The Rose of Singapore (18 page)

On the screen a love scene was in progress, but Peter neither cared nor saw it.

Lai Ming leaned her head towards his so that he felt her soft hair brushing his face. She turned and smiled at him. “Good picture, eh, Peter?” she said, pressing her lips to his cheek. Only then did she realize that he was not well. His face was too hot, much too hot. She lifted a hand to his forehead. Dismayed, she gasped, “Peter! You are sick!”

“It's the injection.”

“No! It cannot be! It is something else, something worse!”

For brief moments Peter ceased to shiver, but he felt weak and very thirsty. “It's nothing to worry about,” he whispered to Lai Ming, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze. She again lifted a hand to his forehead.

“Peter, you are ill. Tell me, do you know the sickness that now attacks you?”

“It's malaria,” Peter answered flatly.

“Malaria!” said Lai Ming, momentarily lost for words.

His eyes streaming, his body feeling weak and brittle, racked with cold painful shivers, and drenched in perspiration, Peter tightened his grip on Lai Ming's cool hands. Frightened, she took a handkerchief from her handbag and with it wiped his brow. Even in the dimness of the theatre she could see he looked terribly ill. What should she do, she wondered. Should she send him back to the RAF station in a taxi, where he would receive treatment? But once he was out of her sight she would worry, and she would not be able to see him or be with him, and she did want to care for him. Therefore, there was only one alternative. “Peter, I take you home,” she said.

Rising from her seat, Lai Ming beckoned him to follow her, which he did, as if in a trance. She took hold his good arm and guided him down the red-carpeted marble steps and out into the noisy, neon-lit street. A cruising taxi drew near. She waved it down. The young Chinese driver jerked open the rear door.

“Ah! Your boyfriend drink too much,” he said, grinning. “Where do you wish to take him, Lavender Street? If not, I know a very good hotel in Serangoon Road.”

As if unhearing the taxi driver's remarks, Lai Ming pushed Peter into the back seat of the taxi and spat out her address. “Hurry,” she shouted.

The driver stared at her but said nothing more.

A single beam of silvery moonlight pierced the room, infiltrating the closed, rough wooden window shutters. Except for that one ray of moonlight the room was in shadowy darkness. The air was hot and humid and, but for the occasional whine of a marauding mosquito, strangely silent. A sweet smell of incense from smouldering incense sticks, combined with the smell from a perfume-laced anti-mosquito coil burning beneath the bed, filled the room.

At one in the morning there was little traffic in the street below to disturb the silence of the night in that upstairs room. Inside, there were just soothing whispers from Lai Ming comforting Peter who lay at her side. She had heard that malaria is treated by quinine, so she had sent Wan Ze to a nearby bar to buy a case of quinine water. The barman himself had brought the case of quinine water to her door, and had willingly carried it into the kitchen for the
amah
who gave him a sizeable tip. Already Peter had thirstily drank two bottles of the quinine water but he was now in a far worse state than before, so much so Lai Ming wondered whether or not she had done the right thing in bringing him to her home. Perhaps he needed medical care, which he would have received had she taken him back to Changi. Anxiously she watched as he rolled and twisted his shaking body in fitful sleep.

With increasing frequency, he moaned and talked loudly to himself, obviously in a state of delirium as the flames of fever burned within him. When he lay quiet and still for several minutes, Lai Ming gave a sigh of relief believing him to have gone into a deep sleep and she settled herself down beside him, ready too for sleep. But then he stirred and suddenly sat up, and looked with frightened unseeing eyes at the low ceiling above, and into the dark shadows all around him. He moaned again, fell back upon the bed, and became still.

Unsure as to whether Peter was in a deep sleep or had lost consciousness, Lai Ming again placed the cool, damp cloth to his feverish brow. She then bent her face and kissed a feverish cheek. “The devil must soon go from you,” she whispered to him. “Now, you sleep.” Sighing audibly she sank wearily back upon the thin mattress of her bed. “My poor sick boy,” she whispered as tears flowed freely down her cheeks. And except for the whine of that lone mosquito, all became silent in that little upstairs room.

The din of passing traffic and the shouts of hawkers lustily advertising their wares in the street below the shuttered window awakened Peter. Already mid-morning, a single ray of brilliant sunlight beamed through the chink in the closed shutters, just enough to light the room. Peter felt incredibly weak, his vitality completely drained, his mouth dry, but the fever had left him, leaving him cool and able to think clearly. He lay on his back staring up at the low, whitewashed ceiling, not yet quite realizing where he was, although the ceiling looked familiar. He knew that he had had a very bad night, feverish and full of bad dreams. He remembered meeting Lai Ming at the Capitol Theatre and sitting next to her in the back row. He could recall nothing of the film though, just a faint recollection of its beginning, Lai Ming laughing, and he himself feeling miserably ill. Looking towards the foot of the bed, he saw that a multicoloured
sarong
covered him from the waist down. His head rested on a soft white pillow, but the mattress felt ungiving, as if he were lying on a wooden floor.

Slowly lifting himself on his good arm and turning his head, he read ‘Good Morning' and saw two swallows in flight in the corner of his embroidered pillow. He tried to sit up, but couldn't, so rested himself upon an elbow and looked about him. A little face plainly showing weariness and worry rested upon the pillow next to his. Lai Ming lay at his side curled up in a feotal position. Quiet and still, and breathing gently, she was naked except for her legs, which were partially covered by a corner of the
sarong.
Peter managed a smile. “I am home. Thank you, Rose,” he whispered. But she did not hear him.

Telling himself that he must not wake her, Peter carefully lowered himself to his former position on the hard bed. God, he felt weak, and he badly needed a cool drink. He was hungry, too. Slowly he pieced together what had happened. The arm that had received the injection had stiffened so much that now he could not bend it, and it was sore, but not nearly as painful as it had been yesterday. Faintly he recalled the taxi ride here, the grinning Chinese driver, and Lai Ming seated at his side in the back seat. He had faint recollections of the old
amah
assisting Lai Ming in helping him up the narrow stairway, and of Lai Ming undressing him. Afterwards there was blackness, fever, and terrible nightmares, which he could not remember.

Outside, in the street, it would be very hot, but in that little room it was surprisingly cool. A sweet smell of smouldering incense sticks hung in the air, a pleasant smell, soothing, so much so that Peter inhaled deeply whilst listening to Chinese voices, a radio playing Cantonese music, and the rattle of pots and pans coming from next door. The crying of a baby came through the thin walls from the opposite side of the apartment. All were familiar sounds. “I am home,” Peter again whispered to himself.

Lai Ming remained asleep, on her side, a worn-out look on her face, and her hands clasped loosely together between her knees. The whiteness of her pillow looked even whiter against the blackness of her hair.

At his side, on the glass-topped wicker table, a large bunch of green grapes lay temptingly in a white china dish. Next to the dish was an already opened full bottle of Green Spot orange drink and a half empty bottle of quinine water covered by a plain glass tumbler. Carefully, Peter eased himself into a sitting position, noting that he wore only his underpants. He looked towards the open wardrobe and saw his shirt and trousers hanging among womens' clothing. His vest, socks and tie lay neatly on a chair at the foot of the bed. Famished and thirsty, having not eaten since lunchtime yesterday, he reached for the bowl and ravenously ate large oval-shaped seedless grapes, finding them sweet and juicy and very refreshing. Next, he reached for the bottle of Green Spot, and filling the tumbler with its contents, drank greedily. The sugar in both the grapes and the orange drink soon began to revive him. With gusto, he continued eating more grapes, and then drank a little more Green Spot. He refilled the glass with the remainder of the quinine water and drank that, too. Already he felt much better.

Lai Ming, sighing in her sleep, rolled over onto her back. The
sarong
fell from her legs exposing her nakedness. Peter gazed down at her in wonderment. Her beautiful little body always fascinated him, and he was forever intrigued by that little hairy place between her legs. Now, it looked so inviting, he was tempted to bend down and give it a kiss. But he knew to kiss her would instantly awaken her. Instead, he drank more orange until he had emptied the bottle, his eyes all the while roving over and devouring the beauty of his nude girlfriend.

Peter ate the last of the grapes and returned the bowl to the bedside table. Now, sexually aroused by Lai Ming lying there naked on the bed beside him, he eagerly wanted to kiss and caress her, and to possess her. Should he wake her, he wondered. No, he mustn't, he told himself, because she might become angry with him. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes past ten. He wondered why she was still sleeping. Normally, when he awakened, she also awakened and they made love.

Moving closer to Lai Ming, Peter placed an arm next to hers and compared the colour and texture of their skin. He noted that hers was smooth and a creamy colour, whilst his was hairy, tanned by the sun, and considerably darker than hers. Suddenly, Lai Ming's eyes flickered open and she flinched in her alarm at his nearness, her hands flying up to protect herself.

Peter gazed down into her bewildered face. “It's me, Peter,” he said.

“Oh!” she said with a sigh of relief. “Are you all right?” she asked, surprised to see him looking so well.

“I think so,” answered Peter. “Thank you, Rose. I'm glad you brought me home. I love you so much.”

“And I love you, too, Peter. I want no harm to come to you, only happy things.” She smiled up at him, put her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her so that their lips met and she held him to her in a gentle embrace. Then, suddenly, with all anxieties drained from her, Lai Ming began to sob beneath him. “I was so frightened, Peter. You were so sick. I should have sent you back to your camp for proper care, but I was selfish. My need was to look after you myself, and now I am glad that I brought you home.”

“So am I,” Peter whispered in her ear. “So don't cry.”

Through tears she smiled up at him, and still crying said, “I am happy now, Peter. The devil sleeps. When he rises he can find others to torment.”

Only one event occurred the previous evening that now bothered Lai Ming. Whilst she was helping Peter out of the taxi, and without her usual caution, a military jeep with two RAF special police in it had pulled up behind them. She knew that they were RAF police because they were dressed in KDs, and wore white gaiters, white webbing and white covered caps. Too late, Peter was already out of the taxi and half way across the gap that separated him from the somewhat sanctuary of the alleyway. Being too sick to see or care about anything, he could not have seen the two men in the jeep but they must have seen him. At any moment she had expected them to challenge him and to ask to see some form of identification. If he showed them his 1250—his RAF identification card, which he carried in his wallet at all times—they would surely arrest him for being out of bounds. Hurriedly she had helped Peter into the alleyway. Then, looking back, she was astonished to see the two military policemen grin and nod to one another; and one of them actually gave her a smile and a friendly wave of his hand, and a “Good night, Rose”. And then, surprisingly, the jeep moved away, and she had watched it until its rear lights disappeared at the junction of Lavender Street. The brief encounter had startled her, but the night that followed frightened her so much so that she had forgotten about the RAF military police. Now, remembering them, she was puzzled. Why had they not challenged Peter? And how did they know her name, and why were they so friendly towards her? She decided not to mention the incident to Peter. It would only worry him.

12

Speaking in Cantonese, Betty Chong said, “Ming, I hear you have a boyfriend.” She spoke inquisitively, without looking up as she toyed with an emery board, delicately manicuring in short curving strokes her long, red-lacquered fingernails. “Molly Chen told me he's very young, and that you met him on the beach at Changi.”

Lai Ming had never been really friendly with Betty, though not unfriendly. It didn't pay to be unfriendly with others of her profession, especially those who worked with her at the Butterfly Club, she never knew who might procure her a client. She considered Betty to be vulgar, lacking refinement and having a foul mouth; also, she was well aware of the reputation the other had for giving clients quick and cheap oral sex in a back room of the club.

“Yes, I do have a boyfriend,” Lai Ming said to the nineteen-year-old beauty sitting next to her, who seemed so completely preoccupied with the careful manicuring of her long, clawlike fingernails. “He's a good friend,” she said, deciding to have no further conversation on her personal affairs.

Stretching out her hand, Betty surveyed her handiwork. Seemingly satisfied, she yawned, crossed her legs and hitched up her
cheongsam,
making sure that she showed off a goodly portion of her creamy white thighs. “I'm surprised that you have not chosen an older man, a man of high position and much wealth,” she said with a sneer.

“My boyfriend has finer qualities, Betty,” replied Lai Ming, iciness creeping into her voice. “He is of gentle breeding and good character, qualities superior to wealth and high position, if those are all a man possesses.”