It was the coffee lounge of an exclusive club. Its soft dim lights soothed her eyes after the hot glare of the afternoon sun. The dulcet notes of an electric organ floated round the room, hovering above the murmur of voices, lingering in the air, its tender tones assuaging the frayed nerves and tired feet of members exhausted by a day of flurried shopping in exclusive stores. Marie wrinkled up her nose at the luxurious decor of this indoor garden aimed at pleasing such pampered bourgeoisie as Paul. She felt out of place amidst the gilded glass tables, brass lamps, potted plants and plush green velvet seats. Better the camaraderie of the sarabat stalls for a kopi susu. Paul and Marie turned aside to make way for the waiter who brought them tea in a silver teapot and thinly sliced ham and cucumber sandwiches on a blue and white porcelain plate edged with delicate English flowers.
Yean, invited by Marie to give moral support, sat opposite these polite adversaries and knew that she, too, would not enjoy this tea despite their splendid surroundings. She viewed Paul admiringly in his light blue shirt, dark pin-stripe pants and dark blue tie brightened by a strip of red, sitting with the ease and geniality of a host offering a good meal. And Yean, who was no stranger to exclusive clubs, knew that it was his generosity which marked Paul as a member of Singapore’s rich young set to whom money was not going to be a problem. Marie, however, the advocate of those to whom money would always be a problem, attempted to look like a factory girl. Her pair of black pants and blouse with a floral print was the outward sign of her inward faith in the proletarian lifestyle, as she was fond of saying. Yean sympathised with her discomfort now just as she had sympathised with Paul a few nights before. She sat very still and hoped the two of them would forget about her presence.
Marie turned away. She did not like this conversation any more. Same old Paul. America had not changed him one bit. He had been there but was so tightly cocooned in Singaporean fibres that the student protest and anti-war movement had left him untouched.
“Look, Marie,” he was saying, “you have to be realistic. You can’t go through life looking through rose-tinted glasses. Grow up, this is the real world, not the convent.”
In answer, Marie looked straight at him but he avoided her and concentrated on pouring out their tea into those delicate porcelain cups.
With great deliberation she said, “I refuse to grow up if by growing up you mean walking down the broad straight road to goals set in concrete. This is your way—always so practical, accepting and prudent. I refuse to be practical like you,” and she waved her hands in final dismissal. Then leaning slightly forward, she asked, “What’s wrong with being idealistic? To dream and look at the stars? I refuse to accept the cruel and the ugly. And as for your prudence,” she whispered, “it’s a euphemism for lack of courage. You’re afraid to act against anything and you call it, prudence and patience.”
The impact of this made Paul push back his seat. It had hit him where it hurt most. He realised he had advanced himself because he had accepted as facts a lot of things he could not change. Only the slight quiver of his mouth betrayed his wound. His lips were drawn into an almost straight line and his mobile face had set into a mask of hard logic. He was determined not to show his feelings again.
Yean, watching, noted with dismay that there would be no attempt at dialogue now.
“Yes, yours is reality,” and Marie’s voice rose almost an octave higher. She was excited, scenting victory. “For you, life is competing, striving and accumulating; and living within such a framework you seek only to adapt yourself to it, never to change it.”
Then leaning back, she looked at him and said caressingly, almost tauntingly, “Life can be changed, you know, into one that is warm, tender and loving. But of course,” and her voice hardened, “being a practical man, you’ve no time for such stuff. I’m not a practical man of the world and so, I will refuse to live life as it is while I have a vision of what it could be!”
From her point of view she had won. Yean continued to sip her tea, lukewarm and bland, but it comforted her.
Paul surveyed Marie’s graceful profile, trying to determine the cause of her hardness. Was it just cruelty? There she was, sitting opposite him full of composure, mocking him with the warmth and love of life, the very tenderness she had denied him while he had to wrestle with the cold reality of a love denied. Whoever said that life could be changed? He could not change the fact that she had refused his love. He could not change the fact that she had chosen someone else.
Yean glanced up. These two were caught in some absurd drama and they were very serious about their parts. She racked her brain for a polite excuse to leave them.
Marie recalled with satisfaction her experience in the chapel where she had gone to pray for Ser Mei, and unable to resist another burst of eloquence continued, “Yes, in your eyes I’m a fool, but I’ll gladly continue to be a fool. The one whom I call Lord is the greatest fool in history!”
“Don’t be a martyr,” Paul growled. “You’re not called to such greatness. At least not yet. I must admit that was a pretty melodramatic speech. You make it all seem so noble—living life as it can be. It just shows that it’s you who can’t adapt. If this disability is serious, it’s not far from a psychotic condition.”
He spoke in his usual matter-of-fact clinical tone which Marie had always resented.
Yean marvelled at their outward calm as Marie leaned backwards and crossed her legs, waiting for Paul to finish. She seemed determined to practice patience in the face of this provocation. How dare he imply that all those who disagree with the establishment are psychotic! But quite oblivious to Marie’s and Yean’s feelings, Paul continued, pleased now with his self-control and common sense.
“Look, I’m not trying to put you down,” unconsciously adopting the old patronising tone he used when they were in their teens and in love. “What I’m trying to tell you is that whether you like it or not people do value their rice bowls. They want flats, they want houses, they want cars, they want money in the banks and they’re getting them under this system.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Marie was exasperated with his common sense. “But who are the people who would eventually get these goods? Not the ordinary worker in the factory. Only people like you! But at what cost to your souls!”
“Don’t be idealistic, Marie,” and his voice had a harder cutting edge as he continued, “reality will soon catch up with you. If this project involves you and you alone, I would not have bothered. But you’re leading quite a few idealistic young souls astray too,” and he glanced at Yean, and was all the more determined to say what he had to say. “You’re using them for your own discontent. Are you being responsible for them?”
To Yean, he sounded as if he were the president back in Katong Church, conducting the weekly Christian Youth meeting and asking his members difficult questions.
“No, I’m not responsible for them,” Marie shot back angrily. “They must decide for themselves. I didn’t ask them to follow me. They must follow their own conscience.”
“That’s not fair. They’ve been with you far too long. They’re young and they are your group.”
“No longer.”
Yean was surprised and hurt. Why was Sis disavowing them? She had not expected to hear this at all. She was here to support her, and now it seemed she did not need her any more. Neither did she need the group.
“So you’ve abandoned them for a more exciting group of ang moh, is it?”
Yean was not sure if she’d detected a note of malice in Paul’s question. But she waited eagerly to hear Sis’s reply. Her voice became softer, sharper, angrier.
“Must you sink so low in order to win an argument?”
She looked straight at Paul, conscious of having made a mistake in Yean’s eyes. Was she now trying to regain lost ground?
Paul was silenced, and for a moment, embarrassed. Then he countered,
“Who is this Hans anyway? Why is he so involved in this project? Why is he using the students’ names and not his own? Is he using them as a front? I bet these questions never even entered your head.”
Sis was silent now. Yean realised that she had not thought of asking such questions too.
Sensing his advantage, Paul pressed home with, “He is an expat. Expats have no right to get involved. And as far as I’m concerned they’re still neo-colonialists. They still think of themselves as our great saviours. Ask him to go home. The U.S. is also in a mess.”
Sinking deeper into his seat, Paul looked at Yean for the first time. He had voiced a general feeling about these Westerners out here eager to help Singapore. He had worked with them and he hated their feeling of superiority under that veneer of helpfulness. But Yean, who had been taught by some highly competent expatriate lecturers, was a little disappointed by that defensive note in Paul’s voice.
Marie, as oblivious of anyone else’s feelings as Paul had been, made it worse with her counter-attack.
“Must you see a subversive in every critical intelligence and a colonialist in every white man? Can’t you see we use students’ names because the sponsors of this project wanted the names of local people? That’s all there is to it!”
She was angry with him for thinking so lowly of Hans who was no coward and need not hide behind anybody. Hans was a concerned church worker like herself. The community was his vocation too, and the issues of human rights and human dignity affected everybody and should transcend national boundaries.
“Aren’t we being jingoistic to be threatened by their presence? Don’t you have any faith in our ability and our powers?”
“I don’t like these white men strutting around pretending that they know Asia’s problems better than we do, and they don’t have all the answers. After their adventurism here they go home, glorified as heroes thrown out of Asia by despotic governments. They spoil our good image abroad!”
“Image! Who cares about image? Why are you so caught up with appearances! The important thing is that we are people—human beings, children of God, working out our common destiny. Don’t you remember?”
There! Another bulls-eye! Yean thought. Sis had made another hit! As president of Christian Youth, Paul had always stressed that the human community shared a common destiny, that Man’s ultimate love and loyalty belonged not to the state but to God, and that they should see, judge and act not according to Man’s laws but according to God’s laws. Now he looked as if he would rather forget what he had said in those days when he was young and idealistic.
“But you know you can’t change anything so why waste the effort?” he asked almost lamely. Her ardour and faith in the goodness of humanity had never failed to move him. He kept his eyes down and remained silent.
“Oh Paul, what’s the matter with you?” Sis looked at him with eyes full of pity. Paul concentrated on stirring his cup of tea.
“Has the commercial world changed you so much? Where’s your faith and CY spirit? Right now, yours is the voice of despair. If we don’t try or believe enough to try, how can we succeed?”
Paul bowed his head. Yean sat up. Sis had caught him this time.
“Someone must be the first to fling a pebble into the lake to test its depth. I’m just throwing a pebble in. How the ripples might go I don’t know. That I can’t control.”
“Ah! That’s it,” Paul jumped back into the fight. He seemed determined never to accept defeat at her hands again. “This is the height of folly and irresponsibility! If you’re not sure of your goal and strategy, you’ve no right to stir up anything. You haven’t an iota of right to lead these students on.”
And he looked to Yean again, this time as if for support. Yean did not look at him. Instead she reached out for the pot of tea and proceeded to refill her cup.
“These students are young and impressionable and they look up to you. You’re their demi-god. In their eyes you can do no wrong.”
Yean smiled into her cup at this. How little Paul knew about her group and its relations with Sis. Not all of them would simply follow Sis, least of all herself.
“They look up to you and you’re exploiting them. They’re fodder for your battles with the establishment—the ‘in’ word now.”
“That’s not fair! You sound like big brother now. You’re the patronising one in case you don’t know. You are looking down on them. They can think for themselves. They’re already second-year students. It’s high time we decide for ourselves and be responsible for our actions. I’m not their demi-god and they’re not as stupid as you think.”
Yean was pleased, oh, so pleased with Sis’s spirited defence. She knew her group had never required Paul’s protection. Thank goodness Sis believed in them.
“Still, you can’t run away from the fact that your discussion groups are destructive. All of your talks are negative criticism. If you want to criticise, you must offer alternatives and suggestions for improvement. Do you have any constructive alternative to offer?”
For a moment the image of the typical bureaucrat in white shirt and dark pants flashed across Yean’s mind. She and Sis exchanged a smile. They knew this was the most effective clamp on the critics of any administration. Don’t criticise if you have nothing constructive to offer!
“Your project will create trouble.” Paul would not let up. “It’s the perfect front for the Communists and you’ll be putty in their hands. Do you really think you can succeed?”
“Paul, what’s wrong with trying and failing? And even if we can’t offer an alternative, is it so terrible to point out the defects of society? Must every critic have an answer to everything? Why can’t we be brave enough to ask the honest question and perhaps the honest answer will meet us along the way?”
Paul looked unimpressed. Her eloquence no longer moved him.
“Don’t lull me into acceptance with your pretty images. Your phrases hang in mid-air. You’re still being irresponsible. You stir things up but you have no means of ensuring success. You don’t even know what will happen.”
“You want to be in control. Success is all you care for! You’re the one playing the demi-god,” Marie retaliated, her voice as harsh as Paul’s. “Haven’t you realised that life is uncontrollable most of the time? Creation is chaotic. To build anew, you must first destroy. People like you cling to the old structures because you don’t believe that man can rebuild.”
Yean wanted to applaud this speech. This was the old Sis who used to rouse her whole class and give them the courage to dream the impossible dream. Paul was the voice of cautious age. Morality figures, the both of them.
“You’re playing with fire. You want power and you don’t even realise it. You and the students will be burnt. Our authorities are not yet that tolerant.”
Angered by Paul’s ominous warning, Marie launched into her favourite diatribe against the government.
“You and your kind are full of contradictions! You want a people who are intelligent, critical and analytical, discriminating blah, blah, blah and then you say, that’s enough. Don’t rock the boat. Any false move and we sink. Enemies are lurking in the corners ready to jump on us and jealous foreign powers will exploit us. This is rule by fear, Paul. This garrison mentality will soon rob us of our vitality. We build our walls higher and higher, eating our rice in fear. Don’t you think that one day we will choke?”
No answer. Paul looked at his watch and said he would have to go to keep an appointment. He signalled to the waiter, showed his membership card and signed the bill. The waiter bowed respectfully and withdrew. Organ music continued to play softly. Yean stood up, excused herself and left. She did not want to witness this last moment.
Marie and Paul stood up too. They exchanged a brief smile. Both knew the truth. They would never meet as friends again. Outside the clubhouse, night had fallen. They faced each other for a moment, and shook hands, sealing their differences.
The touch of her hand shocked him into remembrance of things he would rather forget. He let go, nodded and walked toward his car. His business with her was finished. Finished. Finished. Finished.
Marie walked home alone down Orchard Road. She would never see him again, unless it was for something official. She turned round the corner and walked past C.K. Tang’s, crowded with night shoppers, bargain hunters, past Orchard Motor’s showroom, Fitzpatrick’s, the Prince’s Hotel and the Moon Gate Antiques Shop. Playthings of the rich, she thought, as she stopped to examine a pair of blue glazed lions in the window case and huge porcelain vases of the Qing period. Once she had shared Paul’s dream to owning such things. But that was a long time ago. Strange how she had changed and he had remained the same. However, her breathing was still regular. Her hands and feet were moving as they should, her heart beat just a little faster but otherwise it was normal. The medical check-up over, she was a little surprised that she was not as heartbroken as she had expected to be. She had dreaded meeting him alone, but it had not been such an ordeal after all. Just a little hurt like a sharp razor cutting a thin line across her heart. Melodramatic image! Just a surface cut, no bleeding. It was a pity that Paul could never see eye to eye with her on the most important issues in their lives. She was relieved she had not married him to become eventually the wife of a prosperous member of exclusive clubs, the mother of two cute little children spending most of her time chauffeuring them to ballet classes, swimming and music lessons in a second family car. Well, God bless you, Paul Tan, walking down your safe and narrow path, and she turned toward Cold Storage.
Mak Sean Loong, standing just behind the glass doors of Cold Storage, peered out into the night through his thick steel-rimmed glasses. The car park opposite was ablaze with the gas lamps and electric bulbs of the hawker stalls, stalls with crowds of diners, shops still selling fresh flowers and groceries, and the barber’s and tailor’s still doing business. And that man in the checked shirt still standing there, looking up and down the road as if waiting impatiently for someone to turn up. Ah, he had to be careful. Relax, relax, just relax. They must never know that he, Mak, could be this sharp. Act nonchalant! OUCH! He wheeled round, expecting to look into some mirthless face but no one was there. What had hit him? A cry made him look down. What’s this? A toddler must have bumped into him and hurt himself. Its anxious mother hurried over from the ice-cream counter, gave him a glare and picked up her precious bundle, who bawled at the top of his voice to announce his pain to the rest of the world. Mak shrugged off the incident and followed the mother and child to the ice-cream counter. He bought a cone and licked it absentmindedly. Aah, he must be inconspicuous. Be a fish in water as Mao had advised. This task should steel his nerves, and he gave his cone another lick.
He peered through the glass doors again. What? The man was still there, looking up and down the road. He must be looking for me, and Mak, sliding behind a pillar, peeped at the man again. Ah! Now he was pretending to check his watch but Mak wasn’t fooled. The man must be signalling his partner or reporting to his chief. That watch must be a small radio. Damn it, he could not stay in Cold Storage forever. His ice-cream was melting. He would have to make a dash for it. He gave his ice-cream cone a hurried lick and bit into the wafer. Perspiring despite the air-conditioning, he pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his forehead, pushed his handkerchief back into his pocket and peered through the glass doors again. Wait a minute, isn’t that Marie out there? Mak dashed out of Cold Storage, leaving the glass doors swinging violently.
“Marie, look casual. Say hi to me,” Mak enjoyed his melodramatic whisper. Surprised, Marie complied. Mak had jumped out of nowhere. She could not see his eyes because his glasses reflected only the light of the street lamps, but she could see the rest of him bathed in perspiration, his forehead wet and oily.
“What on earth’s the matter?”
“I’m being followed. No! Don’t look round,” he hissed and dragged her along with him. “Come, come, walk with me while I throw them off.”
They hurried past the shops toward the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank.
“Don’t look round, pretend to be my girlfriend and hold my arm. There’s a guy in a checked shirt who’s been tailing me since I came out of Michael’s bookshop.”
“How can you be so sure? He could have been going in the same direction,” but she took his proffered arm all the same, a trifle amused at the urgency in his voice.
“No, no, no,” Mak shook his head emphatically. She had never taken him seriously. None of them ever had. One day he would show them, but now he must be patient. Damn it, he must not get angry with her. “I tried to shake him off. I went into Cold Storage and bought an ...” He looked at the ice-cream cone still in his hand and flung it away. “The guy was standing outside checking his radio.”
Marie smiled, her eyes bright with amusement. Mak could be so funny when he was not discussing politics and ideology.
“Wait a few minutes and look behind you if you don’t believe. You’ll see this guy in the checked shirt following us,” Mak said proudly.
They walked on, past the entrance to the Istana where two young guards stood stiff and bored. The shops along this stretch of road had closed for the night. The crowd had thinned.
“Now look back,” ordered Mak.
Marie turned but there was no one. She looked again.
“Don’t turn round too many times, you may rouse his suspicion.” Mak stared straight ahead at the darkened bank as if his life depended on it.
“But there’s nobody there,” Marie whispered.
“What?”
Mak made a hundred and eighty degree turn on his heels and stood still for a moment, staring at the two Istana guards suspiciously. Nothing moved. He turned back and walked briskly toward the bank.
“We must have shaken him off or he has given up.”
Mak was disappointed as he continued to walk beside Marie, past Cathay and the darkened bookshops of Bras Basah Road, peering into the shadows cast by the broad pillars of these old shophouses, still anxious about being followed, convinced that he was a marked man.
“Are you worried about getting into trouble?” asked Marie.
Mak shook his head. Fear of trouble? Ignorant woman! She did not know him well enough, paying all her attention to that American. Why, in the States he had marched with the likes of Norman Mailer and Angela Davis! Did she think he was a nobody? She used to think him great; had she begun to doubt him? Must be that American’s influence! Afraid? Didn’t she think him man enough to handle things? If they had not died so early and abandoned him to relatives, his parents would be proud of their First Dragon now. Those higher-ups must have taken note of his involvements in the States. He was no stranger to government agents infiltrating consciousness-raising groups. He was an activist! Wait till she found out about his connections. Then she would not be so smug!
“Are you getting worried?” Marie asked again since Mak had remained silent. He had been acting strangely these past few weeks—gruff and morose. Perhaps there was some truth to what he had been saying, especially in the light of Paul’s ominous warning this afternoon. However, she still thought that they were not important enough to be kept watch over. Mak was obsessed, forever pulling her aside to tell her about his involvements in the States, interesting, but only when he discussed political ideas with her. Other than that, he was irritating to the point of being odious. Still, one must work with all kinds of people. Commitment to the project was more important, and she was proud that she could balance resignation and resolve.
“Mak, perhaps you’re right. Let’s get the project off the ground soon before anybody stops us.”
Mak grinned. At last she was beginning to see him in his true light. His plan was beginning to work.