Hungry in Guangzhou

Guangzhou has intimidated me from the moment I arrived. I feel out of place buying a common lunch of soupy noodles although the food and restaurant setting are familiar. Cantopop alternating with Mandarin chart-toppers on the radio cuts through the hustle bustle sounds. A press of hungry office workers crowds the counter. The people wend their way between plastic chairs and tables. The smell, the heat, the bodies, the noise and the oily floor don't faze me. I'm smooth, I'm cool, I tell myself.

The clatter echoes around the tiled walls. I make my approach and say, "May I order, please?" The man looks at me in disdain and answers in Cantonese. He's asking me impatiently to tell him the type of noodle I want and what I want with them. I can understand that much. Boiling soup in a stainless steel cauldron hisses and gurgles, laughing at my discomfort.

The choices are laid out on the counter. I recognise liver, minced pork, meat balls, intestines, tripe and two types of vegetable, green and white. The glass case holding the noodles has a menu of Chinese characters reminding me of my illiteracy. I point at the balled-up yellow noodles. Those. I swing my finger around the assortment of meats. Everything. I point at the liver and waggle my index finger. "Everything but that," I say.

He shrugs and gives me the sideways glance I am so used to by now in this crowded city. A look I am convinced says, I have no time for the likes of you. Maybe it is just my imagination. Look, I want to say, I understand you and I hate liver but the words in Cantonese stay silent on my cowardly tongue. Perhaps it is just my insecurity in this place chock-a-block full of Chinese people who look like me. They speak Cantonese and rapid fire Mandarin. I just can't keep up.

I look for a place to sit. I smile at the pretty woman sitting across me who holds a straw in her tall glass of coffee. When the steam from my bowl fogs up my glasses, she disappears and I can't tell if she smiled back. I push my glasses up on my forehead and I can see the liver slices in there, slightly pinkish with little holes. I slide the bamboo chopsticks out of the paper envelope and snap them apart smartly. See, I know how to do this. I flex my fingers and the chopsticks meet at the tip without crossing. Watch me, I can use my chopsticks with grace. I fish out a slice of liver, dip it in soy sauce and put it into my mouth. Look, I'm not afraid of half-cooked liver. I gag a little. The texture is awful, like rotten meat and I hate it. I try to swallow without grimacing. Hello, I am Chinese like you. Hello, look at me, but the noodle seller ignores me and laughs with another customer. The pretty woman looks away pointedly.

Here, where my surname was sown, I am an impostor. Why doesn't my blood quicken in recognition of my ancestral homeland? I slurp the soup. It's good and I wonder about MSG.

On the three-hour flight back to Kuala Lumpur, I work some more, crunching numbers on the laptop. I'm dead tired but I've earned my right to feel good about a very successful working trip. It is night when I touchdown and I'm dying for a hot drink. I find an all-nighter, an Indian Muslim restaurant, and I pile a plate full of rice, tandoori chicken and pappadoms. How much, I ask the dark-skinned man standing at the end of the steel buffet counter. Six-fifty, he says. Drink, he asks?

Cham peng, I say. Two little Chinese words and the man who does not look like me knows exactly what I want. He brings me an iced drink that is milk tea mixed with coffee. I laugh with relief, knowing that here I am home.

My blood doesn't quicken here either. Perhaps it's the MSG in the tandoori.

The Coroner's Omission

The Coroner's Omission by Anna Couzet.

It is all he could do. The coroner was drunk.

The picture looked black and white, if it were not for the trickle of clotted and almost dried blood around the toe. A dangling foot from a gurney, delicate, lean and young. Dead, though. A little bit of a leg follows, not much muscle, bony, rigid. It might be a female, no hair so far, or it could be a young boy barely out of childhood. I found this picture on my way out from the hospital. It might have slipped from a medical file. There was no name attached, only a number. The white square tiles on the floor and walls as a background, make this image strong and appealing. Almost a Michelangelo Pieta. The diaphanous shine of the skin, once flushed with pulsating and throbbing life, seems to have taken on the purity and smoothness of a Carrara polished marble. Now, its rests, incognito in the hands of death, once putrid, eaten away, will be forgotten implacably.

I approach a nurse passing by. She is in a hurry; the Christmas party at the doctors' quarters is in full swing. She cannot be bothered. And with a few polite words, she tells me to redirect my enquiry at the desk in charge of guarding the house while everybody is merry. As she pushes a door a few steps away, a maelstrom of sounds, voices, laughs and carols comes rushing into the empty corridor. I am left with the anonymous picture, an unidentified corpse, a body vacant of its soul in my hands. On the spur of the moment, tired of having gone through another chemo, I am almost ready to leave this picture where I had found it: on the bare, cold, sanitized and spotless floor of this hospital. It is Christmas, or soon it will be. I have lost touch with the celebrations of life. Too much pain lately, with this crab eating away at me. Thoughts of happier times come flooding into my mind as if life's resiliency wanted to intrude into this gloomy moment. I sigh. It is not over yet. Not for me. I push back a few tears, hold the picture still in front of me, and silently make a promise: I will bring you back to where you belong. Life is not finished with you too.

The front desk of that section of the hospital is hidden behind a huge board holding seasons greeting cards. A blinking cord of tiny bulbs snakes its way around words of praise and good will. I hear muffled sounds coming from behind. A young nurse and what seems to be an intern are looking through a hardcore magazine. Nudes, fleshy body parts, suggestive positions, butts, oversized breasts, hairy cunts, enlarged penises, makes me shriek at the sole view of this outrageous display. Life is for the living. And I am in between. They gather themselves at once.

'May I help you,' the young, embarrassed nurse says. I gather the little strength I have left, and bring forward the picture. 'I found this in the corridor on my way out the chemo ward.' She does not seem to be much concerned at first; I guess she has not recovered yet from that shameful moment. Indeed, I look aghast, lost, demeaned, drained, exhausted. Too many emotions have shaken this broken body. The male intern grabs the picture from my hand as if he wanted to take away from me a big burden. He hopes I will show some improving signs. I am not in the pink of health, for sure. My face is the colour of ashes. 'Where did you find this?' he enquires as if he had not heard when I spoke to the nurse. I guess he too needs to adjust. 'On the floor,' I reply dryly. 'Ah, I see ... Poor boy, another one, another victim of a drug overdose. I am sorry if this has caused you any trouble. I may have lost this picture while bringing the file to my boss.' He seems to be sincerely concerned. I dare to ask for more: 'What happened? Do you know the boy? Where is he now?' He comes out from behind the desk and takes me gently by the elbow. 'Let's have a seat over there. Shall we?' I let him guide me as if I were without will, unable to choose any direction. I take some time before picking up a seat, split between the black and dark blue chairs. He does not hesitate. Black, blue or any other colour is not a priority to him. Unlike me, anguish has not planted its claws into his brain. 'Well, we are waiting for the next of kin to claim his body. I took this picture while my boss, the coroner was trying to assess the cause of death. We get those overdosed bodies on a regular basis. I am still not comfortable around them. Something is not right. To die so young, this way, while we try incessantly to save lives hanging by a thread.' 'Yes' I say, 'I understand.'

I feel empty as if life had decided to take a stroll while I try to make up my mind about this strange and awkward situation. We are in a hospital, I remind myself. It is time for you to go home. I am not in a hurry to go home. There is no one waiting for me. I look into the intern eyes whom by now has reconciled himself to the fact that life has its own ways. In a flash, without knowing why, I grab the picture from his hand. 'Can I keep it?' I almost beg him. He looks puzzled. 'Uh ... why? Is there anything else that I can help you with?' He gets up, disappears for a while and brings me back a paper cup full of water. I take a few sips, and I slowly get up. 'Let me assist you to your car,' he offers. 'Yes, please.' We walk silently, side by side. There is not much to say. The pain is mine to bear.

I notice, on the way to the taxi stand, signs of hope, shreds of despair, torn faces in pain, shattered hope, shrieks of a child holding a colourful batch of balloons, a mother smile.

As a taxi alights by the entrance, I seize the intern's hand. 'Thank you,' I say 'for the picture. This is my Pieta.'

Tales from the Court

Tales from the Court by Matthew Thomas.

"Banguuun," ordered the turbaned policeman. This signaled the entrance of Tuan Hakim Mohammed Ibdin bin Din, the resident Second Class Magistrate of Palong Likit, the local arbitrator of issues and dispenser of justice.

Tuan Hakim Mohammed Ibdin bin Din was a short, stout man with a beer belly although he protested that this was not due to any intemperate habits but to imbalances in his genes. He focused at the floor as he entered. The occupants of the court all arose in unison and bowed to Tuan Hakim who in turn returned the bow and sat himself. The crowd, then, followed suit.

Rukumani Devi, the court interpreter cum court clerk, cum file caller, cum amicus curiae of the court, cum confidant of the magistrate, cum Amway agent rose, a tinge of white ash smeared on her forehead and in a crisp yellow sari, looking important. She reeled out the civil and criminal action numbers with accompanying names of legal firms so fast that I missed mine.

She then called a second time around, this time angrily, "How many times must call-lah?"

Rukumani Devi conducted herself as would a maestro conducting an orchestra. Everything was at her fingertips, an upturned palm if she wanted counsel to stand and a down-turned palm for counsel to sit. The Magistrate, the lawyers and litigants paid her great heed.

The court house in Likit, next to a secondary forest, was a wooden structure that was once a barn, now converted into a place of justice. It had large doors in front and at all sides. As the court was not air-conditioned, electric fans dangling at the end of long poles, swirled endlessly purportedly to cool the hot air.

In the early morning of 14th January 1972 before the court became busy, there was a commotion in the courthouse. Rukumani Devi had marched into the courthouse as it was her daily routine with the day's court files under her arm, when to her shock and bewilderment, she saw seated on Tuan Hakim's chair, a monkey. It was a silver-tailed variety which Rukumani Devi recognized as a male as it had its legs raised and spread on Tuan Hakim's table. It had an altogether nonchalant look about it.

"Aiyoo, kurangu," exclaimed Rukumani Devi with a scream startled by this unexpected intrusion. Her scream did not deter the monkey as it continued to sit imperiously as though it was truly its judicially-santioned position to be there. Lawyers, litigants and witnesses rushed into the courthouse. All were taken aback by what they saw. Rukumani Devi loudly shooed the intruder. The threat only made it bare its teeth exposing pink gums. Rukumani Devi now kicked loose one of her slippers from her feet, hurled it at the monkey whose eyes trailed the flight of the footwear whilst scratching itself vigorously.

"Tuan Hakim would be here at any moment. This monkey is not moving from the chair. Andava, what am I to do?" said Rukumani Devi, this protector of the courts.

She banged on chairs, tables and cupboards and shooed, but to no avail. Her vilest tricks were doomed to failure. The recalcitrant intruder, there in a princely pose, a pillar of stone, sat oblivious to her protestations. Now Rukumani Devi realized the reputation of the court was at stake. If she did not act quickly this sanctuary of hope, this cradle of justice where even the hardest criminal is subdued not by the fist or sword but by the word, will become a mockery -- a laughing stock, subject to idle talk at the common marketplace.

At this very moment as though by divine intervention, the reverberation of gunfire was heard from the nearby plantation. The monkey, apparently accustomed to this sound and realizing that eternal vigilance was the key to survival, leaped into the air and in a moment of wanton fury vanished amongst the rafters of the building. Tuan Hakim Mohammed Ibdin bin Din opened the door of his chambers that led to his chair, quite oblivious to the happenings.

Abdullah Iskander stood charged in this court under Section 36(i) of the Road Traffic Ordinance for causing injury to another whilst driving his motor vehicle in a careless manner. I was in court representing him. As this was one of my earliest trials, I had sworn that I would not leave a single stone unturned till victory was sealed. The first witness called was the investigating officer, Inspector Azizuddin who took his stand in the witness box with a wide ricocheting salute. Before the Prosecuting Officer, Mr Maniam, could proceed with the examination of the chief witness, Tuan Hakim raised his hand and stopped the proceedings. He was writing something. This went on for a while in the absolute hush of the court. It was then that I saw from the corner of my eye the tail of the monkey from the rafters. It moved independently as though a precursor for the mechanical pendulum which in later time would tell the time.

"Right, proceed," Tuan Hakim ordered, putting his pen down.

The proceedings were rather acrimonious protestations on the irrelevancy of questions, arguments, objections yet more objections. All this while Tuan Hakim Mohammed Ibidin bin Din sat placidly with a judicious air taking down notes. He did not interfere, did not say anything, did not ask for clarification nor did he look at the witness to judge the demeanour, but just wrote. At times, when it became imperative that he intervened, he gave a judicial nod.

I noticed that Rukumani Devi was irritated by my, perhaps, all too numerous questions. I plunged ahead as a true soldier refusing to retreat under enemy fire. When it came to my turn to cross-examine, I was ruthless or at least, I thought I was. She wrote on a piece of paper and quietly passed the note to me.

It read, "Don't waste anymore time, finish case quickly. Fine for the offence is RM 150. It is going to rain soon."

I looked at her. She smiled unengagingly. "What cheek!" I thought. I plodded on. It came to a point in the cross examination where the witness was insisting the point of impact was 'X' marked in the police sketch plan and key. My onslaught did not dissuade nor threaten him. In order to buy time I insisted that a site visit would explain matters clearly. An application was immediately made by me. The prosecutor objected. Rukumani Devi hit her head with her palm in utter frustration.

Tuan Hakim stopped writing. He knocked on the far front end of the table. Rukumani Devi stood up and looked at him.

"We shall visit the site." Saying this he stood up.

"Banguuun," called the turbaned policeman. The court stood adjourned.

Rukumani Devi, now truly agitated, confronted me.

"You are from Kuala Lumpur. Look at the dark clouds. It is going to rain soon. What are you trying to prove? The judgment will be a fine of one hundred and fifty ringgit," she emphatically and decisively repeated.

"Let's see," I said, thinking 'you are not the judge'.

In a moment Tuan Hakim sent for me. I approached his chambers, pushing open the door. He, unlike Rukumani Devi, gave an engaging smile and invited me to be seated.

"Maybe I can ask Ruku to get us tea from the canteen," he stated.

"No, Tuan," I said, "but thanks, anyway."

"You are right. This tea is not tea but hot water and condensed milk, not good if got kencing manis," he volunteered this medical information, with a chuckle.

Having ensured I was reasonably comfortable, he asked, "Are you from Kuala Lumpur? You know any tile shop? Floor tiles type, organic-lah."

"I do, Tuan," I replied, as if I was an expert in this field as well. Anyway it was always safe to be in the good books of the magistrate, even more so if he was hearing your case.

"I need lebih kurang 200 tiles-lah," he continued, "for my kitchen floor. You know, my wife-lah, she insists must change." He talked and talked. "But I will pay for it, no favours here," he abruptly stated.

"I never thought otherwise," I lied.

"Honour and principles, we must uphold," he affirmed with the demeanour of a judge.

"We must," I concurred, not knowing where all this was leading to.

In the midst of our conversation, I heard the clap of thunder and suddenly it was pouring with rain.

"Maybe you can ask the salesman to send the tiles to my address," he continued. He immediately wrote me an address. "Say, within two weeks. Any earth colour will do-lah, preferably beige," he concluded.

As we sat chatting in the magistrate's chambers, yet another commotion was heard in the courthouse. Tuan Hakim got up. I stood up as well.

He whispered, "Keep this to yourself. Don't tell Ruku. She might misinterpret although she's an interpreter." He chuckled at the pun.

"Sure," I assured him.

There was a respectful knock on Tuan Hakim's door and in ran Rukumani Devi.

"Tuan, the monkey is in your chair again. What to do?"

Tuan Hakim dashed out of his chambers with Rukumani Devi and me hot on his heels. There, in judicial splendour was the monkey seated in Tuan Hakim's chair. Tuan Hakim pondered. Rukumani Devi glared. I feigned surprise. The monkey scratched itself. At that moment lightning struck and a roll of thunder reverberated. As a rush of wind filled the courthouse, a mother hen with her chicks scuttled into it seeking shelter from the rain. Another flash of lightning followed and a sharp snap echoed through the court house. The lights went out. The dangling fans heaved and ceased their circular motion. In all this confusion the monkey looked, scratched itself but never moved from its acquired position.

Rukumani Devi was on the verge of losing her temper with me. I read her mind. I was the cause of all her troubles. She looked lost, like a sleepwalker who had abdicated her sense of direction. The day's happenings were all too much for this 'high priestess' of the court.

"You see, Tuan," she addressed Tuan Hakim, "The case cannot proceed because of the monkey. We cannot visit the site as it is pouring."

She mumbled to herself, "Some people don't know when to stop," an obvious reference to me.

Tuan Hakim just smiled. "Sabar, Ruku," he whispered. "This monkey is not going to obstruct the wheels of justice," he stated authoritatively.

"Jaswant," he called to the policeman, "I am sure you can do something to get the monkey out."

"I try, Tuan," replied Jaswant and he left the court house with a bow.

"Meanwhile we continue the case from here," saying this Tuan Hakim pulled out Rukumani Devi's chair and sat down. The case continued. Rukumani Devi vacated her chair and now placed herself on a stool at the far end of the table. She refused to look at me but kept on smiling as though stating a fact, that is, I was wasting my time.

The case toiled on, amidst the lightning, thunder and rain, witnessed by the monkey, quite nonchalantly. Jaswant, bowed as he re-entered the court. He carried a worn out hockey stick, which he hid behind his back. Tuan Hakim silently stopped the proceedings once again as we waited for the other drama, placed a little above us, to unfold. Jaswant inched his way to the podium. He reminded me of a leopard that stalks its victim among the long grass of the Savanna, ever so light-footedly before it made the final leap. Surprise was the key to a successful hunt. It was everything. The monkey was so engrossed in the happenings before it that it momentarily let down its guard as Mr Singh made his approach from the rear. He lifted his hockey stick. It was like watching a flick in slow motion -- a frozen tableau from a silent film. Having achieved sufficient height, he brought the stick down forcefully and decisively at the monkey. At that very micro-moment the monkey turned. The years of unabated vigilance had paid off. It leaped into the air as the hockey stick came crashing down on Tuan Hakim's chair, causing untold damage. In the melee the long silver-tailed monkey let out a sharp shriek and disappeared once more among the rafters. It survived.

The rain continued. It was getting dark. The mother hen and its chicks zigzagged to another corner of the courthouse, protecting its chicks under its plumage. Jaswant examined Tuan Hakim's chair, then his hockey stick. He shook his head. Both could not serve their purpose any longer. Tuan Hakim realized that he would look ridiculous climbing the podium to conduct the trial where his legal abode lay in ruins.

"We proceed with the case," Tuan Hakim declared.

So we continued with the trial from where he was presently seated. Rukumani Devi was reading a magazine. Obviously she had given up, especially on me.

At one stage she turned and within my earshot spoke to one of the court clerks seated nearby, "This court has turned into a circus, we have monkeys, strongmen and clowns," an indirect reference to me.

At last the case was concluded. Submissions were made by both parties. All the while Tuan Hakim copiously took down notes. Suddenly the lights came on and the ceiling fans whined and moved. Tuan Hakim thanked us. He then adjusted his glasses and deliberated over the verdict.

"I have heard the witnesses' testimony, I have also seen the sketch plan and key, and have delved into all the possibilities as advanced by counsel and the prosecution," he said, adjusting his glasses and continued, "and having deliberated in depth, I now come to the judgment."

I looked at Rukumani Devi. She was simulating a 1-5-0 with her mouth.

"The defendant is guilty as charged under Section 36(i) of the Road Traffic Ordinance and hereby fined one hundred and fifty ringgit."

"There, what did I tell you?" Rukumani Devi muttered raising both her hands.

Tuan Hakim solemnly thanked both the prosecutor and me for the excellent presentation and got up stating, "Court adjourned."

As I was driving home on that wet evening, I told myself that I should not be too disappointed, for who can say, "There is no justice in the courts." To the injured man the offence has not gone unpunished. My client had to pay a fine of only RM 150, and I will be duly paid by my client. Tuan Hakim acquitted his responsibility in the temple of justice with my assurance that his floor tiles would arrive. Rukumani Devi has yet once again proved a point that she was right, and the monkey ...? Who knows what ran through that monkey's mind .


Postscript: the monkey was never seen in the court precinct ever again.

Steps

by Ari Methi

Sham's arms and hands twirl high over his head, darting flirtatious eyes at us. "I dreaming Egyptian belly dancers lah. Why you kacau me?" He is teasing. He knows our salary, like his, falls far short for such luxury trips.

"Wake up!" Din had shouted at Sham earlier, with a point, a light elbow jab to his ribs.

"Oi!" in a heartbeat space Sham had straightened his jacket, wiped the corners of his lips, missing a spot (I don't tell him, leaving the caked spittle on his beard fodder for a good laugh later, he's good for that, always) and began his dance.

Sham -- quite the squirrel -- proceeds to advertise he has managed another publisher 'sponsored' Egypt holiday this year. His 'creativity', condoned by our superior, is promoted by their silence. It is easy to see why as Sham paves annual 'study trip' for them. I hope not to hear where our betters are going again.

Hawaii. Sham declares, promptly describing grass skirted girls with ample chest, bare thigh and the 'entertainment' they provide with gusto. Sham has stooped teasing, he's seducing now.

Din succumb, listens rapt to Sham's return to tales of nubile young girls with smooth supple skin in shimmering skirts 'of light olive tones and western features whose hips move, sway and thrust better than dangdut superstars, better than Bollywood stars even'. I see Egypt in Din's eyes, now saucers that bare his desires.

We three late thirties men, under the pall of yellowed florescent light, look nearer to fifty. Confined to a room whose white partition has turned dusky with age, furnished in dog-eared furniture and devoid of any sense of time or place by want of any window are tasked with sanctioning next years school 'workbooks'. My voice sounds closer to sixty as I hear it.

"Our meetings have to restart. Breaks over. Need to get back to work lah." I chuckle to diffuse my interruption. "If we wanted to work, we wouldn't be here lah," Sham and Din chorus the unwritten motto. I add my laughter to their's with just enough zest, lest they think I take my job seriously. I am still laughing falsely when the next publisher knocks on the door.

Our drudge through the river of publishers resumes. Each drone their products as vital- that students need them. The same spiel rerun in infinite ways, buy my books. Listening to them I feel my brain shrivel to a prune -- the seedless type. They needn't try so hard.

All their titles will be bought, by us or someone we tell to. The directive on my orientation years ago was clear, support the printing industry. Children learn what they want anyway, my then superior preached. "Publishers are flies" she had added between giggles, "that infest our halls every year after budget day." What that makes us, I wonder? If they are flies ...?

I tune from that memory, to visit my fantasy refuge. Where tranquil beneath cloudless deep azure skies, I am sheltered by swaying palm trees, worries are drained away through toes sinking in soft giving sand, leaving me solace to savour sensual sea breezes whispering pass my skin. This is my Hawaii, Din and Sham can keep their grass skirted girls.

Then Serenity steps into the room and introduce herself into my life.

Her model silhouette, ebony silk hair and soft eyes framed by a face touched by half the lines women a decade younger barely begin her. "Call me Serene." slender wrist, soft palm, she offers a hand untouched by manual labour. She holds my hand longer than she does the others.

Serene's presentation declares she comprehends the syllabus. Innocently, she has shamed Sham. In breath and depth her knowledge exposes him as charlatan, pretender to his duties. So he attacks.

Her parries are nonchalant. Each reply bites Sham conscience, every concession made carves away pounds of his pride. Serene’s grace and dedication shames Sham, he rants after she leaves, labels her "Serene the Shark". I don't listen, feeling a void waxing within me; it's there for the rest of the day.

Our responsibilities discharged, adding further 'burden of knowledge' to next year's schoolbags, we end our workday. Leaving the room I finally pocket Serene's calling card. I switch off the lights, committing her cell number to memory as I go.

I dial her number. My emptiness wanes before her voice.

Three months of being together and the days have crept to the festival season. The subject of where either of us will be for the holidays is mutually made off limits by our common silence. One more matters for us to skirt around. She doesn't ask if I'm married, I don't ask about the stretch marks around her navel.

Serene, she doesn't call anymore. Once light with interest, hollow indifference now answers my calls to her. We whisper our feelings to each other when we meet (rarely now, after our first month of passion); her words sound distant, more to convince herself than declarations. She is pulling away.

"There's a book launching tonight," she suddenly calls to say, in the manner of one calling a pet. I agree to go, to be close to her, better to be an appendage over being forgotten. We meet at the venue, a popular upmarket nightspot. She sashays in with me in tow. I hope my desperation does not show, and if it does, not too much.

"You need a holiday," Yee tells me, obviously noticing my unease. Serene, who had introduced us, still well within earshot, turns and moves away. My eyes follow her to the writer, Jac, whose book is being launched. I notice Yee watching too. I am not surprised when Serene orbits Jac. Yee hands me a glass of wine, offers a cigarette and cocks his head towards the balcony. I take the cue.

The night air on the balcony is crisp, cold. I smoke my first cigarette in years. "She isn't easy to be with is she?" Yee probes. His soft, chubby (with a permanent cherubic smile) face lets him gets away with asking the question.

"You need a break dude, you are bone tired and worn out by her" presumptuous ... if the words weren't true. Yee continues, my silence giving him ample space to, "Everybody needs a life; she has a knack of making people dedicate theirs to her. When they do, she looks elsewhere. Why? Because one can't have a life while living theirs for her! ha ha ha hah” his laughter is braced with sad, bitter, humour.

"Did she dump you?! Is that why you are saying all this?!" breaking my silence. I hear my own raised voice, its defensive, weak-the voice of a child fearing his mother's rejection.

"Dump? Dude, she never allows her conscience to be soiled by doing that. She finds ways to make people leave her," calmly delivered, as though talking to himself.

He offers another cigarette as a peace offering. I take it, return to my silence and smoke slowly, the confrontation over. From the balcony we see Serene laughing, giggling to attract Jac. She once saw me worthy of such attention.

"Dude, when you decide to live again, call me ..." he offers his calling card, I see he works on a cruise liner "... can't promise you much, but my ships sailing to Langkawi next weekend, I can arrange a 'working trip' for you. Do some light work and you can sail for free."

"Why are you doing this?" my suspicions stirred by how casually we met, this strange conversation and now his sudden offer.

"If you think she set all this up, forget it. She didn't know I was coming. But I do need help on the ship, and for however she is, she is a good judge of character." He lightly punches my shoulder and forces down the rest of his wine -- to prevent himself from saying more?

Yee offers no further explanation. I don't pursue the matter, volunteering instead to refill our wine glasses. Making my way back to the balcony from the bar the host tells me Serene has left. Back on the balcony, as Yee takes his wine glass, I accept his offer.

True to his word, a phone interview the next day, an exchange of details and I'm a crew of Yee's ships for the coming weekend. The week passes quickly, my mind numb from 'work' without a call from Serene.

Yee is right, it is light work. My tag says 'steward' but my role is more of an Usher, deemed by the hospitality manager as appropriate due to my 'good English'. My thoughts are heavy though as I go about my duties. Yee, who I am deputised to as partner Usher, doesn't pry.

We are assigned to the main event, a fashion show cum competition that takes the majority of the two nights. We join the models after the first show in the ships nightclub. There, under rapid flashing lights and music too loud, Yee reveals.

"The liner provides the models, the fashion schools (there are so many nowadays) hold their students shows on board. The models later come to the club to get noticed by the high rollers from the casino (which the liner can only operate in international waters and its main source of income) and everybody gets what they want."

The school gets a venue for their shows, the models regular work, the liner passengers. Yee and I free trips as usher, and now chaperon. An arrangement so transparent, obvious, clear and far removed from the facade of my work. I luxuriate in its honesty and celebrate living life at face value, reveling the night away with abandon.

We call on Langkawi by morning and I take Yee's advice, checking into the same beach front resort as him for a day stay. We agree to meet up in the lobby after sunset-at seven-to leave for the ship together. He finally mentions Serene as we part at the elevator. "Did she cross your mind last night?" the etched polished metal doors closes before I can answer, leaving me staring at my scarred reflection.

In my room I draw a bath, turn on my cell phone and call her. Her voice asks me to leave a message, its tone as when we last spoke. I put the phone down after the 'beep'. A missed call is message enough between loved ones. Sinking into my bath, I allow the lightness from soaking in near scalding water rise to my head, I wait for her to call back, falling asleep, still waiting.

I dream of her, of work, of life, with many other thoughts, each a woven rope. All mangled into a tightening Gordian knot, threatening to tear itself apart under its own strain, me waiting at its side for a sword to cut it before it does. But I am no Alexander. I awake feeling suffocated by the room, in water long gone cold.

Stepping out from the bath I check my phone, no calls. I leave my room hoping for relief, from feeling cornered and head for the beach. I reach it still restless, uneasy in the company of families having picnics, children frolicking between the waves, couples cozy together on sun beds. Happy people, people who are not alone, who have lives and live it. Why do I resent them so?

I keep walking along the beach, away from them, from life, and watch sand pass briskly under my feet. My unease, this tightness inside that makes my head swirl and fingers tremble, if only it would go as easily as the sand. I wish to run but my breaths are short rasps. I lose track of time. I hear her music first.

"... don't carry the world on you shoulders ..."

A holiday taker jogging with an iPod strapped to her arm. In the prime of her youth, sensibly clad in loose t-shirt over swim wear, she’s passes me from behind. She turns, glances quizzically at me, continues a distance, stops and begins jogging on the spot with earphones out, the flicks of her short dyed blond hair catching the rays of the setting sun somewhere behind me. I look to my feet again, avoiding her, afraid to infect her with my misery and continue walking.

"Don't be sad lah." She flashes a smile, still jogging on the spot as I near her. "You in paradise mah." With that she picks up her pace, and continues her jog, taking her tunes away.

"... you'll be alright ...”

Unexpected kindness, unexplained, unasked but given freely. I observe her, replaying the event in my mind as I do, until she is around the cove and out of sight. Stock still, upright where she spoke to me, the thoughts behind her words surface, rise above my distress.

Forcing my breath to deepen, I take the kernel from her act and raise my eyes to the horizon. I turn to see that which I had missed, taken for granted and abused. I begin my walk back.

Steady measured steps under blue skies burnt by the setting sun, listening to palm fronds rustling unhurried in harmony to waves lapping sand. Breathing in sea breeze, I return to the resort past steps in the sand.

Past my steps. Steps that lead only to me.