Singapore Noir

Culturally, though, I had more in common with the American attorneys seated across from me at the conference table. Over dinner, we merrily shot the breeze over Seinfeld, Star Wars, and the byzantine narratives of the X-Men while the Comrade and his comrades downed their Château Lafite-Rothschild with Sprite.

But when she walked into the private dining room, I felt a ripple inside me, as if my ancestors had cast a plumb line into the well of my soul.

I’d heard the rumors about her and the Comrade, mostly from my secretary, who follows these things. But I never got the fuss, since I didn’t know who she was. I loathe Mandopop, which I find either derivative or treacly or both, and a starlet canoodling with a businessman with party connections just wasn’t news.

But seeing the Comrade drape his nicotine-stained fingers over her knee, a spider crouched atop a magnolia blossom, I was surprised to feel something akin to anger. I was just as surprised to find myself afterward at a music store in the Gulou district buying her entire back catalog.

Initially, I’d chalked it up to being starstruck, but the crush’s load never ebbed. For some unfathomable reason, she attended almost every meeting I had with the Comrade. In fact, she asked almost all the questions while he mostly nodded as he puffed on one Double Happiness cigarette after another.

You should perform in Singapore, I said to her the first time we were alone together. Providentially, the Comrade had dashed out of the room, clutching his guts and cursing last night’s lamb hotpot. She smiled and said she’d been planning a few dates, probably at one of the casinos. I told her that I’d like to take her to some of Singapore’s best eating spots, but was afraid she’d be mobbed.

“Are Singaporeans like that?” She looked at me quizzically. “I thought you were all very restrained and law-abiding.”

It depends on the subject, I replied. We’ve famously come to blows over Hello Kitty giveaways at McDonald’s. And you sing much better than Hello Kitty, I grinned, since you have a mouth.

She laughed at this and said, “You must protect me, then.” I willed myself not to blush.

Your first time in Singapore and even more people turned up to greet you than for Prince William and Kate Middleton, I felt proud to tell her.

“You mean you’d expect more Singaporeans would turn up for their former colonial masters?” She interlaced her fingers and stretched out her arms.

The bellboy patted her luggage and bowed. He didn’t even look at me as he accepted my tip. His gaze was fixed firmly on her as she leaned against the glass window of her hotel suite, the evening sun glinting off her jewelry, transforming her into a literal star.

Mainland Chinese aren’t exactly Singaporeans’ favorite immigrants at the moment, I explained as I shut the door. They feel the working class are taking away the low-end jobs while the upper class are driving up prices. (I recalled the scene earlier that day of the Comrade in the conference room at my firm, signing purchase after purchase of property and stock, pausing every so often to spew a gob of phlegm into the wastepaper basket, and wondered into which class I would place him.)

But you’re different, I added quickly. You have real talent. Most Singaporeans would consider it an honor if you became a citizen.

“Most?” she laughed, looking right into me. As she moved away from the window, she reached back to unclasp her diamond necklace. “A gift from the Comrade,” she said. As was almost everything else she was wearing.

He must be very grateful to have you, I said.

“More grateful that I’ve denied our relationship to the press, the Party, everyone.” She sat down at the dresser and laid the necklace in a velvet-lined metal box. “But most especially his wife.” She let out a small girlish giggle.

You could have anyone, I blurted. What do you see in him?

Instantly, I wished I could have withdrawn my question. I’m sorry, I stammered. I had no right to ask.

She removed her watch, the gems encrusting its face sparkling at me, and placed it in the box along with the other baubles. “He needs me,” she said. “And I need him.”

I nodded, kicking myself. How could I think our encounters over the past year — on trips to attend to her lover, at that — had somehow earned me any degree of intimacy? I wondered if she would tell the Comrade. I could lose my job.

You should rest before your interview tomorrow, I said, backing toward the door. I’ll be here at eight to take you to the TV station.

“Before you go,” she said, “please help me put this in the safe.” She held out the box of jewelry.

I moved toward her to take it, and she grabbed my wrist.

“Are you disappointed?” she asked.

I have no right, I replied, blood roaring in my ears.