After three blocks, the crowd was still growing. They marched north, onto South Bridge Road. Ahead of them loomed the, cyclopean buildings downtown. A lean Chinese with slicked-back hair and a schoolteacherish look appeared at Laura's elbow: "Mrs. Webster?"
"Yes?"
"I am pleased to march with you on Changi! Amnesty
International was morally right!"
Laura blinked. "Huh?"
"The political prisoners..." The crowd surged suddenly and he was swept away. The crowd had an escort now-two police choppers, hissing above the street. Laura quailed, her eyes burning with remembrance, but the crowd waved and cheered, as if the choppers were some kind of party favor.
It dawned on her, then. She grabbed Singh's elbow. "Hey!
I just want to go to a police station. Not march on the goddamned Bastille!"
"What, madam?" Singh shouted, grinning dazedly. "What steel?"
Oh, God. If only she could make a break for it. She looked about wildly, and people waved at her and smiled. What an idiot she'd been to put on this sari. It was like being wrapped in green neon.
Now they were marching through the thick of Singapore's
Chinatown. Temple Street, Pagoda Street. The psychedelic, statue-covered stupa of a Hindu temple rose to her left. "Sri
Mariamman," it read. Polychrome goddesses leered at each other as if they'd planned all this, just for grins. There were sirens wailing ahead, at a major intersection. The sound of bullhorns. They were going to walk right into it. A thousand angry cops. A massacre.
And then it came into sight. Not cops at all, but another crowd of civilians. Pouring headlong into the intersection, men, women, children. Above them a banner, somebody's bed sheet stretched between bamboo poles. Hasty daubed lettering: LONG LIVE CHANNEL THREE ...
Laura's crowd emitted an amazing, heartfelt sigh, as if every person in it had spotted a long-lost lover. Suddenly everyone was running, arms outstretched. The two crowds hit, and merged, and mingled. The hair rose on Laura's neck.
There was something loose in this crowd, something purely magical-a mystic social electricity. She could feel it in her bones, some kind of glad triumphant opposite to the ugly crowd-madness she'd seen at the stadium. People fell, but they were helping each other up and embracing each other... .
She lost Singh. Suddenly she was alone in the crowd, tripping along in the middle of a long fractal swirl of it. She glanced down the street. A block away, another subcrowd, and a cluster of red-and-white police cars.
Her heart leapt. She broke from the crowd and ran toward them.
The cops were surrounded. They were embedded in the crowd, like ham in aspic. People-everyone, anyone-had simply clotted around the police, immobilizing them. The prowl cars' doors were open and the cops were trying to reason with them, without success.
Laura edged up through the crowd. Everyone was shout- ing, and their hands were full-not with weapons, but with all kinds of strange stuff: bags of bread rolls, transistor ra- dios, even a handful of marigolds snatched from some windowpot. They were thrusting them at the police, begging them to take them. A middle-aged Chinese matron was shout- ing passionately at a police captain. "You are our brothers!
We are all Singaporeans. Singaporeans do not kill each other!"
The police captain couldn't meet the woman's eyes. He sat on the edge of the driver's seat, tight-lipped, in an ecstasy of humiliation. There were three other cops in his car, decked out in full riot gear: helmets, vests, tangle-rifles. They could have flattened the crowd in a few instants, but they looked stunned, nonplussed.
A man in a silk business suit thrust his arm through the open backseat window. "Take my watch, officer! As a sou- venir! Please-this is a great day...." The cop shook his head, with a gentle, stunned look. Next to him, his fellow cop munched a rice cake.
Laura tapped the captain's shoulder. He looked up and recognized her. His eyes rolled a little in their sockets, as if she was all that was needed to make his experience complete.
"What do you want?"
Laura told him, discreetly. "Arrest you here?" the captain replied. "In front of these people?"
"I can get you away," Laura told him. She clambered onto the hood of the prowl car, stood up, and raised both arms.
"Everyone listen! You know me-I'm Laura Webster. Please let us through! We have very important business! Yes, that's right, move back away from the hood, ladies and gentlemen....
Thank you very much, you're such good people, I'm so grateful..:."
She sat on the hood, propping her feet on the front bumper.
The car crept forward and the crowd peeled away to either side, respectfully. Many of them obviously failed to recog- nize her. But they reacted instinctively to the totem symbol of a foreign woman in a green sari on the hood of a police car.
Laura stretched out her arms and made vague swimming motions. It worked. The crowd moved faster.
They reached the edge of the crowd. Laura wedged herself in the front seat, between the captain and a lieutenant. "Thank
God," she said.
"Mrs. Webster," the police captain said. His badge said his name was Hsiu. "You are under arrest for obstruction of justice and incitement to riot."
"Okay," Laura breathed. "Do you know what happened to the rest of my Rizome people?"
"They are also arrested. The helicopters got them."
Laura nodded eagerly, then stopped. "Uhmm... they're not in Changi, are they?"
"There's nothing wrong with Changi!" the cop said, net- tled. "Don't listen to globalist lies."
They were tooling slowly up Pickering Street, crammed with beauty salons and cosmetic-surgery joints. The side- walks were crowded with grinning, larking curfew breakers, but they hadn't yet thought to block the street. "You foreign- ers," the captain said slowly. "You cheated us. Singapore could have built a new world. But you poisoned our leader, and you robbed us. This is it. Enough. All finish."
"Grenada poisoned Kim."
Captain Hsiu shook his head. "I don't believe in Grenada."
"But it's your own people who are doing this," Laura told him. "At least you weren't invaded."
The cop gave her a salt-in-the-wounds look. "We are invaded. Didn't you know?"
She was stunned. "What? Vienna came in?"
"No," said a cop in the back with pessimistic relish. "It's the Red Cross."
For a moment she couldn't place the reference. "The Red
Cross," she said. "The health agency?"
"If an army came, we would chop them up," said Captain
Hsiu., "But no one shoots the Red Cross. They are already in
Ubin and Tekong and Sembawang. Hundreds of them."
"With bandages and medic kits," said the cop eating rice cakes. " `Civil disaster relief.' " He began laughing.
"Shut up, you," said the captain listlessly. Rice Cakes throttled it down to a snicker.
"I never heard of the Red Cross pulling a stunt like that,"
Laura said.
"It's the globalist corporations," said Captain Hsiu, darkly.
"They wanted to buy Vienna and have us all shot. But it too expensive, and take them too long. So they buy the Red
Cross instead-an army with no guns-and kill us with kindness.
They just walk in smiling, and never walk out of
Singapore again. Dirty cowards."
The police radio squawked wildly. A mob was invading the premises of Channel Four television, at Marina Centre. Cap- tain Hsiu growled something foul in Chinese and turned it off. "I knew they attack the tellies soon or later," he said.