The Rose of Singapore (25 page)

“Please go away,” said Peter, more bewildered than disgusted by what he was seeing and hearing.

Seeing the look on Peter's face, the youth asked, “Do I look that bad that you cannot like me just a little?”

“Please, go away,” answered Peter. “I'm in no mood for company.”

“Oh, my dear boy, don't be such a bore. We could be such good friends.”

Peter remained silent. A transvestite was something new to him. He had heard and read about them but this boy was the first he had come across in his travels. A few gays had crossed his path since his enlistment in the Royal Air Force but certainly not in drag.

As for this boy perched on the high stool next to him, Peter decided to ignore him, so discreetly turned his attention to the paper he had picked up from off the bar. It was in Chinese. Disgusted, Peter returned it to the bar.

“I'll buy you a drink,” the young transvestite offered, smiling and beckoning the barmaid to him with an effeminate wave of his manicured hand.

“I don't want a drink from you. I've no wish to drink with you, so please go away. Leave me alone,” said Peter.

“Oh, my dear boy, please be sociable. Yours is a whisky, isn't it?”

“It's rum. But you're not paying for anything that I drink.”

“Oh! Excuse me! I'm sorry I asked,” and the other looked hurt and disappointed.

The barmaid, placing the rum and coke on a paper napkin in front of Peter, looked at the two enquiringly as if asking, ‘Who's paying for this?'

Peter read her thoughts. “Please get him a glass of peppermint and ask him to leave me alone. The drinks are on me,” he said.

“Oh! That is sweet of you,” suddenly smiled the young transvestite. “But please, if you don't mind, I'd prefer a gin and orange. I have a real taste for gin. It really sends me.”

“Give him a double shot of gin. Maybe it'll send him over the hills and far away,” said Peter dryly to the barmaid.

The barmaid smiled. She understood and was obviously amused at what she was seeing. “I'll make a gin and orange,” she said, and turned to where several American sailors were demanding drinks. “OK guys. I come quick,” she sang out. For her, this would be a good night tip-wise. American sailors always tipped well, especially those who thought they stood a chance of getting a piece of her ass.

“Now, please,” the young transvestite implored Peter. “Let's not quarrel. I want boys to like me. Many do you know. Many simply adore me. It's my good company, I suppose. My name is Ruby. May I ask yours?”

“No, you may not,” answered Peter, still annoyed.

“Why not?”

“I've no wish to tell you.”

“Why?”

“Why don't you find yourself a nice girlfriend and enjoy her company, instead of acting so daft?” said Peter.

“A girlfriend! But I don't want a woman,” blurted out the boy angrily. “I abhor women!” and spreading his hands out palms upward towards Peter as if in despair, he exclaimed. “Oh! Please! My dear boy, how can you speak of women to me? I like men! But women, never!”

Peter sighed and downed half the rum and coke. On any other occasion he might have been more tolerant, and might have found some interest in this boy dressed in girl's clothing seated next to him. But tonight he was in no mood for such unusual company. Standing up, he said, “Here, Ruby. Here's two dollars. Pay for the drinks and look for someone else.” With these words spoken, Peter pushed his way through the crowd, through the swing doors, and strode out into the night, leaving the transvestite awaiting his gin and orange, and a boyfriend.

Bugis Street was Peter's next place of call. Bugis Street lit by the white glare of a hundred kerosene lamps swinging from the overhanging eaves of the many chow stalls criss-crossing the dusty square. Bugis Street was infamous, an ingress to hell, a paradise for pickpockets, prostitutes and the young thugs and hoodlums of the city. To the taxi drivers, trishaw
wallahs,
stall owners, the cheap musicians and the shoeshine boys, Bugis Street was a goldmine.

As for the needs of society, Bugis Street, though an ugly place contaminated by the filth of the city, had its merits. Society often paid visits to the street, many to have a good time feasting on delicious meals from the chow stalls, drinking and making merry with friends, as well as with the many prostitutes sitting at the tables hoping to sell their wares. Yet, many such visitors would rue the day they paid that call on Bugis Street, as wallets departed from one's person in less than a blink of the eye. There, many vicious fights broke out, injuring the innocent more often than the perpetrators. As for picking up a woman for a short time or for an all night's entertainment, several of the prostitutes who plied their trade there did not report monthly at the Social Welfare Department for a check-up, or receive shots of penicillin if needed. Hence, quite a number of these women carried venereal diseases.

Bugis Street, as far as Peter Saunders was concerned, was a lively, interesting place to visit, where the beer was cold, and a place that never closed. At night Bugis Street was packed, and even during the day the Chinese stall owners were kept busy stirring and tossing fried rice and other tasty foods in giant woks heated over open charcoal braziers. They were also kept busy warding off the many pariah dogs and numerous rats. The swarms of flies pitching on the food didn't matter, they didn't eat much. Peter had visited Bugis Street twice before, but again, that was before he met Lai Ming. On those two pleasurable occasions, he had found himself fascinated by the noisy, garish street, with its exotic smells filling the air and the blaring Chinese music, so vibrant and alive. But tonight, there was nothing that could fascinate him or cause him pleasure.

Elbowing his way through the milling crowds and meandering between rickety tables, square-topped stools, the cheap-jack stalls and the chow stalls, Peter eventually found a vacant table at the far side of the street. He sat down on one of the four stools provided at each table and awaited service.

“Shoeshine, Johnny? Very good shoeshine! Best shoeshine in Bugis Street, Johnny. Fifty cents, Johnny. For you very cheap.”

Peter gazed down upon a shaven-headed, ragged urchin pawing at his shoes whilst grovelling on bare feet in the dirt. About eight years of age, covered in grime and festering sores, the skinny little boy looked up at him with pleading, big brown eyes, beseeching him in grim silence an opportunity to earn a few cents. He held the brush, polish and cloth in eager hands; a wooden shoe box and foot rest lay in the dust between his dirty feet.

“Shoeshine, Johnny? Best in Singapore. Only fifty cents, Johnny,” the boy pleaded.

“I don't want a shoeshine,” said Peter, shaking his head.

The boy's eyes sparkled. He was not going to be outdone by mere words. Again he clutched at the foot nearest him, and dragging the filled shoe a few inches towards himself, attempted to slide the shoe box beneath it.

Peter drew his foot away, the boy grimly hanging onto it. Just like the previous occasion when out with Rick, thought Peter. He had ignored the pleading, persistent shoeshine boy, and had turned his back on him and returned to his beer. He had felt hands pulling at his feet, supposedly towards the shoe box, but he had paid no heed. Then, when the boy departed, and when Peter went to pay for his beer, he couldn't. His wallet was gone. The seam in his trouser pocket had been slit open by an expert hand, and his wallet had fallen into that hand. But, this being Bugis Street, what else could one expect, for no angels worked in Bugis Street, that was for sure. Peter knew all shoeshine boys were not pickpockets, perhaps far from it, but he had become extremely wary of them.

“I don't want a shoeshine,” he repeated firmly.

“Thirty cents, Johnny. For you, only thirty cents. You, very good friend.
Ding ho
friend. Me very cheap. Thirty cents, Johnny.” Again the boy heaved and dragged at the shoe nearest him.

“No,” hissed Peter, even angrier now than when he had first arrived. “Leave me alone. Go on! Scram! Get away from me! Beat it!”

The boy, falling backwards, away from this sudden verbal attack, sat down in the dirt swearing in Chinese and making ugly faces at Peter. Soon, though, the boy turned his attention upon a young Chinese couple who had just sat down at the next table. At first, both ignored the shoeshine boy, and laughed and whispered to one another in soft talk. Finally, tired of being pestered further and angered at seeing his ladyfriend's ankles touched by such grimy hands, the young man clouted the boy about the head, sending him sprawling in the dirt. Whereupon the boy sprang lightly to his feet, grabbed a wok full of fried noodles from a nearby chow stall, and splattered the whole hot mess over the unfortunate couple. Screeching with laughter, he then ran as fast as his young legs would carry him away from the messy scene.

“Hello, Peter.”

The Chinese couple was forgotten as Peter heard his name spoken. He spun around on the stool to see who knew him. A tallish, ginger-haired girl stood smiling down at him. In every way she looked Chinese, but she may have been Eurasian. A ginger-haired Chinese girl, he knew, would be unique, but this girl had a brilliant shock of reddish hair. Peter was sure it was not dyed. How could it be dyed hair, especially after seeing this same girl nude, just last week on Changi Beach, flaunting her wares to a couple of British soldiers. Peter observed then that she also had red pubic hair, plus the tattoo of a naked woman standing astride that same area.

“Oh! Hello, Molly! Fancy meeting you here. How are you? Please sit down,” Peter invited, waving the girl to the seat across from him.

“I'm OK” the girl answered, sitting down “Going to buy me a beer?” she asked.

“I thought nice Chinese girls didn't drink beer,” he said. “Sure. Of course I'll buy you a beer.”

“You're Rose's boyfriend, aren't you?”

“I was,” Peter replied.

A stallholder in a dirty vest and shorts took Peter's order and returned minutes later carrying a tray on which were two bottles of Tiger beer and two glasses. Peter paid the man, then poured the beer.

“Cheers, Molly,” he said, raising his glass.

“Cheers,” Molly answered. They watched a fight that had broken out on the far side of the street. There was a lot of shouting, tables and stools were being overturned, bottles and glasses smashed, and many bowls of noodles thrown.

Molly broke the silence between them. “You said you were Rose's boyfriend, as though it's finished between you. What's the matter? Had a fight?”

“A fight? No, but we are finished. Everything's finished.”

“Don't you like her anymore?”

“Molly, don't ask questions about our affairs. Please, don't speak to me about Rose.”

“OK! OK! I was only trying to help.”

“I don't want help. I just want to forget her, everything about her.”

“Would you like to come home with me?” asked Molly. “Stay all night. If you are in a bad mood, I can make it a good mood. We can have a good time together.”

“I'm not going home with you, Molly. But thanks all the same.”

“Are you broke? If you are, it doesn't matter. You can come to my home even if you have no money. You can pay me what you like when you see me sometime on Changi Beach. It's OK, I trust you. The RAF boys who know me know that I'm not hard-hearted.”

“I'm not broke, Molly. But thanks all the same. I know that you're a good girl, and I like you, but I don't want to go with you.”

Molly laughed scornfully. “What's the matter? You're not scared, are you? If you wish to see my health card, I have it here in my handbag. Don't worry, it's stamped up to date.”

Peter smiled at the beautiful girl sitting seductively next to him. He felt sure that she must be absolute dynamite in bed. If he had not known Rose, he might have been tempted, he thought, especially now that he felt so low. “I don't wish to see your card, Molly,” he said gently.” I don't even wish to discuss your business with you.”

“My business is good business,” said Molly.

Peter's face froze as he kept his sudden anger in check. “Your business. I don't like it,” he said.

“Perhaps you are a hypocrite,” Molly ventured.

“I don't think so.”

“I bet I make much more money than you.”

“I'm sure you do. But let's not discuss the matter further.” Peter forced a smile.

“You said you and Rose are finished. I don't believe you,” persisted Molly. “You've had a row with her, a big row, and now you're on the beer like a silly schoolboy.”

“Please, Molly, if you're going to talk like that, I'd rather drink alone.”

“OK, suit yourself. But Rose won't like it.” Molly stood up. “Thanks for the beer, Peter. Sorry I can't be of more help.”

“That's all right. Thank you for your company, Molly. I needed someone to talk to.”

Molly gave him a friendly smile. “For you, anytime,” she said. “Don't drink too much. Remember, Rose won't like it.” She turned and espied a group of half-drunk American sailors who had just arrived at Bugis Street. Again turning to face Peter, she winked an eye and gave him a sly grin. “They will pay,” she said. “Be seeing you,” and she walked away, towards the table where the sailors were being seated.

Suddenly, a mist descended over Peter's eyes. One moment Molly was standing there beside him, the next she was gone. Now there were loud noises all around him throbbing through his brain, and then this mist that had suddenly enveloped him. “Rose won't like it. Rose won't like it,” he repeated to himself. “They will pay. They will pay.” His mind, scarred and tortured by what he had learned, seemed to burst asunder. Suddenly, he became like a madman frenzied with great anger. Leaping from the stool, he smashed the bottles and glasses to the ground. “And I don't like it,” he savagely hissed. “I hate it. But I'll stop her. She will have one boyfriend or none.”