Singapore sling

More than 10 years ago, I lived in Singapore to do research on Southeast Asian literature at its National University, which is number one in Asia. I received a research fellowship from the Asian Scholarship Foundation (ASF), funded by Ford. The ASF has since gone defunct, a sad casualty of the American economic crises.

I lived on the other side of the island-state. I took the train every day, but it was not a bother: the trains were cool and they ran on time. From the train terminal, I would take another bus that promptly brought me to NUS.

The campus sat on rolling hills, and its landscaping was indeed immaculate. The English language and literature department was a hive of activity, an intellectual center of the highest order. It was a summer semester, and the professors came and went, to do research abroad or to take their vacations. In true Asian fashion, they brought home pasalubong and left them in the pantry, with the helpful note: “For everyone to enjoy.”

And since our kind secretary told me I could use the facilities – including the pantry – I was a recipient of my colleagues’ kindness. One floor down was the open-air cafeteria, where the flavors of Singaporean cuisine rose warmly in the air – Chinese and Indian as well as Malay and international offerings.  I gained ten pounds after three months.

When I felt homesick, I convened our friends and we cooked Filipino food. I would cook laing for them, buying daing (dried fish) from Lucky Plaza to add flavor to the dish. I also met my former student, the writer Noelle De Jesus, and had lunch with fiction writers Ichi Batacan and Nadine Sarreal. Every Sunday, I would take a bus to the Bayanihan Center to teach English to our domestic helpers as a volunteer professor.

NUS also gave me an office – the biggest office I had used in 30 years of working. Its library was also well-stocked, with the latest titles in hardbound editions and online subscriptions of journals abroad. They even had a blueprint copy of Nick Joaquin’s novel Cave & Shadows, with a handwritten note from our National Artist complaining about the same mistakes being repeated in the blueprint. It was, indeed, a precious possession.

I was having lunch of soft Hainanese chicken when my publisher, Karina Bolasco of Anvil, texted me to say that Nick Joaquin had died that morning. The normally great lunch I had suddenly turned bland.

And a few months ago, Noelle Q. De Jesus asked me to submit a flash fiction for an anthology to be published there. I dredged my memories, and came up with the following flash fiction called “The Snake.”

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I once lived in a three-bedroom unit in an elegant condominium in Simei. My two flatmates were also Filipinos: Antonio was an engineer, while Roberto was a chef. I was here to write a book about Southeast Asian rivers.

On our left lived a Chinese family, the Cheongs, who sometimes had relatives visiting them. They would play mah-jong until the wee hours of the morning. But the clackety-clack of the tiles did not bother me. In fact, they even reminded me of my aunts who also played this game.

On my right lived an Indian family,  and the smell of their cooking – curries, especially kuruma – also wafted into my bedroom. But I was also not bothered, for I devoured the Indian food in the restaurants near the MTR.

In front of me lived a Malay couple, very quiet indeed. When I first saw the husband, he asked me if I was a Filipino. When I said “yes,” he said that they have Filipino carpenters in Sabah. “But in the Philippines,” he sniffed, “they claim to be engineers.” I just gave him my fake Filipino smile.

The one who talked to me often was Mrs. Cheong. I first met her the day after I moved in. I was leaving the flat at 9 a.m. to go to NUS when I saw her entering their flat. I gave her my genuine Filipino smile and she smiled back. “Ah-yah, sorry-lah.  We were noisy last night with the mah-jong.” I told her why I was not bothered, and she just smiled back.

The next week I met her when I was going to the pool to swim. She had just finished swimming, her short, gray hair still wet. “Nice day for swimming,” she said. I smiled back at her, “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Ah-yah. Just call me Auntie-lah. You remind me of my son in Boston. Tall and thin, with glasses,” she smiled sadly.

“How many children, Auntie?”

“Only two. Alvin in Boston, Christine in Sydney. Both studying. I hope they come back.”

“I’m sure they would,” I said, thinking who wouldn’t want to come back to Singapore? It had clean and tree-lined streets, and its trains were cool and on time. Everything is green here, I thought, everything is measured.

“You never know with the young ones. They think differently from me and your uncle.” Uncle I rarely saw, for he worked long hours at a bank near Clarke Quay.

One day, Auntie invited me to have lunch in their flat. She said she cooked a lot but their relatives could not come at the last minute, so we should eat up. Her flat had furniture from Ikea and we ate her soft Hainanese chicken.

We were having green tea in delicate cups when she told me what happened in her former flat. One of her neighbors – a tall Chinese woman whose husband also worked in a bank – turned up her nose at everyone. “Maybe because her husband is VP in a bank and mine is just a senior manager,” she said, eyes rolling.

“The Goh family lived in the penthouse, the most expensive in the condo. She always snubbed me,” Auntie cackled. “But I just ignored her, too. Who cares? But one afternoon, I just heard her screaming!”

“What happened?”

“She knocked on my door.  She said she was about to use the loo when she found a snake – a thin, green snake, one foot long – in her toilet bowl. How did it reach her penthouse? Ay-yah! How would I know, lah?”

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