The Neighbour in #22

Jaynee, the live-in maid next door, has the sexiest bottom in Tanjong Pagar Plaza. She passes my flat each day on her way to the local wet market, a few minutes walk down busy Tanjong Pagar Road. We live in identical flats among hundreds, in grey Housing Development Board towers.

Jaynee specialises in caring for elderly and severely disabled Singaporeans. I’m intrigued why Jaynee does this shit job. She’s too beautiful to be stuck in a dull HDB flat with a cranky sick woman. True, she enjoys lots of perks, plenty of free time because her employer is bedridden and Madam Lim’s relatives don’t often check on what the maid does. Or doesn’t do. A generation ago, we’d have felt ashamed about outsourcing the care of our sick and elderly. Now we pay big for live-in help. Lots of dollars may ease the conscience but this still goes against our revered traditions of filial piety, doesn’t it?

Jaynee approaches my newspaper stall, which is at the Tanjong Pagar wet market, a stone’s throw from the MRT station. She gives me a dirty look as she counts out coins for a copy of the Straits Times. Charlie, who runs the cigarette stall next to mine, says, “Ha ha, plenty of venom there. What have you done?”

“She’s afraid I know what’s going on.”

“Someone should tell her employers what’s going on.” That voice, raspy from a lifetime of smoking rough local tobacco, comes from Old Aunty Liew, who runs a dry goods stall next to Charlie’s. She must be at least seventy, been around forever, but her mind and hearing are still sharp as anything. Aunty Liew sits in a chair of woven rattan at the front of her stall, surrounded by sacks of dried prawns, pink, chewy and smelling of the sea; dried black mushrooms with pale gills; crinkly black wood fungi that children call rats’ ears,  and golden needles, which are dried lily buds. Behind her, strings of pungent flags dangle and turn, of dried salt fish from Malaysia, Thailand and Indonesia. She interrupts the conversation to serve a customer, slicing fifty cents worth of powerful-smelling purple belachan from a block encased in woven palm-leaf. She wraps the belachan in a square of newspaper. “The best,” she says to her customer, “made from Melaka krill.” She tucks the coins in her money-belt, returns to the conversation and fixes me with a gimlet eye.

“You should do it, Ah Chye, since you live next door.”

Oh no, I wish she wouldn’t pick on me. “I mind my own business.”

“Now you listen to me, Ah Chye. This is your business. Where’s your sense of responsibility? What about being a good neighbour?”

Her liver spots quiver as her features screw up in righteous indignation. She turns to Madam Seah, who is running fresh water into a heavy ceramic urn full of beansprouts. “Ah Chye should show some compassion for poor Md Lim, don’t you think, Younger Sister?”

Md Seah nods. She is small and quiet, with thinning hair. Her stall sits directly behind mine. She sells several different types of bean-curd, white silken, firm yellow and leathery black, and deep-fried dofu puffs. Aunty Liew continues, “The old lady’s relatives pay good money for her to be cared for by that girl. They don’t know that poor Md Lim is neglected.”

I give myself a moment to consider these remarks, as I neaten my stacks of the English-language Straits Times and Business Times, the Chinese-language Lianhe Jibao, and the Malay-language Berita Harian. I don’t sell the Tamil Murasu. There are no Indian readers around here. My stall is just a card table covered with a clean piece of blue tarp. I have a comfortable folding chair with a footrest which is good for my crippled leg.

When my forefathers arrived from south-eastern China in the 1820s, they traded from street-carts, alongside brothels, opium dens, boarding houses and temples clustered around the wharfs. Many of us, descendants of those pioneers, still run stalls around the market. We watch out for each other, especially now that so many guest workers are among us. Some of the new-money foreigners behave as though they are entitled to more than us, the Singaporeans.

Aunty Liew’s remarks rattle me. What does she expect me to do about Md Lim’s suffering? The thought makes my leg ache.

Late that night, I make some decisions. First, I need to get some facts together. I’ve seen a doctor and nurse visit Md Lim on Tuesdays, while the nurse visits again on Thursdays. When Jaynee leaves #22 after the doctor’s visit, I follow her to the bus-stop outside the Amara Hotel. Jaynee’s breasts look like ripe mangoes swelling under her clingy black T-shirt. I stay a few steps back, merging with crowds of shoppers and office workers, following her mane of glossy hair, her blue lace skirt and fantastic wiggle. At the General Hospital she alights, goes to the dispensary and collects a large bag of medications.

Resuming our bus ride, I am caught on the hop when she alights two stops before Tanjong Pagar Plaza and heads towards Maxwell Markets. In Ah Beng’s Eating House, a young man greets her with much enthusiasm. My eye is caught by the heavy gold chain round his neck and his magnificent gold Rolex which catches the light when he moves his arm. Holding hands and laughing, they walk to the flats above the shops. I lose sight of them. I wait, checking all the exits.

When Jaynee reappears, she walks in the direction of Chinatown, pausing to examine her reflection in a shop window, running fingers through her hair. She reapplies lipstick and dabs at her smudged eyeliner. Some fifty metres on, she enters the Fortune Happy Goldsmith where she examines several gold rings and pays for her choice with a number of notes, fifties and twenties. Her wallet looks fat. Next she buys yeung taufoo, sliced pineapple and yellow jackfruit packed in square polystyrene trays. When we arrive back in Tanjong Pagar Plaza, the outing has lasted nearly four hours.

Next morning, I hear Jaynee leaving. I know Md Lim’s front door is never locked during the day because I’ve seen tradesmen and her relatives walk in and out without a key. The door to Md Lim’s bedroom is shut but I can hear her TV. I let myself in. The room is as bright as Jalan Besar Stadium on Asian Cup night and the smell just about knocks me out. Didn’t Jaynee change Md Lim’s diapers? The TV is on full blast, the air-conditioner powering like mad. Md Lim’s eyes are screwed tight against the blinding lights and she is moaning. Is she in pain?

I wait several hours for Jaynee to return. This is too bad. I should do something.

“So she sells her bottom,” Charlie says. “This area is famous for it. However, this business about the old lady moaning makes me furious. She shouldn’t be in pain. She should be on medication. When my brother was dying of cancer, his doctor prescribed lots of opiates for managing pain.”

Now why didn’t I think of that? Charlie’s right: if Md Lim is on opiates, she shouldn’t be moaning in pain. Now that I think about it, Md Lim does moan a lot.

I must obtain hard evidence. Maybe I can enlist the help of Shereen, who lives in #26. Shereen owes me. I’m her go-to man: fixed her leaking toilet once, her fluorescent light another time. Judging by the sound of her car, the muffler’s next. I’ll say we should come to the aid of Md Lim.

A few days later, I see Jaynee leaving #22, wearing a figure-hugging blouse, cut low across her bosom. Her jeans are cinched with a broad belt. On her feet she wears pointy-toed shoes with staggeringly high heels. “Good afternoon, Jaynee. Are you going to a party?”

“It’s Friday, in case you haven’t noticed. I’ve got the afternoon off for prayers.”

When I relay this to Aunty Liew, she snaps, “What rubbish. She doesn’t sound like someone going to the mosque.”

Aunty Liew is right. Jaynee was dressed well enough to go to Paradise.

Aunty Liew says, “Women aren’t allowed in the mosque. Certainly not dressed like that.”

“Apart from prostitution,” Charlie asks, “are we saying she’s stealing and trafficking in Md Lim’s medications? That’s serious stuff—where’s our evidence?”

Md Seah looks alarmed. She blinks nervously when Charlie says, “If we go to the police, they’ll hang Jaynee. That doesn’t help Md Lim. What have we achieved?”

Who’s Jaynee selling to? I often hear her making lots of phone calls. I’m beginning to see a bigger picture. My throat tightens. What if Jaynee is part of a group that steals medications from the very ill and traffics in them? The whole gang could get rounded up and executed.

After the market closes, I wait around for Jaynee to return. It is well after 9 p.m. when a taxi drops her off in Tanjong Pagar Road. “Welcome home, Jaynee. Did you win at the races instead of going to the mosque?”

“Mind your own business.” Even as she tosses her head in defiance, a ferocious rumble of thunder shakes the heavens. She winces.

“I brought an umbrella. Let me escort you back. It’s too late for a beautiful young lady to walk alone.”

Shereen thanks me effusively for fixing her muffler. “I’m happy to help,” I say. “But sometimes I wonder, if I were in need of help, who could I turn to?”

“Of course you should ask me. One good turn deserves another.”

“That’s good to know. I’m glad your parents brought you up nicely.”

Shereen sighs. “My family are good people but look at my Ma and Pa, working so hard all their lives, for what—a three-room flat in Ang Mo Kio.”

“Still, you help your parents, don’t you? Think of poor Md Lim, who hasn’t got a good daughter like you to ensure that she doesn’t suffer so much.” Shereen looks surprised. I hasten to add, “I feel a moral obligation to keep an eye on Md Lim since her relatives seem unaware of her deep suffering.”

“But she’s well looked after,” Shereen protests. “Md Lim’s family went to so much trouble to hire the best help available. They were glad to find someone with Jaynee’s experience. Md Lim’s cancer is so severe now, ever-increasing doses of morphine are being prescribed.”

I point out: then why is Md Lim constantly moaning, as if in severe pain? Could Jaynee be withholding Md Lim’s morphine?

Shereen looks at me as if I may drink through my nose. I have to bend my ear to catch her horrified whisper. “Surely not! Jaynee wouldn’t dare steal the morphine. The authorities will hang her.”

My scalp itches with the stress of tiptoeing between raindrops. I must be careful not to frighten Shereen off but must somehow up the moral outrage, maintain the pressure. “Stealing a sick woman’s morphine. Unconscionable.”

Shereen puts her face in her hands. “How will you prove it? Jaynee keeps detailed records for the doctor, amounts, schedules.”

I suggest we find some way of checking the amount of morphine prescribed against the records that Jaynee keeps. I can’t do it alone, but with Shereen’s help, we may be able to correct a grave injustice. Shereen looks down, hesitating. At last she whispers, “I will do it.”

When Jaynee leaves #22 on Friday, carrying a fancy capacious handbag, I’m ready. On the ground floor, when the lift empties, I jostle Jaynee, throwing her off-balance. I grab her bag. She curses. Wires of anger and fear work her features as I uncover two brown bottles from layers of clothing in her bag. “You bastard, Ah Chye. I know you always spy on me. Give me back my things.”

I replace the bottles; mustn’t get caught with them. I indicate the Taoist temple behind the wet market and begin moving towards it. “We can talk there.”

The temple is low, whitewashed, with a green tiled roof and upcurving eaves painted vermilion. It’s a haven amidst the incessant bustle of Tanjong Pagar, the gigantic up-thrusting towers of concrete, steel and glass. We sit on a bench under the large canopy of a raintree. The pong of petrol fumes floats towards us, with overtones of garlic, radish cake, spicy biriyani and nasi lemak from the food-stalls around the market, undertones of fresh fish, leafy vegetables and bean-curd as shoppers walk past, out of the wet market.

“I know you’re stealing and selling morphine. You know the authorities will hang you.”

She doesn’t reply immediately. The raintree drops small, roundish yellowed leaves in her lap. Its blossoms are not flowers at all, but silky filaments, mostly white, their fragile tips gently pink. Like life, come to think of it. The self-recrimination begins. She’s angry at herself: over-confidence has brought her undone. Greedy, smart, but not smart enough. The skin on her jaw is stretched tight like kite-paper. A twitch, a tiny tic, throbs in her lower left eyelid.

Jaynee says that by exaggerating Md Lim’s suffering, she has convinced the doctor to prescribe far more morphine than is required. “I record how much medicine she takes, what time; eat, no eat; toilet, no toilet. I know what the doctor looks for. He likes my records. Correct, not correct, how can he know?”

Only Jaynee knows. I wonder how many other transactions like this are occurring throughout the city. A passing police siren causes a convulsive jerk of her head.

Gulping. Shuddering. Tiny involuntary rocking movements. She has no language for this fear that runs in her like a motor. She doesn’t want to hang. She’s young, plenty of life ahead yet. And what about those three young children living with her mother? Something flares: hope? Maybe desperation masquerading as intimacy, an invitation. Full red lips, white teeth. “Let’s share, Ah Chye. Ten per cent for you, no risk to you.”

It’s my choice now, hero or villain. I stretch my aching leg, wonder if there is a vengeful or mad god who monitors this type of thing, who wants to show us something, something beyond our immediate, flawed selves. Is such a god here, now, in this temple garden?

I strive for a voice not judgmental, nor greedy. “Look, your life is worth more than that, isn’t it? Listen, I have a better idea. Don’t sell all the morphine. Give enough to Md Lim to relieve her suffering and there’s still enough for you and me.”

This way, she can cheat the executioner. Her eyes are on me, shiny with tears, her tragedy made clownish by a trickle of smudged eyeliner. Her gratitude is too much to bear. I look away. I must go inside this temple and in its dimness, burn sweet incense. Evil must be dispersed, carried away on the wind, dissolving in the ether.