The Night Tiger(12)

“The hospital has staff quarters. He said it was more convenient.” She glanced swiftly at my stepfather, who continued chewing in silence. He was in a good mood, I could tell. Ever since Shin had won a scholarship to study medicine, he’d been perversely proud of him. Being congratulated on such a clever son must have gone to his head.

It was odd that Shin would come to a district hospital like Batu Gajah when he could easily have worked as an orderly at the Singapore General Hospital, as he had over Christmas. I’d never been to Singapore, though I’d pored over postcards of St. Andrew’s Cathedral and the famous Raffles Hotel with its Long Bar that ladies weren’t supposed to go to.

My mother gave another anguished look at the untouched chicken. “Whom did Shin go out with tonight?”

“Ming, and another friend. Robert, he said.” My stepfather helped himself to a piece of chicken, and with a sigh, my mother followed suit, placing it on my plate.

I looked down, embarrassed. Ming was the watchmaker’s son, Shin’s best friend. He was a year older than us, serious and mature, and wore thin, wire-framed spectacles. I’d been in love with him since I was twelve—a hopeless, awkward crush I’d hoped nobody noticed, though my mother’s sympathetic glance seemed a little too knowing. Ming had done well at school and we’d all expected him to go on to further studies, but he’d unexpectedly taken over his father’s business. And a few months ago, I’d heard he was engaged to a girl from Tapah.

Good for him, I told myself, stabbing the chicken with my chopsticks. Ming was a sincere person; I’d met his fiancée and she seemed like a nice girl, quiet and not flashy. Besides, despite Ming’s kindness to me growing up, he’d never been interested. I knew that very well and had given up on him. Still, hearing his name filled me with an inky, twilight gloom.

My mother’s debts, Ming’s marriage, and my lack of a future were cold weights on a string of bad luck. And that wasn’t even counting the mummified bottled finger tucked at the very bottom of my traveling basket.



* * *



My stepfather always went to bed early. My mother had also adopted this habit, and soon enough, they retired to their room upstairs. I washed the dishes and put the leftovers into the mesh-screened food cupboard to keep lizards and cockroaches out. Each cupboard leg stood in a small saucer filled with water, so that ants couldn’t climb up. Finally, I collected the food scraps and took them into the back alley for the stray cats.

It had cooled down, though the sides of the buildings still radiated the heat of the day. The night sky was sprinkled with stars and a thin crackle of music wafted into the evening air. Somewhere, someone was listening to a radio. It was a foxtrot, a dance that I could do with my eyes closed now, humming under my breath.

The music ended in a smattering of applause. Startled, I turned.

“Since when have you been able to dance?”

He was a shadow in the darkness of the alley, leaning against the wall, but I’d know him anywhere.

“How long have you been here?” I said indignantly.

“Long enough.” Detaching himself from the wall, his dim outline seemed taller, his shoulders wider than before. I couldn’t see the expression on his face and felt suddenly shy. I hadn’t seen Shin for almost a year.

“Why didn’t you stay in Singapore?” I asked.

“Oh, so you didn’t want me to come back?” He was laughing, and I felt a rush of relief. It was the old Shin, my childhood friend.

“Who’d want you? Well, maybe Ah Kum does.”

“You mean the new girl at the shop?” He shook his head. “My heart belongs to the medical profession.”

The neighbor’s window banged shut. We were making too much noise in the alley. I headed back towards the fan of light spilling from the kitchen door.

“You cut your hair,” he said in surprise.

My hand flew to the shorn nape of my neck. Let the jokes begin, I thought grimly. But surprisingly, Shin didn’t say anything else. He sat down at the table and watched as I fidgeted, wiping down an already clean counter. The oil lamp had burned low and the kitchen was full of shadows. I hurriedly asked one question after another about what Singapore was like.

“But what have you been doing?” he asked. “Some poor woman probably has a dress that’s sewn inside out.”

I threw the dishtowel at him. “I sew very well. I’m extremely talented, according to Mrs. Beaky Tham.”

“Is her name really Beaky?”

“No, but it should be. She looks like a tiny crow, and she likes to walk into my room and open all the drawers whenever I’m out.”

“I’m sorry,” Shin said, laughing. And then he really did look sorry.

“What for?”

“Because you should be the one in medical school.”

“I could never go.” I turned away. It was still a sore spot for me. I’d been the one who’d first thought of being a doctor, or some kind of medical aide. Anything to heal the bruises on my mother’s arms, the sprains that she mysteriously developed. “I heard you saw Ming tonight.”

“And Robert.” Robert Chiu was Ming’s friend. His father was a barrister who’d been trained in England. All his children had English names—Robert, Emily, Mary, and Eunice—and they had a piano and a gramophone in their large house, which was teeming with servants. Robert and Shin had never really got along. I wondered why the three of them had been together.