Cha-li followed her into the kitchen. Rose threw open a door, and Cha-li walked into the kitchen of the house next door. She followed Rose into the dining room where an old woman was trying unsuccessfully to feed a young man strapped to his chair. The young man’s large shaved head was lolling on the back of the chair as though his neck was too soft to support it. Spit was dribbling from the corner of his mouth, which was making guttural sounds. The old woman wiped off the spit with a washcloth, and shoved another spoonful of rice into the gaping hole as though to stop the ugly sounds coming from it.
“Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!”
“What your Kai-yeh gave me.”
Cha-li stared at the head and vacant eyes. “Did he...? Did he...?” Helpless, she turned to Rose.
“He raped me. Then I tried to abort him.”
Rose patted the lolling head, which said, “Ugh! Ugh!” and more spit dribbled.
“Good morning, Madame Mei Kwei! Good morning, Ugh-Ugh!” two girls called out in Mandarin as they came down the stairs, their nipples showing under their skimpy nightdresses. Cha-li remembered seeing them when she was walking Saddam Hussein. One of the girls approached them and planted a kiss on the lolling head. “Ugh! Ugh!” The distended mouth dribbled more spit, and the wrists strained at the belt that strapped them to the armrests.
Rose turned away. “Let’s go back. They’re getting ready to eat.”
Cha-li followed her back to the first house. The sun had come into the living room, and the light that bounced off the white marble floor hurt Cha-li’s eyes. Her head was swimming.
“Is Robert the mastermind?”
“No. Robert has to settle his gambling debts. I... ah! I need the money and so do these China girls. They have something to sell that the Indians want to buy. Robert brings the Indians. I bring the girls. Everyone is happy. It’s not a crime.”
“I don’t know about that.”
Rose drew the curtains. “Report it to the police if you want. I don’t care what you do.”
“Why? Why didn’t you tell me what he did?”
“Tell you?” Rose’s laughter bordered on the hysterical, a wild gleam in her eyes. “Tell
She wanted to slap Rose, but walked to the front door instead and stopped at the doorway, surprised at the sudden weight in her limbs. Her shoulders sagged. The memory of the gilt headband that she’d worn in those days made her cringe. It was made of cardboard and cheap plastic, painted gold. Later, she had bought the bronze headband to replace it.
The sunlight outside hurt her eyes, which were beginning to tear, the same eyes that had remained shut when footsteps were shuffling in the middle of the night into the kitchen where Rose slept. Rose’s mouth was moving, saying something to her, but she couldn’t catch the words. She kept thinking of the lolling head and dribbling mouth next door.
“The... the temple will be demolished. Very soon,” she said without turning around. She couldn’t face Rose. She wanted to shut her eyes, shut out the noonday glare, but she forced herself to keep them open, fixed on the green lawn outside sizzling in the midday heat. “I... I can get a flat big enough for the three... three of us... er... you and him...” Her voice trailed off.
We were minding our own business! Never causing no trouble! And then, for no reason, you came and cursed us! You are wicked — evil!”
The accusation bursts out of the figure lurking by the vase of welcoming lilies on our rooftop terrace as we come out of the lift.
“Please — not another suicidal teen!” says Renee, my flatmate, only partly in jest.
Living in a modern condo in a heritage conservation district where walkups are the norm means an unexpected visitor to our private penthouse lobby is a potential mugger.
The woman turns on Renee: “You busybody slut, this is all your fault. You made this one curse me! Now my husband is gone and my boy has diabetes and the doctor says he has some lump growing inside so he has to go and operate!”
Renee retreats before the barrage of Singlish and spittle.
The woman has the fierce, focused intensity sometimes seen on people verging on insanity. Her hair looks dirty and she smells... a stale, sour odor of unhealthy, unwashed flesh and fabric envelops and moves with her.
If I were meeting her for the first time, I would classify her as crazy.
“Should we call the police?” Renee asks quietly from behind me.
“Call Gary,” I say. I stay between Renee and our visitor. Gary, chairman of our management committee, lives in the other penthouse in the Banyan Tower and is a reliable witness.
“It’s all your fault! You destroyed my family! And now you are making my son get sick and... and—”
