Singapore Swing (31 page)

Harry's Bar is another winner from this sordid affair. Busy and important, with a website, a newssheet and several new offshoots all over town, it stands in a modest, two-storey old warehouse at the end of Boat Quay. It's a difficult joint to pigeonhole. On one hand, it is decorated with pictures of BB King, Art Blakey and Grover Washington and offers live jazz, but on the other, it serves Heineken beer on tap, Premiership football on TV and fish and chips to its patrons. The decor downstairs is modern with aluminium-frame chairs and tall, iron bar stools, but the more exclusive upstairs bar is more akin to a Mayfair Gentlemen's Club: the furniture is teak and leather rather than rattan; sofas and poufs replace the chairs and stools; and a pool table makes an appearance instead of a sports widescreen. Like the Raffles of times past, it is creating a new urban narrative for the city in the twenty-first century. It doesn't yet have its own Singapore Sling, but it's working on it. May I suggest the Madame Butterfly for your delectation – although, lest we forget Nick Leeson, there is the Bank Breaker, too.

That's what I'm drinking now with Jacky. ‘

Tim couldn't make it?' I ask.

‘I didn't tell him,' she answers. ‘I fucked up.'

I wait patiently to hear the whole story.

‘After you left us at Taboo, I thought I'd clear the air. “About that awkward episode in your flat last week,” I said to him. “Do you remember?” He said he didn't.'

‘Good.'

‘So I reminded him.'

Oh, no.

‘I told him what happened. Or what I understood happened. And what I meant.'

She lights a cigarette.

‘And then I snogged him.'

I should not have left her alone.

‘But Tim was not interested. He was stand-offish. He said I was too forward.'

‘He was sober and you were drunk,' I reminded her. ‘What could he do? If he made a move he'd be accused of taking advantage of you. Tim is too much of a gentleman for that.'

‘Now I don't even have his number. I deleted it, embarrassed, this morning.'

‘You overcompensated.'

She looks at me downcast.

‘John, I've been married for too long, I don't know how to date anymore.'

I look at her and realise there is more to it.

‘This has happened before, hasn't it?'

There is a long pause while Jacky finishes her Martini.

‘Well, yes, it has,' she says. ‘There was this ex-boyfriend of mine. He was the first man I ever loved. We went out for a few years when I was a teenager and then we split.'

‘Why?'

‘He had another girlfriend. I asked him to choose between me and her but he couldn't make up his mind. I was younger than her. Maybe he thought I was less mature. Anyway, I split with him and never saw him again.'

She takes a big puff from her cigarette.

‘Until a few years ago.'

She talks softly, taking a long time between the sentences.

‘Do you remember the tsunami? I suppose no one has forgotten it. He was in Thailand then and lived through it. As his life flashed in front of his eyes, he realised that he still loved me, that I was the only one who mattered to him. Or so he said. A month later he sent me an e-mail out of the blue.'

‘How did he find you?'

‘It's not too difficult. Let's say, I have a high profile.'

I order more drinks.

‘I didn't reply at first. I said to myself, “God, not another tsunami rebirth experience.” But he persisted. I thought that if he says he loves me after all this time, it must be genuine. So I agreed and after twenty years we met again. I took two gay friends and one girlfriend with me. I dressed in my grungiest gear in order not to encourage him. I was frightened. And the reason I was frightened is that I was still in love with him.'

‘And?'

‘We met.'

‘And?'

‘He's got a wife and two kids.'

‘
And
?'

‘Like the first time, it wasn't meant to be,' she says and stubs out her cigarette.

‘History repeats itself,' I mumble.

‘I still think of him. But he is someone unattainable, someone I think of and it hurts. We talked a lot. I asked him: “How did you choose this woman to marry? How did you know she was the one?” He replied with platitudes. “First I thought she would make a good wife, then she would make a good mother.”'

‘Confucian crap.'

‘Precisely. That's what they've brainwashed him with. That's why he comes back twenty years later and realises he's made a mistake and wants to correct it. What
I
think of is: can I grow together with this man? Do we have the same interests? Can we communicate? Can we be friends? 'Cos after a while, the sex and the passion diminish.'

I look at Jacky's pretty face for a long time. Sometimes the more you learn about a person, the less you like them. In Jacky's case the opposite is true.

Like this city itself.

‘Is this why you are so confused about Tim?' I ask her.

She nods. ‘I don't want to make the same mistakes again, but I do.'

We stop talking, but Harry's Bar is far from silent.

‘You know what Jacky?' I finally blurt. ‘Do you know why I really, really like you?'

‘Why?'

‘Because we come from completely different backgrounds, our experiences are so different, – you live in Singapore and I in London – but our minds can meet. We click. And I find this comforting.'

She leans over and kisses me on the cheek. We remain silent for some time; we don't need to speak to communicate.

‘Will you come to London to see me?' I ask her eventually.

‘I come to fashion shows in Europe once a year.'

We sit back contemplating our parting.

‘If I come, can I stay with you?' she asks.

‘Sure. Anytime,' I say and squeeze her hand.

‘Will you let me smoke in your house?' she asks with a smirk.

I smile. ‘You can smoke in the kitchen.'

She giggles involuntarily but quickly turns quiet.

‘When is the best time to come?'

‘For me, the autumn. It's cool, but not cold. The trees shed their leaves and the colours look beautiful. It's the only time when you expect rain, so it doesn't bother you. And when a shower does come, the leaves become musty and a mild, sweet smell is in the air. It's the only time when London smells sweet.'

She sits back, immersed in her thoughts.

‘You know what?' she asks after a while.

‘What?'

‘I'll file for divorce. It's about time.'

‘I thought people here didn't divorce'.

She looks at me perplexed.

‘Who told you that?'

I shrug my shoulders.

‘Never mind.' I reply.

- 38 -

I get off the metro at Raffles Place, but I don't lose my bearings any more. It still feels like a giant Broadgate development stretched to infinity, but now the skyscrapers are familiar, have names and are as such less threatening. To my left stands my favourite: the Caltex-Hitachi Tower, its steel and glass ring-shaped structure providing a visual alternative to the linear geometry around me. As a homage to the currency-exchange hawkers of old when ships and sailors descended on the river in droves, it stands protectively over Change Alley that leads to Collyer Quay. Behind me rises the grey UOB Plaza, part of the curtain of granite and glass that began to define the global city of the nineties: two octagonal towers, linked by an office bridge hanging over the gateway to Boat Quay. But the octagons are not complete: the floors are stacked on top of each other, some aligned properly, some rotated at 45-degree angles like a giant corkscrew made out of cleaving cubes. This is a landmark that can be seen from the Padang, from the Esplanade, and during that fleeting moment over the bridge coming from the airport on the ECP Expressway.

The post-modern, flashy fabric of the rest of the buildings – HSBC at Ocean Towers, the UCO Bank, the Indian Bank – are stitched together between these two architectural tours de force. Except for one much older structure that stands on the other side of the UOB Plaza: the 18-storey Bank of China. Completed in the mid-fifties, it is the granddaddy of them all. Not only was it the first skyscraper to stand near Raffles Place, but it was also the first centrally air-conditioned building in Singapore – if it only knew the terrible trend it started. But its transgression is forgiven, for it is beautiful, combining the elements of modernism with subtle Chinese ornamentation under its façade.

I walk across to the Padang for a last stroll. Everywhere I look is a reminder that this is a city which changes and mutates, as if standing still is a transgression. The old Legislative Council in front of me, a genteel, Georgian building, is now housing the Asian Civilisations Museum. That wonderful, domed Supreme Court has become an empty shell; the functionaries have moved to a new address on North Bridge Road. The City Hall next door that saw all the important events in Singapore's History is vacant, too. A sign says that, along with the Supreme Court, it will house Singapore's National Art collection by 2012. That leaves enough time for the censors to veto the nudes, I suppose.

I walk up the river to the gaudily-coloured MICA building; this is where the MDA is based, easily my least favourite institution, and one of those niggling questions forms in my mind: how can you aim for a grand art collection with such strict censorship laws? Whom are they supposed to protect, anyway? There are few countries whose citizens are as educated and mature as Singapore's.

I am about to turn right, but something catches my eye. I walk to the bottom of Fort Canning, the old Forbidden Hill, and look over to the River Valley Swimming Pool. It is fenced off, the pools are empty and the tiles are being ripped up. Opposite, on the other side of the river, a new hotel development is being erected. These baths are far too central and the land they occupy too valuable. Except that their demise is also that of a legend; that of Forbidden Hill and the sultan's harem that used to bathe in the springs on this very spot. The River Valley Complex may well have been underused but it kept the myth alive.

Here is Hill Street with its Armenian church. Her orchid garden may have given way to a mall, but in this graveyard the headstone of Agnes Joaquim is commemorated with a plaque. This city can be mawkish when regretful.

I walk past Bras Basah Road up Victoria Street towards Arab Street and I tell myself that there much less to regret (censorship? gay rights? punishments?) than to admire in Singapore: its tranquillity, its mindset, its material success. And I always get a buzz from its amalgam of cultures that manifests itself wherever you stand to look, smell or listen: the mix of architectural styles, the range of food in the hawker stalls, the multilingual chatter on the pavements. As I tread on the steps of the procession that on 21 July 1964 led to the Singapore riots, I know that these people have finally got it right where it matters: living together with mutual respect. That date is now celebrated in the city's schools but not as one of division: it is Racial Harmony Day, when pupils learn to appreciate each other's cultural background. It takes courage and guts to take the blackest day in your history and turn it into one of reconciliation. Could we designate 7 July as a day to celebrate our own diversity?

There is a small Asian country that can show us the way.

I am back at Raffles Place where everything is so familiar and it is this very familiarity that I carry as a burden. You are never sorry to leave a place as a tourist because by definition you have kept aloof. You are not affected by its life or its rhythm because you have put on a protective suit with goggles and a face mask. But when you learn enough and crave to know more – ah, it is that knowledge that hurts. I wish I were a typical tourist, one leaving tomorrow after a two-day break en route to Australia. I wish I could wear my sling again and use it as an excuse not to go out, not to meet people, not to be involved, but it's not possible any more, for now I know and I care.

I have compiled the myths from several sources, but I have rewritten them extensively in this book: for instance, I have made up a complete story around Shushan's famous
koan
about the most valuable thing in the world in chapter three.
The Buddha's Message Is Eternal
comes from that classic of Chinese literature by Wu Ch'êng-ên,
Journey to the West
, which appears in the references as
Monkey
;
The Immortal
is a parable which I found in Percival Yetts' article on The Eight Immortals;
The Favourite
is a well-known story quoted by Hinsch that you can read at Fordham University's website along with others;
The Dutiful Son
is a fable on filial piety that I first noticed in the Haw-Par Villa;
What the Eyes Don't See
is from
The Book of Mencius
written by Ke Meng during the Warring States period (around 300 BCE);
Ghost For Sale
and
The Rabbit's Sacrifice
both come from the book
Mooncakes and Hungry Ghosts
:
Festivals of China
;
The Missing Piece
is a traditional folk legend from the island of Bintan that tries to make sense of the historical event of the assassination of Sultan Mahmud Shah II in 1699 CE.

The Question
is actually part of the Buddhist canon, the Tipitaka – which was allegedly brought to China by Xuán Zàng as described in the first chapter – so I have kept it closer to the original than everything else. It appears in the
Kevatta Sutta
and the version I have read has been translated from Pali by Thanissaro Bhikkhu. Unlike my rendition, the question
does
get answered in the Buddhist text, and you are all urged to go to the website in the references and read it.

Every Singaporean will recognise the tale of the swordfish plague which appears in the
Malay Annals
(as translated by Raffles' friend Dr John Leyden) but I should make clear that in the
Annals
it was the Sultan's advisors who prompted him to assassinate the boy. But, hey, was anyone present during the discussions? And he did give the order, didn't he?

Finally, I admit that I have cheated and I have added three Japanese Zen stories, but I have justified it to myself by the fact that they are timeless, they are Buddhist and, well, if a Japanese team can play in Singapore's football league (it does) then I can put some of their tales in my book. They are
The Wise Old Man
and
Dreamland
from that wonderful volume
Zen Flesh, Zen Bones
and the other is, of course, Shushan's
koan
about the head of the dead cat in
On Inns and Valuables
.

Unless explicitly shown otherwise, all prices given are in Singapore dollars whose exchange rate is about three to the British pound at the time of writing.