Gising-gising

***

When I was eight, a 47-years old neighbour committed suicide. After his second wife
divorced him, he came home, had dinner, changed into jeans and went to the garage.
"Let me be free of love" he wrote on a ten-pound note and left it in the glove
compartment of his old golf. He started the engine and fell into an eternal sleep.

After the funeral things would never be the same again. Not that the entire
neighbourhood was cursed. Simply it felt like all households were waiting for their turn.
Each time neighbours greeted each other on the street, they immediately rushed inside
their cars or homes. Nobody wanted news. Especially bad news.

I, on the other hand, spent long nights thinking how brave the neighbour was. I thought
of my own suicide many times. But I had no real reason to kill myself. In the same way
I could not find a real reason to live. Not that I tried hard to find either, but those
thoughts never fully abandoned me. Sometimes I grew nervous thinking that with a
valid reason to die I still could not do it.

Cut my veins? - I was one of those guys who fainted even thinking of blood.

Hang myself? - I never trusted the ceilings in my apartment.

Take a poison? - I had a strong stomach.

Throw myself under a car? - And what about the poor driver?

Exhaust fumes? - I did not own car or garage.

Getting nowhere, I decided to wait. Life promised to be long.

***

My own life, before I took the plane to Singapore, was agonizingly ordinary. My most
vivid childhood memories were the neighbour's funeral, being beaten at the age of
fourteen and being drunk at the age of sixteen. Nobody ever died in my family. Nobody
got sick. Unfortunately, we had enough money not to suffer from poverty and never saw
a reason to want more. We did not question anything. We just carried on from one
spring to another.

My parents were teachers. They dedicated their lives to educating Britain's pupils. They
were humble, strict and conservative. We were two, two years in between, my sister
Rosy and I. When Rosy turned eighteen, she was the one to cut the rope that tied our
family together. She got pregnant from an acquaintance, had a baby and got a council
house. The baby maker never showed up. There were rumours that he "helped" several
Rosy's friends to get pregnant in order to get out of parent's homes. The day Rosy left,
something my mother had inside, boiled with anger and darkened her eyes. They never
spoke again. I was a boy and could not get pregnant myself; doing it with a girl seemed
even less possible. To choose the lesser of two evils I became a chartered accountant.
I was a first time pass. That was the only time when I felt I was capable, determined and
all these other things you were supposed to have when you described your strengths
during job interviews. I started my career at "Loobert & Johnes", an internationally
expanding American accounting practice. To make us competitive, we were classified
as Accountant Entry Level 1, Semi Senior Accountant Level 1 etc. Each year at the
annual performance assessment I was asked to establish my development goals and to
identify my development needs. All to become an Accountant Entry Level 2. Each year
I looked at a different face in front of me and whispered: "Leadership skills and political
savvy". After five years of assessments I was finally fired in order to give my place to
freshly qualified aggressive Accountants Entry Level 1.

My parents got divorced three years before my dismissal. My father ended up in the
council house, just like my sister, but in a different neighbourhood. My mother went to
live in a Buddhist centre on the Canary Islands. The house was sold right at the real
estate market peak. The majority of my college friends went to start ups and IT
businesses. The year I was fired some of them got to own a Ferrari and planned exotic
holidays with celebrity fashion models. Either they were too embarrassed to talk in front
of me of their income or I was too reluctant to express my fascination, but that year, our
already infrequent beer drinking sessions were gradually ceased. That is how the first
thirty years passed by, with everyone alive, our ship had sunk. It was like a perfect
scene for Garcia Marquez's story.

***

Instead of looking for new friends or a new job I shut myself in the rented apartment
and drank. The only connection to the world was my Indian landlord. He was the only
person I told that I had been fired. He was a most preoccupied person. But he was cool.
He was a native of Tamil Nadu, fit, with shinning white teeth and was always dating
British girls. Each time I bumped into him (he lived in the same neighbourhood) I saw
him folding some hot chick in his arms. Watching his confident pace, I wanted to be
him.

He gave me a three-month payment holiday. On the forth month he gave me a job. One
of his cousins had a middle size industrial business. Nothing special, stable and
expanding. I was hired out of compromise. The cousin did not like me. He thought the
place should have been for some other relative. I wasn't family, too timid and did not
like Indian food.

I started my new job, with news that my father was officially an alcoholic and my sister
was dating a carpenter, who had fixed the roof on the pub in her neighbourhood the
month before. Outside the office, January was hitting on London; the wind blew
stealing the hats of daydreaming ladies.

***

What is the most extraordinary of all ordinary? Sex! I did not make it to the Accountant
Entry level 2 at "Loobert & Johnes", but I was not a virgin.

It happened thanks to Rosy. She introduced me to her friend's sister in a party. Rosie's
friend's sister was sweet. Sweet, shy and drunk. We spoke and even danced. She asked
me to see her off. As we walked, I told her about the chartered accountant daily routines,
she shared hers.

"My father is back from jail; with sophisticated tattoos and angriness. For the flashing
moments when he is sober he just speaks of fucking packies and the Iron Bitch all the
time." - she said grabbing my hand and pushing her hips closer to me, - I like you, you
are such a piece of peace. By then I was shaking from tips to toes.

I lost my virginity in a wood near the school my nephew attended. The night was cold; I
was afraid that somebody would see us. I did not know how old she was. I did not know
what I had to do or to say afterwards. All other feelings were pleasant. I never saw her
again. It happened that we had a big argument with Rosy soon after the wood event and
I had no reason to come to the neighbourhood anymore. I could ask about the girl. I
could try to see her and at least to catch up on how her father was adjusting to freedom.
But I did not. And what happens in Stanmore woods stays in Stanmore woods.

But of course I dreamed of her, hundreds of nights, during my hormones-provoked self-

devotion moments. And when fantasies were running low, I would buy celebrity gossip
magazines and search for similar faces. As time passed, the creativity busted. I had an
unprecedented collection of porno videos, magazines and bookmarked websites. I also
diluted my do-it-yourself moments with web cam and chats. My favourite women lived
their second life in the most classified records of my head as Lucies, Mangoes, "Sweet
& mature" and so on. In the normal, offline life, they cooked delicious meals, cared for
their husbands and were too shy to speak up to bosses. But in front of the web cam they
burst with unclaimed passion and unrealized dreams. As milk was boiling over in their
kitchens they were screaming into the cold lenses of webcams. And I was there in front
of my monitor catching the dying waves of their voices.

But on my thirty-fifth birthday I woke up and found myself old. Old and lonely. Not
that I was lonelier than before, but modern life made a stronger point of it. I received
three electronic birthday cards. One from my email provider, another from my bank.
The third e-card arrived during the day, offering me a birthday discount at an online
bookstore.

In the evening I bought a promotional bottle of champagne with two glasses.

"At the end of the day, who am I? A Flying Fireman (my nick name in the porno chats)"
I asked totally lost.

"You are. And you are not. You are from Stanmore, from Middlesex, you are British,
you are a chartered accountant, you are son of your mom and dad, you are Rosy's
brother." I replied trying to sound convincing.

"Yes, but who am I? All people I am close to, know me as the "Flying Fireman", and
there is no way we could meet even to share a birthday drink." I lit a cigarette and
unenthusiastically blew a couple of smoke rings.

"You know why things have gone like this, don't you?" I said, carefully, trying not to
hurt me further. At the end of the day it was my birthday.
I, we kept silent for a while.

"Okay" - I said when finishing the bottle and sipping the last bits of warm champagne.
"I will try it out there. I mean in the real world. But only once. Do not expect more of
me."

"No harm in trying." I agreed and me both, we went to bed.

***

Even the real world nowadays begins somewhere @ www.meetic.com. That is where I
finally got into real trouble. Online dating was like roulette, uncertainty and chance, for
both sitting behind monitors. Contrary to the porno sites it wasn't an easy task. As an
amateur I made several mistakes. Being so removed from human contact and longing
for a cuddle I went straight to the root. "A cuddle and love, all I want." I used to write.
Naturally I was blocked by the profiles I was interested in. As if I did not have the right
to a big bear hug. In time, I got more experienced. I took time to read what ladies
looked for. And mirrored it.

"I have strong family values." Natalie would mention.

"The hearth of the human family is my altar." I would improvise.

"I like self-determined guys, who leave me my own space." Carla would insist.

"A 21 first century independent woman is the most attractive thing in the world." I
would flirt.

But 99% of dates did not work. All vanishing in the infinity of missed incoming calls
and deleted text messages. And then she appeared. A Romanian. Slim, beautiful and
lonely. An investment banker but still lonely. All the investment bankers I had heard of
were male, busy and rich. She was unique in that sense. She did not run away. And then
we almost made love. Our sex never crystallised into something as beautiful as love.
She got transferred to Tokyo. Why they needed so urgently a Romanian in Tokyo
remains unclear to me to this day. She did not even speak Japanese. To give it a try, I
asked my Tamil boss if he planned to invest in Japan. He laughed back and told me not
be late the last month's actual numbers.

"Are you satisfied now?" My heartbroken voice angrily asked.

"A relationship is a tricky thing. And you are not in love, aren't you?" I answered trying
to redress the wrong.

"In love, not in love? How would I know? Enough of talking. Lets get back to work." I
would appreciate it if we did not talk at all for a while.

***

The main event took place just before Easter. Whether I wanted it or not, but the
departure of the Romanian investment banker affected me. I hardly slept and ate one
sandwich every two days. In the ever-long nights, Lucies and Mangoes kept knocking
with their alluring incoming messages on my insomnia. I felt a lump of sadness and
anger spreading roots inside me. I uninstalled all bipping and talking programs, trashed
all images and videos and drank all the alcohol I could find in the depth of my kitchen
closets. She left on Sunday night and on Friday, unable to resist anymore, I fainted in
front of five Tamil cousins, during a routine finance meeting.

I regained consciousness in the hospital. The nurse, she must have been in her late
forties, smiled at me and called in the doctor. He was a tall man with fancy glasses. He
sat in the chair next to my bed and professionally explained to me the sequence and
consequence of what was happening to me. His measured speech reminded me of a
priest in an empty church reading a Sunday Mass sermon. He scratched his nose
repeatedly and slowly led me to the fact that I had a liver cancer.

I stayed in the hospital for various tests for another week. I carried obediently my body
from one test room to another. I tried not to look at other patients. As if looking at them
would instantly melt me down. A PA from my office visited me and brought some fruit.
Rosy called and said she was unable to take a leave from her job. At the end of the week
I was free to go and had to come back in seven days to start the treatment.

On the way home I drifted in and out, as the cab was pushing its way through rush hour
traffic. The city, the selfishness of it's inhabitants, so easy to be in and be out. Once you
are out, do not ask for a life raft.

***

"Rosy, they say it's liver cancer. Twelve month to go."

"Oh, that's not good. Do you want to come over and stay with us? You will need to
bring some money; you know I cannot afford having you here. Although I think your
doctors will take a better care of you."

"How is your boy?"

"The boy? Do you mean Roger? He dumped me two weeks ago. Can you imagine he
brought some Chinese foot massage ass to his apartment! These girls just come over
here, without even speaking English; they are just good at massaging penis or how they
call it "a foot". This bastard just brought that bitch from nowhere. And now he has a 24-
hour penis massage service."

"I meant Jimmy, my nephew."

"Oh, he is just fine. The truck driver who dates my friend Lora looks after him. He is
fine. He is becoming one whole man."

"I see."

"Have you spoken to our parents yet?"

"Yes, mother told me to accept my karma and meditate. She offered to come. I prefer to
face it alone."

"Hm."

Family silence. Is it the most silent silence of all silences in the universe? Bye, bye
Stanmore, Rosy and the Canary Islands, I am a broken-away meteorite. I fly away
separated from where you are by millions of life moments that we are not able to share
anymore.

***

Before I did not know much about Singapore. Of course I did my history homework and
was aware of Sir Raffles achievements. But that night I could not sleep. I stocked my
fridge with ten beer cans and two frozen pizzas "di quarto formaggio". Not the best
choice of a diet, but who really cared? Me or me?

I went online. I tried to google my name. I mean my nickname. Soon I learned "Flying
Fireman" had a lot to do with helicopters. I could not say that I related to a helicopter.
Neither did I remember why I had picked up "Flying Fireman" as a nickname in the first
place. At least it explained a certain success I had in the past. Whether as a helicopter or
as man, I did not exist in the Internet, beyond encrypted databases of adult's sites.

Anticipating the worst, I typed my real name. John Austin as a key word returned
27,600,000 results. I spent five beers and two hours scrolling through the first hundred
of pages. There was nothing about me. Nobody referred to me or mentioned my
existence. I did not expect news of my cancer to make it to the front pages, but I hoped
to find at least a minor reference of myself.

"Who am I?" A "Flying Fireman"? Since I uninstalled all applications I was not related
to him anymore.

"John Austin? I was, for my bank, my insurer and my doctor. A cancer patient John
Austin: 36 years old, single, social smoker and drinker, no allergies."

While I still hoped to find myself alive for a billion internet users, I came across an
article about an Australian John Austin, who was executed in Singapore two month ago,
after he had been caught smuggling one kilogram of heroin. "Australian John Austin
drugs" sent me into reading an endless pile of international news archives, human rights
organization websites, Australian government pleads, family and friends anti-death
penalty sites. "A human life..." I thought. Spring birds were not late to remind me that
my alarm clock had reached 6.00 a.m. With an ashtray full of Marlboro cigarette-butts
and the table covered with empty beer cans I suddenly felt alive.

And so it started.

***
To my pleasure I had not been spending any money. My bank account showed a
positive balance of £ 100.000. No credit card debt, no mortgage payments, and no
dependants. I called my Indian boss and resigned. He said, he understood, that life was
tough and ensured I would get all my payments settled in a weeks time. At the bottom
of my heart I knew he was happy.

The most complicated task was to get the drugs. First, I did not know anyone who was
openly a drug addict (or at least a casual taker). Second, even If I knew, I could hardly
think of a feasible reason for me to be interested in acquiring a scandalous quantity of
any prohibited substance. I won't go into details of what I went through to get those 50
grams of cocaine. Enough mentioning, that after hesitating for sometime, I contacted
my unsuccessful love. The Romanian investment banker. Through facebook. I didn't
assume that Romanians most likely took cocaine, instead I assumed that some
investment bankers certainly did. And I was right. After a small writing-talking on the
facebook chatting window, I got her phone number and called. I explained that I was
going to drastically change my life, to throw lots of parties with lots of VIP guests. As a
consequence I needed a reliable provider of an eternal happiness, cocaine, I explained.
To my surprise she was not even slightly surprised. She said it was true, that some of
her colleagues liked those kinds of parties and had some sources of drugs. After several
days of camouflaged test messages, emails, unknown number incoming calls, I finally
paid a £ 2.500 for a small 50 grams plastic bag with white, look-a-like flour stuff inside.
Apparently it trades anything from £1 to £300 depending on the country. Since there
was no international price control over the matter, I considered I had paid a reasonable
price for my own planned suicide @ £50 a gram.

On the day of my departure, I put the cocaine packet inside the little golden box my
mother gave me to store the yellow Kodak childhood photos when she left the UK. I
closed the box and stroked it's slightly wrecked surface. I thought of her, of my mother.
Of how sad she was to leave. With those thoughts, I placed the box right in the middle
of the suitcase, between socks and underwear.

***

Everything went wrong from the beginning.

First of all, my flight arrived at Changi airport with almost three hours delay. Although I
was not in a hurry it didn't feel good.

Secondly, I had slept thought the whole thirteen-hour flight. This was particularly
annoying since I travelled business class. My Indian bosses never made me travel, so I
did not plan to take a vengeance for thicken up blood in the veins. The deal was that in
my last days I wanted to think and feel rich. Just that.

I woke up as we landed and looked at the lady next to me. My grief turned unbearable.
She was one of that meet-once-in-your-lifetime-in-person. She wore paired black pants
with a razor sharp jacket and killer heels. It was late morning in Singapore, but she
looked as if she was going straight to a cocktail party.

As we were heading towards passport control, I felt all my once-in-a-lifetime-dreams

shamelessly crushing behind my back. The limitless champagne, wines, beers, getting a
little tipsy and the random conversations - all stayed unrealized on my seat, back on the
plane.

Thirdly, everybody was totally disinterested in my arrival to Singapore. Everyone

including: Interpol, the airport police, passport control officers, customs officers and the
unknown next-seat passenger. The airport life was absorbed by a daily routine of
arrivals and departures, checking and stamping, letting in and letting out. Everything
else mattered except me. Airport staff was energetically engaged in the flow of
travellers and luggage. But as soon as I approached any area, they would turn absolutely
indifferent. As if I walked wrapped in a bubble and did not form part of anything what
was going on in the airport. Of course they stamped pages of my passport, ran it through
the barcode reader, smiled and let me go.

After I got my luggage and went to the customs zone, I intentionally slowed my pace
down, pulling my suitcase by the handle, as if it was an unruly, naughty child. Just
before my eyes, two customs officers stopped an Indian couple with a trolley full of
suitcases and boxes. The third officer was busy, looking something up in the computer.
I slowed down further, hesitating what to do next. I turned my head round and round,
exactly as you do when you try to follow moves of a lizard that mistakenly got into your
bedroom in Brazil. At last the third officer held his head up and looked at me.

"Do you need any help Sir?" His abrupt interest made me go hot and cold.

I looked around again and forced myself to speak.

"Where is the bathroom sir? I am sorry Sir, but this travel always messes me up" As I
said it, I felt acid turning in a spiral in my stomach.

"No problem sir. You have one just as you get out of the door to your right. Behind the
doors."

"Thank you".

I felt really embarrassed. Not because I confessed to the custom's officer that I had
intestines and needed a toilet, but because I just made such a long trip to get to nowhere.
Just to get to the "Behind the doors". The officer murmured something like "Welcome"
and went back to his work on the computer. I scratched my head and the next moment I
found myself behind the sliding doors, on the territory of the Parliamentary republic of
Singapore.

***

If you told me a year ago that I would be in Singapore, with £100,000 and nothing to
worry about I wouldn't believe you. Or if I did believe you, I would still worry about
something. So it means I haven't changed for the last year. Now I was worried about
what do next. Since my main objective of coming to Singapore was to die, and to die
before I have to think about anything else, I didn't really know where to go.

You know that on a murky days beer is a best man's friend. So I headed to a coffee shop
in the arrival area. In the UK we honestly say "Pub" and do not pretend to sell ice
creams. The coffee shop sign I followed was a cover for an extensive menu of strong
alcoholic drinks. Relative to the early morning in Singapore I ordered an ice-called
Tiger.

"It was your idea in the first place. Do not even try to blame me." My quiet side said,
anticipating the crush.

"True. But you could've gone crazy for once and given the custom officer a hint." You
could never rely on your voice of Reason.

"I was just about to, but then you came up with that bathroom thing. How could you let
yourself get into such level of details with him?" The Reason still felt embarrassed.

I lost my caution, as I never used to bring these dialogues into public places. I sized
disapproving looks from two ladies, wrapped up in saris, sipping their coffees in the
corner. To be honest, I was surprised that ladies noticed me (us) in the first place.
Taking into account the bubble syndrome, they were supposed to mind just sipping their
coffee business. To avoid further disturbance I tried to locate myself. Singapore, Changi
airport, just arrived, all wrong. And then as per divine occurrence, my eyes landed on a
billboard: "Marriott, twenty minutes from the airport, warm service and best location."

***

The lady at the reception looked nothing like Chinese, Malay or Indian. She turned out
to be British. I told her that I'd given myself a surprise holiday and would stay for a
week or so. She enthusiastically explained to me different room options. As if she was
talking about our own wedding reception plans. She offered to show the luxury rooms.
My indifferent look definitely wet her sales appetite. After half an hour tour I decided
for Tang Sok Kiar Suite with poolside view and access. 1,800 SGD or sixteen grams of
cocaine a night. Since I was not planning to live for much longer I considered I could
afford that level of spending.

In the room I went to try the Jacuzzi. Nothing special, bubbles, bubbles and bubbles.
Since I had a bubble of my own, why bother paying for it? Still add-ons can be
considered. Champagne and stuff. Just a joke.

"Chuck always made his insidious plans out of his Suite 1812 in The New York Palace
Hotel in Manhattan. So would I..." The jacuzzi was full, the bath foam was fizzy, the
Moët & Chandon was cool. As soon as I remembered Chuck - I started.

"So you think you are Charles Bartholomew "Chuck" Bass in the late Gossip girl, he?"
Sometimes earnestness hurts.

"Yes, I like watching US TV series. Is it a crime?" In the same way I never confessed to
anyone that I loved Julio Iglesias songs. Not even to myself. Not that someone was
particularly interested, but I even took Spanish courses for a time in order to understand
his lyrics. I quit as soon as I realized that his universal voice was recorded in a variety
of languages, including my mother tongue. I had "Starry Night", "Moments", not to
mention "Crazy" albums, all available for me to understand what he was also trying to
say in Spanish.
"No crime at all. But did it do any good for you? You watched The O.C., Sex in the City,
The Mad Man, Desperate House Wives, and you are still uncertain who you are." I
think the reason always wanted me to change the channel when I watched a TV series.

"What should I watch then?" Let's see what do the perfect people think.

"Anything else. Like a rugby game or football match." Uncertainty stroked my voice.

"Some would agree, rather than watching a game you'll never win, it's better to watch
the woman you'll never date and listen to the words you'll never hear." Yes, yes, yes!

"What a nonsense! That's why you're bogged down in you miserable world." Shall I
shout? Hurt, hurt me or I love to hurt me, I love to hurt me!

"Yes I'm bogged down. But I also like watching other people's happiness. Like I prefer
to watch the happiness I'll never experience. I've noticed that through the years that
moviemakers moved from the West coast to the East coast. Although I've never been to
the USA, personally I prefer the East coast. They seem to have more single women out
there. On the West coast all the series were about families. Weddings, adulteries,
divorces - too much of a hassle. For my part I felt more comfortable with eternally
single, selfish shopaholics, the New York women." I think the Reason always preferred
family values."

"But they did not shop for you. Didn't you realise, London is also full of lonely shoppers.
The average credit card debt had reached £35,000 in 2007. Who do you think did the
shopping? Ok, I am sorry I know you've tried." I've accidentally touched the forbidden
topic. "So what is the plan?"

In reality I didn't have any new plan. Probably after a week of Jacuzzi bathing I could
hand myself to the police, I thought. I was not sure if a self-confession could mess up
my ultimate goal. Alternatively I could just take cocaine, overdose and sleep.

When I was done with champagne, with the Jacuzzi, and with half of the minibar, I
remembered I hadn't undone my luggage. I looked for my suitcase everywhere. I was
drunk and lost in the different rooms; flat panel LCD televisions, DVD players, the
golden glow of walls. I felt like an angry monkey that had been moved to a different
cage in the zoo. Finally I found it sitting on the stylish suitcase stand with cross-curved
legs.

The order in which I packed my possessions seemed untouched. Shaving cream,

aftershave and deodorant bottles turned over during the travel. I rummaged though my
underwear until I reached the surface of the Golden box. I opened it. I saw my mom
smiling at me on the photo taken during our trip to Oxford in 1989. I thrust my fingers
under the photo, the plastic bag was there, unhurt. I set down on the edge of the bed and
felt the coolness of the red silk bed runner under the palms of hands. The next moment I
guess I felt asleep.

***
My Indian boss used to say: - "Are you blocked and need ideas? Go out on a busy street,
watch people, cars and shop windows, or at least read news. We live in the 21st century;
nobody gets anything done by meditating in privacy."

I went to the Orchard road. It looked liked a shopping mall after a shopping mall. It was
Tuesday, the shopping crowds were still thin. Moist and heat made my body sweat.
Sweat drop by drop made it's way though my hair and linen shirt. Just as worms crawl
on the sidewalk after the rain. I struggled until lunchtime and went back to the hotel.

In the afternoon I went to the swimming pool. I ordered a Tiger beer to heal the
hangover and picked up a copy of The Straits Times. Let's see how the world looked
through Singaporean eyes. Headlines included:" Militants torch trucks", "Chinese
helicopter crash", and a 15-year-old Singapore schoolboy posting online about his life.
Typical 21-century drama. Except for Ang Lay Yeng. She was executed the day before.
Arrested on the Singaporean border trying to smuggle half kilogram of heroin from
Malaysia to Singapore in the fake bottom of her suitcase. Suddenly the swimming pool
smelt of chlorine. Newspaper left black dirty marks, that mixed with chlorine and moist
made fingers appear quite unsightly. Still the fingers didn't look any dirtier than my own
thoughts.

***

I rented a car and decided to drive through The Causeway. In the beginning I took my
suitcase with me, hoping that it would bring more attention to my routine appearance on
the border. And you know what? Each time I drove in and out, nobody bothered to look
at me. They just waved me through. Day after day. Just waved me through.

I took notes of dates and times in my diary, as I passed through the Malay-Singaporean
boarder. Like Edmond Dantès carved the wall, to keep count of the days, lying forgotten
in his cell. My cell was full of shopping malls and hawker centres , and provided me
with a good supply of stationery. But still it was a cell.

When the suitcase did not prove any value-added, I just put the golden box inside my
laptop bag with no laptop inside. And I drove. I also changed the route. I drove through
Tuas instead of the Causeway. Same result. My passport was full of day-in-out stamps.
All the officers waved me through. I totalled the brisk notes I made in my diary. I'd been
through the border fourteen times, multiplied by two, I'd passed twenty-eight border
controls. And I'd been stopped twice.

The first time it happened on the Malaysian side of the border of The Causeway. A
grumpy custom's officer leant his elbow on the windscreen of my car and asked:

"What have you been doing in Malaysia Sir?" He looked as bored as a street-vendor
who noticed you had run out of cash at the previous hawker's tray.

My Reason started writhing in hysterics. My darker side was happy; in the same way
when a rescue worker forces you to the light after an earthquake.

"I am in the process of discovering Malaysian cuisine. I go each day to eat in the
different villages across the border." We never agreed who said it first.
The officer yawned and waived me through.

The second time was purely intentional. I arrived at the border on the Singaporean side
with no petrol. You were supposed to be ¾ full to continue. I made it to be as early in
the morning as possible, so the Reason would still be asleep and would not say anything
reasonable. The officer that approached my car to fine me suddenly said. "You can go
Sir. Check your tank level next time."

"The bubble syndrome." The Reason said half-awaken. I wanted to weep, as wild as I
could, but the Reason, anticipating something else coming, made me drive.

***

Sometimes, all it takes is a meeting of the eyes and a quick smile to change your life.

On the last day of my failed suicide I came back to the hotel, miserable and desperate.
Actually we agreed that the Reason would go back to the UK as our mutual coexistence
did not work. I couldn't sit still and was continuously wandering from one corner of
room to another. Like squirrels scamper hither and thither with eyes keen on food. Yes,
I needed food. I took a cab and went to the nearest hawker centre.

And there she was, Rachelle Brinas. Sweet little pinay with a broad nose, dark skin, and
long straight hair. She stood in the line before me. The waiter messed up something and
disappeared behind the counter. She looked at me with her eyes apologizing for the
delay. She ordered samosas, I chose beer and fried rice.

She was a maid, about to leave her Singaporean host family for Spain. Her female
cousin had been working in Madrid for the last five years. Cleaning, cooking and
babysitting. One day the Spanish host family asked her cousin if she knew of any
professional maid from Philippines for another Spanish family. The cousin did not wait
long to suggest Rachelle as a candidate.

"I am very excited to go to Spain. The Philippines used to be a Spanish colony. So we

share some history. And I think it will be easy to learn Spanish. Our language, Tagalog,
has some Spanish words like querida, madre, entonses. Although sometimes it can be
tricky with languages, In Philippines we call "coño" all posh people who prefer to speak
English and try to be cool, or if they are Spanish mixed-blood. Like Enrique Iglesias.
But actually in Spain coño means "cunt".

"Upps," She slapped her lips as her face turned slightly red. "I am sorry. I have to watch
my mouse."

I laughed. "Never mind." I never had investigated into Julio Iglesias private life, I
thought. The idea that I could potentially discuss with her his music art made me feel
warmth at heart.

"The Singaporean host family was good to me. The husband worked for an IT Company
and he taught me all kinds of things about computers. He even made me join his
Company's special program to make Filipino workers good with computers. "Computer
literate" as they called it. Some older maids found it boring and were reluctant to learn,
but overall it was nice."

"You are obsessed with learning, aren't you?"

"My father works in Saudi Arabia and he hates it. We are Catholics and it is difficult for
him to live there. He works hard, but Saudi Arabia is a tough place. He keeps on telling
me: "Work and study hard, learn as much as you can and then you can choose the place
you really want to live in."

She finished eating samosas and put away her empty carton plate. She looked smiley
and replete.

"I used to think that Manila was the place to be. But here in Singapore between cleaning
and ironing I've learnt so much, I've realized the world is so big, so strange and so
attractive. Of course I was lucky with my host family. They are true learning freaks.
And I learned everything they thought was good for me to learn. Computers, Chinese,
difference between Buddhism, Taoism, Catholicism, Protestantism, Islam, Sikhism and
Hinduism. How to cook and appreciate different Chinese cuisines: Fujian, Hainan and
Cantonese. I can organize a Chinese banquet and even arrange some classical Chinese
wedding decorations. I did it for my employer's younger sister's wedding. And I can tell
you all about Oolong tea. Of course if you are interested." She giggled as kids do when
they overhear some hotty-naughty adult words.

"You can speak Chinese? That's insane!" All I could think off were five Spanish classes
I had ever attended and some crappy French course at school. All I knew to die with
were "una cerveza por favor" and "la vie de merde".

"When I'd arrived, the wife hired a private teacher for the kids. Since it made no
difference in price I started learning with them. But do not think that Singapore is a
charity for worldwide education. Some maids got into a trouble, were abused, bitten and
sexually harassed. Since nobody was stealing my time with beatings and curses, I could
use my energy to learn. I am twenty-six; never slept much; I had internet access and one
full day off per week. My employer's house was full of books in English and I read
them each night. And I prayed and prayed every day that I can learn for the rest of my
live. "

"Do you have a boyfriend?" I finally asked. By that time I could imagine her being
fluent in Malay and quote Confucius in ancient Chinese, but I could not imagine what
kind of guy could cope with that sea of energy and thirst for life.

"No boyfriends. No time for love and it is dangerous. My grandmother always told me
"Huwag kang magtiwala sa di mo kakilala", which means, "Never trust a stranger" in
Tagalog. Singapore is a city of lonely maids and lonely expatriates. All complete
strangers. Dirty thoughts are in the air. There are rumours that Filipino maids make
extra money by consoling lonely expatriates. Oh these rumours! You know, people love
rumours; rumours bring us together and help to avoid small talk. But because of these
rumours, even taxi drivers asked me several times to join them for a coffee. Hm, I could
have dated a pinoy, but I decided not to compromise my work. One Filipino maid I was
friendly with was dating an Indonesian worker. Tired of his jealously she dumped him.
He went on extorting money from her employer and threatening to kill their children.
He set the employer's car on fire. Then the police put him in jail and she lost her job,
and was deported."

I felt relieved. There were no guys out there capable of coping with her.

We stayed talking until it was well past midnight. We agreed to share a cab. The taxi
dropped me first at the hotel, she said she preferred to get to her host family house alone.
Just as I was getting out of the cab she gave me a little white piece of paper.

"Although you are a complete estrangharo to me, I am leaving so soon that I can hardly
screw it up." She smiled the warmest possible smile at me and closed the taxi door.

Sometimes, all it takes is to get a phone number to change your life. With an eight-digit
number you are no longer a stranger, semi-criminal, runaway cancer patient or
ungrateful son. You are connected. You can claim to identify yourself with the
megapolis, with the Singaporean expatriate community, with a fun club of the most
beautiful girls of the world - the pinays, with a defender of domestic workers rights, and
finally with being a Man.

So that's how things were.

***

I stopped my trips to Malaysia. But before my first official date with Rachelle I needed
to get rid of my notorious past. And I was obsessed with being caught. Nervous, I went
to a shopping mall to buy a toilet cleaning liquid. I cautiously left "Do not disturb sign"
on the doorknob. No uninvited guests please. In the shopping mall the checkout line
went fast for all the other shoppers, as none of them seemed to put that waiting-bored
faces. For me, as I watched shopping baskets getting emptied by an Indian cashier, time
slowed as it only slows in the moments before imminent death.

"What if the police tracked me down long ago and decided to trail me? What if they
wait to see who are my accomplices? Accomplices, Rachelle... what if...?" I prayed to
something watching over me to let me have that chance. I apologized for not
appreciating life, for not learning Spanish, for not being promoted at "Loobert &
Johnes", for not being close to my family, for using death row prisoner's grief stories as
a recipe for action and in particular I apologized for being so eager to sacrifice my own
life.

But I returned safely to the hotel, emptied the cocaine packet into the lavatory. I used
the toilet cleaning liquid to clean up any residue of the substance. The Reason was
absent; I guess he had safely reached the UK.

As you probably have realized my murky plan was to smuggle some cocaine into
Singapore, get arrested, get sentenced to death and eventually be hanged. From the time
when I started my driving trips to Malaysia it did not really matter if I was to die in a
Malaysian or Singaporean prison. I made the decision to die, back in London, but I did
not have guts to commit an unassisted suicide. Since I wanted to die anyway, I secretly
hoped that the media coverage of the case would serve to pressurize death-penalty
enthusiastic countries. Instead, I ended up playing Russian roulette, like a Christopher
Walken's Nick in "The Deer Hunter". According to the scriptwriter - Nick lost his
memory. According to me - I did not have much to remember. According to Rachelle
there was always something to look forward too.

***

It was Rachelle's last week in Singapore. Each day of the seven days granted to me were
rainy, suffocating and carefree. We ate out in all possible Filipino food restaurants in
Singapore. I grew fond of

sisig, crispy pata, sinigang. lechon de leche and kare-kare. For breakfast, lunch and
dinner, one hundred percent Filipino flavours.

"Try Pancit Molo soup. It's delicious." She would say.

"What it is made of?" I was still an amateur in decrypting Filipino menus.

"Oh, it is made of everything that tastes like home. Actually it is called a noodle soup.
With no noodles. Instead you get a reasonable quantity of wantons. Delicious,
unforgettable pork wantons. Some people also add chicken to the meat broth that
wantons are cooked in."

And then she would go on and on explaining how all the ingredients come together to
create a divine taste. I must admit I had never been hungrier in my life. As soon as she
said something like "and the garlic together with the soy sauce....", my mouth was
already watering and my stomach rumbled and grumbled to no end.

"You should seriously think about running a restaurant or at least trying as a restaurant
critic." I suggested.

"When your duties include general housework, washing the car once a week, shopping
at wet markets, cooking becomes a rare opportunity for an entertainment. As I cooked
Chinese, Western, Filipino food I imagined myself being a chef at "Sin Ho Sui" on
Amoy street. Since I had to operate multiple cooking utensils, I made myself believe I
worked with a team of cooks, explained them their tasks and criticized their work. I had
a Chinese - Choe, a Frenchman- Pierre and a Filipino - Juan. I had to speak to the
French cook in English as I did not speak French. With Chinese we managed pretty well
in Mandarin. My host family was understanding and did not mind me talking to myself
in the kitchen. And they explained to the kids that I was not crazy, they said all people
should have their own style in getting things done."

That night I dreamed of Rachelle acting as an orchestra conductor. But instead of

musicians playing instruments together, there were cooks stroking cooking utensils. It
sounded almost like a Beijing Opera to me. In between conducting, Rachelle turned
around and gave me her remarkable smile.

***
On the day of her departure we went for dinner in the Filipino place on the Orchard road.
We ordered food, I got a beer and she was drinking a coke. She went on talking about
the last seven days that we had spent together, about how she would miss always-
tropical Singapore and its food malls.

"What are you planning to do next? You can come over to Spain to see me sometime".
She was playing with a straw in her glass of coke, her head slightly inclined and her
right hand supporting her head.

During our pinoy eating trips, I mentioned to her that I'd quit my job in the UK and
intended to stay for sometime in Asia to think what I wanted to do next. I sipped my
beer and coughed to gain some time. I looked at her straight, black silk hair, so shiny
and soft and all of a sudden I realized how connected I was to her. She was the one, in
the whole universe of choices I did not think of before. How she did not know me, how
she did not imagine how ugly my home neighbourhood was, how she did not picture
what an asshole I was to my family and to myself. And still she was the one. To avoid
jumping over the table and kissing her, I lay back on my chair and blurted out:

"I will look into studying something."

She suddenly drew herself up and I saw our food coming.

Before she left, we spent sometime in the lobby of the hotel. I wished of all the evils, at
least we would do like in "Lost in translation" and kiss. But we did not. Instead she
shook my hand and gave me her email address. She said kissing could undermine her
determination to adjust as soon as she could to her new life in Spain.

That night I cried for the first time in my adult life. And I regretted I had not done it
more often before.

***

In the morning I was ready to read my emails. Actually I got into my email account
because I wanted to write to Rachelle. I had two beer cans for breakfast with some
peanuts and tried to concentrate and to produce an emotional but meaningful letter.

My inbox was full. I have not been in contact with my past since my arrival to
Singapore. The majority of letters were coming from my sister Rosy with the subject
lines all indicating great trouble. Fearing the worst, I opened her latest email. It took me
a while to bring my thoughts together, I screened the words like mistake, doctor,
hospital, you are not sick. By the time I finished the third beer, it was just ten in the
morning, but I already knew that I lost my dearest person and the cancer. I was not a
terminal patient anymore; as of that day I was not any kind of patient. Everything went
swimming before my eyes, the hotel room, the laptop screen and empty beer cans. The
room become an entrance to the underworld. And I fainted.

When I opened my eyes, a young hotel maid with a worried face was bent over me. She
kindly offered to call a hotel doctor. Keeping in mind my last experience with
healthcare, I refused. In any case, now when I was officially cancer free, what surprise
they could give me? I still could carry some unknown modern lifestyle decease.
Computer monitors and plastic sandwiches are no good for anybody.

"You know, in the UK we all faint from time to time. Too much stress." I confidently
explained her and she left.

***

I got a message on the phone from the front desk officer saying that there was a post for
me. I could not focus anyway and went down to the lobby. I picked up the envelope and
went to the bar. Nobody could leave me a message, I thought. Nobody except. Scared to
drink more alcohol I ordered an orange juice.

There was a postcard inside the envelope with a picture of Singapore skyline in the
night. On the reverse side, the dark blue ink cursive letters told me:

"Kung gusto, maraming paraan; kung ayaw, maraming dahilan."

Unable to understand and reluctant to ask for help, I spent my time memorizing it. I
ordered a Singapore Sling and imagined Rachelle sitting in front of me. Rachelle, her
hair, her white teeth. She would tell me: "The Singapore Sling tastes of Singapore. The
best place to have it is the Raffles hotel. To prepare it you need to mix gin, cherry
brandy, lemon juice, sugar and club soda." She had never drunk alcohol when we went
out but she could go on forever about the cocktail recipes. That is how she was, my
wonderful Rachelle.

I consumed £100 worth of Singapore Sling, I was perfectly drunk and was able to repeat
her message one hundred times. In Tagalog of course, my monolinguistic friend.

***

The next days I spent in banks. Not that I needed a private wealth advisor. All I wanted
was to get rid of the cash I had. And with a purpose. When you are a broke, it is easier
to decide what to do next.

As you may know, globalization works only for protestors before G7 meetings. It took
me three days to sort out how to transfer some cash from Singapore and Australia. I
learned all about the Monetary Authority of Singapore, International Anti Money
laundering and Anti Terrorist Financing regulations. On the third day a random
electronic transfer company offered me a solution. I decided to send £ 40,000 to John
Austin's family in Melbourne. Another local bank accepted to cash a cheque for another
£ 40,000 to the parents of Ang Lay Yeng if I was present.

***

On the fourth night I shaved and went to the restaurant where I had the last dinner with
Rachelle. The place was busy and I had to wait to be seated. Waiters did not smile at me.
Of course, too many customers to smile at, at the end of the day, the lips are not a
resistance band.
Eventually, a young waitress, with hair parted in the middle, seated me at a small table
in the corner and gave me a menu. I stupidly started at it for a while and started stroking
it, as it was Rachelle's hair. Do not get me wrong; I am not a crazy dick like that guy in
"The Perfumer". I do not need to kill to remember. All I needed was to eat. Hunger,
memory and longing are devastating ingredients for the mind. And the food was exactly
what made me feel that Rachelle was still around.

I was eating my chicken-pork adobo at "Fely J's", when she told me about her first love.
She complained about beef caldereta at "Cafe Havana" right after I told her I had had
sex only with two women in my whole life. As I was finishing pinakbet na bagnet in
"1000 Flavours" she told me I was cute. She was about to order gising-gising at "Abe"
when I realized that I loved her.

I ordered humba, bam-i guisado and a beer. As I waited, I examined the place. The
dining room was flourishing with enjoyable sounds of gossips and mixed languages.
The crowd was diverse: expats, singaporeans, pinoy and pinays. Loud, energetic mass,
exactly what you need in the dark days. Beer was routinely reordered and waiters were
masterly floating, holding trays of ice-cold San Miguel.

As a waitress arranged the plates on my table, I pulled Rachelle's postcard out of my

pocket.

"Can I ask you for a favour? Are you Filipino?"

"Yes, I am. What can I do for you?" She sounded reluctant, probably thinking that a
single guy like me was there only to make indecent proposals.

"I have a message to read. I assume it was written in Tagalog. Would you be so kind to
translate it for me?" A small apologizing grin spread onto my lips.

She took a card and looked at the text, whispering "maraming paraa...... with a puzzled
smile gave it back to me.

"You have a good friend, Sir. It means, if you want it, you'll find a way. If you don't,
you'll find an excuse."

Just that.

***

After I finished my meal and paid, I returned to the hotel. The air conditioner
maintained 16C degrees all day long. The room was cold and unwelcoming, as if it was
asking me to leave at last. "Sky news" transmitted Barack Obama's anti crisis speech. Of
all the human beings awake I was the least preoccupied with survival through the
financial crisis.

I lay on my bed with my legs apart and arms outstretched. With eyes shut I saw a little
boy crying and holding to his chest a pair of broken glasses. He cried so hard that the
entire neighbourhood switched on their outdoor lights and looked out of the windows.
He looked completely lost and abandoned. Running, he turned around several times.
Though, there was nobody looking for him. Some neighbours opened their windows
and asked him to come in. But the little boy, scared and undecided, finally threw his
broken glasses on the sidewalk and rushed as fast as he could to the top of the street,
where the biggest streetlight was spreading its rays over the sleepy lane.

By the time I recognized the little boy, I had already fallen into the black tunnel leading
into a new day.

***

John Austin did it because he wanted to buy out the sex slave - a girl he felt in love with.
Society took it for legend until Melbourne police made pubic his multiple petitions for
help. Unable to apply the rule of law, he went directly to the mafia and negotiated to
free his beloved. The price was drug smuggling. None of the traffickers got caught or
punished. Under the social pressure, Melbourne police raided several places until they
found John's Chinese Juliet. She testified and now lives under Australian Police Witness
Protection Program.

Ang Lay Yeng was a third generation Singaporean. Her Nigerian online love convinced
her to smuggle one kilo of heroin from Malaysia to Singapore. After multiple romantic
encounters in Singapore, Thailand and Vietnam, they went on holidays to Malaysia
where the Nigerian macho talked her into doing a drug run.

Roads crossed on the wrong intersection. An accidental mistake in engineering plans.

The lead engineer remains unknown.

Gising-gising my friend before it's too late. Didn't you know that accountants talk to
themselves?