
It was almost midnight before the party finally broke up. Marie had to rush back to the convent for midnight mass with her community. In the hectic hustle and bustle of arranging who was to go home with whom, Marie said, “Mei, Hans is sending me home with Dr Jones. I’ll see you next week,” and she tripped down the path to where Hans and Dr Jones were waiting for her.
Ser Mei did not say a word, simply standing there for a moment and then turned away.
Yean, angry with Marie for deserting Mei, spoke up, addressing no one in particular. “Hey you guys, how come no one is coming in my car?” Then she turned to Ser Mei, “Will you come? I’ll send you home. That’s Sis. We’ll just have to accept that she is always in a hurry, chasing time-tables and ideas.”
Ser Mei shrugged. Unlike Yean, she did not feel free enough to criticise Sis. That would have been utterly disloyal.
Yean drove up Changi Road in a silence punctuated occasionally by the desultory remarks both girls felt obliged to make since this was after all Christmas Eve and they had been to a party together. But they had nothing in common. Yean kept her eyes on the road, regretting her own impulsiveness, while Ser Mei, looking pinched and pale, sat stiffly beside her. Yean turned left into Mountbatten Park, a housing estate of gardens and bungalows favoured by the British and American servicemen and their families. But a few locals had bought houses here too. Strains of “wo wo, yea yea” floated down the road from the darkened house that was Ser Mei’s home. Yean looked at her. Ser Mei had not mentioned any party at home. She was now staring straight ahead down the road.
“Drive on. Don’t stop,” her hoarse voice commanded.
Yean obeyed. She did not feel close enough to ask Ser Mei any questions. In silence, they drove back to Yean’s also darkened but silent house.
“My parents are out. They’re attending some function or other at one of the hotels. Come, let’s sit by the pool. Would you like a drink?”
Mei shook her head. She sank into the white garden seat, sitting as listlessly as an abandoned rag doll. Yean took off her shoes and sat at the edge of the pool, dipping her toes in the water, waiting. Ser Mei sat immobile for a long time, and Yean could see, out of the corner of her eye, the flashes of feeling crisscrossing her face. Almost in a confessional tone, tired, beaten, defeated, Mei said, “I had wanted to spend Christmas with Sis.” She stopped and looked at Yean waiting for a response.
“Isn’t it difficult? Since she’s a nun, she would have to spend Christmas with her community. You’ve got to be reasonable, she has so many duties and obligations now.”
Ser Mei was silent again; the dark pool glittering like a malevolent eye of the darkness pressing in upon them. It was a long while before she spoke again in a tone full of bitterness.
“It’s alright for you to sound so utterly reasonable. I know I’m the demanding, the unreasonable one. But you people! Sis has a community. You have a family. What have I? Nothing! Nothing! Do you understand? Look at you! Look at your lovely house! Of course, you can afford to be reasonable. Me! I’ve an ugly house. Not a home at all. It’s a brothel. I’ve a mother who’s not a mother. She’s a mummy to all those who can pay her.”
Ser Mei stopped. The years of suppression, and it had all burst. Strains of “wo wo, yea yea” interweaved with vivid images of hairy tattooed arms stroking white breasts and thighs thinly clad in scarlet and black negligees. A child peeped through the slightly parted curtains. A huge hairy hand was grasping her mother’s breast. Its thick fingers and thumb gave the dark brown nipples a tight squeeze. A squeal of delight rang out. Ser Mei shrank. Not painful? She looked down at her own forefinger. It was bleeding. She had bitten it. She peeped again through the parted curtains, careful not to make a sound, watching, mesmerised. That huge hairy hand. Each hair standing up and curling on its own. That same hand with the anchor tattoo moving downwards stroking the bare breast, the belly and then the thighs. Then with a sudden movement, it plunged into the dark patch of hair. A loud grunt of pain and her mother’s body heaved, bare bottom rearing toward her. She squealed with fright and ran back into her room. Breathless, she crouched near the door listening. Bastard! Get lost! The angry American voice yelled. The little child whimpered in her corner.
Now Yean looked at Ser Mei sitting there lost in thought. Innocent and protected, Yean did not know what Mei was talking about. What did it matter what one called one’s mother? But she did want to be sympathetic.
“Nothing to be ashamed of, Mei, she’s still your mother.”
“She’s not my mother! You don’t understand! Not my mother!” Mei flashed, anger breaking through her porcelain surface.
“I have no mother—do you understand? No mother! I’m an orphan.”
She glared at Yean who seemed at that moment to represent all the well-brought-up students in the convent who had never understood her.
“I’m not her daughter. I’m a crutch, something she can lean on in her old age. Do you know why I was allowed to be born? She couldn’t abort me. I survived three abortions. You know why I was allowed to go to school? Because I can study and qualifications would bring money and a well-paid husband. I’m my mummy’s road to respectability and security.”
If Yean was shocked by Mei’s bitter voice, she hid it well. She stared into the water and stopped kicking her legs. She could not understand.
“Aren’t we all others’ security blankets? I’m sure that I’m my parents’ status symbol,” she declared, quite secure in that bit of knowledge.
“Oh you just don’t understand. How can you? So rich, so protected! So pure! I grew up when a tattooed arm squeezed my breast. You and Sis are the same. I wish you people had left me alone. Then at least I could have endured, survived, existed! But you people asked me to live. Live fully. Be alive! Fine! But in living I see, I hear, I question, I yearn, I desire! And then you tell me to be reasonable. I wish I had been left in my shell!” Almost spitting the words out so that Yean recoiled from her attack.
“Now that Sis has drawn me out, what do I do? Tell me, tell me when you’re in need,” she mimicked. “Well, I’m in need now. Where is she?”
Yean closed her eyes tightly, wishing she could close her ears as well. She had never heard anything so painful. But Mei, once started, was not about to spare her.
“You know what my mummy wants? She’s not satisfied with a crutch, she wants a crotch. She wants to sell me—my sex, my virginity! Do you know how much a virgin costs? Ten thou, twenty thou! Even a house if he is an old man and a millionaire and doesn’t die upon the first fuck!”
Yean was repelled by the ugly sneer across Mei’s face. She had wanted to hug Mei but now she couldn’t. Instead, she got up and sat on the grass beside Mei’s seat consoling herself with the thought that Mei was not the sort of person whose shoulders one could squeeze sympathetically. Sis was most probably the only one who would have been granted that right. But she was not here! Yean sat, silent, waiting as she watched Mei sobbing soundlessly. Only her body shook. When it was over, Yean said, “Stay here tonight.” It was the least she could do.
“Charity!” said Ser Mei, spitting the word out. “But damn it, I suppose I’ll accept. After all, it’s Christmas Eve.”
Yean ignored her jibe and led the way into the house.
“C’mon, it’s getting chilly.”