Free Soy Sauce for Beginners by Kirstin Chen Page B

heard the news. “Congratulations!” I said, straining to imagine how it would feel to inhabit a body that was no longer solely mine. Out of nowhere the weight of Paul’s accusatory stare bore down upon me. You don’t have that much time.
    I assured my friends that I was doing well and happy to be home, and they tactfully refrained from questioning me further. When Ming appeared with a tray, I gratefully accepted another drink. After that the conversation turned to the group’s annual Bali trip, the wedding they’d attended the month before, the bar in Robertson Quay opened by a mutual friend. At first I listened intently, trying to visualize the people and places they mentioned. But soon I gave up. I gulped down the rest of my champagne. Perhaps it was time to collect Frankie and go home.
    The pianist and his off-key chorus reached the end of their song. When the group had dispersed, the pianist started up again, this time with the opening broken chords of an aria from Phantom of the Opera .
    Two bars in, a high, clear voice floated in the air, silencing the room.
    “Think of me, think of me fondly, when we’ve said goooood-bye.” There was Frankie, perched on the piano bench. Face serene, eyelids at half-mast, she sang the words from memory in that silvery soprano I remembered so well.
    Glasses froze in midair; canapés congealed on plates; punch lines went unsaid. Terrence put his arm around Cindy and stroked her belly with his free hand. For once Kat looked genuinely impressed, and she caught my eye and mouthed the words, “Oh my God.”
    The old Frankie would have never gotten up before a room full of strangers, no matter how tipsy she was. The new Frankie acted like it was no big deal. There was an insouciance to her performance, a hint of a shrug—as if she understood she had an obligation to share her gift. Indeed, her voice had acquired a new suppleness, a sparkling coquetry enhanced by flashing eyes that were all the more prominent in her narrow face. My thoughts drifted to the legendary opera singer Maria Callas, whose dramatic weight loss was said to have caused the decline of her voice. What kind of desperation drove someone to swallow a tapeworm?
    When Frankie reached the end of the song, her final note hung suspended in the air. The entire room erupted. Someone cried for an encore. Others called out requests.
    Frankie ducked her head, brushed off the compliments and disappeared into the kitchen.
    “Your friend is so lovely,” said Cindy.
    “So talented,” said Terrence.
    “So pretty,” said Lakshmi.
    All around me, everyone was talking about the beautiful ang mo girl with the enchanting voice.
    Truthfully, I was proud to have Frankie by my side. Her performance had finally made me understand her affection for my homeland. Here, in Singapore, she was novel, exotic, something of a curiosity. But instead of increasing Frankie’s self-consciousness, the attention was liberating. Forced to engage and entertain, she could try on different personas; she could be confident, gregarious, relaxed—all the things she wasn’t back in America.
    After a while, the pianist and the two identically dressed girls who had brought the balloons came around to rally the remaining guests to go out dancing.
    “I have my car,” slurred one of the girls as she leaned on her twin to hold herself up.
    I went to find Frankie.
    From beyond the kitchen door, I heard her exuberant, honking laugh. “There she is, the star of the moment,” I said, pushing open the door.
    She was sitting on the counter, her long legs dangling against a cabinet. “Hi, Gretch,” she called out.
    “Hey, hi,” said James.
    My gaze moved from one beaming face to another. I wondered how long they’d been hanging out here, alone. The pianist barged in to inform us that everyone was going to Zouk, and we had to come, too; the cabs were on their way.
    “What’s Zouk?” Frankie asked.
    “What’s Zouk?” the pianist repeated in exaggerated