Still, the thought of getting married gives him a headache. He knows only too well that the lovely Aishah, his longtime girlfriend, is averse to the idea. It is not about money — Aishah has said as much; but Saiful feels ashamed that he is unable to afford a condo, car, or country club membership. Sure, it is always possible to sell the stamp and potentially net a six-figure sum, but that would expressly go against his mother’s dying wish. At any cost — the words continue to ring in Saiful’s mind. The truth is, Aishah has other priorities. As much as she appears to love him, her career as a stewardess with Singapore Airlines currently takes center stage.
Saiful takes another drag of the kretek and glances at his watch. At that moment, a creaky, badly scratched Mitsubishi Lancer appears around the bend. The car stops, the door opens and dislodges a petite Indian woman wearing a sari and sporting a pair of sparkly gypsy-style earrings.
Before Saiful can say anything, Leela, for that is the woman’s name, comes right up to him and jabs her index finger at his nonexistent pecs.
“First of all, shut the fuck up. If you want your fucking stamp back, do as I say. And no fucking comments on my brother’s pimp mobile.”
Saiful takes a closer look at the Lancer and decides to keep his opinion to himself. He sees that the driver is Indian too, and correctly assumes that this must be the brother, whom Leela refers to as Babu. Saiful and Leela hop into the vehicle and it trundles off.
Almost immediately, Saiful senses there is something wrong with the baby-faced Babu, but cannot put a finger on it. When he sees the siblings communicating animatedly in sign language, his discomfort builds.
“Doesn’t he speak?”
“What do you think?” Leela retorts.
Then it occurs to Saiful — Babu is a deaf-mute. He isn’t allowed to drive, of course; but Saiful can see that Babu is the perfect chauffeur and getaway driver — his heightened visual sense makes navigating the confusing Woodlands thoroughfares a cakewalk.
“Should he be driving?” Saiful tries again.
“Just keep your fucking mouth shut till we get to the temple.”
As the Lancer chugs along, Saiful peers out onto the empty streets. All he is concerned with right now is getting his stamp back. And whatever he needs to do to make Mr. Rao happy. He has no choice.
Illuminated by the mercury flare of the endless rows of streetlamps, Woodlands looks nondescript and anonymous. Yet this is where Saiful feels most at home. Cars and trucks zoom past this forsaken bit of Singapore toward the checkpoint and onward to Malaysia via the causeway. No one stops here, not unless they have to fill up their gas tanks. And those that do make sure they don’t stay too long.
Saiful knows Woodlands well, having grown up in nearby Mandai village. He knows, for example, that it has a higher proportion of unsolved murders than anywhere else in Singapore. A few years ago, a schoolgirl from Si Ling Primary School was found near the train tracks, raped and strangled. The perpetrator was never caught. Several months later, the body of an Indonesian maid was discovered decomposing in a water tank atop one of the HDB apartment blocks along Woodlands Street 73. Even though a Bangladeshi worker was quickly arrested, Saiful heard rumors that the murderer was in fact some rich Singaporean who paid the worker off to take the rap. And what about the famous case of the char kway teow hawker who was found dead in a pool of blood at Old Woodlands Town Centre?
In all fairness, it isn’t surprising that there is a preponderance of unsavory activities here. After all, this is as far away from downtown Singapore as one can get, and here at the fringe, marginal characters find a home. A quick escape to Malaysia is always an option. And if you cannot take the causeway for whatever reason, a brisk swim across the Johor Strait is not impossible.
Saiful’s troubles started when he accepted an offer to work for Madame Zhang, who runs a small fruit stall midway between Marsiling and Kranji. Madame Zhang likes to hire Malays, for she knows they hardly ever complain, work hard, and pretty much keep to themselves. And even though she can only muster a few words of bahasa (her English is equally deficient), she quickly developed a liking for the quiet and dependable Saiful, and groomed him to be one of her top runners.
Apart from selling pineapples and papayas, Madame Zhang makes much of her income peddling forged passports and visas. And with Saiful’s help, she has been making a killing distributing traditional medicines to her wide network of mostly mainland Chinese customers. Be they tiger penises from Burma or human placentas from Vietnam, she has a steady stream of cash buyers for her smuggled goods. Her specialty is rhino horn from South Africa, which, because it is banned, can often fetch up to two thousand dollars per ounce. As the horn is widely considered an aphrodisiac, it is not unheard of for a syndicate of buyers to make an order in the tens of thousands of dollars. Once bought, the prized item is shaved into delicate ribbons of cartilage, boiled in water, and presto, the result is liquid Viagra.
But Saiful is far from thinking about aphrodisiacs. Babu has stopped his car in front of an ugly 1970s-style warehouse somewhere in the concrete maze of Woodlands Industrial Park. Leela signals Saiful to get out and leads him over to a bolted steel door. Babu waits in the Lancer, playing to the hilt the role he knows like the back of his hand.
In the dim moonlight, Saiful can just make out the words: Sri Vinayagar Temple. It certainly doesn’t look like a temple to him, but what does he know?
“First, you have to agree to everything Mr. Rao says,” Leela pipes up. “That being understood, you have to kiss his elephant.”
“Elephant?”
“Just fucking do it, all right?” Without waiting for an answer, Leela rings the doorbell. After several seconds, the door cranks open and a temple guard who is no more than four feet tall shows them in. The midget bows and quickly disappears.
The interior of the warehouse is unexpectedly opulent. Saiful feels like he has stepped into a mini — Taj Mahal, with incense and patchouli candles burning at various corners. Rich silken fabric adorns all four walls, and the dropped ceiling is covered with hammered gold leaves. Everything is cast in a soft, deceptively reassuring glow.
Then Saiful notices the elephant. Almost as big as a real specimen, this is the Hindu god Ganesh, carved out of a single block of blue-green granite and inlaid with bands of moonstone and red garnet. It stands toward the rear of the room, glittering surreptitiously. The animal’s scowl tells all worshippers it is something not to be trifled with.
“Kiss it,” a high-pitched male voice rings out, and from the shadows Mr. Rao appears, looking like a cross between Fat Albert and Salman Rushdie. Mr. Rao is a fleshy, effeminate man. Once he sees Saiful, he begins to examine the thin ex-rocker with undisguised sexual interest.
Mr. Rao appears to be carrying a white mink stole in his left arm, until it opens its eyes and purrs.
“Fernando, say hello to our guests,” Mr. Rao prompts his snowy Persian cat. The animal stares around the room lethargically with its blue crystalline eyes. All at once Saiful feels much more at ease, for cats are by far his favorite animal. As a child, he collected feral tomcats and mated them with the village tabbies in Mandai, and then sold the kittens as purebreds to rich townsfolk. To him, the cat is the ultimate symbol of resourcefulness.
“You may be wondering why you’re here, and who I am,” chirps Mr. Rao, “but none of that is important right now. What is important is that we do what we must do. But first, the elephant.”