Singapore Noir

Thinking back on it, it was probably her finest performance. The naïve waif, the convenient pawn of a savvy and callous mobster, the fairy gulled by a troll. A tale whose eternality could still resonate within the heart of the most hardened investigator.

Never mind a foolhardy young lawyer.

Tonight was the last time I would ever see her.

I thought that ratting out the Comrade would clear my path to her, but instead, my professional excuse for being with her had expired along with him. In fact, having to clear up the mess he’d left behind and the firm’s possible abetment in his affairs necessitated my staying behind while she departed for the next stop on her tour. The CAD wouldn’t let me leave with her even if I’d wanted to.

But I did.

But I also wanted to hear her say she’d like me to.

But she remained silent as we stood side by side, gazing at the computerized sculpture at Changi Airport.

I meant well, I said eventually.

“I know,” she replied, her eyes hidden from me behind a large pair of sunglasses.

He was using you.

She said nothing, only turning to touch me on the cheek one final time.

And then she was gone, hustled off by her minders through to immigration and beyond.

Behind me, the sculpture’s 1,216 silver raindrops flowed, languidly taking the shape of airplanes, kites, a flock of birds, a rondeau in mercury.

But all I could see were tears.

I wished I’d made the time last longer, especially since everything was now speeding by me in a blur.

But with the velocity came clarity.

Mr. Chong had entered my office brandishing a bottle. “It’s been a rough few weeks,” he said, closing the door, which should have struck me as odd, since we were the only two people working late.

“I thought you were from NUS Law?” he said, tipping his chin toward the photo of me in my wig and gown as he handed me a glass.

After the burn of the first sip had subsided, I repeated the same story I’d told her. I also pointed out the frame’s Made in China label.

“They make everything now,” he sighed as he poured me a refill. “Have you heard from her at all?”

I shook my head. He perched himself on the edge of my desk and told me he appreciated all my hard work. Then he raised a toast.

This time, I felt its sting between my eyes.

“I thought all that time in China would have trained you better!” he laughed.

I tried to give a thumbs-up, but felt a gurgle rise from my stomach to my throat. I lurched for the wastepaper basket, and emptied my guts into it.

Mr. Chong patted me on the back as I heaved. “Some fresh air will do you good.” He opened a window, then led me toward it.

The warm night air blew in from across the marina. I could see the casino lights winking at me. For some reason, I felt compelled to ask aloud: What’s Stonehenge in Chinese?

Mr. Chong gave me a puzzled look. Then he pushed my head further out the window. “Breathe deeper.”

I closed my eyes and inhaled. There was an acrid mix of oil and something fermented in my nostrils. I could also feel Mr. Chong place one hand on my back, and another on my leg.

And then heave me up and push me out into the empty air.

As the wind rushed through me, my head began to clear. Narratives coalesced, and my fall became a journey of wonder.

I wondered what Mr. Chong would be doing now. Would he be placing the vodka bottle strategically on my desk? Perhaps nestled amongst some incriminating documents? Would he be telling the cops he had no idea that all this time I was in China, I was doing all this other secret stuff for the Comrade? Would he have drafted a suicide note saying I’d jumped for fear of the disgrace that would come with prosecution and disbarment? Or because of a broken heart?

Of course, I also began to wonder about the Comrade’s accidental end. And whether she’d been his pawn, or he’d been hers. And who Mr. Chong’s true client was.

I wondered what made me fall for her in the first place. I wondered about the cliché of the Singaporean beguiled by the China girl. I wondered if the fascination stemmed from blood, some dimly remembered or imagined bond. I wondered what my parents would think of their dutiful Chinese son who could never be Chinese enough.

I wondered if it really mattered in the end.

I wondered if I’d really mattered in the end.

I fought to keep my eyes open in those final moments, to catch the glass and steel, the glittering lights, the dolmen in the distance, the history and future, all whirring by like the reels on a slot machine.

One last time.

Detective in a City With No Crime

by Simon Tay writing as Donald Tee Quee Ho

Tanglin

1. Doisneau Noir