Free Maid In Singapore by Kishore Modak Page A

words; I took her mobile number
but did not give her mine, hanging up politely before moving away
from the payphone back to the flat for some more traffic gazing by my
window.
    On Sunday, I waited for
her at the café near St Paul’s. When she arrived, we
moved away, towards the neighbourhood park. We spoke as we walked.
    She already knew about
David. ‘I was sorry to hear about sir. My friends told me, and
I did not think it was appropriate for me to call,’ she said. A
sound judgment, I thought, by any measure, at least as regards where
time stood then. Now, it seemed okay, her feelings and best wishes.
    She did not ask about
Jay, I mean how could she enquire of a child’s well-being, one
on whom she had committed crimes of underage sex, pleasurable no
doubt, but crimes all the same.
    It was an awkward
rambling, pointless as we strolled; I searched but found no cues to
cut in and start my interrogation, seeking answers that could finally
put my curiosity at bay.
    We sat on a bench,
eating our sandwiches, sipping water from our bottles. A group of
boys were playing cricket on the lawn in front of us, completely
immersed in their game, as if life depended on its outcome.
    ‘Mum, is there
anything that you wanted to see me for?’ she finally asked me.
    ‘Not really,
Mary, so many things have changed, I just wanted to say hell o ,’
I lied, getting caught in my lies.
    ‘But, mum, you
said you wanted to give me something, something that was mine,’
she looked at me.
    ‘Oh yes, I
completely forgot. Here you go,’ I fished out the bag of nails
and hair from my pocket and gave it to her. The nails had curled and
browned with years, only the acrylic enamel was more or less
unchanged, being plastic.
    Her expression fell.
Hate and anger, that is what I wanted to return, and I had delivered
it. She took the bag, knowing well that whatever had happened to
David was not the result of the voodoo that she may have planned upon
him.
    Nails and hair, aren’t
they the dead expendable parts of our body? The rest we cherish,
unlike nails and hair, which we expend on fashion.
    ‘Mum, I am really
sorry for any pain that I may have caused to you, but Jesus knows I
am also not guilty. I should have trusted you more and come to you
earlier, but I couldn’t, and it all just happened,’ she
kept the bag of death away in her handbag, offering me the avenue of
questioning that I had prepared for all week.
    ‘If you could go
back to that year in Singapore, would you still do what you did, or
would you choose another path?’ I simply asked.
    ‘I would do as I
have done, because it has left me with what I cherish the most in
this world, it has made my life worth living,’ she spoke
firmly, not defiantly.
    I sank, right there by
at least an inch into the bench.
    ‘And what is
that?’ I asked, my voice falling, knowing well what women
cherish the most in their lives.
    ‘My son, Rafael,’
she spoke softly, opening her tacky bag, pulling out an envelope and
handing it to me.
    In the envelope was
Rafael, on a four by six inch colour print, bare except for the
shorts, well illuminated, revealing his Caucasian descent. He was our
likeness, the Kettlewood likeness, no question about it.
    In the background of
the photograph was the sea with some birds in the distance. The boy
had a happy smile on his face, and his body was firm with the onset
of youth.
    My stomach turned as
the answers came rushing from the colour print, catching me
unprepared, like a blow on a distracted fighter.
    As regards multiple
sexual partners, the Bongla boys are smarter than the Kettlewood men;
they know how to conduct themselves without getting into a jam.
    ‘He is a good
boy, mum; if I can, I want to send him to study at the Manila
University,’ she took the photograph back from my hand, looking
at it dotingly.
    ‘What about your
husband?’ I asked.
    ‘He left me soon
after Rafael was born,’ she answered, unremorsefully. ‘I
survived thanks to the money