Though I Get Home Page 7

  Lunch was pleasant. The other women lethargically pecked at their ginseng broth while I had seconds, hoping the extra nutrition would go straight to my bottom. I stood at the vast dining table, towering over everyone else seated. They teased me, of course, but I did not mind. Divine Leader was almost never present at midday meals, and anyway, I was beginning to see results from no longer sitting.

  After lunch I smoothed down my clothes and set off into the pleasure garden. These walks had become almost a habit by now, so I was not paying too much attention to my surroundings, beautiful though the shrubberies and artful stone sculptures were.

  Suddenly my name boomed from a distance behind me. I whirled, joy and terror intermingled. The voice belonged to Divine Leader; I could not be mistaken. And indeed there he strode, his hands crossed behind his back. Next to him was a tall, thin man, who, though he was keeping pace with Divine Leader, looked as if he was not moving his limbs at all. He seemed to glide.

  I minced toward them, going as fast as I could while still preserving grace. I stopped at two bows’ distance of Divine Leader and sank my head low.

  “This is the one,” Divine Leader said, amusement in his tone. I kept my forehead level to the ground but raised my lashes. The men appeared to be inspecting me with interest.

  “Lift your head,” Divine Leader commanded. I swung up. Searching for somewhere to safely land my vision, I focused at random on the other man’s collarbone, a sharp slice peeking out of his shirt like a half-concealed weapon.

  “Indeed, she stands as straight and still as they say,” the man commented.

  “All of my pleasure girls have interesting personalities,” Divine Leader said. “No two alike.”

  “Let us put her to a test.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “An excuse to perform for you again, Divine Leader.” The man smiled, lips thin as my favorite knife moon.

  Divine Leader threw back his head and laughed, neck folds creasing.

  “This is your lucky day,” he said to me. “This man is a national hero. Fifteen years ago, he brought much honor to us by winning an Olympic medal, right on enemy territory. He showed the world that we are not to be disrespected. Pay tribute, girl.”

  I bowed deep, looking at the Olympian’s shoes and wondering what sport had been his mastery. He did not look athletic at all, with his malnourished, skinny frame.

  When I arced back through air to face them again, the Olympian jutted his bony chin toward something behind me. “That pine tree,” he said. I turned and looked. It was a good fifty feet away, set back from the winding brick path designed for ambling. The tree’s feet were crowned by a half ring of boat orchids.

  “Go stand under the tree, nice and straight just like you are now. Do not move once you get there.”

  I bowed and started off toward the tree, wondering about the odd request. Perhaps they would take some photographs of me. It was a fine, clear day, barely any clouds. The natural lighting was good.

  I reached the tree and stopped. Up close, its bark was much rougher than it had seemed from my earlier distance. I turned to face Divine Leader and the Olympian.

  The Olympian’s eyes had disappeared. One eye was squeezed tight. In place of the other was a gaping, bottomless well, tunneling out of his face.

  I gasped and winced. The Olympian lowered the rifle he had been aiming at me.

  “I said, ‘Do not move,’ did I not?” he shouted across the manicured lawn.

  I bowed in apology, terrified. Out of the corner of my eye I saw embroidered shoes padding toward me. I straightened up and met Spring Flower’s eyes. She looked somber, which darkened my terror.

  She lifted one hand and revealed a peach, blushing ripe. After a heartbeat’s hesitation, she stood on tiptoe and balanced the peach on my head. I caught myself just in time; I’d almost slumped forward so she could have better access.

  “Sweet Rain,” she whispered, hesitantly letting both hands go. Then she left me.

  I looked right ahead, at the Olympian and into his rifle’s eye. I did not have a choice. I was locked into this posture, my neck stretching, my soles rooting. A breeze picked up. I felt a stray strand of hair brush against the very tip of my nose. I shivered against my will.

  The Olympian lowered his rifle once more, clearly disappointed at my disobedience. I fought to not close my eyes against the images that rushed me while I stood helplessly still: Father, Mother, Brother; rain swishing through leaks in the roof; Baby, taken from inside me while I slept a drugged sleep; the blood that came month after month.

  “What’s wrong?” Divine Leader asked, impatient.

  “Just a speck of dust,” the Olympian replied, nodding respectfully. “I’m sorry to make you wait, Divine Leader.” From his pocket he withdrew what looked like a rag and applied it to his gun’s crater. I stared, tears almost coming. He had seen me twitch; I knew he had. But he was not giving me away. I compressed my body, willing every muscle to adhere, trying to be both tall and compact at the same time.

  The Olympian cradled his gun and slowly brought it up to his face again. He adjusted his aim with a few minute movements, then stood completely still, the dark eye unmoving yet simultaneously reaching for me.

  Sweat sprouted near my ears. I clenched my entire being into myself, matching the Olympian as best I could. It seemed that was the true challenge, a test of immobility between us. Until a firecracker went off, and an arrow of air whipped past my crown. I allowed myself the tiniest adjustment; I bit my lip.

  “Ahh!” Divine Leader shouted, his voice full of triumph. “Wonderful! I see you have not lost your skills one bit.”

  The Olympian tapped his rifle against one thigh. He might have been smiling, although it was hard to see from where I stood, with a humming in my ears.

  He set out in my direction, gun swinging casually. Divine Leader seemed taken aback, but he followed the Olympian.

  “Now you can move,” he said when we were face to face. I swallowed hard but did not relax any part of me. Suddenly, the Olympian bent and carefully placed his gun on the grass, not far from my feet. He rose just to dip immediately into a deep bow.

  “Divine Leader, if I may, I would like to present you with a proposal that will bring glory to you and all that you rule.”

  Divine Leader nodded assent. They did not say anything else until they were a distance away, taking small steps, keeping their voices low. I remained standing until my calves spasmed of their own accord. Then I hurried away, taking one last look at the rifle lying in the grass.

  Ladle moon

  I cannot believe it. I stand with my back to my new room’s window, marveling at how different it is from what I have known for the past five years. Everything had been soft or reflective, smooth to the touch, when I had waited night after night for Him. Now, here, the surfaces are dull and coarse, and sharp edges lurk. The wooden bed frame has not been sanded down completely, splintering here and there. I run my fingers across it, seeking the thorns.

  He had seemed such an unlikely person to change my life, the Olympian. Coach, he said to call him. Then again, all the ways my life has been diverted have been unexpected, beyond my ken.

  I am here to train, so that I may become a competitive sports shooter. What a strange phrase, I’d thought when they first explained it to me. Amusement and death rolled into one.

  I understand, of course, that this is a very serious matter. Coach explained to me that Divine Leader had been extremely unwilling to part with me, seeing as I am one of his favorites. But in the end, over tea, Coach convinced Him that extraordinary things in one’s possession must be shown off to the world in order to truly shine. If kept locked in a box and only taken out for admiration from time to time, even the brightest jewel would gather dust. I nodded along as Coach nodded in imitation of Divine Leader’s reaction to this reasoning.

  “Why was I chosen?” I asked, half-afraid of the answer.

  “Sharp shooters need to have complete contr
ol over every finger, every breath,” Coach said. “A single tremor, and all is lost. You have the talent of turning yourself to stone. With my help, you may excel.”

  I must have unconsciously let slip a smile because Coach continued: “You must know that Divine Leader has a condition.”

  I waited. Up close, Coach’s eyes seemed too cloudy for him to be such an expert shooter.

  “You must win medals and let the world see what treasures emerge from Divine Leader’s guidance. This is especially important,” he paused. “On enemy land, outside of our borders.”

  I bent my neck, signaling understanding.

  “If you fail to bring glory, there will be consequences. So, train hard.”

  I swore I would. Coach turned to leave. At the door, he paused and said, “One more thing. Attaining glory is as much about winning medals as about conducting yourself honorably on foreign soil. You will be given a computer to study geography and the customs of other lands. Use it wisely.”

  I held my jubilance in until his footsteps had died off. Then I stood, very still, looking at nothing in particular, seeing Father, Mother, Brother, Baby, woman in the moon, defector. For the first time, I did not stop myself from thinking about them. I wondered what each of them were doing at that exact moment in time.

  WHEN STARBUCKS CAME

  When Starbucks finally came to Taiping, that confused place with the infrastructure of a small town and the population size of a city, K. felt that she could now better decide whether to leave H.

  All over Taiping there was a festive mood that hung fog-like around the surrounding mountains. At the brandnew Starbucks store a long queue of people spilled onto the street. They took turns holding the front door open as the line advanced. Air-conditioning poured out of the open door.

  Looking at her reflection in the glass storefront, K. thought about the arrival of McDonald’s years ago, the last time Taiping had been this excited. H. and K. had gone there on their first date, riding on the wave of exhilaration and feeling rather grand. They were young enough for McDonald’s to be swanky. Or perhaps it was not their age but where they grew up that made McDonald’s swanky; she didn’t know.

  She didn’t know a lot of things, and she was the first to admit it. But here was Starbucks—Taiping was changing—and maybe she should, too.

  She saw H. when it was almost her turn to enter through the glass door. He was third in line at the counter, but still staring at the mounted beverage menu intently, indecisive as usual.

  Taking one last look, K. stepped out of the line and walked away into the morning heat.

  On her way home, she tapped the steering wheel and started listing reasons that might help her make a decision.

  REASON: She was older

  She was getting older, older than when she’d first fallen in love with him. And she was older than he.

  Perhaps not many people cared anymore if the woman was older than the man, but she thought H.’s mother cared.

  The first time K. went over as his girlfriend, his mother treated her like a stranger, even though she had essentially grown up under his mother’s eyes. His father, on the other hand, acted as if nothing had changed. Their charade reminded K. of her grandfather, who still talked about Malaysia as if it were Malaya, who asked her name every time she visited.

  Dinner was two meat dishes and one vegetable dish, H.’s mother’s preparations. Throughout dinner the mother coldly answered whatever question K. put forth as small talk, but afterward, doing dishes in the kitchen while the men watched TV, H.’s mother leaned her face close to K.’s, her body rigidly held away, and offered to teach K. how to make H.’s favorite dish. It was supposed to be kangkung with belacan. Months later, curled up in H.’s lap and making small talk, she found out that it was not.

  REASON: She had already wasted four good years on him

  Rounded up.

  Together they had seen many things. They saw McDota, the local rip-off, close down. K. had had her seventh birthday party there; there was a picture of little K. pushing little H. away from her cake, an old-style picture with rounded corners tucked into a yellow Kodak album kept in a drawer in K.’s house.

  K. knew it was her seventh birthday because of the candles on the cake. She had no memories of the event.

  He stopped being her boyfriend when she was nineteen, some weeks before their first anniversary. He appeared to be honest and forthright about his reasons: he had fallen in love with another woman, a girl younger than he.

  After the breakup, she found it easy to deceive herself, since she saw him just as frequently as when she was his girlfriend. It made her wonder why they had spent time so inefficiently in the days before, when he wasn’t running between two women. She thought often about the lost time, or the wasted time—she didn’t know what to call it.

  Except she now met him in secret, away from the public eye. Taiping was about twenty minutes large (by motorbike), and the probability of H.’s (real) girlfriend catching K.’s hand in his was significant. So they rendezvoused mostly at her place, when her parents went away on business trips. On weekends, they drove to Ipoh or Penang, which, unlike Taiping, had proper malls, and there, where shoes and heels and boots squeaked on shiny smooth mall floors, he held her hand, put his arm around her waist, nuzzled her ear, and fed her from his plate.

  Other than that, life seemed to go on as before. She tutored a family friend’s children in the morning and left after lunch to visit him at the factory he worked in. Often she stopped on the way to get him a plastic bag of Milo, cinched shut with raffia string, a straw poking through. She sat in the empty manager’s office and watched him work on the other side of the large glass rectangle. Sometimes she went over her students’ homework. Sometimes she had a magazine. Most times she merely sat and followed his movements, waiting for that flash of a second when his arms strained against a handle on a mysterious machine.

  After a while, K. started driving to his place on certain nights at a certain hour. The hour was his (real) girlfriend’s self-imposed curfew, since she had to get up early for school. The girl was in Form Five at the Convent, long stripped of nuns after the British left. K. knew what the girl looked like. Sometimes her car would have already left H.’s yard. Other times, K. parked down the street, turned the engine off and sat in darkness, waiting to watch the girlfriend leave.

  One night, by the light of a streetlamp, K. saw that his girlfriend had changed her hair, dyed it some shade of brown.

  REASON: She had never left Taiping

  After a year of not being H.’s girlfriend, K. was accepted into the University of Malaya. She refused to go. Her parents could not understand why she wanted so badly to throw her future away. They pressed her until she told the truth: she did not want to move away from Taiping.

  “But there is nothing here,” K.’s parents said. “Don’t you want to leave? All your friends have moved away, anybody who can do it. Your cousins, the neighbor’s kids, everybody. If you won’t go to university, at least go to Kuala Lumpur, or Penang, or even Ipoh, where the jobs are better and you can make more money. Don’t stay here. Here there is nothing.”

  She persisted, continuing to live in her parents’ house. She started thinking of herself as a humble small-town girl with no ambition, no drive, a simple soul who wanted nothing more than to avoid the brutality of (real) cities, to live and die in the place in which she was born.

  She would have been the first in her family to have a tertiary education.

  On sweaty afternoons, when it got so hot he pushed her away on the bed, she watched the standing fan shake its head at her, a slow no no no. Often after sex he would be so comfortably stretched out, immobile, that he would not clean himself up, staining her sheets. Once, rolling off her and almost falling off the bed, he noticed a smear of period blood that K. had been unable to wash out. He asked her if she had been eating chocolate in bed. After that they always did. Cadbury milk chocolate. Sometimes with embedded nuts, sometimes not.

>   They had planned their first time carefully, back when they were still an official couple. Not wanting to get caught, they drove to Ipoh for a hotel room. Their first attempt was not successful; they did not time the alternating of kissing and undressing right. When he hurt her nipples, he confessed that he was a virgin, but did not ask K. if she was one, too.

  After that first attempt, neither of them felt like trying again, but they had paid for the hotel room and did not want to throw good money away for nothing. To delay sex, she suggested getting food. They sat in a semi-open-air coffee shop, where he self-consciously ordered a Tiger beer. She shifted uncomfortably on the backless plastic stool with a round hole in the center of its seat. Her coffee came in a clear glass that rattled against its saucer, condensed milk lumping at the bottom.

  Around dinnertime, they returned to the hotel room and managed to have (real) sex. It was the first and last time they would do it in an air-conditioned room, and sometimes, on hot afternoons in her bedroom, K. would try to bring that first time back—the atmosphere sterile from the air-conditioning fumes, stretched tight over her skin, holding her sweat and cries in. It would without a doubt be the worst sex she would have in her entire life. After it was over, H. held her very gently and apologized again and again for the pain. He had never been as tender to her since.

  Driving back, they started listing places in Taiping they thought they could safely have sex in, since they could not afford a hotel room whenever they wanted to be intimate (which they imagined, at that moment, would be all the time). In the end, they were no more original than any other couple in Taiping, falling back to the reliable shrubbery in the public lake garden. The dirt and pebbles and outstretched roots of trees hurt her back at first, but she became used to it over time. Sometimes they drove to the grounds of rich men, whose properties were so large that they could not keep track of cars that parked in dark corners for half an hour at a time.

  On one of the days when her parents were out of town, H. sat up on crumpled sheets and told K. that his (real) girlfriend was thinking about leaving Taiping for Johor, where a friend had connections to a lucrative job. That night, K. had a dream about the girlfriend being ejaculated from Johor, the tip of Malaysia, Asia’s penis.