The Rose of Singapore (23 page)

In his hand Peter carried a paper bag containing a tin of fifty Players cigarettes, a part of his free bi-weekly RAF issue. These he would give to Wan Ze, the
amah.
Rarely did he fail to bring the old woman a small gift such as a tin of cigarettes, a packet of tea, or a few tins of herrings or sardines from the sergeants' mess kitchen, or even a box of chocolates bought at Jong Fatt's. Also, on those frequent occasions when she washed and ironed his shirts or ironed his trousers, he gave her a couple of dollars.

Thinking of the
amah,
and anticipating her surprised reaction at opening the door to his unexpected knock, he smiled to himself. “
Aiyah!
It's the child!
Wah!
Come in, child,” she would most likely cackle. Once inside the house, with the door closed behind him, he would hand her the cigarettes. She would show off her gold teeth as she grinned and thanked him by saying “
Do tze,
Chicko.” She would then shout up the stairs, “
Aiyah
! Ming-ah! Your little boy is here. He has come to play with you.
Wah!
Tst! Tst!” and she would chortle and grin mischievously at Peter.

Rose would step out onto the landing at the top of the stairs, smile sweetly down at them, and say, “Hush, Wan Ze! You are being very naughty. Peter, what a lovely surprise. Please come up. Take no notice of my naughty
amah.
”

Eventually Peter turned into the smaller, less noisy and less populated Bendemeer Road, and shortly after arrived at the alleyway he sought. He walked to the green door at the end of the alleyway and knocked upon it, the knock Rose had instructed him to use should he visit her. He felt a little nervous, but not unusually so. He always felt apprehensive whilst awaiting the
amah
to open the door. He didn't mind being out of bounds when in the open street because, if seen by the provost police, he could outrun them and hide. But if passing provost police should happen to look down the alleyway and see him there, he had little chance of escaping from them. And even if he did escape them, he knew the house would be marked and kept under surveillance. He didn't like to remain standing in the doorway for any length of time, and now that the door was not being opened, he was growing more nervous with every passing moment.

Again he looked nervously down the alleyway to where he could see the road traffic and people crossing its entrance. Why wasn't the
amah
opening the door, he wondered. He knocked again, louder than before, and shouted, “
Amah, hoi mun ah,
” and then in English, “Rose, are you at home? Please open the door.”

Impatiently he waited. Then he heard agitated, muffled voices from within. He thought he could hear Rose speaking in a quietly pleading voice, but he could not hear well enough the words being said. Seconds passed into minutes and the door had still not been opened. He banged on the door, shouting, “Rose, are you OK? Why don't you open the door?” A scuffling noise from within was his only answer, and then he heard hurried heavy footsteps on the wooden stairway leading up to Rose's apartment. He heard the same heavy footsteps on the concrete floor behind the door he now stood at, just for moments before they retreated towards the back door. Then he heard the rasping sound of the iron bolt on the back door being drawn, and the squeal of the door being opened. That door always squealed on opening. With a sudden sickening feeling, Peter immediately realized that someone, a much heavier person than either Rose or the
amah,
had just exited through that back door.

Silence now, and with the green door remaining shut to him, Peter was filled with fearful uncertainty. His mind began to whirl. Had someone harmed Rose and had already run from the house? The heavy footsteps he had heard were neither Rose's nor those of the
amah.
Who could it have been, he worried. It sounded like a man's footsteps. Lifting a clenched fist, he hammered upon the door, shouting all the while, “
Amah.
Lai Ming.
Hoi mun ah, fai di ah. Fai di, Fai di ah. Ngo hai
Peter,” (Open the door, quickly. It's Peter here!)

He heard the familiar grating noise as the door's heavy bolt was slid back. The door swung ajar a few inches, just wide enough for Peter to see the face of the wizened old
amah
peering fearfully at him through the narrow opening. Annoyed and now suspicious, Peter stared back at the old woman. Saying not a word, he sensed that something was terribly wrong. One push and he shoved the door open. He roughly pushed the old woman aside. She slipped, fell, and gave a short scream as she landed on her back among the few pots and pans of the kitchen. Peter, usually kind and generous towards the
amah,
now didn't give her a thought. Nothing mattered except that he had to see and speak to Rose. Shaking the flimsy framework of the stairs, he bounded up them three at a time, to halt and listen for a brief moment on the landing. From Lai Ming's room an ominous silence prevailed. Coming from below, he could hear the loud whimpering of the frightened
amah.

Fingering the door catch, Peter slid the door open, threw back the curtain, and stepped suspiciously and with mounting dread into the apartment.

Lai Ming sat preening herself in front of the mirror, seemingly oblivious of his presence and quite unconcerned. She neither smiled nor turned to face him but sat watching him in the mirror, her face expressionless and without emotion. Never before had she acted in such a manner towards him. Choosing a comb from the dressing table, she slid it calmly and slowly through her long hair. She wore only a
sarong.

“Hello, Rose,” said Peter, feeling a dryness in his mouth, and not able to say more.

“Hello, Peter. I did not expect you today. Our arrangement was for tomorrow afternoon,” Lai Ming replied coldly, her face without its usual smile of welcome.

Peter irritably replied, “Of course you didn't expect me today. I thought I'd give you a happy surprise, so I came a day early.”

“It is better to be a day early than a day late,” Lai Ming said in a monotone and unfeeling voice. “Why do you not sit down? I am very happy to see you, Peter.”

“Are you? You don't sound it. And you don't look happy,” said Peter. “What's happening?”

Lai Ming shrugged. “I do not feel well today,” she answered calmly, still stroking the comb through her hair.

“Who was here? Who just left and went out the back door?” Peter asked.

“A girlfriend,” Lai Ming answered in the same flat and toneless voice.

“She left surprisingly fast. In fact, she left as soon as she heard me knocking on the door.”

Turning to face him, Lai Ming did not reply. Instead, she had a look on her face as if appealing to him, beseeching him, saying, ‘Don't ask me more, Peter. Please, don't ask me.' Peter detected fear in those eyes, or was it sadness? He was not sure. But he was too young and immature, and too much in love with her to understand her silent pleadings.

“So, it was a girlfriend,” he said.

“Yes, a girlfriend,” she replied slowly, evenly. “I do have friends other than you.”

“Hefty girlfriends?”

Lai Ming remained silent, not understanding the word ‘hefty.'

“You have big girlfriends,” Peter said.

“Yes. She is a big girl.”

Peter, saying no more, looked around the room. It became obvious to him what had taken place there; yet he could not bring himself to believe that, just minutes ago, his girlfriend had been entertaining another man. He stared at Lai Ming in utter disbelief, his whole world crashing around him. He stared down at a large glass ashtray, one he had never seen before, full of cigarette stubs. “I thought you didn't smoke, Rose,” he said, his voice thick and heavy.

“I do occasionally. Do you object?” Lai Ming asked, her eyes settling on the ashtray full of cigarette ends. “The
amah
has been cleaning the room, and she too has been smoking,” she lied.

“Those are from Lucky Strike cigarettes, American ones,” said Peter. He saw the empty beer bottle standing where his bottle normally stood. “I see that she also drinks Carlsberg beer. She certainly has good taste. No, I don't think so, Rose. You are not telling me the truth,” Peter said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Nobody likes to be lied to.”

Lai Ming did not answer. What could she say? Sadly she gazed into his tormented eyes. Oh, how terribly unhappy and distressed she knew he must feel. This would surely be the end of his love for her. She should have told him the truth at the beginning of their relationship. But that was not possible. Their love affair would not have begun, not existed if he had known the truth. Now, the less she said the better. She could see that he was bitterly hurt already without her making matters worse. She swallowed hard, trying to remain calm, though her heart felt sick and heavy within her.

“Well! Did the
amah
drink the beer?” Peter demanded.

“No. My girlfriend drank the beer.”

“Rose, why must you lie to me? I've never met a Chinese girl who drinks beer.”

Peter's eyes darted around that little room he had come to know so well. Hers followed his, but she said nothing. From where he stood he could look into the bathroom, and she knew it was of no use pretending or lying further. Both could see the shaving brush and razor forgotten and left on the sink.

“She shaves, too, eh?” Peter said, with cold anger creeping into his voice.

Lai Ming neither answered him nor moved from where she sat.

Walking into the bathroom, Peter picked up the shaving brush and felt the bristles. “Still wet,” he said. A discarded blade lay near the razor. In the toilet bowl he saw a used contraceptive floating in the water. Sickened, the blood drained from his face, and he felt that he must spew his guts up at any moment. He spotted a torn and empty contraceptive packet lying on the floor of the bathroom. Picking it up, he rolled it into a tiny ball, tossed it in Rose's direction, and stood staring at her with anguish and despair in his eyes. Completely devastated, anger and jealousy consumed him. On stone feet he managed to walk to the bed, where he sat down and stared with unseeing eyes. Thus, he remained for several minutes. Eventually, he looked up and shaking his head sadly, said in a grief-stricken voice. “Rose, please don't lie to me any more.”

Saying nothing, Lai Ming sat and watched him. Again Peter looked at the crumpled empty packet lying on the floor. He then turned his head and looked to the far corner of the room near the tall mirror. There, he could see Dettol-laced, murky water in the same bowl that Rose had used so often to wash his genitals after he had had sex with her. Next to the bowl stood the bottle of Dettol, a roll of cotton wool and a bar of wet soap in a saucer, all very recently used. Peter looked at Lai Ming incredulously. He didn't know what to say. He still couldn't believe what he was seeing. When his friends at Changi had kept asking him, “Was she a prostitute?”, his reply had always been, “She's a lady.” Now, he felt betrayed, humiliated and angry that his girlfriend Rose was indeed a prostitute.

Lai Ming read his thoughts. “I'm sorry, Peter. I should have told you the day we met. I made a big mistake bringing you home without telling you first.” She spoke softly, composed and in a very sad voice.

“Sorry! Just like that! My God, I can't believe it. You're a prostitute. I've been loving a whore and living in a brothel these past months,” said Peter, almost breaking into tears.

Lai Ming did not answer him.

“Rose, I loved you, and I do love you with all my heart. I trusted and respected you. You were my little angel.” Peter paused. Suddenly he felt so silly at being made such a fool of and knew that he was about to burst into tears. “And now I find that you are nothing more than a common prostitute.” Grief-stricken at hearing himself repeat that last word, he buried his face in his hands and wept. “A prostitute,” he again repeated, as if unable still to believe himself.

Lai Ming rose from her dressing table and walked over to where Peter sat. She sat down at his side but didn't touch him. She knew that to touch him now would only make matters worse.

“You leave me with no words to say, Peter. Please, I get you glass of brandy.”

Without an answer from him she hurried downstairs. He could hear the tinkle of glass and the slamming of a cupboard door. Next, she was again at his side with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. Pouring brandy into the glass, she offered it to him. “Come, Peter, drink,” he heard her saying. In shock, he took the glass, and putting it to his lips drained it in one gulp. The brandy flowed fiery hot, warming but not soothing him. He still loved Rose. She was so kind, so good-hearted. “Thank you,” he said.

She looked at him with pity and great sadness. “I'm so sorry, Peter. I should have told you. I know how badly you are hurting, and I never wanted to hurt you. I should have told you the day we first met, but I couldn't. And afterwards, I still couldn't. I didn't want to lose you.” She took a silk handkerchief from a drawer of her bedside table and with it dabbed her eyes. Then she, too, began to weep. Peter had never seen Rose cry before. Always there had been gentle smiles on that lovely little face, never tears. “I just didn't want to lose you,” she sobbed.

Peter's emotions clashed. Crazed with jealousy and anger, and knowing that very soon he would be leaving her for the last time, he now took an almost sadistic pleasure in saying, “So you're a prostitute who'll fuck any man for a few bucks. I bet I've followed in the footsteps of others many times, or as the chaps back at the camp say, ‘batted on a sticky wicket'. Perhaps you had one, perhaps two, maybe three or even more men before letting me screw you. But what does it matter if there was one, ten, a hundred or even a thousand others?”

Knowing that he must release his anger, Lai Ming, with tears rolling down her cheeks, remained silent.