The Minorities Page 5

  I made an excuse to leave. I forgot what the excuse was. I’m pretty sure it was as convincing as it was memorable.

  He thanked me for the waffles and wished me good night, a deep sadness in his voice. Those last words slipped into the chilly night, stark against the burning anecdotes of his parents’ deaths. I forgot, as well, how I managed to fall asleep.

  I slept for two hours. My bed was at the corner of my room, so there was really only one side of it to wake up on.

  The shower was particularly cold that morning, each icy cascade kissing my skin and bones to life.

  I headed to the kitchen immediately after my shower, to find Shanti already there, setting three places at the table. Cantona joined us a few minutes later, freshly showered and clean shaven.

  He wished us good morning with a rather reserved smile, but it was at that moment that I really registered his visage. His face was gaunt, with sunken cheeks and sallow skin the colour of cold coffee—but it was twisted into life with large, soulful, intelligent eyes and wide, slightly thick lips. He had the countenance of a curious child stretched into an adult too quickly.

  After breakfast, Shanti and I retreated to my room to work on our project. That day, we were meticulously soldering active devices to circuit boards, trying to create a modified portable scanner to read electrical activity within the brain.

  Cantona joined us after doing the dishes, and asked, “What is all this?”

  “This,” I said to him, patting the bowl-shaped hunk of metal that we were attaching to the circuit boards, “is the wHelm—the ‘w’ stands for wave-receiving. It picks up electrical fluctuations within your neurons.” I paused and sought signs of comprehension in his thin face. He nodded, his eyes not glazed over.

  “So, it detects brain waves, reads brain activity?”

  I caught Shanti shooting him a quick glance, and I thought I saw the corners of her lips curl slightly. But before I could discern for sure, she had returned to soldering.

  I nodded. “The plan is to then correlate specific brain waves to specific musical chords. A brain wave that has a low frequency, for example, will be correlated to a low key.” I added dryly, “Not like the bad guy in The Avengers.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind,” I said quickly, before continuing, business-like, to hide my embarrassment. “So you wear the scanner, and we’ll attach it to a Pianola—an auto-piano—and, if it works, it will play the music of your mind.”

  Cantona appeared impressed. “Does it have a name?”

  I nodded and smiled broadly. “This, my friend, is the SoundLoft.”

  The day pulsated forth, and by the time the sun began to dip into the horizon, we had crafted most of our home-made brain scanner. At about seven in the evening, Shanti headed into the kitchen to prepare dinner, while Cantona and I cleaned up my room, which now looked like an alien landscape of meandering river-wires and monuments made of motherboard trimmings.

  By the time we were done, a fragrant, spicy aroma wafted from the kitchen. Cantona reacted rather peculiarly to it.

  “Turmeric and mustard,” he said, sniffing the air. He smiled, and a single tear streaked down his cheek.

  In the kitchen, we saw Shanti churning something with a ladle. Inside a wok were tender slices of fish in a brown-yellow gravy.

  “What are you cooking?” I asked, watching Cantona wipe away the tear, which, by then, had reached his jaw.

  “Sorse ilish,” they replied, not quite in unison.

  Shanti did not break her gaze from Cantona. “It’s a Bengali dish,” she said softly.

  Cantona returned her gaze and smiled broadly, his eyes twinkling with tears. “It reminds me of home.”

  I heard Shanti’s voice shout my name, and I spun around.

  Shanti was rushing over to me. She grabbed my hand, and pulled, very hard. “We have to go,” she nearly shouted, her eyes wide. “Tights did a Tights.”

  There was nothing to vociferate other than, “Oh, bloody hell!”

  We sprint-weaved our way through the crowd, knocking accidentally into anonymous people who made sounds of shock and annoyance that faded into the meaningless whooshes of the night.

  Finally, we reached the other end of the function hall, where a large group had gathered. There, in the middle of it all was Tights, squatting, smiling and waving at the people around him, his pants and briefs around his ankles, a twist of faeces underneath his buttocks.

  “Is this performance art?” a blond man in a three-piece suit at the front of the crowd asked. There were murmurs of agreement.

  “I believe it is,” replied his equally blonde female companion, herself in a glowing turquoise dress that hugged her svelte figure. “I think the juxtaposition of his clean white shirt and that handsome wool tie against such a profoundly base act perfectly captures the difference between society’s elite and its plebeian manual labourers. It is the difference between foreign talent or expatriates, and foreign workers. It is the upper half of society versus its lower half, the sacred versus the profane, the evolved versus the disinclined, the pursuit of modernity versus the inability to escape our base humanity—all in that one act.”

  “Mmm,” replied her companion. “Indeed.”

  “Go get Cantona. I’ll handle Tights.” Shanti was frantic, and despite her heels and her figure-hugging dress, she moved unhindered, urgently, resolutely.

  I bounded off towards the VIP bar, where Cantona was deep in conversation with Hilda. He was leaning jauntily against the bar, smiling, gesticulating, a well-nursed glass of dark spirit next to him.

  Upon seeing me, the big woman said, “Ah, speak of the devil.”

  There was no time to respond to her. “Hey!” I said, looking solely at Cantona. “Tights did a Tights!”

  “Excuse me?” It was Hilda who said it, the indignation percolating from her voice. I did not know if it was because I had ignored her, or because I was interrupting her—or because she wanted to know what “Tights doing a Tights” meant.

  Cantona said pointedly to me, “I’m in the middle of something important here.”

  “Yes, he is,” Hilda said, eyeing me curiously. “And you’re just the person we need to make it happen. Mr Nocta has at least eight interested—”

  I cut her off—I had to. “With all due respect, Hilda, this is the wrong time for this conversation.”

  “I think this is the perfect time,” she said, her eyes never leaving mine. “You are, after all, at my vernissage. I don’t think Mr Nocta has a better chance than this.”

  I looked at Cantona. His eyes were begging me to find another way. In the nanosecond before sympathy overwhelmed me, I grabbed his hand and ran for the entrance. I felt resistance initially, and my grasp broke, but when I turned, Cantona was bounding along behind me. Hilda was growling inchoate words of displeasure.

  We saw Shanti and Tights speeding for the entrance as well, the latter’s pants, thankfully, around his waist, his belt dangling limply behind him off a belt loop.

  We rushed down the stairs, towards the museum gates, turned right towards the taxi stand, ignored the queue, got into the first taxi and yelled at the cabbie, “Drive, uncle!” The door to the museum swung open, but we didn’t bother to see who it was.

  “Drive!”

  Chapter Three: Chinese Century Egg

  It was a quiet, tense taxi ride home—and because the journey from the Asian Civilisations Museum to Yishun took forty minutes, it was quiet and tense for 39 minutes more than I could stand. The driver sensed it and turned up his radio, so the strains of a Chinese opera filled the car.

  We were dropped off along the road next to our flat. We stood there on the kerb wordlessly, waiting for the cab to pass. When it was out of view, Cantona let out an almost animalistic cry, and raised his fist at his roommate—it was a fist he immediately returned to his side. The fist then became a finger that pointed and jabbed.

  “Why, you fucking asshole? Why?” he yelled, his fist now grabbing the fro
nt of Tights’ shirt.

  Tights said in a meek, feeble voice, “When you have bad inside you…”

  “You go to a bathroom!”

  “Cantona, come on,” Shanti said softly, placing a hand gently on his arm. He released Tights’ shirt.

  “But I always,” said Tights. “You see before.”

  “Did I ever say, ‘Wonderful! Good fucking job, Ying Hao! Do it again, please’? Hilda was about to make me a proper paid artist!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Tights, who I knew was earnest and sincere, but did not understand why he was being berated. “Cantona, sorry.” Tights went down upon his knees and placed his palms together.

  Cantona’s face twisted into an expression of confusion. He turned, unable to find the words, and stormed towards the elevator.

  Shanti started following him. “I’ll talk to him,” she said to me. “Give me half an hour with him before you head up?”

  I nodded to Shanti. I then turned to Tights. “Crazy night, huh?”

  He had gotten back to his feet, but was still staring at the space where Cantona was. “I not understand. I do thing good.”

  I sighed. “I’ve told you this before. Not everyone thinks it’s a good thing…to do what you do.”

  He stayed silent, but the empty grin on his face had faded.

  I looked at the sky. The sun was only at the final stages of relinquishing its control over the land. It wasn’t even 8pm yet. We had left the vernissage so early, raced away from the slightest possibility of Cantona or Tights getting into trouble by that ziggurat, that we arrived home at the earliest infancy of the night.

  “Wanna chill at the garden?” I asked Tights. He nodded solemnly. There was a garden next to my block which doubled as a sort of small farm where cabbages grew. It was a well-groomed garden. In the morning, it would bring forth immaculate grids of colour. At night, however, the colours held on to life against the shadows and the dark, with help from the flickering glow of the void deck lights.

  We sat on a bench next to a square of white jasmine flowers.

  Tights spoke first. He asked, “Cantona not become artist?”

  “I don’t know, Tights,” I said. “Seeing how quickly we left… Once she sees what you’ve done, she’ll put two and two together. I think she’ll take it as an insult.”

  “Insult?” Tights looked at me. He appeared deeply confused. “She no shit?”

  “Do you mean she doesn’t take shit from anybody, or are you actually asking if she doesn’t shit?”

  “I ask.”

  I stood up. “Of course she shits!”

  “Then why she insulted? I shit. She shit.” Tights stood up as well. “Why she not let Cantona become artist?”

  I sighed. “Because she shits where she’s supposed to. Where she’s allowed to. You don’t. And because you don’t, the people who befriend you, who let you do what you do, who let you be you, will…” I trailed off, realising I could not bear to call him a liability. “Tights, you’re a good, gentle person, but you’re in a place where nobody will value that if you’re going around shitting in public.”

  Tights looked at me square in the eye and said, “When I have bad inside, I let out straight away.”

  I sat back down. “Damn it, Tights.”

  He joined me on the bench, squirming uneasily as he sat. “Later I say sorry to Cantona.”

  “Do it tomorrow. Let him cool down a bit. You can sleep in my room for tonight.” He nodded. I continued, “Look, if you continue, well, shitting yourself in public, you’re going to get caught. Even if not immediately, people are going to start talking of the Chinese dude who treats the void deck as his own personal toilet, and they’re going to notify the police. Then they’ll start sending more patrols out here. People will hate you for what you do, Tights.” I placed a hand on his shoulder. “I respect your beliefs, but I’m part of the minority.”

  Tights got up and walked over to a clump of banana trees about five metres from us, just beyond the patch of jasmine, and began pulling down his pants. He started to crouch.

  I laughed. “Really, Tights? Now?”

  “I never finish at art place. I still have a little bad inside.” I noted that he had the decency to look slightly sheepish when he said that, but the anxiety that caked his voice was undeniable. I scanned our surroundings, playing the lookout.

  I chuckled.

  He asked, “What funny?”

  “This,” I said. “This is how we first met. You were doing exactly this, only you were there.” I pointed to a white pillar behind us.

  When I met Tights Chang, he had been crouched there, his pants and underwear similarly around his ankles. Nonchalantly, he had given me a jaunty wave. It had smelled bad then as it did now, but I’d since learnt to block it out. I had waved back, unsure then of how to greet a man taking a dump before me, all his bits dangling in full view. “My name Tights,” he had said, looking up at me and tapping his chest with his right palm. I told him my name. He asked me to repeat it. I said my name to him again. I then asked him if Tights was his real name. As he pulled up his faded brown pants, he had said to me with a toothy grin, “My really name Chang Ying Hao.” I had said to him, “Okay, man, quickly finish up” and then I looked out for other passers-by.

  So why Tights? I hadn’t asked him back then, distracted as I was by

  his disposition.

  Presently, I called out to him, “Tights, wanna watch a movie tonight?”

  He nodded enthusiastically. That stupid grin again. My heart warmed. “I want to watch Forrest Gump, please,” he said.

  I clapped. “That, my dear friend, was correct English!”

  He gave me a thumbs-up from where he crouched. He was wearing his toothy grin. I returned it with a smile.

  But our countenances fell in the next instant.

  “You hear?” Tights asked tensely. Initially, I did not hear anything, and I realised that was exactly it. The nebulous hum of distant traffic was suddenly absent. The song of crickets had faded into the night. I stood up. I strained my ears. I took a few steps towards Tights, crushing jasmine under my shoe. Its floral aroma filled my nose. I continued listening. I took another step into the bed of jasmine. Then, I heard it.

  It was the breaking of twigs, only it sounded like many twigs being broken in sequence, as though a small steamroller was moving quickly through the garden. It was followed by low, ragged moans. There seemed to be movement from the clump of banana trees.

  “Tights, pull up your pants! Someone’s coming!”

  He did, and he ran towards me, fastening his pants and belt mid-stride. He reached my side and turned to face the banana trees with me—nobody appeared. Did we imagine it?

  “There!” Tights shouted, pointing at an area deep in the shadows of the banana trees. It was a subtle movement, barely visible, but it was an undeniably humanoid figure. Whoever it was, I doubted he or she would be able to discern our faces in the dark. For now, at least.

  I grabbed my friend’s arm. “Let’s go, Tights.”

  We turned and walked briskly back to our block. Nobody chased us, nobody called out to us, and my heartbeat returned to normal in tandem with the closing lift doors.

  Shanti and Cantona were sitting on the living room couch when we got home. Upon seeing us, he stood up silently and returned to his room, slamming the door behind him. Shanti stood up as well, and turned to Tights and me.

  “How’s he doing?” I asked Shanti.

  “He’ll come around.”

  I nodded. “Will he be okay with Tights?”

  She gave a reserved smile. “He will be.” To Tights, she quipped, “You crapped all over his dreams, Tights. Literally.”

  I laughed—I couldn’t help myself. “He’ll sleep in my room for tonight.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Shanti, a slight smile on her face. “This will all blow over tomorrow.”

  I patted Tights, who was looking positively forlorn, on the shoulder. “Go wash up, man.”
<
br />   He headed to his room out of habit, but stopped himself and turned towards my room.

  “You can wear my clothes,” I called out to him.

  Shanti heaved a heavy sigh and sank back onto the sofa. “On days like these, I wish I was back home.”

  I chuckled but stopped when I fully registered the semantics behind her words. “You are home, Shanti.” I sat down next to her, and she rested her head on my shoulder. The sound of pattering water began to emanate from my room. She sighed deeply, as though exhaling the fatigue from her bones. She then fished out her phone from her clutch on the other side of the sofa and looked at the black glass-and-metal thing with annoyance.

  “Has he been giving you any trouble recently?” I asked.

  Shanti shook her head, which I registered as her temples rubbed against my shoulder. “No. I haven’t spoken to him at all. He’s been trying. I get a lot of texts from him every day.”

  She passed her phone to me. I keyed in the password to unlock her screen and opened the text messages interface. I tapped on “Devas”. True enough, there was a tall pillar of messages from him, but with no replies. They ranged from frantic pleas for Shanti to return home, to angry slights against her dignity, to nearly criminal threats on her life. One even contained all three. It read, “CAN U PLS REPLY? Shanti u r my wife. Ur place is wif me. by my side. Pls come back. Nobody else is going to take ur nonsense. Nobody else will want u after all that we’ve done in our bed. I am the best man for u n u know tht. How r u so stupid tht u cannot see it? Sumtimes u make me so angry I want to punch u, but I know tht will spoil ur beautiful face. If u reply now, I wont hurt u. But if u continue to be dis stupid, good luck when we see each other.”

  I chuckled darkly, trying to lighten the situation. “He texts like this and you married the guy?”

  “He was kind and funny when we were dating.” She sighed and took her phone back.

  “Does Cantona know?”

  “Fuck no! I don’t know how he’d react.”

  There was one person whose reaction I would also be interested in. “Does Tights know?”